Down With The Sickness

I'd love to write about how amazing this Thanksgiving has been.  I'd love to say that we spent the day with relatives near and far and that we had a blast playing Thanksgiving party games, watching football and pigging out.  But, I can't.  What I can do is show you with one simple picture what our Thanksgiving has been like.  Prepare yourself.

 One eye half-closed, hair like a bird's nest, and glazed eyes--that pretty well sums it up for us.

Sickness has been in this house since Sunday night and the plague has been spreading and getting stronger. So while the rest of our family is next door living it up, we've been popping pills and blowing noses.  They did drop a plate of food off outside our front door earlier--I believe that's how they serve it in prison.  This year, my "Thanks" are a little different from last year.

I'm thankful for:

Scientific advancements that allow me to take a pill to combat whatever vile thing is thriving inside of me.

The guy that decided Kleenex could benefit from a drop of Aloe.

Triple-soothing lemon drops.  They're like regular lemon drops but three times better.

Hot Toddies.  They're like regular lemon drops but taste less like lemon and more like whiskey.

Sweatpants.

Professional Football.  Because yelling at the television clears my throat.

And finally, family.  Even though I hold you all responsible for infecting me there's nobody else I'd rather have taking care of me.  Except maybe Soleil Moon Frye.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Update (2013-11-30):  I was really hoping you would survive the week without getting sick Libby.  Alas, it wasn't meant to be.  The virus has not been kind to you:

Less Rocking Out and More Tucking In #IGTOFTS

Last night was the first show our band has played in a long time.  It's taken time to find a new singer and bassist and with the number of kids between the five of us it's hard to find time to practice, let alone play shows.  On the plus side, we'll have an amazing boy band ready to go once the kids get older.  Ain't no livin' like vicarious livin'.

It was after we played our set and I was watching the next band that I realized it may be time for me to hang up my drumsticks.  I was sitting down (at a metal show--this is a big no-no--also, it's not metal to say no-no) and was having my usual introverted conversation with myself.  Welcome to the inner workings of my psyche:

ME:  "We played a fast and tight set tonight.  I feel good though.  That's the most exercise I've had in a long time.  I really need to work out more often.  I'm not 21 anymore."

MY INNER VOICE (a.k.a. That A-Hole That's Usually Right But Has To Be A Dick About It):  "You know who is 21, every other member of every other band you've played with tonight.  Remember when you were 18 and used to go to shows and laugh at the old guys that were playing music.  Yeah, well, you're that old guy now."

ME:  "At least I'm not wearing leather pants like those old guys from Ramzeus were."

MY INNER VOICE:  "Like you'd fit into them anyway."  Seriously, dude, what are you doing here?  You have three kids and a wife at home.  Shouldn't you be there brushing teeth and tucking in instead of rocking out?"

At this point, I'm saved from my inner voice's belittling by the singer on stage.  He's getting the crowd pumped up with the usual, "This is a metal show, get the *%&^ up." and "I want to see every one of you %#&@ers moving on this next song."  He may have also said some very unkind things about someone's mother.  That's when the voice started back in.

MY INNER VOICE:  "Dude, are you listening to this douchebag?"

ME:  "He's just doing his job, trying to get the crowd pumped up."

MY INNER VOICE:  "Well, he's failing because you're still sitting down."

ME:  "I'm not going to get up.  I've been standing all night, watching these other bands tearing it up.  My back hurts.  The doctor said there are signs of arthritis in my lower back."

MY INNER VOICE:  "First off, you're too old to say "tearing it up" or any other phrase unless you follow it up with, 'Do kids still say that?'  Also....Arthritis?  Really?  Hey kids, we're here to melt your faces with our brand of arthritic thrash metal."

ME:  "How come you get to say cool stuff like 'melt your faces' and I don't?"

MY INNER VOICE:  "That's not important, what is important is that you check out that girl over there.  You see what she's wearing?  Nice right?

ME:  "Good God, she should cover up.  It's 29 degrees outside.  I'd never want my daughter to go out of the house dressed like that."

MY INNER VOICE:  "Thank you for making my point.  I remember what you used to think about girls dressed like that.  I'm not going to get in to it, because we'll probably write a blog post about this later and I know that your Mom reads it."

ME:  "Good idea."

MY INNER VOICE:  "I'm full of them.  You should listen to me more often."

ME:  "I will.  Let's go up to the stage and rock out."

MY INNER VOICE:  "Never say 'rock out' again."

And with that, my inner voice spread his arms, dropped the mic and walked off stage while I walked up to it...arthritis be damned.  But my eventful night wasn't over yet.  It's never over until you get the police involved.

