Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
Well, it is Sunday evening, and I am sitting here on the couch watching football while my little man, Noah, plays on my new iPad. Noah and I just had an almost perfect afternoon together.
He wanted his favorite dinner, steak, so we went shopping for steak. While shopping, I bought him all of his favorite fruits and snacks. He wanted to go to Cold Stones for his favorite ice cream, cotton candy with gummy bears, so we went to Cold Stones and got him his favorite ice cream before we went shopping and before we had dinner. And get this, we did not get the small size that his mother always makes us order. We got the larger size with the waffle cone. Take that, Mommy.
During the course of the afternoon, Noah mentioned that it had been a perfect afternoon. I corrected him and told him it had been almost perfect. I told him it would have been perfect had he not been shot in the rear end earlier in the day. That's right, Noah had to get shot in the bottom to warrant such royal treatment.
And get this... I was the one that shot him.
As you may have guessed, it was his mother's fault.
Let me explain.
The afternoon did not start off that great for poor Noah. At lunch he dropped one or two of his oh-so-subtle hints that I wrote about last week. Cheryl advised him to stop; he was not getting soda. But in his defense, all he was doing was saying that the soda looked good and that he was thirsty.
Not sure why she reacted so terribly, raising her voice and telling him that he was not getting soda and to stop asking. He responded that he really hadn't asked. Technically, he was correct, he hadn't asked. But she went on, and, in my humble opinion, mocked the poor boy and told him that she wasn't really saying no, she was practicing saying no because she was going to say no all day. Inexcusable behavior on her part and not good parenting.
After lunch, Noah's big brother Matthew had a friend over and they went outside to play with their air soft guns. Noah was disappointed that he could not go out and play with them, but his mother stuck to form and said NO! She may not have screamed it as my capitalizing implies, but she definitely said no.
So Noah came back in the house and wondered aloud what it would feel like to get shot by an air soft gun. He asked me if he could see how it feels. Now his mother had been the Queen of No all day---poor boy had nothing but disappointment---and I had seen enough. Why, sure! Why not. It will only sting a little bit. So off we went.
Matthew was initially excited by the plan and produced the appropriate weapon. Noah turned and walked about ten feet away. I took aim, and in an attempt to make the poor boy's dream come true, I fired away.
The first shot was a glancing blow. The second shot went right between his legs, and Noah insisted that it did not hurt at all. You would think that at this point, I would have just let it go, but Noah wanted the real experience, and I was there to give it to him. Shot three found its mark.
Matthew plays this game all the time, and he has never indicated that it hurts when you get shot. I just assumed that it would sting a tiny little bit. There were two clues that I was wrong; the first was Noah's reaction. He darted inside and was on the verge of tears. He was a trooper and hung tough and did not cry. Thankfully, I might add, because the wrath of Cheryl was imminent, and tears would have only made things worse.
The second clue was Matthew's reaction after I delivered the near lethal shot. Dad, you are way too close. Wait a second Matthew, you sat and watched me shoot at him twice and this never crossed your mind before now? C'mon man!
Cheryl took a look at his bottom and demanded an explanation.
What could I say? I shot the boy!
I thought that I would try to make things right with Noah and let him take a few shots at my rear end. The problem is that Noah is not a very good shot, and I have a small rear end. Cheryl was standing by his side, and surprisingly, she did not pick up a weapon and start firing off a few rounds at me herself. Not surprisingly, she was completely on board with Noah getting some retribution.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince Noah that I am not the worst dad in the world. Noah was very kind and kept telling me that he did, in fact, ask to be shot.
Again, technically, he was right, so I felt a little better about the whole episode, but I reassured him that it was not his fault.
It was his mother's.
In retrospect, I will grudgingly admit that sometimes the answer really needs to be no!
Noah has asked if he can write about this. The whole experience is still etched in my mind, so I can't start telling him no until tomorrow. Here is Noah's story as told to Cheryl. Remember, he is just a seven-year-old coming off a horrific shooting. Ignore any bad stuff about me.
The first time it didn't hurt. And then the second time, it didn't hurt. But the third time… YYYYOOOWWWW!!!!! According to my mom, there was a welt on my bottom that looked like a donut. I like donuts. But not that one!
These are my parents: Here's some ice. You only have to sit on it for five minutes. After 5 minutes, it was another 5 minutes. And then another. Five minutes is a really long time.
After the whole donut shooting thing, my dad and I went out for some ice cream. I told him I could fight through the pain, and I ate my Gummy Bears like a man. And I suggested I should sit on my ice cream. Donuts and ice cream… what a combination. Consider them both marked as my territory.
There you have it, right from the horse's mouth. I must say that I was a little worried that he was going to write something that was going to make me look like an idiot. Fortunately, I think I dodged that bullet!
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query shot noah in the. Sort by date Show all posts
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Friday, January 13, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
Funny Guy Friday… Friday night lights...
Every year, the Friday after Thanksgiving is the day that I begin to put up my outdoor Christmas lights.
This year was no different.
Each year, my wife and kids tell me that they don't care how I do the lights. Do whatever you want, they say. Of course, when I tell them what I am going to do, they tell me why my idea is a bad one. Sort of like when you ask someone where they want to go and eat and they say they don't care. Then they proceed to shoot down every restaurant idea that you suggest.
This year, I decided to change things up a bit, and I put Noah in charge of our outdoor illumination. Whatever he wanted, we would do.
Noah wanted color, and he wanted lots of color.
No problem. Over the years, I have accumulated a smorgasbord of lights. I have white strands, red strands, and green strands.
I even have purple strands.
That was the year everyone thought we were big Ravens fans. My wife got tired of explaining to our heathen neighbors that the purple had to do with the Advent season and not the football season. Although, now that the Redskins have RG3, burgundy and gold would be sweet for next year!
As I got the lights out of the attic to test them, Cheryl put on the old Christmas family favorite, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Two minutes into the show, Cheryl was asleep and Grace and Matthew had their noses in the iPads. This left just Noah and me, and this was pretty much how it went all weekend.
It used to be that Matthew was always by my side, Noah was always with Cheryl, and Grace was in her bedroom skyping her cousin.
I used to say that if Cheryl and I ever got a divorce, Matthew would live with me, Noah would live with Cheryl, and Grace would go to a friend's house. Not so much anymore. In the immortal words of Sally Field: Noah likes me, he really really likes me. After the divorce, I suppose that we will have to flip a coin for Noah.
As I tested the lights, I quickly learned that many of them were not working. I know there is a simple explanation, but I just don't get the electrical design that allows one bad light to burn out an entire strand... or better yet, when half the strand works and the other half is out.
Frustrated, I decided to get rid of all my old lights and buy all new lights. In the morning, Noah and I were headed to Home Depot. Noah was excited because this meant we were going to buy new colored lights. Cheryl was nervous because it meant that I was going to buy new colored lights. Cheryl knows that I love Christmas lights.
I assured her that I would be frugal and that I would not waste any money on unnecessary Christmas decorations. I reassured her that Noah would be with me the whole time.
Cheryl was not impressed with my choice of chaperones. She reminded me that I was a responsible adult and emphasized that under no circumstance could we have a blow up Santa Claus in our front yard. I never intended to buy a blow up Santa Claus… a blow up Snoopy Christmas Dog House maybe, but not a Santa Claus.
Noah and I headed out on our mission bright and early. Of course, we had to get breakfast first. Then we had to buy him some new basketball shoes. Eventually, we made it to the Home Depot.
Ooooh, the lights!!! Ooooh, the pretty lights!!!
We took a quick inventory. There were many options and we only had one shot at this. If we got home and had made a mistake, Cheryl would go back with us and make us return everything and start all over again… with her at our side.
I could tell that Noah was nervous, but I assured him that I out-rank Mom. He was not convinced. I reminded him that if it ever came down to a fist fight, I would win. He felt better about that.
The shopping spree was on. We carefully chose several boxes of multi-colored mini LED lights for the bushes, medium sized LED lights for the trees, and large LED lights for the gutters. We also got more multi-colored and white mini lights for our Christmas tree. Lots of lights.
You know, the nice thing about when we had pre-school kids was that they couldn't count. Noah is getting older and not only can he count, he can add. He was nervously staring at the cart full of lights, and he had a worried look on his face. Dad, we are spending over $200 on lights.
Like the Grinch, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick. Don't worry Noah, as I patted his head. Mommy gave us a $300 budget, so we are not even close to spending all of our money.
Then we turned to leave... and that's when we saw it.
The whole store went dark, and a light shined on this six and a half foot three-wreath structure that would look perfect right by our front door. It had lights! It was beautiful! I loved it. Noah loved it. Cheryl will love it.....I think.
But, dad, it is $100. This will put us over our budget thing.
No, I think it is on sale, for only $89. We are good! Let's get it in the cart. Now remember, we don't have to tell Mom about the cost of things. The important thing is that we bought all these things and we stayed under our budget.
We had spent the entire morning bonding, not like father to son, but like man to man. I was confident that what happened at Home Depot would stay at Home Depot. As we pulled up in our driveway, I reminded Noah of our unspoken deal (to be honest, I may have spoken it a time or two) as he headed in the house. I stopped to grab the bags of lights. I entered the kitchen and was confronted by Cheryl as Noah dashed past me.
You spent $300 on lights?
What, what are you talking about? No... Of course not... No, no we did not… We got a big light up wreath thingy too… It lit up… I think you will like it… I got it for you! Noah, can I talk to you?
Unbelievable. He caved in less than three seconds. After all we did together, he caved at the first sight of his mother. Worse, she did not like our wreath thing. We had to take it back.
So Noah and I headed back to the Home Depot. After we made the return, we did go back to the Christmas section and found some three foot tall nutcrackers for only $40 each.
Hey, Noah do you know what 89 minus 80 is?
Nine.
If we buy two of these, we will save $9. What do you think? ...By the way, Mom will not understand the whole math thing, so let's just keep that to ourselves, okay!
The nutcrackers look awesome guarding our front door.
Great job, Noah.
This year was no different.
Each year, my wife and kids tell me that they don't care how I do the lights. Do whatever you want, they say. Of course, when I tell them what I am going to do, they tell me why my idea is a bad one. Sort of like when you ask someone where they want to go and eat and they say they don't care. Then they proceed to shoot down every restaurant idea that you suggest.
This year, I decided to change things up a bit, and I put Noah in charge of our outdoor illumination. Whatever he wanted, we would do.
Noah wanted color, and he wanted lots of color.
No problem. Over the years, I have accumulated a smorgasbord of lights. I have white strands, red strands, and green strands.
I even have purple strands.
That was the year everyone thought we were big Ravens fans. My wife got tired of explaining to our heathen neighbors that the purple had to do with the Advent season and not the football season. Although, now that the Redskins have RG3, burgundy and gold would be sweet for next year!
As I got the lights out of the attic to test them, Cheryl put on the old Christmas family favorite, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Two minutes into the show, Cheryl was asleep and Grace and Matthew had their noses in the iPads. This left just Noah and me, and this was pretty much how it went all weekend.
It used to be that Matthew was always by my side, Noah was always with Cheryl, and Grace was in her bedroom skyping her cousin.
I used to say that if Cheryl and I ever got a divorce, Matthew would live with me, Noah would live with Cheryl, and Grace would go to a friend's house. Not so much anymore. In the immortal words of Sally Field: Noah likes me, he really really likes me. After the divorce, I suppose that we will have to flip a coin for Noah.
As I tested the lights, I quickly learned that many of them were not working. I know there is a simple explanation, but I just don't get the electrical design that allows one bad light to burn out an entire strand... or better yet, when half the strand works and the other half is out.
Frustrated, I decided to get rid of all my old lights and buy all new lights. In the morning, Noah and I were headed to Home Depot. Noah was excited because this meant we were going to buy new colored lights. Cheryl was nervous because it meant that I was going to buy new colored lights. Cheryl knows that I love Christmas lights.
I assured her that I would be frugal and that I would not waste any money on unnecessary Christmas decorations. I reassured her that Noah would be with me the whole time.
Cheryl was not impressed with my choice of chaperones. She reminded me that I was a responsible adult and emphasized that under no circumstance could we have a blow up Santa Claus in our front yard. I never intended to buy a blow up Santa Claus… a blow up Snoopy Christmas Dog House maybe, but not a Santa Claus.
Noah and I headed out on our mission bright and early. Of course, we had to get breakfast first. Then we had to buy him some new basketball shoes. Eventually, we made it to the Home Depot.
Ooooh, the lights!!! Ooooh, the pretty lights!!!
We took a quick inventory. There were many options and we only had one shot at this. If we got home and had made a mistake, Cheryl would go back with us and make us return everything and start all over again… with her at our side.
I could tell that Noah was nervous, but I assured him that I out-rank Mom. He was not convinced. I reminded him that if it ever came down to a fist fight, I would win. He felt better about that.
