I learned everything from television

The Boy sat at the kitchen table and pouted. When it comes to after-school activities, homework isn’t his favorite.

Second grade staples like spelling, math and reading all rank below saving the universe with Legos spaceships, playing army, and throwing rocks at his sister.

“The next word is ground,” his mother read from his spelling worksheet. Ground? I think when I was in second grade we were still drawing Thanksgiving turkeys by tracing our hand. I’m not sure I could spell “ground.”

“I hate this stupid spelling,” the Boy said, not even blinking at his use of the S-word.

I get spelling. I understand its importance, I appreciate the nuances of its rules that make no sense, and I enjoy correcting someone’s spelling when doughnut becomes “donut,” gray becomes “grey” and theater becomes “theatre.”

Yeah, I’m that guy. But don’t ask me about math; my head doesn’t work that way. I’m afraid the Boy and the Girl are on their own as soon as they advance to fractions.

“Spelling is important,” I said to him, and followed that up with something more boring. “Grown ups have to spell every day.”

The Boy sat silently for a moment, then said something so clear, so insightful, so simple it dragged me back to elementary school.

“I wish I could learn from TV,” he said.

Wow.

When I was a kid, I came home from school, ate a snack of white bread spread with actual butter and sprinkled with granulated sugar (it’s crack), then sat in front of the TV to do my homework.

Yes, you read that correctly: 1) my mom was trying to poison me, and 2) I watched “Gilligan’s Island” as I studied the American Revolution. And you know what? My grades were just fine; I accredit that to the lessons I learned from TV.

• In life there are pretty people, rich people, stupid people, wholesome people, friendly people, and smart people. And, if they’re shipwrecked together the stupid person will ruin everyone’s life. Solution: Kill him and eat him.

• The villain is always the first person you see in an episode of Scooby Doo. Solution: Be polite to the wandering stranger carrying a circa-1822 candle lamp along the lonely dirt road, then call 9-1-1.

• Untested and insane theories in physics always work when the Enterprise is plummeting toward a planet and the captain just had sex with a green woman. Solution: Green women are awesome.

• I don’t care if you’re a witch, or your father looks like the guy who used to hock Jell-O pudding, you’re the only sane person in the neighborhood. All your neighbors are whacky. Solution: Lock your doors and never go outside.

• Sometimes rabbits dress in drag. Maybe not in your garden or on Animal Planet, but it happens. Solution: Shotguns do not work on these rabbits. Neither do Tasmanian Devils, or explosives. Just ignore him and maybe he’ll go away.

My kids don’t watch much TV. I hope they’ll be OK in life.

Weekly Offutt Wii Competitive Sibling Super Mario Brothers Death Match

The man in the red hat ran and jumped, hurtling a bloodthirsty Venus flytrap in some far-off jungle filled with pits, giant mushrooms, and deadly turtles. A man with a green hat ran far behind him.

“Wait,” a voice called. “Wait for me.”

Silence.

“I’m serious,” the voice called again. “Wait.”

The man in red leapt over a pipe and grabbed a flagpole, and the man in green fell off the side of the world.

“Aaarrrrggg,” the voice screamed, then the Boy knocked the Girl off the couch and the two children rolled on the carpet until one of them cried. It didn’t really matter which one. They take turns.

Welcome to the Weekly Offutt Wii Competitive Sibling Super Mario Brothers Death Match. Whoever came up with the idea that video games would be more fun if multiple players had to work together to win must have been an only child. Brothers and sisters operate under a series of peace treaties more breakable than soap bubbles; forcing them to cooperate isn’t natural.

My wife and I discovered this when we upgraded our one-player-at-a-time Super NES video game system (circa 1992) to a multi-player Wii to make sure our children had an adequate platform from which to launch peer-bonding conversations about pop culture.

OK, that’s a lie. We just wanted them to leave us alone for five minutes.

We quickly found children will never leave their parents alone for five minutes. I should have seen this coming; I was once a kid with a video game.

My first video game system was an Atari 2600. Space Invaders, Pac Man, Demon Attack, ExciteBike, Dig Dug; I had all the most popular 8-bit games that, looking back, weren’t nearly as fun as walking down to the creek and throwing rocks at frogs.

But my Atari 2600 taught my young mind something important – video games are serious business.

“Woe to the one who steps in front of the television,” The Book of Zelda, 4:27.

“Dad,” the Boy yelled from the basement family room my wife and I had hoped was far enough away from the rest of the house we wouldn’t get dragged into this very thing. We were wrong. “She’s not playing right again.”

To guys video games are training programs for real life. Somewhere in our heads float the understanding that one day we will have jump on the head of an intelligent, evil turtleman to save the life of a princess. We will catch the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. And we will have to mow down the living dead with machine guns that are, for some reason, lying around an abandoned amusement park.

So when your sister doesn’t take this responsibility with the same level of seriousness, it’s a problem.

“Well,” the Girl yelled back. “Mario is just stupid.”

The Boy reset the game, and the dance began again.

What did kids do before video games? Well, household firearms and zombies were a lot more common back then. I told you they were training programs.

