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
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
The robot does NOT act like a toddler
The headline was interesting enough; “Robot acts like a toddler.”
Yeah, whatever, I thought. Robots of today build cars, vacuum floors and, much like R2-D2 in “Return of the Jedi,” fix drinks on Jabba the Hutt’s barge. I bet none of these robots throw toys, pull the cushions off the couch, or run through the living room naked. If they do, that’s not listed in the sales brochure.
A group of Japanese scientists from Osaka University built the robot – with the Star Wars-esque moniker CB2 – to better understand child development, as opposed to the old-fashioned way of observing actual children.
CB2 can change its facial expressions and rock back and forth, which comes in really handy when scientists are gauging the effects of Iron Maiden on children under three.
The robot can speak using what the scientists call “an artificial vocal cord.” I’m glad they didn’t use the vocal cord from a real child, although if they did the screams would have been more realistic when somebody tells the robot it can’t have another cookie.
CB2, much like your uncle at a family reunion, wobbles when it walks and bumps into things, but at 4 feet tall and 73 pounds does a lot less damage when it runs into the Precious Moments collection. That could be bad or good, depending on your point of view.
"Our goal is to study human recognition development such as how the child learns a language, recognizes objects and learns to communicate with his father and mother," one scientist said.
Again, why the robot? Wouldn’t flesh and blood children help scientists more than Cabbage Patch Kids made scary? Yes, but I have two theories as to why mechanics were favored over biology.
1) In high school, these scientists sat with wedgies at the Dungeons and Dragons table at lunch dreaming of the day they’d be able to marry an actual girl and have a real baby, but that day never came.
2) They think we were all hatched from eggs.
So, how should scientists study the behavior of our children; empirical observation or animatronics?
My solution – Pinocchio. Sure, he’s carved out of wood. Yes, he drinks beer and smokes cigars. And, I’ll admit he was, at one point, turned into a donkey. But, if you want an accurate gauge of human development, you can’t do better than a wooden boy – look at (insert politician’s name here). And, the best part, there are no legal ramifications if you set him on fire.
But there will be a day human-like robots will walk among us. Once robots really start to act like toddlers, they’ll be more like those robots that take over the planet in blazes of gunfire and Austrian accents.
And, no, I’m not going to spank one of them, they’re just expressing themselves the only way they know how. You’re a big robot … yes you are. And big robots don’t shoot Mommy and Daddy and expect to get anymore TV tonight.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Yeah, whatever, I thought. Robots of today build cars, vacuum floors and, much like R2-D2 in “Return of the Jedi,” fix drinks on Jabba the Hutt’s barge. I bet none of these robots throw toys, pull the cushions off the couch, or run through the living room naked. If they do, that’s not listed in the sales brochure.
A group of Japanese scientists from Osaka University built the robot – with the Star Wars-esque moniker CB2 – to better understand child development, as opposed to the old-fashioned way of observing actual children.
CB2 can change its facial expressions and rock back and forth, which comes in really handy when scientists are gauging the effects of Iron Maiden on children under three.
The robot can speak using what the scientists call “an artificial vocal cord.” I’m glad they didn’t use the vocal cord from a real child, although if they did the screams would have been more realistic when somebody tells the robot it can’t have another cookie.
CB2, much like your uncle at a family reunion, wobbles when it walks and bumps into things, but at 4 feet tall and 73 pounds does a lot less damage when it runs into the Precious Moments collection. That could be bad or good, depending on your point of view.
"Our goal is to study human recognition development such as how the child learns a language, recognizes objects and learns to communicate with his father and mother," one scientist said.
Again, why the robot? Wouldn’t flesh and blood children help scientists more than Cabbage Patch Kids made scary? Yes, but I have two theories as to why mechanics were favored over biology.
1) In high school, these scientists sat with wedgies at the Dungeons and Dragons table at lunch dreaming of the day they’d be able to marry an actual girl and have a real baby, but that day never came.
2) They think we were all hatched from eggs.
So, how should scientists study the behavior of our children; empirical observation or animatronics?
My solution – Pinocchio. Sure, he’s carved out of wood. Yes, he drinks beer and smokes cigars. And, I’ll admit he was, at one point, turned into a donkey. But, if you want an accurate gauge of human development, you can’t do better than a wooden boy – look at (insert politician’s name here). And, the best part, there are no legal ramifications if you set him on fire.
But there will be a day human-like robots will walk among us. Once robots really start to act like toddlers, they’ll be more like those robots that take over the planet in blazes of gunfire and Austrian accents.
And, no, I’m not going to spank one of them, they’re just expressing themselves the only way they know how. You’re a big robot … yes you are. And big robots don’t shoot Mommy and Daddy and expect to get anymore TV tonight.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Friday, June 15, 2007
Simple rules for women
My wife turned off the radio. Not a big deal, usually, but there was a baseball game on and a man was in scoring position.
"You weren't listening to that, were you?" she asked as I stood there, my face locked into the same position as primitive man when he discovered fire was hot.
Yes, I thought. It's a baseball game.
In the time, "habladoo," stumbled from my mouth, one pitch must have been thrown. The entire dynamic of the game could have changed. Didn't she realize this?
"Goonga-hanna," I said, although I'm still not sure what I meant. I was in Primitive Guy mode, and Primitive Guy liked beer, muscle cars, cheerleaders and not missing baseball. Words weren't that important.
It was finally baseball season. After a disappointing football season, disappointing college basketball season, and disappointing professional ice-fishing season (darn that global warming), I had a fresh new season to be disappointed by - and I'd already missed 25 seconds.
"But you were going out to mow the lawn," she said.
Why yes, yes I was.
I shook off the shock of a 1-0 game snatched from under me like a tablecloth by a magician. I smiled. Primitive Guy - who usually only shows up during backyard barbecues and high school reunions - was gone. I'd been on my way to mow the lawn when the baseball game stepped in my way. The baseball pause happened because I'd made the mistake many married guys make. I'd behaved like a man.
Guys, contrary to what women say, they don't want you to act like a man unless they're awakened by breaking glass at 3:15 a.m. Women want you to act like, uh, well ... a woman. A bigger, hairier woman, who can open jars.
Ladies, our brains don't work like this. Nature has trained us to be killers; we just take it out on the lawn. So, to clear up any misconceptions about your relationship, here are the top five reasons guys do the things we do:
1. Guys only think of things they care about.
2. At a base level, guys care about themselves, winning, guns/cars/the original "Star Wars" trilogy, buffets, free beer, sports, and holding grudges that sometimes date back to high school.
3. Just because a guy doesn't remember something important to you doesn't mean it's not important to him, too - he's just preoccupied with something from No. 2 (see above). Birthdays and anniversaries are a great example.
4. Order of importance also corresponds with what's in front of their face at the moment. Summer vacation, retirement and what's on the calendar for next Wednesday aren't nearly as important as that fly in the room, something that itches, or a baseball game with a guy in scoring position.
5. There's almost nothing as important as a guy in scoring position.
And, if a guy ever does anything that doesn't agree with 1 through 5, he's doing it just to make you happy.
You're welcome.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com and tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
"You weren't listening to that, were you?" she asked as I stood there, my face locked into the same position as primitive man when he discovered fire was hot.
Yes, I thought. It's a baseball game.
In the time, "habladoo," stumbled from my mouth, one pitch must have been thrown. The entire dynamic of the game could have changed. Didn't she realize this?
"Goonga-hanna," I said, although I'm still not sure what I meant. I was in Primitive Guy mode, and Primitive Guy liked beer, muscle cars, cheerleaders and not missing baseball. Words weren't that important.
It was finally baseball season. After a disappointing football season, disappointing college basketball season, and disappointing professional ice-fishing season (darn that global warming), I had a fresh new season to be disappointed by - and I'd already missed 25 seconds.
"But you were going out to mow the lawn," she said.
Why yes, yes I was.
I shook off the shock of a 1-0 game snatched from under me like a tablecloth by a magician. I smiled. Primitive Guy - who usually only shows up during backyard barbecues and high school reunions - was gone. I'd been on my way to mow the lawn when the baseball game stepped in my way. The baseball pause happened because I'd made the mistake many married guys make. I'd behaved like a man.
Guys, contrary to what women say, they don't want you to act like a man unless they're awakened by breaking glass at 3:15 a.m. Women want you to act like, uh, well ... a woman. A bigger, hairier woman, who can open jars.
Ladies, our brains don't work like this. Nature has trained us to be killers; we just take it out on the lawn. So, to clear up any misconceptions about your relationship, here are the top five reasons guys do the things we do:
1. Guys only think of things they care about.
2. At a base level, guys care about themselves, winning, guns/cars/the original "Star Wars" trilogy, buffets, free beer, sports, and holding grudges that sometimes date back to high school.
3. Just because a guy doesn't remember something important to you doesn't mean it's not important to him, too - he's just preoccupied with something from No. 2 (see above). Birthdays and anniversaries are a great example.
4. Order of importance also corresponds with what's in front of their face at the moment. Summer vacation, retirement and what's on the calendar for next Wednesday aren't nearly as important as that fly in the room, something that itches, or a baseball game with a guy in scoring position.
5. There's almost nothing as important as a guy in scoring position.
And, if a guy ever does anything that doesn't agree with 1 through 5, he's doing it just to make you happy.
You're welcome.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com and tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Toddlers are to thank for Star Wars
The Toddler had eaten about half his dinner when he noticed there was something on the table that wasn’t on his plate.
“Tauntaun,” he said through the wall of grape jelly hiding his face. There must be a universal law of physics I’m not familiar with that can account for more jelly getting on a two-year-old’s face than what a parent spreads on a sandwich. “Tauntaun.”
Tauntaun? Didn’t Han Solo kill one of those in “The Empire Strikes Back”?
