Blood was everywhere. I’ll get to that later.
Sunlight streamed through the open front door as the Boy, 4, and the Girl, 2, elbowed each other to see who could get out the door first. A clear, warm day after being trapped inside by the weather turns small children into very cross rugby players.
Then I made my first mistake of the day.
Parents make mistakes all the time, like rescuing their child instead of letting them learn the hard way, taking their eyes off the road because the girl jogging had something written across the seat of her shorts, and giving a teenage boy keys to anything – especially if you live in a neighborhood where girls jog with words across the seat of their shorts.
But I violated Parental Rule No. 152: Don’t let children with a history of pushing each other out of your sight – ever.
The door slammed and I … paused … to … grab … my … glass … of … tea. The screaming started immediately.
Outside, the Girl was face-first on the concrete at the foot of our front steps. The Boy was standing next to her holding the handlebar of his bicycle.
“What happened?” I said, scooping the Girl off the sidewalk, expecting a complete denial of any wrongdoing – no matter how lame – by the Boy. I was used to it.
“She fell,” he said and, unlike the times my wife and I find her crying in a pile of Little People*, I believed him.
I looked at her. Blood was everywhere.
Scalp injuries involving children are usually minor things that produce enough blood to make, 1) weak parents faint, and 2) the strong ones fondly remember their favorite “Friday the 13th” movie.
Standing at the foot of the steps, holding my sweet little girl who now looked like Carrie at the prom, I had a vision. It was of her at 16 years old, and she was pointing to a half-inch scar on her forehead.
“I could have been homecoming queen,” she screamed. “Except for this. Thanks for not taking me to the hospital, Dad. My life is ruined.”
Good Lord, like I wanted that hanging over me.
The cut was wide enough for stitches. My dad would have rubbed butter on the gash and laughed because we were wimpy enough to need butter for a blood-gushing wound. But Dad was from a generation that boasted concussions and fewer fingers.
We were in the ER five minutes later. Parental lesson learned: bad parenting is educational.
Three stitches, an adhesive bandage, a bunch of Daddy’s signatures on papers with words too small to read, and two chocolate ice cream cones later, we were home.
And all this happened while Mommy was at the store. The hard part of Daddy’s day wasn’t over yet.
*For people without children, these are a line of toys, not leprechauns, fairies, elves or Oompa Loompas. Well, maybe Oompa Loompas.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Lesson learned? Revenge is pretty sweet
The homecoming float was almost finished.
I hopped in the cab of the John Deere tractor and pulled the lever controlling the hydraulics. The cylinder, used to lift and lower farm implements into the ground, was now connected to a giant Orrick High School mascot.
The mascot, a bearcat made out of chicken wire and stuffed with black and yellow napkins, stood on a wagon hitched to the tractor. It slowly lifted a plastic barrel over where its head would eventually be and brought the barrel down again.
Perfect.
Our senior float captured the wholesome, romantic and Shakespearean essence of Donkey Kong. I just hoped the wind kept down during the parade, or it would end up naked.
The art kids were finishing up the giant papier mâché head, then our float would be ready for the parade, “Homecoming ‘83: Video Maniacs.”
I don’t know who came up with that theme, I just hoped they weren’t very proud of themselves.
It was cold in the barn our float was hidden in, and I was glad. I’d stashed a couple of Dad’s beers in the tractor cab for the parade and I’d hate for them to get warm.
I was going to be the driver. Kaz was riding shotgun, keeping his eye on the float to make sure it didn’t go out of control and kill bystanders.
Yeah, that “Best Float” ribbon was going to be ours. The senior class almost always won first place. Sure, it took some of the fun out of the competition, but high school seniors are petty, and we wanted that ribbon.
Our only threat would be from the junior class. We’d heard rumors they had a lot of parents helping with their float, but that was all we knew. High school homecoming float construction holds a certain level of secrecy, much like crashed flying saucers do in the government.
But what their float was didn’t matter.
Tomorrow, I’d smile and wave at everyone lining Front Street, sipping stolen beer out of a paper cup and celebrating the junior class’s second-place finish with whatever lame video game they’d chosen.
Oh, yeah. Tomorrow was going to be sweet.
The next day, the junior class won. All that mindless napkin stuffing, all those nights of actual work for nothing.
Kaz and I were sitting in the cab of the tractor before the parade when the float committee gave the first place ribbon to the junior class’s Pac Man float. Even with our creative treatment of Donkey Kong getting even with his oppressors, in this case the opposing football team, the juniors won with something cutesy. Oh, sure, Pac Man’s mouth opened and closed, but … who cares.
“This sucks,” I said.
Kaz looked at me.
“Somebody’s got to do something about this,” he said.
So we did.
Going down Front Street, our second-place Donkey Kong tossing a make-believe barrel at an effigy of a pirate followed the junior class’s Pac Man, with its first-place ribbon. The stolen beer tasted good to me, especially since we’d probably get in trouble if we drew any extra attention to ourselves. Of course, we got lots of attention with the big “Juniors Suck” sign we’d thrown together and hung in the tractor window.
We got in-school suspension for that stunt, but yeah, it was worth it.
Stupid juniors.
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
I hopped in the cab of the John Deere tractor and pulled the lever controlling the hydraulics. The cylinder, used to lift and lower farm implements into the ground, was now connected to a giant Orrick High School mascot.
The mascot, a bearcat made out of chicken wire and stuffed with black and yellow napkins, stood on a wagon hitched to the tractor. It slowly lifted a plastic barrel over where its head would eventually be and brought the barrel down again.
Perfect.
Our senior float captured the wholesome, romantic and Shakespearean essence of Donkey Kong. I just hoped the wind kept down during the parade, or it would end up naked.
The art kids were finishing up the giant papier mâché head, then our float would be ready for the parade, “Homecoming ‘83: Video Maniacs.”
I don’t know who came up with that theme, I just hoped they weren’t very proud of themselves.
It was cold in the barn our float was hidden in, and I was glad. I’d stashed a couple of Dad’s beers in the tractor cab for the parade and I’d hate for them to get warm.
I was going to be the driver. Kaz was riding shotgun, keeping his eye on the float to make sure it didn’t go out of control and kill bystanders.
Yeah, that “Best Float” ribbon was going to be ours. The senior class almost always won first place. Sure, it took some of the fun out of the competition, but high school seniors are petty, and we wanted that ribbon.
Our only threat would be from the junior class. We’d heard rumors they had a lot of parents helping with their float, but that was all we knew. High school homecoming float construction holds a certain level of secrecy, much like crashed flying saucers do in the government.
But what their float was didn’t matter.
Tomorrow, I’d smile and wave at everyone lining Front Street, sipping stolen beer out of a paper cup and celebrating the junior class’s second-place finish with whatever lame video game they’d chosen.
Oh, yeah. Tomorrow was going to be sweet.
The next day, the junior class won. All that mindless napkin stuffing, all those nights of actual work for nothing.
Kaz and I were sitting in the cab of the tractor before the parade when the float committee gave the first place ribbon to the junior class’s Pac Man float. Even with our creative treatment of Donkey Kong getting even with his oppressors, in this case the opposing football team, the juniors won with something cutesy. Oh, sure, Pac Man’s mouth opened and closed, but … who cares.
“This sucks,” I said.
Kaz looked at me.
“Somebody’s got to do something about this,” he said.
So we did.
Going down Front Street, our second-place Donkey Kong tossing a make-believe barrel at an effigy of a pirate followed the junior class’s Pac Man, with its first-place ribbon. The stolen beer tasted good to me, especially since we’d probably get in trouble if we drew any extra attention to ourselves. Of course, we got lots of attention with the big “Juniors Suck” sign we’d thrown together and hung in the tractor window.
We got in-school suspension for that stunt, but yeah, it was worth it.
Stupid juniors.
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Who needs pets when you have children?
The kids screamed as my wife pulled the minivan to a stop next to a great tree-strewn lawn and slid open the doors. They popped from their car seats, giggled and ran into the park to chase squirrels.
My wife and I stood there, smiling as our four- and two-year-old dashed between trees, fell, scratched behind their ears, got up distracted by something blown by the wind and took off again.
Yeah, it’s nice to let the kids out to run.
The Girl fell and her brother stopped to help her. Good boy, I thought, and was happy my wife had brought treats. Then, as the Girl took off in a random direction, the Boy peed on a tree.
This behavior in children is, of course, normal. However, the following thought might encourage a personal visit from the Division of Family Services, a court-appointed counselor or Jesus. As we stood watching our children do things they’d better not do when they go to kindergarten, my wife dared say that in the first few years of a child’s life, parents treat their babies like dogs.
I was embarrassed to agree with her.
During the course of educating our children, we encourage them to roll over, sit, stand, shake hands, speak, eat out of a bowl and let us know when they have to go to the bathroom.
Children pace at the front door when they want to go outside. They crawl under their bed. We wake up to find they’ve crawled into our bed. They lick. They jump on the couch to look out the window. Their noses are usually wet. They splash in the bathtub then run around the house dripping wet. They hate to have their hair brushed. They whine when they’re hungry. They eat off the floor. They bring you random objects. And, yes, sometimes they have accidents on the carpet.
We parents don’t help. We take the kids for walks, play catch with them, teach them to stay in the yard, encourage them to do tricks, and some parents even put leashes on their children when they go to the mall.
When they’re tired, a small child will crawl up into a parent’s lap. And what does the parent do? Pet them.
We take our children to parks and lakes so they have room to run and some parents even put their kids in shows.
We tell our children how to behave, and tell them, “no,” when they don’t. Then, when the child does something right, we pat their head.
When our son was two, he said he wanted a dog. Instead, we gave him a little sister. I’m not sure he’s satisfied with that; she’s too stubborn to fetch.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
My wife and I stood there, smiling as our four- and two-year-old dashed between trees, fell, scratched behind their ears, got up distracted by something blown by the wind and took off again.
Yeah, it’s nice to let the kids out to run.
The Girl fell and her brother stopped to help her. Good boy, I thought, and was happy my wife had brought treats. Then, as the Girl took off in a random direction, the Boy peed on a tree.
This behavior in children is, of course, normal. However, the following thought might encourage a personal visit from the Division of Family Services, a court-appointed counselor or Jesus. As we stood watching our children do things they’d better not do when they go to kindergarten, my wife dared say that in the first few years of a child’s life, parents treat their babies like dogs.
I was embarrassed to agree with her.
During the course of educating our children, we encourage them to roll over, sit, stand, shake hands, speak, eat out of a bowl and let us know when they have to go to the bathroom.
Children pace at the front door when they want to go outside. They crawl under their bed. We wake up to find they’ve crawled into our bed. They lick. They jump on the couch to look out the window. Their noses are usually wet. They splash in the bathtub then run around the house dripping wet. They hate to have their hair brushed. They whine when they’re hungry. They eat off the floor. They bring you random objects. And, yes, sometimes they have accidents on the carpet.
We parents don’t help. We take the kids for walks, play catch with them, teach them to stay in the yard, encourage them to do tricks, and some parents even put leashes on their children when they go to the mall.
When they’re tired, a small child will crawl up into a parent’s lap. And what does the parent do? Pet them.
We take our children to parks and lakes so they have room to run and some parents even put their kids in shows.