Jason Offutt’s column has been in continuous publication since 1998 appearing in newspapers and magazines across the United States. Follow Jason on Twitter @TheJasonOffutt.

Dining With Feral Children

The clock on the minivan radio read 4:59 p.m. as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. One minute to five?

“Wait a second,” I said to my wife as she opened the door.

“Why?”

“It’s not five o’clock. … OK, now it is.”

Five p.m. is not a normal time to be in a restaurant unless you work there; with these exceptions, 1) you have a senior discount, 2) you have children, and 3) you’re already at the bar.

My wife and I were Number 2, had a coupon so we were nearly Number 1, and if the children behaved like they did during The Dinner of Doom, we’d wish we were Number 3.

A shiver ran through me just thinking of The Dinner of Doom. The Boy was four, the Girl two, and I was one step closer to death. They jumped on every empty bench, they spilled every water glass. Call me paranoid, but I’m pretty sure the hostess dialed 9-1 and kept her index finger over the 1, just waiting for us to leave.

Maybe things would be better this time. I mean, that was three years ago.

“Good evening,” our hostess said, her smile meaning our pictures weren’t tacked up behind the station under a handwritten notice reading, “Do NOT serve these people. Immediately call the National Guard.” That was a good sign.

“Four?”

My wife said yes, and we followed the hostess into the dining room.

People sat a two other tables, one single man and a couple with a senior discount. The hostess seated us dangerously close to the single man, who immediately ordered another Budweiser. I don’t know if that was because of us, but I wouldn’t doubt it. Word gets around.

Well, we were seated. In a restaurant. With the kids.

Children come in two types, polite, and feral. The problem for parents is the types coexist inside the same child and we never know which one is going to be the dominant personality in a given situation. I always brace myself for feral.

“Have we decided?” our waiter asked.

“I would like chicken nuggets, please,” the Boy said.

“Yes, chicken nuggets, please,” the Girl squawked excitedly. “With French fries.”

Two pleases? This dinner outing had already gone better than I’d hoped.

Of course, we all knew the food would eventually come. Back during the era of The Dinner of Doom, my wife and I ate in shifts. One fielding the children while the other ate like we’d been lost in the forest for a week. Now …

The children ate without complaint. I could taste my food. And … OK, so that was just one glass of Sprite spilled onto the floor. Oh, no. The Girl said she was full. And, yes. She shot out of her chair and landed with a plop onto the empty booth opposite ours.

“Can I take this home?” the Boy asked, pointing at the food remaining on his plate.

My wife and I looked at each other. It was time; we were just minutes away from a nice family dinner devolving into something from Animal Planet.

We paid and left.

“The couple is still there,” my wife said as we stepped into the parking lot. “Why can’t we stay in a restaurant longer than 30 minutes?”

“Because,” I said, “they’re a couple, we’re a quadruple.”

Jason Offutt’s column has been in continuous publication since 1998 appearing in newspapers and magazines across the United States. Follow Jason on Twitter @TheJasonOffutt.

Saturday Soccer Gigglefest-O-Rama

Fall soccer is probably pretty exciting. The running, the not scoring, the weather that’s as unpredictable as a squirrel.

But I’ve never seen soccer in its competitive form. I have a kindergartner.

Put together two teams of five- and six-year-old girls and the soccer match becomes less like a sport, and more like a birthday party. If the ball were filled with candy, it would be perfect.

The Girl plays youth soccer on Saturdays and is still a little miffed her team color isn’t pink. Her team name is, however, The Butterflies, so she’ll let that slide. Just this once.

“Is it my soccer day?” the Girl asked one Saturday morning, although she’d asked the same question not a half-hour before.

“Yes,” I told her. “At 2 o’clock.”

“Can I get dressed for soccer right now?”

If I couldn’t feel her level of excitement for the game sizzling in the air, I would have thought all the jumping and squatting meant she had to pee.

“No, it’s only 9 in the morning,” I said. “Let’s work on breakfast first.”

“OK,” she said, still bouncing. “I hope they have treats and juice at the game.”

The thrill of soccer to a little girl; post-game snacks.

There are a few rules for all youth sports. One of which is this: small children are like test animals. To encourage a test animal to exhibit X-behavior, promise X-reward. For rats solving a maze, it’s cheese. For monkeys putting the square peg in the square hole, it’s fruit. For kindergarten girls playing soccer, it’s Goldfish and a juice box.

As we made our way down the sidelines with our canvas lawn chairs, a shiver ran through me. What would happen if a parent forgot a snack? What if that parent was me?

Oh, wait. A Wal-Mart bag with boxes inside sat next to a team mom. Whew.

Another rule: parents must practice the sport at home with their children.

I can go on record saying I’ve done that. Not as much as a parent who played sports in high school does, but in-season the kids and I have occasionally played catch, practiced batting, and made use of the basketball goal that came with the house.

Give me a break; I’m good with Legos. Besides, youth girls soccer teams have their practice before the game.

“OK,” the coach said, pointing at the Girl. “Dribble to the goal.”

The Girl looked at the ball which was, of course, pink, bent and picked it up.

“No hands,” the coach yelled. “No hands.”