At least, Libby still likes to rock out.

Scumbag Brain

After an amazing set at last night's metal show, I was exhausted and ready to go home.  It was late and I had a long drive ahead of me.  I've found that driving over the speed limit can reduce your total drive time; often by an impressive amount.   (Try it, it's true!!!)

However, if you leave a bar around midnight, it's never a good idea to drive fast.  Not only are the cops out and watching for people speeding away from bars, but other drivers (who had business at the bar not related to playing thrash metal) are also leaving the pub.  If there was ever a time for driving the speed limit in a defensive manner, this is it.

  Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.

So I obey the rules of the road.  For a solid forty minutes, I drive 60 on the interstate and 30 in town.  I even drop down to 20 in the school zone.  I know there aren't any kids present, but I'm not taking any chances.  I've had a negative view of police ever since high school.

I grew up in a town with a graduating class of fifty some students.  There was nothing for us to do in our small town which meant there was usually plenty for the cops to do.  Everybody knew everybody--cops included.  They would find any excuse to pull you over.  I was pulled over at 2 in the morning once for driving too close to the white line.  I'm not sure that's even a thing, I mean, c'mon man, like I should drive closer to the yellow line so I'm closer to oncoming traffic.  You basically told me I was driving too safe.  Nothing new though, most people driving at 2 in the morning on a weekend probably should be pulled over.

My problem with this is that the guy knew I just got off of work.  He came through the drive-thru earlier that night and I gave him his Gordita Supreme and free Cherry Pepsi.  He still insisted on asking if I had been drinking or smoking and he wanted to search my car.  Tool.

This kind of stuff happened all the time.  And, while I don't have the same negative view of police anymore, I still get nervous and shaky when they pull me over.  Thankfully, I was driving the speed limit all the way home.  I'm tired, ready for bed, and I'm 200 yards from home.  So sleepy.  That's when I see the license plate in the other lane.

Anybody that's ever driven a car knows that as soon as that plate drives by you in the other lane, you check your rear-view.  Nothing to worry about I think.  I've been driving the speed limit, I'm almost home.  It's all good.

Then he turns around and I go Captain Picard.

Picard's reaction edited for family blog.

 Seriously, why would you turn around, I'm driving the speed limit, I'm not swerving like a drunk.  I figure he's just close to the end of the county line so he's turning around and heading back to town.  Wrong.  I pull in to my driveway and open the garage door.  That's when I see him flip on his lights and pull in right behind me.  And then, my brain goes in to scumbag mode.

It starts playing out all the possible scenarios and telling me how he's going to make them happen.  "Remember that beer you had at 8 o'clock?  I know it's 12:30 now, but I've been refusing to return your BAC to an acceptable level.  You're going to get a DUI in your driveway son.  Oh, you're nervous and need to play it cool?  How about I make your hands shake like you're trying to hide something.  I'll throw in a little voice-cracking too just to make sure it seems like you're lying.  My but this is fun.  How about I make you avoid eye contact too?  Perfect.  Should I just go ahead and start moving your arms behind your back to prepare for the cuffs?"

The officer hands my license and insurance back and says that he pulled me over for a burnt out license plate bulb.  He gives me a warning since I'm home safely and he leaves.  I walk inside, my exhaustion gone thanks to the last 5 minutes of my 60-minute drive.  I tell my brain to suck it while I slip into bed:

Thanks a ton Scumbag Brain.  It wasn't enough to belittle me in conversation earlier, now you're going to keep me awake too.

Treat Yo' Self

With Christmas not far away, it's time to start thinking about toys for the kids.  I've always tried to stay away from presents that need batteries and make a lot of noise, but what if your child is the one making all the noise?  And, what if her battery never runs out?

Now, I know what you're thinking.  The box says 5+ years, but my 3-year old could really use this.  Don't worry.  A little hem here, an alteration there, and you're tiny toddler will be rocking back and forth in the corner in no time.  I would highly recommend a dog cone to keep your child from gnawing through the straps--the leather isn't of the highest quality.

Some children may get claustrophobic with their arms wrapped around themselves tightly  and fastened securely behind their backs with leather straps.  (Big Babies!!!)  For those children, you might want to consider something a little less intense.

 Again, don't let the age restriction scare you.  The ankles of a 7-year old are quite larger than those of a 6-month old baby.  But who could possibly need this more than a young baby that just learned how to crawl?  Not to worry.  The ankle bracelet is adjustable and you could always put this around your baby's waist if need be.

