Sometimes things happen, things so unexpected you’re not sure they happened at all. So you ask yourself, “What just happened?” And when you get the answer you realize what you’ve been dreading to hear all your life, you’re an idiot.
My five-year-old sat in the backseat of the car as we ran errands. Unlike car trips with my three-year-old daughter who keeps a running commentary on everything that comes to mind, like butterflies, puppies and anything to do with the color pink, car trip conversations with my son generally consist of short, guy sentences, like:
Me: Hey, son. What are you thinking?
The Boy: Nothing.
Me: You feel OK?
The Boy: Yeah.
Me: How was school today?
The Boy: I don’t want to talk about it.
Me: What do you think of the Royals chances this year?
The Boy (pointing somewhere I can’t see because I’m driving): Hey, Dad. Look, a dog’s pooping.
But today was different. Sure, the sentences were still short, to the point, and conveyed as little information as possible, but he said something I’d never heard from him before.
“Hey, Dad,” the Boy said. “Look at that damn house.”
The words left his mouth normally, vibrated through my ears and bounced around the inside of my head for a while as they usually do, but this time none of them stuck.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Look at that damn house,” he said again. “It looks like it’s going to fall down.”
Then he laughed, as he should have. Houses falling down are funny.
Damn. That was it. My five-year-old, who loves Legos, is nice to pets, and laughs at SpongeBob Squarepants, said “damn.”
There are many moments in a parent’s life – and by many moments I mean every single one of them – when the parent has no idea what to do. The Boy said a word that would not go over well in any school, pre-school, Sunday school, obedience school – anywhere.
There are two ways Americans handle things, 1) ignore the problem and it will go away, or 2) fix the problem. No. 1 would have been easier, but my wife would have frowned upon that tactic.
“You know, that’s really not a very nice word,” I said.
“Fall down?” he asked. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw his little face trying to make sense of that bit of wisdom.
“No,” I said. “The other one. Damn.”
Getting closer to his usual in-the-car sentence structure, he said, “Oh.”
“How about we don’t say that word anymore, OK?” I asked. He nodded, and everything was good in Guyland.
But I had to wonder what other words were in his head, just waiting for a time – like the church Christmas program – to come out. I was a bit worried, not for him, for me. I didn’t have to ask where he heard that word. I knew.
Damn.
Copyright 2010 by Jason Offutt
Jason Offutt teaches journalism at NWMSU. His latest book, “What Lurks Beyond: The Paranormal in Your Backyard,” is available at amazon.com.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
My Family Vacation Part IV: Showdown at the Train Museum
Author’s note: This is the last of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. We made it out alive.
The steam-converted-to-diesel train engine was bigger than my house. Its wheels stood a good six inches over my 5’10” head and the photograph I took of my son in front of the engine made me wonder where he was in the picture.
“When it first ran, the wheels turned so fast it pulled the rails out of the ground,” our tour guide at the Railswest Railroad Museum in Council Bluffs, Iowa, said.
I don’t doubt it. Although the engine looked harmless now, when that barn-sized mass of metal moved, I’m sure it shook the earth like Tom Jones did Vegas.
Council Bluffs, sitting just across the Missouri River from Omaha, Neb., is a pivotal piece of U.S. railway history. It was the eastern terminus of the transcontinental railroad … oh, who am I kidding? The kids didn’t care.
The Boy, four, ran through the yard and, after a head-nod from our guide, stormed up steps and into the cab of a steam engine.
The Boy loves trains. If given the choice between pulling his sister out of the path of stampeding Clydesdales and watching an engine shunt freight cars, he’d pick the rail yard.
The Girl, two, loves trains only because it annoys the hell out of her brother.
“Do you know what this is?” our tour guide asked, pointing at a car behind the engine.
“The tender,” the Boy, and of course it was. For readers whose child isn’t obsessively fixated on trains, the tender held water for the boiler and coal for the firebox of steam engines. I didn’t know that until the Boy learned to speak.
Our tour guide was really exceptional. She was patient, businesslike and probably knew quite a bit about trains. I’m just assuming that, of course, because we couldn’t hear a word she said.
“No, my do it,” the Girl screamed in a pitch that may have only been audible to dolphins.
“Mine,” the Boy bellowed, wrestling her over controls of an engine that no longer ran.
And so on.
Back when this engine thundered over the railroad tracks that stretched across this country, there was a way to deal with people like this – toss them off the train, preferably as you were crossing a trestle. It was a more civilized era.
Next came the dining car where …
“I went poopy, Daddy,” the Girl said to her mother. Our two-year-old can tell us apart – she breastfed after all – but sometimes calls me Mommy. She just wants to keep us guessing.
Please enjoy this brief interlude while my wife changes the Girl’s diaper in our minivan. The Boy sure did.
The guide then took us through a mail car and caboose, but after dropping something old and maybe irreplaceable out an open window, my wife hauled the Girl off like a mail sack, if mail sacks screeched.
We past a lot of busy freight trains during our two-hour drive home, although no one saw them but me. I was the only one still awake – I was driving.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
The steam-converted-to-diesel train engine was bigger than my house. Its wheels stood a good six inches over my 5’10” head and the photograph I took of my son in front of the engine made me wonder where he was in the picture.
“When it first ran, the wheels turned so fast it pulled the rails out of the ground,” our tour guide at the Railswest Railroad Museum in Council Bluffs, Iowa, said.
I don’t doubt it. Although the engine looked harmless now, when that barn-sized mass of metal moved, I’m sure it shook the earth like Tom Jones did Vegas.
Council Bluffs, sitting just across the Missouri River from Omaha, Neb., is a pivotal piece of U.S. railway history. It was the eastern terminus of the transcontinental railroad … oh, who am I kidding? The kids didn’t care.
The Boy, four, ran through the yard and, after a head-nod from our guide, stormed up steps and into the cab of a steam engine.
The Boy loves trains. If given the choice between pulling his sister out of the path of stampeding Clydesdales and watching an engine shunt freight cars, he’d pick the rail yard.
The Girl, two, loves trains only because it annoys the hell out of her brother.
“Do you know what this is?” our tour guide asked, pointing at a car behind the engine.
“The tender,” the Boy, and of course it was. For readers whose child isn’t obsessively fixated on trains, the tender held water for the boiler and coal for the firebox of steam engines. I didn’t know that until the Boy learned to speak.
Our tour guide was really exceptional. She was patient, businesslike and probably knew quite a bit about trains. I’m just assuming that, of course, because we couldn’t hear a word she said.
“No, my do it,” the Girl screamed in a pitch that may have only been audible to dolphins.
“Mine,” the Boy bellowed, wrestling her over controls of an engine that no longer ran.
And so on.
Back when this engine thundered over the railroad tracks that stretched across this country, there was a way to deal with people like this – toss them off the train, preferably as you were crossing a trestle. It was a more civilized era.
Next came the dining car where …
“I went poopy, Daddy,” the Girl said to her mother. Our two-year-old can tell us apart – she breastfed after all – but sometimes calls me Mommy. She just wants to keep us guessing.
Please enjoy this brief interlude while my wife changes the Girl’s diaper in our minivan. The Boy sure did.
The guide then took us through a mail car and caboose, but after dropping something old and maybe irreplaceable out an open window, my wife hauled the Girl off like a mail sack, if mail sacks screeched.
We past a lot of busy freight trains during our two-hour drive home, although no one saw them but me. I was the only one still awake – I was driving.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
My Family Vacation Part III: Flying Death at the Henry Doorly Zoo
Author’s note: This is the third of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. By now the inside of the minivan smells funny.
Sundays as a kid were borderline fantastic.
The day started with a pile of fried pork and hash browns covered in gravy. That was followed by church, hamburgers, a Tarzan movie and “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.”
“Wild Kingdom” was the pinnacle of Sunday programming for a 10-year-old boy because, unlike the “Wonderful World of Disney,” there was a chance I’d get to see a 250-pound feline gut a wildebeest.
Zoologist Marlin Perkins hosted the program throughout the 1960s and ’70s and never got close to an animal unless it climbed into the front seat of his Jeep. But his co-host, Jim Fowler was nearly killed every episode. Jim’s job was to wrestle whatever beast nature threw at him: lions, anacondas, yaks, rancors, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms – anything. But never a blonde. I always felt sorry for Jim.
I wasn’t thinking about Jim as my family and I walked toward the entrance of Omaha’s Henry Doorly Zoo (home of the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom Pavilion); I was thinking of Marlin. My family was going to experience animals like Marlin had and just as nature intended – from behind a thick sheet of glass.
With the drunken frivolity of the College World Series (see Part 2) safely outside and across the street, we met my wife’s college friends and their families ready to tour one of the best zoos in the Midwest.
The zoo, founded as Riverview Park zoo in 1894, attracts more than 1 million visitors a year to its indoor desert, indoor rain forest, great ape exhibits and an aquarium that holds 1.3 million gallons of salt water. Oh, and sharks. Lots and lots of sharks.
But it was at the indoor rain forest where the spirit of Marlin Perkins watched from a safe bench outside as our group braved the interior.
Water drips from the upper reaches of the Lied Jungle, and howler monkeys fill the air with their hoots. Immense fish, big enough to swallow a human baby, swim in a shallow indoor creek as tapirs wander the banks. A rope bridge, a tunnel teeming with vampire bats, and dirt trails lead visitors through re-creations of the jungles of Asia, Africa and South America.
The Lied Jungle, we later discovered, is something called a “total immersion exhibit,” which, translated into English, meant one of us was going to be attacked by a monkey.
My wife’s friend Debbie pushed her three-year-old son Ben through the South American rain forest, Ben nibbling at Cheerios scattered on the tray of his stroller, and everyone oblivious to the orange flying death that stalked them.
The green and white sign on a wooden placard in the rainforest read: “Please DO NOT Climb Tree,” although no one could read it through the one-pound golden lion tamarin streaking through the air.
The tiny monkey thumped onto Ben’s tray, scattering Cheerios onto the rainforest floor. The adults screamed. Ben screamed, his relationship with Curious George ruined forever. The other children screamed. The monkey screamed … and possibly pooped.
Terrified of the giant howling humans, the tamarin leapt into the trees and escaped to safety.
The rest of the zoo was impressive and fun, but much less threatening.
Thanks, Jim Fowler, that was the best zoo trip ever.
Next week: The Railswest Railroad Museum.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Sundays as a kid were borderline fantastic.
The day started with a pile of fried pork and hash browns covered in gravy. That was followed by church, hamburgers, a Tarzan movie and “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.”
“Wild Kingdom” was the pinnacle of Sunday programming for a 10-year-old boy because, unlike the “Wonderful World of Disney,” there was a chance I’d get to see a 250-pound feline gut a wildebeest.
Zoologist Marlin Perkins hosted the program throughout the 1960s and ’70s and never got close to an animal unless it climbed into the front seat of his Jeep. But his co-host, Jim Fowler was nearly killed every episode. Jim’s job was to wrestle whatever beast nature threw at him: lions, anacondas, yaks, rancors, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms – anything. But never a blonde. I always felt sorry for Jim.
I wasn’t thinking about Jim as my family and I walked toward the entrance of Omaha’s Henry Doorly Zoo (home of the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom Pavilion); I was thinking of Marlin. My family was going to experience animals like Marlin had and just as nature intended – from behind a thick sheet of glass.
With the drunken frivolity of the College World Series (see Part 2) safely outside and across the street, we met my wife’s college friends and their families ready to tour one of the best zoos in the Midwest.
The zoo, founded as Riverview Park zoo in 1894, attracts more than 1 million visitors a year to its indoor desert, indoor rain forest, great ape exhibits and an aquarium that holds 1.3 million gallons of salt water. Oh, and sharks. Lots and lots of sharks.
But it was at the indoor rain forest where the spirit of Marlin Perkins watched from a safe bench outside as our group braved the interior.
Water drips from the upper reaches of the Lied Jungle, and howler monkeys fill the air with their hoots. Immense fish, big enough to swallow a human baby, swim in a shallow indoor creek as tapirs wander the banks. A rope bridge, a tunnel teeming with vampire bats, and dirt trails lead visitors through re-creations of the jungles of Asia, Africa and South America.
The Lied Jungle, we later discovered, is something called a “total immersion exhibit,” which, translated into English, meant one of us was going to be attacked by a monkey.
My wife’s friend Debbie pushed her three-year-old son Ben through the South American rain forest, Ben nibbling at Cheerios scattered on the tray of his stroller, and everyone oblivious to the orange flying death that stalked them.
The green and white sign on a wooden placard in the rainforest read: “Please DO NOT Climb Tree,” although no one could read it through the one-pound golden lion tamarin streaking through the air.
The tiny monkey thumped onto Ben’s tray, scattering Cheerios onto the rainforest floor. The adults screamed. Ben screamed, his relationship with Curious George ruined forever. The other children screamed. The monkey screamed … and possibly pooped.
Terrified of the giant howling humans, the tamarin leapt into the trees and escaped to safety.
The rest of the zoo was impressive and fun, but much less threatening.
Thanks, Jim Fowler, that was the best zoo trip ever.
Next week: The Railswest Railroad Museum.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
My Family Vacation Part II: Dodging The College World Series
Author’s note: This is the second of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. If you want to pray for me, it’s too late.
Cars, tents, campers, lawn chairs and banners for Division 1 schools like LSU, Arkansas, Virginia and Texas decorated the parking lots of Omaha’s Rosenblatt Stadium like a preschool art project. The colors made me a little woozy.
It was Day One of the 2009 College World Series, it was 7:30 a.m., and traffic was backed up for blocks; which was good for the scalpers, who were also backed up for blocks. The last time I’d seen that many cardboard signs was on a Chicago off ramp.
The average attendance for the College World Series over the past five years has been 278,321, which, compared to the city’s population of 432,921, the stadium seating capacity of 23,100, and the just more than 10,000 hotel rooms in Omaha, meant there were a lot of people in town with nothing to do except get in my way.
But my family and I weren’t in Omaha for the College World Series, which caused a problem with parking. We were on vacation and taking our children to a Midwest vacation mecca – the Henry Doorly Zoo. At least 50 weeks out of the year there’s decent parking at the zoo, which shares parking lots with the stadium, because for 50 weeks the city doesn’t host the series.
I don’t plan well.
“The zoo opens at 8:30 a.m. Saturday,” my wife said as we settled into the scary hotel of death (see Part 1). “We should get there early. Let’s go.”
It was 7 p.m. Friday.
We weren’t alone in this quest to have fun in a city that’s best chance at tourism dollars was to ignore us and cater to people waving banners. My wife’s college friends and a few of their husbands were in town, and we were all going to the zoo. That made nine adults and nine children, all under six. I was scared. I can barely contain my own kids. What if one of the other parents had to go to the bathroom?
We drove slowly onto the street that leads to the stadium and zoo behind vehicles with college flags and foam fingers, packing the giant parking lot like it was a sausage. And we found a spot – easily.
The zoo, unlike me, planned ahead. Any vehicle could park in the zoo’s special parking lot if the people inside paid zoo admission.
Clipboard Guy: How many adults in the vehicle?
Me: Two.
Clipboard Guy: You have to pay zoo admission to park here.
Me: I know.
Clipboard Guy: I mean, you can go to the games, just know we’re going to use your money to buy pizza.
Me: We’re going to the zoo.
Clipboard Guy (looking at me like Congress looks at Supreme Court nominees): That’ll be $23.
I’m sure the carload of geniuses from the University of Texas who spent $69 to park next to us, and were now drinking Natural Light from the trunk of their Saturn at 7:30 a.m., were going to the zoo, too.
Next week: The zoo.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Cars, tents, campers, lawn chairs and banners for Division 1 schools like LSU, Arkansas, Virginia and Texas decorated the parking lots of Omaha’s Rosenblatt Stadium like a preschool art project. The colors made me a little woozy.
It was Day One of the 2009 College World Series, it was 7:30 a.m., and traffic was backed up for blocks; which was good for the scalpers, who were also backed up for blocks. The last time I’d seen that many cardboard signs was on a Chicago off ramp.
The average attendance for the College World Series over the past five years has been 278,321, which, compared to the city’s population of 432,921, the stadium seating capacity of 23,100, and the just more than 10,000 hotel rooms in Omaha, meant there were a lot of people in town with nothing to do except get in my way.
But my family and I weren’t in Omaha for the College World Series, which caused a problem with parking. We were on vacation and taking our children to a Midwest vacation mecca – the Henry Doorly Zoo. At least 50 weeks out of the year there’s decent parking at the zoo, which shares parking lots with the stadium, because for 50 weeks the city doesn’t host the series.
I don’t plan well.
“The zoo opens at 8:30 a.m. Saturday,” my wife said as we settled into the scary hotel of death (see Part 1). “We should get there early. Let’s go.”
It was 7 p.m. Friday.
We weren’t alone in this quest to have fun in a city that’s best chance at tourism dollars was to ignore us and cater to people waving banners. My wife’s college friends and a few of their husbands were in town, and we were all going to the zoo. That made nine adults and nine children, all under six. I was scared. I can barely contain my own kids. What if one of the other parents had to go to the bathroom?
We drove slowly onto the street that leads to the stadium and zoo behind vehicles with college flags and foam fingers, packing the giant parking lot like it was a sausage. And we found a spot – easily.
The zoo, unlike me, planned ahead. Any vehicle could park in the zoo’s special parking lot if the people inside paid zoo admission.
Clipboard Guy: How many adults in the vehicle?
Me: Two.
Clipboard Guy: You have to pay zoo admission to park here.
Me: I know.
Clipboard Guy: I mean, you can go to the games, just know we’re going to use your money to buy pizza.
Me: We’re going to the zoo.
Clipboard Guy (looking at me like Congress looks at Supreme Court nominees): That’ll be $23.
I’m sure the carload of geniuses from the University of Texas who spent $69 to park next to us, and were now drinking Natural Light from the trunk of their Saturn at 7:30 a.m., were going to the zoo, too.
Next week: The zoo.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Friday, June 26, 2009
My Family Vacation Part I: The Motel of Death
Author’s note: This is the first of a four-part story of my family’s summer vacation. I can’t claim it on my taxes if I don’t write about it.
The motel looked good from the outside, as well it should have; it was in a nice town like Omaha. Clean, new, right off the interstate and within a few minutes drive of everything my family would need on vacation.
It was the inside that concerned us.
Although the lobby felt like a room after an argument (the kind of argument that results in widely-scattered blood and several arrests), the motel wasn’t really bad. I’d been in a bad motel before, in Colorado:
Mountain mornings are fantastic, but when I awoke staring at the flowery wallpaper that clashed with every other pattern in the industrialized world, instead of throwing open the curtains and drawing in the majesty that is the Rocky Mountains, I turned on the television, because I’m an American.
“Tragedy unfolded this morning,” the cute, just-out-of-college reporter who always gets the 6 a.m. weekend shift, said as she stood in a parking lot, “as an argument turned deadly in a room at this (insert cheap motel name here).”
I smiled, only because it didn’t involve me.
But as the camera panned out to show the exterior of the motel, I noticed something that slapped me as hard as that girl did in college.
Good Lord, I realized. The reporter’s standing next to my car.
That was the worst motel I’ve been to. This was the second.
I’d made reservations over the phone – something I’ll rethink the next time we go on vacation. Reserving a motel room in Omaha, Neb., from a woman in Bombay, India, is surprisingly impersonal. I was happy with the great deal I’d gotten, but disappointed there was no pool.
However, when the guy whose forearm tattoos boasting “blood, death and Satan,” checked me in, I got over that “no swimming pool” thing. There may have been a body floating in it.
“Did you see the writing in the hallway?” my wife asked as I rushed my family into our room, secured every lock on the door, and booby-trapped a shotgun pointing chest-high at anyone who might walk in. I hoped housekeeping knocked.
Yeah, I’d seen the words, “Blood Gang,” outside our door. I’d also seen the crowbar marks where someone had once broken in, although I kept telling myself he’d simply misplaced his card-key.
“Are you nervous?” she asked, because I was. It must have been the sweat, or the involuntary shakes that tipped her off.
It was my own fault. I didn’t discover I was trying to book a room two days in advance of the College World Series until I tried to book a room two days in advance of the College World Series. It was now the “Blood Gang” room or the streets.
“No, I said, reaching for the room’s mini-fridge. “If we don’t touch anything, or go near the window, or sleep, or … oh, look at that. A head.”
Well, it wasn’t a head. It was a half-empty bottle of something orange and a cucumber. Either way, I wasn’t about to touch it.
Next week: The Henry Doorly Zoo and College World Series parking.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
The motel looked good from the outside, as well it should have; it was in a nice town like Omaha. Clean, new, right off the interstate and within a few minutes drive of everything my family would need on vacation.
It was the inside that concerned us.
Although the lobby felt like a room after an argument (the kind of argument that results in widely-scattered blood and several arrests), the motel wasn’t really bad. I’d been in a bad motel before, in Colorado:
Mountain mornings are fantastic, but when I awoke staring at the flowery wallpaper that clashed with every other pattern in the industrialized world, instead of throwing open the curtains and drawing in the majesty that is the Rocky Mountains, I turned on the television, because I’m an American.
“Tragedy unfolded this morning,” the cute, just-out-of-college reporter who always gets the 6 a.m. weekend shift, said as she stood in a parking lot, “as an argument turned deadly in a room at this (insert cheap motel name here).”
I smiled, only because it didn’t involve me.
But as the camera panned out to show the exterior of the motel, I noticed something that slapped me as hard as that girl did in college.
Good Lord, I realized. The reporter’s standing next to my car.
That was the worst motel I’ve been to. This was the second.
I’d made reservations over the phone – something I’ll rethink the next time we go on vacation. Reserving a motel room in Omaha, Neb., from a woman in Bombay, India, is surprisingly impersonal. I was happy with the great deal I’d gotten, but disappointed there was no pool.
However, when the guy whose forearm tattoos boasting “blood, death and Satan,” checked me in, I got over that “no swimming pool” thing. There may have been a body floating in it.
“Did you see the writing in the hallway?” my wife asked as I rushed my family into our room, secured every lock on the door, and booby-trapped a shotgun pointing chest-high at anyone who might walk in. I hoped housekeeping knocked.
Yeah, I’d seen the words, “Blood Gang,” outside our door. I’d also seen the crowbar marks where someone had once broken in, although I kept telling myself he’d simply misplaced his card-key.
“Are you nervous?” she asked, because I was. It must have been the sweat, or the involuntary shakes that tipped her off.
It was my own fault. I didn’t discover I was trying to book a room two days in advance of the College World Series until I tried to book a room two days in advance of the College World Series. It was now the “Blood Gang” room or the streets.
“No, I said, reaching for the room’s mini-fridge. “If we don’t touch anything, or go near the window, or sleep, or … oh, look at that. A head.”
Well, it wasn’t a head. It was a half-empty bottle of something orange and a cucumber. Either way, I wasn’t about to touch it.
Next week: The Henry Doorly Zoo and College World Series parking.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Why Is It Always the Groin?
The Girl ran through the water with all the energy her two-year-old toddlerness could muster, which is approximately enough to power Detroit through a rough winter.
Her mother and I have, of course, told her not to run at the pool 1,001 times. This is not hyperbole; we’ve kept track.
“Daddy, Daddy,” she screamed, although her mother and I have, of course, told her not to scream at the pool.
We’re no longer surprised she doesn’t hear us. All parents will eventually realize their children only consider them “those big people who give us food.” When they’re teens that turns into, “those people who embarrass us/give us money/gave us their hairline.” What we say isn’t really important. You know, like “don’t play in the street,” “don’t eat the thing wrapped in foil in the back of the fridge,” “study.”
“Honey, don’t run at the …” I started, but was stopped by a sudden blinding pain.
Using a cursory, “awe, isn’t she cute,” glance, a child looks like a soft little bundle of fluff that is fun to play with. In reality, a child is pointy, possesses at least six knees, 14 elbows and a head I’m convinced was built on the planet Krypton.
I bent forward, but not voluntarily.
The groin, I wondered as the pain subsided and I could see shapes and colors again. Why is it always the groin?
Fathers, I’ve found – the hard way, and don’t think I haven’t cursed my father for not warning me – spend roughly 37 percent of their day working, 29 percent sleeping (mostly in front of the television), 19 percent eating/driving/thinking about cheerleaders, and 15 percent in the fetal position gasping for air.
What I wouldn’t give for a bruised thigh or a fat lip. At least then I wouldn’t wonder why we spent all that money for a vasectomy when it was going to be done at home for free. I usually wonder this while lying in a pool of my own tears.
“What’s wrong?” my wife asked.
“Hhhhhheeeeeehhhh,” I wheezed.
“She got you again?” she said, trying her best to sound sympathetic.
I nodded.
Ladies, you’re wonderful understanding people who have absolutely no clue what I’m talking about. When this injury happens in the movies, everyone laughs, Dad gets up and goes about his business, which usually involves doing something socially awkward in front of his kid’s friends. Hollywood is founded on lies. When this happens in real life, everyone still laughs, but Dad doesn’t get up.
When the color came back to my face, we left. Not because of me, the kids were tired after dragging me out of the water.
On the ride home, the Girl and the Boy screamed when they saw a woman walking her golden retriever down the street.
“Maybe we should get a dog,” my wife said.
Great, that’s just what I need, another pointy thing in the house.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Her mother and I have, of course, told her not to run at the pool 1,001 times. This is not hyperbole; we’ve kept track.
“Daddy, Daddy,” she screamed, although her mother and I have, of course, told her not to scream at the pool.
We’re no longer surprised she doesn’t hear us. All parents will eventually realize their children only consider them “those big people who give us food.” When they’re teens that turns into, “those people who embarrass us/give us money/gave us their hairline.” What we say isn’t really important. You know, like “don’t play in the street,” “don’t eat the thing wrapped in foil in the back of the fridge,” “study.”
“Honey, don’t run at the …” I started, but was stopped by a sudden blinding pain.
Using a cursory, “awe, isn’t she cute,” glance, a child looks like a soft little bundle of fluff that is fun to play with. In reality, a child is pointy, possesses at least six knees, 14 elbows and a head I’m convinced was built on the planet Krypton.
I bent forward, but not voluntarily.
The groin, I wondered as the pain subsided and I could see shapes and colors again. Why is it always the groin?
Fathers, I’ve found – the hard way, and don’t think I haven’t cursed my father for not warning me – spend roughly 37 percent of their day working, 29 percent sleeping (mostly in front of the television), 19 percent eating/driving/thinking about cheerleaders, and 15 percent in the fetal position gasping for air.
What I wouldn’t give for a bruised thigh or a fat lip. At least then I wouldn’t wonder why we spent all that money for a vasectomy when it was going to be done at home for free. I usually wonder this while lying in a pool of my own tears.
“What’s wrong?” my wife asked.
“Hhhhhheeeeeehhhh,” I wheezed.
“She got you again?” she said, trying her best to sound sympathetic.
I nodded.
Ladies, you’re wonderful understanding people who have absolutely no clue what I’m talking about. When this injury happens in the movies, everyone laughs, Dad gets up and goes about his business, which usually involves doing something socially awkward in front of his kid’s friends. Hollywood is founded on lies. When this happens in real life, everyone still laughs, but Dad doesn’t get up.
When the color came back to my face, we left. Not because of me, the kids were tired after dragging me out of the water.
On the ride home, the Girl and the Boy screamed when they saw a woman walking her golden retriever down the street.
“Maybe we should get a dog,” my wife said.
Great, that’s just what I need, another pointy thing in the house.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Rules of Being Protestant
There are accepted rules when it comes to being Protestant.
The host is crackers and grape juice, which leaves Protestants of today worrying about the number of carbs they’re taking in on Sunday morning.
At some point, usually near the end of the service, someone will pass a plate down your pew. You’re supposed to put money in it. Just picture yourself at a party in college although nobody’s going to return with a fresh keg.
You’re supposed to sit quietly, unless it’s time to sing, then it’s acceptable to mumble because there are plenty of people who’ll sing over you, just like in elementary school.
And children get their own special sermon at the front of the sanctuary, during which they sit looking at the back of the sanctuary to see if their parents are watching.
This is the Boy’s favorite part of the service. He loves to wave at us.
“Would the children like to come forward?” the preacher asked.
A few children, pushed into the aisles by their parents, ventured forward. The Boy sprinted. He’d already sat still 10 whole minutes.
But something unexpected happened; the Girl squirmed out of my wife’s arms.
“I wann go, too,” she said.
What? She’d never asked to go to the children’s sermon before. She’d always been content to color, practice saying Daddy’s special “football words,” or sit in the nursery and win animal crackers off the other toddlers at craps.
But the children’s sermon? She’s only two. The Boy’s four, he can handle the responsibility of sitting on steps quietly and waving. He also has the advantage of never pulling a skirt over his head.
“Are you sure?” my wife asked.
“Uh huh,” the Girl said and we let her follow her brother to the front.
There’s something about a pretty little girl in a pink dress and ponytail that doesn’t scream, “I’ll age you prematurely,” but my wife and I are no longer fooled.
The Girl walked in the general direction of the children’s sermon and stopped.
“She’s not going up there,” my wife whispered.
She was right.
The Girl turned, looked at us, grinned, and started weaving her way through the empty rows of pews that always dominate the front of Protestant church services. Muffled laughter ran through the congregation, not necessarily because this was cute – it was – but because everyone knew it embarrassed the heck out of us.
“When she comes close enough,” my wife said, “I’m going to grab her.”
The Girl crept closer. My wife watched her like a lion stalking a gazelle. Three feet away she looked at my wife, turned and skittered back down the aisle.
“Don’t look her in the eyes,” my wife said. “She’s like a wild animal. If she knows we’re looking at her, she won’t get close to us.”
So we employed the deer in the forest “if I can’t see it, it can’t see me” technique and my wife finally caught her. Yes, the Child Running Loose in the Sanctuary Routine is one of the accepted rules of being a Protestant. And it’s cute, as long as the dress stays below her head.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
The host is crackers and grape juice, which leaves Protestants of today worrying about the number of carbs they’re taking in on Sunday morning.
At some point, usually near the end of the service, someone will pass a plate down your pew. You’re supposed to put money in it. Just picture yourself at a party in college although nobody’s going to return with a fresh keg.
You’re supposed to sit quietly, unless it’s time to sing, then it’s acceptable to mumble because there are plenty of people who’ll sing over you, just like in elementary school.
And children get their own special sermon at the front of the sanctuary, during which they sit looking at the back of the sanctuary to see if their parents are watching.
This is the Boy’s favorite part of the service. He loves to wave at us.
“Would the children like to come forward?” the preacher asked.
A few children, pushed into the aisles by their parents, ventured forward. The Boy sprinted. He’d already sat still 10 whole minutes.
But something unexpected happened; the Girl squirmed out of my wife’s arms.
“I wann go, too,” she said.
What? She’d never asked to go to the children’s sermon before. She’d always been content to color, practice saying Daddy’s special “football words,” or sit in the nursery and win animal crackers off the other toddlers at craps.
But the children’s sermon? She’s only two. The Boy’s four, he can handle the responsibility of sitting on steps quietly and waving. He also has the advantage of never pulling a skirt over his head.
“Are you sure?” my wife asked.
“Uh huh,” the Girl said and we let her follow her brother to the front.
There’s something about a pretty little girl in a pink dress and ponytail that doesn’t scream, “I’ll age you prematurely,” but my wife and I are no longer fooled.
The Girl walked in the general direction of the children’s sermon and stopped.
“She’s not going up there,” my wife whispered.
She was right.
The Girl turned, looked at us, grinned, and started weaving her way through the empty rows of pews that always dominate the front of Protestant church services. Muffled laughter ran through the congregation, not necessarily because this was cute – it was – but because everyone knew it embarrassed the heck out of us.
“When she comes close enough,” my wife said, “I’m going to grab her.”
The Girl crept closer. My wife watched her like a lion stalking a gazelle. Three feet away she looked at my wife, turned and skittered back down the aisle.
“Don’t look her in the eyes,” my wife said. “She’s like a wild animal. If she knows we’re looking at her, she won’t get close to us.”
So we employed the deer in the forest “if I can’t see it, it can’t see me” technique and my wife finally caught her. Yes, the Child Running Loose in the Sanctuary Routine is one of the accepted rules of being a Protestant. And it’s cute, as long as the dress stays below her head.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Toddlers, Teenagers -- They're All The Same
The toddler screamed. You know, toddlers scream a lot.
“No,” she wailed, yanking her hand out of mine. “My do it.”
We were crossing the street and when it comes to the street, my wife and I have four rules for our four- and two-year-old, 1) look both ways before going into the street, 2) never go into the street, 3) if crossing the street with Mommy or Daddy, hold one of their hands, and 4) if you violate rules One through Three, you’re shipped to work hard labor in a Siberian logging camp in 1974.
The Girl wanted to violate Rule Three. Not on my watch, chicky-pie.
She screamed again, mainly because I’d tucked her under my arm like a football and, for some reason, she didn’t like it. Toddlers have control problems – if they’re not in control, it’s a problem.
“Just wait until she’s 16,” my wife said, holding the hand of our non-screaming four-year-old son, who had to be enjoying this. “Then we’re really in trouble.
The Girl at 16? Oh, dear Lord. We could already see what was coming. The clothes, the fingernail polish, the Girl still thinking she can cross the street on her own.
“No, no. Put me down. Put me down. Put me down,” the Girl screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I could only assume she thought repeating the same thing over and over would work, even though it never does. The Girl unsuccessfully employs this method when asking to watch extra television, get candy, drink coffee, or take the minivan out for a death race with those punks from the Pretty Pony Daycare. Although my wife and I appreciate her tenacity, her success rate is as low as Middle East peace talks.
Yeah, toddlers are teenagers, only shorter.
In a couple of years when the Girl decides to pull up her skirt and chew on the hem during the pre-school Christmas program, it’ll be OK. If it happens in 14 years, our house will get calls from the principal, the pastor, angry parents, and a bunch of teenage boys asking her for a date.
By the way, the answer is no, jerks.
I put the Girl down on the other side of the street and she stopped screaming, squinted at me, stomped down the sidewalk in a huff, and, if she’d had the motor skills to give me The Finger, she just may have done it.
Yep, toddlers are teenagers.
- They both yell, “I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” and sprint through the house whenever the telephone rings.
- They’re both fascinated with cell phones, computers and remote controls, and they both know how to operate these devices better than you.
- Hygiene is only an issue when it’s inconvenient for them.
- TV ranks ahead of Mom and Dad. … So do soft drinks, playing with dust particles in the window, and anything else I care to write.
- A lot of times you can’t understand what they’re saying. With toddlers, it eventually gets better.
- They both love body art. For a toddler, it’s Sharpie-colored fingernails and a Scooby Doo sticker on their shirt. For a teen, it’s a visible “why can’t I get a job?” piercing and a Scooby Doo tattoo on their butt.
- They both want to pick out their own clothes. When a toddler decides to wear a skirt so small her diaper shows, it’s cute. When a teenager wears a skirt so small her panties show, Daddy hemorrhages.
- At some point, they both hate you. Toddlers make up faster because they can’t pour their own milk.
- They both want to make their own mistakes. For a toddler, this is done while discovering the laws of Newtonian physics – like gravity. For a teen, it’s going to the wrong kind of party, being on Facebook instead of studying, or going to a college Daddy hates and for which he won’t pay a penny of tuition.
Yep, I’m already thinking about that. Keep it in mind that the next time we cross the street.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
“No,” she wailed, yanking her hand out of mine. “My do it.”
We were crossing the street and when it comes to the street, my wife and I have four rules for our four- and two-year-old, 1) look both ways before going into the street, 2) never go into the street, 3) if crossing the street with Mommy or Daddy, hold one of their hands, and 4) if you violate rules One through Three, you’re shipped to work hard labor in a Siberian logging camp in 1974.
The Girl wanted to violate Rule Three. Not on my watch, chicky-pie.
She screamed again, mainly because I’d tucked her under my arm like a football and, for some reason, she didn’t like it. Toddlers have control problems – if they’re not in control, it’s a problem.
“Just wait until she’s 16,” my wife said, holding the hand of our non-screaming four-year-old son, who had to be enjoying this. “Then we’re really in trouble.
The Girl at 16? Oh, dear Lord. We could already see what was coming. The clothes, the fingernail polish, the Girl still thinking she can cross the street on her own.
“No, no. Put me down. Put me down. Put me down,” the Girl screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I could only assume she thought repeating the same thing over and over would work, even though it never does. The Girl unsuccessfully employs this method when asking to watch extra television, get candy, drink coffee, or take the minivan out for a death race with those punks from the Pretty Pony Daycare. Although my wife and I appreciate her tenacity, her success rate is as low as Middle East peace talks.
Yeah, toddlers are teenagers, only shorter.
In a couple of years when the Girl decides to pull up her skirt and chew on the hem during the pre-school Christmas program, it’ll be OK. If it happens in 14 years, our house will get calls from the principal, the pastor, angry parents, and a bunch of teenage boys asking her for a date.
By the way, the answer is no, jerks.
I put the Girl down on the other side of the street and she stopped screaming, squinted at me, stomped down the sidewalk in a huff, and, if she’d had the motor skills to give me The Finger, she just may have done it.
Yep, toddlers are teenagers.
- They both yell, “I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” and sprint through the house whenever the telephone rings.
- They’re both fascinated with cell phones, computers and remote controls, and they both know how to operate these devices better than you.
- Hygiene is only an issue when it’s inconvenient for them.
- TV ranks ahead of Mom and Dad. … So do soft drinks, playing with dust particles in the window, and anything else I care to write.
- A lot of times you can’t understand what they’re saying. With toddlers, it eventually gets better.
- They both love body art. For a toddler, it’s Sharpie-colored fingernails and a Scooby Doo sticker on their shirt. For a teen, it’s a visible “why can’t I get a job?” piercing and a Scooby Doo tattoo on their butt.
- They both want to pick out their own clothes. When a toddler decides to wear a skirt so small her diaper shows, it’s cute. When a teenager wears a skirt so small her panties show, Daddy hemorrhages.
- At some point, they both hate you. Toddlers make up faster because they can’t pour their own milk.
- They both want to make their own mistakes. For a toddler, this is done while discovering the laws of Newtonian physics – like gravity. For a teen, it’s going to the wrong kind of party, being on Facebook instead of studying, or going to a college Daddy hates and for which he won’t pay a penny of tuition.
Yep, I’m already thinking about that. Keep it in mind that the next time we cross the street.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Toddler's Trip to the ER
Blood was everywhere. I’ll get to that later.
Sunlight streamed through the open front door as the Boy, 4, and the Girl, 2, elbowed each other to see who could get out the door first. A clear, warm day after being trapped inside by the weather turns small children into very cross rugby players.
Then I made my first mistake of the day.
Parents make mistakes all the time, like rescuing their child instead of letting them learn the hard way, taking their eyes off the road because the girl jogging had something written across the seat of her shorts, and giving a teenage boy keys to anything – especially if you live in a neighborhood where girls jog with words across the seat of their shorts.
But I violated Parental Rule No. 152: Don’t let children with a history of pushing each other out of your sight – ever.
The door slammed and I … paused … to … grab … my … glass … of … tea. The screaming started immediately.
Outside, the Girl was face-first on the concrete at the foot of our front steps. The Boy was standing next to her holding the handlebar of his bicycle.
“What happened?” I said, scooping the Girl off the sidewalk, expecting a complete denial of any wrongdoing – no matter how lame – by the Boy. I was used to it.
“She fell,” he said and, unlike the times my wife and I find her crying in a pile of Little People*, I believed him.
I looked at her. Blood was everywhere.
Scalp injuries involving children are usually minor things that produce enough blood to make, 1) weak parents faint, and 2) the strong ones fondly remember their favorite “Friday the 13th” movie.
Standing at the foot of the steps, holding my sweet little girl who now looked like Carrie at the prom, I had a vision. It was of her at 16 years old, and she was pointing to a half-inch scar on her forehead.
“I could have been homecoming queen,” she screamed. “Except for this. Thanks for not taking me to the hospital, Dad. My life is ruined.”
Good Lord, like I wanted that hanging over me.
The cut was wide enough for stitches. My dad would have rubbed butter on the gash and laughed because we were wimpy enough to need butter for a blood-gushing wound. But Dad was from a generation that boasted concussions and fewer fingers.
We were in the ER five minutes later. Parental lesson learned: bad parenting is educational.
Three stitches, an adhesive bandage, a bunch of Daddy’s signatures on papers with words too small to read, and two chocolate ice cream cones later, we were home.
And all this happened while Mommy was at the store. The hard part of Daddy’s day wasn’t over yet.
*For people without children, these are a line of toys, not leprechauns, fairies, elves or Oompa Loompas. Well, maybe Oompa Loompas.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Sunlight streamed through the open front door as the Boy, 4, and the Girl, 2, elbowed each other to see who could get out the door first. A clear, warm day after being trapped inside by the weather turns small children into very cross rugby players.
Then I made my first mistake of the day.
Parents make mistakes all the time, like rescuing their child instead of letting them learn the hard way, taking their eyes off the road because the girl jogging had something written across the seat of her shorts, and giving a teenage boy keys to anything – especially if you live in a neighborhood where girls jog with words across the seat of their shorts.
But I violated Parental Rule No. 152: Don’t let children with a history of pushing each other out of your sight – ever.
The door slammed and I … paused … to … grab … my … glass … of … tea. The screaming started immediately.
Outside, the Girl was face-first on the concrete at the foot of our front steps. The Boy was standing next to her holding the handlebar of his bicycle.
“What happened?” I said, scooping the Girl off the sidewalk, expecting a complete denial of any wrongdoing – no matter how lame – by the Boy. I was used to it.
“She fell,” he said and, unlike the times my wife and I find her crying in a pile of Little People*, I believed him.
I looked at her. Blood was everywhere.
Scalp injuries involving children are usually minor things that produce enough blood to make, 1) weak parents faint, and 2) the strong ones fondly remember their favorite “Friday the 13th” movie.
Standing at the foot of the steps, holding my sweet little girl who now looked like Carrie at the prom, I had a vision. It was of her at 16 years old, and she was pointing to a half-inch scar on her forehead.
“I could have been homecoming queen,” she screamed. “Except for this. Thanks for not taking me to the hospital, Dad. My life is ruined.”
Good Lord, like I wanted that hanging over me.
The cut was wide enough for stitches. My dad would have rubbed butter on the gash and laughed because we were wimpy enough to need butter for a blood-gushing wound. But Dad was from a generation that boasted concussions and fewer fingers.
We were in the ER five minutes later. Parental lesson learned: bad parenting is educational.
Three stitches, an adhesive bandage, a bunch of Daddy’s signatures on papers with words too small to read, and two chocolate ice cream cones later, we were home.
And all this happened while Mommy was at the store. The hard part of Daddy’s day wasn’t over yet.
*For people without children, these are a line of toys, not leprechauns, fairies, elves or Oompa Loompas. Well, maybe Oompa Loompas.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s books, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Lesson learned? Revenge is pretty sweet
The homecoming float was almost finished.
I hopped in the cab of the John Deere tractor and pulled the lever controlling the hydraulics. The cylinder, used to lift and lower farm implements into the ground, was now connected to a giant Orrick High School mascot.
The mascot, a bearcat made out of chicken wire and stuffed with black and yellow napkins, stood on a wagon hitched to the tractor. It slowly lifted a plastic barrel over where its head would eventually be and brought the barrel down again.
Perfect.
Our senior float captured the wholesome, romantic and Shakespearean essence of Donkey Kong. I just hoped the wind kept down during the parade, or it would end up naked.
The art kids were finishing up the giant papier mâché head, then our float would be ready for the parade, “Homecoming ‘83: Video Maniacs.”
I don’t know who came up with that theme, I just hoped they weren’t very proud of themselves.
It was cold in the barn our float was hidden in, and I was glad. I’d stashed a couple of Dad’s beers in the tractor cab for the parade and I’d hate for them to get warm.
I was going to be the driver. Kaz was riding shotgun, keeping his eye on the float to make sure it didn’t go out of control and kill bystanders.
Yeah, that “Best Float” ribbon was going to be ours. The senior class almost always won first place. Sure, it took some of the fun out of the competition, but high school seniors are petty, and we wanted that ribbon.
Our only threat would be from the junior class. We’d heard rumors they had a lot of parents helping with their float, but that was all we knew. High school homecoming float construction holds a certain level of secrecy, much like crashed flying saucers do in the government.
But what their float was didn’t matter.
Tomorrow, I’d smile and wave at everyone lining Front Street, sipping stolen beer out of a paper cup and celebrating the junior class’s second-place finish with whatever lame video game they’d chosen.
Oh, yeah. Tomorrow was going to be sweet.
The next day, the junior class won. All that mindless napkin stuffing, all those nights of actual work for nothing.
Kaz and I were sitting in the cab of the tractor before the parade when the float committee gave the first place ribbon to the junior class’s Pac Man float. Even with our creative treatment of Donkey Kong getting even with his oppressors, in this case the opposing football team, the juniors won with something cutesy. Oh, sure, Pac Man’s mouth opened and closed, but … who cares.
“This sucks,” I said.
Kaz looked at me.
“Somebody’s got to do something about this,” he said.
So we did.
Going down Front Street, our second-place Donkey Kong tossing a make-believe barrel at an effigy of a pirate followed the junior class’s Pac Man, with its first-place ribbon. The stolen beer tasted good to me, especially since we’d probably get in trouble if we drew any extra attention to ourselves. Of course, we got lots of attention with the big “Juniors Suck” sign we’d thrown together and hung in the tractor window.
We got in-school suspension for that stunt, but yeah, it was worth it.
Stupid juniors.
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
I hopped in the cab of the John Deere tractor and pulled the lever controlling the hydraulics. The cylinder, used to lift and lower farm implements into the ground, was now connected to a giant Orrick High School mascot.
The mascot, a bearcat made out of chicken wire and stuffed with black and yellow napkins, stood on a wagon hitched to the tractor. It slowly lifted a plastic barrel over where its head would eventually be and brought the barrel down again.
Perfect.
Our senior float captured the wholesome, romantic and Shakespearean essence of Donkey Kong. I just hoped the wind kept down during the parade, or it would end up naked.
The art kids were finishing up the giant papier mâché head, then our float would be ready for the parade, “Homecoming ‘83: Video Maniacs.”
I don’t know who came up with that theme, I just hoped they weren’t very proud of themselves.
It was cold in the barn our float was hidden in, and I was glad. I’d stashed a couple of Dad’s beers in the tractor cab for the parade and I’d hate for them to get warm.
I was going to be the driver. Kaz was riding shotgun, keeping his eye on the float to make sure it didn’t go out of control and kill bystanders.
Yeah, that “Best Float” ribbon was going to be ours. The senior class almost always won first place. Sure, it took some of the fun out of the competition, but high school seniors are petty, and we wanted that ribbon.
Our only threat would be from the junior class. We’d heard rumors they had a lot of parents helping with their float, but that was all we knew. High school homecoming float construction holds a certain level of secrecy, much like crashed flying saucers do in the government.
But what their float was didn’t matter.
Tomorrow, I’d smile and wave at everyone lining Front Street, sipping stolen beer out of a paper cup and celebrating the junior class’s second-place finish with whatever lame video game they’d chosen.
Oh, yeah. Tomorrow was going to be sweet.
The next day, the junior class won. All that mindless napkin stuffing, all those nights of actual work for nothing.
Kaz and I were sitting in the cab of the tractor before the parade when the float committee gave the first place ribbon to the junior class’s Pac Man float. Even with our creative treatment of Donkey Kong getting even with his oppressors, in this case the opposing football team, the juniors won with something cutesy. Oh, sure, Pac Man’s mouth opened and closed, but … who cares.
“This sucks,” I said.
Kaz looked at me.
“Somebody’s got to do something about this,” he said.
So we did.
Going down Front Street, our second-place Donkey Kong tossing a make-believe barrel at an effigy of a pirate followed the junior class’s Pac Man, with its first-place ribbon. The stolen beer tasted good to me, especially since we’d probably get in trouble if we drew any extra attention to ourselves. Of course, we got lots of attention with the big “Juniors Suck” sign we’d thrown together and hung in the tractor window.
We got in-school suspension for that stunt, but yeah, it was worth it.
Stupid juniors.
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Who needs pets when you have children?
The kids screamed as my wife pulled the minivan to a stop next to a great tree-strewn lawn and slid open the doors. They popped from their car seats, giggled and ran into the park to chase squirrels.
My wife and I stood there, smiling as our four- and two-year-old dashed between trees, fell, scratched behind their ears, got up distracted by something blown by the wind and took off again.
Yeah, it’s nice to let the kids out to run.
The Girl fell and her brother stopped to help her. Good boy, I thought, and was happy my wife had brought treats. Then, as the Girl took off in a random direction, the Boy peed on a tree.
This behavior in children is, of course, normal. However, the following thought might encourage a personal visit from the Division of Family Services, a court-appointed counselor or Jesus. As we stood watching our children do things they’d better not do when they go to kindergarten, my wife dared say that in the first few years of a child’s life, parents treat their babies like dogs.
I was embarrassed to agree with her.
During the course of educating our children, we encourage them to roll over, sit, stand, shake hands, speak, eat out of a bowl and let us know when they have to go to the bathroom.
Children pace at the front door when they want to go outside. They crawl under their bed. We wake up to find they’ve crawled into our bed. They lick. They jump on the couch to look out the window. Their noses are usually wet. They splash in the bathtub then run around the house dripping wet. They hate to have their hair brushed. They whine when they’re hungry. They eat off the floor. They bring you random objects. And, yes, sometimes they have accidents on the carpet.
We parents don’t help. We take the kids for walks, play catch with them, teach them to stay in the yard, encourage them to do tricks, and some parents even put leashes on their children when they go to the mall.
When they’re tired, a small child will crawl up into a parent’s lap. And what does the parent do? Pet them.
We take our children to parks and lakes so they have room to run and some parents even put their kids in shows.
We tell our children how to behave, and tell them, “no,” when they don’t. Then, when the child does something right, we pat their head.
When our son was two, he said he wanted a dog. Instead, we gave him a little sister. I’m not sure he’s satisfied with that; she’s too stubborn to fetch.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
My wife and I stood there, smiling as our four- and two-year-old dashed between trees, fell, scratched behind their ears, got up distracted by something blown by the wind and took off again.
Yeah, it’s nice to let the kids out to run.
The Girl fell and her brother stopped to help her. Good boy, I thought, and was happy my wife had brought treats. Then, as the Girl took off in a random direction, the Boy peed on a tree.
This behavior in children is, of course, normal. However, the following thought might encourage a personal visit from the Division of Family Services, a court-appointed counselor or Jesus. As we stood watching our children do things they’d better not do when they go to kindergarten, my wife dared say that in the first few years of a child’s life, parents treat their babies like dogs.
I was embarrassed to agree with her.
During the course of educating our children, we encourage them to roll over, sit, stand, shake hands, speak, eat out of a bowl and let us know when they have to go to the bathroom.
Children pace at the front door when they want to go outside. They crawl under their bed. We wake up to find they’ve crawled into our bed. They lick. They jump on the couch to look out the window. Their noses are usually wet. They splash in the bathtub then run around the house dripping wet. They hate to have their hair brushed. They whine when they’re hungry. They eat off the floor. They bring you random objects. And, yes, sometimes they have accidents on the carpet.
We parents don’t help. We take the kids for walks, play catch with them, teach them to stay in the yard, encourage them to do tricks, and some parents even put leashes on their children when they go to the mall.
When they’re tired, a small child will crawl up into a parent’s lap. And what does the parent do? Pet them.
We take our children to parks and lakes so they have room to run and some parents even put their kids in shows.
We tell our children how to behave, and tell them, “no,” when they don’t. Then, when the child does something right, we pat their head.
When our son was two, he said he wanted a dog. Instead, we gave him a little sister. I’m not sure he’s satisfied with that; she’s too stubborn to fetch.
Copyright 2009 by Jason Offutt
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.
Friday, December 26, 2008
My wife is painting over my manhood
Slips of paper have been appearing on our living room wall.
Sometimes there are four, sometimes three, sometimes only one. But they all have two things in common: 1) none of them ever stays up for more than a day, and 2) they’re all shades of the color blue.
My wife wants to paint our living room, I can only assume, blue.
Sure, just painting a living room sounds innocent enough, but so did the German invasion of Belgium to start World War I. I think that war started when Kaiser Wilhelm II’s wife wanted to paint the living room blue. The war was less trouble.
There's something the sexes (and by that I'm nicely saying, 'only women') don't realize about life – there are rules:
Rule 1: Men and women don’t think the same way.
Rule 2: Men and women don’t like the same things.
Rule 3: Women love colors. Men view colors as something nature created out of spite.
Many of the troubles between the sexes could be solved if women just realized Rules 1 through 3. Four through 10 are pretty good, too. They deal with all sorts of things like which way toilet paper should roll from the wall and why men appear to be so itchy.
The main point is that men and women don’t have the same tastes in home decorating. Well, except for those guys on home makeover shows, but I’d never invite them over to watch a ballgame.
I like one color for my walls – white. White walls are guy walls because guys don’t care about white. We care about red, blue-green and gray because that means we’re somewhere we don’t want to be, like stuck at a traffic light, Sea World, or jail. White just means bathroom, and we’re all comfortable with that.
“So what do you think of these blues?” my wife – who caused this mess – asked our four-year-old son.
He looked at the strips of paper on the wall for a few seconds as if he were contemplating man’s place in the universe.
“I think they’re dumb,” he said.
Hmmm. Maybe he was. That was a pretty deep thought for a preschooler.
The colors were labeled Cozumel Aqua, Cloudless Sky and Nimble Blue.
What do these names really mean? Are paint makers banking on the fact that, percentage wise, so few real Americans have been to Cozumel we won’t know this color isn’t what the water there looks like? That Cloudless Sky and Sky Blue from Crayola are exactly the same? And, in what universe is blue ever “nimble?”
I’m just waiting for my wife to start painting. I bet a nice shade of Shipwrecked Lovers Gazing onto the Azure Horizon all over my living room will be just fine … for an Italian restaurant.
Waiter, bring me a beer and a shot of testosterone. I think I’m going to need it.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Sometimes there are four, sometimes three, sometimes only one. But they all have two things in common: 1) none of them ever stays up for more than a day, and 2) they’re all shades of the color blue.
My wife wants to paint our living room, I can only assume, blue.
Sure, just painting a living room sounds innocent enough, but so did the German invasion of Belgium to start World War I. I think that war started when Kaiser Wilhelm II’s wife wanted to paint the living room blue. The war was less trouble.
There's something the sexes (and by that I'm nicely saying, 'only women') don't realize about life – there are rules:
Rule 1: Men and women don’t think the same way.
Rule 2: Men and women don’t like the same things.
Rule 3: Women love colors. Men view colors as something nature created out of spite.
Many of the troubles between the sexes could be solved if women just realized Rules 1 through 3. Four through 10 are pretty good, too. They deal with all sorts of things like which way toilet paper should roll from the wall and why men appear to be so itchy.
The main point is that men and women don’t have the same tastes in home decorating. Well, except for those guys on home makeover shows, but I’d never invite them over to watch a ballgame.
I like one color for my walls – white. White walls are guy walls because guys don’t care about white. We care about red, blue-green and gray because that means we’re somewhere we don’t want to be, like stuck at a traffic light, Sea World, or jail. White just means bathroom, and we’re all comfortable with that.
“So what do you think of these blues?” my wife – who caused this mess – asked our four-year-old son.
He looked at the strips of paper on the wall for a few seconds as if he were contemplating man’s place in the universe.
“I think they’re dumb,” he said.
Hmmm. Maybe he was. That was a pretty deep thought for a preschooler.
The colors were labeled Cozumel Aqua, Cloudless Sky and Nimble Blue.
What do these names really mean? Are paint makers banking on the fact that, percentage wise, so few real Americans have been to Cozumel we won’t know this color isn’t what the water there looks like? That Cloudless Sky and Sky Blue from Crayola are exactly the same? And, in what universe is blue ever “nimble?”
I’m just waiting for my wife to start painting. I bet a nice shade of Shipwrecked Lovers Gazing onto the Azure Horizon all over my living room will be just fine … for an Italian restaurant.
Waiter, bring me a beer and a shot of testosterone. I think I’m going to need it.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Attack of the Antagonizer
The Boy, almost four, stood playing at his train table as The Girl, almost two, walked into the room.
Utilizing what must be the instinct that keeps cage fighters alive, he knew where she was before he saw her. She was heading right for him, feigning innocence by pretending to talk with her grandparents on a Spider-Man cell phone.
The Boy’s shoulders tensed.
“Gigi, PopPop. Cookie, cookie,” The Girl said, then giggled, explaining into Spider-Man’s face her morning adventure in which she’d found a plate of cookies in the kitchen before anyone else had gotten out of bed.
But everyone in the room knew what she was up to. Mom, Dad, her big brother, and anyone watching on Google Earth – by which I mean everyone.
To outside viewers – have you ever been on Google Earth? It’s spooky – it wasn’t that The Girl’s plan was transparent or that her motives were suspect. But everyone in the room had seen this scenario play out more times than we’d seen the Elmo video that makes me want to drive my car into a lake.
She was going to approach her brother’s toys in exactly the way that would throw him into an Incredible Hulk-like rage, grab a toy, scream and run out of the room.
If this little girl were a super villain, her name would be The Antagonizer.
Commissioner Gordon: The Antagonizer has struck again.
The Batman (hissing): I’ll bring her to justice.
Commissioner Gordon: She took your Bob the Builder action figure and dropped it in the toilet.
The Batman (weeping openly as he punches a hole in the drywall): I do this alone. It just got personal.
“Gigi, cookie, PopPop, Bob Builder, yeah, yeah, yeah,” she sang into the play phone as she approached The Boy, music from “High Plains Drifter” running through my head.
Then it happened.
She grabbed a train off the track, screamed in a way that made me happy we don’t have pets, and started to run out of the room. The Boy stopped her by making a fist and knocking her to the floor.
Yeah, her mother and I saw the punch coming. Yeah, we could have stepped in before it happened, but what’s the kid going to learn?
“Don’t hit your sister,” bounced through the living room followed quickly by “don’t tease your brother.”
Tears came, tears went, a few mumbled exchanges of “I’m sorry” were barely audible, and we all hoped life would be better in the Offutt house because of it.
Of course, much like we all knew the event was going to happen, we also all knew “I’m sorry” carried as much sincerity as a UN resolution, which is none at all.
Five minutes later it all happened again.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Utilizing what must be the instinct that keeps cage fighters alive, he knew where she was before he saw her. She was heading right for him, feigning innocence by pretending to talk with her grandparents on a Spider-Man cell phone.
The Boy’s shoulders tensed.
“Gigi, PopPop. Cookie, cookie,” The Girl said, then giggled, explaining into Spider-Man’s face her morning adventure in which she’d found a plate of cookies in the kitchen before anyone else had gotten out of bed.
But everyone in the room knew what she was up to. Mom, Dad, her big brother, and anyone watching on Google Earth – by which I mean everyone.
To outside viewers – have you ever been on Google Earth? It’s spooky – it wasn’t that The Girl’s plan was transparent or that her motives were suspect. But everyone in the room had seen this scenario play out more times than we’d seen the Elmo video that makes me want to drive my car into a lake.
She was going to approach her brother’s toys in exactly the way that would throw him into an Incredible Hulk-like rage, grab a toy, scream and run out of the room.
If this little girl were a super villain, her name would be The Antagonizer.
Commissioner Gordon: The Antagonizer has struck again.
The Batman (hissing): I’ll bring her to justice.
Commissioner Gordon: She took your Bob the Builder action figure and dropped it in the toilet.
The Batman (weeping openly as he punches a hole in the drywall): I do this alone. It just got personal.
“Gigi, cookie, PopPop, Bob Builder, yeah, yeah, yeah,” she sang into the play phone as she approached The Boy, music from “High Plains Drifter” running through my head.
Then it happened.
She grabbed a train off the track, screamed in a way that made me happy we don’t have pets, and started to run out of the room. The Boy stopped her by making a fist and knocking her to the floor.
Yeah, her mother and I saw the punch coming. Yeah, we could have stepped in before it happened, but what’s the kid going to learn?
“Don’t hit your sister,” bounced through the living room followed quickly by “don’t tease your brother.”
Tears came, tears went, a few mumbled exchanges of “I’m sorry” were barely audible, and we all hoped life would be better in the Offutt house because of it.
Of course, much like we all knew the event was going to happen, we also all knew “I’m sorry” carried as much sincerity as a UN resolution, which is none at all.
Five minutes later it all happened again.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Men Will Fix Things -- When We're Darned Good and Ready
A wheel of my push mower fell off. It had been wobbly for a while and, in the great tradition of manliness established by so many proud Americans before me, I ignored it and hoped it would go away.
It did go away. It rolled across the yard.
“That’s not good,” I said, using another of the great tenets of manliness, which is stating the obvious even when alone. This is because, as every real man knows, someone is always watching – even if we can’t see them.
One of a man’s greatest fears, apart from the world running out of Slim Jims, biker magazines and cheerleaders, is that a wormhole might open and someone in another dimension might see us do something stupid. And what’s our recourse? I mean, how can you punch someone in another dimension?
I killed the engine and looked at the mower. Yep, I could tell the wheel was definitely gone because: 1) it was no longer on the mower, and 2) I could see the wheel sticking out of the neighbor’s grass.
I tipped the mower to its side to get a better look, but I should have known better. Under the “You smelt it, you dealt it Principle,” whoever notices a problem has to fix the problem. I saw a hole in the mower where the wheel should be. A big hole. A big rusty hole. So, under Guy Law, I had to fix it.
Hmm, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the lawnmower outside all summer.
The disemmowered wheel didn’t look any better. The nut was fused to a bolt that was now more rust than metal. So, fulfilling my role as man, I left the mower sitting in the middle of a partially mowed lawn and went inside to watch sports. As I sat on the couch drinking beer, I realized I’d made a lot of zigzags as I mowed, so I hope I hadn’t spelled anything dirty.
A lesser man would have asked, “Should I just buy a new mower? A better one? One with four wheels?”
Pfft.
I fixed the mower the next day. Why? Because that’s what guys do.
A power drill, some wrenches, a couple of bolts, a domino-sized strip of metal and after a few damnits, I finished mowing the lawn.
Compared to not fixing things, fixing things ranks pretty highly on the Things that make Guys Guys list. Actually, not fixing things, then fixing them, then belittling your accomplishment, then bragging about it ranks the highest – only if it makes someone else cry/feel in awe of you.
So, the next time something mechanical breaks down, or your wife wants you to watch anything with Kate Hudson. Just remember, you’re a man. Act like one and do nothing about it … until you’re good and ready.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
It did go away. It rolled across the yard.
“That’s not good,” I said, using another of the great tenets of manliness, which is stating the obvious even when alone. This is because, as every real man knows, someone is always watching – even if we can’t see them.
One of a man’s greatest fears, apart from the world running out of Slim Jims, biker magazines and cheerleaders, is that a wormhole might open and someone in another dimension might see us do something stupid. And what’s our recourse? I mean, how can you punch someone in another dimension?
I killed the engine and looked at the mower. Yep, I could tell the wheel was definitely gone because: 1) it was no longer on the mower, and 2) I could see the wheel sticking out of the neighbor’s grass.
I tipped the mower to its side to get a better look, but I should have known better. Under the “You smelt it, you dealt it Principle,” whoever notices a problem has to fix the problem. I saw a hole in the mower where the wheel should be. A big hole. A big rusty hole. So, under Guy Law, I had to fix it.
Hmm, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the lawnmower outside all summer.
The disemmowered wheel didn’t look any better. The nut was fused to a bolt that was now more rust than metal. So, fulfilling my role as man, I left the mower sitting in the middle of a partially mowed lawn and went inside to watch sports. As I sat on the couch drinking beer, I realized I’d made a lot of zigzags as I mowed, so I hope I hadn’t spelled anything dirty.
A lesser man would have asked, “Should I just buy a new mower? A better one? One with four wheels?”
Pfft.
I fixed the mower the next day. Why? Because that’s what guys do.
A power drill, some wrenches, a couple of bolts, a domino-sized strip of metal and after a few damnits, I finished mowing the lawn.
Compared to not fixing things, fixing things ranks pretty highly on the Things that make Guys Guys list. Actually, not fixing things, then fixing them, then belittling your accomplishment, then bragging about it ranks the highest – only if it makes someone else cry/feel in awe of you.
So, the next time something mechanical breaks down, or your wife wants you to watch anything with Kate Hudson. Just remember, you’re a man. Act like one and do nothing about it … until you’re good and ready.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
If You Are What You Drive, I'm ... Uh, Old
The cell phone rang in my front pocket as my family and I walked across the clean but car-littered floor.
I thought about not answering it. I hate talking on the telephone in front of people who suddenly look like they want me dead.
What’s so important, I wonder when I see some else talking on their cell phone in public, that you have to tell Joshy Pooh-Pooh you love him when you’re in line at the grocery store buying laxatives?
But my pocket was ringing. What are you supposed to do when your pocket’s ringing? The call was from a buddy, so I answered.
One of the greatest features of a cellular telephone, apart from the fact that you can talk to someone on the opposite side of the planet as easily as setting an egg timer, is caller ID. I’m sure there are lots of people who ignore calls when the word “Offutt” appears on their phone. Fine. I didn’t want to talk with them anyway.
Jerks.
“Hey,” I said, in the traditionally accepted guy ‘hello.’ “Can’t talk. We’re at a car dealership.”
“What are you buying?” he asked.
“A minivan.”
Silence.
“You’re old, dude,” he finally said, and the conversation ended.
There are things all of us say we’ll never do. Sometimes it’s drinking vodka up your nose, sometimes it’s Bungee jumping, and sometimes it’s voting for Democrats. Not surprisingly, these things often happen on the same day and in the same order.
For me, the thing I said I would never do is own a minivan. Owning a minivan means you’ve given up. You’ve become branded as someone with a soccer ball sticker in the back window. You’re just one of the masses, and yes, you’re old.
That night, when I drove my family home from the dealership in our new minivan, my wife and I joined the ranks of those who will purchase an estimated 1 million minivans this year.
Good lord. What am I going to do next? I wondered. Donate to Greenpeace?
Then my wife, who would donate to Greenpeace, put the America I know into perspective.
“I saw this minivan driving down our street the other day,” she said over the children who were completely failing to fall asleep in their car seats. “It was driven by a teenager playing loud, thumping rap music.”
An image rushed into my head. And, yes, his ball cap was on backwards.
“I wanted to yell, ‘Yeah, you’re pretty cool in your mom’s car.’”
That’s all I needed. In this world where, to us, we are what we think we are, and to society, we are what we appear to be, there is one constant – complete apathy about what other people think.
Yes, I’m just one of the masses and yes, I’m working on accepting the fact that I’m old enough to drive a minivan.
But the most comforting part of my wife’s story is, at least I’m not that guy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
I thought about not answering it. I hate talking on the telephone in front of people who suddenly look like they want me dead.
What’s so important, I wonder when I see some else talking on their cell phone in public, that you have to tell Joshy Pooh-Pooh you love him when you’re in line at the grocery store buying laxatives?
But my pocket was ringing. What are you supposed to do when your pocket’s ringing? The call was from a buddy, so I answered.
One of the greatest features of a cellular telephone, apart from the fact that you can talk to someone on the opposite side of the planet as easily as setting an egg timer, is caller ID. I’m sure there are lots of people who ignore calls when the word “Offutt” appears on their phone. Fine. I didn’t want to talk with them anyway.
Jerks.
“Hey,” I said, in the traditionally accepted guy ‘hello.’ “Can’t talk. We’re at a car dealership.”
“What are you buying?” he asked.
“A minivan.”
Silence.
“You’re old, dude,” he finally said, and the conversation ended.
There are things all of us say we’ll never do. Sometimes it’s drinking vodka up your nose, sometimes it’s Bungee jumping, and sometimes it’s voting for Democrats. Not surprisingly, these things often happen on the same day and in the same order.
For me, the thing I said I would never do is own a minivan. Owning a minivan means you’ve given up. You’ve become branded as someone with a soccer ball sticker in the back window. You’re just one of the masses, and yes, you’re old.
That night, when I drove my family home from the dealership in our new minivan, my wife and I joined the ranks of those who will purchase an estimated 1 million minivans this year.
Good lord. What am I going to do next? I wondered. Donate to Greenpeace?
Then my wife, who would donate to Greenpeace, put the America I know into perspective.
“I saw this minivan driving down our street the other day,” she said over the children who were completely failing to fall asleep in their car seats. “It was driven by a teenager playing loud, thumping rap music.”
An image rushed into my head. And, yes, his ball cap was on backwards.
“I wanted to yell, ‘Yeah, you’re pretty cool in your mom’s car.’”
That’s all I needed. In this world where, to us, we are what we think we are, and to society, we are what we appear to be, there is one constant – complete apathy about what other people think.
Yes, I’m just one of the masses and yes, I’m working on accepting the fact that I’m old enough to drive a minivan.
But the most comforting part of my wife’s story is, at least I’m not that guy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Dangers of Preschool ... For Mom and Dad
The Boy watched the clock like it was going to throw candy.
He’d been waiting for this day for weeks – which is about as long as the Triassic Period to a three-and-a-half year old. It was his first day of preschool.
“It’s not time,” his mother told him after he’d asked … again. She pulled a clock from a shelf and pointed at the hands. “When this is on the five it will be time for school.”
And he waited.
When the hand hit the five, he opened the door and said, “Bye. See you later. I’m ready.”
Then he and his mother were off to school. I looked at his little sister who was eating something off the floor and realized we’ll have to go through this whole thing again in two years.
Were we ready for our baby to go to school? We thought so. But no matter how much parents mentally prepare themselves for their child to go to school, which roughly translated from Parentese means “a place without me,” we’re never really ready.
Sure, we may seem confident, but something happens to parents when they let go of their child’s hand as he walks into the classroom.
Suddenly parents realize that instead of teaching their child important things the past three and a half years – like don’t talk to strangers and how to deliver a roundhouse kick to the face – they’ve been wasting time on silly things like counting and going to the bathroom.
How’s not peeing in your pants going to protect your child from terrorists?
My wife looked lost when she came home.
“He doesn’t know anybody there,” she said. “And what do we really know about the people who work at that school?”
It’s the nightmare of every parent of a first-time student that as soon as their child is at a distance greater than six inches from them something terrible will happen.
Parents are certain Germans, like the bad guys from “Die Hard,” are posing as elementary school faculty just waiting to teach preschoolers how to rob banks. Then maybe communists or gypsies – or worse, communist gypsies – will attack the school and steal all the really gifted children, which of course means yours.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “If there are any Lebanese Secret Service agents there trying to convince the children to invade Israel, I’m sure somebody will call us.”
For some reason that wasn’t reassuring.
Later that morning, I picked up the Boy from school. He looked happy and relatively innocent on the subject of international political conflicts.
“What did you do in school today?” I asked as we got into the car.
The Boy shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Yeah, I can expect about 13 more years of that.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
He’d been waiting for this day for weeks – which is about as long as the Triassic Period to a three-and-a-half year old. It was his first day of preschool.
“It’s not time,” his mother told him after he’d asked … again. She pulled a clock from a shelf and pointed at the hands. “When this is on the five it will be time for school.”
And he waited.
When the hand hit the five, he opened the door and said, “Bye. See you later. I’m ready.”
Then he and his mother were off to school. I looked at his little sister who was eating something off the floor and realized we’ll have to go through this whole thing again in two years.
Were we ready for our baby to go to school? We thought so. But no matter how much parents mentally prepare themselves for their child to go to school, which roughly translated from Parentese means “a place without me,” we’re never really ready.
Sure, we may seem confident, but something happens to parents when they let go of their child’s hand as he walks into the classroom.
Suddenly parents realize that instead of teaching their child important things the past three and a half years – like don’t talk to strangers and how to deliver a roundhouse kick to the face – they’ve been wasting time on silly things like counting and going to the bathroom.
How’s not peeing in your pants going to protect your child from terrorists?
My wife looked lost when she came home.
“He doesn’t know anybody there,” she said. “And what do we really know about the people who work at that school?”
It’s the nightmare of every parent of a first-time student that as soon as their child is at a distance greater than six inches from them something terrible will happen.
Parents are certain Germans, like the bad guys from “Die Hard,” are posing as elementary school faculty just waiting to teach preschoolers how to rob banks. Then maybe communists or gypsies – or worse, communist gypsies – will attack the school and steal all the really gifted children, which of course means yours.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “If there are any Lebanese Secret Service agents there trying to convince the children to invade Israel, I’m sure somebody will call us.”
For some reason that wasn’t reassuring.
Later that morning, I picked up the Boy from school. He looked happy and relatively innocent on the subject of international political conflicts.
“What did you do in school today?” I asked as we got into the car.
The Boy shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Yeah, I can expect about 13 more years of that.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Don't Tell Your Wife Anything
I called my wife before I left work. I’m not sure why I did this. Maybe it was out of courtesy. Maybe it’s a habit my mom beat into my head when I was a kid. Or maybe I’m just not that bright.
I think it’s the last one.
“I’m going to the grocery store on my way home,” I told her.
That was simple enough, right? A guy saying ‘I’m going to the store’ usually means ‘I’m out of beer.’ Everyone knows that.
“Great,” she said. “Do you have a pen? We need a few things …”
There’s a guy rule, an important guy rule, designed to protect ourselves from our own stupidity – don’t tell your wife you’re going anywhere.
I haven’t learned that rule yet.
To a man, “I’m going to the store” is a declarative sentence – nothing else. There’s nothing to “I’m going to the store” that means anything other than “I’m going to the store.” To a wife it’s an invitation.
“We need M&Ms, raisins, pretzels and almond bark,” she said. “Got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, honey,” I bumbled. “I got it.”
I actually like going to the grocery store. It’s a big, friendly building with meat, cheese and smiling people who say things like “good day” and “may I help you?” It’s like a tiny Wisconsin. But I don’t like to grocery shop – it’s work.
The cart thumped as I wheeled it through the store. I had almost everything on the list – beer, pretzels, M&Ms and raisins. The words “almond bark” sat on the list all smug and confident in the knowledge that I didn’t know what it was. I think it even gave me the finger.
I pointed the cart down the aisle labeled “baking” and went in. Like most guys, I don’t bake; I cook. Baking is as alien to me as a triffid, that’s why almond bark must be for baking. As I went down the aisle, reading the strange names on strange packages, I might as well have been in the cantina scene in “Star Wars.”
Then I found it. Almond bark.
Wait a second. There’s white and there’s brown? Two types? There are TWO types of almond bark? She didn’t say anything about two types? What do I …
“You look lost,” a female voice said. I turned toward a grandmotherly woman who’d stopped beside me and frowned.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “If you sent your husband to the grocery store for almond bark, what would you want him to bring home?”
She lifted a big bar of white something off the shelf and plopped it into my hand.
“This one,” she said, smiling like I’d just done something really cute … and by “cute” I mean “stupid.”
I thanked her, paid for the groceries and went home. My wife wanted the brown kind.
Ladies, there’s a simple solution to this problem – don’t ask your husband to do anything. Oh, sure, an equally simple solution might be to give him a more detailed list, but that’s too much like nagging.
So, when you get the urge to ask your husband to pick up something from the store, stop, understand the fact that him bringing home the wrong thing is worse then him bringing home nothing, and go to the store yourself. That way everyone’s happy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
I think it’s the last one.
“I’m going to the grocery store on my way home,” I told her.
That was simple enough, right? A guy saying ‘I’m going to the store’ usually means ‘I’m out of beer.’ Everyone knows that.
“Great,” she said. “Do you have a pen? We need a few things …”
There’s a guy rule, an important guy rule, designed to protect ourselves from our own stupidity – don’t tell your wife you’re going anywhere.
I haven’t learned that rule yet.
To a man, “I’m going to the store” is a declarative sentence – nothing else. There’s nothing to “I’m going to the store” that means anything other than “I’m going to the store.” To a wife it’s an invitation.
“We need M&Ms, raisins, pretzels and almond bark,” she said. “Got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, honey,” I bumbled. “I got it.”
I actually like going to the grocery store. It’s a big, friendly building with meat, cheese and smiling people who say things like “good day” and “may I help you?” It’s like a tiny Wisconsin. But I don’t like to grocery shop – it’s work.
The cart thumped as I wheeled it through the store. I had almost everything on the list – beer, pretzels, M&Ms and raisins. The words “almond bark” sat on the list all smug and confident in the knowledge that I didn’t know what it was. I think it even gave me the finger.
I pointed the cart down the aisle labeled “baking” and went in. Like most guys, I don’t bake; I cook. Baking is as alien to me as a triffid, that’s why almond bark must be for baking. As I went down the aisle, reading the strange names on strange packages, I might as well have been in the cantina scene in “Star Wars.”
Then I found it. Almond bark.
Wait a second. There’s white and there’s brown? Two types? There are TWO types of almond bark? She didn’t say anything about two types? What do I …
“You look lost,” a female voice said. I turned toward a grandmotherly woman who’d stopped beside me and frowned.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “If you sent your husband to the grocery store for almond bark, what would you want him to bring home?”
She lifted a big bar of white something off the shelf and plopped it into my hand.
“This one,” she said, smiling like I’d just done something really cute … and by “cute” I mean “stupid.”
I thanked her, paid for the groceries and went home. My wife wanted the brown kind.
Ladies, there’s a simple solution to this problem – don’t ask your husband to do anything. Oh, sure, an equally simple solution might be to give him a more detailed list, but that’s too much like nagging.
So, when you get the urge to ask your husband to pick up something from the store, stop, understand the fact that him bringing home the wrong thing is worse then him bringing home nothing, and go to the store yourself. That way everyone’s happy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
A Vacation's Nothing Without Work
Vacation. A word so sweet your triglycerides rose to the level of Jabba the Hutt’s just by reading it. So, please, go to the emergency room – now.
Yeah, vacation is sweet, and I had five days of it. Five no-shavin’, no-workin’, no-thinkin’ days of lethargy and naps. I sat on the couch that Monday morning, a cup of coffee in my hand, when my vacation turned into one of those vacations you see in movies where everyone’s ankles are chained together and they’re busting rocks in front of a guy holding a shotgun.
“Bye, honey,” my wife said as she did a strafing run through the living room on her way to work, pulling the front door shut behind her so quickly I barely heard the words that would doom my vacation much like ‘I’ll have to raise taxes’ doomed Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential campaign … by the way, he lost. “Have a great day. There’s a list on the kitchen table. I love you.”
Slam. Tap, tap, tap. Click. Vroom. Slam. Zip. … And she was gone.
Sure, I’ll have a great day. A great day of reruns, frozen pizza and … a list? A list? I’m on vacation and I have a list?
There are very few lists that can bring fear into the soul of someone who was planning to have a couple of beers during “Gilligan’s Island” that afternoon. The Shopping List (not “a” shopping list, The Shopping List. The one where your wife asks you to buy Tampons), Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s list of communist sympathizers, and the Mob’s hit list are nothing compared to a list your wife makes and drops on your head the first day of vacation.
I looked at the table. A piece of paper was propped against the saltshaker. As I approached the list, I could tell the message wasn’t going to be good – she’d used red ink.
Jason’s To-Do List By FRIDAY.
Great, I love deadlines, especially those written with letters shaped like little daggers.
1. Power wash the house.
2. Patch the sidewalk.
3. Wash the carpets.
4. Move the heaviest thing we own to the basement.
5. Move the second heaviest thing we own from the basement.
6. Mow the lawn.
8. Write treatise on the eternal struggle between good and evil through the eyes of Hannah Montana.
9. Pave the driveway.
10. Pull the Earth’s orbit closer to the Sun. We’re having the Smiths over for a barbecue this weekend and I’d like the weather to be nice.
Wow, that’ll take my whole vacation.
Guys, we really need to take back our vacations and our own manliness. Our days of earned sloth should not be wasted repairing the house and performing preventative automotive maintenance. We’re men, and we’ll get to it right after the ballgame.
There. I feel better. I’m going to make my own list, starting with No. 1: Be a man. I’ll work on that next week, after I figure out how to pull the Earth out of orbit.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Yeah, vacation is sweet, and I had five days of it. Five no-shavin’, no-workin’, no-thinkin’ days of lethargy and naps. I sat on the couch that Monday morning, a cup of coffee in my hand, when my vacation turned into one of those vacations you see in movies where everyone’s ankles are chained together and they’re busting rocks in front of a guy holding a shotgun.
“Bye, honey,” my wife said as she did a strafing run through the living room on her way to work, pulling the front door shut behind her so quickly I barely heard the words that would doom my vacation much like ‘I’ll have to raise taxes’ doomed Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential campaign … by the way, he lost. “Have a great day. There’s a list on the kitchen table. I love you.”
Slam. Tap, tap, tap. Click. Vroom. Slam. Zip. … And she was gone.
Sure, I’ll have a great day. A great day of reruns, frozen pizza and … a list? A list? I’m on vacation and I have a list?
There are very few lists that can bring fear into the soul of someone who was planning to have a couple of beers during “Gilligan’s Island” that afternoon. The Shopping List (not “a” shopping list, The Shopping List. The one where your wife asks you to buy Tampons), Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s list of communist sympathizers, and the Mob’s hit list are nothing compared to a list your wife makes and drops on your head the first day of vacation.
I looked at the table. A piece of paper was propped against the saltshaker. As I approached the list, I could tell the message wasn’t going to be good – she’d used red ink.
Jason’s To-Do List By FRIDAY.
Great, I love deadlines, especially those written with letters shaped like little daggers.
1. Power wash the house.
2. Patch the sidewalk.
3. Wash the carpets.
4. Move the heaviest thing we own to the basement.
5. Move the second heaviest thing we own from the basement.
6. Mow the lawn.
8. Write treatise on the eternal struggle between good and evil through the eyes of Hannah Montana.
9. Pave the driveway.
10. Pull the Earth’s orbit closer to the Sun. We’re having the Smiths over for a barbecue this weekend and I’d like the weather to be nice.
Wow, that’ll take my whole vacation.
Guys, we really need to take back our vacations and our own manliness. Our days of earned sloth should not be wasted repairing the house and performing preventative automotive maintenance. We’re men, and we’ll get to it right after the ballgame.
There. I feel better. I’m going to make my own list, starting with No. 1: Be a man. I’ll work on that next week, after I figure out how to pull the Earth out of orbit.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
My Kid Can Talk – Now I Can't Get Away With Anything
My life has changed. The change was drastic, but it happened so slowly I didn’t realize anything was different until I got busted – our three-year-old can tattle.
(A clip from the 2007 Emmy Award-winning sitcom hit, “The Toddler and Me.”)
My wife: Did you give our son chocolate milk?
Me: Pfft. No. Of course not. Remember, we agreed chocolate milk was a special treat. I’m saving it for his high school graduation. Shhh. It’s a surprise.
(Cue laugh track.)
The Boy: Goot blot habba poo.
My wife: OK, I’m glad we’re on the same page.
(Cue laugh track.)
It was a perfect balance of the Boy’s perception of the world (everything’s big and I’m hungry), his ability to express that perception (Hey, big people. If I don’t get some peanut butter and crackers pronto, there will be screeching), and the fact that I like to give him chocolate milk for no reason.
At the time, I thought what my wife didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. The problem is, now she knows and, yes, it hurts.
(A clip from the 2008 Emmy Award-winning drama, “That Dead Dad.”)
My wife: Did you give our son candy?
Me: No. Of course not, he didn’t finish his peas.
The Boy: I got Tootsie Rolls, Mom. And a sucker.
(Cue ominous orchestral music.)
My wife: I thought we agreed … oh, never mind. You’re taking that quiz in Parenting Today’s Child Who Has One Crappy Parent Magazine, mister. And tomorrow night, we’re watching the Dr. Phil special, “My son’s in al-Qaida because my idiot husband fed him Twix.”
Oh, yeah. Things have changed.
1) I can no longer watch Dirty Harry movies while the children are awake. Although a three-year-old saying, “Do you feel lucky today? Well, do ya, punk?” might sound adorable to you, when those words come out of their kid, most mothers have a worse sense of humor than the CIA.
2) I can no longer imitate Mommy when she’s not watching.
The Boy: Oh, look at me. I’m Mommy. I say “no.” I make corn flakes for breakfast. I say “blah, blah, blah…”
My wife: Where did he learn that?
Me: TV. PBS sure has gone downhill.
The Boy: Daddy, show her what she looks like when she’s sleeping.
3) I can no longer go to Hooters.
My wife: So, what did you two do for lunch?
Me: We had chicken.
The Boy: The jiggly lady in orange pants gave Daddy beer and hot wings.
Me: (Cue the laugh track. For the love of God, please cue the laugh track.)
4) I can no longer watch sports in front of the children. One little “@#$% after an interception and guess who’s in trouble for something somebody repeated in Sunday school? A wife’s perception of what’s right and what’s wrong obviously doesn’t include a quarterback throwing into double coverage.
Just wait until you’re a teenager kid, then guess who’ll be tattling to Mommy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
(A clip from the 2007 Emmy Award-winning sitcom hit, “The Toddler and Me.”)
My wife: Did you give our son chocolate milk?
Me: Pfft. No. Of course not. Remember, we agreed chocolate milk was a special treat. I’m saving it for his high school graduation. Shhh. It’s a surprise.
(Cue laugh track.)
The Boy: Goot blot habba poo.
My wife: OK, I’m glad we’re on the same page.
(Cue laugh track.)
It was a perfect balance of the Boy’s perception of the world (everything’s big and I’m hungry), his ability to express that perception (Hey, big people. If I don’t get some peanut butter and crackers pronto, there will be screeching), and the fact that I like to give him chocolate milk for no reason.
At the time, I thought what my wife didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. The problem is, now she knows and, yes, it hurts.
(A clip from the 2008 Emmy Award-winning drama, “That Dead Dad.”)
My wife: Did you give our son candy?
Me: No. Of course not, he didn’t finish his peas.
The Boy: I got Tootsie Rolls, Mom. And a sucker.
(Cue ominous orchestral music.)
My wife: I thought we agreed … oh, never mind. You’re taking that quiz in Parenting Today’s Child Who Has One Crappy Parent Magazine, mister. And tomorrow night, we’re watching the Dr. Phil special, “My son’s in al-Qaida because my idiot husband fed him Twix.”
Oh, yeah. Things have changed.
1) I can no longer watch Dirty Harry movies while the children are awake. Although a three-year-old saying, “Do you feel lucky today? Well, do ya, punk?” might sound adorable to you, when those words come out of their kid, most mothers have a worse sense of humor than the CIA.
2) I can no longer imitate Mommy when she’s not watching.
The Boy: Oh, look at me. I’m Mommy. I say “no.” I make corn flakes for breakfast. I say “blah, blah, blah…”
My wife: Where did he learn that?
Me: TV. PBS sure has gone downhill.
The Boy: Daddy, show her what she looks like when she’s sleeping.
3) I can no longer go to Hooters.
My wife: So, what did you two do for lunch?
Me: We had chicken.
The Boy: The jiggly lady in orange pants gave Daddy beer and hot wings.
Me: (Cue the laugh track. For the love of God, please cue the laugh track.)
4) I can no longer watch sports in front of the children. One little “@#$% after an interception and guess who’s in trouble for something somebody repeated in Sunday school? A wife’s perception of what’s right and what’s wrong obviously doesn’t include a quarterback throwing into double coverage.
Just wait until you’re a teenager kid, then guess who’ll be tattling to Mommy.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Greatest Breakfast Cereal in the Known Universe Is Back
My wife came home from the store with something special. I could tell by the way she grinned as she held something behind her back.
Admittedly, she could have been holding a machete, but I prefer to be an optimist in these situations.
“Close your eyes,” she said. “I have a surprise for you.”
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, I thought, pinching my eyes tight just in case I was wrong about the machete. A present for me? Yes, I’ve been a good boy.
It’s not often parents get presents. Five uninterrupted minutes on the toilet is usually gift enough. Many presentless holidays have gone by just fine because of that anniversary I got to spend on the can.
The surprise had to be something I wanted, or the secrecy would have just been mean.
Is it beer? Is it beer? Is it beer? I wondered. No, it’s not my birthday. The “Girls Gone Wild: Suburban Boise Idaho Community College” video? No, it wasn’t Christmas, either.
“Open your eyes,” she said.
You know the feeling when your team wins the championship? Your candidate gets elected? Someone doesn’t laugh when you ask them on a date? Yeah, it was kind of like that.
Oh, Quaker Oats, god of breakfast, lord of sweet yellow milk, heaper of the blessed sugar. Thou hast been kind.
“Do you like it?” she asked, holding a big blue box of Quisp, the breakfast cereal that made an elementary school me eager to pop out of bed just for the sugar rush.
Oh, the memories. Quisp watched Godzilla movies with me after school. Quisp got me going before a Little League game. It even, I believe, helped ward off vampires.
Oh, yeah. I liked.
Quisp, a little pink space alien drawn by Rocky and Bullwinkle animators Jay Ward and Bill Scott, brought his first shipment of space cereal – shaped like flying saucers – from Planet Q in 1965. In 1972, Quisp and his archenemy Quake (who made earthquake-powered cereal … whatever) entered the democratic process and America elected Quisp the best cereal ever.
Then something happened. Much like Gerald Ford, Quisp disappeared from the public eye in the late 1970s.
“Where did you find it?” I asked, taking the box from her hands as gently as a surgeon transplanting a liver.
Does she have a time machine? I wondered. And if she does, why didn’t she kill Hitler?
“Dollar General,” she said. “For a dollar.”
A dollar? A dollar for the cereal that could even make Saturday mornings with Scrappy Doo spectacular? That’s smart shopping.
I opened the box, poured golden flying saucers into a bowl, added milk, and transported back to 1972.
Quisp, I don’t care where you’ve been – even if it was a Mexican prison, anywhere in France or rehab – I’m happy you’re back. And that bowl of cereal? Oh, yeah. It was sweet.
Copyright 2008 by Jason Offutt
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
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