Not looking at her coach, or apparently hearing him, she started walking as fast as she could bouncing the ball from her hand to the ground, hand to the ground, hand to the ground. I was impressed. You know how hard it is to dribble on grass? She’d never done that well in the driveway.

In my defense, I know nothing about soccer.

I’d make a terrible coach.

Jason Offutt’s column has been in continuous publication since 1998 appearing in newspapers and magazines across the United States. Follow Jason on Twitter @TheJasonOffutt.

Leave finances to those who can count

When I was single, I had a simple budgeting system for monthly expenses. It had to be simple because I don’t have a math/computer science/war strategy brain. I have more of a Where The Hell Are My Car Keys? brain.

But my system worked and it involved peanut butter. Creamy, of course. Crunchy would have thrown off the whole financial dynamic.

I saved the plastic jars, ran them through the dishwasher (at least twice. Peanut butter would probably make a good Spackle if it didn’t attract mice and small children), and labeled them “Laundry,” “Groceries,” “Entertainment,” “Utilities,” “Rent,” “Gas,” and “Beer.” You know, the important stuff.

I put x-number of dollars into each jar and when the money was gone, it was gone. This way I could tuck the rest into savings, and if I held off on laundry and didn’t drive anywhere, I could roll over any leftover cash into the dusty jar marked “Hooters.”

Enter my soon-to-be fiancé people now call Mrs. Offutt. Poking through the kitchen cabinets of my tiny apartment, she found various plastic jars that rattled with loose change.

“What are these?” she asked, and I told her.

“You’ll never follow this,” she said, laughed, shut my cabinet and crushed any desire to be responsible with my money again.

After 10 years of marriage, she sat me down to go over The Plan.

“I want to pay off the mortgage early,” she said flatly, almost accusingly. I too wanted to pay off the mortgage, early would be nice, but I wouldn’t have thought of actually doing it. She did.

“OK,” I said. OK works nicely in most marital situations. It can be interpreted as ‘I agree with you,’ or ‘I recognize and appreciate the fact that you’re talking to me.’ You can use either one to get out of trouble when your spouse realizes you’re not listening.

“I have these envelopes,” she said, holding them up as visual aids. “They’re labeled ‘Grocery,’ ‘Family,’ ‘Gas,’ ‘Entertainment,’ ‘Beer.’” I almost teared up; she’d thought of me. “I put x-number of dollars in each envelope and when the money is gone, it’s gone.”

Unlike déjà vu, I knew where I’d experienced this before.

“Peanut butter jars,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Before we were married I had this same system, but I kept the money in peanut butter jars. You said I’d never follow it.”

She shrugged. “You will now.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” she said, brandishing her visual aid. “It’s envelopes.”

I will never stand in the way of my wife’s financial plans because, frankly, if I walked out the door with our life savings, I’d come home with magic beans.

Later that day, while getting cash for the envelopes, the bank teller told her a lot of customers used this system found in a popular book, and asked my wife if she had the planner that came along with the book.

“No,” my wife said. “If you really want to save money, why buy the book? Just check it out at the library.”

And that’s why she handles our money. I’d have bought the book.

Jason Offutt’s column has been in continuous publication since 1998 appearing in newspapers and magazines across the United States. Follow Jason on Twitter @TheJasonOffutt.

Post Traumatic Mall Syndrome

Author's note: It's been forever since I posted here (sorry guys). I've been too wrapped up with ghosts and goblins over at from-the-shadows.blogspot.com. I promise to spend more time over here at "Poop's Funny."

I’ve never been a fan of shopping malls. Parking lots pitted like the lunar surface, the cramped food court, Goth kids trying to show their individuality by buying from Hot Topic. Everything.

I’ve always known malls are strange places; I just never thought I’d be afraid of them. Maybe it had something to do with the Christmas rush.

It was Dec. 22.

Although my wife and I usually try to avoid places that hold vacuums over our wallets, her brother was tough to buy for. All she could think of were chocolate-covered espresso beans. Not a popular convenience store item.

“Oh, let’s look in here,” my wife said, pointing to a store I briefly considered physically injuring myself to avoid. “It’ll just be a second. Here; hold my purse.”

To guys, shopping means buying beer and maybe something salty and crunchy to go with it. To women, shopping is fun. Ladies, I’ve had fun before. Shopping ain’t it.

Standing in a store full of women’s clothing holding a purse, knowing my wife wasn’t going buy anything, meant three things, 1) there was no beer here, 2) there were no snacks here, and 3) if I were a dog I’d be that thing Paris Hilton carries around in a little bag.

“Can we go now?” I asked just before begging kicked in.

“Of course,” she said.

Three stores later we bought the stupid coffee beans.

“Now we can go,” she said.

I shook my head. Walking into three women’s clothing stores, a child’s clothing store, and a coffee bean store had been too much. I headed for the bathroom.

Bathrooms are the only sane place in a mall. They’re clean, the toilets flush by themselves, and they’re usually full of crying husbands. I did my business, wiped my own tears and walked out.

“Now we can go,” I said.