For more information or to purchase products, visit Control Toys.  Not matter what you decide to buy this holiday season, the important thing to remember is that a gift for your child can be a present for you.

5 Man Acoustical Pop-Tart Jam

This is a rule that has been in effect for my mischievous children for  some time.  It started with the boy when he was about 3-years old and the baby is now carrying the torch into a new era of mischievousness.

Rule #33:  Daddy's acoustic guitar is not a toybox

Just because it's been sitting in the corner of Mommy and Daddy's bedroom for 6+ years, that doesn't mean I'll never play it again.  I would like to keep it nice.

Even though I haven't had to play Wonderwall by Oasis to impress a girl since 1998, doesn't mean I don't want to learn new songs.  This will be hard to do with your My Little Pony brush stuck between the strings.

Also, your My Little Pony brush is not a guitar pick.

Other things that are not guitar picks:  Mickey Mouse flashcards, paper clips, Dora the Explorer bingo tokens, and your fat baby fingers.


My acoustic guitar is also not a toy box.  I'd thank you kindly to please keep your Cinderella dress-up jewelry, dice, and other small, choke-able toys out of it.  And while we're on the subject, keep those same things out of your mouth.

  Not sure why you felt the need to put a dishcloth in there either.

The acoustic guitar, much like our vacuum cleaner, is not a piggy bank.  Keep your money the money you stole out of Mommy's coin purse in Mommy's coin purse.  Also, stop stealing money.

When I said I wanted to learn how to play Brown Sugar I was referring to the Rolling Stones song, not your breakfast.  So please, please, refrain from shoving pop-tarts into it.  It's not a toaster.

However, that high-fructose corn syrup and oily gelatin makes for a nice string-wax; my fingers have never glided so smoothly across the frets.  Thank you for that.

Cheetahs and Leopards and Jaguars, Oh My!!!

Kids love to ask questions.  For the longest time, they were answered easily.  We used to be able to get by with answering "Why is the sky blue?" with a simple, "It just is."  Now our son has begun questioning our answers--"But, WHY is it blue?"

I strain to remember my elementary science lessons and bumble my way through an explanation throwing around terms like "prism", "spectrum", and "dissfraction" half-heartedly, hoping to convince him I know what I'm talking about.  I later learn that "dissfraction" is not even a word and that perhaps "refraction" or "reflection" would have served the situation better.  Elementary school was a long time ago.

  Then again, maybe a made-up word like "dissfraction" is easier.

Even worse, now Caleb is beginning to ask questions that I have no idea how to answer.  The other day he asked my wife what the difference was between a jaguar, cheetah, and leopard.  Uhhh.....

It was nice when he wanted to know the difference between any of those three and a tiger.  Spots vs. stripes.  Done and done.  But, all three of those things have spots.  Can you tell which one is which?

Thankfully, we have the internet.  After an extensive, five-second Google search, my wife found that there are many differences between the three, but rather than try to explain differences between ligament structures, rosettes, and spots, it's easier to boil it down to geographical differences.  And for now, this is enough to satisfy his curiosity.

Also, I think that cheetahs look like their make-up is running from too much crying--probably upset about the lack of rosettes.  Cheetahs are a jealous, hormonal bunch.

I don't know how parents answered questions before the internet.  I guess it was easier (and safer) to tell your kids to shut up and go play outside back then.

 This worked for my parents. It's still a great parenting technique.

Recently, the boy has begun asking me questions that even the internet can't help me with.  This morning, while waiting for the bus, he asked me what the difference was between frustration, anger, and fury.

With no internet available at the end of our driveway, I was left to my own resources--never a good thing.  I made up a mad, madder, maddest hierarchy of emotion that he wasn't buying.  He then explained the differences to me:  Frustration was when you were mad but didn't feel like yelling.  Anger is when you wanted to yell but didn't and fury is when you super-magma yelled.

I'm not sure what exactly a super-magma yell sounds like and I don't think I want to know.  After getting him on the bus, I decided to google the question.  The results yielded answers from buddhist forums, psychological websites, and christian sermons.  The answers varied from anger is an illusion, to repressed feelings, to the devil made me do it--none of which are helpful to a 7-year old boy.

The internet usually has the answers to any question, but I guess it can't always make me look smart.

Note To Self #3

Note to Self:  Hide the Halloween candy better.

As I was cleaning the house this morning, I heard Leah stirring around upstairs.  I finished stocking the bathroom with t.p. and diapers then started working on the bedrooms.  From the other room, I offered to make her breakfast, but she said she was already eating.  When I went to check on her, I saw that she did indeed have breakfast in front of her: