Prince Dreamy?
My wife told me about a dream that she had the other night. She dreamed that she was dating the Prince, and they were at a water park with one of her coworkers. At the end of the date they jumped on a motorcycle and rode off into the sunset.
“Let me get this straight,” I teased her. “You dreamed you were dating Prince William, and all y’all did was go to a water park? I’m not buying that one.”
“Well, not exactly,” she said. “It wasn’t Prince William. It was the dad, Prince Charles.”
The only word I could come up with was “eeww.” He’s old, has terrible teeth, and by most accounts is a jerk. Why in the heck would she dream about him?
But hey, I know that dreams are sometimes weird. I’ve had a few dreams myself over the years that didn’t make much sense.
I remember one Easter morning when I was eight or nine years old and I had a dream that I saw hundreds and hundreds of rabbits in our back yard. It was so real that I swear I could reach out and grab one of those rabbits. And the disappointment when I woke up was staggering.
Years later I dreamed that Don Johnson (from Miami Vice) and I had a shoot-out with a couple of bad guys on the East side of town here. I can still remember that dream as if it happened last night- from the cool clothes and shoes without socks, to the guns used, right down to the guys we were trying to take down.
The last vivid dream I can recall came about five years ago. It involved Katie Couric (back when she was still fun and bubbly), a Sexy Santa outfit, and the Wall Street Journal. Of course, telling you about it would be stupid because it’s too cold for me to sleep outside.
Anyway, I got to thinking about my wife’s dream. I knew there were websites dedicated to interpreting them, so I took a stab at finding out what this one could mean. Kind of wish I hadn’t now.
The website I found had this to say about her episode:
To see a prince in your dream signifies your association with honor and prestige. You will be recognized for some task. Alternatively, it indicates your desires for romance. Perhaps you are waiting for your Prince Charming.
Uh oh. Although I am one romantic devil, I’m not exactly Prince Charming. In fact, you want to know the only thing I have in common with Prince Charles?
Big ears.
Like the column? Hate the column? Have a new idea for a column? Contact Shannon at news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Rent-A-Kid
It just occurred to me this week that I’d better start saving up for Christmas presents. I didn’t realize that December 25 was so close until all the pages from Toys-R-Us catalogs started showing up in my sock drawer, on the bathroom mirror, and in my pants pockets.
I can’t find anyone to bring me my phone when it rings, but let a toy commercial come on t.v. and my living room resembles Gattiland with all the kids that pop up.
In fact, the holidays have snuck up on me so fast that I don’t think I have the money put back to buy much, so I’ve devised a plan to make the kids pay for their own presents. You know, like men do for Father’s Day, birthdays and Christmas.
What I’ll do, I’ve decided, is start a kid renting service. Listen, you might not think so, but a kid or two comes in pretty handy from time to time. I think I might make a little change here. Enough to get them a toy or two at least, and maybe even make a little profit when it’s all said and done.
Tell me what you think:
Rent-A-Kid.
All kids are current on their shots, and in great shape due to playing sports. We have three models to choose from, so take your pick and enjoy.
Rheagan- Eleven year old female. Pretty as a picture, and eats like a bird. Great for light duty house cleaning, babysitting, and spelling of words (sixth-grade limit, please).
Need a top-notch tattle-tale? This is the one for you! Send Rheagan along with your spouse or teenage child, and get a full report upon return. Also great if you have excess money in the budget that you need to get rid of. Just take this little angel to the mall and watch her go!
Renters of this model may want to wait until at least 10 a.m. to pick up. She’s not a morning person.
The going rate is $10 per hour Monday-Friday, or $15 per hour on weekends.
Trevor- Nine year old male. Great chick magnet for teenaged boy to have. Whether you are at the big game, church, or just hanging around town, take Trevor with you and watch the girls melt (only works if you are young enough not to be the father).
Also good for outside chores, such as sweeping the sidewalk, bringing in firewood, and even mowing the yard. Push mowers only, folks. He isn’t quite tall enough to reach the pedals on a riding mower yet.
Renters of this model must show proof of ability to use Google, in order to answer the gazillion questions per hour that Trevor will ask.
The going rate on Trevor is $10 per hour Monday-Friday, or $15 per hour on the weekend.
ACT NOW and get Rheagan and Trevor both for just $15 per hour Monday-Friday, and $20 per hour on the weekend.
Jenna- Eight year old she-devil, I mean female. Gorgeous curly hair with big blue eyes. Make Jenna mad and see those big eyes actually turn blood red and spin like a slot machine!
Jenna has extraordinary copy-cat skills, and is absolutely fearless in the face of danger. She is our only model that has already had stitches, so she is well battle-tested.
Hard of hearing? Not to worry. This model screams everything she says, so you’ll never lose track of her in a crowd. She’s also an animal lover, and doesn’t mind sharing a snack with the family pet from time to time.
Renters must have plenty of cash (she likes fashion) and never, never look her directly in the eyes (she takes it as a challenge).
The going rate for Jenna is- well, we’ll pay you $10 per hour Monday-Friday, or $15 per hour on the weekend.
It just occurred to me this week that I’d better start saving up for Christmas presents. I didn’t realize that December 25 was so close until all the pages from Toys-R-Us catalogs started showing up in my sock drawer, on the bathroom mirror, and in my pants pockets.
I can’t find anyone to bring me my phone when it rings, but let a toy commercial come on t.v. and my living room resembles Gattiland with all the kids that pop up.
In fact, the holidays have snuck up on me so fast that I don’t think I have the money put back to buy much, so I’ve devised a plan to make the kids pay for their own presents. You know, like men do for Father’s Day, birthdays and Christmas.
What I’ll do, I’ve decided, is start a kid renting service. Listen, you might not think so, but a kid or two comes in pretty handy from time to time. I think I might make a little change here. Enough to get them a toy or two at least, and maybe even make a little profit when it’s all said and done.
Tell me what you think:
Rent-A-Kid.
All kids are current on their shots, and in great shape due to playing sports. We have three models to choose from, so take your pick and enjoy.
Rheagan- Eleven year old female. Pretty as a picture, and eats like a bird. Great for light duty house cleaning, babysitting, and spelling of words (sixth-grade limit, please).
Need a top-notch tattle-tale? This is the one for you! Send Rheagan along with your spouse or teenage child, and get a full report upon return. Also great if you have excess money in the budget that you need to get rid of. Just take this little angel to the mall and watch her go!
Renters of this model may want to wait until at least 10 a.m. to pick up. She’s not a morning person.
The going rate is $10 per hour Monday-Friday, or $15 per hour on weekends.
Trevor- Nine year old male. Great chick magnet for teenaged boy to have. Whether you are at the big game, church, or just hanging around town, take Trevor with you and watch the girls melt (only works if you are young enough not to be the father).
Also good for outside chores, such as sweeping the sidewalk, bringing in firewood, and even mowing the yard. Push mowers only, folks. He isn’t quite tall enough to reach the pedals on a riding mower yet.
Renters of this model must show proof of ability to use Google, in order to answer the gazillion questions per hour that Trevor will ask.
The going rate on Trevor is $10 per hour Monday-Friday, or $15 per hour on the weekend.
ACT NOW and get Rheagan and Trevor both for just $15 per hour Monday-Friday, and $20 per hour on the weekend.
Jenna- Eight year old she-devil, I mean female. Gorgeous curly hair with big blue eyes. Make Jenna mad and see those big eyes actually turn blood red and spin like a slot machine!
Jenna has extraordinary copy-cat skills, and is absolutely fearless in the face of danger. She is our only model that has already had stitches, so she is well battle-tested.
Hard of hearing? Not to worry. This model screams everything she says, so you’ll never lose track of her in a crowd. She’s also an animal lover, and doesn’t mind sharing a snack with the family pet from time to time.
Renters must have plenty of cash (she likes fashion) and never, never look her directly in the eyes (she takes it as a challenge).
The going rate for Jenna is- well, we’ll pay you $10 per hour Monday-Friday, or $15 per hour on the weekend.
Play as long as you can
I had a pretty amazing weekend, and it didn’t have much at all to do with Thanksgiving. Or did it?
Thursday was great. We visited my wife’s family, and everything I put on my plate was tremendous as usual. And also, as usual, I ate way too much.
Friday was spent watching football, eating leftovers, and trying to forget about Thursday night’s game with A&M and Texas. Saturday we cut our Christmas tree before my son and I joined some friends to cut and split some fire wood for the winter.
Sunday? Well, Sunday I got word that this guy I knew died. His name was Jimmy, and he left behind a wife and daughter. He never even got the chance to be a grandfather, and he would have been a good one. We weren’t close or anything but when we saw each other we always shook hands, shared a laugh or two, and asked about each others’ families. So I spent all day Sunday and Monday trying to figure out why I couldn’t get this guy out of my mind. Like I said- we weren’t best friends, I just didn’t expect him to up and die all of a sudden. And this is what I’ve come up with:
Are you familiar with the Chicago Bulls of the ‘90s? They won six NBA championships, and were led by Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player of all time. You can argue that if you want to, but you’d be wrong. Anyway, like any other team or business they wouldn’t have been great with just Jordan. He had a lot of other guys helping him out.
There was Scottie Pippen, Steve Kerr and Dennis Rodman (Rodman was the crazy guy with colorful hair). Chances are you’ve heard of them. Then there were the guys that only basketball fans remember- Ron Harper, Horace Grant, Will Perdue, etc. Role players, we call them.
Each of them played roles in the championships and were all part of the team, but when it came down to it they were really just interchangeable parts. The show went on without them when it was time.
Jordan, Pippen, Kerr and Rodman got most of the glory or the heat, depending on their record. They had the responsibility that I’m sure most of the role players would have loved to have.
Well, in my working career I’ve always been a role player. Sure, I’ve aspired to be Michael Jordan or Scottie Pippen, and I always figured I’d at least be a Kerr or a Rodman (minus the pink and blue hair). Always figured it was just a matter of time and effort, and being in the right place at the right time.
I even preach “not settling” to my kids. “Always shoot for the stars” I say, “and don’t take ‘no’ for an answer”. I want them to treat the word “because” like it’s a cuss word. “It’s usually followed with an excuse,” I tell them.
I’m telling you all this because I got a job offer that has been playing tug-of-war with my mind. It’s a great job with really good benefits and would allow me to come home every night like normal people. And that’s most important, because I can see that my kids really miss me when I travel- especially my son. The boy wanted to hang with me so bad this weekend that he rode with me to visit my mother in the nursing home. Most nine year olds would have come up with a homework story to get out of that.
The problem is that if I take this job, I’m a role player for life. At least ‘till retirement. Not only would I not be climbing the ladder, there is no ladder to climb. From here on out there will always be someone to say “yes sir” to, and it won’t be me.
And so Sunday, while I was right in the middle of walking around the yard cussing busted Christmas lights and pouting and feeling sorry for myself for taking this job, I swear I could hear Jimmy’s voice in the back of my head. “Who cares if you’re a role player or the star of the team? You’re still in the damn game, ain’t you? Play as long as you can.”
And I guess he’s right. Hell, I’m sure Will Perdue is just as proud of his championship rings as Rodman is of his. And he never had to dye his hair pink.
Like the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Contact Shannon at robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com.
I had a pretty amazing weekend, and it didn’t have much at all to do with Thanksgiving. Or did it?
Thursday was great. We visited my wife’s family, and everything I put on my plate was tremendous as usual. And also, as usual, I ate way too much.
Friday was spent watching football, eating leftovers, and trying to forget about Thursday night’s game with A&M and Texas. Saturday we cut our Christmas tree before my son and I joined some friends to cut and split some fire wood for the winter.
Sunday? Well, Sunday I got word that this guy I knew died. His name was Jimmy, and he left behind a wife and daughter. He never even got the chance to be a grandfather, and he would have been a good one. We weren’t close or anything but when we saw each other we always shook hands, shared a laugh or two, and asked about each others’ families. So I spent all day Sunday and Monday trying to figure out why I couldn’t get this guy out of my mind. Like I said- we weren’t best friends, I just didn’t expect him to up and die all of a sudden. And this is what I’ve come up with:
Are you familiar with the Chicago Bulls of the ‘90s? They won six NBA championships, and were led by Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player of all time. You can argue that if you want to, but you’d be wrong. Anyway, like any other team or business they wouldn’t have been great with just Jordan. He had a lot of other guys helping him out.
There was Scottie Pippen, Steve Kerr and Dennis Rodman (Rodman was the crazy guy with colorful hair). Chances are you’ve heard of them. Then there were the guys that only basketball fans remember- Ron Harper, Horace Grant, Will Perdue, etc. Role players, we call them.
Each of them played roles in the championships and were all part of the team, but when it came down to it they were really just interchangeable parts. The show went on without them when it was time.
Jordan, Pippen, Kerr and Rodman got most of the glory or the heat, depending on their record. They had the responsibility that I’m sure most of the role players would have loved to have.
Well, in my working career I’ve always been a role player. Sure, I’ve aspired to be Michael Jordan or Scottie Pippen, and I always figured I’d at least be a Kerr or a Rodman (minus the pink and blue hair). Always figured it was just a matter of time and effort, and being in the right place at the right time.
I even preach “not settling” to my kids. “Always shoot for the stars” I say, “and don’t take ‘no’ for an answer”. I want them to treat the word “because” like it’s a cuss word. “It’s usually followed with an excuse,” I tell them.
I’m telling you all this because I got a job offer that has been playing tug-of-war with my mind. It’s a great job with really good benefits and would allow me to come home every night like normal people. And that’s most important, because I can see that my kids really miss me when I travel- especially my son. The boy wanted to hang with me so bad this weekend that he rode with me to visit my mother in the nursing home. Most nine year olds would have come up with a homework story to get out of that.
The problem is that if I take this job, I’m a role player for life. At least ‘till retirement. Not only would I not be climbing the ladder, there is no ladder to climb. From here on out there will always be someone to say “yes sir” to, and it won’t be me.
And so Sunday, while I was right in the middle of walking around the yard cussing busted Christmas lights and pouting and feeling sorry for myself for taking this job, I swear I could hear Jimmy’s voice in the back of my head. “Who cares if you’re a role player or the star of the team? You’re still in the damn game, ain’t you? Play as long as you can.”
And I guess he’s right. Hell, I’m sure Will Perdue is just as proud of his championship rings as Rodman is of his. And he never had to dye his hair pink.
Like the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Contact Shannon at robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I waited all year for this?
A few weeks ago I sent out a request for some of the worst Thanksgiving dishes that your families make. I promised you I wouldn’t embarrass anyone, or rat your names out. So let’s go through a few of them now.
The first one isn’t a new one to me. In fact, I’ve complained about this one a time or two, myself. Someone sent me a letter and said that their sister-in-law has made a chocolate pumpkin pie for the last few years.
Ladies, can we please get something straight? Don’t mess with the pies. And for God’s sake, stop trying to force chocolate into everything. Chocolate pumpkin, chocolate pecan, chocolate cheesecake… it’s too much. Sometimes, less is more. Look at it this way- regular old pumpkin and pecan pie have done pretty well on their own for about 150 years or so. Why fix it if it ain’t broke?
Speaking of pies, “James” sent me a message telling me about “Granny’s” mincemeat pie. “Imagine wet dog food, mixed with wet cat food, and stuffed into a beautiful golden-brown pie crust. It’s horrific.”
Oh Granny. Granny, Granny, Granny. First of all Granny, the words meat and pie should never be used in the same sentence. It’s just a bad idea, kind of like the El Camino- either give me a car, or give me a truck. Please don’t try to give me both in one.
And by the way, when I eat meat I like to know which animal it came off of. I’ve never heard of an animal called mince in my life.
I talked to a fellow at the store the other day and he told me about his wife’s (we’ll call her Helen) squash casserole. This is how he described it. “It’s kinda like squishy summer squash drowned in a soupy sour cream-like sauce.”
Oh Good Lord Helen, stop it. Not one thing about that dish sounds even remotely appetizing. There is no way, in my opinion, that you can serve that to your family with a clear conscience. You have to know that is horrible.
I also heard about something called “ambrosia salad” that “Jenny” makes. Her sister-in-law told me it consisted of canned fruit, coconut, mini-marshmallows and cool whip or jello mixed with… wait for it… mayonnaise or sour cream.
Disgusting. Again with the mixing of the taste buds? Look people, there are only two times when mixing sweet and sour are a good idea- in kettle korn and Amaretto. Stop messing with Mother Nature, it’s Thanksgiving dinner, not a science project.
My friend “Tom” told me that his grandmother will bring a dish of mashed potatoes already mixed with beets. He says she brings it every year, and every year takes a full bowl back home with her. “I think she wraps up the same bowl and freezes it every year, then unwraps it and brings it again,” he said.
Tom, I know this is your grandmother we are talking about. And I know it’s the holidays, and you are supposed to love everyone, and blah blah blah. But I swear you should hire a lawyer and sue her for everything she is worth. It may not be a crime in the books, but it’s a crime against humanity.
And finally, one buddy of mine told me that his health-conscience family uses white rice mixed with celery and carrots instead of dressing. And there is no gravy, giblet or otherwise.
I’m telling you now, I’d rather be fat.
A few weeks ago I sent out a request for some of the worst Thanksgiving dishes that your families make. I promised you I wouldn’t embarrass anyone, or rat your names out. So let’s go through a few of them now.
The first one isn’t a new one to me. In fact, I’ve complained about this one a time or two, myself. Someone sent me a letter and said that their sister-in-law has made a chocolate pumpkin pie for the last few years.
Ladies, can we please get something straight? Don’t mess with the pies. And for God’s sake, stop trying to force chocolate into everything. Chocolate pumpkin, chocolate pecan, chocolate cheesecake… it’s too much. Sometimes, less is more. Look at it this way- regular old pumpkin and pecan pie have done pretty well on their own for about 150 years or so. Why fix it if it ain’t broke?
Speaking of pies, “James” sent me a message telling me about “Granny’s” mincemeat pie. “Imagine wet dog food, mixed with wet cat food, and stuffed into a beautiful golden-brown pie crust. It’s horrific.”
Oh Granny. Granny, Granny, Granny. First of all Granny, the words meat and pie should never be used in the same sentence. It’s just a bad idea, kind of like the El Camino- either give me a car, or give me a truck. Please don’t try to give me both in one.
And by the way, when I eat meat I like to know which animal it came off of. I’ve never heard of an animal called mince in my life.
I talked to a fellow at the store the other day and he told me about his wife’s (we’ll call her Helen) squash casserole. This is how he described it. “It’s kinda like squishy summer squash drowned in a soupy sour cream-like sauce.”
Oh Good Lord Helen, stop it. Not one thing about that dish sounds even remotely appetizing. There is no way, in my opinion, that you can serve that to your family with a clear conscience. You have to know that is horrible.
I also heard about something called “ambrosia salad” that “Jenny” makes. Her sister-in-law told me it consisted of canned fruit, coconut, mini-marshmallows and cool whip or jello mixed with… wait for it… mayonnaise or sour cream.
Disgusting. Again with the mixing of the taste buds? Look people, there are only two times when mixing sweet and sour are a good idea- in kettle korn and Amaretto. Stop messing with Mother Nature, it’s Thanksgiving dinner, not a science project.
My friend “Tom” told me that his grandmother will bring a dish of mashed potatoes already mixed with beets. He says she brings it every year, and every year takes a full bowl back home with her. “I think she wraps up the same bowl and freezes it every year, then unwraps it and brings it again,” he said.
Tom, I know this is your grandmother we are talking about. And I know it’s the holidays, and you are supposed to love everyone, and blah blah blah. But I swear you should hire a lawyer and sue her for everything she is worth. It may not be a crime in the books, but it’s a crime against humanity.
And finally, one buddy of mine told me that his health-conscience family uses white rice mixed with celery and carrots instead of dressing. And there is no gravy, giblet or otherwise.
I’m telling you now, I’d rather be fat.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Shannon Says 4
The ol’ inbox has been stacking up on me. Gotta get to some of these peoples’ problems.
Here’s one now.
Dear Shannon- My 4 year old granddaughter is becoming difficult to discipline. She recently stole a trinket at a store, and has started talking back. She has also hit her preschool teacher. What should I do?
Shannon Says- What should you do? What should you do? You should start lifting weights with your right arm, that’s what you should do. That way, it won’t get so tired when you are wearing her spoiled little butt out with a belt every ten minutes. Look, the truth is that I don’t spank my kids near as much as I joke about, but that’s only because I don’t have to anymore. Raising kids is just like building a house. It all starts with a good foundation, and these early years is where you lay that down. Spank away, Granny.
Dear Shannon- I’ve been married for over 20 years. My husband and I separated for a short time, and he befriended another woman. I don’t think there was sex involved, but he throws their relationship in my face a good deal. I’m an attractive lady, in good shape financially, and he is becoming more and more emotionally difficult to deal with. What should I do? P.S. We do not have any children.
Shannon Says- Let me get this straight. You’re hot. You make good money, and you have no kids to worry about? Why are you even taking the time to write this? Pack your bags, girl. This is the one life you get, and you’ve wasted a quarter of yours with this dead beat. Oh, and as far as his “friendly” relationship with this other woman… I want you to Google the great philosopher BizMarkie to read his take on “friendly relationships” between men and women.
Dear Shannon- My husband’s sister is getting married in a couple of weeks. I’m very happy for her, but my in-laws have not invited my parents to the wedding. When my brothers were married, my parents made sure to invite my in-laws. This has hurt my parents’ feelings, and mine as well. What do you think about this?
Shannon Says- I’ve got news for you sweety. I can’t speak for your mother, but I’ll bet every red cent I have that your dad doesn’t give a damn about going to another wedding anyway. Invitation or not, just take your mother to the wedding with you. What are they going to do, turn you away? And let your father go play golf or watch football like every other man gets to do.
Dear Shannon- My father threw me a huge wedding this past spring. We had about 300 people attend, many of them business acquaintances of my fathers. My father wants me to write a thank you note for each gift, including those from people I do not know. I say what good would that do? What do you say?
Shannon Says- I say, you are the reason men hate weddings. These people traveled from God-knows-where, missed playing golf and watching football, spent hard-earned money on a gift so they could suck up to your father, and you are too good to write a simple thank you card? Geez lady, I hope it was an open bar at least.
The ol’ inbox has been stacking up on me. Gotta get to some of these peoples’ problems.
Here’s one now.
Dear Shannon- My 4 year old granddaughter is becoming difficult to discipline. She recently stole a trinket at a store, and has started talking back. She has also hit her preschool teacher. What should I do?
Shannon Says- What should you do? What should you do? You should start lifting weights with your right arm, that’s what you should do. That way, it won’t get so tired when you are wearing her spoiled little butt out with a belt every ten minutes. Look, the truth is that I don’t spank my kids near as much as I joke about, but that’s only because I don’t have to anymore. Raising kids is just like building a house. It all starts with a good foundation, and these early years is where you lay that down. Spank away, Granny.
Dear Shannon- I’ve been married for over 20 years. My husband and I separated for a short time, and he befriended another woman. I don’t think there was sex involved, but he throws their relationship in my face a good deal. I’m an attractive lady, in good shape financially, and he is becoming more and more emotionally difficult to deal with. What should I do? P.S. We do not have any children.
Shannon Says- Let me get this straight. You’re hot. You make good money, and you have no kids to worry about? Why are you even taking the time to write this? Pack your bags, girl. This is the one life you get, and you’ve wasted a quarter of yours with this dead beat. Oh, and as far as his “friendly” relationship with this other woman… I want you to Google the great philosopher BizMarkie to read his take on “friendly relationships” between men and women.
Dear Shannon- My husband’s sister is getting married in a couple of weeks. I’m very happy for her, but my in-laws have not invited my parents to the wedding. When my brothers were married, my parents made sure to invite my in-laws. This has hurt my parents’ feelings, and mine as well. What do you think about this?
Shannon Says- I’ve got news for you sweety. I can’t speak for your mother, but I’ll bet every red cent I have that your dad doesn’t give a damn about going to another wedding anyway. Invitation or not, just take your mother to the wedding with you. What are they going to do, turn you away? And let your father go play golf or watch football like every other man gets to do.
Dear Shannon- My father threw me a huge wedding this past spring. We had about 300 people attend, many of them business acquaintances of my fathers. My father wants me to write a thank you note for each gift, including those from people I do not know. I say what good would that do? What do you say?
Shannon Says- I say, you are the reason men hate weddings. These people traveled from God-knows-where, missed playing golf and watching football, spent hard-earned money on a gift so they could suck up to your father, and you are too good to write a simple thank you card? Geez lady, I hope it was an open bar at least.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Got some “Great” changes to make
I just celebrated another birthday this past week. Well, maybe “celebrated” is the wrong word to use. When you’ve had as many birthdays as I have, it’s just a day to reflect on what all you have and haven’t done in life. You use the day to remind yourself how far you’ve come, but also remind yourself how far you still have to go.
One of the very, very few good things about getting older is that you get to watch a younger generation grow up right before your eyes. In the last couple of years, my wife and I have witnessed three or few young couples get married and start their lives together.
And so now- in fact any minute now- my niece and her husband will have their first child. That will make me Great-Uncle Shannon. How old-manish does that sound? Seriously, that’s false teeth old.
I don’t know what I’ve been doing the last nine months, but I’d better get ready now. Great-uncles have good stories about their youth to tell children, and I don’t have any good stories. Well, let me rephrase that… I don’t have any appropriate stories to tell the young man. I guess I’m going to have to make up some stories, or just steal a couple from someone else.
That will be easy, but some other changes won’t be. For instance, I’ve got to switch from Levis blue jeans to kacky britches. And I’ve got to pull them way, way up. Somewhere around mid-stomach. I might even get me some suspenders.
I have to brush up on my thumb tricks, too. You know, the “got your nose right here” thing, and “watch me take my thumb off and slide it” trick. All kids love that, and all great-uncles know how to do it.
I’m already pretty good at the “horse eating an apple” knee tickle, because I still use that on my kids from time to time. Of course, my kids are a lot older and tougher, so I’ll have to adjust the pressure so I don’t hurt the little guy.
I’m probably going to start keeping me a bag of candy with me, too. Chocolate, maybe like a bag of snack sized Snickers or something. Both of his parents are pretty healthy and in good shape, so I’ll let them worry about giving him healthy stuff to eat like fruits and vegetables. When he comes to Great-Uncle Shannon’s house he gets what he wants. Who the Hell wants fruits and vegetables?
Along the same lines, I’ve got to start making sure I’ve got plenty of root beer, RC Cola, and orange soda on hand. Ooh, and lemonade in the summer. Might even put me a tire swing up somewhere, too.
And finally, I promise to always keep a $2 bill with me at all times from now on. Back in the day it was quarters, but inflation has blown that out of the water. A kid can’t buy anything with a quarter or two anymore.
Besides, he’d probably try to swallow the quarters anyway.
I just celebrated another birthday this past week. Well, maybe “celebrated” is the wrong word to use. When you’ve had as many birthdays as I have, it’s just a day to reflect on what all you have and haven’t done in life. You use the day to remind yourself how far you’ve come, but also remind yourself how far you still have to go.
One of the very, very few good things about getting older is that you get to watch a younger generation grow up right before your eyes. In the last couple of years, my wife and I have witnessed three or few young couples get married and start their lives together.
And so now- in fact any minute now- my niece and her husband will have their first child. That will make me Great-Uncle Shannon. How old-manish does that sound? Seriously, that’s false teeth old.
I don’t know what I’ve been doing the last nine months, but I’d better get ready now. Great-uncles have good stories about their youth to tell children, and I don’t have any good stories. Well, let me rephrase that… I don’t have any appropriate stories to tell the young man. I guess I’m going to have to make up some stories, or just steal a couple from someone else.
That will be easy, but some other changes won’t be. For instance, I’ve got to switch from Levis blue jeans to kacky britches. And I’ve got to pull them way, way up. Somewhere around mid-stomach. I might even get me some suspenders.
I have to brush up on my thumb tricks, too. You know, the “got your nose right here” thing, and “watch me take my thumb off and slide it” trick. All kids love that, and all great-uncles know how to do it.
I’m already pretty good at the “horse eating an apple” knee tickle, because I still use that on my kids from time to time. Of course, my kids are a lot older and tougher, so I’ll have to adjust the pressure so I don’t hurt the little guy.
I’m probably going to start keeping me a bag of candy with me, too. Chocolate, maybe like a bag of snack sized Snickers or something. Both of his parents are pretty healthy and in good shape, so I’ll let them worry about giving him healthy stuff to eat like fruits and vegetables. When he comes to Great-Uncle Shannon’s house he gets what he wants. Who the Hell wants fruits and vegetables?
Along the same lines, I’ve got to start making sure I’ve got plenty of root beer, RC Cola, and orange soda on hand. Ooh, and lemonade in the summer. Might even put me a tire swing up somewhere, too.
And finally, I promise to always keep a $2 bill with me at all times from now on. Back in the day it was quarters, but inflation has blown that out of the water. A kid can’t buy anything with a quarter or two anymore.
Besides, he’d probably try to swallow the quarters anyway.
Cornucopia of thoughts
My wife and kids haven’t done anything too dumb or funny to tell you about this week, and I’m sure everyone is sick and tired of political talk. So I figured I’d throw together some weird web stories for you this week. A cornucopia of thoughts, since Fall is finally in the air.
The first one is in honor of Halloween, since we just celebrated that holiday.
An eight year old New York girl is really named Boo!. Her mother and father- who I would bet a whole paycheck have ties to my last story in this column- named her that because she was supposed to be born on Halloween day.
“We didn’t want to call the baby “it” while my wife was pregnant,” said the girl’s father. “So we started calling her ‘Boo!’.”
“It was a joke that became reality,” the mother said. “And now, Halloween is extra fun.”
Oh, I’m sure it is. And I’ll bet that little girl doesn’t get beat up at school or made fun of at all, right? Please. I still get made fun of for having a girls’ name. You’re telling me that “Boo!” doesn’t take a little ribbing from time to time? You just know that every time a teacher calls out “Boo!” some other kid in the class says “Tee, sugar free. Your momma works at H-E-B.” Haha, my kids will love that one.
Our second story comes from Colorado, and it sounds eerily familiar to me.
Sanford Rothman, 63, of Boulder, woke up to a “bang” the other night and felt his left knee buckle. Rothman, who sleeps with pain pills and a 9 mm next to his bed on the night stand (genius), says he was sleep walking when he accidentally shot himself.
The reason this story sounded so familiar to me is because last Sunday I was watching football and dozed off on the couch. I woke up to a “bang” on my forehead.
When my eyes stopped watering, I saw my wife standing there with a rolling pen. “Um, you were baking in your sleep again,” she told me. “Luckily I ran in here and stopped you from hitting yourself again.”
Ahh, I’m a lucky man, folks.
And finally, have you ever seen the bumper stickers that say “Pork- The other white meat” or the commercials that say “Beef- It’s what’s for dinner”? Well, I think I might have a new one for you.
It seems just the other day I read something that said alcohol drinkers were the longest living group of people in the world.
But researchers in London recently revealed a study that says alcohol is more dangerous than illegal drugs such as cocaine, heroin, ecstacy, etc.
The researchers said they studied the effects of all known drugs, legal and illegal, and found that alcohol scored the highest when it came to addictiveness, harmfulness to one’s body, environmental compact, economic cost, and the breaking up of families.
I can see it now, people. I’ll be driving down the road when some redneck passes me and his bumper sticker will read “Chrystal Meth- The healthy alternative”.
My wife and kids haven’t done anything too dumb or funny to tell you about this week, and I’m sure everyone is sick and tired of political talk. So I figured I’d throw together some weird web stories for you this week. A cornucopia of thoughts, since Fall is finally in the air.
The first one is in honor of Halloween, since we just celebrated that holiday.
An eight year old New York girl is really named Boo!. Her mother and father- who I would bet a whole paycheck have ties to my last story in this column- named her that because she was supposed to be born on Halloween day.
“We didn’t want to call the baby “it” while my wife was pregnant,” said the girl’s father. “So we started calling her ‘Boo!’.”
“It was a joke that became reality,” the mother said. “And now, Halloween is extra fun.”
Oh, I’m sure it is. And I’ll bet that little girl doesn’t get beat up at school or made fun of at all, right? Please. I still get made fun of for having a girls’ name. You’re telling me that “Boo!” doesn’t take a little ribbing from time to time? You just know that every time a teacher calls out “Boo!” some other kid in the class says “Tee, sugar free. Your momma works at H-E-B.” Haha, my kids will love that one.
Our second story comes from Colorado, and it sounds eerily familiar to me.
Sanford Rothman, 63, of Boulder, woke up to a “bang” the other night and felt his left knee buckle. Rothman, who sleeps with pain pills and a 9 mm next to his bed on the night stand (genius), says he was sleep walking when he accidentally shot himself.
The reason this story sounded so familiar to me is because last Sunday I was watching football and dozed off on the couch. I woke up to a “bang” on my forehead.
When my eyes stopped watering, I saw my wife standing there with a rolling pen. “Um, you were baking in your sleep again,” she told me. “Luckily I ran in here and stopped you from hitting yourself again.”
Ahh, I’m a lucky man, folks.
And finally, have you ever seen the bumper stickers that say “Pork- The other white meat” or the commercials that say “Beef- It’s what’s for dinner”? Well, I think I might have a new one for you.
It seems just the other day I read something that said alcohol drinkers were the longest living group of people in the world.
But researchers in London recently revealed a study that says alcohol is more dangerous than illegal drugs such as cocaine, heroin, ecstacy, etc.
The researchers said they studied the effects of all known drugs, legal and illegal, and found that alcohol scored the highest when it came to addictiveness, harmfulness to one’s body, environmental compact, economic cost, and the breaking up of families.
I can see it now, people. I’ll be driving down the road when some redneck passes me and his bumper sticker will read “Chrystal Meth- The healthy alternative”.
Looking for a conservative holiday
Got quite a few things on the plate this week.
First of all, I’m happy that the Texas Rangers earned their first ever trip to the World Series. Actually, I’m only happy for Nolan Ryan and Josh Hamilton. I’m usually an Astros fan.
Ryan, who is one of the best pitchers to ever toss a ball, played for the Texas Rangers when he was younger. He also just became part owner of the team a few months ago.
Hamilton? Well, you have to love his story. This guy went from a self-described crack head and alcoholic just a few years ago to one of the best hitters in the league. His teammates think so much of him that instead of celebrating with champagne after the game like every other team in history, they used ginger-ale.
The only problem I have with Hamilton is his post-game speech. I felt the same way about Colt McCoy last year, and every other athlete who keeps putting God in their speeches. Look, I’m not a religious guy so maybe I’m not the one who should talk about this. But if there is a God, I doubt very seriously he cares whether or not somebody wins or loses a game.
Speaking of religious views, I’ll be glad when the political season is over. Along with the tacky signs in yards and the never-ending commercials, you also have to deal with phone calls nowadays. I was watching t.v. the other night when I got one of those calls. The guy on the other end was only trying to do his job, so rather than be rude I went ahead and tried to answer his questions. Tried, I said.
One of the first questions he asked me was if I usually vote Republican or Democrat. Right off the bat, we had a problem. I’ve never voted all Republican or all Democrat. And I believe people who do are mighty close-minded. How can anyone in their right mind agree with 100% of what any political party pushes on us? For instance, when it comes to crime, the death penalty, welfare and health care, I agree with one party. But on the other hand, when it comes to gay rights, abortion, and most environmental issues I tend to agree with the other party. Even if you don’t agree with me on these issues, you have to admit that no well-rounded person agrees with everything that someone says.
And finally, let’s talk about Thanksgiving. I know that at every Thanksgiving Day dinner, someone will bring a dish that makes everyone else in the family cringe. But there’s no easy way to tell them it’s disgusting without hurting their feelings. That’s where I come in.
Maybe your aunt has a green bean casserole that has bacon bits on top, I don’t know. Whatever it is, I want you to write me and tell me all about it. You can reach me at robconews.com, shannonscasta.blogspot.com, or find me on Facebook. In my column before Thanksgiving, I’ll tell them not to make it this year. Don’t worry, I won’t put your name or theirs, I’m not trying to embarrass anyone here.
What I’ll do is say “To the lady in (whatever town) who keeps making the chocolate pecan soup/pie- Stop it. A fork doesn’t do any good here, we need a spoon, or a ladle. And why in God’s name are you putting chocolate in a pecan pie anyway? That borders on criminal.”
And crime, which you already know, is something I’m very conservative about.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Contact Shannon at robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Got quite a few things on the plate this week.
First of all, I’m happy that the Texas Rangers earned their first ever trip to the World Series. Actually, I’m only happy for Nolan Ryan and Josh Hamilton. I’m usually an Astros fan.
Ryan, who is one of the best pitchers to ever toss a ball, played for the Texas Rangers when he was younger. He also just became part owner of the team a few months ago.
Hamilton? Well, you have to love his story. This guy went from a self-described crack head and alcoholic just a few years ago to one of the best hitters in the league. His teammates think so much of him that instead of celebrating with champagne after the game like every other team in history, they used ginger-ale.
The only problem I have with Hamilton is his post-game speech. I felt the same way about Colt McCoy last year, and every other athlete who keeps putting God in their speeches. Look, I’m not a religious guy so maybe I’m not the one who should talk about this. But if there is a God, I doubt very seriously he cares whether or not somebody wins or loses a game.
Speaking of religious views, I’ll be glad when the political season is over. Along with the tacky signs in yards and the never-ending commercials, you also have to deal with phone calls nowadays. I was watching t.v. the other night when I got one of those calls. The guy on the other end was only trying to do his job, so rather than be rude I went ahead and tried to answer his questions. Tried, I said.
One of the first questions he asked me was if I usually vote Republican or Democrat. Right off the bat, we had a problem. I’ve never voted all Republican or all Democrat. And I believe people who do are mighty close-minded. How can anyone in their right mind agree with 100% of what any political party pushes on us? For instance, when it comes to crime, the death penalty, welfare and health care, I agree with one party. But on the other hand, when it comes to gay rights, abortion, and most environmental issues I tend to agree with the other party. Even if you don’t agree with me on these issues, you have to admit that no well-rounded person agrees with everything that someone says.
And finally, let’s talk about Thanksgiving. I know that at every Thanksgiving Day dinner, someone will bring a dish that makes everyone else in the family cringe. But there’s no easy way to tell them it’s disgusting without hurting their feelings. That’s where I come in.
Maybe your aunt has a green bean casserole that has bacon bits on top, I don’t know. Whatever it is, I want you to write me and tell me all about it. You can reach me at robconews.com, shannonscasta.blogspot.com, or find me on Facebook. In my column before Thanksgiving, I’ll tell them not to make it this year. Don’t worry, I won’t put your name or theirs, I’m not trying to embarrass anyone here.
What I’ll do is say “To the lady in (whatever town) who keeps making the chocolate pecan soup/pie- Stop it. A fork doesn’t do any good here, we need a spoon, or a ladle. And why in God’s name are you putting chocolate in a pecan pie anyway? That borders on criminal.”
And crime, which you already know, is something I’m very conservative about.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Contact Shannon at robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Addicted to dependency
I haven’t played poker on the internet in a while, so I pulled out the ol’ plastic the other day and tried to send some money in. The sight that I usually play on stopped taking credit cards however, so I couldn’t play. And it’s all because our government made internet gambling illegal.
They (our government) say that the reason they want it outlawed is that too many people are getting themselves in debt, because they are addicted.
Call me skeptical, but I don’t buy that one.
Oh, I can believe that some folks are addicted to internet gambling. People can and do get addicted to just about anything these days.
What I’m having trouble believing is that the good old boys in congress have our best interest at heart.
Think about it. There are millions of people addicted to casinos and lottery tickets, but does the government outlaw casinos and the lottery. Of course not, that would cost them billions and billions of tax dollars every year.
If our government was so worried about our welfare, they would outlaw vehicles. I know that sounds crazy, but hear me out.
An average of 15.5 fatalities occur for every one billion miles driven in Texas alone. That’s way worse than being addicted in my book. But it’s too lucrative to outlaw, no matter the danger.
The government gets a cut when any vehicle is sold, as well as any parts that you may buy for it, and oil, gas window stickers, etc.
Everybody and their brother drives, therefore everybody and their brother pay these taxes. It’s easy money.
I suspect that the real reason our government is against internet gambling is because they can’t get their slice of the internet pie.
Most- if not all- of these gambling sights are based overseas, so they don’t have to pay U.S. taxes.
Now, let’s just say that I did believe their reasoning for outlawing internet gambling was to protect us- it would still be the wrong thing to do.
I’m a grown ass man who has worked hard for my money since the age of 16. I’m not wealthy by any means, or even what you would call comfortable. But I don’t ask the government for one red cent, either.
So the last thing I need or want is for some pencil pushing nerd behind a desk up in D.C. telling me what I can or cannot do with the money that I’ve earned.
At some point, people in this country are going to have to learn what it’s like to take responsibility for their own actions. Sometimes, with all of the seat belt laws, the helmet laws, and every other law that is supposed to protect us, it seems as though our government has taken over where our parents have left off.
And just like we depended on our parents to get us out of a jam, a lot of people are now depending on our government to bail them out every time they need help.
Don’t feel like growing up and getting a job? No problem, the government will send you a big fat check every month to feed you. They will even get your rent lowered for years at a time. So low that in many cases, your payment on your 52” flat screen is higher than your rent.
We have company bail outs, mortgage bail outs, credit card bail outs, etc. You can go climb a mountain in the winter, get lost or caught up in an avalanche, and our government will spend a few thousand dollars to come and find you. Or you can sit on your butt as a Category 5 hurricane comes at you, ignore every warning for a solid week to get out, then complain loudly when the government doesn’t get there fast enough to help you.
All of these things are a product of people depending too much on their government, much like a child whose parents never kicked him all the way out of the nest.
But as long as our government treats it’s citizens like children, the dependency is never going to stop.
I haven’t played poker on the internet in a while, so I pulled out the ol’ plastic the other day and tried to send some money in. The sight that I usually play on stopped taking credit cards however, so I couldn’t play. And it’s all because our government made internet gambling illegal.
They (our government) say that the reason they want it outlawed is that too many people are getting themselves in debt, because they are addicted.
Call me skeptical, but I don’t buy that one.
Oh, I can believe that some folks are addicted to internet gambling. People can and do get addicted to just about anything these days.
What I’m having trouble believing is that the good old boys in congress have our best interest at heart.
Think about it. There are millions of people addicted to casinos and lottery tickets, but does the government outlaw casinos and the lottery. Of course not, that would cost them billions and billions of tax dollars every year.
If our government was so worried about our welfare, they would outlaw vehicles. I know that sounds crazy, but hear me out.
An average of 15.5 fatalities occur for every one billion miles driven in Texas alone. That’s way worse than being addicted in my book. But it’s too lucrative to outlaw, no matter the danger.
The government gets a cut when any vehicle is sold, as well as any parts that you may buy for it, and oil, gas window stickers, etc.
Everybody and their brother drives, therefore everybody and their brother pay these taxes. It’s easy money.
I suspect that the real reason our government is against internet gambling is because they can’t get their slice of the internet pie.
Most- if not all- of these gambling sights are based overseas, so they don’t have to pay U.S. taxes.
Now, let’s just say that I did believe their reasoning for outlawing internet gambling was to protect us- it would still be the wrong thing to do.
I’m a grown ass man who has worked hard for my money since the age of 16. I’m not wealthy by any means, or even what you would call comfortable. But I don’t ask the government for one red cent, either.
So the last thing I need or want is for some pencil pushing nerd behind a desk up in D.C. telling me what I can or cannot do with the money that I’ve earned.
At some point, people in this country are going to have to learn what it’s like to take responsibility for their own actions. Sometimes, with all of the seat belt laws, the helmet laws, and every other law that is supposed to protect us, it seems as though our government has taken over where our parents have left off.
And just like we depended on our parents to get us out of a jam, a lot of people are now depending on our government to bail them out every time they need help.
Don’t feel like growing up and getting a job? No problem, the government will send you a big fat check every month to feed you. They will even get your rent lowered for years at a time. So low that in many cases, your payment on your 52” flat screen is higher than your rent.
We have company bail outs, mortgage bail outs, credit card bail outs, etc. You can go climb a mountain in the winter, get lost or caught up in an avalanche, and our government will spend a few thousand dollars to come and find you. Or you can sit on your butt as a Category 5 hurricane comes at you, ignore every warning for a solid week to get out, then complain loudly when the government doesn’t get there fast enough to help you.
All of these things are a product of people depending too much on their government, much like a child whose parents never kicked him all the way out of the nest.
But as long as our government treats it’s citizens like children, the dependency is never going to stop.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Something’s fishy
We’ve had a three-week run of amazing weather here in south central Texas. It’s been a little too cool in the mornings for my taste, but by 10 a.m. it has been just beautiful. So when I found out that I had last Friday off from work, and my kids were off as well, I decided to take them fishing.
Now, I’ve said in this column before that I’m not much of a fisherman. I like it okay, it’s just not one of my favorite things in the world to do. I think I like the idea of going fishing on a beautiful day way more than I like the fishing itself.
My kids, however, love it. So like any good father, that’s what I decided to do with my day off.
So it was me, my three kids, my daughter’s friend and my dog all loaded up in the ol’ Jeep. When we added a case of water, the tackle box, a couple of fishing poles, a box of worms and a bucket, we were packed in there like sardines. And yes, I do see the irony.
My son and I threw a hook in the water as soon as we got there. Our plan was to use a couple of the worms to catch a few small perch, then use those perch or the rest of the worms to catch us a big catfish or maybe even a bass.
Right from the start, we were having trouble. We were both looking at dozens of perch right there in front of us, but the sneaky little rascals somehow kept taking our worms without getting hooked. Meanwhile, the girls kept bugging us about wanting to fish, too. I didn’t have enough fishing poles, so I just tied some hooks to some old string I found and let them have at it.
“Dad, those girls are taking our spot,” my son said.
“That’s okay buddy,” I told him. “If we aren’t catching anything, they won’t either. They’ll get bored in a couple of minutes and be gone before you know it.”
So I baited one of the hooks, then another one, and when I was putting a piece of worm on the third girl’s hook the first girl yelled out “I’ve got one!” I looked up, and sure enough one of my daughters had a little perch on her hook.
“Okay, just give me a second and I’ll..”
“I’ve got one too!” hollered my daughter’s friend. And while I unhooked those two fish- you guessed it- my youngest daughter pulls one out of the water.
After that, my son and I spent most of our time either baiting their hooks or pulling fish off of them.
“Number five!” my oldest daughter yelled.
“Number eight for me!” said her friend. And on, and on, and on.
And when I did get to fish, you wanna know what I caught? Two stinkin’ turtles. The first one was embarrassing, because it was in front of all the kids and it fooled me. I thought I had a big old lazy fish on the line, and I was talking trash to the girls the whole time I reeled it in.
“Whew hoo,” I laughed. “I’m gonna be eating good tonight girls, while y’all are eating fish sticks.” Then they all saw the turtle and laughed so hard they almost fell off the pier.
And of course, you know how the rest of the day went…
“Number thirteen!”
“Number fourteen!”
We’ve had a three-week run of amazing weather here in south central Texas. It’s been a little too cool in the mornings for my taste, but by 10 a.m. it has been just beautiful. So when I found out that I had last Friday off from work, and my kids were off as well, I decided to take them fishing.
Now, I’ve said in this column before that I’m not much of a fisherman. I like it okay, it’s just not one of my favorite things in the world to do. I think I like the idea of going fishing on a beautiful day way more than I like the fishing itself.
My kids, however, love it. So like any good father, that’s what I decided to do with my day off.
So it was me, my three kids, my daughter’s friend and my dog all loaded up in the ol’ Jeep. When we added a case of water, the tackle box, a couple of fishing poles, a box of worms and a bucket, we were packed in there like sardines. And yes, I do see the irony.
My son and I threw a hook in the water as soon as we got there. Our plan was to use a couple of the worms to catch a few small perch, then use those perch or the rest of the worms to catch us a big catfish or maybe even a bass.
Right from the start, we were having trouble. We were both looking at dozens of perch right there in front of us, but the sneaky little rascals somehow kept taking our worms without getting hooked. Meanwhile, the girls kept bugging us about wanting to fish, too. I didn’t have enough fishing poles, so I just tied some hooks to some old string I found and let them have at it.
“Dad, those girls are taking our spot,” my son said.
“That’s okay buddy,” I told him. “If we aren’t catching anything, they won’t either. They’ll get bored in a couple of minutes and be gone before you know it.”
So I baited one of the hooks, then another one, and when I was putting a piece of worm on the third girl’s hook the first girl yelled out “I’ve got one!” I looked up, and sure enough one of my daughters had a little perch on her hook.
“Okay, just give me a second and I’ll..”
“I’ve got one too!” hollered my daughter’s friend. And while I unhooked those two fish- you guessed it- my youngest daughter pulls one out of the water.
After that, my son and I spent most of our time either baiting their hooks or pulling fish off of them.
“Number five!” my oldest daughter yelled.
“Number eight for me!” said her friend. And on, and on, and on.
And when I did get to fish, you wanna know what I caught? Two stinkin’ turtles. The first one was embarrassing, because it was in front of all the kids and it fooled me. I thought I had a big old lazy fish on the line, and I was talking trash to the girls the whole time I reeled it in.
“Whew hoo,” I laughed. “I’m gonna be eating good tonight girls, while y’all are eating fish sticks.” Then they all saw the turtle and laughed so hard they almost fell off the pier.
And of course, you know how the rest of the day went…
“Number thirteen!”
“Number fourteen!”
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Chicken it is, I guess
I took a couple of weeks off from my column, and that means that I’ve got plenty to talk about this week.
First of all, let me burst a few bubbles out there. No matter where I go, for the past 12 years, people always say to me “Your wife is such a sweet person”, or “You sure are lucky to have such a sweet wife like that”. Well now, folks. Let’s all pump our brakes and slow down just a bit.
All year long, for as long as I can remember, I look forward to the St. Mary’s Fall Festival. It’s a local church bizarre, and for the last couple of years my wife has been very involved in it. There are games for the kids, plenty of socializing, and all the money raised goes to a great cause.
But the thing I enjoy most about it is the food. That’s what keeps me dreaming about it all year long. What I do is wait ‘till about noon or so, and I go get me a couple of fajita tacos and a, um, cold beverage (It’s a Catholic church, don’t panic.). Then I mill about for a while, talking a little football with a few buddies and trying to hide from my kids so they don’t ask me for more money. After an hour or two I mosey on over and get a plate of the best spaghetti that you’ve ever tasted. (And ladies, please don’t tell me your spaghetti is the best. Unless you are Italian, you aren’t even in the conversation. Sorry.)
Anyway, I had to work all day this past Sunday and couldn’t make it to the bizarre. First time in years that I’ve missed it. I kept thinking that somehow, someway, my wife would find a way to get me a couple of fajita tacos.
“She loves me,” I told myself. “And she knows how much I love those tacos. There’s no way she won’t take care of me.” And I’d wait another hour or so, and look up again. “Surely someone she knows was coming this way at least. I’ll bet she sends me something with them.” An hour or two later, and still nothing.
I finally gave up on the tacos about 2:00 p.m. or so, but still held out hope that she would bring me a plate of spaghetti home. My sister even sent me a picture on my phone of my son, knee deep in a plate of it. He was using a pitchfork to shovel it in, and he had sauce all over his face. Surely my wife paid for me a plate at the same time that she bought my son a plate, right?
“That’s the ticket,” I said to myself. “A good ol’ pile of spaghetti, with homemade meatballs, and maybe a few pieces of bread. Perfect.”
So I finally get through mowing and weed eating at 5:00, and on my way home I give her a call.
“Do y’all have any tacos or spaghetti left?”
“I don’t think so,” she told me. “I think they have a few hamburgers left over.”
Hamburgers? What the? I don’t want a hamburger. You can get a hamburger at Sonic (Although they put the vegetables and the meat upside down. Another topic for another column.) You can get a hamburger at Dairy Queen. Hell, you can get a hamburger anywhere.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been really busy, and I haven’t even eaten myself.” I had to settle for a greasy box of chicken and a jalapeno.
I can hear a lot of you readers saying “Shannon, she was working for the church. Give her a break.” But like most stories in life, this one has two sides. A darker side. A sinister side.
As it turns out, the investigation revealed that indeed, her mother brought her a fajita taco at 11:36 a.m. It had meat, guacamole, pico de gallo and a touch of sour cream. She just didn’t think about me as she inhaled it.
Let the record also show that at 6:42 p.m., minutes after she arrived home, I walked into the kitchen and witnessed her spinning her fork in the last bit of spaghetti on a plastic plate. I never even got a bite.
There, folks, is your “sweet little wife”. A woman that would let her husband shrivel up and blow away into the wind from hunger, were it not for his own survival skills… and the chicken place.
I took a couple of weeks off from my column, and that means that I’ve got plenty to talk about this week.
First of all, let me burst a few bubbles out there. No matter where I go, for the past 12 years, people always say to me “Your wife is such a sweet person”, or “You sure are lucky to have such a sweet wife like that”. Well now, folks. Let’s all pump our brakes and slow down just a bit.
All year long, for as long as I can remember, I look forward to the St. Mary’s Fall Festival. It’s a local church bizarre, and for the last couple of years my wife has been very involved in it. There are games for the kids, plenty of socializing, and all the money raised goes to a great cause.