“What does he want?” I asked my wife. She’d know; she could work in international politics if they ever needed a toddler-to-English translator. But given the state of international politics, toddler-to-English may be a little too advanced.
“He wants one of your croutons,” she said, nodding toward my salad.
Crouton/Tauntaun. Makes sense. The boy’s still trying to figure out this whole talking thing. I picked a crouton from the mound of otherwise healthy stuff and put it on his plate. He giggled and stuffed the crouton into his mouth.
“Tauntaun,” he said through the stale bread and pointed at his plate. I didn’t need my wife to translate that one. He wanted more croutons.
But the word tauntaun bugged me. I was sure Han Solo killed one of those sheep-horned ostrich/llama things in “Empire.” Why would my toddler say tauntaun in relation to anything unless: 1) he’s really from a galaxy far, far away, or 2) geekness is hereditary?
If its No. 2, sorry kids.
As I watched my smiling child crunch tauntaun after tauntaun, I understood something that has eluded science fiction fans for 30 years. Tauntaun, Chewbacca, Dagobah, Sith – George Lucas got all those bizarre names for “Star Wars” from a two-year-old.
“Obi-Wan,” the Toddler said as he motioned toward the refrigerator. I don’t know what he wanted, but I think he just proved my point.
Jason’s Star Wars-to-Toddler Dictionary
Anakin: something you use to wipe your mouth.
AT-AT: where the toddler’s standing … right now.
bantha: a toddler’s favorite fruit. Goes well with peanut butter, ice cream or Nilla Wafers.
Dagobah: Daddy’s going to the bathroom.
Dooku: I’m not sure, but I think it’s poopy.
Endor: where the toddler plays when it’s raining.
Hoth: what the oven is. No, no. Hoth, hoth.
Maul: My wife’s mom.
Naboo: it doesn’t hurt.
Sith: something Daddy said while watching the football game.
Wampa: My wife’s dad.
You see? I’ve broken the code. Science fiction doesn’t require creativity, it just needs catchy names. So listen to your niece or nephew, kids at the playground, or your cousin Danny who eats paint chips. The things they jabber will make you rich.
Yeah. Watching my two-year-old finish his crouton and request a chocolate-chip wookiee, I realized I’m sitting on a science fiction franchise, so I’d better start writing – maybe when I finish this diet Yoda.
--
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” is coming in May. FREE SHIPPING when you order online at: https://tsup.truman.edu/store/ViewBook.aspx?Book=849. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
“Tauntaun,” he said through the wall of grape jelly hiding his face. There must be a universal law of physics I’m not familiar with that can account for more jelly getting on a two-year-old’s face than what a parent spreads on a sandwich. “Tauntaun.”
Tauntaun? Didn’t Han Solo kill one of those in “The Empire Strikes Back”?
“What does he want?” I asked my wife. She’d know; she could work in international politics if they ever needed a toddler-to-English translator. But given the state of international politics, toddler-to-English may be a little too advanced.
“He wants one of your croutons,” she said, nodding toward my salad.
Crouton/Tauntaun. Makes sense. The boy’s still trying to figure out this whole talking thing. I picked a crouton from the mound of otherwise healthy stuff and put it on his plate. He giggled and stuffed the crouton into his mouth.
“Tauntaun,” he said through the stale bread and pointed at his plate. I didn’t need my wife to translate that one. He wanted more croutons.
But the word tauntaun bugged me. I was sure Han Solo killed one of those sheep-horned ostrich/llama things in “Empire.” Why would my toddler say tauntaun in relation to anything unless: 1) he’s really from a galaxy far, far away, or 2) geekness is hereditary?
If its No. 2, sorry kids.
As I watched my smiling child crunch tauntaun after tauntaun, I understood something that has eluded science fiction fans for 30 years. Tauntaun, Chewbacca, Dagobah, Sith – George Lucas got all those bizarre names for “Star Wars” from a two-year-old.
“Obi-Wan,” the Toddler said as he motioned toward the refrigerator. I don’t know what he wanted, but I think he just proved my point.
Jason’s Star Wars-to-Toddler Dictionary
Anakin: something you use to wipe your mouth.
AT-AT: where the toddler’s standing … right now.
bantha: a toddler’s favorite fruit. Goes well with peanut butter, ice cream or Nilla Wafers.
Dagobah: Daddy’s going to the bathroom.
Dooku: I’m not sure, but I think it’s poopy.
Endor: where the toddler plays when it’s raining.
Hoth: what the oven is. No, no. Hoth, hoth.
Maul: My wife’s mom.
Naboo: it doesn’t hurt.
Sith: something Daddy said while watching the football game.
Wampa: My wife’s dad.
You see? I’ve broken the code. Science fiction doesn’t require creativity, it just needs catchy names. So listen to your niece or nephew, kids at the playground, or your cousin Danny who eats paint chips. The things they jabber will make you rich.
Yeah. Watching my two-year-old finish his crouton and request a chocolate-chip wookiee, I realized I’m sitting on a science fiction franchise, so I’d better start writing – maybe when I finish this diet Yoda.
--
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” is coming in May. FREE SHIPPING when you order online at: https://tsup.truman.edu/store/ViewBook.aspx?Book=849. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Don't mess with the tiger
The movie was over. I hit stop as the credits for people like gaffer and best boy crawled across the TV screen. If you’re the mom of a best boy, I’m sorry I didn’t tough it out.
“I liked it,” my wife said, picking an empty bowl off the floor. The bowl once held popcorn; now most of the popcorn was on my shirt. “What’d you think?”
Hmm. We’d wanted to watch this movie for a long time. Her aunt told us to run – not walk – to the theater to see it. We didn’t. It earned an Academy Award, but so did Al Gore. I guess that should have told me what was going on in Hollywood this year. And critics loved the movie mainly because, I assume, they got in free.
Me? I didn’t like it. Oh, sure, I laughed a couple of times, but I laugh when someone gets mauled while petting a tiger. It’s a tiger. That’s what they do, moron.
“I didn’t like it,” I said, not knowing what the next 10 minutes would bring. You know, if someone ever invents time travel, I’ll look a lot smarter. “If we’d seen this at the theater, I may have walked out.”
Yeah, if I’d traveled forward in time, I’d have seen the tiger who looks like my wife and changed my story.
“What?” my wife said in the same tone she used when I brought home a 30-pack of beer and tried to explain to her how economically savvy it is to buy in bulk. “You would not have walked out of the theater. You’re just saying that because you’re too cool to like something someone else likes.”
Hey, I wasn’t ready for that. I also wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
I was expecting to receive the news that I was insensitive, stubborn, and I probably caused the Great Depression. And oh, by the way, buying that 30-pack was probably not a good idea.
What I got was mauled.
Guys, if you haven’t realized this by now I can only assume you’re three years old, so put down this column, you can’t read – girls play dirty; especially when they’re mad.
“You just can’t let yourself like something my family recommended,” she finished.
Yeah, that was it. That was the whole thing. The tigress was simply defending her territory.
I’d seen this behavior in my wife before. Her mom has a spaghetti sauce recipe – a family recipe. Everybody in the family loves it. Well, everybody but me. I told my wife that with the understanding she never tell her mother. So, she told her mother.
What’s the lesson? Don’t mess with the tiger.
So, following that rule, I’m not telling you which movie we watched. Nope, I’m not telling. If there’s one thing I’ve learned out of all this is to keep my mouth shut.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” is coming in May. FREE SHIPPING when you order online at: https://tsup.truman.edu/store/ViewBook.aspx?Book=849. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
“I liked it,” my wife said, picking an empty bowl off the floor. The bowl once held popcorn; now most of the popcorn was on my shirt. “What’d you think?”
Hmm. We’d wanted to watch this movie for a long time. Her aunt told us to run – not walk – to the theater to see it. We didn’t. It earned an Academy Award, but so did Al Gore. I guess that should have told me what was going on in Hollywood this year. And critics loved the movie mainly because, I assume, they got in free.
Me? I didn’t like it. Oh, sure, I laughed a couple of times, but I laugh when someone gets mauled while petting a tiger. It’s a tiger. That’s what they do, moron.
“I didn’t like it,” I said, not knowing what the next 10 minutes would bring. You know, if someone ever invents time travel, I’ll look a lot smarter. “If we’d seen this at the theater, I may have walked out.”
Yeah, if I’d traveled forward in time, I’d have seen the tiger who looks like my wife and changed my story.
“What?” my wife said in the same tone she used when I brought home a 30-pack of beer and tried to explain to her how economically savvy it is to buy in bulk. “You would not have walked out of the theater. You’re just saying that because you’re too cool to like something someone else likes.”
Hey, I wasn’t ready for that. I also wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
I was expecting to receive the news that I was insensitive, stubborn, and I probably caused the Great Depression. And oh, by the way, buying that 30-pack was probably not a good idea.
What I got was mauled.
Guys, if you haven’t realized this by now I can only assume you’re three years old, so put down this column, you can’t read – girls play dirty; especially when they’re mad.
“You just can’t let yourself like something my family recommended,” she finished.
Yeah, that was it. That was the whole thing. The tigress was simply defending her territory.
I’d seen this behavior in my wife before. Her mom has a spaghetti sauce recipe – a family recipe. Everybody in the family loves it. Well, everybody but me. I told my wife that with the understanding she never tell her mother. So, she told her mother.
What’s the lesson? Don’t mess with the tiger.
So, following that rule, I’m not telling you which movie we watched. Nope, I’m not telling. If there’s one thing I’ve learned out of all this is to keep my mouth shut.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” is coming in May. FREE SHIPPING when you order online at: https://tsup.truman.edu/store/ViewBook.aspx?Book=849. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Guys don't give handy advice ... or do we?
There was a large box of Pop-Ice in the freezer of my buddy’s shop fridge.
