Chinchilla
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.
Mickey's Diner
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.
Spruce Abuse
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.
The Little Wave
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.
Happy Ending
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.
Cant See
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…
Witches Snot
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.
Super Dad
With the proper motivation all of us are capable of incredible feats. Sometimes that motivation comes from within, but more often than not it is powered by someone else, someone close to our hearts. I recently had the good fortune of being exposed to such an individual through an email from a friend.
It’s a story about a father motivated by a son. Children have a way of motivating us to be better than what we are, better than who we may believe we are. They generally see their father as some sort of superhero with limitless power and ability to overcome anything and everything. It’s not wrong for them to believe so highly in us. Maybe it’s wrong for us not to. Not to at least try.
This is a story about “can” not “can’t.”
Dick and Judy Hoyt’s son, Rick, was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain damaged and unable to control his limbs. When Rick was nine months old the doctors told them that he would be a vegetable the rest of his life, there was nothing going on in his brain, and that eventually they would have to put him in an institution.
The Hoyt’s thought otherwise. They new there was something going on in Rick’s head by looking into his eyes. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked them if they could find away to help Rick communicate. They could and they did.
They designed a computer that allowed Rick to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head. A high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, so Rick typed out, “Dad, I want to do that.”
Dick was overweight and out of shape, but decided to give it a try. They finished the five mile run in second to last place, but they finished. Something happened that day that changed Rick’s life and ultimately Dick’s life also. After the race Rick typed, “Dad, when we were running it felt like I wasn’t disabled anymore!”
Dick became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as much as he possibly could. He got in good enough shape that they started running marathons and then triathlons. Eighty-five times he’s pushed Rick 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he’s competed in the Iron Man Triathlon where he towed him 3.2 miles in a boat while swimming, pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars, and then pushed him 26.2 miles while running. All of this in one day.
They not only compete in these events but they finish in the top half with times that athletes pushing, pulling, and pedaling only themselves would be proud of. To truly appreciate “Team Hoyt” I ask you to experience “The Strongest Dad in the World.” It is incredible.
If Rick could have one wish what would it be? Rick types, “The thing I’d most like is that my Dad sit in the chair and I push him once.”
Go dig your cape out of the closet, the kids might need you.
Elk Infirmary
My daughter is a gentle soul that loves to care for animals and from what I’ve seen animals love her to care for them. Usually these animals are normal pet sized animals that you wouldn’t be surprised to see milling around someone’s house.
The other day I was startled to hear the mournful sounds of a terminally ill elk caught in the agonizing throws of death coming from the kid’s bedroom. This raised a few questions. How did she get an elk in her room? How big an elk is it? How sick is this elk? For the record, it sounded very big and very sick.
Does the elk have insurance? Is Sierra an approved provider under the elks plan? Does Sierra carry malpractice insurance? Does it cover an elk? Will the elk sign a waiver allowing taxidermy to occur if he doesn’t pull through? So many questions were running through my mind as I ascended the steps to the kid’s room.
As I got closer the sounds became more mournful and gut wrenching. Poor elk, once so majestic roaming the meadows and forests of the Black Hills, now bugling madly surrounded by stuffed animals and Barbie dolls.
I slowly open the door, just a crack, to where I can see the bed. Huh…no elk in the bed, must be on the floor, to sick to even make it into bed. I tentatively open the door the rest of the way and there it is.
Jackson’s in the corner, face contorted in pain, hands pressed tightly over his ears. Sierra poised in one of her little chairs, black case opened at her feet, and…and a trumpet pressed against her lips. No elk, just a trumpet in the hands of a first year band member.
“We learned ‘G’ today Dad, how does it sound?” How does it sound! “It sounds wonderful dear…keep practicing…keep practicing.”
Learning to play an instrument is hard, hard for both the learner and the listener. But when you finally start to get it, finally start to make what sounds like music; it is a wonderful thing, wonderful for both the learner and the listener.
Sierra is learning to play on the same trumpet I learned on and played throughout my band days. I think she chose trumpet because seeing as she isn’t a teenager yet she still likes to be like her father. She comes from a long illustrious line of Burke Central trumpeters, well maybe not long, illustrious could be argued also, but lets not quibble over details.
My aunt Susan played trumpet, then myself, then my sister, and I believe my brother Gabe may have dabbled in it for a week or so. My brother Jarvis played trombone, but I don’t think he has it anymore, traded it for a set of tires or something of that nature. My wife played clarinet, but thankfully…uh, I mean tragically it was sold.
So the musical lineage continues. I look forward to seeing my daughters face light up when all the practice pays off and she finally “gets it” and starts to make music. I really look forward to it.
I'm Trying
How many times have you heard someone say, “I’m trying to grow my hair out.”? It always puzzled me because I never realized you have to “try” I had always just assumed it was something that happened without much assistance. Maybe that’s why my hair isn’t as thick and luxurious as it once was. It just got tired of doing all the work.
My hair may have been overheard muttering, “We’re busting our follicles up here night and day so he can parade around in his precious mullet and he doesn’t even try to help.” Disgruntled and more than a little miffed it decided to show its power and make me take notice of it by migrating from where I would prefer it reside to less desirable areas.
Maybe it’s not as easy as one would think. I guess I was wrong to think that all you have to do to try and grow your hair out was not cut it. I would see someone that had informed me two weeks earlier that they were trying to grow their hair out with an obvious hair cut and I would ask them, “I thought you trying to grow your hair out?” To which they would reply, “I am but I got it cut.” Then I say, “Well your not trying very hard then are you?”
The reply to this line of question is, “It grows faster if you cut it.” To which I reply, “But it grows from the roots not the ends, so how does cutting the ends make the roots grow faster?” To which they reply, “Shut up.”
I have an aunt that’s upstate ND’s premiere hair dresser, I suppose I could ask her, but it’s probably something they aren’t allowed to discuss. A dirty little secret of the beauty salon world that I’ve stumbled onto. Susie might get roughed up by the “Big Bouffant” if I don’t stop nosing around and asking questions.
For those that don’t know, I’ve been doing a little research and the “Big Bouffant” is the head of the beauty operators union. She has total control over every beauty operator in the lower 48, parts of Haiti, and one Canadian province (not sure which one). All hair styles are under her jurisdiction and if we mess with her she will send us back to the mullet and bangs day’s without a tinge of remorse.
All this digging around and asking questions isn’t without danger, she threatened me personally with a pompadour. I assured her that I would end my crusade and spread the word that cutting your hair makes it grow faster.
It’s been just about 15 years to the day that I reluctantly had my mullet amputated. Maybe it’s time to give it another shot, except this time around I’ll try really hard. I’ll get my hair cut every week so it grows nice and long.
Next time you see me I’ll look like Neil Diamond, hair and rhinestones…..Sweeeeet Caroline..Da..Da..Daaa….