We grabbed two cups of overpriced coffee and walked through the crater lot. We were lucky; Neil Armstrong hadn’t planted a flag on our car.

This wasn’t the experience that made me afraid of malls.

This is:

A few months later, I ran into a friend and he grinned at me strangely. I didn’t like that. He was big.

“So, how’d you like (name of women’s clothing store)?” he asked.

Suffering from Post Traumatic Mall Syndrome, I had no idea what that meant.

“Huh?”

“At the mall,” he said. “You entered that store at 2:45 p.m., Dec. 22.”

He worked security at the mall. I’d looked for him that day, but never saw him. I. never. saw. him.

“At 3:12 p.m., you and your wife – who wore a red top under a green coat, you a beige top under a black coat – entered (name of second store).”

He listed everything we did. Every store, my long stare at the Victoria’s Secret display pictures, even me crying in the bathroom.

“How’d you know all that?” I asked

He smiled.

“I followed you.”

This is why I’m afraid of shopping malls. Malls employ people who are quieter than hybrid cars, more cunning than ninjas, and stealthier than the B-2 bomber.

And they’re watching our every move.

Copyright 2011 by Jason Offutt

Jason’s latest book, “What Lurks Beyond: The Paranormal in Your Backyard,” is available at amazon.com.

As Parents, Our World Just Got A Whole Lot Rowdier

Our three-year-old must have been going through some kind of past-life storming the beach at Normandy trauma while her mother, brother and I were trying to eat.

We were in public … at a busy restaurant.

The Girl jumped out of her chair, ran to the booth behind us, screamed, bounced on the seats, and said “hi” to a really nice couple too polite to give us dirty looks. My wife and I just sat quietly, ate our dinner, and wondered if we’d ever be able to come back to that restaurant.

“She’s acting crazy,” our five-year-old boy said.

Why, yes. Yes she was. Even before my wife and I had children, we knew this wasn’t how they were supposed to act. But, after our little clones grew into their own personalities, our parameters for what counted as “acceptable” public behavior got really, really wide.

Restaurant

Before Kids: Children will remain seated and say “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me,” in polite, quiet tones.

After Kids: Restaurant night out is like going to a professional hotdog eating competition, full of screaming, cheers and food shrapnel. As long as parents have five semi-uninterrupted minutes to cram down their food, they consider it a pleasant dining experience. However, tasting that food is a luxury. I don’t think I’ve eaten restaurant food slowly enough to taste it in five years.

Grocery Store

Before Kids: Children will remain seated quietly in the basket, never grabbing candy off the shelves or begging for a $4 box of cereal just because they want the prize.

After Kids: Run, scream, push your sister into the produce sprinkler, eat that handful of grapes, take food out of other people’s carts. Whatever. If we get out of the grocery story without a bill for destroyed property, it’s a good trip.

Zoo

Before Kids: My child will hold my hand throughout the zoo, ask plenty of questions about flora and fauna, and will get fruit instead of candy.

After Kids: Is that little Joey in the lion enclosure? I hope the lions are OK.

Movie Theater

Before Kids: I’d never consider taking my child to an age-inappropriate film and when I do take him to a movie, he’ll sit quietly and use the bathroom when I tell him to.

After Kids: I don’t think they make G-rated movies anymore. Hey Brittany, sit down and stop dancing for that couple behind us. You missed the dinosaur eating that guy’s head.

Waiting Room

Before Kids: While I wait for my doctor’s appointment, I’ll engage my children in activities I brought from home, like coloring, looking quietly at books, and algebra.

After Kids: Billy, I think that lady you’re climbing on has tuberculosis. Turn your head when she coughs. Oh, and maybe you’d better drink this bottle of Purell.

Of course, I got all the “After Kids” examples from my wife. She said she lost her Parent of the Year Award eligibility months ago. I think I’m still in the running, until we eat out again.

Copyright 2010 by Jason Offutt

Jason’s latest book, “What Lurks Beyond: The Paranormal in Your Backyard,” is available at amazon.com.

Did The Boy just say one of ‘those’ words?

Sometimes things happen, things so unexpected you’re not sure they happened at all. So you ask yourself, “What just happened?” And when you get the answer you realize what you’ve been dreading to hear all your life, you’re an idiot.

My five-year-old sat in the backseat of the car as we ran errands. Unlike car trips with my three-year-old daughter who keeps a running commentary on everything that comes to mind, like butterflies, puppies and anything to do with the color pink, car trip conversations with my son generally consist of short, guy sentences, like:

Me: Hey, son. What are you thinking?

The Boy: Nothing.

Me: You feel OK?

The Boy: Yeah.

Me: How was school today?

The Boy: I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: What do you think of the Royals chances this year?

The Boy (pointing somewhere I can’t see because I’m driving): Hey, Dad. Look, a dog’s pooping.

But today was different. Sure, the sentences were still short, to the point, and conveyed as little information as possible, but he said something I’d never heard from him before.

“Hey, Dad,” the Boy said. “Look at that damn house.”

The words left his mouth normally, vibrated through my ears and bounced around the inside of my head for a while as they usually do, but this time none of them stuck.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Look at that damn house,” he said again. “It looks like it’s going to fall down.”

Then he laughed, as he should have. Houses falling down are funny.

Damn. That was it. My five-year-old, who loves Legos, is nice to pets, and laughs at SpongeBob Squarepants, said “damn.”

There are many moments in a parent’s life – and by many moments I mean every single one of them – when the parent has no idea what to do. The Boy said a word that would not go over well in any school, pre-school, Sunday school, obedience school – anywhere.

There are two ways Americans handle things, 1) ignore the problem and it will go away, or 2) fix the problem. No. 1 would have been easier, but my wife would have frowned upon that tactic.

“You know, that’s really not a very nice word,” I said.

“Fall down?” he asked. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw his little face trying to make sense of that bit of wisdom.

“No,” I said. “The other one. Damn.”

Getting closer to his usual in-the-car sentence structure, he said, “Oh.”

“How about we don’t say that word anymore, OK?” I asked. He nodded, and everything was good in Guyland.

But I had to wonder what other words were in his head, just waiting for a time – like the church Christmas program – to come out. I was a bit worried, not for him, for me. I didn’t have to ask where he heard that word. I knew.

Damn.

Copyright 2010 by Jason Offutt

Jason Offutt teaches journalism at NWMSU. His latest book, “What Lurks Beyond: The Paranormal in Your Backyard,” is available at amazon.com.

My Family Vacation Part IV: Showdown at the Train Museum

Author’s note: This is the last of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. We made it out alive.

The steam-converted-to-diesel train engine was bigger than my house. Its wheels stood a good six inches over my 5’10” head and the photograph I took of my son in front of the engine made me wonder where he was in the picture.

“When it first ran, the wheels turned so fast it pulled the rails out of the ground,” our tour guide at the Railswest Railroad Museum in Council Bluffs, Iowa, said.

I don’t doubt it. Although the engine looked harmless now, when that barn-sized mass of metal moved, I’m sure it shook the earth like Tom Jones did Vegas.

Council Bluffs, sitting just across the Missouri River from Omaha, Neb., is a pivotal piece of U.S. railway history. It was the eastern terminus of the transcontinental railroad … oh, who am I kidding? The kids didn’t care.

The Boy, four, ran through the yard and, after a head-nod from our guide, stormed up steps and into the cab of a steam engine.

The Boy loves trains. If given the choice between pulling his sister out of the path of stampeding Clydesdales and watching an engine shunt freight cars, he’d pick the rail yard.

The Girl, two, loves trains only because it annoys the hell out of her brother.

“Do you know what this is?” our tour guide asked, pointing at a car behind the engine.

“The tender,” the Boy, and of course it was. For readers whose child isn’t obsessively fixated on trains, the tender held water for the boiler and coal for the firebox of steam engines. I didn’t know that until the Boy learned to speak.

Our tour guide was really exceptional. She was patient, businesslike and probably knew quite a bit about trains. I’m just assuming that, of course, because we couldn’t hear a word she said.

“No, my do it,” the Girl screamed in a pitch that may have only been audible to dolphins.

“Mine,” the Boy bellowed, wrestling her over controls of an engine that no longer ran.

And so on.

Back when this engine thundered over the railroad tracks that stretched across this country, there was a way to deal with people like this – toss them off the train, preferably as you were crossing a trestle. It was a more civilized era.

Next came the dining car where …

“I went poopy, Daddy,” the Girl said to her mother. Our two-year-old can tell us apart – she breastfed after all – but sometimes calls me Mommy. She just wants to keep us guessing.

Please enjoy this brief interlude while my wife changes the Girl’s diaper in our minivan. The Boy sure did.

The guide then took us through a mail car and caboose, but after dropping something old and maybe irreplaceable out an open window, my wife hauled the Girl off like a mail sack, if mail sacks screeched.

We past a lot of busy freight trains during our two-hour drive home, although no one saw them but me. I was the only one still awake – I was driving.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

My Family Vacation Part III: Flying Death at the Henry Doorly Zoo

Author’s note: This is the third of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. By now the inside of the minivan smells funny.

Sundays as a kid were borderline fantastic.

The day started with a pile of fried pork and hash browns covered in gravy. That was followed by church, hamburgers, a Tarzan movie and “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.”

“Wild Kingdom” was the pinnacle of Sunday programming for a 10-year-old boy because, unlike the “Wonderful World of Disney,” there was a chance I’d get to see a 250-pound feline gut a wildebeest.

Zoologist Marlin Perkins hosted the program throughout the 1960s and ’70s and never got close to an animal unless it climbed into the front seat of his Jeep. But his co-host, Jim Fowler was nearly killed every episode. Jim’s job was to wrestle whatever beast nature threw at him: lions, anacondas, yaks, rancors, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms – anything. But never a blonde. I always felt sorry for Jim.

I wasn’t thinking about Jim as my family and I walked toward the entrance of Omaha’s Henry Doorly Zoo (home of the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom Pavilion); I was thinking of Marlin. My family was going to experience animals like Marlin had and just as nature intended – from behind a thick sheet of glass.

With the drunken frivolity of the College World Series (see Part 2) safely outside and across the street, we met my wife’s college friends and their families ready to tour one of the best zoos in the Midwest.

The zoo, founded as Riverview Park zoo in 1894, attracts more than 1 million visitors a year to its indoor desert, indoor rain forest, great ape exhibits and an aquarium that holds 1.3 million gallons of salt water. Oh, and sharks. Lots and lots of sharks.

But it was at the indoor rain forest where the spirit of Marlin Perkins watched from a safe bench outside as our group braved the interior.

Water drips from the upper reaches of the Lied Jungle, and howler monkeys fill the air with their hoots. Immense fish, big enough to swallow a human baby, swim in a shallow indoor creek as tapirs wander the banks. A rope bridge, a tunnel teeming with vampire bats, and dirt trails lead visitors through re-creations of the jungles of Asia, Africa and South America.

The Lied Jungle, we later discovered, is something called a “total immersion exhibit,” which, translated into English, meant one of us was going to be attacked by a monkey.

My wife’s friend Debbie pushed her three-year-old son Ben through the South American rain forest, Ben nibbling at Cheerios scattered on the tray of his stroller, and everyone oblivious to the orange flying death that stalked them.

The green and white sign on a wooden placard in the rainforest read: “Please DO NOT Climb Tree,” although no one could read it through the one-pound golden lion tamarin streaking through the air.

The tiny monkey thumped onto Ben’s tray, scattering Cheerios onto the rainforest floor. The adults screamed. Ben screamed, his relationship with Curious George ruined forever. The other children screamed. The monkey screamed … and possibly pooped.

Terrified of the giant howling humans, the tamarin leapt into the trees and escaped to safety.

The rest of the zoo was impressive and fun, but much less threatening.

Thanks, Jim Fowler, that was the best zoo trip ever.

Next week: The Railswest Railroad Museum.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

My Family Vacation Part II: Dodging The College World Series

Author’s note: This is the second of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. If you want to pray for me, it’s too late.

Cars, tents, campers, lawn chairs and banners for Division 1 schools like LSU, Arkansas, Virginia and Texas decorated the parking lots of Omaha’s Rosenblatt Stadium like a preschool art project. The colors made me a little woozy.

It was Day One of the 2009 College World Series, it was 7:30 a.m., and traffic was backed up for blocks; which was good for the scalpers, who were also backed up for blocks. The last time I’d seen that many cardboard signs was on a Chicago off ramp.

The average attendance for the College World Series over the past five years has been 278,321, which, compared to the city’s population of 432,921, the stadium seating capacity of 23,100, and the just more than 10,000 hotel rooms in Omaha, meant there were a lot of people in town with nothing to do except get in my way.

But my family and I weren’t in Omaha for the College World Series, which caused a problem with parking. We were on vacation and taking our children to a Midwest vacation mecca – the Henry Doorly Zoo. At least 50 weeks out of the year there’s decent parking at the zoo, which shares parking lots with the stadium, because for 50 weeks the city doesn’t host the series.

I don’t plan well.

“The zoo opens at 8:30 a.m. Saturday,” my wife said as we settled into the scary hotel of death (see Part 1). “We should get there early. Let’s go.”

It was 7 p.m. Friday.

We weren’t alone in this quest to have fun in a city that’s best chance at tourism dollars was to ignore us and cater to people waving banners. My wife’s college friends and a few of their husbands were in town, and we were all going to the zoo. That made nine adults and nine children, all under six. I was scared. I can barely contain my own kids. What if one of the other parents had to go to the bathroom?

We drove slowly onto the street that leads to the stadium and zoo behind vehicles with college flags and foam fingers, packing the giant parking lot like it was a sausage. And we found a spot – easily.

The zoo, unlike me, planned ahead. Any vehicle could park in the zoo’s special parking lot if the people inside paid zoo admission.

Clipboard Guy: How many adults in the vehicle?

Me: Two.

Clipboard Guy: You have to pay zoo admission to park here.

Me: I know.

Clipboard Guy: I mean, you can go to the games, just know we’re going to use your money to buy pizza.

Me: We’re going to the zoo.

Clipboard Guy (looking at me like Congress looks at Supreme Court nominees): That’ll be $23.

I’m sure the carload of geniuses from the University of Texas who spent $69 to park next to us, and were now drinking Natural Light from the trunk of their Saturn at 7:30 a.m., were going to the zoo, too.

Next week: The zoo.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

My Family Vacation Part I: The Motel of Death

Author’s note: This is the first of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. I can’t claim it on my taxes if I don’t write about it.

The motel looked good from the outside, as well it should have; it was in a nice town like Omaha. Clean, new, right off the interstate and within a few minutes drive of everything my family would need on vacation.

It was the inside that concerned us.

Although the lobby felt like a room after an argument (the kind of argument that results in widely-scattered blood and several arrests), the motel wasn’t really bad. I’d been in a bad motel before, in Colorado:

Mountain mornings are fantastic, but when I awoke staring at the flowery wallpaper that clashed with every other pattern in the industrialized world, instead of throwing open the curtains and drawing in the majesty that is the Rocky Mountains, I turned on the television, because I’m an American.

“Tragedy unfolded this morning,” the cute, just-out-of-college reporter who always gets the 6 a.m. weekend shift, said as she stood in a parking lot, “as an argument turned deadly in a room at this (insert cheap motel name here).”

I smiled, only because it didn’t involve me.

But as the camera panned out to show the exterior of the motel, I noticed something that slapped me as hard as that girl did in college.

Good Lord, I realized. The reporter’s standing next to my car.

That was the worst motel I’ve been to. This was the second.

I’d made reservations over the phone – something I’ll rethink the next time we go on vacation. Reserving a motel room in Omaha, Neb., from a woman in Bombay, India, is surprisingly impersonal. I was happy with the great deal I’d gotten, but disappointed there was no pool.

However, when the guy whose forearm tattoos boasting “blood, death and Satan,” checked me in, I got over that “no swimming pool” thing. There may have been a body floating in it.

“Did you see the writing in the hallway?” my wife asked as I rushed my family into our room, secured every lock on the door, and booby-trapped a shotgun pointing chest-high at anyone who might walk in. I hoped housekeeping knocked.

Yeah, I’d seen the words, “Blood Gang,” outside our door. I’d also seen the crowbar marks where someone had once broken in, although I kept telling myself he’d simply misplaced his card-key.

“Are you nervous?” she asked, because I was. It must have been the sweat, or the involuntary shakes that tipped her off.

It was my own fault. I didn’t discover I was trying to book a room two days in advance of the College World Series until I tried to book a room two days in advance of the College World Series. It was now the “Blood Gang” room or the streets.

“No, I said, reaching for the room’s mini-fridge. “If we don’t touch anything, or go near the window, or sleep, or … oh, look at that. A head.”

Well, it wasn’t a head. It was a half-empty bottle of something orange and a cucumber. Either way, I wasn’t about to touch it.

Next week: The Henry Doorly Zoo and College World Series parking.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

Why Is It Always the Groin?

The Girl ran through the water with all the energy her two-year-old toddlerness could muster, which is approximately enough to power Detroit through a rough winter.

Her mother and I have, of course, told her not to run at the pool 1,001 times. This is not hyperbole; we’ve kept track.

“Daddy, Daddy,” she screamed, although her mother and I have, of course, told her not to scream at the pool.

We’re no longer surprised she doesn’t hear us. All parents will eventually realize their children only consider them “those big people who give us food.” When they’re teens that turns into, “those people who embarrass us/give us money/gave us their hairline.” What we say isn’t really important. You know, like “don’t play in the street,” “don’t eat the thing wrapped in foil in the back of the fridge,” “study.”

“Honey, don’t run at the …” I started, but was stopped by a sudden blinding pain.

Using a cursory, “awe, isn’t she cute,” glance, a child looks like a soft little bundle of fluff that is fun to play with. In reality, a child is pointy, possesses at least six knees, 14 elbows and a head I’m convinced was built on the planet Krypton.

I bent forward, but not voluntarily.

The groin, I wondered as the pain subsided and I could see shapes and colors again. Why is it always the groin?

Fathers, I’ve found – the hard way, and don’t think I haven’t cursed my father for not warning me – spend roughly 37 percent of their day working, 29 percent sleeping (mostly in front of the television), 19 percent eating/driving/thinking about cheerleaders, and 15 percent in the fetal position gasping for air.

What I wouldn’t give for a bruised thigh or a fat lip. At least then I wouldn’t wonder why we spent all that money for a vasectomy when it was going to be done at home for free. I usually wonder this while lying in a pool of my own tears.

“What’s wrong?” my wife asked.

“Hhhhhheeeeeehhhh,” I wheezed.

“She got you again?” she said, trying her best to sound sympathetic.

I nodded.

Ladies, you’re wonderful understanding people who have absolutely no clue what I’m talking about. When this injury happens in the movies, everyone laughs, Dad gets up and goes about his business, which usually involves doing something socially awkward in front of his kid’s friends. Hollywood is founded on lies. When this happens in real life, everyone still laughs, but Dad doesn’t get up.

When the color came back to my face, we left. Not because of me, the kids were tired after dragging me out of the water.

On the ride home, the Girl and the Boy screamed when they saw a woman walking her golden retriever down the street.

“Maybe we should get a dog,” my wife said.

Great, that’s just what I need, another pointy thing in the house.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

The Rules of Being Protestant

There are accepted rules when it comes to being Protestant.

The host is crackers and grape juice, which leaves Protestants of today worrying about the number of carbs they’re taking in on Sunday morning.

At some point, usually near the end of the service, someone will pass a plate down your pew. You’re supposed to put money in it. Just picture yourself at a party in college although nobody’s going to return with a fresh keg.

You’re supposed to sit quietly, unless it’s time to sing, then it’s acceptable to mumble because there are plenty of people who’ll sing over you, just like in elementary school.

And children get their own special sermon at the front of the sanctuary, during which they sit looking at the back of the sanctuary to see if their parents are watching.

This is the Boy’s favorite part of the service. He loves to wave at us.