We tell our children how to behave, and tell them, “no,” when they don’t. Then, when the child does something right, we pat their head.
When our son was two, he said he wanted a dog. Instead, we gave him a little sister. I’m not sure he’s satisfied with that; she’s too stubborn to fetch.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Friday, December 26, 2008
My wife is painting over my manhood
Slips of paper have been appearing on our living room wall.
Sometimes there are four, sometimes three, sometimes only one. But they all have two things in common: 1) none of them ever stays up for more than a day, and 2) they’re all shades of the color blue.
My wife wants to paint our living room, I can only assume, blue.
Sure, just painting a living room sounds innocent enough, but so did the German invasion of Belgium to start World War I. I think that war started when Kaiser Wilhelm II’s wife wanted to paint the living room blue. The war was less trouble.
There's something the sexes (and by that I'm nicely saying, 'only women') don't realize about life – there are rules:
Rule 1: Men and women don’t think the same way.
Rule 2: Men and women don’t like the same things.
Rule 3: Women love colors. Men view colors as something nature created out of spite.
Many of the troubles between the sexes could be solved if women just realized Rules 1 through 3. Four through 10 are pretty good, too. They deal with all sorts of things like which way toilet paper should roll from the wall and why men appear to be so itchy.
The main point is that men and women don’t have the same tastes in home decorating. Well, except for those guys on home makeover shows, but I’d never invite them over to watch a ballgame.
I like one color for my walls – white. White walls are guy walls because guys don’t care about white. We care about red, blue-green and gray because that means we’re somewhere we don’t want to be, like stuck at a traffic light, Sea World, or jail. White just means bathroom, and we’re all comfortable with that.
“So what do you think of these blues?” my wife – who caused this mess – asked our four-year-old son.
He looked at the strips of paper on the wall for a few seconds as if he were contemplating man’s place in the universe.
“I think they’re dumb,” he said.
Hmmm. Maybe he was. That was a pretty deep thought for a preschooler.
The colors were labeled Cozumel Aqua, Cloudless Sky and Nimble Blue.
What do these names really mean? Are paint makers banking on the fact that, percentage wise, so few real Americans have been to Cozumel we won’t know this color isn’t what the water there looks like? That Cloudless Sky and Sky Blue from Crayola are exactly the same? And, in what universe is blue ever “nimble?”
I’m just waiting for my wife to start painting. I bet a nice shade of Shipwrecked Lovers Gazing onto the Azure Horizon all over my living room will be just fine … for an Italian restaurant.
Waiter, bring me a beer and a shot of testosterone. I think I’m going to need it.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Sometimes there are four, sometimes three, sometimes only one. But they all have two things in common: 1) none of them ever stays up for more than a day, and 2) they’re all shades of the color blue.
My wife wants to paint our living room, I can only assume, blue.
Sure, just painting a living room sounds innocent enough, but so did the German invasion of Belgium to start World War I. I think that war started when Kaiser Wilhelm II’s wife wanted to paint the living room blue. The war was less trouble.
There's something the sexes (and by that I'm nicely saying, 'only women') don't realize about life – there are rules:
Rule 1: Men and women don’t think the same way.
Rule 2: Men and women don’t like the same things.
Rule 3: Women love colors. Men view colors as something nature created out of spite.
Many of the troubles between the sexes could be solved if women just realized Rules 1 through 3. Four through 10 are pretty good, too. They deal with all sorts of things like which way toilet paper should roll from the wall and why men appear to be so itchy.
The main point is that men and women don’t have the same tastes in home decorating. Well, except for those guys on home makeover shows, but I’d never invite them over to watch a ballgame.
I like one color for my walls – white. White walls are guy walls because guys don’t care about white. We care about red, blue-green and gray because that means we’re somewhere we don’t want to be, like stuck at a traffic light, Sea World, or jail. White just means bathroom, and we’re all comfortable with that.
“So what do you think of these blues?” my wife – who caused this mess – asked our four-year-old son.
He looked at the strips of paper on the wall for a few seconds as if he were contemplating man’s place in the universe.
“I think they’re dumb,” he said.
Hmmm. Maybe he was. That was a pretty deep thought for a preschooler.
The colors were labeled Cozumel Aqua, Cloudless Sky and Nimble Blue.
What do these names really mean? Are paint makers banking on the fact that, percentage wise, so few real Americans have been to Cozumel we won’t know this color isn’t what the water there looks like? That Cloudless Sky and Sky Blue from Crayola are exactly the same? And, in what universe is blue ever “nimble?”
I’m just waiting for my wife to start painting. I bet a nice shade of Shipwrecked Lovers Gazing onto the Azure Horizon all over my living room will be just fine … for an Italian restaurant.
Waiter, bring me a beer and a shot of testosterone. I think I’m going to need it.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Attack of the Antagonizer
The Boy, almost four, stood playing at his train table as The Girl, almost two, walked into the room.
Utilizing what must be the instinct that keeps cage fighters alive, he knew where she was before he saw her. She was heading right for him, feigning innocence by pretending to talk with her grandparents on a Spider-Man cell phone.
The Boy’s shoulders tensed.
“Gigi, PopPop. Cookie, cookie,” The Girl said, then giggled, explaining into Spider-Man’s face her morning adventure in which she’d found a plate of cookies in the kitchen before anyone else had gotten out of bed.
But everyone in the room knew what she was up to. Mom, Dad, her big brother, and anyone watching on Google Earth – by which I mean everyone.
To outside viewers – have you ever been on Google Earth? It’s spooky – it wasn’t that The Girl’s plan was transparent or that her motives were suspect. But everyone in the room had seen this scenario play out more times than we’d seen the Elmo video that makes me want to drive my car into a lake.
She was going to approach her brother’s toys in exactly the way that would throw him into an Incredible Hulk-like rage, grab a toy, scream and run out of the room.
If this little girl were a super villain, her name would be The Antagonizer.
Commissioner Gordon: The Antagonizer has struck again.
The Batman (hissing): I’ll bring her to justice.
Commissioner Gordon: She took your Bob the Builder action figure and dropped it in the toilet.
The Batman (weeping openly as he punches a hole in the drywall): I do this alone. It just got personal.
“Gigi, cookie, PopPop, Bob Builder, yeah, yeah, yeah,” she sang into the play phone as she approached The Boy, music from “High Plains Drifter” running through my head.
Then it happened.
She grabbed a train off the track, screamed in a way that made me happy we don’t have pets, and started to run out of the room. The Boy stopped her by making a fist and knocking her to the floor.
Yeah, her mother and I saw the punch coming. Yeah, we could have stepped in before it happened, but what’s the kid going to learn?
“Don’t hit your sister,” bounced through the living room followed quickly by “don’t tease your brother.”
Tears came, tears went, a few mumbled exchanges of “I’m sorry” were barely audible, and we all hoped life would be better in the Offutt house because of it.
Of course, much like we all knew the event was going to happen, we also all knew “I’m sorry” carried as much sincerity as a UN resolution, which is none at all.
Five minutes later it all happened again.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Utilizing what must be the instinct that keeps cage fighters alive, he knew where she was before he saw her. She was heading right for him, feigning innocence by pretending to talk with her grandparents on a Spider-Man cell phone.
The Boy’s shoulders tensed.
“Gigi, PopPop. Cookie, cookie,” The Girl said, then giggled, explaining into Spider-Man’s face her morning adventure in which she’d found a plate of cookies in the kitchen before anyone else had gotten out of bed.
But everyone in the room knew what she was up to. Mom, Dad, her big brother, and anyone watching on Google Earth – by which I mean everyone.
To outside viewers – have you ever been on Google Earth? It’s spooky – it wasn’t that The Girl’s plan was transparent or that her motives were suspect. But everyone in the room had seen this scenario play out more times than we’d seen the Elmo video that makes me want to drive my car into a lake.
She was going to approach her brother’s toys in exactly the way that would throw him into an Incredible Hulk-like rage, grab a toy, scream and run out of the room.
If this little girl were a super villain, her name would be The Antagonizer.
Commissioner Gordon: The Antagonizer has struck again.
The Batman (hissing): I’ll bring her to justice.
Commissioner Gordon: She took your Bob the Builder action figure and dropped it in the toilet.
The Batman (weeping openly as he punches a hole in the drywall): I do this alone. It just got personal.
“Gigi, cookie, PopPop, Bob Builder, yeah, yeah, yeah,” she sang into the play phone as she approached The Boy, music from “High Plains Drifter” running through my head.
Then it happened.
She grabbed a train off the track, screamed in a way that made me happy we don’t have pets, and started to run out of the room. The Boy stopped her by making a fist and knocking her to the floor.
Yeah, her mother and I saw the punch coming. Yeah, we could have stepped in before it happened, but what’s the kid going to learn?
“Don’t hit your sister,” bounced through the living room followed quickly by “don’t tease your brother.”
Tears came, tears went, a few mumbled exchanges of “I’m sorry” were barely audible, and we all hoped life would be better in the Offutt house because of it.
Of course, much like we all knew the event was going to happen, we also all knew “I’m sorry” carried as much sincerity as a UN resolution, which is none at all.
Five minutes later it all happened again.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Men Will Fix Things -- When We're Darned Good and Ready
A wheel of my push mower fell off. It had been wobbly for a while and, in the great tradition of manliness established by so many proud Americans before me, I ignored it and hoped it would go away.
It did go away. It rolled across the yard.
“That’s not good,” I said, using another of the great tenets of manliness, which is stating the obvious even when alone. This is because, as every real man knows, someone is always watching – even if we can’t see them.
One of a man’s greatest fears, apart from the world running out of Slim Jims, biker magazines and cheerleaders, is that a wormhole might open and someone in another dimension might see us do something stupid. And what’s our recourse? I mean, how can you punch someone in another dimension?
I killed the engine and looked at the mower. Yep, I could tell the wheel was definitely gone because: 1) it was no longer on the mower, and 2) I could see the wheel sticking out of the neighbor’s grass.
I tipped the mower to its side to get a better look, but I should have known better. Under the “You smelt it, you dealt it Principle,” whoever notices a problem has to fix the problem. I saw a hole in the mower where the wheel should be. A big hole. A big rusty hole. So, under Guy Law, I had to fix it.
Hmm, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the lawnmower outside all summer.
The disemmowered wheel didn’t look any better. The nut was fused to a bolt that was now more rust than metal. So, fulfilling my role as man, I left the mower sitting in the middle of a partially mowed lawn and went inside to watch sports. As I sat on the couch drinking beer, I realized I’d made a lot of zigzags as I mowed, so I hope I hadn’t spelled anything dirty.
A lesser man would have asked, “Should I just buy a new mower? A better one? One with four wheels?”
Pfft.
I fixed the mower the next day. Why? Because that’s what guys do.
A power drill, some wrenches, a couple of bolts, a domino-sized strip of metal and after a few damnits, I finished mowing the lawn.
Compared to not fixing things, fixing things ranks pretty highly on the Things that make Guys Guys list. Actually, not fixing things, then fixing them, then belittling your accomplishment, then bragging about it ranks the highest – only if it makes someone else cry/feel in awe of you.
So, the next time something mechanical breaks down, or your wife wants you to watch anything with Kate Hudson. Just remember, you’re a man. Act like one and do nothing about it … until you’re good and ready.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
It did go away. It rolled across the yard.
“That’s not good,” I said, using another of the great tenets of manliness, which is stating the obvious even when alone. This is because, as every real man knows, someone is always watching – even if we can’t see them.
One of a man’s greatest fears, apart from the world running out of Slim Jims, biker magazines and cheerleaders, is that a wormhole might open and someone in another dimension might see us do something stupid. And what’s our recourse? I mean, how can you punch someone in another dimension?
I killed the engine and looked at the mower. Yep, I could tell the wheel was definitely gone because: 1) it was no longer on the mower, and 2) I could see the wheel sticking out of the neighbor’s grass.
I tipped the mower to its side to get a better look, but I should have known better. Under the “You smelt it, you dealt it Principle,” whoever notices a problem has to fix the problem. I saw a hole in the mower where the wheel should be. A big hole. A big rusty hole. So, under Guy Law, I had to fix it.
Hmm, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the lawnmower outside all summer.
The disemmowered wheel didn’t look any better. The nut was fused to a bolt that was now more rust than metal. So, fulfilling my role as man, I left the mower sitting in the middle of a partially mowed lawn and went inside to watch sports. As I sat on the couch drinking beer, I realized I’d made a lot of zigzags as I mowed, so I hope I hadn’t spelled anything dirty.
A lesser man would have asked, “Should I just buy a new mower? A better one? One with four wheels?”
Pfft.
I fixed the mower the next day. Why? Because that’s what guys do.
A power drill, some wrenches, a couple of bolts, a domino-sized strip of metal and after a few damnits, I finished mowing the lawn.
Compared to not fixing things, fixing things ranks pretty highly on the Things that make Guys Guys list. Actually, not fixing things, then fixing them, then belittling your accomplishment, then bragging about it ranks the highest – only if it makes someone else cry/feel in awe of you.
So, the next time something mechanical breaks down, or your wife wants you to watch anything with Kate Hudson. Just remember, you’re a man. Act like one and do nothing about it … until you’re good and ready.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
If You Are What You Drive, I'm ... Uh, Old
The cell phone rang in my front pocket as my family and I walked across the clean but car-littered floor.
I thought about not answering it. I hate talking on the telephone in front of people who suddenly look like they want me dead.
What’s so important, I wonder when I see some else talking on their cell phone in public, that you have to tell Joshy Pooh-Pooh you love him when you’re in line at the grocery store buying laxatives?
But my pocket was ringing. What are you supposed to do when your pocket’s ringing? The call was from a buddy, so I answered.
One of the greatest features of a cellular telephone, apart from the fact that you can talk to someone on the opposite side of the planet as easily as setting an egg timer, is caller ID. I’m sure there are lots of people who ignore calls when the word “Offutt” appears on their phone. Fine. I didn’t want to talk with them anyway.
Jerks.
“Hey,” I said, in the traditionally accepted guy ‘hello.’ “Can’t talk. We’re at a car dealership.”
“What are you buying?” he asked.
“A minivan.”
Silence.
“You’re old, dude,” he finally said, and the conversation ended.
There are things all of us say we’ll never do. Sometimes it’s drinking vodka up your nose, sometimes it’s Bungee jumping, and sometimes it’s voting for Democrats. Not surprisingly, these things often happen on the same day and in the same order.
For me, the thing I said I would never do is own a minivan. Owning a minivan means you’ve given up. You’ve become branded as someone with a soccer ball sticker in the back window. You’re just one of the masses, and yes, you’re old.
That night, when I drove my family home from the dealership in our new minivan, my wife and I joined the ranks of those who will purchase an estimated 1 million minivans this year.
Good lord. What am I going to do next? I wondered. Donate to Greenpeace?
Then my wife, who would donate to Greenpeace, put the America I know into perspective.
“I saw this minivan driving down our street the other day,” she said over the children who were completely failing to fall asleep in their car seats. “It was driven by a teenager playing loud, thumping rap music.”
An image rushed into my head. And, yes, his ball cap was on backwards.
“I wanted to yell, ‘Yeah, you’re pretty cool in your mom’s car.’”
That’s all I needed. In this world where, to us, we are what we think we are, and to society, we are what we appear to be, there is one constant – complete apathy about what other people think.
Yes, I’m just one of the masses and yes, I’m working on accepting the fact that I’m old enough to drive a minivan.
But the most comforting part of my wife’s story is, at least I’m not that guy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
I thought about not answering it. I hate talking on the telephone in front of people who suddenly look like they want me dead.
What’s so important, I wonder when I see some else talking on their cell phone in public, that you have to tell Joshy Pooh-Pooh you love him when you’re in line at the grocery store buying laxatives?
But my pocket was ringing. What are you supposed to do when your pocket’s ringing? The call was from a buddy, so I answered.
One of the greatest features of a cellular telephone, apart from the fact that you can talk to someone on the opposite side of the planet as easily as setting an egg timer, is caller ID. I’m sure there are lots of people who ignore calls when the word “Offutt” appears on their phone. Fine. I didn’t want to talk with them anyway.
Jerks.
“Hey,” I said, in the traditionally accepted guy ‘hello.’ “Can’t talk. We’re at a car dealership.”
“What are you buying?” he asked.
“A minivan.”
Silence.
“You’re old, dude,” he finally said, and the conversation ended.
There are things all of us say we’ll never do. Sometimes it’s drinking vodka up your nose, sometimes it’s Bungee jumping, and sometimes it’s voting for Democrats. Not surprisingly, these things often happen on the same day and in the same order.
For me, the thing I said I would never do is own a minivan. Owning a minivan means you’ve given up. You’ve become branded as someone with a soccer ball sticker in the back window. You’re just one of the masses, and yes, you’re old.
That night, when I drove my family home from the dealership in our new minivan, my wife and I joined the ranks of those who will purchase an estimated 1 million minivans this year.
Good lord. What am I going to do next? I wondered. Donate to Greenpeace?
Then my wife, who would donate to Greenpeace, put the America I know into perspective.
“I saw this minivan driving down our street the other day,” she said over the children who were completely failing to fall asleep in their car seats. “It was driven by a teenager playing loud, thumping rap music.”
An image rushed into my head. And, yes, his ball cap was on backwards.
“I wanted to yell, ‘Yeah, you’re pretty cool in your mom’s car.’”
That’s all I needed. In this world where, to us, we are what we think we are, and to society, we are what we appear to be, there is one constant – complete apathy about what other people think.
Yes, I’m just one of the masses and yes, I’m working on accepting the fact that I’m old enough to drive a minivan.
But the most comforting part of my wife’s story is, at least I’m not that guy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Dangers of Preschool ... For Mom and Dad
The Boy watched the clock like it was going to throw candy.
He’d been waiting for this day for weeks – which is about as long as the Triassic Period to a three-and-a-half year old. It was his first day of preschool.
“It’s not time,” his mother told him after he’d asked … again. She pulled a clock from a shelf and pointed at the hands. “When this is on the five it will be time for school.”
And he waited.
When the hand hit the five, he opened the door and said, “Bye. See you later. I’m ready.”
Then he and his mother were off to school. I looked at his little sister who was eating something off the floor and realized we’ll have to go through this whole thing again in two years.
Were we ready for our baby to go to school? We thought so. But no matter how much parents mentally prepare themselves for their child to go to school, which roughly translated from Parentese means “a place without me,” we’re never really ready.
Sure, we may seem confident, but something happens to parents when they let go of their child’s hand as he walks into the classroom.
Suddenly parents realize that instead of teaching their child important things the past three and a half years – like don’t talk to strangers and how to deliver a roundhouse kick to the face – they’ve been wasting time on silly things like counting and going to the bathroom.
How’s not peeing in your pants going to protect your child from terrorists?
My wife looked lost when she came home.
“He doesn’t know anybody there,” she said. “And what do we really know about the people who work at that school?”
It’s the nightmare of every parent of a first-time student that as soon as their child is at a distance greater than six inches from them something terrible will happen.
Parents are certain Germans, like the bad guys from “Die Hard,” are posing as elementary school faculty just waiting to teach preschoolers how to rob banks. Then maybe communists or gypsies – or worse, communist gypsies – will attack the school and steal all the really gifted children, which of course means yours.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “If there are any Lebanese Secret Service agents there trying to convince the children to invade Israel, I’m sure somebody will call us.”
For some reason that wasn’t reassuring.
Later that morning, I picked up the Boy from school. He looked happy and relatively innocent on the subject of international political conflicts.
“What did you do in school today?” I asked as we got into the car.
The Boy shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Yeah, I can expect about 13 more years of that.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
He’d been waiting for this day for weeks – which is about as long as the Triassic Period to a three-and-a-half year old. It was his first day of preschool.
“It’s not time,” his mother told him after he’d asked … again. She pulled a clock from a shelf and pointed at the hands. “When this is on the five it will be time for school.”
And he waited.
When the hand hit the five, he opened the door and said, “Bye. See you later. I’m ready.”
Then he and his mother were off to school. I looked at his little sister who was eating something off the floor and realized we’ll have to go through this whole thing again in two years.
Were we ready for our baby to go to school? We thought so. But no matter how much parents mentally prepare themselves for their child to go to school, which roughly translated from Parentese means “a place without me,” we’re never really ready.
Sure, we may seem confident, but something happens to parents when they let go of their child’s hand as he walks into the classroom.
Suddenly parents realize that instead of teaching their child important things the past three and a half years – like don’t talk to strangers and how to deliver a roundhouse kick to the face – they’ve been wasting time on silly things like counting and going to the bathroom.
How’s not peeing in your pants going to protect your child from terrorists?
My wife looked lost when she came home.
“He doesn’t know anybody there,” she said. “And what do we really know about the people who work at that school?”
It’s the nightmare of every parent of a first-time student that as soon as their child is at a distance greater than six inches from them something terrible will happen.
Parents are certain Germans, like the bad guys from “Die Hard,” are posing as elementary school faculty just waiting to teach preschoolers how to rob banks. Then maybe communists or gypsies – or worse, communist gypsies – will attack the school and steal all the really gifted children, which of course means yours.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “If there are any Lebanese Secret Service agents there trying to convince the children to invade Israel, I’m sure somebody will call us.”
For some reason that wasn’t reassuring.
Later that morning, I picked up the Boy from school. He looked happy and relatively innocent on the subject of international political conflicts.
“What did you do in school today?” I asked as we got into the car.
The Boy shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Yeah, I can expect about 13 more years of that.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Don't Tell Your Wife Anything
I called my wife before I left work. I’m not sure why I did this. Maybe it was out of courtesy. Maybe it’s a habit my mom beat into my head when I was a kid. Or maybe I’m just not that bright.
I think it’s the last one.
“I’m going to the grocery store on my way home,” I told her.
That was simple enough, right? A guy saying ‘I’m going to the store’ usually means ‘I’m out of beer.’ Everyone knows that.
“Great,” she said. “Do you have a pen? We need a few things …”
There’s a guy rule, an important guy rule, designed to protect ourselves from our own stupidity – don’t tell your wife you’re going anywhere.
I haven’t learned that rule yet.
To a man, “I’m going to the store” is a declarative sentence – nothing else. There’s nothing to “I’m going to the store” that means anything other than “I’m going to the store.” To a wife it’s an invitation.
“We need M&Ms, raisins, pretzels and almond bark,” she said. “Got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, honey,” I bumbled. “I got it.”
I actually like going to the grocery store. It’s a big, friendly building with meat, cheese and smiling people who say things like “good day” and “may I help you?” It’s like a tiny Wisconsin. But I don’t like to grocery shop – it’s work.
The cart thumped as I wheeled it through the store. I had almost everything on the list – beer, pretzels, M&Ms and raisins. The words “almond bark” sat on the list all smug and confident in the knowledge that I didn’t know what it was. I think it even gave me the finger.
I pointed the cart down the aisle labeled “baking” and went in. Like most guys, I don’t bake; I cook. Baking is as alien to me as a triffid, that’s why almond bark must be for baking. As I went down the aisle, reading the strange names on strange packages, I might as well have been in the cantina scene in “Star Wars.”
Then I found it. Almond bark.
Wait a second. There’s white and there’s brown? Two types? There are TWO types of almond bark? She didn’t say anything about two types? What do I …
“You look lost,” a female voice said. I turned toward a grandmotherly woman who’d stopped beside me and frowned.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “If you sent your husband to the grocery store for almond bark, what would you want him to bring home?”
She lifted a big bar of white something off the shelf and plopped it into my hand.
“This one,” she said, smiling like I’d just done something really cute … and by “cute” I mean “stupid.”
I thanked her, paid for the groceries and went home. My wife wanted the brown kind.
Ladies, there’s a simple solution to this problem – don’t ask your husband to do anything. Oh, sure, an equally simple solution might be to give him a more detailed list, but that’s too much like nagging.
So, when you get the urge to ask your husband to pick up something from the store, stop, understand the fact that him bringing home the wrong thing is worse then him bringing home nothing, and go to the store yourself. That way everyone’s happy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
I think it’s the last one.
“I’m going to the grocery store on my way home,” I told her.
That was simple enough, right? A guy saying ‘I’m going to the store’ usually means ‘I’m out of beer.’ Everyone knows that.
“Great,” she said. “Do you have a pen? We need a few things …”
There’s a guy rule, an important guy rule, designed to protect ourselves from our own stupidity – don’t tell your wife you’re going anywhere.
I haven’t learned that rule yet.
To a man, “I’m going to the store” is a declarative sentence – nothing else. There’s nothing to “I’m going to the store” that means anything other than “I’m going to the store.” To a wife it’s an invitation.
“We need M&Ms, raisins, pretzels and almond bark,” she said. “Got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, honey,” I bumbled. “I got it.”
I actually like going to the grocery store. It’s a big, friendly building with meat, cheese and smiling people who say things like “good day” and “may I help you?” It’s like a tiny Wisconsin. But I don’t like to grocery shop – it’s work.
The cart thumped as I wheeled it through the store. I had almost everything on the list – beer, pretzels, M&Ms and raisins. The words “almond bark” sat on the list all smug and confident in the knowledge that I didn’t know what it was. I think it even gave me the finger.
I pointed the cart down the aisle labeled “baking” and went in. Like most guys, I don’t bake; I cook. Baking is as alien to me as a triffid, that’s why almond bark must be for baking. As I went down the aisle, reading the strange names on strange packages, I might as well have been in the cantina scene in “Star Wars.”
Then I found it. Almond bark.
Wait a second. There’s white and there’s brown? Two types? There are TWO types of almond bark? She didn’t say anything about two types? What do I …
“You look lost,” a female voice said. I turned toward a grandmotherly woman who’d stopped beside me and frowned.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “If you sent your husband to the grocery store for almond bark, what would you want him to bring home?”
She lifted a big bar of white something off the shelf and plopped it into my hand.
“This one,” she said, smiling like I’d just done something really cute … and by “cute” I mean “stupid.”
I thanked her, paid for the groceries and went home. My wife wanted the brown kind.
Ladies, there’s a simple solution to this problem – don’t ask your husband to do anything. Oh, sure, an equally simple solution might be to give him a more detailed list, but that’s too much like nagging.
So, when you get the urge to ask your husband to pick up something from the store, stop, understand the fact that him bringing home the wrong thing is worse then him bringing home nothing, and go to the store yourself. That way everyone’s happy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
A Vacation's Nothing Without Work
Vacation. A word so sweet your triglycerides rose to the level of Jabba the Hutt’s just by reading it. So, please, go to the emergency room – now.
Yeah, vacation is sweet, and I had five days of it. Five no-shavin’, no-workin’, no-thinkin’ days of lethargy and naps. I sat on the couch that Monday morning, a cup of coffee in my hand, when my vacation turned into one of those vacations you see in movies where everyone’s ankles are chained together and they’re busting rocks in front of a guy holding a shotgun.
“Bye, honey,” my wife said as she did a strafing run through the living room on her way to work, pulling the front door shut behind her so quickly I barely heard the words that would doom my vacation much like ‘I’ll have to raise taxes’ doomed Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential campaign … by the way, he lost. “Have a great day. There’s a list on the kitchen table. I love you.”
Slam. Tap, tap, tap. Click. Vroom. Slam. Zip. … And she was gone.
Sure, I’ll have a great day. A great day of reruns, frozen pizza and … a list? A list? I’m on vacation and I have a list?
There are very few lists that can bring fear into the soul of someone who was planning to have a couple of beers during “Gilligan’s Island” that afternoon. The Shopping List (not “a” shopping list, The Shopping List. The one where your wife asks you to buy Tampons), Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s list of communist sympathizers, and the Mob’s hit list are nothing compared to a list your wife makes and drops on your head the first day of vacation.
I looked at the table. A piece of paper was propped against the saltshaker. As I approached the list, I could tell the message wasn’t going to be good – she’d used red ink.
Jason’s To-Do List By FRIDAY.
Great, I love deadlines, especially those written with letters shaped like little daggers.
1. Power wash the house.
2. Patch the sidewalk.
3. Wash the carpets.
4. Move the heaviest thing we own to the basement.
5. Move the second heaviest thing we own from the basement.
6. Mow the lawn.
8. Write treatise on the eternal struggle between good and evil through the eyes of Hannah Montana.
9. Pave the driveway.
10. Pull the Earth’s orbit closer to the Sun. We’re having the Smiths over for a barbecue this weekend and I’d like the weather to be nice.
Wow, that’ll take my whole vacation.
Guys, we really need to take back our vacations and our own manliness. Our days of earned sloth should not be wasted repairing the house and performing preventative automotive maintenance. We’re men, and we’ll get to it right after the ballgame.
There. I feel better. I’m going to make my own list, starting with No. 1: Be a man. I’ll work on that next week, after I figure out how to pull the Earth out of orbit.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Yeah, vacation is sweet, and I had five days of it. Five no-shavin’, no-workin’, no-thinkin’ days of lethargy and naps. I sat on the couch that Monday morning, a cup of coffee in my hand, when my vacation turned into one of those vacations you see in movies where everyone’s ankles are chained together and they’re busting rocks in front of a guy holding a shotgun.
“Bye, honey,” my wife said as she did a strafing run through the living room on her way to work, pulling the front door shut behind her so quickly I barely heard the words that would doom my vacation much like ‘I’ll have to raise taxes’ doomed Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential campaign … by the way, he lost. “Have a great day. There’s a list on the kitchen table. I love you.”
Slam. Tap, tap, tap. Click. Vroom. Slam. Zip. … And she was gone.
Sure, I’ll have a great day. A great day of reruns, frozen pizza and … a list? A list? I’m on vacation and I have a list?
There are very few lists that can bring fear into the soul of someone who was planning to have a couple of beers during “Gilligan’s Island” that afternoon. The Shopping List (not “a” shopping list, The Shopping List. The one where your wife asks you to buy Tampons), Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s list of communist sympathizers, and the Mob’s hit list are nothing compared to a list your wife makes and drops on your head the first day of vacation.
I looked at the table. A piece of paper was propped against the saltshaker. As I approached the list, I could tell the message wasn’t going to be good – she’d used red ink.
Jason’s To-Do List By FRIDAY.
Great, I love deadlines, especially those written with letters shaped like little daggers.
1. Power wash the house.
2. Patch the sidewalk.
3. Wash the carpets.
4. Move the heaviest thing we own to the basement.
5. Move the second heaviest thing we own from the basement.
6. Mow the lawn.
8. Write treatise on the eternal struggle between good and evil through the eyes of Hannah Montana.
9. Pave the driveway.
10. Pull the Earth’s orbit closer to the Sun. We’re having the Smiths over for a barbecue this weekend and I’d like the weather to be nice.
Wow, that’ll take my whole vacation.
Guys, we really need to take back our vacations and our own manliness. Our days of earned sloth should not be wasted repairing the house and performing preventative automotive maintenance. We’re men, and we’ll get to it right after the ballgame.
There. I feel better. I’m going to make my own list, starting with No. 1: Be a man. I’ll work on that next week, after I figure out how to pull the Earth out of orbit.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
My Kid Can Talk – Now I Can't Get Away With Anything
My life has changed. The change was drastic, but it happened so slowly I didn’t realize anything was different until I got busted – our three-year-old can tattle.
(A clip from the 2007 Emmy Award-winning sitcom hit, “The Toddler and Me.”)
My wife: Did you give our son chocolate milk?
Me: Pfft. No. Of course not. Remember, we agreed chocolate milk was a special treat. I’m saving it for his high school graduation. Shhh. It’s a surprise.
(Cue laugh track.)
The Boy: Goot blot habba poo.
My wife: OK, I’m glad we’re on the same page.
(Cue laugh track.)
It was a perfect balance of the Boy’s perception of the world (everything’s big and I’m hungry), his ability to express that perception (Hey, big people. If I don’t get some peanut butter and crackers pronto, there will be screeching), and the fact that I like to give him chocolate milk for no reason.
At the time, I thought what my wife didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. The problem is, now she knows and, yes, it hurts.
(A clip from the 2008 Emmy Award-winning drama, “That Dead Dad.”)
My wife: Did you give our son candy?
Me: No. Of course not, he didn’t finish his peas.
The Boy: I got Tootsie Rolls, Mom. And a sucker.
(Cue ominous orchestral music.)
My wife: I thought we agreed … oh, never mind. You’re taking that quiz in Parenting Today’s Child Who Has One Crappy Parent Magazine, mister. And tomorrow night, we’re watching the Dr. Phil special, “My son’s in al-Qaida because my idiot husband fed him Twix.”
Oh, yeah. Things have changed.
1) I can no longer watch Dirty Harry movies while the children are awake. Although a three-year-old saying, “Do you feel lucky today? Well, do ya, punk?” might sound adorable to you, when those words come out of their kid, most mothers have a worse sense of humor than the CIA.
2) I can no longer imitate Mommy when she’s not watching.
The Boy: Oh, look at me. I’m Mommy. I say “no.” I make corn flakes for breakfast. I say “blah, blah, blah…”
My wife: Where did he learn that?
Me: TV. PBS sure has gone downhill.
The Boy: Daddy, show her what she looks like when she’s sleeping.
3) I can no longer go to Hooters.
My wife: So, what did you two do for lunch?
Me: We had chicken.
The Boy: The jiggly lady in orange pants gave Daddy beer and hot wings.
Me: (Cue the laugh track. For the love of God, please cue the laugh track.)
4) I can no longer watch sports in front of the children. One little “@#$% after an interception and guess who’s in trouble for something somebody repeated in Sunday school? A wife’s perception of what’s right and what’s wrong obviously doesn’t include a quarterback throwing into double coverage.
Just wait until you’re a teenager kid, then guess who’ll be tattling to Mommy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
(A clip from the 2007 Emmy Award-winning sitcom hit, “The Toddler and Me.”)
My wife: Did you give our son chocolate milk?
Me: Pfft. No. Of course not. Remember, we agreed chocolate milk was a special treat. I’m saving it for his high school graduation. Shhh. It’s a surprise.
(Cue laugh track.)
The Boy: Goot blot habba poo.
My wife: OK, I’m glad we’re on the same page.
(Cue laugh track.)
It was a perfect balance of the Boy’s perception of the world (everything’s big and I’m hungry), his ability to express that perception (Hey, big people. If I don’t get some peanut butter and crackers pronto, there will be screeching), and the fact that I like to give him chocolate milk for no reason.
At the time, I thought what my wife didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. The problem is, now she knows and, yes, it hurts.
(A clip from the 2008 Emmy Award-winning drama, “That Dead Dad.”)
My wife: Did you give our son candy?
Me: No. Of course not, he didn’t finish his peas.
The Boy: I got Tootsie Rolls, Mom. And a sucker.
(Cue ominous orchestral music.)
My wife: I thought we agreed … oh, never mind. You’re taking that quiz in Parenting Today’s Child Who Has One Crappy Parent Magazine, mister. And tomorrow night, we’re watching the Dr. Phil special, “My son’s in al-Qaida because my idiot husband fed him Twix.”
Oh, yeah. Things have changed.
1) I can no longer watch Dirty Harry movies while the children are awake. Although a three-year-old saying, “Do you feel lucky today? Well, do ya, punk?” might sound adorable to you, when those words come out of their kid, most mothers have a worse sense of humor than the CIA.
2) I can no longer imitate Mommy when she’s not watching.
The Boy: Oh, look at me. I’m Mommy. I say “no.” I make corn flakes for breakfast. I say “blah, blah, blah…”
My wife: Where did he learn that?
Me: TV. PBS sure has gone downhill.
The Boy: Daddy, show her what she looks like when she’s sleeping.
3) I can no longer go to Hooters.
My wife: So, what did you two do for lunch?
Me: We had chicken.
The Boy: The jiggly lady in orange pants gave Daddy beer and hot wings.
Me: (Cue the laugh track. For the love of God, please cue the laugh track.)
4) I can no longer watch sports in front of the children. One little “@#$% after an interception and guess who’s in trouble for something somebody repeated in Sunday school? A wife’s perception of what’s right and what’s wrong obviously doesn’t include a quarterback throwing into double coverage.
Just wait until you’re a teenager kid, then guess who’ll be tattling to Mommy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Greatest Breakfast Cereal in the Known Universe Is Back
My wife came home from the store with something special. I could tell by the way she grinned as she held something behind her back.
Admittedly, she could have been holding a machete, but I prefer to be an optimist in these situations.
“Close your eyes,” she said. “I have a surprise for you.”
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, I thought, pinching my eyes tight just in case I was wrong about the machete. A present for me? Yes, I’ve been a good boy.
It’s not often parents get presents. Five uninterrupted minutes on the toilet is usually gift enough. Many presentless holidays have gone by just fine because of that anniversary I got to spend on the can.
The surprise had to be something I wanted, or the secrecy would have just been mean.
Is it beer? Is it beer? Is it beer? I wondered. No, it’s not my birthday. The “Girls Gone Wild: Suburban Boise Idaho Community College” video? No, it wasn’t Christmas, either.
“Open your eyes,” she said.
You know the feeling when your team wins the championship? Your candidate gets elected? Someone doesn’t laugh when you ask them on a date? Yeah, it was kind of like that.
Oh, Quaker Oats, god of breakfast, lord of sweet yellow milk, heaper of the blessed sugar. Thou hast been kind.
“Do you like it?” she asked, holding a big blue box of Quisp, the breakfast cereal that made an elementary school me eager to pop out of bed just for the sugar rush.
Oh, the memories. Quisp watched Godzilla movies with me after school. Quisp got me going before a Little League game. It even, I believe, helped ward off vampires.
Oh, yeah. I liked.
Quisp, a little pink space alien drawn by Rocky and Bullwinkle animators Jay Ward and Bill Scott, brought his first shipment of space cereal – shaped like flying saucers – from Planet Q in 1965. In 1972, Quisp and his archenemy Quake (who made earthquake-powered cereal … whatever) entered the democratic process and America elected Quisp the best cereal ever.
Then something happened. Much like Gerald Ford, Quisp disappeared from the public eye in the late 1970s.
“Where did you find it?” I asked, taking the box from her hands as gently as a surgeon transplanting a liver.
Does she have a time machine? I wondered. And if she does, why didn’t she kill Hitler?
“Dollar General,” she said. “For a dollar.”
A dollar? A dollar for the cereal that could even make Saturday mornings with Scrappy Doo spectacular? That’s smart shopping.
I opened the box, poured golden flying saucers into a bowl, added milk, and transported back to 1972.
Quisp, I don’t care where you’ve been – even if it was a Mexican prison, anywhere in France or rehab – I’m happy you’re back. And that bowl of cereal? Oh, yeah. It was sweet.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Trash Can Hypnotized Our Baby
The living room was quiet. Normally, quiet is good, unless you have children then you know the house may explode at any moment.
The silence worried me because our three-year-old boy was in the living room with his one-year-old sister. When the Boy and the Baby are alone in the same room and neither one is screaming, either all is well or she’s unconscious.
Following Dad Dictums No. 12 (expect the worst) and 13 (the kids are always out to get you), I leaned into the room slowly, like a hit man. The Boy stood over his train set making “choo-choo” noises. And the Baby was … the Baby was gone.
No, wait. She wasn’t gone; she was on the move. And, since she’s at the zombie stage of walking, “on the move” wasn’t all that fast.
The Baby looked around to make sure she was unwatched and toddled into the kitchen holding a toy cell phone and sunglasses. Hmm, I wonder if she’s been watching “The OC” again?
I listened as she padded across the linoleum with little feet we can’t keep socks on, followed by a soft thud. The Baby came out of the kitchen a few seconds later with no cell phone – and no sunglasses.
“What were you doing?” I asked, stepping into the room. She looked up, squealed like ET running from Drew Barrymore, and scampered away.
There are four universal truths when it comes to young children:
1) As a parent, you’ll eventually accept snot as part of your wardrobe.
2) Although you swear your three-year-old can recite the Gettysburg Address backward, when you put him on the phone with Grandma he stares vacantly into space.
3) Your one-year-old only waves bye-bye after visitors have driven home.
And,
4) The kitchen trash can is the pagan god of babies.
I picked up my daughter, stepped into the kitchen and lifted the trash can lid. Yes, there were her toy phone, sunglasses and my favorite hat sitting atop a pile of salmonella surprise.
She giggled because she’d gotten away with another drop and dash.
Why, I wondered, is my daughter obsessed with the kitchen trash can when there are so many of her brother’s toys to chew on? Do babies like the smell of coffee grounds and eggshells? Does the bin have its own gravitational pull? Or is it the +1 Trash Can of Summoning I found playing Dungeons and Dragons back in college?
“Honey,” I said, shaking my finger at the plastic bin. “You know you’re not supposed to touch that.”
She said, “Pffft,” and took off toward her brother’s toys.
Sure, I’ll hear screaming soon, but at least I’ll know she’s not in the trash can … or unconscious.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
The silence worried me because our three-year-old boy was in the living room with his one-year-old sister. When the Boy and the Baby are alone in the same room and neither one is screaming, either all is well or she’s unconscious.
Following Dad Dictums No. 12 (expect the worst) and 13 (the kids are always out to get you), I leaned into the room slowly, like a hit man. The Boy stood over his train set making “choo-choo” noises. And the Baby was … the Baby was gone.
No, wait. She wasn’t gone; she was on the move. And, since she’s at the zombie stage of walking, “on the move” wasn’t all that fast.
The Baby looked around to make sure she was unwatched and toddled into the kitchen holding a toy cell phone and sunglasses. Hmm, I wonder if she’s been watching “The OC” again?
I listened as she padded across the linoleum with little feet we can’t keep socks on, followed by a soft thud. The Baby came out of the kitchen a few seconds later with no cell phone – and no sunglasses.
“What were you doing?” I asked, stepping into the room. She looked up, squealed like ET running from Drew Barrymore, and scampered away.
There are four universal truths when it comes to young children:
1) As a parent, you’ll eventually accept snot as part of your wardrobe.
2) Although you swear your three-year-old can recite the Gettysburg Address backward, when you put him on the phone with Grandma he stares vacantly into space.
3) Your one-year-old only waves bye-bye after visitors have driven home.
And,
4) The kitchen trash can is the pagan god of babies.
I picked up my daughter, stepped into the kitchen and lifted the trash can lid. Yes, there were her toy phone, sunglasses and my favorite hat sitting atop a pile of salmonella surprise.
She giggled because she’d gotten away with another drop and dash.
Why, I wondered, is my daughter obsessed with the kitchen trash can when there are so many of her brother’s toys to chew on? Do babies like the smell of coffee grounds and eggshells? Does the bin have its own gravitational pull? Or is it the +1 Trash Can of Summoning I found playing Dungeons and Dragons back in college?
“Honey,” I said, shaking my finger at the plastic bin. “You know you’re not supposed to touch that.”
She said, “Pffft,” and took off toward her brother’s toys.
Sure, I’ll hear screaming soon, but at least I’ll know she’s not in the trash can … or unconscious.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Don't Send in the Clowns ... Please
The thing called to me from a tiny part in the crowd, its puffy hands sweeping toward its chest like the mere motion would pull me closer.
Does anyone else see this? my five-year-old mind wondered. Probably not. If they could see this thing, they wouldn’t be able to ignore its bone-white skin, bulbous nose, and crimson lips stretched hideously wide for a human face. It must be invisible.
The milling crowd on the street briefly obscured the thing … all but its feet, its huge red feet. A hand shot above the crowd, moving like a periscope. My little fingers gripped Mom’s hand tighter as I watched the beast’s handscope gaze land on me.
As the milling people shuffled away the thing came back into view. It’s going to eat me, I thought as it blew bubbles from some beastly druidic wand.
“Jason,” Mom said, breaking the hypnotic hold this demon had on me. “Let’s go see the clown.”
I wet my pants.
Clowns freak me out. The makeup, the funny hats, the handkerchief that never ends – Hitler always carried one in his breast pocket, you know. And why the baggy clothes? Are they for hiding hunks of raw meat in case they get hungry later? Terrified people want to know.
A Reuters headline about a recent University of Sheffield study embraced me like a big fuzzy episode of “The X Files.” The headline read, “Don’t send in the clowns.”
I knew it … I’m not alone.
It turns out children don’t like clowns. Duh. We’re told from birth, “don’t talk to strangers,” “don’t take candy from strangers,” “stay away from Uncle Barney.” Then, at any street fair/circus/parade/birthday party organized by disturbed parents/police lineup, our parents throw us into the arms of someone wearing more makeup than a TV evangelist.
Parents, make up your minds, or at least narrow your definition of “stranger.” A man wearing greasepaint who climbs out of a tiny car with 15 other guys should probably be classified a stranger.
The study, initiated to make hospital children’s wards more comforting, found introducing paintings of clowns corresponded with a spike of children attacking the paintings with hatchets.
OK, so I made that part up.
The study actually found the 250 four to 16-year-old patients surveyed just didn’t like clowns; the older children were even afraid of them.
"As adults we make assumptions about what works for children," Penny Curtis, a senior lecturer at the University of Sheffield recently told Reuters. "We found that clowns are universally disliked by children. Some found them quite frightening and unknowable."
Yeah, I never really felt comfortable with Ronald McDonald. If he has to tell me my meal is “happy,” there’s something a little sinister to his agenda.
It’s nice to know I’m not alone.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Does anyone else see this? my five-year-old mind wondered. Probably not. If they could see this thing, they wouldn’t be able to ignore its bone-white skin, bulbous nose, and crimson lips stretched hideously wide for a human face. It must be invisible.
The milling crowd on the street briefly obscured the thing … all but its feet, its huge red feet. A hand shot above the crowd, moving like a periscope. My little fingers gripped Mom’s hand tighter as I watched the beast’s handscope gaze land on me.
As the milling people shuffled away the thing came back into view. It’s going to eat me, I thought as it blew bubbles from some beastly druidic wand.
“Jason,” Mom said, breaking the hypnotic hold this demon had on me. “Let’s go see the clown.”
I wet my pants.
Clowns freak me out. The makeup, the funny hats, the handkerchief that never ends – Hitler always carried one in his breast pocket, you know. And why the baggy clothes? Are they for hiding hunks of raw meat in case they get hungry later? Terrified people want to know.
A Reuters headline about a recent University of Sheffield study embraced me like a big fuzzy episode of “The X Files.” The headline read, “Don’t send in the clowns.”
I knew it … I’m not alone.
It turns out children don’t like clowns. Duh. We’re told from birth, “don’t talk to strangers,” “don’t take candy from strangers,” “stay away from Uncle Barney.” Then, at any street fair/circus/parade/birthday party organized by disturbed parents/police lineup, our parents throw us into the arms of someone wearing more makeup than a TV evangelist.
Parents, make up your minds, or at least narrow your definition of “stranger.” A man wearing greasepaint who climbs out of a tiny car with 15 other guys should probably be classified a stranger.
The study, initiated to make hospital children’s wards more comforting, found introducing paintings of clowns corresponded with a spike of children attacking the paintings with hatchets.
OK, so I made that part up.
The study actually found the 250 four to 16-year-old patients surveyed just didn’t like clowns; the older children were even afraid of them.
"As adults we make assumptions about what works for children," Penny Curtis, a senior lecturer at the University of Sheffield recently told Reuters. "We found that clowns are universally disliked by children. Some found them quite frightening and unknowable."
Yeah, I never really felt comfortable with Ronald McDonald. If he has to tell me my meal is “happy,” there’s something a little sinister to his agenda.
It’s nice to know I’m not alone.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Parenting Just Got High-Tech
The baby was asleep when my wife went into her room. Well, at least the baby should have been asleep. Children, as a rule, only do what their parents want if it fits into their schedule.
Baby (translated from “bllll” noises): Sleep? At bedtime? Pencil me in somewhere around 10 a.m. Thursday.
Secretary (usually invisible): You have a play date at 10 a.m. Thursday, but you’re behind on Making Mom Look Bad points, so it might work out.
Baby: Excellent. Make it so.
Going to sleep on time rarely fits into a child’s schedule.
My wife turned off the hall light, slowly pushed open the baby’s bedroom door and slipped inside the dark room. Waking a baby at bedtime means parents can’t spend the rest of the night doing things we always tell them not to … like blowing bubbles in our milk.
As my wife’s eyes adjusted to the dark, the corner of the room with the crib was still about as well-lit as an X-Files episode.
There are times when an idea crawls out of your head and shakes you so hard it’s almost religious. It was like that with Edison and the light bulb. It was like that with Einstein and relativity. And it was like that for my wife
I wish I had night vision goggles, she thought.
Oh, yeah, night-vision goggles. If the people at Babies R Us had any sense, they’d stock night-vision goggles right next to the breast pumps. Or, maybe …
You want to make sure the baby’s OK without turning on the light? You want to see why it’s taking your teenage daughter so long to get out of her date’s car? You want to catch you spouse eating spoonfuls of peanut butter at 3 a.m.?
You can. Just go to www.offuttparentalespionage.com* and you can have it all.
The www.offuttparentalespionage.com Catalogue
Night-vision goggles: See everything you need to: snipers, Charlie, your three-year-old planting Little People landmines along the night-night trail.
GPS Tracking Devices: Not only are these good for following your teen on every step of his/her date, it’ll save you that nervous call from the home when grandma goes missing again.
Hand-Held Metal Detectors: Sweep every date … and your kid. If there’s a piercing you can’t see, trust me, you’ll find it.
Video Surveillance: In-home spying isn’t just for the government anymore. Is your three-year-old snitching cookies? Is your husband smoking? Is your live-in grandpa a blacklisted McCarthy communist sympathizer? Placing a video camera in teddy bears, toilets and dentures will make your home safe for democracy.
Bomb Robot: This remote-controlled police bomb detonator is a full-featured robot for hazardous duty operations, such as picking up and disposing of a Level IV Full-Fiber Diaper.
Jet Pack: As a parent, have you ever wanted to get away? To your quiet spot? To Portugal? The Parentscapist Jet Pack 2000 – with whining buffer – will take you some place safe from your kids. Even if you’re just flying around the room, they won’t be able to touch you.
So, when you’re looking for the latest in parental-stealth devices, www.offuttparentalespionage.com will make your family wonder just what the heck hit them.
*Not a real Web site. If it’s ever a real Web site, I’m retiring early.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Baby (translated from “bllll” noises): Sleep? At bedtime? Pencil me in somewhere around 10 a.m. Thursday.
Secretary (usually invisible): You have a play date at 10 a.m. Thursday, but you’re behind on Making Mom Look Bad points, so it might work out.
Baby: Excellent. Make it so.
Going to sleep on time rarely fits into a child’s schedule.
My wife turned off the hall light, slowly pushed open the baby’s bedroom door and slipped inside the dark room. Waking a baby at bedtime means parents can’t spend the rest of the night doing things we always tell them not to … like blowing bubbles in our milk.
As my wife’s eyes adjusted to the dark, the corner of the room with the crib was still about as well-lit as an X-Files episode.
There are times when an idea crawls out of your head and shakes you so hard it’s almost religious. It was like that with Edison and the light bulb. It was like that with Einstein and relativity. And it was like that for my wife
I wish I had night vision goggles, she thought.
Oh, yeah, night-vision goggles. If the people at Babies R Us had any sense, they’d stock night-vision goggles right next to the breast pumps. Or, maybe …
You want to make sure the baby’s OK without turning on the light? You want to see why it’s taking your teenage daughter so long to get out of her date’s car? You want to catch you spouse eating spoonfuls of peanut butter at 3 a.m.?
You can. Just go to www.offuttparentalespionage.com* and you can have it all.
The www.offuttparentalespionage.com Catalogue
Night-vision goggles: See everything you need to: snipers, Charlie, your three-year-old planting Little People landmines along the night-night trail.
GPS Tracking Devices: Not only are these good for following your teen on every step of his/her date, it’ll save you that nervous call from the home when grandma goes missing again.
Hand-Held Metal Detectors: Sweep every date … and your kid. If there’s a piercing you can’t see, trust me, you’ll find it.
Video Surveillance: In-home spying isn’t just for the government anymore. Is your three-year-old snitching cookies? Is your husband smoking? Is your live-in grandpa a blacklisted McCarthy communist sympathizer? Placing a video camera in teddy bears, toilets and dentures will make your home safe for democracy.
Bomb Robot: This remote-controlled police bomb detonator is a full-featured robot for hazardous duty operations, such as picking up and disposing of a Level IV Full-Fiber Diaper.
Jet Pack: As a parent, have you ever wanted to get away? To your quiet spot? To Portugal? The Parentscapist Jet Pack 2000 – with whining buffer – will take you some place safe from your kids. Even if you’re just flying around the room, they won’t be able to touch you.
So, when you’re looking for the latest in parental-stealth devices, www.offuttparentalespionage.com will make your family wonder just what the heck hit them.
*Not a real Web site. If it’s ever a real Web site, I’m retiring early.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A Visit from the Diaper Fairy
Something in the house smelled funny.
“Don’t you smell that?” my wife said. She puts everything in the form of a question, a method of communication I still haven’t mastered. ‘Don’t you smell that’ could mean anything from ‘there’s a dead opossum under the sofa’ to ‘You haven’t had a bath in three days.’ Our conversations involving topics more complex than Larry the Cable Guy movies get a little confusing.
And, yes, I smelled it. Unless a commercial pig farm moved in next door, the two-year-old messed his pants … again.
“Is that why he’s hiding?” I asked.
Our son is on the upper end of two. He’s mastered all the things kids his age are supposed to master, like colors, stacking, and screaming “no, my toys” whenever he remembers his little sister exists.
The one thing he won’t do is sit on the potty. And, unless there’s some unknown condition that causes two-year-olds to mistake toilets for slathering-mouthed tigers, he’s just being stubborn.
There are pivotal points in a person’s life. Graduation, landing that first real job, getting married. Not being potty trained might really set those back.
Date No. 1: I had a really great time tonight. We should … hey, why are my shoes wet?
The Boy: Uh, yeah, that was me.
I won’t even mention what might happen if the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes people knock on his door.
In this new, kinder age of parenting where toddlers call the Division of Family Services if they don’t get a pudding cup with lunch, it’s a lot harder to get your child to do something than when I was a kid. Back in those dim, dark years, I’m sure Mom’s potty training method included an iron maiden.
You know, she says I potty trained early.
My wife’s sister-in-law bribed her kids; a couple of M&Ms usually carry a lot of weight with a two-year-old. We tried that. Telling him Superman wears underwear? We tried that, too. He just doesn’t care
“Did you know that tomorrow you’re going to be three,” my wife said to him one afternoon. “So tonight the Diaper Fairy is going to come and take all your diapers away.”
The Diaper Fairy?
“And she’s going to leave brand new big boy underpants.”
Whoa, the Diaper Fairy was a new one on me. But, for some reason, the Boy was listening.
Unlike dads who yell in one-word sentences, moms have an eerie ability to calmly get children to do what they want. Maybe a little supernatural intervention was all he needed.
The next morning he woke to find underwear sitting where we used to keep his diapers. He seemed impressed. Maybe, just maybe, this Diaper Fairy ruse would work.
Day Four: nope. I just hope the Boy’s future wife is patient.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
“Don’t you smell that?” my wife said. She puts everything in the form of a question, a method of communication I still haven’t mastered. ‘Don’t you smell that’ could mean anything from ‘there’s a dead opossum under the sofa’ to ‘You haven’t had a bath in three days.’ Our conversations involving topics more complex than Larry the Cable Guy movies get a little confusing.
And, yes, I smelled it. Unless a commercial pig farm moved in next door, the two-year-old messed his pants … again.
“Is that why he’s hiding?” I asked.
Our son is on the upper end of two. He’s mastered all the things kids his age are supposed to master, like colors, stacking, and screaming “no, my toys” whenever he remembers his little sister exists.
The one thing he won’t do is sit on the potty. And, unless there’s some unknown condition that causes two-year-olds to mistake toilets for slathering-mouthed tigers, he’s just being stubborn.
There are pivotal points in a person’s life. Graduation, landing that first real job, getting married. Not being potty trained might really set those back.
Date No. 1: I had a really great time tonight. We should … hey, why are my shoes wet?
The Boy: Uh, yeah, that was me.
I won’t even mention what might happen if the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes people knock on his door.
In this new, kinder age of parenting where toddlers call the Division of Family Services if they don’t get a pudding cup with lunch, it’s a lot harder to get your child to do something than when I was a kid. Back in those dim, dark years, I’m sure Mom’s potty training method included an iron maiden.
You know, she says I potty trained early.
My wife’s sister-in-law bribed her kids; a couple of M&Ms usually carry a lot of weight with a two-year-old. We tried that. Telling him Superman wears underwear? We tried that, too. He just doesn’t care
“Did you know that tomorrow you’re going to be three,” my wife said to him one afternoon. “So tonight the Diaper Fairy is going to come and take all your diapers away.”
The Diaper Fairy?
“And she’s going to leave brand new big boy underpants.”
Whoa, the Diaper Fairy was a new one on me. But, for some reason, the Boy was listening.
Unlike dads who yell in one-word sentences, moms have an eerie ability to calmly get children to do what they want. Maybe a little supernatural intervention was all he needed.
The next morning he woke to find underwear sitting where we used to keep his diapers. He seemed impressed. Maybe, just maybe, this Diaper Fairy ruse would work.
Day Four: nope. I just hope the Boy’s future wife is patient.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
This show is about what?
The TV screen was blue. Really blue. The kind of television blue that only comes from computer graphics or a complete breakdown of satellite communication.
A biplane zipped across the screen. Cool. Either everything’s fine with the world, or I’ve gone back in time.
“What is this?” I asked, sitting on the couch, leaning toward my wife and whispering like a man giving evidence to the CIA … evidence that may get him shot.
“(Jerry, Jeffery, Jasmine, whatever) the Jet Plane,” she said softly. This covert intelligence exchange was vital to Happy Home Security – if the toddler ever discovered Mom and Dad didn’t like ‘Whatever the Jet Plane,’ he might want to watch it more often.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
No, it really didn’t. But something about the show bothered me. Was it the dialogue? The obvious socialism that would have sent Sen. Joseph McCarthy screaming through the halls of Congress? The unicorns?
“The planes have faces,” I said, but that couldn’t be it. In my son’s movies trains, busses and construction equipment all have human faces. I’ve learned to deal with that. No, it was something else.
As I watched, the airplanes, and one sad little helicopter were all gathered in the hanger taking orders from a young woman.
Wait. That’s it. That’s what bothered me … well, that and the kid-movie music that wedges itself so far into my skull it only surfaces when I’m at work and really have to concentrate.
“Why is it acceptable for kids to watch obviously sentient beings in a subservient role, eagerly bending to the whims of their cruel human masters?” I asked. Yeah, Thomas the Tank Engine, Bob the Builder, Speed Buggy – they’re all guilty of promoting the serfdom of medieval France.
My wife shrugged.
What? Had the Kids TV Programming Medieval French monarchy gotten to her?
“This is how ‘Conquest of the Planet of the Apes’ started,” I said, standing only to be pulled back down and shushed. “It didn’t end well for us. If the revolution begins tomorrow, for the record I’ve always been nice to Chryslers and monkeys.”
I’ve learned a lot since that day. I’ve learned monkeys won’t take over America until at least 2035. And I’ve learned that children’s TV programming is so bizarrely annoying my wife and I have turned each show into a soap opera just to keep our brains from crawling out our ears and beating us unconscious with sticks.
Did you know Thomas and Friends’ Sir Topham Hatt is really a mob boss. Hired goons escort him everywhere, so don’t look at him funny … I’m serious.
Or that Curious George has a serious cracker habit (rumor has it, it’s graham)?
Or the fact that Bob the Builder … no, that story’s just too tragic.
Turning our kid’s shows into soap operas may be sad, but it makes watching them just a little bit easier.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
A biplane zipped across the screen. Cool. Either everything’s fine with the world, or I’ve gone back in time.
“What is this?” I asked, sitting on the couch, leaning toward my wife and whispering like a man giving evidence to the CIA … evidence that may get him shot.
“(Jerry, Jeffery, Jasmine, whatever) the Jet Plane,” she said softly. This covert intelligence exchange was vital to Happy Home Security – if the toddler ever discovered Mom and Dad didn’t like ‘Whatever the Jet Plane,’ he might want to watch it more often.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
No, it really didn’t. But something about the show bothered me. Was it the dialogue? The obvious socialism that would have sent Sen. Joseph McCarthy screaming through the halls of Congress? The unicorns?
“The planes have faces,” I said, but that couldn’t be it. In my son’s movies trains, busses and construction equipment all have human faces. I’ve learned to deal with that. No, it was something else.
As I watched, the airplanes, and one sad little helicopter were all gathered in the hanger taking orders from a young woman.
Wait. That’s it. That’s what bothered me … well, that and the kid-movie music that wedges itself so far into my skull it only surfaces when I’m at work and really have to concentrate.
“Why is it acceptable for kids to watch obviously sentient beings in a subservient role, eagerly bending to the whims of their cruel human masters?” I asked. Yeah, Thomas the Tank Engine, Bob the Builder, Speed Buggy – they’re all guilty of promoting the serfdom of medieval France.
My wife shrugged.
What? Had the Kids TV Programming Medieval French monarchy gotten to her?
“This is how ‘Conquest of the Planet of the Apes’ started,” I said, standing only to be pulled back down and shushed. “It didn’t end well for us. If the revolution begins tomorrow, for the record I’ve always been nice to Chryslers and monkeys.”
I’ve learned a lot since that day. I’ve learned monkeys won’t take over America until at least 2035. And I’ve learned that children’s TV programming is so bizarrely annoying my wife and I have turned each show into a soap opera just to keep our brains from crawling out our ears and beating us unconscious with sticks.
Did you know Thomas and Friends’ Sir Topham Hatt is really a mob boss. Hired goons escort him everywhere, so don’t look at him funny … I’m serious.
Or that Curious George has a serious cracker habit (rumor has it, it’s graham)?
Or the fact that Bob the Builder … no, that story’s just too tragic.
Turning our kid’s shows into soap operas may be sad, but it makes watching them just a little bit easier.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Please toss that can, my kids need shoes
The autumn sun, just beginning to sink politely behind the trees, reflected off something metal in the grass.
My wife and I were on our afternoon walk with the kids. I pushed the Toddler and the Baby in the stroller SUV – a stroller so big other walkers laugh at its crappy gas mileage – as my wife scanned the terrain for aluminum cans.
“Stop,” she said, putting out her arm. Had she seen a snake? Rabid squirrel? Rebel flag in someone’s window? “There’s one over there.”
She snatched a plastic grocery bag from our Stroller Utility Vehicle, left me and the kids on the sidewalk, ran across the street, stuffed an empty can into the bag and walked back toward us. And yes, she was grinning.
My wife is a bag lady. When we go for a walk, she brings a bag for the aluminum cans she picks up along the way. “It’s environmentally-conscious and it helps make our city more beautiful,” she said on our first can-hunting expedition. I made fun of her for a few days. Then she took a load of crushed cans to the recycler and brought back $7.50; now I help.
Earning money from aluminum cans is a college dream come true. My roommate and I once decided – I imagine after a lot of drinking – that if we saved our aluminum beer cans, we could cash them in and use that money to buy more beer, then when those cans were empty ... Well, it was a brilliant cycle that would keep us swimming in beer until graduation. So we started tossing our empties into a closet.
We just didn’t anticipate the smell; the sweet, stale smell of Natural Light gone bad; nor did we consider the invasion of gnats so great our dorm room hummed like a weed eater.
Thinking back, maybe we should have rinsed out the cans.
My wife stuffed the bag of beer cans back into the stroller basket intended for diapers, snacks, toys, or in the case of some kids, shock collars. We were ready to go again … the hunt was on.
Our route, once park- and occasionally Baskin Robbins-friendly, now usually takes us by apartment complexes and rental houses – we live in a college town, after all.
“More cans there, please,” the Toddler said, pointing from his seat. Oh, great, my wife’s turning our kids into bag people. Environmentally-conscious? Makes our city more beautiful? Yeah, those reasons sound good, but what American, other than old hippies and brainwashed environmentalists, really cares?
Oh, yeah, my wife. But I think she’s honestly in it for the money. Maybe if I drink more beer, we can afford to send the kids to college. It’s worth mentioning.
She walked to where the Toddler was pointing and came back with a handful of aluminum.
“I don’t ever want to hear anyone talk badly about college students,” she said, dropping the Keystone Light cans into the sack.
Hey, I won’t. Just wait until homecoming – we might be able to buy a new car.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
My wife and I were on our afternoon walk with the kids. I pushed the Toddler and the Baby in the stroller SUV – a stroller so big other walkers laugh at its crappy gas mileage – as my wife scanned the terrain for aluminum cans.
“Stop,” she said, putting out her arm. Had she seen a snake? Rabid squirrel? Rebel flag in someone’s window? “There’s one over there.”
She snatched a plastic grocery bag from our Stroller Utility Vehicle, left me and the kids on the sidewalk, ran across the street, stuffed an empty can into the bag and walked back toward us. And yes, she was grinning.
My wife is a bag lady. When we go for a walk, she brings a bag for the aluminum cans she picks up along the way. “It’s environmentally-conscious and it helps make our city more beautiful,” she said on our first can-hunting expedition. I made fun of her for a few days. Then she took a load of crushed cans to the recycler and brought back $7.50; now I help.
Earning money from aluminum cans is a college dream come true. My roommate and I once decided – I imagine after a lot of drinking – that if we saved our aluminum beer cans, we could cash them in and use that money to buy more beer, then when those cans were empty ... Well, it was a brilliant cycle that would keep us swimming in beer until graduation. So we started tossing our empties into a closet.
We just didn’t anticipate the smell; the sweet, stale smell of Natural Light gone bad; nor did we consider the invasion of gnats so great our dorm room hummed like a weed eater.
Thinking back, maybe we should have rinsed out the cans.
My wife stuffed the bag of beer cans back into the stroller basket intended for diapers, snacks, toys, or in the case of some kids, shock collars. We were ready to go again … the hunt was on.
Our route, once park- and occasionally Baskin Robbins-friendly, now usually takes us by apartment complexes and rental houses – we live in a college town, after all.
“More cans there, please,” the Toddler said, pointing from his seat. Oh, great, my wife’s turning our kids into bag people. Environmentally-conscious? Makes our city more beautiful? Yeah, those reasons sound good, but what American, other than old hippies and brainwashed environmentalists, really cares?
Oh, yeah, my wife. But I think she’s honestly in it for the money. Maybe if I drink more beer, we can afford to send the kids to college. It’s worth mentioning.
She walked to where the Toddler was pointing and came back with a handful of aluminum.
“I don’t ever want to hear anyone talk badly about college students,” she said, dropping the Keystone Light cans into the sack.
Hey, I won’t. Just wait until homecoming – we might be able to buy a new car.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available now. Order it from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Live long, prosper and avoid the bees
Nature is a dangerous thing. Much like sausage gravy, chainsaw jugglers and Lindsay Lohan behind the wheel of a car, it's best to just stay away.
Indoors is fine. Inside a geodesic dome sealed in a plastic bubble is better.
Point 1) A giant web sprawls across more than 200 yards of trees in a park near Wills Point, Texas - a web so big it has covered a pond. The web, once white, is now black with mosquitoes from that pond, a feast for the spiders who built the web.
And by spiders I mean lots of spiders from 12 species that usually don't play well with others.
"Normally they are cannibalistic and their webs are separated," Allen Dean, a Texas A&M University entomologist told the Associated Press. "They live in harmony because there's so much food available."
Oh, yeah. I've seen the movie, "Kingdom of the Spiders." Things didn't end well for William Shatner. Let's learn from Shatner's mistakes: 1) don't fight 50,000 spiders with a fire extinguisher, and 2) run ... now.
Entomologist Hank Guarisco from Fort Hays State University in Hays, Kan., camped at the park to observe the spiders and was eaten alive.
No, wait. That was the movie again. I told you Shatner didn't fare well.
The spiders Guarisco observed usually mind their own business and don't interact with other spiders.
"Here they are sharing a lot of foundation strands that are all over the place," he told the Associated Press. "They don't have individual webs anymore."
Yes, the spiders are organized. Go to church, make peace with your Maker, and pray for Raid.
Point 2) Killer Bees. A swarm of highly aggressive Africanized honeybees was recently captured near New Orleans. Like the city doesn't have enough problems.
"Although the exact source can't be identified, we have to assume Africanized honeybees are now established in the area and people should be careful when working outside," Louisiana agriculture commissioner Bob Odom told the Associated Press.
Kids: Why can't we play outside, Momma?
Mom: Because of the stinging clouds of death, dear. Go watch TV.
Killer bees were accidentally released in South America in 1957, and they've been making their way north ever since.
Again, I've seen the movie and, if I were a bee, "The Killer Bees" was the feel-good movie of 1974.
But there is some good news for the human species; the life expectancy for Americans has reached 78 years.
Which brings me to Point 3) An 81-year-old Milwaukee man has sued Helen of Troy Ltd., the company that makes Brut cologne. While camping with his family, the man shaved in the campgrounds bathhouse, slapped a little Brut on his face, chest and neck, walked to the camp grill to cook breakfast and caught fire.
I'm sure he'll win the lawsuit. Although a bottle of Brut lists "alcohol" as an ingredient, it doesn't specifically say anything about sticking your face too close to an open campfire.
So, yeah, a lot of us are now destined to live longer, unless we're eaten by spiders, attacked by roving gangs of angry bees or the apes finally take over. Of course, when we do live past 78, we'll probably just set ourselves on fire.
Excuse me, I'm just going to curl into the fetal position and cry.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason's new book of ghost stories, "Haunted Missouri," is available at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, and tsup.truman.edu.
Indoors is fine. Inside a geodesic dome sealed in a plastic bubble is better.
Point 1) A giant web sprawls across more than 200 yards of trees in a park near Wills Point, Texas - a web so big it has covered a pond. The web, once white, is now black with mosquitoes from that pond, a feast for the spiders who built the web.
And by spiders I mean lots of spiders from 12 species that usually don't play well with others.
"Normally they are cannibalistic and their webs are separated," Allen Dean, a Texas A&M University entomologist told the Associated Press. "They live in harmony because there's so much food available."
Oh, yeah. I've seen the movie, "Kingdom of the Spiders." Things didn't end well for William Shatner. Let's learn from Shatner's mistakes: 1) don't fight 50,000 spiders with a fire extinguisher, and 2) run ... now.
Entomologist Hank Guarisco from Fort Hays State University in Hays, Kan., camped at the park to observe the spiders and was eaten alive.
No, wait. That was the movie again. I told you Shatner didn't fare well.
The spiders Guarisco observed usually mind their own business and don't interact with other spiders.
"Here they are sharing a lot of foundation strands that are all over the place," he told the Associated Press. "They don't have individual webs anymore."
Yes, the spiders are organized. Go to church, make peace with your Maker, and pray for Raid.
Point 2) Killer Bees. A swarm of highly aggressive Africanized honeybees was recently captured near New Orleans. Like the city doesn't have enough problems.
"Although the exact source can't be identified, we have to assume Africanized honeybees are now established in the area and people should be careful when working outside," Louisiana agriculture commissioner Bob Odom told the Associated Press.
Kids: Why can't we play outside, Momma?
Mom: Because of the stinging clouds of death, dear. Go watch TV.
Killer bees were accidentally released in South America in 1957, and they've been making their way north ever since.
Again, I've seen the movie and, if I were a bee, "The Killer Bees" was the feel-good movie of 1974.
But there is some good news for the human species; the life expectancy for Americans has reached 78 years.
Which brings me to Point 3) An 81-year-old Milwaukee man has sued Helen of Troy Ltd., the company that makes Brut cologne. While camping with his family, the man shaved in the campgrounds bathhouse, slapped a little Brut on his face, chest and neck, walked to the camp grill to cook breakfast and caught fire.
I'm sure he'll win the lawsuit. Although a bottle of Brut lists "alcohol" as an ingredient, it doesn't specifically say anything about sticking your face too close to an open campfire.
So, yeah, a lot of us are now destined to live longer, unless we're eaten by spiders, attacked by roving gangs of angry bees or the apes finally take over. Of course, when we do live past 78, we'll probably just set ourselves on fire.
Excuse me, I'm just going to curl into the fetal position and cry.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason's new book of ghost stories, "Haunted Missouri," is available at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, and tsup.truman.edu.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The library book tells all
My wife had been to the library – I can always tell. It’s the only explanation for all the unfamiliar 20-page, brightly colored books and the occasional BBC “Pride and Prejudice” or “Wuthering Heights” DVD scattered around the living room.
I grabbed a few books off the floor to see what titles were going to send our two-and-a-half-year-old to bed. Hey, the “The Mighty Bulldozer.” Yeah, he’ll love that. “There Goes a Fire Truck,” another winner. “Mary Ann has a Hammer,” questionable, but it fit the theme.
“Be Gentle”?
Hmm. Bulldozers, fire trucks, hammers … there must be some other motive at work here than the one designed to appeal to the boy’s manly side. If these books were part of the puzzle, ‘Pick the one that does not belong,’ I’m going with the book “Be Gentle.”
“Is something going on?” I asked, holding up ‘Be Gentle.’
“Yes,” my wife said. “He’s too rough with his little sister.”
The boy’s sister was eight months old and, much like every other older brother on the planet, he treated her like a sparring partner. With the boy as her big brother, she’s going to be a tough little girl – she has no choice.
“So the book you brought home last week, ‘The Planet Doesn’t Belong to You,’ was because …”
“Because he doesn’t like to share,” she finished.
“Hmm. Interesting,” I said. Appealing to a child’s rational side never occurred to me because I’m a guy. A guy’s initial reaction to a child misbehaving is to say something loud enough to stun the child in his tracks. They’re easier to catch that way. I mean, after all, two-year-olds are just better-dressed monkeys who can say ‘no’ with surprising clarity. Can you actually reason with them?
This, of course, leads to the most mysterious area of child psychology – can a child’s behavior be altered without banning television or bribing them with chocolate?
Maybe. I thought of the other theme books that had made their way briefly into our home. “No, no. Hot, hot,” “Traffic is not a Toy,” and the classic, “I’ll Never Point a Gun at an Elected Official Again!” You know, you can’t let kids out of your sight for a second.
There’s an entire industry of book publishers trying to keep our children from eating soap, exploring the Hidden World of Mystery under the kitchen sink, and jumping off the garage roof with nothing on but a Superman cape. Some of us parents are stupid. I’m glad there are people looking out for us.
“Do you think it will help?” I asked.
“Can’t hurt,” she said.
Yeah, she’s right. “I Shouldn’t Ride the Refrigerator Box Down the Stairs,” “Sticking Skittles up my Nose is Bad” and “I am NOT Buzz Lightyear of Star Command” are always welcome in our home. And, unless my wife checks out, “Johnny Sets Fires,” I guess everything’s OK.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
I grabbed a few books off the floor to see what titles were going to send our two-and-a-half-year-old to bed. Hey, the “The Mighty Bulldozer.” Yeah, he’ll love that. “There Goes a Fire Truck,” another winner. “Mary Ann has a Hammer,” questionable, but it fit the theme.
“Be Gentle”?
Hmm. Bulldozers, fire trucks, hammers … there must be some other motive at work here than the one designed to appeal to the boy’s manly side. If these books were part of the puzzle, ‘Pick the one that does not belong,’ I’m going with the book “Be Gentle.”
“Is something going on?” I asked, holding up ‘Be Gentle.’
“Yes,” my wife said. “He’s too rough with his little sister.”
The boy’s sister was eight months old and, much like every other older brother on the planet, he treated her like a sparring partner. With the boy as her big brother, she’s going to be a tough little girl – she has no choice.
“So the book you brought home last week, ‘The Planet Doesn’t Belong to You,’ was because …”
“Because he doesn’t like to share,” she finished.
“Hmm. Interesting,” I said. Appealing to a child’s rational side never occurred to me because I’m a guy. A guy’s initial reaction to a child misbehaving is to say something loud enough to stun the child in his tracks. They’re easier to catch that way. I mean, after all, two-year-olds are just better-dressed monkeys who can say ‘no’ with surprising clarity. Can you actually reason with them?
This, of course, leads to the most mysterious area of child psychology – can a child’s behavior be altered without banning television or bribing them with chocolate?
Maybe. I thought of the other theme books that had made their way briefly into our home. “No, no. Hot, hot,” “Traffic is not a Toy,” and the classic, “I’ll Never Point a Gun at an Elected Official Again!” You know, you can’t let kids out of your sight for a second.
There’s an entire industry of book publishers trying to keep our children from eating soap, exploring the Hidden World of Mystery under the kitchen sink, and jumping off the garage roof with nothing on but a Superman cape. Some of us parents are stupid. I’m glad there are people looking out for us.
“Do you think it will help?” I asked.
“Can’t hurt,” she said.
Yeah, she’s right. “I Shouldn’t Ride the Refrigerator Box Down the Stairs,” “Sticking Skittles up my Nose is Bad” and “I am NOT Buzz Lightyear of Star Command” are always welcome in our home. And, unless my wife checks out, “Johnny Sets Fires,” I guess everything’s OK.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
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