It wasn’t a big deal. I mean, it was Pop-Ice, not a nice bottle of Chardonnay he was chilling for the figure skating competition later. I was just surprised. The contents of a shop fridge are typically beer, beer, summer sausage, beer, bottles of bovine antibiotics, and maybe if you’re lucky, beer. In the freezer, there’s frost.
Pop-Ice is the kind of thing in the freezer of your kitchen fridge. You bought it as a treat for the kids in July because the day was hot and the kids ate exactly three. Now it’s February and the Pop-Ice is buried in the back of the freezer behind the hamburger, ice cream and a brick of foil that’s been there so long you’ve forgotten what it is.
“What’s with the Pop-Ice?” I asked my buddy after grabbing a beer.
I wasn’t prepared for his answer. A guy who loves the NFL, NASCAR and shooting some of God’s most tasty creatures, gave me a hint. A helpful hint. The kind of hint you get from chick magazines and Heloise.
“They’re for the beer cooler,” he said. “The Pop-Ice keeps the beer cold and you can refreeze the ones your kids don’t eat.”
I looked around to see if we were alone. This is the kind of thing women shared with each other. The only thing guys share are tools, stories about days when we had hair, and knowing nods when a cute girl walks by. We don’t share handy tips.
I just hoped he didn’t tell me how to get grease out of my work shirts.
“That’s a good idea,” I said.
Yeah, it was. So why was I suddenly uncomfortable? Would I feel more comfortable if it was a bad idea? What else, I wondered, were we going to say?
The shop was as quiet as a horror movie when the creepy music stops. Was he expecting a tip from me? Did I need to give a tip? Did I have tip? Why did I suddenly feel like a girl?
“Because,” a voice in my head said, a voice that sounded strangely like my wife’s, “you’re acting like a girl.”
We stood there, but not too close, as awkwardly as two guys who have to sit without a seat between them at the movie theater.
“If you put on ChapStick before you eat Buffalo wings,” I said, “your lips won’t burn.”
My buddy thought about it a second, then nodded.
“I’ll try that,” he said.
Yeah, I’d given another guy a helpful hint, but it was about something manly like Buffalo wings. I think I would have been safe if I would have said something about fixing the wings, too, but I didn’t want to push it.
Then we started talking about cars and cheerleaders and everything was right with the universe.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason's book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri's Most Spirited Spots,” is coming in May. FREE SHIPPING when you order online at: https://tsup.truman.edu/store/ViewBook.aspx?Book=849. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
It wasn’t a big deal. I mean, it was Pop-Ice, not a nice bottle of Chardonnay he was chilling for the figure skating competition later. I was just surprised. The contents of a shop fridge are typically beer, beer, summer sausage, beer, bottles of bovine antibiotics, and maybe if you’re lucky, beer. In the freezer, there’s frost.
Pop-Ice is the kind of thing in the freezer of your kitchen fridge. You bought it as a treat for the kids in July because the day was hot and the kids ate exactly three. Now it’s February and the Pop-Ice is buried in the back of the freezer behind the hamburger, ice cream and a brick of foil that’s been there so long you’ve forgotten what it is.
“What’s with the Pop-Ice?” I asked my buddy after grabbing a beer.
I wasn’t prepared for his answer. A guy who loves the NFL, NASCAR and shooting some of God’s most tasty creatures, gave me a hint. A helpful hint. The kind of hint you get from chick magazines and Heloise.
“They’re for the beer cooler,” he said. “The Pop-Ice keeps the beer cold and you can refreeze the ones your kids don’t eat.”
I looked around to see if we were alone. This is the kind of thing women shared with each other. The only thing guys share are tools, stories about days when we had hair, and knowing nods when a cute girl walks by. We don’t share handy tips.
I just hoped he didn’t tell me how to get grease out of my work shirts.
“That’s a good idea,” I said.
Yeah, it was. So why was I suddenly uncomfortable? Would I feel more comfortable if it was a bad idea? What else, I wondered, were we going to say?
The shop was as quiet as a horror movie when the creepy music stops. Was he expecting a tip from me? Did I need to give a tip? Did I have tip? Why did I suddenly feel like a girl?
“Because,” a voice in my head said, a voice that sounded strangely like my wife’s, “you’re acting like a girl.”
We stood there, but not too close, as awkwardly as two guys who have to sit without a seat between them at the movie theater.
“If you put on ChapStick before you eat Buffalo wings,” I said, “your lips won’t burn.”
My buddy thought about it a second, then nodded.
“I’ll try that,” he said.
Yeah, I’d given another guy a helpful hint, but it was about something manly like Buffalo wings. I think I would have been safe if I would have said something about fixing the wings, too, but I didn’t want to push it.
Then we started talking about cars and cheerleaders and everything was right with the universe.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Jason's book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri's Most Spirited Spots,” is coming in May. FREE SHIPPING when you order online at: https://tsup.truman.edu/store/ViewBook.aspx?Book=849. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Mommy's Day Out
My wife slipped into her shoes. Normally that’s not a big deal. People put on their shoes for a lot of reasons; cold feet, they’re not at a Japanese restaurant, they know the dog did something in the house but they don’t know where.
It was for none of those reasons … she was going Out.
Our baby was three weeks old, and in that time my wife had been out of the house once. She and I went to the grocery store and she’d called it a date. I was surprised it took her this long to try to escape. I just hoped she’d come back.
“Where are you going?” I said, wondering if I should ask her to bring home beer.
“The library,” she said, her feet in the sprinter’s blocks. “I’ll be gone about an hour. Can you handle the kids?”
What? I thought. Can I handle a two-year-old and a baby? I once took two girls to a high school dance and got away with it. I can handle anything. Wow, I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be …”
But she was gone.
Handle the kids? I thought. Pfft.
The baby was sleeping soundlessly in her bassinet and the two-year-old was quietly lining toy trucks into a precise grid on our dining room floor. It looked like a car lot, I realized, wondering if I was looking through a window at careers to come. Yeah, I could handle this.
“So,” I said to my two-year-old. “Do you want to make cookies for Mommy?”
He giggled and shot off the floor, scattering die-cast metal trucks over the room.
“Coook,” he screamed, using the traditional toddler word for ‘Daddy’s an idiot.’
I had about an hour. No problem.
Then the baby cried. OK, I picked her up. The toddler squished his fingers in raw eggs and flour, which we all know means in this modern age of enlightenment (by which I mean our parents didn’t love us) I don’t care about my child’s health. Fine, I’ll wash his hands later – if the baby ever stops crying.
“That’s nice,” I said, grabbing the toddler’s chocolate-chip cookie dough hands as he waved them at the baby. “Yes, she has eyes.”
Did I mention there was a game on?
Can I handle it? I wondered as I calmed the baby (without the NyQuil my folks used), baked a golden-brown batch of chocolate chip cookies, washed salmonella from the toddler’s hands, and didn’t say “&%$#” during the game.
“I don’t know how you did it,” my wife said when she came home, seeing the happy children, the plate of warm cookies, and a lack of emergency vehicles in front of our home.
Yeah, me neither.
Being a parent is tough, but if I can do it, monkeys can do it. Oh, wait. Monkeys have been good parents a lot longer than humans have. Let’s have a few cookies and think about that.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
It was for none of those reasons … she was going Out.
Our baby was three weeks old, and in that time my wife had been out of the house once. She and I went to the grocery store and she’d called it a date. I was surprised it took her this long to try to escape. I just hoped she’d come back.
“Where are you going?” I said, wondering if I should ask her to bring home beer.
“The library,” she said, her feet in the sprinter’s blocks. “I’ll be gone about an hour. Can you handle the kids?”
What? I thought. Can I handle a two-year-old and a baby? I once took two girls to a high school dance and got away with it. I can handle anything. Wow, I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be …”
But she was gone.
Handle the kids? I thought. Pfft.
The baby was sleeping soundlessly in her bassinet and the two-year-old was quietly lining toy trucks into a precise grid on our dining room floor. It looked like a car lot, I realized, wondering if I was looking through a window at careers to come. Yeah, I could handle this.
“So,” I said to my two-year-old. “Do you want to make cookies for Mommy?”
He giggled and shot off the floor, scattering die-cast metal trucks over the room.
“Coook,” he screamed, using the traditional toddler word for ‘Daddy’s an idiot.’
I had about an hour. No problem.
Then the baby cried. OK, I picked her up. The toddler squished his fingers in raw eggs and flour, which we all know means in this modern age of enlightenment (by which I mean our parents didn’t love us) I don’t care about my child’s health. Fine, I’ll wash his hands later – if the baby ever stops crying.
“That’s nice,” I said, grabbing the toddler’s chocolate-chip cookie dough hands as he waved them at the baby. “Yes, she has eyes.”
Did I mention there was a game on?
Can I handle it? I wondered as I calmed the baby (without the NyQuil my folks used), baked a golden-brown batch of chocolate chip cookies, washed salmonella from the toddler’s hands, and didn’t say “&%$#” during the game.
“I don’t know how you did it,” my wife said when she came home, seeing the happy children, the plate of warm cookies, and a lack of emergency vehicles in front of our home.
Yeah, me neither.
Being a parent is tough, but if I can do it, monkeys can do it. Oh, wait. Monkeys have been good parents a lot longer than humans have. Let’s have a few cookies and think about that.
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Some things Dad just shouldn't know
I'm not in charge of anything. Well, except the garbage, but that's only once a week. A lot of dads are like this. We go to our job, come home, eat supper, take out the garbage, then catch up on all the neat stuff our wife and kids did while we were at work.
Of course, some things we don't need to know.
"Sam has a play date," my wife said, not realizing how much those words were as foreign to me as if she'd spoken in Klingon.
A play date? I thought, fighting off images of two toddlers singing pidgin selections from "The Music Man." Do the words 'play' and 'date' even go together? Is that what Bush and Putin have when they meet at Camp David? A play date? Does 'Shipoopi' actually translate into 'the bombs drop at dawn?'
"You mean another mom is bringing her toddler to our house to play with our son?" I said, trying to put things in terms that didn't sound silly.
"Yeah," she said. "It's a play date."
People have an instinctual need to rationalize things to fit into their own concept of the universe. With kids, jumping off the roof in a Superman cape has Mom's endorsement if she's not there to say no. With women like my wife, Rainbow Brite is the unquestioned lord and master of the universe. And with guys, comparing everything to sports, auto mechanics and warp drive technology is acceptable and, frankly, expected.
Not all of our rationalizations are correct. And most of them, despite the name, are not rational. Comfortable maybe, but not rational.
"Please don't call it a play date," I said, shuddering. "It sounds like they're going out for dinner and dancing Š then maybe to a show."
If guys were in charge of their kids' play schedules, things would be different. A "play date" would be called a Belching.
"We're going to a Belching," dads would say, assuming our wives would know we were taking our toddler to the playground to play with Terry's 2-year-old. The kids would run around, throw rocks at squirrels and climb the slides backwards, while Terry and I talk about football, cars, diapers, beer and most probably cheerleaders.
At some point, we'd belch hence the name.
"Then what would you call it?" she said in a way that meant "a Belching" was out.
"Well," I said, going down that old fogy route by saying "when I was a kid." "When I was a kid, my mom called it 'going over to Charlie's house.'"
She smiled and patted my arm.
"When you were a kid, eight-tracks were cool," she said. "His play date's tomorrow."
Wow. Maybe that's why I'm only in charge of the garbage.
Copyright 2006 by Jason Offutt
Of course, some things we don't need to know.
"Sam has a play date," my wife said, not realizing how much those words were as foreign to me as if she'd spoken in Klingon.
A play date? I thought, fighting off images of two toddlers singing pidgin selections from "The Music Man." Do the words 'play' and 'date' even go together? Is that what Bush and Putin have when they meet at Camp David? A play date? Does 'Shipoopi' actually translate into 'the bombs drop at dawn?'
"You mean another mom is bringing her toddler to our house to play with our son?" I said, trying to put things in terms that didn't sound silly.
"Yeah," she said. "It's a play date."
People have an instinctual need to rationalize things to fit into their own concept of the universe. With kids, jumping off the roof in a Superman cape has Mom's endorsement if she's not there to say no. With women like my wife, Rainbow Brite is the unquestioned lord and master of the universe. And with guys, comparing everything to sports, auto mechanics and warp drive technology is acceptable and, frankly, expected.
Not all of our rationalizations are correct. And most of them, despite the name, are not rational. Comfortable maybe, but not rational.
"Please don't call it a play date," I said, shuddering. "It sounds like they're going out for dinner and dancing Š then maybe to a show."
If guys were in charge of their kids' play schedules, things would be different. A "play date" would be called a Belching.
"We're going to a Belching," dads would say, assuming our wives would know we were taking our toddler to the playground to play with Terry's 2-year-old. The kids would run around, throw rocks at squirrels and climb the slides backwards, while Terry and I talk about football, cars, diapers, beer and most probably cheerleaders.
At some point, we'd belch hence the name.
"Then what would you call it?" she said in a way that meant "a Belching" was out.
"Well," I said, going down that old fogy route by saying "when I was a kid." "When I was a kid, my mom called it 'going over to Charlie's house.'"
She smiled and patted my arm.
"When you were a kid, eight-tracks were cool," she said. "His play date's tomorrow."
Wow. Maybe that's why I'm only in charge of the garbage.
Copyright 2006 by Jason Offutt
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Keep it in the time capsule
There was a sound in the house. A strange sound? No. I recognized it. I just wasn't willing to believe it.
"Well I think I love you, la la la la la la la la," came from the living room. The "la la las" were actual words, but after my brain recognized the song, it instinctively shut down the part that tries to make sense of the world. I find my brain doing that more and more often.
"Uh, what are you doing?" I asked my wife.
"Singing to our son," she said, smiling in a way that showed she had no idea how close my brain was to sliding out of my head.
"Do you know what you're singing?"
"Sure," she said. "'The Partridge Family' song."
"The Partridge Family" song. I thought that had been outlawed in most states.
"OK," I said, shrugging, trying to hide the nervous tick that comes when I consider my childhood rife with "Three's Company," "The Brady Bunch" and, yes, "The Partridge Family." "I thought we were going to spare our son exposure to any pop culture between 'The Andy Griffith Show' and 'Family Ties.'"
She turned back to the boy.
"Well I think I la la, la la la la la la la la."
There are many things we grew up with our children will never know. My grandparents knew the Depression. My parents knew the Vietnam War. I know Alf. Every parent hopes their kids won't be subject to the problems of their generation, but ...
Good lord, Alf?
Looking into the living room, seeing my son dancing as my wife sang the song of commercialized hippies past, I realized there were things my kid will never know and I think I'm happy:
- Cassette tapes: They were smaller than 8-tracks, fit in your pocket and made the Sony Walkman possible, but a cassette tape is now as popular as the cast of "Facts of Life." I'm glad I didn't save my copy of, "Ratt: Out of the Cellar."
- The Plymouth Reliant K car: It looked like something the Soviet Union would have made if it was a soulless, spirit-crushing society that treated individuality like a crime against the state. Oh, wait, it was. He won't know that, either.
- Mork from Ork: Robin Williams was funny once. I suppose.
- Rat tails: Unless there's a huge resurgence of New Kids on the Block, the rat tail will stay at the state fair where it belongs.
A list that would take up most of this page: The A Team, Jordache jeans, the Clinton administration, "Where's the Beef?" Yummy Mummy cereal, "I've fallen and I can't get up," the movie "Legend," "Highway to Heaven," Bo knows, Kato Kaelin and the XFL.
And I'd hoped that maybe, just maybe, he'd be spared the Partridge Family.
I hate it when I'm wrong.
Copyright 2006 By Jason Offutt
"Well I think I love you, la la la la la la la la," came from the living room. The "la la las" were actual words, but after my brain recognized the song, it instinctively shut down the part that tries to make sense of the world. I find my brain doing that more and more often.
"Uh, what are you doing?" I asked my wife.
"Singing to our son," she said, smiling in a way that showed she had no idea how close my brain was to sliding out of my head.
"Do you know what you're singing?"
"Sure," she said. "'The Partridge Family' song."
"The Partridge Family" song. I thought that had been outlawed in most states.
"OK," I said, shrugging, trying to hide the nervous tick that comes when I consider my childhood rife with "Three's Company," "The Brady Bunch" and, yes, "The Partridge Family." "I thought we were going to spare our son exposure to any pop culture between 'The Andy Griffith Show' and 'Family Ties.'"
She turned back to the boy.
"Well I think I la la, la la la la la la la la."
There are many things we grew up with our children will never know. My grandparents knew the Depression. My parents knew the Vietnam War. I know Alf. Every parent hopes their kids won't be subject to the problems of their generation, but ...
Good lord, Alf?
Looking into the living room, seeing my son dancing as my wife sang the song of commercialized hippies past, I realized there were things my kid will never know and I think I'm happy:
- Cassette tapes: They were smaller than 8-tracks, fit in your pocket and made the Sony Walkman possible, but a cassette tape is now as popular as the cast of "Facts of Life." I'm glad I didn't save my copy of, "Ratt: Out of the Cellar."
- The Plymouth Reliant K car: It looked like something the Soviet Union would have made if it was a soulless, spirit-crushing society that treated individuality like a crime against the state. Oh, wait, it was. He won't know that, either.
- Mork from Ork: Robin Williams was funny once. I suppose.
- Rat tails: Unless there's a huge resurgence of New Kids on the Block, the rat tail will stay at the state fair where it belongs.
A list that would take up most of this page: The A Team, Jordache jeans, the Clinton administration, "Where's the Beef?" Yummy Mummy cereal, "I've fallen and I can't get up," the movie "Legend," "Highway to Heaven," Bo knows, Kato Kaelin and the XFL.
And I'd hoped that maybe, just maybe, he'd be spared the Partridge Family.
I hate it when I'm wrong.
Copyright 2006 By Jason Offutt
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Fellas, just put up with it
The sound.
It echoed through the once-quiet air of our dining room and hit me like I owed money to the wrong people. The sound came into my house every morning, sometimes during the day, and mostly every night. A noise like a chain smoker training for the Emphysemalympics.
I looked across the breakfast table at my wife. The same pretty, petite lady I married sat across from me, holding a fork full of pancakes dripping with syrup. She smiled a straight, white, cover-of-a-magazine smile.
"Sorry," she said. "I had a little phlegm."
She doesn't smoke, she doesn't have health problems, but she daily hacks up a disaster movie amount of nasal fluids I don't need to know about. And she usually does it while I'm eating eggs.
Back off, guys. She's taken.
Dining wasn't always like this. Oh, no, but things have changed.
I was honest with my wife from the moment we started dating.
"Hi beautiful," I said. "I'm a beer-swilling pig."
I told her I would be a caring, supportive partner, attending festivals, art shows and whatever thing I didn't care about but interested her until football season. Then I'd sit in front of the TV, stick my hand down the front of my pants and only respond in grunts to statements that had something to do with offense, defense, beer, special teams, food, instant replay, "Gilligan's Island," cheerleaders and beer.
I've stuck by my word.
Guys, women don't work like that. Not at all.
Let's see if this sounds familiar.
You meet a nice girl. She smells great. She looks like she just stepped out of a TV commercial. When she walks by it feels like a summer breeze and when you look at her, her eyes are wide, soft and have pupils big enough to hide pirate treasure a sure sign she likes you, or is whacked out of her head on Bennies.
And she doesn't eat enough to sustain a coma victim. Again, it might be the Bennies.
You've dated this girl.
The problem? This way of wooing men is something women steal from romantic comedies that always end in a madcap way with the male and female leads kissing atop a really tall building/on a baseball diamond during a game/surrounded by flesh-eating zombies.
1) People aren't like this in real life.
2) The movies never show the couple six months later.
Ladies, I beg of you, fart. Belch. Pick your nose and wipe it on your shirt. Eat three quarters of a pizza and a pint of ice cream in one sitting. Clog the toilet. Watch MTV instead of PBS. Just be normal.
And, guys, love them when they do.
I know breakfast tomorrow will be loud and phlegmy, but eventually it will be endearing. I'm certain.
Copyright 2006 by Jason Offutt
It echoed through the once-quiet air of our dining room and hit me like I owed money to the wrong people. The sound came into my house every morning, sometimes during the day, and mostly every night. A noise like a chain smoker training for the Emphysemalympics.
I looked across the breakfast table at my wife. The same pretty, petite lady I married sat across from me, holding a fork full of pancakes dripping with syrup. She smiled a straight, white, cover-of-a-magazine smile.
"Sorry," she said. "I had a little phlegm."
She doesn't smoke, she doesn't have health problems, but she daily hacks up a disaster movie amount of nasal fluids I don't need to know about. And she usually does it while I'm eating eggs.
Back off, guys. She's taken.
Dining wasn't always like this. Oh, no, but things have changed.
I was honest with my wife from the moment we started dating.
"Hi beautiful," I said. "I'm a beer-swilling pig."
I told her I would be a caring, supportive partner, attending festivals, art shows and whatever thing I didn't care about but interested her until football season. Then I'd sit in front of the TV, stick my hand down the front of my pants and only respond in grunts to statements that had something to do with offense, defense, beer, special teams, food, instant replay, "Gilligan's Island," cheerleaders and beer.
I've stuck by my word.
Guys, women don't work like that. Not at all.
Let's see if this sounds familiar.
You meet a nice girl. She smells great. She looks like she just stepped out of a TV commercial. When she walks by it feels like a summer breeze and when you look at her, her eyes are wide, soft and have pupils big enough to hide pirate treasure a sure sign she likes you, or is whacked out of her head on Bennies.
And she doesn't eat enough to sustain a coma victim. Again, it might be the Bennies.
You've dated this girl.
The problem? This way of wooing men is something women steal from romantic comedies that always end in a madcap way with the male and female leads kissing atop a really tall building/on a baseball diamond during a game/surrounded by flesh-eating zombies.
1) People aren't like this in real life.
2) The movies never show the couple six months later.
Ladies, I beg of you, fart. Belch. Pick your nose and wipe it on your shirt. Eat three quarters of a pizza and a pint of ice cream in one sitting. Clog the toilet. Watch MTV instead of PBS. Just be normal.
And, guys, love them when they do.
I know breakfast tomorrow will be loud and phlegmy, but eventually it will be endearing. I'm certain.
Copyright 2006 by Jason Offutt
Monday, October 16, 2006
If it ain't broke, by all means fix it
There's a point when our everyday lives don't need to evolve anymore.
Sure, technological advances and societal attitudes make change necessary and usually welcome, but I don't mean changes for the greater good.
I mean the simple things. For example, how we buy a hamburger.
At one point, buying a hamburger was easy. Things at our faceless hamburger franchise were just fine. The bathrooms were clean, and all the cooks wore hairnets.
The hamburger industry was running so smoothly corporate management had plenty of time to sit back and try to think of ways to make franchises run even more smoothly.
So they changed things.
Management put in debit-card swipers so cashiers wouldn't have to cashier. They moved all the soda machines from behind the counter so the French fry cooks wouldn't have to pour drinks. And they installed ketchup dispensers in the customer area so no one would have to hand customers extra ketchup packets ever.
Corporate management tinkered with their burger joints* until things became so needlessly complicated walking through the doors is now like entering some strange, alternate reality where the robots have taken over.
At a fast-food joint, if I want a hamburger, French fries and a Coke do I say I want a hamburger, French fries and a Coke? No, I order a No. 2. I don't want to order a No. 2. No. 2 means a lot of things, some of which I don't want associated with lunch.
But, Jason, isn't saying, "I'd like a No. 2," less complicated than saying, "I'd like a hamburger, French fries and a Coke?"
In theory, yes, but there's no industry standard. What makes up a No. 2 at one place isn't a No. 2 somewhere else. I might want a hamburger, French fries and a Coke and I'll end up with a fish sandwich, apple slices and bottled water. Pfft. Like any real American would order that.
So, no, No. 2 makes ordering food more complicated.
Such is life in America. Everything has been tampered with to the point you have to think to order a cup of coffee.
Don't you mean a triple mocha-cappa-latte?
No, darn it. I mean coffee. Black, hot and in a cup. The kind truckers drink.
It's human nature to try to improve everything around us. Why? Because we're troublemakers. But there's a time we can't improve the simple things without making them complicated. The time was a decade ago.
Bill Gates, Microsoft Word was a pain in the butt four versions ago. Just stop messing with it, OK?
*Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know McDonald's, Burger King, Hardee's, whatever, are technically restaurants, but to me a restaurant doesn't give the option of eating in your car.
Sure, technological advances and societal attitudes make change necessary and usually welcome, but I don't mean changes for the greater good.
I mean the simple things. For example, how we buy a hamburger.
At one point, buying a hamburger was easy. Things at our faceless hamburger franchise were just fine. The bathrooms were clean, and all the cooks wore hairnets.
The hamburger industry was running so smoothly corporate management had plenty of time to sit back and try to think of ways to make franchises run even more smoothly.
So they changed things.
Management put in debit-card swipers so cashiers wouldn't have to cashier. They moved all the soda machines from behind the counter so the French fry cooks wouldn't have to pour drinks. And they installed ketchup dispensers in the customer area so no one would have to hand customers extra ketchup packets ever.
Corporate management tinkered with their burger joints* until things became so needlessly complicated walking through the doors is now like entering some strange, alternate reality where the robots have taken over.
At a fast-food joint, if I want a hamburger, French fries and a Coke do I say I want a hamburger, French fries and a Coke? No, I order a No. 2. I don't want to order a No. 2. No. 2 means a lot of things, some of which I don't want associated with lunch.
But, Jason, isn't saying, "I'd like a No. 2," less complicated than saying, "I'd like a hamburger, French fries and a Coke?"
In theory, yes, but there's no industry standard. What makes up a No. 2 at one place isn't a No. 2 somewhere else. I might want a hamburger, French fries and a Coke and I'll end up with a fish sandwich, apple slices and bottled water. Pfft. Like any real American would order that.
So, no, No. 2 makes ordering food more complicated.
Such is life in America. Everything has been tampered with to the point you have to think to order a cup of coffee.
Don't you mean a triple mocha-cappa-latte?
No, darn it. I mean coffee. Black, hot and in a cup. The kind truckers drink.
It's human nature to try to improve everything around us. Why? Because we're troublemakers. But there's a time we can't improve the simple things without making them complicated. The time was a decade ago.
Bill Gates, Microsoft Word was a pain in the butt four versions ago. Just stop messing with it, OK?
*Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know McDonald's, Burger King, Hardee's, whatever, are technically restaurants, but to me a restaurant doesn't give the option of eating in your car.
Friday, September 15, 2006
It's easy to pick one out of the crowd
The man behind me at the grocery store smelled like baby powder . but he wasn't a parent.
I could tell because nobody uses baby powder on an actual baby anymore. I think the You're An Unfit Parent If You Do Anything Your Mother Did committee declared baby powder illegal because it's inexpensive and, therefore, bad for America.
This man was probably just a husband who ran out of Testosterone Sport Brick or Tibetan Cave Troll deodorant and had to use his wife's. I know. I've been there. Heck, I smell like baby powder right now.
How can I be so sure this guy wasn't a parent? He wore a baseball cap too straight to have been pulled from a toy box, his shirt was clean, he was buying beer and feminine napkins, and his shoulders weren't stooped from years of picking up small humans over and over until a chiropractor sends him Christmas cards. He paid with cash and walked to a car with two doors, his arms not laden with milk, diapers, or Ding-Dongs.
And the biggest tip-off he didn't have kids? He was in a hurry.
There are signals a parent broadcasts to let you know that, yes, they've looked into the eyes of "the one who soils himself" and they're not afraid to let him sleep in the nursery. These signals are subtle, unintentional and at times confusing, but here they are:
- The person buys shopping cart loads of pizza rolls, Easy Mac and Gatorade, and they are not, I repeat not, college students.
- They always smell like peanut butter.
- Money is some abstract concept that makes them blink rapidly and say things like, "I used to have cable," or "my car is filled with crackers."
- The words, "I'm going to watch the ballgame," usually summon forces beyond parental control to run into the living room and dance in front of the television.
- They've never seen an episode of any program involving doctors, lawyers, cops or dimension-hopping space soldiers but can flawlessly quote all 85 episodes of whatever's on Nickelodeon this month.
- They refer to any uninterrupted conversation with their spouse as a date.
- Handshakes are sticky and they're tired of apologizing for it.
- "You sleep past seven?" comes out like the words of someone who's just escaped life under a communist regime.
- They leave the bathroom door open because they're never used to being in there alone.
- At any sudden movement, they flinch to protect vital organs from the impact of a 25-pound giggling object.
- They have a 4-inch plastic ninja in their pocket and they don't know why.
There. That's the list.
If you're single and see a friend exhibiting any of these 11 behaviors, they're probably a parent. There is no cure and there is no logic behind anything they do. Just remember to be patient, wash your hands before touching anything you value and never, ever, call during nap time.
