Rambling Josh

My daughter is trying to kill me. Not with knives, explosives, poisoning, or a sleazy hit-man, but with a single question. Not just any question like, “Why did you have long hair and tight pants in high school?” or “Why does math make you cry?” or “Why do farts stink and why are they always funny?”

No this was a question that I had figured was a few years off yet. Something that I knew would eventually come up, but secretly hoped it wouldn’t, at least until my wife moves back home.

Sierra was sitting on the couch watching one of our favorite shows, “The Simpson’s”, and when a commercial came on she asked me a question. Most of the time “commercial time” questions are pretty basic, painless, and easy to answer. This one was different. This one made me wince inside, made my insides panic and jump around like, well like Homer. Not the philosopher, the other Homer, Homer J. Simpson.

She said, “Dad how old do I have to be before I can have a boyfriend?” As the number 35 floated though my panic stricken brain I said pleadingly, “I thought you didn’t like boys?” Oh, please say you still don’t like boys; its okay not to like boys, there really is nothing about boys to like. “Well” she says, “There is this one boy that I kind of like.”

This might be a good time to inform her that we are moving in the next hour to someplace far away from this boy that she “kind of likes” and we will be back when she’s 35 to continue this conversation. Until then we’ll find a nice “boyless” town and live in peace with no more of this nonsense about kind of liking boys.

The only answer I could come up with under these duress circumstances was, “Not for awhile.” Is that vague enough? Could be in a few minutes could be in a few decades. I just wasn’t comfortable setting a reachable number for her, a number that would give her hope that it would be okay to like boys someday soon and have, of all things, a boyfriend. If hope ever need to be dashed this was an opportune time and place.

So dash I did. I dashed to the phone to call my wife for some help, some insight, some hope for me to cling to, and above all a number. My wife thought my first impulse of 35 might be a bit excessive so I bid and bargained for a compromise of 32. My wife’s number was painfully lower, half of my second bid actually. Sixteen.

Sixteen! Good Lord that’s only about four years eight months and sixteen days away. That’s all the time I have to terrify every boy in town to the point that they tremble and wet themselves in my presents. Trembling and wetting can’t be an attractive sight for a girl. Hopefully it’s enough to keep the “kind of like’s” in the “don’t like” group for a few more years.

Let’s see what do I need to get started… a big mean dog, a beard, no more showers, a weapons permit, a knife collection, a lengthy arrest record, Chuck Norris as my faithful sidekick, and the ability to never, ever sleep.

Let the trembling and wetting begin.

A few nights ago Sierra and I were lounging around the living room reading, while Jackson, not being much of a lounger, was busy shooting hoops on his indoor basket. The rhythmic thump of his basketball came to a stop and he came over to me and said, “Dad I don’t want you to get old.”

I thought for a moment about letting him know that the alternative to me getting old was to discontinue living, but I spared him the scary sarcasm and simply asked, “Why?” He explained that if I got old I wouldn’t be able to play with him anymore.

It was comforting to know that my son has intentions of “playing” with his Dad for many years to come, because I like to play. He looked genuinely concerned about the prospect of me being “benched” with the advancement of old age. So I did my best to put him at ease.

I told him that the reason I workout all the time is to stay in shape so I will always be able to play with him. He mulled this over for a few seconds, poked at my belly to test its firmness, and said, “Well you stay in shape then.” Apparently convinced that he would have his “old man” to play with for quite some time he went back to shooting baskets.

My children are motivation for me to do a lot of things better in life. Stay in shape, eat healthy, watch my mouth, and just generally try to be a good example. I was brought up around adults that were and still are good examples of how to live and enjoy life so it is my responsibility to pass that along to my children.

I workout at the YMCA several times a week and every time I look around the locker room before or after a workout I am blinded by more motivation to stay in shape.

There is always the same group of elderly men in the locker room and I suspect that some of them don’t workout at all, I think they just come to do what their wives forbid them to do at home…be naked. Their wives have a strong argument.

They just mill around in the suit God gave them, and by the looks of it he’s not going to want it back.