The shopping spree was on. We carefully chose several boxes of multi-colored mini LED lights for the bushes, medium sized LED lights for the trees, and large LED lights for the gutters. We also got more multi-colored and white mini lights for our Christmas tree. Lots of lights.
You know, the nice thing about when we had pre-school kids was that they couldn't count. Noah is getting older and not only can he count, he can add. He was nervously staring at the cart full of lights, and he had a worried look on his face. Dad, we are spending over $200 on lights.
Like the Grinch, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick. Don't worry Noah, as I patted his head. Mommy gave us a $300 budget, so we are not even close to spending all of our money.
Then we turned to leave... and that's when we saw it.
The whole store went dark, and a light shined on this six and a half foot three-wreath structure that would look perfect right by our front door. It had lights! It was beautiful! I loved it. Noah loved it. Cheryl will love it.....I think.
But, dad, it is $100. This will put us over our budget thing.
No, I think it is on sale, for only $89. We are good! Let's get it in the cart. Now remember, we don't have to tell Mom about the cost of things. The important thing is that we bought all these things and we stayed under our budget.
We had spent the entire morning bonding, not like father to son, but like man to man. I was confident that what happened at Home Depot would stay at Home Depot. As we pulled up in our driveway, I reminded Noah of our unspoken deal (to be honest, I may have spoken it a time or two) as he headed in the house. I stopped to grab the bags of lights. I entered the kitchen and was confronted by Cheryl as Noah dashed past me.
You spent $300 on lights?
What, what are you talking about? No... Of course not... No, no we did not… We got a big light up wreath thingy too… It lit up… I think you will like it… I got it for you! Noah, can I talk to you?
Unbelievable. He caved in less than three seconds. After all we did together, he caved at the first sight of his mother. Worse, she did not like our wreath thing. We had to take it back.
So Noah and I headed back to the Home Depot. After we made the return, we did go back to the Christmas section and found some three foot tall nutcrackers for only $40 each.
Hey, Noah do you know what 89 minus 80 is?
Nine.
If we buy two of these, we will save $9. What do you think? ...By the way, Mom will not understand the whole math thing, so let's just keep that to ourselves, okay!
The nutcrackers look awesome guarding our front door.
Great job, Noah.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Funny Guy Friday... A Christmas Tree Story
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband, Mark. If you are a fan of A Christmas Story, you'll enjoy this one. So, I married a Funny Guy!
Christmas is on its way. Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, upon which the entire kid year revolves. Like every family, we have our Christmas traditions. One of my personal favorites is when we go to purchase our Christmas tree. There is a local nursery that we frequent in the summer, and we have gotten to know the owners pretty well. We go early, so we don't miss all the good trees.
The nursery is right around the corner from our home. Every year they have a huge fire pit which makes me, and I am sure, every other man, envious. They serve cookies and hot apple cider brewed with a secret ingredient---red hots (I guess it is not really secret in the sense that nobody knows about it...but secret in the sense that it is different.)
Every year, we traipse on up to that nursery, and every year Cheryl and the kids eat cookies and drink cider. Then they sit around the fire and talk with the owners. At some point, Matthew and Noah will break away and play hide and seek in the tree lot, and Cheryl and Grace will go into the store and look at wreaths and other decorations.
If you have been paying attention, you will have noticed that nobody is actually looking for a Christmas tree. That is because I am the only one who actually cares about the tree. Every year, Cheryl and I have a similar dispute about the big purchase:
Cheryl: This year, why don't we just buy a small tree.
Me: We can't, we have hundreds of ornaments and we have a room that is 400 square feet with a cathedral ceiling---the room will eat up a small tree.
Cheryl: But they are so expensive, a small tree would be so cute. (This was a brilliant maneuver in the legendary battle of the tree that will live in the folklore of our little street.)
Me: No. No small trees. You have been saying the same thing for twenty years. The money argument made sense when we didn't have any money, but we are doing fine now.
Cheryl: Okay. I suppose that the next time we want to eat out, we won't... and we can save the money that way.
Me: Sure. You say that every time we make an unnecessary purchase. By the way, do you want Chinese or Italian tonight?
Cheryl: Chinese. Maybe tonight we can introduce the kids to Chinese turkey.
So I go through the lot looking for that perfect tree. A Frasier fir, about nine-and-a-half feet tall with no bare spots----I don't want to have to hide one side in the corner. And I don't want one of those trees where all the needles fall off---like them balsams.
Matthew and Noah may offer some suggestions as they dart in and out from behind the trees, but for the most part, I am on my own. I always pick the one that I want and then offer two or three other "choices" to the rest of the gang. It is then, and only then, that they become fully engaged in the selection process; however, their involvement is a mere formality---the tree that we will buy has already been selected.
Cheryl always picks out the worst tree among the choices, which usually happens to be the least expensive. I tell her no, and that we are getting the one that I want, after assuring her it will fit in the room.
Once the fresh cut is made, Cheryl reminds me that we are in a race to get the tree home and get it into water. She tells me this as she is saying her good byes. This takes up to twenty minutes as the sap seals the fresh cut. Heaven forbid we have a blow out on the way home. But if we did, I can change a tire in no time. I had always pictured myself in the pits of the Indianapolis Speedway at the 500. When we do make it home, we unload the tree and then the fun begins---putting up the tree.
If I have any doubts about buying a big tree, they creep in right as I am putting the tree up in the tree stand. I won't bore you with the details of our tree stand, but it rivals the pyramids in its ingenuity. I was told when I purchased it that it is "the best tree stand on the market and the trees never fall." It may be the best, but in the past, I have proven that the trees will fall.
About seven years ago, I came downstairs and found the tree lying on our living room floor with water and broken ornaments all over the place. Cheryl came down and calmly asked what had happened. I may have cursed. In fact, I may have said THE word, the big one, the queen mother of dirty words, while answering her question that had a very obvious answer. I also may have demanded that she help.
I have since heard of people under extreme duress speaking in strange tongues. I became conscious that a steady torrent of obscenities and swearing of all kinds was pouring out of me as I screamed. The details are a bit foggy at this point, but you would think that my tone and my unusually harsh language would have had her leaping to my aid. She leaped alright, back upstairs with the admonishment that she would help only after I calmed down, and that "a lot worse things could have happened."
As an aside, she always uses that a lot worse things could have happened defense. It is the classic Cheryl block. That deadly phrase honored many times by hundreds of wives is not surmountable by any means known to husband-dom. But Cheryl does not realize that things could get worse. Why, Cheryl knows nothing about creeping marauders burrowing through the snow toward our kitchen where only I stand alone between my tiny huddled family and insensate evil. All alone except for my trusty old Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model air rifle. However, this scenario is a bit unrealistic because I don't own such a weapon as it could......put my eye out. I digress.
After I cleaned up the mess that year, by myself, I put the tree back up and went off to work. I called Cheryl from my car, and I started out by saying, "About this morning..." She stopped me in mid sentence and said, "About this morning, did you call to apologize?" Well, not exactly to apologize, I called to tell you that I am normal and you are not. It is okay to get mad at things every once in a while. Several irreplaceable ornaments were broken and you... That's about as far as I got before she ended the "make up call."
Anyway, back to this year's tree. As usual, once we got the tree in the stand, we let it sit for a day as we attempted to adjust it. This is always a painstaking process, as Cheryl is adamant that it be perfectly straight up and down. This requires hours of me manipulating ropes under the tree and sliding from side to side on my back. An inch to the right, now back toward the window, can you move it to the left and toward the center of the room. How does that look from down there? She actually asked me that as I squirmed around under the tree.
We finally got the tree straight and began to decorate. My mom was over. We were watching White Christmas. And all was good with the world.
Noah had the bottom sufficiently decorated, and we had put on the last of the candy canes when the worst thing ever happened---the tree came down. Oh, life is like that! Sometimes at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.
Now, in the past, I have been known to weave a tapestry of obscenities that, as far as we know, still hang in space over Lake Michigan. But I have learned from my mistakes, plus my sainted mother and our kids were in the room with me. I stood there quivering with fury as I tried to come up with a real crusher of a word, but all I could come up with was, "Naddafinga."
I always say that The Godfather provides a quote for every situation that may come along in life. A Christmas Story is the Christmas version of The Godfather---that movie provides a quote for every situation that may come along during the Christmas season.
Naddafinga summed up my feelings about our tree.
After the tree was restored, and the kids were asleep, Cheryl and I sat and admired the tree. She mentioned that it was beautiful. I told her that it is beautiful....but I hate it! Maybe next year she will take my advice, and we will go with a smaller tree.
Christmas is on its way. Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, upon which the entire kid year revolves. Like every family, we have our Christmas traditions. One of my personal favorites is when we go to purchase our Christmas tree. There is a local nursery that we frequent in the summer, and we have gotten to know the owners pretty well. We go early, so we don't miss all the good trees.
The nursery is right around the corner from our home. Every year they have a huge fire pit which makes me, and I am sure, every other man, envious. They serve cookies and hot apple cider brewed with a secret ingredient---red hots (I guess it is not really secret in the sense that nobody knows about it...but secret in the sense that it is different.)
Every year, we traipse on up to that nursery, and every year Cheryl and the kids eat cookies and drink cider. Then they sit around the fire and talk with the owners. At some point, Matthew and Noah will break away and play hide and seek in the tree lot, and Cheryl and Grace will go into the store and look at wreaths and other decorations.
If you have been paying attention, you will have noticed that nobody is actually looking for a Christmas tree. That is because I am the only one who actually cares about the tree. Every year, Cheryl and I have a similar dispute about the big purchase:
Cheryl: This year, why don't we just buy a small tree.
Me: We can't, we have hundreds of ornaments and we have a room that is 400 square feet with a cathedral ceiling---the room will eat up a small tree.
Cheryl: But they are so expensive, a small tree would be so cute. (This was a brilliant maneuver in the legendary battle of the tree that will live in the folklore of our little street.)
Me: No. No small trees. You have been saying the same thing for twenty years. The money argument made sense when we didn't have any money, but we are doing fine now.
Cheryl: Okay. I suppose that the next time we want to eat out, we won't... and we can save the money that way.
Me: Sure. You say that every time we make an unnecessary purchase. By the way, do you want Chinese or Italian tonight?
Cheryl: Chinese. Maybe tonight we can introduce the kids to Chinese turkey.
So I go through the lot looking for that perfect tree. A Frasier fir, about nine-and-a-half feet tall with no bare spots----I don't want to have to hide one side in the corner. And I don't want one of those trees where all the needles fall off---like them balsams.
Matthew and Noah may offer some suggestions as they dart in and out from behind the trees, but for the most part, I am on my own. I always pick the one that I want and then offer two or three other "choices" to the rest of the gang. It is then, and only then, that they become fully engaged in the selection process; however, their involvement is a mere formality---the tree that we will buy has already been selected.
Cheryl always picks out the worst tree among the choices, which usually happens to be the least expensive. I tell her no, and that we are getting the one that I want, after assuring her it will fit in the room.
Once the fresh cut is made, Cheryl reminds me that we are in a race to get the tree home and get it into water. She tells me this as she is saying her good byes. This takes up to twenty minutes as the sap seals the fresh cut. Heaven forbid we have a blow out on the way home. But if we did, I can change a tire in no time. I had always pictured myself in the pits of the Indianapolis Speedway at the 500. When we do make it home, we unload the tree and then the fun begins---putting up the tree.
If I have any doubts about buying a big tree, they creep in right as I am putting the tree up in the tree stand. I won't bore you with the details of our tree stand, but it rivals the pyramids in its ingenuity. I was told when I purchased it that it is "the best tree stand on the market and the trees never fall." It may be the best, but in the past, I have proven that the trees will fall.
About seven years ago, I came downstairs and found the tree lying on our living room floor with water and broken ornaments all over the place. Cheryl came down and calmly asked what had happened. I may have cursed. In fact, I may have said THE word, the big one, the queen mother of dirty words, while answering her question that had a very obvious answer. I also may have demanded that she help.
I have since heard of people under extreme duress speaking in strange tongues. I became conscious that a steady torrent of obscenities and swearing of all kinds was pouring out of me as I screamed. The details are a bit foggy at this point, but you would think that my tone and my unusually harsh language would have had her leaping to my aid. She leaped alright, back upstairs with the admonishment that she would help only after I calmed down, and that "a lot worse things could have happened."
As an aside, she always uses that a lot worse things could have happened defense. It is the classic Cheryl block. That deadly phrase honored many times by hundreds of wives is not surmountable by any means known to husband-dom. But Cheryl does not realize that things could get worse. Why, Cheryl knows nothing about creeping marauders burrowing through the snow toward our kitchen where only I stand alone between my tiny huddled family and insensate evil. All alone except for my trusty old Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model air rifle. However, this scenario is a bit unrealistic because I don't own such a weapon as it could......put my eye out. I digress.
After I cleaned up the mess that year, by myself, I put the tree back up and went off to work. I called Cheryl from my car, and I started out by saying, "About this morning..." She stopped me in mid sentence and said, "About this morning, did you call to apologize?" Well, not exactly to apologize, I called to tell you that I am normal and you are not. It is okay to get mad at things every once in a while. Several irreplaceable ornaments were broken and you... That's about as far as I got before she ended the "make up call."
Anyway, back to this year's tree. As usual, once we got the tree in the stand, we let it sit for a day as we attempted to adjust it. This is always a painstaking process, as Cheryl is adamant that it be perfectly straight up and down. This requires hours of me manipulating ropes under the tree and sliding from side to side on my back. An inch to the right, now back toward the window, can you move it to the left and toward the center of the room. How does that look from down there? She actually asked me that as I squirmed around under the tree.
We finally got the tree straight and began to decorate. My mom was over. We were watching White Christmas. And all was good with the world.
Noah had the bottom sufficiently decorated, and we had put on the last of the candy canes when the worst thing ever happened---the tree came down. Oh, life is like that! Sometimes at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.
Now, in the past, I have been known to weave a tapestry of obscenities that, as far as we know, still hang in space over Lake Michigan. But I have learned from my mistakes, plus my sainted mother and our kids were in the room with me. I stood there quivering with fury as I tried to come up with a real crusher of a word, but all I could come up with was, "Naddafinga."
I always say that The Godfather provides a quote for every situation that may come along in life. A Christmas Story is the Christmas version of The Godfather---that movie provides a quote for every situation that may come along during the Christmas season.
Naddafinga summed up my feelings about our tree.
After the tree was restored, and the kids were asleep, Cheryl and I sat and admired the tree. She mentioned that it was beautiful. I told her that it is beautiful....but I hate it! Maybe next year she will take my advice, and we will go with a smaller tree.
Saturday, February 16, 2019
Funny Guy... Saturday?... Better late than never...
Funny Guy Friday is written by my husband Mark... So, I married a funny guy...
For five straight years, every week, I wrote a little blurb about the goings on in the lives of the Palumbos. Topics would range from the time that I shot Noah in the rear end, how Matthew hated the Pope, or the hairbrush wars with Gracie.
The way it worked was that something would strike me as funny, I would think about it for a day or two, spend a day or two writing a draft and then Cheryl would edit it. By editing it I mean she would make the necessary grammatical corrections and take out the really funny stuff that she thought might offend her family… and her family can be so sensitive.
I had a formula that varied from time to time but basically, it included 80% truth, 15% exaggeration and 5% complete fabrication…. And 100% funny. Would have been 105% funny if not for Cheryl’s family.
Historically, no matter what havoc I may have created, I ended up being the hero. Cheryl, on the other hand, was blamed for all the bad stuff that happened. Anyway, some weeks were easy, other weeks were a struggle… but I managed to churn something out week after week.
During this Cal Ripken like stretch, people would approach me and ask if they were going to be in it and I would always tell them “sure… Do something stupid.” But mostly it, it was about my kids. They were all good sports and never asked me to keep their most embarrassing moments private.
Then like Forrest Gump running cross-country, I just stopped. And that's all I have to say about that.
Since I retired, hundreds of people… maybe not hundreds but many people… by many, I mean over ten… okay, it is three… three people have asked that I resurrect Funny Guy Friday. Up until now, I have dismissed the urge to return. After all, Jordan returned and was a shell of himself, Ali returned and got beat up by Larry Holmes, Bjorn Borg returned and got his wooden racquet shoved up his rear by a bunch of teenage girls swinging titanium.
So why will my return be any different?
There are two possible reasons… First, I am a superior human with a superior intellect.
Or it could be that I am not a superior human with a superior intellect at all but instead, just some guy who sits on his couch and thinks of stupid stuff and then types. Those other guys performed super-human physical feats... and just got old. This happens to all great athletes, with the possible exception of Tom Brady. Writing FGF is not exactly the most physical event in the world. In fact, at this very moment, I am eating a caramel cream and a bag of chips. I somehow doubt that caramel creams and potato chips were on the Jordan, Ali, Borg diets.
So without any further fanfare, I am announcing my return. Going to try and write something each week. It is going to be tougher to come up with stuff because Grace is married and living in Texas, Matthew is in college and Noah… well, Noah may just be goofy enough to carry me through most weeks.
Some of you may be asking yourself why. Why now?
To be honest, I am feeling my mortality. My kids are getting older… my daughter is married and someday will have my grandkids. I may not be around to tell them how nutty Grandma Weezer or Geezer (I just made that up but I think it is a name that might stick) is and how I manage to solve all of her problems. I also need to let my grandkids know how cool I am/was… and if I don't tell them, who will. And I will do so with a completely accurate depiction... with only 15% exaggeration and 5% total fabrication.
Just a quick note to start the comeback… I hope everyone had a great Valentine's Day. I remembered it was Valentine's Day when I was driving to court and one of the attorneys in my office called me and said Happy Valentine's Day!
The typical response is Happy Valentine's Day to you too. My response was OH CRUD! (okay… it could have been stronger than Crud) I completely forgot and did not say anything to Cheryl this morning.
Then it dawned on me that Cheryl didn't say anything to me either so if I can get off the phone and call her before she calls me, I can beat her to the punch and feign irritation at the fact that she forgot to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day. The best defense is a good offense.
Hey Weezie, you forgot to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day this morning, what's up with that?
I know, you ran out to your car and I thought you were coming back into the house. I waited but you never came.
Okay, for the record, I called you first… Because I remembered… before you… I win Valentine’s Day.
Whatever. I have a surprise for you when you get home.
Oh yeah, well I got all kinds of surprises for you too! I didn't really. In fact, I had nothing because I had forgotten.
I felt kind of bad and it didn't get any better when all of the secretaries in our office kept getting roses from their sweethearts. I’m better than those guys, most of whom I have never met, and they remembered.
I mentioned to the ladies in the office that I may have… kind of… maybe forgot it was Valentine's Day. One of them said it was because you don't have to remember, you're happily married so every day is Valentine's Day!
Finally, someone who gets it! My wife is so lucky to have me!
I decided that I was going to use this line but quickly realized by the reaction of every girl in my office that she was not being serious and no woman would ever buy that nonsense. Things were so bad that one of the gals offered me one dozen of her TWO dozen roses that she received from her hubby.
You got two! Did he do something wrong or something?
I couldn't accept her generous offer to re-gift her flowers but I still needed to get Cheryl something. Then it dawned on me… we went out to dinner about a month ago and Cheryl ordered a drink that she loved. I took a picture of the table and had the ingredients somewhere on my phone with the two specific types of alcohol used in the drink. I went to buy them on a previous occasion…but they were both too expensive... so I didn't. I substituted cheaper stuff but the drink wasn't the same. I love my wife but I have my financial limits.
Well, I rationalized my overspending on alcohol by noting it is Valentine's Day… And I do love her… And I have no other ideas. It was decided, I was willing to break the bank. Bonus… It looks like I actually noticed something insignificant... like a drink she liked… and then went to the trouble of remembering the ingredients.
I truly am the best husband ever!
When I got home, the house smelled delicious. Cheryl and Noah were cooking an Italian meal and the theme from the Godfather was playing on the radio, or google or Alexis or whatever. My favorite wine was chilling and a fresh baguette of Italian bread sat on the table. Things were looking good.
Cheryl handed me a scroll with the best lines from my favorite movie, The Godfather. She recorded both Godfather I and Godfather II and we were going to watch the movies that night. This was huge because she hates these movies. She claims they are the most violent movies ever. I counter that the Home Alone movies are more violent and Michael Corleone is simply misunderstood. Anyway…
She planned this fun Godfather themed night with all my favorite things. I anticipated Noah getting whacked at some point in the evening but luckily, that never happened.
Two things went through my mind. First, I am going to have a great night! Second, Cheryl is going to be happy that I bought her the booze.
We ate our Caesar salad, our bread, and our ravioli. We drank the whole bottle of wine, which is unusual for us. After dinner, she broke out tiramisu, a cannoli and almond cookies for dessert.
At this point, Noah made her favorite drink from the Ginger liquor and whiskey that I bought and then we retired to the living room with every intention of watching the movies. Then a funny thing happened… We took our respective spots on the couch and promptly fell asleep.
This happens pretty much every night at our house. I fall asleep next to my lovely wife, my most favorite thing in the world. So, as it turns out, this year's Valentine's Day was not unlike most nights at our house… except we may have had more to drink than we usually do. And my one secretary was correct…
I am happily married so every day is Valentine’s Day!
My wife is so lucky to have me!
Friday, August 1, 2014
Funny Guy Friday… Doing nothing...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
"There is one all time greatest moment in the history of sports… and it happened in the 1932 World Series. The story goes that in the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs, a full count and the tying run on base, Babe Ruth raised his arm and pointed to the center field bleachers. No one believed it because no one had ever done it before, but the Babe was calling his shot..."
We were a half-hour into a nine-hour drive to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, when Noah asked if we could pop The Sandlot into the DVD player. And with that first line from the greatest baseball movie ever made, we officially began our summer vacation.
We really had not even finalized our plans until a few weeks ago.
I had specified only one criterion for Cheryl when I asked to her to decide where we should go… I want to do nothing… nothing at all.
I had thought these were simple instructions that had provided a wide variety of destinations and opportunities.
Earlier this summer, we had been invited to spend some time with friends at their lake house in northern Michigan. This was an option that intrigued Cheryl, so with my simple instructions, she hatched Plan A.
Plan A included driving to Niagara Falls for a couple of days... and then driving to Ohio to go to the world's greatest amusement park... and then heading to the Great Wolf Lodge for an overnight… and then driving on to Michigan where we would stay with our friends for a few days before heading over to visit Mackinac Island for a day or two. Of course, at the end of our stay, we would be rewarded with an eleven-hour drive home.
Honey, that is a lot of something… mainly driving... and it is clearly not doing nothing. In fact, it is a lot of stuff… but mostly driving! Can we please get a Plan B.
Sure honey... do you want to get another family to go with us… that would be fun.
It might be a little difficult to get another family to join us on such short notice.
Well, you know that our friends in Michigan invited us... we could go see them.
I understand... and it's not that I don't like the folks in Michigan, it is just that I don't want to do all that driving and visit our friends... and besides, this is Grace's last vacation before college. It might be nice to just spend this one with just our family!
Cheryl concurred, and after a few days, I was presented with Plan B.
Plan B included a trip to Niagara Falls... followed by a drive to Ohio for amusement park fun... then a short stay at the Great Wolf Lodge before driving to Michigan to see our friends. Oh, and a day trip to Mackinac Island.
Honey, what am I missing? Plan B looks an awful lot like Plan A.
It is… but I mapped it out for you... so you could see it on paper. What do you think?
I think it is a lot of driving… I want to do nothing… nothing at all! Don't mind some driving just not five days of driving.
How about the beach?
Sounds great.
I love the beach, the perfect place to just sit and relax and do nothing.
I could not wait to get started. I was so anxious that I decided that we would leave on Friday night and drive halfway and get an early start on Saturday and start our week of doing nothing.
Friday did not go as planned… we forgot that we had a dog and neglected to make plans for him and besides Noah, nobody was packed. We go on one vacation a year and we cannot remember to pack. No problem, we would get up early on Saturday, leave at the crack of dawn and get to South Carolina in time for 5:30 evening Mass. Get church knocked out of the way on Saturday and be ready to do nothing early on Sunday morning.
Apparently, Saturday's "crack of dawn" leave time was redefined as 10:00 a.m., and you won't believe this but... there were no 9:30 evening Masses in all of South Carolina when we arrived.
Again, no problem; we would get to the first Mass on Sunday and then we could still get an early start. Soon we would all be doing nothing as a family.
Noah was all-in with my plan to get the week off on the right foot, but I got a little blowback from the his two older siblings. They somehow got the mistaken idea that they were on vacation and that they had done something to deserve sleeping in for a few days.
I totally disagreed, but in the spirit of compromise I agreed to attend the eleven o'clock Mass on Sunday morning.
Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men: the church that we selected was not there. Poof! It was gone. Evidently, we were staying in North Myrtle Beach, and not technically Myrtle Beach where the eleven-o'clock Mass church was. Worse than that, we missed the much-preferred 10 o'clock Mass at the local church, and the next Mass did not start until noon! Noon, as in, by the time the Priest is done with his homily… it is going to be 1:15 and I won't be out on the beach until after 2:00 p.m. and there won't be any good sun left for me.
I was not a happy camper!
How can you be upset when all you wanted to do was nothing? We have to go to Mass and you can't just joyfully give God an hour of your time? We need to go to Mass. I can still hear your instructions… 'I just want to do nothing… nothing at all.' And she said it all in an annoying, nasally kind of way. I can assure you that God was not very happy with her at this point.
First of all, I have no problem giving God an hour… but for some reason, that God only knows, He vanquished the church with the Mass that worked on my schedule. Second, we can still be doing something even when we are doing nothing. Lying on the beach or out by a pool qualifies as doing nothing. Third of all, I don't talk like that. Am I right, Noah?
I went right to Noah because I knew he shared my desire to get the ball rolling on doing nothing. He sort of nodded but added that sometimes I do talk like that.
Ouch.
We got settled into our pew for the noon Mass, and Cheryl got on her knees to say a prayer before things got started. A women started playing the organ in what I perceived to be the start of the service. She played and she played. She played so long that Cheryl completed her prayer and was seated back in the pew. I looked at my imaginary wrist watch and turned to Matthew and commented that she must have been the warm-up act and that they needed to get this show on the road. My thoughts about her being the warm up act were confirmed when the congregation started to clap. Seriously, who claps for the organist at Mass?
Unfortunately, Cheryl was eavesdropping on my private conversation with my son and rolled her eyes before dropping back down on her knees to say yet another prayer... this one dedicated entirely for me.
Mass finally ended with the congregation whipping out their Bic lighters in an attempt to coax an encore from the organist. I am just kidding about that, but it would not have surprised me.
We, and by we, I mean Noah and I, finally made it to the beach... at about 1:45 p.m. I must say, I was right; the beach was perfect for just sitting there and doing nothing.
Remember my ally, Noah?
It turns out that he and I have very different views on "doing nothing."
I do nothing when I am just lying there doing nothing. He, on the other hand, likes to swim or build some elaborate sand sculpture or throw the Frisbee. Why, he had us doing something the whole time we were supposed to be doing nothing. Of course, I was his only do-nothing-mate because he and I were the only ones down at the beach. The rest of the group was up in the condo... doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
To be clear, doing nothing is acceptable, but doing absolutely nothing is unacceptable.
What kind of vacation is that? Who bums around the condo the whole time? You can do that at home. No no no no no… I was not going to let this stand.
Of course, when I pointed out the obvious, I was the bad guy who had to be doing something all the time!
Nonsense… I just want to do nothing… nothing at all.
We seemed to find our groove as the vacation progressed.
We never got started as early as I would have liked, but everyone seemed to get some much-needed rest. Except, of course, for me. I lay awake worrying about what I wasn't going to do the next day.
In the end, I discovered that doing nothing can be exhausting!
"There is one all time greatest moment in the history of sports… and it happened in the 1932 World Series. The story goes that in the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs, a full count and the tying run on base, Babe Ruth raised his arm and pointed to the center field bleachers. No one believed it because no one had ever done it before, but the Babe was calling his shot..."
We were a half-hour into a nine-hour drive to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, when Noah asked if we could pop The Sandlot into the DVD player. And with that first line from the greatest baseball movie ever made, we officially began our summer vacation.
We really had not even finalized our plans until a few weeks ago.
I had specified only one criterion for Cheryl when I asked to her to decide where we should go… I want to do nothing… nothing at all.
I had thought these were simple instructions that had provided a wide variety of destinations and opportunities.
Earlier this summer, we had been invited to spend some time with friends at their lake house in northern Michigan. This was an option that intrigued Cheryl, so with my simple instructions, she hatched Plan A.
Plan A included driving to Niagara Falls for a couple of days... and then driving to Ohio to go to the world's greatest amusement park... and then heading to the Great Wolf Lodge for an overnight… and then driving on to Michigan where we would stay with our friends for a few days before heading over to visit Mackinac Island for a day or two. Of course, at the end of our stay, we would be rewarded with an eleven-hour drive home.
Honey, that is a lot of something… mainly driving... and it is clearly not doing nothing. In fact, it is a lot of stuff… but mostly driving! Can we please get a Plan B.
Sure honey... do you want to get another family to go with us… that would be fun.
It might be a little difficult to get another family to join us on such short notice.
Well, you know that our friends in Michigan invited us... we could go see them.
I understand... and it's not that I don't like the folks in Michigan, it is just that I don't want to do all that driving and visit our friends... and besides, this is Grace's last vacation before college. It might be nice to just spend this one with just our family!
Cheryl concurred, and after a few days, I was presented with Plan B.
Plan B included a trip to Niagara Falls... followed by a drive to Ohio for amusement park fun... then a short stay at the Great Wolf Lodge before driving to Michigan to see our friends. Oh, and a day trip to Mackinac Island.
Honey, what am I missing? Plan B looks an awful lot like Plan A.
It is… but I mapped it out for you... so you could see it on paper. What do you think?
I think it is a lot of driving… I want to do nothing… nothing at all! Don't mind some driving just not five days of driving.
How about the beach?
Sounds great.
I love the beach, the perfect place to just sit and relax and do nothing.
I could not wait to get started. I was so anxious that I decided that we would leave on Friday night and drive halfway and get an early start on Saturday and start our week of doing nothing.
Friday did not go as planned… we forgot that we had a dog and neglected to make plans for him and besides Noah, nobody was packed. We go on one vacation a year and we cannot remember to pack. No problem, we would get up early on Saturday, leave at the crack of dawn and get to South Carolina in time for 5:30 evening Mass. Get church knocked out of the way on Saturday and be ready to do nothing early on Sunday morning.
Apparently, Saturday's "crack of dawn" leave time was redefined as 10:00 a.m., and you won't believe this but... there were no 9:30 evening Masses in all of South Carolina when we arrived.
Again, no problem; we would get to the first Mass on Sunday and then we could still get an early start. Soon we would all be doing nothing as a family.
Noah was all-in with my plan to get the week off on the right foot, but I got a little blowback from the his two older siblings. They somehow got the mistaken idea that they were on vacation and that they had done something to deserve sleeping in for a few days.
I totally disagreed, but in the spirit of compromise I agreed to attend the eleven o'clock Mass on Sunday morning.
Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men: the church that we selected was not there. Poof! It was gone. Evidently, we were staying in North Myrtle Beach, and not technically Myrtle Beach where the eleven-o'clock Mass church was. Worse than that, we missed the much-preferred 10 o'clock Mass at the local church, and the next Mass did not start until noon! Noon, as in, by the time the Priest is done with his homily… it is going to be 1:15 and I won't be out on the beach until after 2:00 p.m. and there won't be any good sun left for me.
I was not a happy camper!
How can you be upset when all you wanted to do was nothing? We have to go to Mass and you can't just joyfully give God an hour of your time? We need to go to Mass. I can still hear your instructions… 'I just want to do nothing… nothing at all.' And she said it all in an annoying, nasally kind of way. I can assure you that God was not very happy with her at this point.
First of all, I have no problem giving God an hour… but for some reason, that God only knows, He vanquished the church with the Mass that worked on my schedule. Second, we can still be doing something even when we are doing nothing. Lying on the beach or out by a pool qualifies as doing nothing. Third of all, I don't talk like that. Am I right, Noah?
I went right to Noah because I knew he shared my desire to get the ball rolling on doing nothing. He sort of nodded but added that sometimes I do talk like that.
Ouch.
We got settled into our pew for the noon Mass, and Cheryl got on her knees to say a prayer before things got started. A women started playing the organ in what I perceived to be the start of the service. She played and she played. She played so long that Cheryl completed her prayer and was seated back in the pew. I looked at my imaginary wrist watch and turned to Matthew and commented that she must have been the warm-up act and that they needed to get this show on the road. My thoughts about her being the warm up act were confirmed when the congregation started to clap. Seriously, who claps for the organist at Mass?
Unfortunately, Cheryl was eavesdropping on my private conversation with my son and rolled her eyes before dropping back down on her knees to say yet another prayer... this one dedicated entirely for me.
Mass finally ended with the congregation whipping out their Bic lighters in an attempt to coax an encore from the organist. I am just kidding about that, but it would not have surprised me.
We, and by we, I mean Noah and I, finally made it to the beach... at about 1:45 p.m. I must say, I was right; the beach was perfect for just sitting there and doing nothing.
Remember my ally, Noah?
It turns out that he and I have very different views on "doing nothing."
I do nothing when I am just lying there doing nothing. He, on the other hand, likes to swim or build some elaborate sand sculpture or throw the Frisbee. Why, he had us doing something the whole time we were supposed to be doing nothing. Of course, I was his only do-nothing-mate because he and I were the only ones down at the beach. The rest of the group was up in the condo... doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
To be clear, doing nothing is acceptable, but doing absolutely nothing is unacceptable.
What kind of vacation is that? Who bums around the condo the whole time? You can do that at home. No no no no no… I was not going to let this stand.
Of course, when I pointed out the obvious, I was the bad guy who had to be doing something all the time!
Nonsense… I just want to do nothing… nothing at all.
We seemed to find our groove as the vacation progressed.
We never got started as early as I would have liked, but everyone seemed to get some much-needed rest. Except, of course, for me. I lay awake worrying about what I wasn't going to do the next day.
In the end, I discovered that doing nothing can be exhausting!
Friday, May 11, 2012
Funny Guy Friday… Our big week!
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So… I married a funny guy...
This past week we had two big events in our household. On Sunday, Noah received his first Holy Communion. He looked dapper in his double breasted suit that we borrowed from a family with twelve kids. Why shop for a suit that he will only wear once or twice when you have friends with twelve kids? Heck, we could do all of our shopping in their closets.
Noah looked so good in his suit and tie that I caught him making out with his reflection in the mirror. Okay, he wasn't exactly making out with himself, but he was giving himself the dreamy eyed "smolder look." How could he possibly turn himself down?
First Communion was preceded by weeks of classes and practice with his CCD classmates. On Saturday, they had their final practice and Father Parry took the opportunity to go over some of the questions that he planned on asking them on Sunday during his homily. When the time came, it was obvious that the kids knew their stuff. They answered his questions with complete confidence and accuracy. I am proud to say that Noah's hand shot up on just about every question.
On the way to church that morning, I gave my boy some great advice that I learned in law school. Always raise your hand on questions that you know so they won't call on you when your hand is not up. Beat them to the punch----best defense is a good offense. I would like to say that this strategy served me well, but the truth of the matter is, I never knew any answers in law school, so I mostly resorted to Plan B. Plan B consisted of keeping my head down and pretending to read something out of the book.
I must admit, I was a bit nervous. What if Noah missed a question right there in front of God and everyone. Everyone would blame me because they all know Cheryl is sort of a super human Catholic and I am a lowly convert. The potential for me being humiliated was very high.
Anyway, Noah got a softball of a question that he fielded with ease. I felt a bit relieved and was now able to sit back in my pew and enjoy watching the other kids make potential fools of their parents. For instance when Father Parry asked who can give Communion, one youngster blurted out that Jesus can give Communion. Father Parry was very kind and said that if Jesus were here, he sure could give Communion. Deep down I know he was thinking, Yeah sure kid, Jesus is coming down from His kingdom in Heaven to administer the Eucharist. While He is here, perhaps he could crank out a wedding and a baptism for good measure. That kid's poor parents must have been devastated.
As the homily wrapped up, Father Parry commented on how wonderful the kids performed and how impressed he was with their responses. Then he asked the kids if there were anything important that he had left out… sort of acknowledging to the congregation that he was done and we would be moving on to the big event.
Then it happened… one little hand shot up and one poor dad started sweating and squirming forward, back to the edge of his pew. Who was this brave young First Communicant that was going to tell MONSIGNOR Parry what he had left out? You guessed it; it was Brother Noah.
At first there was silence… an awkward, dead kind of silence. Then Noah advised, You forgot to say that if you are sick or are taking care of someone who is sick, then you don't have to go to Mass on Sunday.
Oh no, what a knucklehead. What was he doing? Surely everyone was going to think that I am always trying to get out of going to Mass. Everybody knows that Saint Cheryl would never dream of getting sick on a Sunday. What was Father Parry going to think? Maybe I could slip an extra $100 in the basket.
Father Parry got excited and agreed that this was true and that he did forget to mention that. In fact, he walked over to Noah and gave him a holy high five and told him that he must have really been paying attention to remember such important information.
Whew, crisis averted! I think my father-in-law, who was sitting behind me, leaned over and gave me a nice reassuring pat on the shoulder. On further review, I was proud of Noah, but I was left wondering why he was the only one in the class that remembered the only way to get out of going to Mass on Sunday.
The second big event this week was that Matthew turned twelve on Tuesday. We could not be prouder of Matthew, who is becoming a fine young man.
However, I was a bit surprised when my wife sent an email to a group of kids, and to me at work, inviting us all to a party on Saturday. That's right, I got an email inviting me to my son's birthday party. I wonder who is paying for this extravaganza.
I was more surprised to read that the party will start at 2pm and will include a movie, pizza, and play time, and will end around 9pm. Seven hours with a bunch of pre-teen boys; why, that is a fate worse than death. Why not invite them over to spend the entire weekend?
Cheryl assured me that this is what Matthew wanted and that it will be fun. I am sure that it will be, but I am just as sure that I will have a major headache as a result.
Hey, you know what… I won't have to go to Mass on Sunday!
This past week we had two big events in our household. On Sunday, Noah received his first Holy Communion. He looked dapper in his double breasted suit that we borrowed from a family with twelve kids. Why shop for a suit that he will only wear once or twice when you have friends with twelve kids? Heck, we could do all of our shopping in their closets.
Noah looked so good in his suit and tie that I caught him making out with his reflection in the mirror. Okay, he wasn't exactly making out with himself, but he was giving himself the dreamy eyed "smolder look." How could he possibly turn himself down?
First Communion was preceded by weeks of classes and practice with his CCD classmates. On Saturday, they had their final practice and Father Parry took the opportunity to go over some of the questions that he planned on asking them on Sunday during his homily. When the time came, it was obvious that the kids knew their stuff. They answered his questions with complete confidence and accuracy. I am proud to say that Noah's hand shot up on just about every question.
On the way to church that morning, I gave my boy some great advice that I learned in law school. Always raise your hand on questions that you know so they won't call on you when your hand is not up. Beat them to the punch----best defense is a good offense. I would like to say that this strategy served me well, but the truth of the matter is, I never knew any answers in law school, so I mostly resorted to Plan B. Plan B consisted of keeping my head down and pretending to read something out of the book.
I must admit, I was a bit nervous. What if Noah missed a question right there in front of God and everyone. Everyone would blame me because they all know Cheryl is sort of a super human Catholic and I am a lowly convert. The potential for me being humiliated was very high.
Anyway, Noah got a softball of a question that he fielded with ease. I felt a bit relieved and was now able to sit back in my pew and enjoy watching the other kids make potential fools of their parents. For instance when Father Parry asked who can give Communion, one youngster blurted out that Jesus can give Communion. Father Parry was very kind and said that if Jesus were here, he sure could give Communion. Deep down I know he was thinking, Yeah sure kid, Jesus is coming down from His kingdom in Heaven to administer the Eucharist. While He is here, perhaps he could crank out a wedding and a baptism for good measure. That kid's poor parents must have been devastated.
As the homily wrapped up, Father Parry commented on how wonderful the kids performed and how impressed he was with their responses. Then he asked the kids if there were anything important that he had left out… sort of acknowledging to the congregation that he was done and we would be moving on to the big event.
Then it happened… one little hand shot up and one poor dad started sweating and squirming forward, back to the edge of his pew. Who was this brave young First Communicant that was going to tell MONSIGNOR Parry what he had left out? You guessed it; it was Brother Noah.
At first there was silence… an awkward, dead kind of silence. Then Noah advised, You forgot to say that if you are sick or are taking care of someone who is sick, then you don't have to go to Mass on Sunday.
Oh no, what a knucklehead. What was he doing? Surely everyone was going to think that I am always trying to get out of going to Mass. Everybody knows that Saint Cheryl would never dream of getting sick on a Sunday. What was Father Parry going to think? Maybe I could slip an extra $100 in the basket.
Father Parry got excited and agreed that this was true and that he did forget to mention that. In fact, he walked over to Noah and gave him a holy high five and told him that he must have really been paying attention to remember such important information.
Whew, crisis averted! I think my father-in-law, who was sitting behind me, leaned over and gave me a nice reassuring pat on the shoulder. On further review, I was proud of Noah, but I was left wondering why he was the only one in the class that remembered the only way to get out of going to Mass on Sunday.
The second big event this week was that Matthew turned twelve on Tuesday. We could not be prouder of Matthew, who is becoming a fine young man.
However, I was a bit surprised when my wife sent an email to a group of kids, and to me at work, inviting us all to a party on Saturday. That's right, I got an email inviting me to my son's birthday party. I wonder who is paying for this extravaganza.
I was more surprised to read that the party will start at 2pm and will include a movie, pizza, and play time, and will end around 9pm. Seven hours with a bunch of pre-teen boys; why, that is a fate worse than death. Why not invite them over to spend the entire weekend?
Cheryl assured me that this is what Matthew wanted and that it will be fun. I am sure that it will be, but I am just as sure that I will have a major headache as a result.
Hey, you know what… I won't have to go to Mass on Sunday!
Friday, June 17, 2011
Funny Guy Friday... The Buzz Off...
The other day, Matthew commented about a talented young man in his class that could really draw great characters. The boy had done several drawings of the Joker from the Batman cartoons. Noah, our six-year-old artist, questioned Mattthew whether he thought that this boy was a better artist than Noah, and if his drawings of characters were better than Noah's.
Matthew, ever the kind big brother, said that the boy was really good and left it at that. But Noah was having none of that, he wanted more information and requested that Matthew bring home some of these drawings. He then went to get paper and pencil and started drawing his own pictures of the Joker.
Initially, they were pretty basic, as he made his drawings from his memory---which was interesting because we don't watch the Batman cartoons, yet the drawings included some pretty specific details. The other day I was going through his little sketch book---yes my six year old has a sketch book---and there was a drawing of the Joker's face that was pretty remarkable.
This got me to thinking, Noah is not all that interested in sports, but he is very competitive. He can be like a dog with a bone. This whole episode got me to thinking that art could be a competitive sport. I hear Cheryl when she tells Noah that you can't mess up when it comes to art, or art is not right or wrong and there are no losers when it comes to art.
To this I say, nonsense! Two people draw the same thing, one is better than the other, that artist wins. How hard is that?
All of this came to a head when I got home from work, and Noah showed me a drawing he did of Woody from Toy Story. It was really good but I said I could do better. Game on for the little man. We decided that we would each draw Buzz Lightyear and Mom would judge our work. I preferred a more neutral arbitrator, but in the end, we always let Mom decide. I told Noah that we would call this contest, The First Annual Buzz Off!
Saturday arrived, the day of the Buzz Off, and I must admit that I was a little nervous. He is really talented and I am not. Clearly, I was the underdog, but I have watched Noah and Cheryl draw, and I have picked up a few things over the years, so I had a puncher's chance. I can look at some stuff and draw some reasonable facsimiles, but I would say they are rudementary at best.
Of course, this did not stop me from talking trash and getting inside the six year old's head. "Mom likes me best, and last night after you fell asleep she told me she was going to pick my drawing"---this he knew was a lie, so it had no effect. "I tricked you into this contest because when I was your age, I was the State champion Buzz Lightyear drawing guy"----since I was trash talking a six-year-old, I wanted to make sure he understood what I was saying and was appropriatley intimidated. He doesn't even know Buzz Lightyear didn't exist when I was his age, but he was still not fazed. But then I unwittingley did strike a chord when I said, "Once you see my great artwork, you won't know what to do, you will be paralyzed with intimidation and you will be Buzz Frightyear!" This was a good one especially the Buzz Frightyear reference. It drew a very meek response. "Nuh-uh," he said.
I had him. I was in his little pea brain.
Gentleman, start your pencils---Game on!
I jumped out of the gate and started on Buzz's head. Noah does not operate like that. He tends to start with a smaller detail and work back to the bigger picture. He watched me and he saw that my picture was coming along quite nicely and was looking very much like Buzz Lightyear. He was surprised by my talent and frankly, so was I. As he watched me, he kept starting and stopping his own drawing and erasing what he thought were mistakes. He then wanted to use one of his practice drawings of Buzz Lightyear---yes he practiced the night before---but I said no, that was against the rules.
I was like a shark smelling blood in the water. He was intimidated. He was like LeBron in the fourth quarter of the NBA finals. The best artist in the room and he couldn't perform. I was winning. I was actually winning.
Okay, as I re-read this, it seems kind of silly that I was taking great pleasure in this, and in retrospect, I could have handled it differently. BUT I WAS WINNING AN ART CONTEST! I never win these art contests. This was not our first one, just the first formal one that I gave a clever name to---The Buzz Off! He draws way better than I and if truth be told, I usually just copy what he does. But not this time.
What I did find fascinating was that he could not put pencil to paper because he thought that he was not going to win. This drives me crazy when I coach kids that think they can't win, so they don't compete. They figure if they don't try and then lose, they really did not lose because they weren't trying. I got this type of reaction from Noah.
Ultimately, he did put forth a weak effort. Cheryl always picks his art as the best, but I knew I was riding a winner when she told Noah, "You know I love you even if I pick Daddy's," and "You know I think you're a great artist even if I pick Dad's, right?"
At this point, I decided to take a minute to be an adult (I am perfectly capable of being an adult when I have to be) and explain to him that you can't just quit or not try because you may not win. I explained that he was a great artist but this was not his best effort, and that he should really try again. When I win, I want to crush him when he puts out his best effort. I get no satisfaction (maybe a little) from beating a six-year-old that is not even trying! He was a little bummed, so we postponed the judging.
Later that day, I took a little nap. I was awakened by Noah who brought with him a new drawing of Buzz Lightyear. A much better effort, I must admit. He was very proud of himself and told me that he really tried on this one. We compared our two drawings, and pointed out the differences and the similarities. We decided that his Buzz was more cartoonish and my Buzz was more "life-like"-----I decided that mine was still better, but I was proud of his effort.
Who cares what we thought, what was the judge going to say?
Of course, as always, she praised both efforts. In the end she went with the cartoonish Buzz. A travesty, the likes of which the art world has never seen. I demanded a rematch. So after the First Annual Buzz Off, we had the First Annual Woody Off. Certainly not as clever a name, but we had a theme going.
Unfortunately, I am a one-trick-pony, as my Woody looked like a short middle-aged cowboy that had put on a few pounds over the years. Clearly his Woody was the winner. But I still have, for that one fleeting moment, the joy and the exhilaration of knowing that I drew a better Buzz than my six-year-old son.
The next day, as he and I were driving to the ice cream store, he asked me if I really thought my Buzz was better than his. My response was that it could have been, but I am forty one years older than he, and the fact that I was competing with a six-year-old---and we were competitive---was kind of funny.
I explained that if we played a basketball game of one-on-one, and I tried my hardest, I would crush him. He agreed. I then told him that I have to try my hardest just to keep up with his artwork. He agreed, and he, too, thought that was kind of funny!
When we got home from the ice cream store, we played a game of HORSE. He beat me H-O-R-S to H-O-R-S-E. I would have won, but his mother awarded him an extra shot because he is so cute. I really do need a more impartial arbitrator.
Matthew, ever the kind big brother, said that the boy was really good and left it at that. But Noah was having none of that, he wanted more information and requested that Matthew bring home some of these drawings. He then went to get paper and pencil and started drawing his own pictures of the Joker.
Initially, they were pretty basic, as he made his drawings from his memory---which was interesting because we don't watch the Batman cartoons, yet the drawings included some pretty specific details. The other day I was going through his little sketch book---yes my six year old has a sketch book---and there was a drawing of the Joker's face that was pretty remarkable.
This got me to thinking, Noah is not all that interested in sports, but he is very competitive. He can be like a dog with a bone. This whole episode got me to thinking that art could be a competitive sport. I hear Cheryl when she tells Noah that you can't mess up when it comes to art, or art is not right or wrong and there are no losers when it comes to art.
To this I say, nonsense! Two people draw the same thing, one is better than the other, that artist wins. How hard is that?
All of this came to a head when I got home from work, and Noah showed me a drawing he did of Woody from Toy Story. It was really good but I said I could do better. Game on for the little man. We decided that we would each draw Buzz Lightyear and Mom would judge our work. I preferred a more neutral arbitrator, but in the end, we always let Mom decide. I told Noah that we would call this contest, The First Annual Buzz Off!
Saturday arrived, the day of the Buzz Off, and I must admit that I was a little nervous. He is really talented and I am not. Clearly, I was the underdog, but I have watched Noah and Cheryl draw, and I have picked up a few things over the years, so I had a puncher's chance. I can look at some stuff and draw some reasonable facsimiles, but I would say they are rudementary at best.
Of course, this did not stop me from talking trash and getting inside the six year old's head. "Mom likes me best, and last night after you fell asleep she told me she was going to pick my drawing"---this he knew was a lie, so it had no effect. "I tricked you into this contest because when I was your age, I was the State champion Buzz Lightyear drawing guy"----since I was trash talking a six-year-old, I wanted to make sure he understood what I was saying and was appropriatley intimidated. He doesn't even know Buzz Lightyear didn't exist when I was his age, but he was still not fazed. But then I unwittingley did strike a chord when I said, "Once you see my great artwork, you won't know what to do, you will be paralyzed with intimidation and you will be Buzz Frightyear!" This was a good one especially the Buzz Frightyear reference. It drew a very meek response. "Nuh-uh," he said.
I had him. I was in his little pea brain.
Gentleman, start your pencils---Game on!
I jumped out of the gate and started on Buzz's head. Noah does not operate like that. He tends to start with a smaller detail and work back to the bigger picture. He watched me and he saw that my picture was coming along quite nicely and was looking very much like Buzz Lightyear. He was surprised by my talent and frankly, so was I. As he watched me, he kept starting and stopping his own drawing and erasing what he thought were mistakes. He then wanted to use one of his practice drawings of Buzz Lightyear---yes he practiced the night before---but I said no, that was against the rules.
I was like a shark smelling blood in the water. He was intimidated. He was like LeBron in the fourth quarter of the NBA finals. The best artist in the room and he couldn't perform. I was winning. I was actually winning.
Okay, as I re-read this, it seems kind of silly that I was taking great pleasure in this, and in retrospect, I could have handled it differently. BUT I WAS WINNING AN ART CONTEST! I never win these art contests. This was not our first one, just the first formal one that I gave a clever name to---The Buzz Off! He draws way better than I and if truth be told, I usually just copy what he does. But not this time.
What I did find fascinating was that he could not put pencil to paper because he thought that he was not going to win. This drives me crazy when I coach kids that think they can't win, so they don't compete. They figure if they don't try and then lose, they really did not lose because they weren't trying. I got this type of reaction from Noah.
Ultimately, he did put forth a weak effort. Cheryl always picks his art as the best, but I knew I was riding a winner when she told Noah, "You know I love you even if I pick Daddy's," and "You know I think you're a great artist even if I pick Dad's, right?"
At this point, I decided to take a minute to be an adult (I am perfectly capable of being an adult when I have to be) and explain to him that you can't just quit or not try because you may not win. I explained that he was a great artist but this was not his best effort, and that he should really try again. When I win, I want to crush him when he puts out his best effort. I get no satisfaction (maybe a little) from beating a six-year-old that is not even trying! He was a little bummed, so we postponed the judging.
Later that day, I took a little nap. I was awakened by Noah who brought with him a new drawing of Buzz Lightyear. A much better effort, I must admit. He was very proud of himself and told me that he really tried on this one. We compared our two drawings, and pointed out the differences and the similarities. We decided that his Buzz was more cartoonish and my Buzz was more "life-like"-----I decided that mine was still better, but I was proud of his effort.
Who cares what we thought, what was the judge going to say?
Of course, as always, she praised both efforts. In the end she went with the cartoonish Buzz. A travesty, the likes of which the art world has never seen. I demanded a rematch. So after the First Annual Buzz Off, we had the First Annual Woody Off. Certainly not as clever a name, but we had a theme going.
Unfortunately, I am a one-trick-pony, as my Woody looked like a short middle-aged cowboy that had put on a few pounds over the years. Clearly his Woody was the winner. But I still have, for that one fleeting moment, the joy and the exhilaration of knowing that I drew a better Buzz than my six-year-old son.
The next day, as he and I were driving to the ice cream store, he asked me if I really thought my Buzz was better than his. My response was that it could have been, but I am forty one years older than he, and the fact that I was competing with a six-year-old---and we were competitive---was kind of funny.
I explained that if we played a basketball game of one-on-one, and I tried my hardest, I would crush him. He agreed. I then told him that I have to try my hardest just to keep up with his artwork. He agreed, and he, too, thought that was kind of funny!
When we got home from the ice cream store, we played a game of HORSE. He beat me H-O-R-S to H-O-R-S-E. I would have won, but his mother awarded him an extra shot because he is so cute. I really do need a more impartial arbitrator.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Funny Guy Friday... Be nice... oh... and clean the kitchen...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
Let me start by saying that I have been blessed with three great kids and a beautiful wife that I often describe as the nicest woman that God has ever put on this Earth. However, they all have their moments... take tonight for instance.
We just came home from dinner with some friends, and Cheryl asked the kids to empty the clean dishes from the dishwasher and load the dirty dishes that were sitting in the sink. Now we do not ask much of our kids, so you would think that this would not be a problem. However, it is a problem... it is always a problem.
You see, when dishes sit in the sink day after day, they tend to get nasty and stinky. The kids could just load the dishes in the dishwasher after every meal, but that would require that they first run the dishwasher and then empty the clean dishes after it has run through the wash cycle.
They don't, so as a result, they treat our kitchen as if it were a nuclear reactor leaking radioactive goo. No, I take that back... radioactive goo would be better than sour milk. My three kids would welcome radioactive goo.
Anyway, they all went into the kitchen and Cheryl and I retired to the living room. There were some heated discussions coming from the kitchen, but I could not make heads or tails of it. Alright, truth be told, I was concentrating on level 96 in Candy Crush. On a side note, if you have not started that silly game... DON'T! It is like crack cocaine. Once you start, you cannot stop.
Sooo, Cheryl had heard enough and called all three into the living room. She asked me if I wanted to handle this. I said that I would leave this one up to her. Again, truth be told... I had no idea what Cheryl was upset about, so I might have yelled at them for the wrong reason. Besides, I did not want Cheryl to know that I did not know what was going on because she thinks Candy Crush is a big waste of time. Obviously, Cheryl has never used crack cocaine.
As they entered the room, Cheryl once again asked if I wanted to handle the discipline. I declined... but I did position myself in a prime spot so I could see the whole thing develop. I get a kick out of Cheryl when she calls team meetings to address stuff that I'm not even aware has happened. In fact, although I always side with Cheryl in these situations... so as not to show a chink in our unity armor... I do often wonder if Cheryl was ever a kid.
Did she ever fight with her siblings? Did she ever curse? Did she ever scratch her name in her mother's new bar stools, and then in an effort to divert attention elsewhere, carve his brother's names into the other stools? I mean... who didn't do these things?
By the way, my mother was not fooled, she knew I was the one.
Well, it appears that our three little angels have not been treating each other very well of late. They have been mean and nasty and disrespectful to one another, and Cheryl has had enough.
Mind you, there was no punching! No cursing! No destruction of property! Just not being nice to each other.
Grace immediately lodged a protest that I quickly shot down. Although I was not aware of the aforementioned meanness. I am capable of recognizing a child interrupting a parent. But my irritation with Grace was quickly supplanted by shock. You see in the middle of Cheryl's lecture on niceness, Matthew was standing behind Gracie... making faces at her.
Now I was fully engaged in the process.
Grace was happy to be off the hook and was even supportive of my anger towards Matthew.
As we ended our "discussion," the kids each went their separate ways. I ended up with Noah in the kitchen... ironically, doing the dishes that had never gotten done. He asked what I was going to write about in Funny Guy Friday. When I told him I might just write about mom's lecture, he wanted to know who was going to be the child least written about.
Of course, our sweet boy Noah avoided even one mention.
So, I am happy to report that the kids have all made up. The kitchen is clean, and everyone is watching TV. My only concern right now is that my mother is coming to spend the weekend with us and she has always vowed revenge for my little bar stool stunt.
If she is smart, she will carve Noah, Matthew and Grace into our bar stools.
I would never suspect!
Let me start by saying that I have been blessed with three great kids and a beautiful wife that I often describe as the nicest woman that God has ever put on this Earth. However, they all have their moments... take tonight for instance.
We just came home from dinner with some friends, and Cheryl asked the kids to empty the clean dishes from the dishwasher and load the dirty dishes that were sitting in the sink. Now we do not ask much of our kids, so you would think that this would not be a problem. However, it is a problem... it is always a problem.
You see, when dishes sit in the sink day after day, they tend to get nasty and stinky. The kids could just load the dishes in the dishwasher after every meal, but that would require that they first run the dishwasher and then empty the clean dishes after it has run through the wash cycle.
They don't, so as a result, they treat our kitchen as if it were a nuclear reactor leaking radioactive goo. No, I take that back... radioactive goo would be better than sour milk. My three kids would welcome radioactive goo.
Anyway, they all went into the kitchen and Cheryl and I retired to the living room. There were some heated discussions coming from the kitchen, but I could not make heads or tails of it. Alright, truth be told, I was concentrating on level 96 in Candy Crush. On a side note, if you have not started that silly game... DON'T! It is like crack cocaine. Once you start, you cannot stop.
Sooo, Cheryl had heard enough and called all three into the living room. She asked me if I wanted to handle this. I said that I would leave this one up to her. Again, truth be told... I had no idea what Cheryl was upset about, so I might have yelled at them for the wrong reason. Besides, I did not want Cheryl to know that I did not know what was going on because she thinks Candy Crush is a big waste of time. Obviously, Cheryl has never used crack cocaine.
As they entered the room, Cheryl once again asked if I wanted to handle the discipline. I declined... but I did position myself in a prime spot so I could see the whole thing develop. I get a kick out of Cheryl when she calls team meetings to address stuff that I'm not even aware has happened. In fact, although I always side with Cheryl in these situations... so as not to show a chink in our unity armor... I do often wonder if Cheryl was ever a kid.
Did she ever fight with her siblings? Did she ever curse? Did she ever scratch her name in her mother's new bar stools, and then in an effort to divert attention elsewhere, carve his brother's names into the other stools? I mean... who didn't do these things?
By the way, my mother was not fooled, she knew I was the one.
Well, it appears that our three little angels have not been treating each other very well of late. They have been mean and nasty and disrespectful to one another, and Cheryl has had enough.
Mind you, there was no punching! No cursing! No destruction of property! Just not being nice to each other.
Grace immediately lodged a protest that I quickly shot down. Although I was not aware of the aforementioned meanness. I am capable of recognizing a child interrupting a parent. But my irritation with Grace was quickly supplanted by shock. You see in the middle of Cheryl's lecture on niceness, Matthew was standing behind Gracie... making faces at her.
Now I was fully engaged in the process.
Grace was happy to be off the hook and was even supportive of my anger towards Matthew.
As we ended our "discussion," the kids each went their separate ways. I ended up with Noah in the kitchen... ironically, doing the dishes that had never gotten done. He asked what I was going to write about in Funny Guy Friday. When I told him I might just write about mom's lecture, he wanted to know who was going to be the child least written about.
Of course, our sweet boy Noah avoided even one mention.
So, I am happy to report that the kids have all made up. The kitchen is clean, and everyone is watching TV. My only concern right now is that my mother is coming to spend the weekend with us and she has always vowed revenge for my little bar stool stunt.
If she is smart, she will carve Noah, Matthew and Grace into our bar stools.
I would never suspect!
Friday, July 31, 2015
Funny Guy Friday... Priorities, priorities...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
Have you heard the news? Have you seen Jimmy Kimmel reduced to tears? Have you felt the uproar that is sweeping the country? Have you heard that the White House may now get involved?
Of course you have heard about this. It is on every news channel and in every paper.
If you just crawled out from beneath a rock, some dentist went to Zimbabwe on a big game hunt. This dude fancies himself as some expert with a bow and arrow. The fact of the matter is, he is an expert with a bow and arrow. I have seen the photos and he has killed a bear, a cheetah and a rhino.
From the photos that I saw, he was able to do all of this with a bow and arrow.
Now I am guessing that his bow and arrow is a little more powerful than the one we gave to Noah for Christmas. I mean it has to be to down a rhino, right?
Could you imagine coming face to face with a stampeding rhino armed only with a bow and arrow?
I got to give the doctor props for having the guts to track these animals down and square off mano v. animalo! Wow, staring down a lion and calmly pulling an arrow out of a quiver and hitting the bullseye... a la Robin Hood.
What a stud!
What's that? He didn't really come face to face with his prey? He lured him out of a protected land by placing a dead deer on the back of a car and driving it out into unprotected land. Then when the lion came to the drive thru, the dentist shot and killed it, er uh shot and wounded it? He then had to track it for several hours before shooting it dead?
And get this, he shot the only lion in Africa that every African knows by name! If Norm from Cheers was a lion, that is that lion that this guy shot! The poor lion's name was Cecil.
Cecil was a good lion that entertained the folks. Not really sure how he did that. I am guessing that he was like Alex from the movie Madagascar! Or he sang and danced like Simba from the Lion King.
Whatever he did, he did it for thirteen years and he ain't doing it anymore!
Thousands of people have flocked to the dentist's office to leave stuffed animals, making the office a shrine to poor Cecil. The office has been shut down.
Now, I have to come clean. I think that what the dentist did was kind of reprehensible, but I gotta say, the response is just as outrageous. I read an article that properly pointed out that this lion spent his life urinating in the grass, licking his rear end and eating zebras. He didn't sing or dance at all.
I also looked up the life expectancy of a lion. Do you want guess what the life expectancy for a lion is in the wild? About fifteen years. Cecil only had about one or two more good years left in him. By the way, the life span for a lion in captivity is twenty to twenty-five years. Some could argue that Cecil would have been better off living is some zoo. I wouldn't, but some could.
On Thursday, the White House announced that they will review a public petition to extradite the American who allegedly killed Cecil. Let me repeat that... the White House announced that they will review a public petition to extradite the American who allegedly killed Cecil! With all that is happening in the world, I am not sure how this controversy worked its way up to the top of the agenda.
You would think that the dentist killed the Archduke Ferdinand.
Again, the fact that a lion was killed does not appear to be a big deal. However, the way that this lion was killed is awful and hardly sporting. Cecil deserved a better way to go... and the doctor deserves to be punished. But the punishment needs to fit the crime.
Based on everything that I have seen, I think there has been a little bit of overkill... pardon the pun!
In other news... thousands of babies are being aborted, and their baby parts are being sold. You've heard about this, right?
Assuming that the doctors at the abortion facilities can perform the operation in such a way to preserve the babies' vital organs, those organs can be sold. If the organs are sold for a profit... or if the doctors modify the approved procedure in order to preserve those organs... the facility and/or the doctor may be in violation of federal law.
To watch the callous way that these doctors and medical directors discuss the harvesting and selling of these organs is pretty gut wrenching. To watch them actually harvest these organs after the babies have been killed is even worse.
By the way... the organization performing these abortions receives over half a billion dollars in federal money.
Have you seen this story? I mean this should be the lead story on every news program. Am I wrong about this? I mean no lions were harmed, but there appears to be something sinister going on.
I am sure there will be an immediate effort to leave little baby dolls at the doors of these facilities. I am sure that people will force these clinics to shut down their businesses. I am sure that all of the late night comedians will be reduced to tears.
No?
We have to do something, don't you think?
Oh I know... let's start a petition!
Maybe, just maybe... we can get on the White House's agenda.
Have you heard the news? Have you seen Jimmy Kimmel reduced to tears? Have you felt the uproar that is sweeping the country? Have you heard that the White House may now get involved?
Of course you have heard about this. It is on every news channel and in every paper.
If you just crawled out from beneath a rock, some dentist went to Zimbabwe on a big game hunt. This dude fancies himself as some expert with a bow and arrow. The fact of the matter is, he is an expert with a bow and arrow. I have seen the photos and he has killed a bear, a cheetah and a rhino.
From the photos that I saw, he was able to do all of this with a bow and arrow.
Now I am guessing that his bow and arrow is a little more powerful than the one we gave to Noah for Christmas. I mean it has to be to down a rhino, right?
Could you imagine coming face to face with a stampeding rhino armed only with a bow and arrow?
I got to give the doctor props for having the guts to track these animals down and square off mano v. animalo! Wow, staring down a lion and calmly pulling an arrow out of a quiver and hitting the bullseye... a la Robin Hood.
What a stud!
What's that? He didn't really come face to face with his prey? He lured him out of a protected land by placing a dead deer on the back of a car and driving it out into unprotected land. Then when the lion came to the drive thru, the dentist shot and killed it, er uh shot and wounded it? He then had to track it for several hours before shooting it dead?
And get this, he shot the only lion in Africa that every African knows by name! If Norm from Cheers was a lion, that is that lion that this guy shot! The poor lion's name was Cecil.
Cecil was a good lion that entertained the folks. Not really sure how he did that. I am guessing that he was like Alex from the movie Madagascar! Or he sang and danced like Simba from the Lion King.
Whatever he did, he did it for thirteen years and he ain't doing it anymore!
Thousands of people have flocked to the dentist's office to leave stuffed animals, making the office a shrine to poor Cecil. The office has been shut down.
Now, I have to come clean. I think that what the dentist did was kind of reprehensible, but I gotta say, the response is just as outrageous. I read an article that properly pointed out that this lion spent his life urinating in the grass, licking his rear end and eating zebras. He didn't sing or dance at all.
I also looked up the life expectancy of a lion. Do you want guess what the life expectancy for a lion is in the wild? About fifteen years. Cecil only had about one or two more good years left in him. By the way, the life span for a lion in captivity is twenty to twenty-five years. Some could argue that Cecil would have been better off living is some zoo. I wouldn't, but some could.
On Thursday, the White House announced that they will review a public petition to extradite the American who allegedly killed Cecil. Let me repeat that... the White House announced that they will review a public petition to extradite the American who allegedly killed Cecil! With all that is happening in the world, I am not sure how this controversy worked its way up to the top of the agenda.
You would think that the dentist killed the Archduke Ferdinand.
Again, the fact that a lion was killed does not appear to be a big deal. However, the way that this lion was killed is awful and hardly sporting. Cecil deserved a better way to go... and the doctor deserves to be punished. But the punishment needs to fit the crime.
Based on everything that I have seen, I think there has been a little bit of overkill... pardon the pun!
In other news... thousands of babies are being aborted, and their baby parts are being sold. You've heard about this, right?
Assuming that the doctors at the abortion facilities can perform the operation in such a way to preserve the babies' vital organs, those organs can be sold. If the organs are sold for a profit... or if the doctors modify the approved procedure in order to preserve those organs... the facility and/or the doctor may be in violation of federal law.
To watch the callous way that these doctors and medical directors discuss the harvesting and selling of these organs is pretty gut wrenching. To watch them actually harvest these organs after the babies have been killed is even worse.
By the way... the organization performing these abortions receives over half a billion dollars in federal money.
Have you seen this story? I mean this should be the lead story on every news program. Am I wrong about this? I mean no lions were harmed, but there appears to be something sinister going on.
I am sure there will be an immediate effort to leave little baby dolls at the doors of these facilities. I am sure that people will force these clinics to shut down their businesses. I am sure that all of the late night comedians will be reduced to tears.
No?
We have to do something, don't you think?
Oh I know... let's start a petition!
Maybe, just maybe... we can get on the White House's agenda.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Funny Guy Friday... Do you swear to tell the truth...
One of the most effective ways to get to the bottom of any argument between two (sometimes all three) of our kids is to have a trial... right there in the middle of the kitchen.
These trials typically occur when the kids give completely different accounts of the same exact event... all at the exact same time. After about a minute of that noise, I will demand... Swear them in... Let's have a trial!
Noah loves to have trials.
One Sunday, after spending an hour in playgroup, he got in the car and told me that he was mean to another little boy. I told him that was not very nice, and next time he sees the kid, he should apologize. Noah said that he would but he wanted to have a trial.
But you just confessed to the crime... there is no need for a trial... I found you guilty!
Oh, but I really want to have a trial!
You were the only witness, and you admitted that you did it, so no trial... you are guilty! I will decide what your sentence will be!
Then forget it, I wasn't really mean to anyone... I just wanted to have a trial!
Never too young to commit perjury.
Just before Christmas, the boys were scheduled to take part in their very first piano recital.
On the way home from shopping one day, Cheryl and I discussed the event details. I have never been to a piano recital, so I asked my lovely bride how long the recital would last. Well... you would have thought that I had committed the crime of the century.
I don't believe you! she started. They have been working hard, so you can sit and listen and not complain about it.
Wow... somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Okay... full disclosure... I actually asked: How long will this fiasco last?
It appears that the word fiasco seemed to have caused the problem.
Four hours... it will last four hours! Do you have someplace else to be?
I did... but I knew better than to answer what I had perceived to be a rhetorical question. Besides, I thought she might be bluffing about the whole four hour thing. I took a different approach.
How many kids will be playing?
Ten kids. And each will play two songs!
Now we were getting some clarification.
I did the math in my head. Ten kids... two songs each... each song about two to three minutes long... we were talking hour... hour and a half tops.
Manageable.
I then was thinking about making what I thought was a very valid point.
I had sat and listened to our boys practice their two songs for about two months. Usually, they sit down and announce they are going to play the two songs that they will play at the recital... and then they play the two songs.
Over and over and over again.
I have heard them numerous times. I have heard them so often that I can tell you the exact moment that they are going to mess up.
So, I ask you... why did I have to go and listen to them at some crowded coffee house in Annapolis when I could just do what I had been doing for two months now... grab a beer, and sit in the comfort of my spacious living room while they play their two stupid songs.
I did not see any upside to making that point, but I could not let my wife's previous snappy response go without a response!
As innocently as I could, I asked: Why couldn't you just tell me how long it was going to be instead of scaring me with the four hour threat/estimate?
You are unbelievable.
I have been married to Cheryl for more than twenty years, and I could tell that she did not mean "unbelievable" in a good way.
No bother... I was just happy that the recital was not going to take up half of my day!
When we got home from shopping, with Cheryl within ear shot, I recounted my version of the conversation to Grace, prompting Cheryl to blurt out... Swear him in... Let's have a trial!
You can't put me on trial... it doesn't work that way. I am the judge!
Cheryl was not moved... Grace, you're my first witness! Noah you can be the judge!
This was a total breach in legal protocol, and I was sure that Noah would never agree to preside over this travesty of justice.
I was wrong. Noah was more than happy to jump in and sit in judgment of dear old dad!
Just remember, Judge Noah, you are going to want a car some day... and I love you more than Mommy does!
A good lawyer knows the law... a great lawyer knows what makes the judge tick!
As an experienced trial attorney, I was not afraid of Grace's testimony, as she was not even present during the whole exchange. What relevant information could she possibly have?
I was walking... free and clear, baby!
Cheryl began... Gracie, what does Dad mean when he uses the word "fiasco?"
Objection! Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.
Overruled!
Uh oh.
Gracie's eyes opened wide, and a big fat smile crossed her face when she realized Cheryl's strategy... and her own opportunity to bury her poor old dad!
Grace couldn't get it out fast enough... He always uses the word "fiasco" whenever he doesn't want to do something... like a dentist appointment... or a church function on a weekday... or going to Grammy's house!
I renew my objection... besides I like going to the dentist... or to a church function on a weekday!
Noah couldn't resist: Overruled... you are guilty, Dad! And Mom says you are bordering on contempt for that crack about going to Grammy's.
How can you find me guilty when I have not even testified yet?
No need for your testimony... things can only get worse for you!
Well... you should know that you ain't getting a car!
At this point, Matthew walked by, so I decided to drag him into the fray.
Matthew, don't I always use the term "fiasco" for every event, not just the stuff I don't want to go to.
A perfectly good leading question guiding my young star witness to the obvious answer.
No, you just say it for the stuff you don't want to do!
Star witness my rear end. Traitor! No car for him either!
Noah found me guilty... and my sentence? I had to attend the piano recital!
Cheryl had asked one lousy question to a witness that was not even present at the scene of the crime and she won the case. It was disheartening!
Fortunately, I was able to forget all my troubles at the piano recital, and I am happy to report that I was all wrong about that recital. Ten kids playing two songs each... hour and fifteen minutes. The boys did wonderfully, and I had a great time.
More importantly, I learned a valuable lesson about word choices.
As we left the recital, Cheryl mentioned that we were going over to her parents' house the next Thursday.
Really? Great. What time does that fiasco start?
I quickly suggested the boys could bring their music with them!
These trials typically occur when the kids give completely different accounts of the same exact event... all at the exact same time. After about a minute of that noise, I will demand... Swear them in... Let's have a trial!
Noah loves to have trials.
One Sunday, after spending an hour in playgroup, he got in the car and told me that he was mean to another little boy. I told him that was not very nice, and next time he sees the kid, he should apologize. Noah said that he would but he wanted to have a trial.
But you just confessed to the crime... there is no need for a trial... I found you guilty!
Oh, but I really want to have a trial!
You were the only witness, and you admitted that you did it, so no trial... you are guilty! I will decide what your sentence will be!
Then forget it, I wasn't really mean to anyone... I just wanted to have a trial!
Never too young to commit perjury.
Just before Christmas, the boys were scheduled to take part in their very first piano recital.
On the way home from shopping one day, Cheryl and I discussed the event details. I have never been to a piano recital, so I asked my lovely bride how long the recital would last. Well... you would have thought that I had committed the crime of the century.
I don't believe you! she started. They have been working hard, so you can sit and listen and not complain about it.
Wow... somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Okay... full disclosure... I actually asked: How long will this fiasco last?
It appears that the word fiasco seemed to have caused the problem.
Four hours... it will last four hours! Do you have someplace else to be?
I did... but I knew better than to answer what I had perceived to be a rhetorical question. Besides, I thought she might be bluffing about the whole four hour thing. I took a different approach.
How many kids will be playing?
Ten kids. And each will play two songs!
Now we were getting some clarification.
I did the math in my head. Ten kids... two songs each... each song about two to three minutes long... we were talking hour... hour and a half tops.
Manageable.
I then was thinking about making what I thought was a very valid point.
I had sat and listened to our boys practice their two songs for about two months. Usually, they sit down and announce they are going to play the two songs that they will play at the recital... and then they play the two songs.
Over and over and over again.
I have heard them numerous times. I have heard them so often that I can tell you the exact moment that they are going to mess up.
So, I ask you... why did I have to go and listen to them at some crowded coffee house in Annapolis when I could just do what I had been doing for two months now... grab a beer, and sit in the comfort of my spacious living room while they play their two stupid songs.
I did not see any upside to making that point, but I could not let my wife's previous snappy response go without a response!
As innocently as I could, I asked: Why couldn't you just tell me how long it was going to be instead of scaring me with the four hour threat/estimate?
You are unbelievable.
I have been married to Cheryl for more than twenty years, and I could tell that she did not mean "unbelievable" in a good way.
No bother... I was just happy that the recital was not going to take up half of my day!
When we got home from shopping, with Cheryl within ear shot, I recounted my version of the conversation to Grace, prompting Cheryl to blurt out... Swear him in... Let's have a trial!
You can't put me on trial... it doesn't work that way. I am the judge!
Cheryl was not moved... Grace, you're my first witness! Noah you can be the judge!
This was a total breach in legal protocol, and I was sure that Noah would never agree to preside over this travesty of justice.
I was wrong. Noah was more than happy to jump in and sit in judgment of dear old dad!
Just remember, Judge Noah, you are going to want a car some day... and I love you more than Mommy does!
A good lawyer knows the law... a great lawyer knows what makes the judge tick!
As an experienced trial attorney, I was not afraid of Grace's testimony, as she was not even present during the whole exchange. What relevant information could she possibly have?
I was walking... free and clear, baby!
Cheryl began... Gracie, what does Dad mean when he uses the word "fiasco?"
Objection! Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.
Overruled!
Uh oh.
Gracie's eyes opened wide, and a big fat smile crossed her face when she realized Cheryl's strategy... and her own opportunity to bury her poor old dad!
Grace couldn't get it out fast enough... He always uses the word "fiasco" whenever he doesn't want to do something... like a dentist appointment... or a church function on a weekday... or going to Grammy's house!
I renew my objection... besides I like going to the dentist... or to a church function on a weekday!
Noah couldn't resist: Overruled... you are guilty, Dad! And Mom says you are bordering on contempt for that crack about going to Grammy's.
How can you find me guilty when I have not even testified yet?
No need for your testimony... things can only get worse for you!
Well... you should know that you ain't getting a car!
At this point, Matthew walked by, so I decided to drag him into the fray.
Matthew, don't I always use the term "fiasco" for every event, not just the stuff I don't want to go to.
A perfectly good leading question guiding my young star witness to the obvious answer.
No, you just say it for the stuff you don't want to do!
Star witness my rear end. Traitor! No car for him either!
Noah found me guilty... and my sentence? I had to attend the piano recital!
Cheryl had asked one lousy question to a witness that was not even present at the scene of the crime and she won the case. It was disheartening!
Fortunately, I was able to forget all my troubles at the piano recital, and I am happy to report that I was all wrong about that recital. Ten kids playing two songs each... hour and fifteen minutes. The boys did wonderfully, and I had a great time.
More importantly, I learned a valuable lesson about word choices.
As we left the recital, Cheryl mentioned that we were going over to her parents' house the next Thursday.
Really? Great. What time does that fiasco start?
I quickly suggested the boys could bring their music with them!
Friday, November 18, 2011
Funny Guy Friday... O Captain, My Captain...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband, Mark. So, I married a Funny Guy!
When Matthew, who is now 11, was six years old, he decided to join a baseball team. I was more than happy to coach.
Before Cheryl and I were married, I had coached some very good 12-year-old teams for several years, and I had continued to coach right up until Matthew was about two or three years old. I had stopped coaching because, at that time, we had two kids and neither one was playing ball. So when he signed up at age six, I was more than happy to jump back into the coaching game.
I remember that first practice, when Matthew was the only boy... or girl (that's right, I said girl)... who knew how to catch, or throw, or even how to hold a bat. After practice, Cheryl told me that the parents thought I was so very patient. Really? Because I am ready to put my head through the car window.
Fortunately, I refrained from concussing myself, and our team, The Bees, had a successful year. Having said that, we did have our moments.
There was one little girl named Emily who was not very good, and was not very interested in being at the field or listening to me. She also wore a skirt to every game. When I gave my post-game talks, I always pointed out what each player had done well, and I made up game superlatives for the kids. We had best hit, best cheerer (I made that word up), coolest hat (the brim was the key), best listener, most bubble gum chewed, fastest runner, etc, etc.
My girl Emily always won for best skirt on the team. She was happy with that, but that was about all that pleased her. Most games we would find her playing with her nanny on the playground across from the field. By the way, Emily's nanny was the best nanny on the team. Anyway, at the end of the year, I was sure that Emily would be happy to be done with the season, and done with me. I was surprised when she came up to me after the last game, and looked at me, and threw her arms around me, and started to cry, and told me that I was the best coach she ever had. Apparently, Emily was paying attention during the season.
This brings me to my other son Noah's seven-year-old basketball team that I am presently coaching. We had our first practice this week, and I think I am in for quite an adventure. On the way to the gym, Noah and I had the following conversation:
Noah: Dad, am I going to be the team captain?
Me: No, I would not say that. I haven't even met the kids on the team yet, and we probably will not have captains.
Noah: Yeah, yeah, but if we did have captains, I would be the captain, right?
Me: No, I would not say that. Just because you are my son, it does not mean you are anything special, just my son.
Noah: Yeah, I get that. But just so we know, I would be the team captain.
Me: Noah, if I did have a captain, I would have a different one for each game.
Noah: Okay, so the first game, I will be captain.
Me: YES, YES. YOU ARE THE CAPTAIN.
Noah: I thought so.
On my way out the door, Cheryl had reminded me to remember that this would probably be the first time most of these kids had ever played basketball, so I should start at the beginning.
I had already figured that we should start with dribbling, then passing, and then some defense. I had also settled on a coaching style that the kids could relate to.
For example, I explained to the kids that we were going to learn a cool dance called the Funky Crab. This is when you get into a nice crouch on the balls of your feet with your arms out like a crab and you step and slide like a crab. This dance has the same moves you use on defense.
As I was showing the kids the dance, our team captain raised his hand and wanted to know if we could pinch players like a crab would do. No, Noah. I explained that we play defense by moving our feet and not by reaching and grabbing with our hands. This led another player to point out that crabs don't have feet. Good point---now be quiet.
Moving on, I explained to the kids that we were bumble bees and that the key (the area of the court under the basket from the baseline to the foul line) was our beehive, and we needed to protect our honey. The basket was the honey, and the other team was full of bears trying to get our honey. Again, Captain Noah's hand shot up, and he wanted to know if the basket was the honey or the hive. The honey. "Then how do the bears get to our honey way up there?" he asked. Our captain was getting to be a little bit annoying. By shooting the rock up at the basket. "Does it have to go through the basket for them to get the honey." YES, YES. IT DOES!
Now that we had that resolved, we decided to take advantage of the fact that we had the whole gym to ourselves, so we scrimmaged. This was an opportunity to get the kids used to going in the opposite direction when there is a change of possession. Sounds simple, but when you usually only practice on a half court, they never get to switch sides.
I must say that they did pretty well, but they sometimes would forget to dribble. One little guy took one dribble and then tucked the ball under his arm and ran the full court, as if he were a running back; and then he took a shot. His dad tried to explain to him that he had to dribble; the boy insisting all the while that he had. One dribble, seventy feet. Very impressive strides for a seven-year-old. I could hear little Alan Iverson: Dribble. You're talking about dribble. I don't need no stinkin' dribble!
After practice, on the drive home, I asked Noah how he thought things had gone. He advised that one of the girls on the team likes him. Really? How do you know that? "She kept following me and kicking at my heels." That could mean she doesn't like you, and wants to beat you up! "Dad, she can't do that. I am the captain."
When we got home, I sent out an email for our second practice this coming week, and one parent replied that their family may be out of town, but would be there if they were back in time. She then thanked me, adding that after just one practice, her son thought I was "the best coach ever."
Really? Hmmm.
Sorry Noah, looks like we found ourselves a new captain.
When Matthew, who is now 11, was six years old, he decided to join a baseball team. I was more than happy to coach.
Before Cheryl and I were married, I had coached some very good 12-year-old teams for several years, and I had continued to coach right up until Matthew was about two or three years old. I had stopped coaching because, at that time, we had two kids and neither one was playing ball. So when he signed up at age six, I was more than happy to jump back into the coaching game.
I remember that first practice, when Matthew was the only boy... or girl (that's right, I said girl)... who knew how to catch, or throw, or even how to hold a bat. After practice, Cheryl told me that the parents thought I was so very patient. Really? Because I am ready to put my head through the car window.
Fortunately, I refrained from concussing myself, and our team, The Bees, had a successful year. Having said that, we did have our moments.
There was one little girl named Emily who was not very good, and was not very interested in being at the field or listening to me. She also wore a skirt to every game. When I gave my post-game talks, I always pointed out what each player had done well, and I made up game superlatives for the kids. We had best hit, best cheerer (I made that word up), coolest hat (the brim was the key), best listener, most bubble gum chewed, fastest runner, etc, etc.
My girl Emily always won for best skirt on the team. She was happy with that, but that was about all that pleased her. Most games we would find her playing with her nanny on the playground across from the field. By the way, Emily's nanny was the best nanny on the team. Anyway, at the end of the year, I was sure that Emily would be happy to be done with the season, and done with me. I was surprised when she came up to me after the last game, and looked at me, and threw her arms around me, and started to cry, and told me that I was the best coach she ever had. Apparently, Emily was paying attention during the season.
This brings me to my other son Noah's seven-year-old basketball team that I am presently coaching. We had our first practice this week, and I think I am in for quite an adventure. On the way to the gym, Noah and I had the following conversation:
Noah: Dad, am I going to be the team captain?
Me: No, I would not say that. I haven't even met the kids on the team yet, and we probably will not have captains.
Noah: Yeah, yeah, but if we did have captains, I would be the captain, right?
Me: No, I would not say that. Just because you are my son, it does not mean you are anything special, just my son.
Noah: Yeah, I get that. But just so we know, I would be the team captain.
Me: Noah, if I did have a captain, I would have a different one for each game.
Noah: Okay, so the first game, I will be captain.
Me: YES, YES. YOU ARE THE CAPTAIN.
Noah: I thought so.
On my way out the door, Cheryl had reminded me to remember that this would probably be the first time most of these kids had ever played basketball, so I should start at the beginning.
I had already figured that we should start with dribbling, then passing, and then some defense. I had also settled on a coaching style that the kids could relate to.
For example, I explained to the kids that we were going to learn a cool dance called the Funky Crab. This is when you get into a nice crouch on the balls of your feet with your arms out like a crab and you step and slide like a crab. This dance has the same moves you use on defense.
As I was showing the kids the dance, our team captain raised his hand and wanted to know if we could pinch players like a crab would do. No, Noah. I explained that we play defense by moving our feet and not by reaching and grabbing with our hands. This led another player to point out that crabs don't have feet. Good point---now be quiet.
Moving on, I explained to the kids that we were bumble bees and that the key (the area of the court under the basket from the baseline to the foul line) was our beehive, and we needed to protect our honey. The basket was the honey, and the other team was full of bears trying to get our honey. Again, Captain Noah's hand shot up, and he wanted to know if the basket was the honey or the hive. The honey. "Then how do the bears get to our honey way up there?" he asked. Our captain was getting to be a little bit annoying. By shooting the rock up at the basket. "Does it have to go through the basket for them to get the honey." YES, YES. IT DOES!
Now that we had that resolved, we decided to take advantage of the fact that we had the whole gym to ourselves, so we scrimmaged. This was an opportunity to get the kids used to going in the opposite direction when there is a change of possession. Sounds simple, but when you usually only practice on a half court, they never get to switch sides.
I must say that they did pretty well, but they sometimes would forget to dribble. One little guy took one dribble and then tucked the ball under his arm and ran the full court, as if he were a running back; and then he took a shot. His dad tried to explain to him that he had to dribble; the boy insisting all the while that he had. One dribble, seventy feet. Very impressive strides for a seven-year-old. I could hear little Alan Iverson: Dribble. You're talking about dribble. I don't need no stinkin' dribble!
After practice, on the drive home, I asked Noah how he thought things had gone. He advised that one of the girls on the team likes him. Really? How do you know that? "She kept following me and kicking at my heels." That could mean she doesn't like you, and wants to beat you up! "Dad, she can't do that. I am the captain."
When we got home, I sent out an email for our second practice this coming week, and one parent replied that their family may be out of town, but would be there if they were back in time. She then thanked me, adding that after just one practice, her son thought I was "the best coach ever."
Really? Hmmm.
Sorry Noah, looks like we found ourselves a new captain.
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