Copyright 2006 by Jason Offutt
I could tell because nobody uses baby powder on an actual baby anymore. I think the You're An Unfit Parent If You Do Anything Your Mother Did committee declared baby powder illegal because it's inexpensive and, therefore, bad for America.
This man was probably just a husband who ran out of Testosterone Sport Brick or Tibetan Cave Troll deodorant and had to use his wife's. I know. I've been there. Heck, I smell like baby powder right now.
How can I be so sure this guy wasn't a parent? He wore a baseball cap too straight to have been pulled from a toy box, his shirt was clean, he was buying beer and feminine napkins, and his shoulders weren't stooped from years of picking up small humans over and over until a chiropractor sends him Christmas cards. He paid with cash and walked to a car with two doors, his arms not laden with milk, diapers, or Ding-Dongs.
And the biggest tip-off he didn't have kids? He was in a hurry.
There are signals a parent broadcasts to let you know that, yes, they've looked into the eyes of "the one who soils himself" and they're not afraid to let him sleep in the nursery. These signals are subtle, unintentional and at times confusing, but here they are:
- The person buys shopping cart loads of pizza rolls, Easy Mac and Gatorade, and they are not, I repeat not, college students.
- They always smell like peanut butter.
- Money is some abstract concept that makes them blink rapidly and say things like, "I used to have cable," or "my car is filled with crackers."
- The words, "I'm going to watch the ballgame," usually summon forces beyond parental control to run into the living room and dance in front of the television.
- They've never seen an episode of any program involving doctors, lawyers, cops or dimension-hopping space soldiers but can flawlessly quote all 85 episodes of whatever's on Nickelodeon this month.
- They refer to any uninterrupted conversation with their spouse as a date.
- Handshakes are sticky and they're tired of apologizing for it.
- "You sleep past seven?" comes out like the words of someone who's just escaped life under a communist regime.
- They leave the bathroom door open because they're never used to being in there alone.
- At any sudden movement, they flinch to protect vital organs from the impact of a 25-pound giggling object.
- They have a 4-inch plastic ninja in their pocket and they don't know why.
There. That's the list.
If you're single and see a friend exhibiting any of these 11 behaviors, they're probably a parent. There is no cure and there is no logic behind anything they do. Just remember to be patient, wash your hands before touching anything you value and never, ever, call during nap time.
Copyright 2006 by Jason Offutt
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Pluto is dead – long live Pluto
And now there are eight.
After decades of debate and speculation by astronomers, it's finally happened ¬ one of our planets has been fired.
Anyone born after 1930 grew up knowing there were nine planets in our solar system. (Of course, in the 1950s, every planet was inhabited by brain-sucking aliens dressed in aluminum foil.) And since astronomers didn't start confirming the existence of extra-solar planets until the latter part of the 20th century, nine was a fine number.
Hey, Alpha Centauri, we all thought mockingly. Got more planets than you.
But there was always one planet, one little icy rock way out in the rural area near the Kuiper Belt that fit into the "which of these things does not belong" category. Small, funny shaped and orbiting our sun on a 4.5 billion-year bender, Pluto was like the embarrassing cousin no one invited to weddings.
Until now.
We don't have to worry about Pluto crashing the reception and hitting on Aunt Uranus because the International Astronomical Union no longer officially considers Pluto a planet at all … just because it's different.
The recent decision to bump Pluto from the Planet Club went something like the upcoming Taft Middle School Diversity Awareness Week production of "Not in my neighborhood:"
Our Sun: Pluto, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go.
Pluto (looking surprised): What do you mean, boss? I come to work on time. Every 249 years, as efficiently as a comet.
Our Sun: Yeah, that's just it. You're too much like a comet. All cold and rocky, orbiting me like you've been snorting hydrogen clouds. And you're not round enough. If we keep you, then we have to let in Charon, Ceres and something called 2003 UB313. A numbered planet? Then where would we be?
Pluto (with an air of smugness): This is discrimination. You can't fire me just because I'm not all big and gassy like Jupiter. (Is escorted from the solar system by Europa dressed like security). I'll see you in court. We all will.
Our Sun (turning toward audience): Pfft. Dwarf planets. They're all alike.
But, you're wondering, what does this galactic decision mean to anyone other than astronomers I'm not going to hang out with anyway?
It means everything.
Think of your kids. My toddler will grow up with eight planets, not nine like his old man. Will today's baby feel inadequate about his place in the universe? Or will the Pluto decision just render people like me senile?
"Oh, no," the future 14-year-old boy will say to his friends. "Dad's rambling about dragging his telescope 10 miles in the snow just to see Pluto. Let's go before he starts talking about the face on Mars."
And, what about astrology?
Since astrology is based on planets, shouldn't this decision throw off the entire astrology matrix.* Without Pluto, how can you trust the daily horoscope to accurately say, "your energy is high today; avoid making business decisions without pants; drive on the left side of the road and say 'cheerio' to strangers," without Pluto?
Then there's the Roman factor. Pluto was named after the Roman god of the underworld. Won't he be a little ticked? Oh, sure, he's still got Pluto the dog in his corner, but we all know about Disney's pact with the devil.
I'm just worried, that's all.
* Here's the Official Jason Astrology Patch. Read your now-incorrect horoscope, multiply any number by .27, substitute the word "lunch" for the word "love," and if you were born on a Tuesday, go to the comics section. Your horoscope is encrypted in the second panel of "Fox Trot."
After decades of debate and speculation by astronomers, it's finally happened ¬ one of our planets has been fired.
Anyone born after 1930 grew up knowing there were nine planets in our solar system. (Of course, in the 1950s, every planet was inhabited by brain-sucking aliens dressed in aluminum foil.) And since astronomers didn't start confirming the existence of extra-solar planets until the latter part of the 20th century, nine was a fine number.
Hey, Alpha Centauri, we all thought mockingly. Got more planets than you.
But there was always one planet, one little icy rock way out in the rural area near the Kuiper Belt that fit into the "which of these things does not belong" category. Small, funny shaped and orbiting our sun on a 4.5 billion-year bender, Pluto was like the embarrassing cousin no one invited to weddings.
Until now.
We don't have to worry about Pluto crashing the reception and hitting on Aunt Uranus because the International Astronomical Union no longer officially considers Pluto a planet at all … just because it's different.
The recent decision to bump Pluto from the Planet Club went something like the upcoming Taft Middle School Diversity Awareness Week production of "Not in my neighborhood:"
Our Sun: Pluto, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go.
Pluto (looking surprised): What do you mean, boss? I come to work on time. Every 249 years, as efficiently as a comet.
Our Sun: Yeah, that's just it. You're too much like a comet. All cold and rocky, orbiting me like you've been snorting hydrogen clouds. And you're not round enough. If we keep you, then we have to let in Charon, Ceres and something called 2003 UB313. A numbered planet? Then where would we be?
Pluto (with an air of smugness): This is discrimination. You can't fire me just because I'm not all big and gassy like Jupiter. (Is escorted from the solar system by Europa dressed like security). I'll see you in court. We all will.
Our Sun (turning toward audience): Pfft. Dwarf planets. They're all alike.
But, you're wondering, what does this galactic decision mean to anyone other than astronomers I'm not going to hang out with anyway?
It means everything.
Think of your kids. My toddler will grow up with eight planets, not nine like his old man. Will today's baby feel inadequate about his place in the universe? Or will the Pluto decision just render people like me senile?
"Oh, no," the future 14-year-old boy will say to his friends. "Dad's rambling about dragging his telescope 10 miles in the snow just to see Pluto. Let's go before he starts talking about the face on Mars."
And, what about astrology?
Since astrology is based on planets, shouldn't this decision throw off the entire astrology matrix.* Without Pluto, how can you trust the daily horoscope to accurately say, "your energy is high today; avoid making business decisions without pants; drive on the left side of the road and say 'cheerio' to strangers," without Pluto?
Then there's the Roman factor. Pluto was named after the Roman god of the underworld. Won't he be a little ticked? Oh, sure, he's still got Pluto the dog in his corner, but we all know about Disney's pact with the devil.
I'm just worried, that's all.
* Here's the Official Jason Astrology Patch. Read your now-incorrect horoscope, multiply any number by .27, substitute the word "lunch" for the word "love," and if you were born on a Tuesday, go to the comics section. Your horoscope is encrypted in the second panel of "Fox Trot."
Monday, July 31, 2006
Please go away; my brain is full today
The e-mail’s subject line was “Jason’s newsletter.”
Great. E-mails called “Jason’s newsletter” usually contained things like, “my wife and I really enjoyed this month’s newsletter,” “congratulations on the new baby,” or “forget that $20 you owe me.” And, even better, I rarely get called an idiot unless the e-mail’s from my family.
I opened it.
“My wife and I really enjoyed this month’s newsletter.”
Good so far, but the e-mail suddenly turned into something like a letter for jury duty I paid just enough attention to know I didn’t want anything to do with it.
“Has anyone ever talked to you about this neat new thing called HTML code?”
HTML code? Yeah, I’d heard of it. It’s a type of language for people who talk to computers instead of getting dates. Using HTML code in my newsletter would make it more attractive and include all sorts of little buttons for readers to click.
What caused my mind to scream “now’s the time to panic” wasn’t that this guy used an acronym I wasn’t comfortable with. What bugged me was the first thing that rushed through my head slamming and locking doors along the way is that I didn’t want to know anything about HTML code.
This fear of the unknown could be attributed to cowardice (possibly), ignorance (quite probably), and maybe even global warming (most certainly).
Or, it could simply be the fact that I’m now 41 years old and that qualifies me as a stodgy old fart who don’t cotton to them new-fangled idears.
Yeah, that was it. HTML code was just something to learn, and I didn’t want to learn anything else. Learning broadens your view of the world and I like my world just fine, thank you.
My son was 6 when Pokémon was big ,and he wanted to be a Pokémon Trainer. He had Pokémon games, Pokémon cards and Pokémon bed sheets.
He was so engulfed in Pokémon, I wanted to share in his interest because my parents, although they sat through “Planet of the Apes” with me, didn’t really appreciate the subtle social commentary of a gorilla shooting a man in the throat.
So, for my son, I learned all there was to know about Pokémon.
Then, one day, he didn’t like Pokémon anymore. He liked something called Yu-Gi-Oh! He put a deck of nightmarish cards in front of me.
“You wanna play?” he asked.
“Wait a second,” I said. “I can finally recite from memory that Charmeleon evolves from Charmander, that Bulbasaur’s major attack is vine whip, and a water type is best to use against a rock type, now you want me to forget all that and learn something else?”
The Boy shrugged.
“Guess so,” he said. “Now are you ready to play?”
“Nope. I can’t learn anymore,” I told him, then stuck my thumbs in my ears and made “na-na-na” noises.
Sitting in front of my computer, looking at the e-mail encouraging me to learn HTML code, I stuck my thumbs in my ears and made “na-na-na” noises.
Is this it for me? Is my head full already?
Great. E-mails called “Jason’s newsletter” usually contained things like, “my wife and I really enjoyed this month’s newsletter,” “congratulations on the new baby,” or “forget that $20 you owe me.” And, even better, I rarely get called an idiot unless the e-mail’s from my family.
I opened it.
“My wife and I really enjoyed this month’s newsletter.”
Good so far, but the e-mail suddenly turned into something like a letter for jury duty I paid just enough attention to know I didn’t want anything to do with it.
“Has anyone ever talked to you about this neat new thing called HTML code?”
HTML code? Yeah, I’d heard of it. It’s a type of language for people who talk to computers instead of getting dates. Using HTML code in my newsletter would make it more attractive and include all sorts of little buttons for readers to click.
What caused my mind to scream “now’s the time to panic” wasn’t that this guy used an acronym I wasn’t comfortable with. What bugged me was the first thing that rushed through my head slamming and locking doors along the way is that I didn’t want to know anything about HTML code.
This fear of the unknown could be attributed to cowardice (possibly), ignorance (quite probably), and maybe even global warming (most certainly).
Or, it could simply be the fact that I’m now 41 years old and that qualifies me as a stodgy old fart who don’t cotton to them new-fangled idears.
Yeah, that was it. HTML code was just something to learn, and I didn’t want to learn anything else. Learning broadens your view of the world and I like my world just fine, thank you.
My son was 6 when Pokémon was big ,and he wanted to be a Pokémon Trainer. He had Pokémon games, Pokémon cards and Pokémon bed sheets.
He was so engulfed in Pokémon, I wanted to share in his interest because my parents, although they sat through “Planet of the Apes” with me, didn’t really appreciate the subtle social commentary of a gorilla shooting a man in the throat.
So, for my son, I learned all there was to know about Pokémon.
Then, one day, he didn’t like Pokémon anymore. He liked something called Yu-Gi-Oh! He put a deck of nightmarish cards in front of me.
“You wanna play?” he asked.
“Wait a second,” I said. “I can finally recite from memory that Charmeleon evolves from Charmander, that Bulbasaur’s major attack is vine whip, and a water type is best to use against a rock type, now you want me to forget all that and learn something else?”
The Boy shrugged.
“Guess so,” he said. “Now are you ready to play?”
“Nope. I can’t learn anymore,” I told him, then stuck my thumbs in my ears and made “na-na-na” noises.
Sitting in front of my computer, looking at the e-mail encouraging me to learn HTML code, I stuck my thumbs in my ears and made “na-na-na” noises.
Is this it for me? Is my head full already?
Friday, July 14, 2006
A less-than-neighborly greeting
July 1973
The corn was tall as Dad drove through the river bottoms looking at crops. That's what farmers call drinking beer all afternoon looking at crops.
We drove past the fields on the Lafayette County side of our ground. The soybeans looked nice, too, he said, but I really didn't know. I just sat on my side of the pickup drinking a Pepsi as we drove around a lake that sat in the middle of the field and Dad talked about how good the soybeans looked.
I liked these trips with Dad. I always got a Pepsi, and a Slim Jim.
Dust poured from the back tires of the pickup like contrails from a jet plane as we drove down the gravel roads. You could always tell when someone was coming toward you on a gravel road, but you had to make sure you rolled up your windows when you passed them.
Dad hit the brakes and dust billowed over the truck like fog in a vampire movie.
"What's the matter?" I asked, wondering how much dust found its way into my Pepsi.
Dad looked past me and down a dirt road that ran atop a levee. A car was there, a Camaro. A few people wandered around the car, disappearing into the thick bank of green weeds that covered the levee.
"Hippies," he said, turning his wheel and driving onto the levee.
Marijuana grew thick in the river bottoms. Dad always said it grew so much better than corn or soybeans he'd grow it for a cash crop if that was legal ... but it wasn't. Too bad. I might have gone to college free.
Dad pulled his dirty red Chevy pickup next to the Camaro, giving it enough room to leave if the driver wanted to, and got out of the truck. The hippies, in their tie-died shirts, bandanas, little round sunglasses and whatever gunk built up on them between baths, came out of the weed.
"You all lost?" Dad asked.
One of the hippies holding an armload of marijuana plants smiled at him.
"Yeah, man," he said, in a slow, anti-war, college professor voice. "We're all lost."
Dad reached into the truck and pulled his deer rifle off the gun rack then he cocked it.
"Then you'd best find your way," he said. "Now."
There are times when people in your life do amazing things, unexpected things, things that make you almost wet your pants. For me, this was one of those times.
Holy moly, I thought. Dad just pulled a gun on hippies.
The Dad I knew didn't do things like this. He'd threaten to spank one of us and never do it. He'd listen to Mom gripe and just nod his head. But would he pretend he was Clint Eastwood? Never.
The hippies dropped the pot and ran to the Camaro. Dad fired a shot into the air as the Camaro's tires tried to tear into the hard, grassy ground on the levee. The car shot off the levee road and fishtailed on the gravel.
I laughed, but I wasn't sure why. In everyday situations, violence was usually wrong I learned that in church. Hippies were generally timid, sheep-like creatures I learned that from "ABC After School Specials." And gun-toting farmers were just stereotypes I learned that from cartoons. But I couldn't shake the fact that Dad scaring the crap out of a bunch of doped-up kids was just funny.
Did I learn a lesson?
Yeah, that I liked these beer-drinking, Slim Jim-eating, crop-looking trips with Dad. I didn't care how many fields we drove past or how much dust I had to swallow, as long as there was a chance someone other than me was going to wet his pants, I was happy.
The corn was tall as Dad drove through the river bottoms looking at crops. That's what farmers call drinking beer all afternoon looking at crops.
We drove past the fields on the Lafayette County side of our ground. The soybeans looked nice, too, he said, but I really didn't know. I just sat on my side of the pickup drinking a Pepsi as we drove around a lake that sat in the middle of the field and Dad talked about how good the soybeans looked.
I liked these trips with Dad. I always got a Pepsi, and a Slim Jim.
Dust poured from the back tires of the pickup like contrails from a jet plane as we drove down the gravel roads. You could always tell when someone was coming toward you on a gravel road, but you had to make sure you rolled up your windows when you passed them.
Dad hit the brakes and dust billowed over the truck like fog in a vampire movie.
"What's the matter?" I asked, wondering how much dust found its way into my Pepsi.
Dad looked past me and down a dirt road that ran atop a levee. A car was there, a Camaro. A few people wandered around the car, disappearing into the thick bank of green weeds that covered the levee.
"Hippies," he said, turning his wheel and driving onto the levee.
Marijuana grew thick in the river bottoms. Dad always said it grew so much better than corn or soybeans he'd grow it for a cash crop if that was legal ... but it wasn't. Too bad. I might have gone to college free.
Dad pulled his dirty red Chevy pickup next to the Camaro, giving it enough room to leave if the driver wanted to, and got out of the truck. The hippies, in their tie-died shirts, bandanas, little round sunglasses and whatever gunk built up on them between baths, came out of the weed.
"You all lost?" Dad asked.
One of the hippies holding an armload of marijuana plants smiled at him.
"Yeah, man," he said, in a slow, anti-war, college professor voice. "We're all lost."
Dad reached into the truck and pulled his deer rifle off the gun rack then he cocked it.
"Then you'd best find your way," he said. "Now."
There are times when people in your life do amazing things, unexpected things, things that make you almost wet your pants. For me, this was one of those times.
Holy moly, I thought. Dad just pulled a gun on hippies.
The Dad I knew didn't do things like this. He'd threaten to spank one of us and never do it. He'd listen to Mom gripe and just nod his head. But would he pretend he was Clint Eastwood? Never.
The hippies dropped the pot and ran to the Camaro. Dad fired a shot into the air as the Camaro's tires tried to tear into the hard, grassy ground on the levee. The car shot off the levee road and fishtailed on the gravel.
I laughed, but I wasn't sure why. In everyday situations, violence was usually wrong I learned that in church. Hippies were generally timid, sheep-like creatures I learned that from "ABC After School Specials." And gun-toting farmers were just stereotypes I learned that from cartoons. But I couldn't shake the fact that Dad scaring the crap out of a bunch of doped-up kids was just funny.
Did I learn a lesson?
Yeah, that I liked these beer-drinking, Slim Jim-eating, crop-looking trips with Dad. I didn't care how many fields we drove past or how much dust I had to swallow, as long as there was a chance someone other than me was going to wet his pants, I was happy.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Videos from Hell
My daughter pulled a videotape from a box in the basement.
“New Kids on the Block?” she asked, looking at a faded VHS tape cover featuring five kids who looked like they needed better parents.
“It’s not mine,” I said, sounding strangely defensive. “I’d rather own ‘ABBA Sings the Blues.’”
“Whatever,” she said in the way 16 year olds do to show they own the planet. “I bet you danced to this.”
Yeah, and I sing “I Write the Songs” while drinking beer with the guys.
“No, dear,” I said. “There are only two people in this house who were alive during the five-minute New Kids reign, and I was the only one too busy listening to actual music to notice.”
“Sure, Dad,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I’ll just keep digging. I’m sure I’ll find Hanson.”
Oh, or maybe even Nelson.
The lesson here? Go through your video/DVD/audio collection before someone finds something you’re embarrassed to own. Well, unless you have “New Kids on the Block: Hangin’ Tough.” My wife was actually excited to see it again while I was trying to make fun of her.
But if someone finds your copy of Ratt’s “Out of the Cellar,” don’t worry, you’re not alone.
I’m sure Ice-T has “Ice Ice Baby” on his iPod. Dick Cheney probably has Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” on Air Force Two. And I suspect Chuck Norris hops into his jammies and cuddles with a bowl of buttered popcorn to watch “Grease” at least once a month, but I can’t be completely sure because anyone who’s seen him do it is most certainly dead.
My embarrassing recording doesn’t include episodes of the original “Star Trek.” It’s not the last episode of “Cheers” and it’s not the first episode of “The Lone Gunmen.”
I own a copy of “Footloose.”
I don’t know how I got it. I don’t know if I’ve watched it more than once – and if I did it was probably because of a date, a dare, or too much cough syrup. And I don’t recognize anyone in the movie except Kevin Bacon, that bald guy from “Third Rock from the Sun,” and some blond girl I thought was pretty.
My crime is the fact that I’ve never thrown it away.
“What else do you have in here, Dad?” my daughter asked, poking around tapes full of
“The Simpsons” episodes and 10-year-old Kansas City Chiefs games I’ll never watch again. “Something in black and white with ladies water dancing?”
“No,” I said. “All you’ll find in there are movies with Clint Eastwood, Terminator I, II and III and maybe something with talking monkeys.”
She stopped searching through the sea of out-of-date VHS tapes and pulled out a black plastic rectangle of blackmail.
“‘Footloose,’ Dad?” she said, grinning like … well, grinning like she’d just found a copy of ‘Footloose’ in my VHS tapes. “You’ve got ‘Spice World’ in here, too, right?”
I can change the oil in my car, I can fix a toilet and I can belch like a cartoon rabbit, but none of that manly stuff matters when you’ve got “Footloose” in your video collection.
I hang my head, and please, don’t tell Chuck Norris.
“New Kids on the Block?” she asked, looking at a faded VHS tape cover featuring five kids who looked like they needed better parents.
“It’s not mine,” I said, sounding strangely defensive. “I’d rather own ‘ABBA Sings the Blues.’”
“Whatever,” she said in the way 16 year olds do to show they own the planet. “I bet you danced to this.”
Yeah, and I sing “I Write the Songs” while drinking beer with the guys.
“No, dear,” I said. “There are only two people in this house who were alive during the five-minute New Kids reign, and I was the only one too busy listening to actual music to notice.”
“Sure, Dad,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I’ll just keep digging. I’m sure I’ll find Hanson.”
Oh, or maybe even Nelson.
The lesson here? Go through your video/DVD/audio collection before someone finds something you’re embarrassed to own. Well, unless you have “New Kids on the Block: Hangin’ Tough.” My wife was actually excited to see it again while I was trying to make fun of her.
But if someone finds your copy of Ratt’s “Out of the Cellar,” don’t worry, you’re not alone.
I’m sure Ice-T has “Ice Ice Baby” on his iPod. Dick Cheney probably has Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” on Air Force Two. And I suspect Chuck Norris hops into his jammies and cuddles with a bowl of buttered popcorn to watch “Grease” at least once a month, but I can’t be completely sure because anyone who’s seen him do it is most certainly dead.
My embarrassing recording doesn’t include episodes of the original “Star Trek.” It’s not the last episode of “Cheers” and it’s not the first episode of “The Lone Gunmen.”
I own a copy of “Footloose.”
I don’t know how I got it. I don’t know if I’ve watched it more than once – and if I did it was probably because of a date, a dare, or too much cough syrup. And I don’t recognize anyone in the movie except Kevin Bacon, that bald guy from “Third Rock from the Sun,” and some blond girl I thought was pretty.
My crime is the fact that I’ve never thrown it away.
“What else do you have in here, Dad?” my daughter asked, poking around tapes full of
“The Simpsons” episodes and 10-year-old Kansas City Chiefs games I’ll never watch again. “Something in black and white with ladies water dancing?”
“No,” I said. “All you’ll find in there are movies with Clint Eastwood, Terminator I, II and III and maybe something with talking monkeys.”
She stopped searching through the sea of out-of-date VHS tapes and pulled out a black plastic rectangle of blackmail.
“‘Footloose,’ Dad?” she said, grinning like … well, grinning like she’d just found a copy of ‘Footloose’ in my VHS tapes. “You’ve got ‘Spice World’ in here, too, right?”
I can change the oil in my car, I can fix a toilet and I can belch like a cartoon rabbit, but none of that manly stuff matters when you’ve got “Footloose” in your video collection.
I hang my head, and please, don’t tell Chuck Norris.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Big Brother
The baby waddled into the kitchen, his “I’m too fast for my legs” walk sending him bouncing off a couple of walls like an oddly shot pool ball. He giggled.
“Hi, Sam,” I said to the baby, my wife and I making a solid effort to start using his name instead of what we usually called him, like Monkey, Moo, Goober and Booger. We’re worried what a stupid name might do to his psyche in kindergarten.
“Anna, Clark, Britain, David and Booger, you can color now,” his kindergarten teacher would say. “And Booger, get that finger out of your nose.”
Heck, that’d stick with him till graduation.
Somewhere between the refrigerator and the kitchen table a light bounced off a shiny patch on his shirt. Unless he just spit up, that shiny patch shouldn’t be there.
“Come here,” I said, these words, of course, meaning to Sam that he should grab a dirty fork off the kitchen counter, squeal and run away.
I grabbed him and slipped the fork out of his hand. The shiny bit was tape holding down a piece of paper that read “Congratulate me.”
Huh?
“Honey,” I called into the living room. “Why am I congratulating the baby? Did he finally get a job?”
“Turn him around,” my wife said.
OK. I flipped him over and looked at his butt. Cute, but not any less confusing.
“What am I looking for?” I asked. “Does he need a new diaper?”
Sam started giggling.
“His back,” she said. “Look at his back.”
I turned him right-side-up and looked at the back of his shirt. Another sign was taped there. “I’m going to be a big brother.”
A big brother? Eh, good for him, volunteering to take a young, unfortunate lad under his wing …
“What?”
“Did you read it?” she asked from the living room.
The baby was wiggling, so I set him down on the linoleum, his ever-moving legs bopping him out of the room.
“Yeah, Sam’s going to be a …”
Big brother.
Not the volunteer kind. Not the George Orwell kind. But the “mom’s boobs are off limits for two more years” kind.
“You’re pregnant?” I asked.
My wife walked into the kitchen smiling and I knew I was going to be a dad again. I didn’t really care how she told me. Any way would have been special. Even the “what the #&^@! is this” I heard when we found out she was pregnant with Sam.
I tried to give my wife a hug to show her how happy I was, but she told me everything smelled bad and made her want to throw up, so I backed off.
Later, I went to the store.
"Pick me up some things while you’re out,” she said. “Folic acid, prenatal vitamins, Whoppers and a pepperoni pizza.”
Yeah, I guess she’s not kidding.
“Hi, Sam,” I said to the baby, my wife and I making a solid effort to start using his name instead of what we usually called him, like Monkey, Moo, Goober and Booger. We’re worried what a stupid name might do to his psyche in kindergarten.
“Anna, Clark, Britain, David and Booger, you can color now,” his kindergarten teacher would say. “And Booger, get that finger out of your nose.”
Heck, that’d stick with him till graduation.
Somewhere between the refrigerator and the kitchen table a light bounced off a shiny patch on his shirt. Unless he just spit up, that shiny patch shouldn’t be there.
“Come here,” I said, these words, of course, meaning to Sam that he should grab a dirty fork off the kitchen counter, squeal and run away.
I grabbed him and slipped the fork out of his hand. The shiny bit was tape holding down a piece of paper that read “Congratulate me.”
Huh?
“Honey,” I called into the living room. “Why am I congratulating the baby? Did he finally get a job?”
“Turn him around,” my wife said.
OK. I flipped him over and looked at his butt. Cute, but not any less confusing.
“What am I looking for?” I asked. “Does he need a new diaper?”
Sam started giggling.
“His back,” she said. “Look at his back.”
I turned him right-side-up and looked at the back of his shirt. Another sign was taped there. “I’m going to be a big brother.”
A big brother? Eh, good for him, volunteering to take a young, unfortunate lad under his wing …
“What?”
“Did you read it?” she asked from the living room.
The baby was wiggling, so I set him down on the linoleum, his ever-moving legs bopping him out of the room.
“Yeah, Sam’s going to be a …”
Big brother.
Not the volunteer kind. Not the George Orwell kind. But the “mom’s boobs are off limits for two more years” kind.
“You’re pregnant?” I asked.
My wife walked into the kitchen smiling and I knew I was going to be a dad again. I didn’t really care how she told me. Any way would have been special. Even the “what the #&^@! is this” I heard when we found out she was pregnant with Sam.
I tried to give my wife a hug to show her how happy I was, but she told me everything smelled bad and made her want to throw up, so I backed off.
Later, I went to the store.
"Pick me up some things while you’re out,” she said. “Folic acid, prenatal vitamins, Whoppers and a pepperoni pizza.”
Yeah, I guess she’s not kidding.
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