There’s a little lounge area in the locker room with a big screen TV and a couple of recliners. Every morning you can find naked old men lounging in EZ chairs watching CNN and discussing politics with other naked old men. I’ve reasoned that maybe they are all former nudist that are on a rehabilitation program to slowly reintroduce them to a clothed society.

Maybe it’s just me but I find it hard to discuss current events with no pockets to leisurely put my hands in. I also like to feel that I have the freedom to randomly glance about while chatting with someone, but an inadvertent southward glance when both of you are “feeling the breeze” could be taken the wrong way.

Many things in life take discipline and focus, naked conversation is one such thing. Keeping my “play” promise to my son is another.

Gentleman it’s been a week since Valentines Day which should be plenty of time for you to be back on speaking terms with your significant other. My wife was at her apartment in Vermillion, 385 miles away, when she received my Valentines gifts in the mail. Not having to see her disappointment in person helped ease this special day by for another year.

Maybe a buffer zone of 300 miles or more should be a regulation for any gift giving or receiving. Another stipulation I would encourage would be that after the gift is opened no phone calls in regards to the gift shall take place for at least 24 hours. This would give the gift receiver time to contact other potential gift receivers and compare gift complaints, questions, or comments.

My hope is that after 24 hours worth of contrast and comparison the recipient of the gift (my wife) will have discovered that others received something much worse. This would turn her initial feelings into a milder form of disappointment. So mild in fact that the gift giver (myself) may not even pick up on it from a bad phone connection 385 miles away 24 hours later.

This new gift giving format is still in the developmental stages and awaiting approval from congress, the FDA, and the Teamsters Union. These three organizations have a large number of male members so the “Gift Giving Treaty of 2007” shouldn’t encounter much opposition.

Call your congressman, voice your support, and never again have to stare desperately into the eyes of a disappointed woman as she opens yet another failed attempt at gift giving. I’m not saying you’ll never disappoint her again in other areas of your blissful life, I mean come on, we are men, and they are women.

Our ability to disappoint them is part of our genetic code, an unbreakable code, that has been around since the first caveman drug a saber tooth tiger home for dinner and she had a craving for wooly mammoth.

As he strolls triumphantly through the door of their cave she looks up and disappointedly grunts, “Oh…saber tooth tiger.” To which he grunts, “You don’t like it do you?” She grunts, “Oh, no it’s all right…I just…I like it.” He grunts, “You don’t look like you like it.” She grunts, “Well it’s just that I was hoping for a wooly mammoth, but this is fine.” He grunts, “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted a wooly mammoth?” She grunts, “I thought you would just know.” He grunts, “I lost three fingers and my left ear trying to kill this saber tooth tiger.” She grunts, “I appreciate that I really do but Oogta two caves down got a wooly mammoth and I just thought it would be kind of nice to have one too.”

He grunts and trudges off to find a wooly mammoth. Having lost his left ear he doesn’t hear a herd of them coming and dies in a stampede. She grunts, disappointed again, and moves in with Oogta.

If you were one of the few that didn’t disappoint your lovely lady this year, well there’s always next year, or tomorrow, or today, or five minutes from now, or …..

The typing is a little labored and painful today. It’s not writers block, I have too many voices in my head wanting to be heard for that to be an issue. No my fingers are a little raw from the pre-wife-coming-home cleaning extravaganza I’ve perfected over the past year and a half. It’s been about 3 weeks since she’s been home so things slid a little further into disarray than normal.

I know I’ve whined about this before but…It started with the dishes, it’s always the dishes, plates, bowls, spoons, forks, cups, a chinchilla…I didn’t even know we had a chinchilla. The problem arose when the dishwasher filled up with dirty dishes and I discovered we were out of dishwashing detergent. It took a few days to get to the store to buy some so with a full dishwasher more dirty dishes piled up in the sink.

I know what you’re thinking. “Why didn’t you have the chinchilla do the dishes?” Well I’ll tell you why. It didn’t have the proper papers so I was unsure if it was a legal immigrant. That’s all I need is immigration busting down my door and throwing me in the hoosegow for providing gainful employment to an illegal alien.

Why didn’t I wash them the old fashioned way? Well I’ll tell you why. I didn’t feel like it all right, besides that chinchilla looked like he new how to use that dirty steak knife he was wielding.

I reluctantly changed my mind a little later when I walked into the kitchen and discovered Jackson drinking milk out of souvenir shot glass. He threw back a shot, slammed the glass on the counter, looked up with a small shot glass sized milk mustache and pointed out that all the cups were dirty.

He set me and the chinchilla up with a round of 2%, we threw it back, Jackson and the chinchilla retired to the den for “Wheel of Fortune” and I got to work. Dishes are done, laundry is laundered, and the ring in the toilet bowl is a shadow of its former self. So for the next three days nobody is allowed to use any dishes, change clothes or do whatever it is that causes that nasty ring.

When Dawn gets home there will still be a hint of sparkling citrus in the air from the cleaning solution that removed the skin from my finger tips. The sink will be empty and the kitchen cleaned in preparation for her to make a shambles of it with the cooking and baking she enjoys so much.

As long as she leaves some chocolate chip cookie dough in the freezer and leftovers in the fridge she can make as big a mess as she wants. It’s always sort of sad when we eat the last of the leftovers after she returns to college. Going back to my predictable cuisine can be tough after dining on Dawn’s creative creations for a few days.

The kids don’t complain, they’re a polite lot, but that chinchilla sure is opinionated.

Now for a public service announcement: My sister happened upon a website that lists people that are owed money. Rebates, unclaimed money, stuff of that nature. So take a break from the Rosie O’Donnell fan site and visit: www.missingmoney.com

Maybe you’ll finally be able to get that operation you’ve been saving for.

I recently watched the movie “A Prairie Home Companion” and if you’re a fan of the radio show, as I am, you’ll enjoy the movie. I find Garrison Keillor’s dry wit and humor to be entertaining and my wife apparently finds it relaxing. So much so that she chose to critique the movie with her eye’s closed, letting out intermittent snores and snorts of approval.

I was pleasantly surprised at the beginning of the movie by the location of the opening scene, Mickey’s Diner in St. Paul Minnesota. About 13 years ago I had one of the best patty melts I’ve ever eaten in that particular restaurant. I haven’t been back there since and I think my cholesterol is still reeling from that half pound of greasy goodness.

My college roommate, Chris Shafer, and I went to Minneapolis to watch the Vikings and Cowboys play. Actually, neither of us was that interested in the game and spent most of it fighting over the binoculars to watch the cheerleaders and scan the crowd for “weirdoes.” There must have been a lot of them sitting close by us because there were a lot of binoculars and fingers pointing our way.

The game was just a good excuse to spend a weekend “taste testing” in the Twin Cities. Since I had recently had a debilitating crocheting accident I had to find a new hobby while I healed up, and taste testing was as good as any.

After a long, rigorous night of taste testing, bad dancing, and general obnoxious behavior we made the decision to exchange our liquid diet for some solids. In a city, or cities, so big you would think this would be easy, but apparently not a lot of restaurants cater to the 3 a.m. bad dancing obnoxious crowd.

The blind led the obnoxious and we drove, and drove, until our jovial taste testing mood turned hungrier and uglier with every darkened diner we past. Then it appeared, an old fashioned dining car style restaurant, all lit up and filled with weary taste testers.

It never occurred to two small town boys that the kind of people that are out and about at 3 a.m. in St. Paul would be any different than us, but when we entered the diner we found that they were all indeed different. Several were carrying on heated animated debates with themselves or someone only they could see.

There weren’t two stools next to each other open when we came in but a nice man offered to move his hefty bag so Shaf and I could cower nervously next to each other. I struck up a conversation with the hefty bag man and he proceeded to tell me his life story. A very long very sad story.

The sort of story I suppose that is best told to a stranger. The sort of story that clearly explained how one might find themselves sitting in a diner at 3 a.m. with everything they own in a hefty sack. The sort of story that made me appreciate the world I was brought up in and the path I was on.

The sort of story that makes a college kid order two patty melts. One for himself and the other for someone he hopes to never be. Of all the things I spent my student loan money on that patty melt taught me the most.

Did everyone get what they wanted for Christmas? One “Burt Bachrach & The Village People Christmas Medley” CD, two sock puppets, three toes sloth, four pounds of fruit cake…and so forth and so on.

I was fortunate enough to get exactly what I wanted. No, not a lifetime subscription to the “Flatuents Is Funny” newsletter. I guess my hints weren’t ‘strong’ enough. What I got is something that has steadily risen to the top of my want list as I’ve gotten older, stool softners and time with my family. Not necessarily in that order.

Ten days in Lignite allowed me to visit and catch up with many friends and family. That is the gift I am most thankful for. Yes I know that’s about as sappy as a fresh cut Christmas tree, but I guess I’m just a sentimental old fool. ‘Old’ in my children’s young eye’s and a ‘fool’ to all.

Speaking of “fresh cut Christmas trees,” I’m pretty sure we’re going to be faced with a glorified tumbleweed when we return to Rapid City this week. One year Mom let us burn our tree to see how fast it would go up. After we took the decorations off and moved it outside of course. When I say that she ‘let’ us I mean that she didn’t stop us. It went up in flames faster than I could snap a picture of Jarvis rolling around in the snow trying to extinguish his scarf.

One year Dad had sat an expired Christmas tree by the driveway to haul out for disposal later, but I beat him to it. I was running late for school, as usual, and only had time to scrape my windshield enough for one eye to see properly. As I drove to school with one eye on the road and the other starring at frost I noticed an annoying dragging noise. With my acute mechanical know how I swerved back and forth a few times to see if the noise would stop.

Swerving didn’t seem to have much effect, going faster made it worse, and turning the radio up didn’t help much either. I think Allen Larson was standing outside his house watching me pull over to wrestle a blue spruce out from my front wheel well and toss it along the road. There it lay next to the extension cord I had drug the day befor after forgetting to unplug my car.

“Thank You” to all of you that let me know how much you enjoy reading this column. Even if you were just being polite all of your kind words and encouragement are greatly appreciated and motivational. A word of caution: Praise and or encouragement of idiotic behavior perpetuates continued idiocy. It’s a viscous circle.

I suppose you’ve spent the past few days fine tuning your list of New Years resolutions for 2007. Or possibly quietly incinerating last years resolutions before someone else takes a gander at it and points out the fact that you never accomplished any of them. Success or failure isn’t as important as trying. Someone once said, “It is better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all.”

So make your list, give the resolutions a shot, and keep your discarded Christmas trees a safe distance from my driveway.

Happy New Year.

It’s almost Christmas and seeing how I’m the father of two elementary age children I’ve recently had the privilege of attending a Christmas concert. It was quite an event, but I must admit that I was distracted by the entertainment provided by the proud on looking parents.

During the performances it was like watching a prairie dog town of the bald, bouffant, bobbed, and braided. Every few seconds one would pop out of their folding chair, camera in hand, snap a quick shot and retreat before permanently irritating anyone behind them.

It resembled a Catholic Church service with a bunch of those “holiday Catholics” standing and sitting at the wrong time, minus the kneeling of course. Although did see a guy fall to one knee after his leg buckled from an acute case of paparazzitis, but that doesn’t count.

Some parents opted to remain seated and just hold their video camera up above the crowd, their arm wavering under the strain and the person next to them wavering from the stench of failed deodorant.

I usually stand up next to the wall so I can see better and also to allow someone who needs a chair worse than me a place to park it. Some lady had the same idea and decided to stand right in front of me. Apparently believing that me seeing my child wasn’t as important as her seeing hers. Not wanting to cause a scene I opted to quietly bludgeon her with a poinsettia. Actually I just stood reeeaaally close to her until she became uncomfortable and moved.

They always save the new editions for last. There was an instant increase in gymnasium murmuring and folding chair squeaking as parents jockeyed for position to get a glimpse of the 2006 models making their elementary school Christmas concert debut. Yes the kindergarteners.

They came through the crowd like awkward movie stars with jack-o-lantern smiles and remnants of the mornings ‘special’ hairdo in tact as they nervously searched the thrones of gawkers for a familiar face. When their smiles and eyes got instantly enlarged, and their little hand shot up in a quick wave you new they had found who they were looking for.

My children aren’t in kindergarten anymore but they still search the crowd when they settle into their place on the risers looking for familiar faces. When our eyes meet their smiles and eye’s still light up, and I still get the little wave.

As the years pass I may not be able to recall what they sang or played, but I’ll always remember the little wave and smile meant just for me.

Merry Christmas to you all. May your holiday’s and the New Year be filled with love, laughter, and little waves.

I have a confession to make. Back in April I wrote a column explaining my brother Jarvis and my botched garden burglary and apprehension by the disgruntled garden owner. Well it seems I left out some minor details that went along with that story. Details that my Grandpa Ardell finds entertaining and you might find disturbing.

Our dear mother entered a plea bargain with the plaintiff, Mr. Lein, exchanging hard time in the Burke County Jail with waiting until our father got home. This seemed to please the plaintiff and he gave us a few last minute warnings to stifle any repeat performances and went on his way leaving us in the custody of our mother. Jarvis and I were relieved that we weren’t going to the pokey. Do you know what they do to vegetable thieves in there?

The above mentioned, dear mother, then turned to the defendants and told us through clenched teeth to get up to our room and not come down under any circumstances until she said so. She said it such manner that it didn’t need repeating or explaining, just doing, and we did. We hastily made our way upstairs to our room to await the 6 o’clock whistle that would announce the arrival of the judge.

While we contemplated our fate upstairs mom was probably contemplating her past and wondering what she had done to deserve two village idiots in her house. It’s not her fault, she did her best to steer us right, but Grandpa laughed when we went wrong, and we always like to hear him laugh. So for argument sake we’ll blame it on him.

It was probably about 2 o’clock when our incarceration began so we had about 4 hours to mill around our room and think about what we had done. I don’t know if it was the thinking, the milling around or the fact that I had recently eaten my weight in freshly stolen vegetables, but nature was calling. Calling urgently and denying adamantly my request to put it on hold.

I started towards the door with focused tense strides fearing what any amount of muscle relaxation may produce when Jarvis reminded me of the mood we had left mom in. He also reminded me that she had told us not to come down “under any circumstances”. I had a circumstance that I thought warranted a brief sabbatical from our room. Did she mean these “circumstances”? Were there exceptions in place for these “circumstances”? So many questions so little time.

Jarvis was right, we were pretty high up on the wrong list and in no position to barter with the warden, so I did what any industrious, intelligent young man would do. Utilized available resources.

A short while later mom came up to see if we had learned our lesson, but something interrupted her train of thought. Something about the garbage can and a discarded sock seemed to be troubling her. She asked what happened, and Jarvis hoping to gain favor with the warden, promptly filled her in from his perch by the open window.

I think at that moment I saw her eye twitch a few times as she valiantly fought off an aneurism brought about by the realization that her eldest son may have to be institutionalized. I don’t remember her being mad, more confused, and most likely nauseous. She just told me to take out the garbage and never under any circumstances tell anyone that I am her son. Love you mom, Happy Birthday.

Well there you have it. The rest of the story….good day.

Last week a man in Tehran, Iran was arrested for attempted bank robbery. Bank robberies happen every day, but this one struck me to be a bit more interesting than your average run of the mill bank heist.

The would be bank robber didn’t use a gun, didn’t hand the teller a threatening note, and didn’t break in after hours. It seems this gentleman was an innovator in the field and wanted to expand on the old fashioned way of relieving a bank of large amounts of money. He didn’t even invest in a ski mask, which are probably hard to come by in Tehran. Never been there but I’m sure skiing isn’t a top tourist attraction.

It seems that bank patrons became suspicious when the gentleman simply began taking money out of their hands, and acting as if they couldn’t see him. Acting as if he were invisible. Now what would make a grown man believe he’s invisible? The sorcerer that he paid $500 to for invisibility spells of course. Obviously this sorcerer wasn’t very reputable and gave him a bum spell.

The police are looking for this sorcerer for questioning but oddly enough they can’t find him. I guess they’ll have to wait until $500 floats into a bank to be deposited.

Imagine your surprise if you were traipsing around believing you were invisible, snatching money left and right, and you get tackled and apprehended. You would have to think that maybe they just got lucky, but then again that punch to the head and kick to the groin was spot on.

Personally if I were in the market for invisibility spells I wouldn’t just dish out $500 to the first sorcerer I happened upon. You need to shop around, get a few quotes, ask for names and numbers of other satisfied customers, make sure the sorcerers is certified and in good standing with the sorcerer union.

Be suspicious of brochures with glowing testimonials from famous people. Especially famous people that have proven themselves to be zealot’s and nut jobs, like Tom Cruise for instance.

Once you’ve done your homework and have settled on the sorcerer you believe to be the most reputable, most powerful, or have the cheapest rates, go ahead and buy with confidence.

One more thing I might do once I’ve purchased my invisibility spell is test it out before doing anything that might get me jail time and a burly boyfriend. You know maybe invites some friends over, answer the door under the cloak of invisibility and see if they say, “Hey, Zamfir how you doin'?” or “Wow, that door opened all by itself, and it smells like Zamfir is right here but I don’t see him anywhere….not anywhere at all!”

Or if you don’t have any friends which could be the case if you’re out shopping for invisibility spells, just call for pizza delivery. Or, here’s a crazy idea…just glance in a mirror.

The take home message is that you need to be careful. There are sorcerers out there that will take advantage of people, and then somehow disappear. For those of you hoping to gain access to shower rooms or yes even rob banks I have recently completed my studies in invisibility and am now accepting clients.

See you later…or will you…

The morning after…candy wrappers strewn about, healthy granola treats angrily stomped into the carpet, a comatose child lying face down in a tattered costume with a sticky hand clutching the remainder of the bounty. A once proud jack-o-lantern looks on wearily as the last remnants of candlelight light flickers through its drooping sneer and dreary triangular eyes.

The entire scene reminds me of several college parties I “heard” about during my lengthy undergraduate career. The candy wrappers replaced with bottles and cans and a comatose individual of legal drinking age, of course, lying face down in tattered $90 jeans clutching a garbage pail. A once proud host looks on wearily as the last remnants of his apartment deposit flickers away through droopy blinds and a triangular hole in the wall.

The similarities are frightening.

I hope you had an enjoyable Halloween and got your fill of Almond Joys, Mounds, Dark Chocolate, and all the other candy that children find repulsive. You of course also have to eat anything suspicious or questionable looking. Putting your life on the line for your child is yet another adult duty on Halloween. I don’t know how many times Grandpa Ardell saved my life.

My daughter loves Halloween and claims it as her favorite holiday. She likes to make all the Halloween themed foods like “Severed Finger Cookies” and “Witches Snot Slush.” She did such a wonderful job on the cookies that I couldn’t bring myself to try one.

My vivid imagination doesn’t allow me to enjoy Halloween themed foods without feeling the nausea one might experience from eating an actual severed finger and washing it down with witches snot. Even having a 10 year old girl call me a “sissy” wouldn’t change my mind. I like pumpkin seeds; they qualify as a Halloween themed food don’t they?

You may have read in last week’s paper that my daughter won the drug free billboard competition here in Rapid City a few weeks ago. To be the one picked out of 4,800 elementary students is quite an honor for her. I think she enjoyed her week of celebrity status, giving two television interviews, one newspaper interview, being a parade marshall, getting a pizza party for her class, and a $100 dollar savings bond made for an eventful week.

Despite her father’s influence, she’s a good kid and well deserving of the honor. Her brother is of course handling it all without a tinge of jealousy. He was very happy for her, especially when he found out that she wouldn’t get the $100 for about 8 years. Somehow that helped ease the pain of a sibling’s success.

I know my brother Jarvis would have been happy for me if I had won something like this when we were kids. He would have been all smiles…as he pelted my billboard with eggs.

Enjoy the candy and possibly the rutabaga if you stopped by the Doc Stevens household on you trick-or-treating rounds. Oh, and if you’ve noticed that my Aunt Mary has been on time or possibly early for things the past few days remind her to set her clocks back.