“Would the children like to come forward?” the preacher asked.

A few children, pushed into the aisles by their parents, ventured forward. The Boy sprinted. He’d already sat still 10 whole minutes.

But something unexpected happened; the Girl squirmed out of my wife’s arms.

“I wann go, too,” she said.

What? She’d never asked to go to the children’s sermon before. She’d always been content to color, practice saying Daddy’s special “football words,” or sit in the nursery and win animal crackers off the other toddlers at craps.

But the children’s sermon? She’s only two. The Boy’s four, he can handle the responsibility of sitting on steps quietly and waving. He also has the advantage of never pulling a skirt over his head.

“Are you sure?” my wife asked.

“Uh huh,” the Girl said and we let her follow her brother to the front.

There’s something about a pretty little girl in a pink dress and ponytail that doesn’t scream, “I’ll age you prematurely,” but my wife and I are no longer fooled.

The Girl walked in the general direction of the children’s sermon and stopped.

“She’s not going up there,” my wife whispered.

She was right.

The Girl turned, looked at us, grinned, and started weaving her way through the empty rows of pews that always dominate the front of Protestant church services. Muffled laughter ran through the congregation, not necessarily because this was cute – it was – but because everyone knew it embarrassed the heck out of us.

“When she comes close enough,” my wife said, “I’m going to grab her.”

The Girl crept closer. My wife watched her like a lion stalking a gazelle. Three feet away she looked at my wife, turned and skittered back down the aisle.

“Don’t look her in the eyes,” my wife said. “She’s like a wild animal. If she knows we’re looking at her, she won’t get close to us.”

So we employed the deer in the forest “if I can’t see it, it can’t see me” technique and my wife finally caught her. Yes, the Child Running Loose in the Sanctuary Routine is one of the accepted rules of being a Protestant. And it’s cute, as long as the dress stays below her head.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

Toddlers, Teenagers -- They're All The Same

The toddler screamed. You know, toddlers scream a lot.

“No,” she wailed, yanking her hand out of mine. “My do it.”

We were crossing the street and when it comes to the street, my wife and I have four rules for our four- and two-year-old, 1) look both ways before going into the street, 2) never go into the street, 3) if crossing the street with Mommy or Daddy, hold one of their hands, and 4) if you violate rules One through Three, you’re shipped to work hard labor in a Siberian logging camp in 1974.

The Girl wanted to violate Rule Three. Not on my watch, chicky-pie.

She screamed again, mainly because I’d tucked her under my arm like a football and, for some reason, she didn’t like it. Toddlers have control problems – if they’re not in control, it’s a problem.

“Just wait until she’s 16,” my wife said, holding the hand of our non-screaming four-year-old son, who had to be enjoying this. “Then we’re really in trouble.

The Girl at 16? Oh, dear Lord. We could already see what was coming. The clothes, the fingernail polish, the Girl still thinking she can cross the street on her own.

“No, no. Put me down. Put me down. Put me down,” the Girl screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I could only assume she thought repeating the same thing over and over would work, even though it never does. The Girl unsuccessfully employs this method when asking to watch extra television, get candy, drink coffee, or take the minivan out for a death race with those punks from the Pretty Pony Daycare. Although my wife and I appreciate her tenacity, her success rate is as low as Middle East peace talks.

Yeah, toddlers are teenagers, only shorter.

In a couple of years when the Girl decides to pull up her skirt and chew on the hem during the pre-school Christmas program, it’ll be OK. If it happens in 14 years, our house will get calls from the principal, the pastor, angry parents, and a bunch of teenage boys asking her for a date.

By the way, the answer is no, jerks.

I put the Girl down on the other side of the street and she stopped screaming, squinted at me, stomped down the sidewalk in a huff, and, if she’d had the motor skills to give me The Finger, she just may have done it.

Yep, toddlers are teenagers.

- They both yell, “I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” and sprint through the house whenever the telephone rings.

- They’re both fascinated with cell phones, computers and remote controls, and they both know how to operate these devices better than you.

- Hygiene is only an issue when it’s inconvenient for them.

- TV ranks ahead of Mom and Dad. … So do soft drinks, playing with dust particles in the window, and anything else I care to write.

- A lot of times you can’t understand what they’re saying. With toddlers, it eventually gets better.

- They both love body art. For a toddler, it’s Sharpie-colored fingernails and a Scooby Doo sticker on their shirt. For a teen, it’s a visible “why can’t I get a job?” piercing and a Scooby Doo tattoo on their butt.

- They both want to pick out their own clothes. When a toddler decides to wear a skirt so small her diaper shows, it’s cute. When a teenager wears a skirt so small her panties show, Daddy hemorrhages.

- At some point, they both hate you. Toddlers make up faster because they can’t pour their own milk.

- They both want to make their own mistakes. For a toddler, this is done while discovering the laws of Newtonian physics – like gravity. For a teen, it’s going to the wrong kind of party, being on Facebook instead of studying, or going to a college Daddy hates and for which he won’t pay a penny of tuition.

Yep, I’m already thinking about that. Keep it in mind that the next time we cross the street.

Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.