But the thing I enjoy most about it is the food. That’s what keeps me dreaming about it all year long. What I do is wait ‘till about noon or so, and I go get me a couple of fajita tacos and a, um, cold beverage (It’s a Catholic church, don’t panic.). Then I mill about for a while, talking a little football with a few buddies and trying to hide from my kids so they don’t ask me for more money. After an hour or two I mosey on over and get a plate of the best spaghetti that you’ve ever tasted. (And ladies, please don’t tell me your spaghetti is the best. Unless you are Italian, you aren’t even in the conversation. Sorry.)
Anyway, I had to work all day this past Sunday and couldn’t make it to the bizarre. First time in years that I’ve missed it. I kept thinking that somehow, someway, my wife would find a way to get me a couple of fajita tacos.
“She loves me,” I told myself. “And she knows how much I love those tacos. There’s no way she won’t take care of me.” And I’d wait another hour or so, and look up again. “Surely someone she knows was coming this way at least. I’ll bet she sends me something with them.” An hour or two later, and still nothing.
I finally gave up on the tacos about 2:00 p.m. or so, but still held out hope that she would bring me a plate of spaghetti home. My sister even sent me a picture on my phone of my son, knee deep in a plate of it. He was using a pitchfork to shovel it in, and he had sauce all over his face. Surely my wife paid for me a plate at the same time that she bought my son a plate, right?
“That’s the ticket,” I said to myself. “A good ol’ pile of spaghetti, with homemade meatballs, and maybe a few pieces of bread. Perfect.”
So I finally get through mowing and weed eating at 5:00, and on my way home I give her a call.
“Do y’all have any tacos or spaghetti left?”
“I don’t think so,” she told me. “I think they have a few hamburgers left over.”
Hamburgers? What the? I don’t want a hamburger. You can get a hamburger at Sonic (Although they put the vegetables and the meat upside down. Another topic for another column.) You can get a hamburger at Dairy Queen. Hell, you can get a hamburger anywhere.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been really busy, and I haven’t even eaten myself.” I had to settle for a greasy box of chicken and a jalapeno.
I can hear a lot of you readers saying “Shannon, she was working for the church. Give her a break.” But like most stories in life, this one has two sides. A darker side. A sinister side.
As it turns out, the investigation revealed that indeed, her mother brought her a fajita taco at 11:36 a.m. It had meat, guacamole, pico de gallo and a touch of sour cream. She just didn’t think about me as she inhaled it.
Let the record also show that at 6:42 p.m., minutes after she arrived home, I walked into the kitchen and witnessed her spinning her fork in the last bit of spaghetti on a plastic plate. I never even got a bite.
There, folks, is your “sweet little wife”. A woman that would let her husband shrivel up and blow away into the wind from hunger, were it not for his own survival skills… and the chicken place.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Going under…
I hope we didn’t cross paths last week. If we did, let me apologize because I know I wasn’t myself. I was probably a little grumpy, a little short with you, and totally had my mind somewhere else. You see, I had a dentist appointment last Friday.
I know, I know. Everybody gets a little nervous when it comes to going to the dentist. But I had a little extra pressure on me- let me explain.
A few years ago, I had a procedure done where the doctors needed to see inside my stomach. In order to do that, they gave me the gas and put me to sleep. For some reason my wife couldn’t take off work that day, so my sister was nice enough to drive me to the doctor’s office and back.
Once I regained my senses, my sister gave me a very serious look and said “I don’t think it would be a good idea to ever let your wife see you like that.” She said that when I was waking up, and the medicine still had a hold on me, I was “very friendly” with every nurse I could find.
No, I take that back- that’s not what she said at all. She told me that I hit on every female that got close enough to listen to me. And not in that cute, shy, eyelash-batting way, either. She said I was the obnoxious drunk guy at the bar that makes women’s skin crawl as they reach for their can of mace.
Now, you folks know that I’m not like that. For one thing, I’m not the flirty kind of guy to begin with. For another, my wife and all her cronies know everything that happens in this town and the surrounding towns, so I could never get away with it. And don’t even get me started on the whole Facebook networking tattle-tale thing…
Okay, so fast-forward to last week when I found out that a local anesthesia wasn’t going to do the trick- I had to go all the way under again. The first thing I do is see if my sister is available. “Don’t be silly,” my wife said. “I will take you myself.” That forced me to tell her that evidently anesthesia turns me into a broke, pudgier version of Tiger Woods.
And sure enough, when we get to the dentist’s office every girl in there was good looking. And they were all wearing those doctor smocks. Which leads me to confess something here: You know how all women like a man in uniform? Cops, firemen, UPS, etc? Well, for some reason that’s how I am with women in smocks, or scrubs, or whatever you call them. Yes, I know that’s weird. And don’t ask me why, because I know they aren’t exactly form-fitting. Maybe it’s the whole “care-giver” thing that I didn’t get enough of when I was a kid. Who knows? The point is, I like them. And the fact that every lady in the office was wearing them made me even more nervous. I kept telling myself “Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word.”
“Relax, I’ve seen you when you sleep and it’s not a pretty sight,” said my wife. “Trust me, you can flirt all you want. My money says they still send you home with me.”
And she was right. As it turns out, I behaved myself like a gentleman the whole time.
Oh, don’t you worry though. The anesthesia still made me nutty as a Snicker’s bar, and my wife was nice enough to video the evidence for everyone. I’m absolutely sure that some of it will be posted somewhere at some point, but we are currently negotiating the editing process.
You see? I wouldn’t have had to worry about that if my sister had just driven me.
I hope we didn’t cross paths last week. If we did, let me apologize because I know I wasn’t myself. I was probably a little grumpy, a little short with you, and totally had my mind somewhere else. You see, I had a dentist appointment last Friday.
I know, I know. Everybody gets a little nervous when it comes to going to the dentist. But I had a little extra pressure on me- let me explain.
A few years ago, I had a procedure done where the doctors needed to see inside my stomach. In order to do that, they gave me the gas and put me to sleep. For some reason my wife couldn’t take off work that day, so my sister was nice enough to drive me to the doctor’s office and back.
Once I regained my senses, my sister gave me a very serious look and said “I don’t think it would be a good idea to ever let your wife see you like that.” She said that when I was waking up, and the medicine still had a hold on me, I was “very friendly” with every nurse I could find.
No, I take that back- that’s not what she said at all. She told me that I hit on every female that got close enough to listen to me. And not in that cute, shy, eyelash-batting way, either. She said I was the obnoxious drunk guy at the bar that makes women’s skin crawl as they reach for their can of mace.
Now, you folks know that I’m not like that. For one thing, I’m not the flirty kind of guy to begin with. For another, my wife and all her cronies know everything that happens in this town and the surrounding towns, so I could never get away with it. And don’t even get me started on the whole Facebook networking tattle-tale thing…
Okay, so fast-forward to last week when I found out that a local anesthesia wasn’t going to do the trick- I had to go all the way under again. The first thing I do is see if my sister is available. “Don’t be silly,” my wife said. “I will take you myself.” That forced me to tell her that evidently anesthesia turns me into a broke, pudgier version of Tiger Woods.
And sure enough, when we get to the dentist’s office every girl in there was good looking. And they were all wearing those doctor smocks. Which leads me to confess something here: You know how all women like a man in uniform? Cops, firemen, UPS, etc? Well, for some reason that’s how I am with women in smocks, or scrubs, or whatever you call them. Yes, I know that’s weird. And don’t ask me why, because I know they aren’t exactly form-fitting. Maybe it’s the whole “care-giver” thing that I didn’t get enough of when I was a kid. Who knows? The point is, I like them. And the fact that every lady in the office was wearing them made me even more nervous. I kept telling myself “Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word.”
“Relax, I’ve seen you when you sleep and it’s not a pretty sight,” said my wife. “Trust me, you can flirt all you want. My money says they still send you home with me.”
And she was right. As it turns out, I behaved myself like a gentleman the whole time.
Oh, don’t you worry though. The anesthesia still made me nutty as a Snicker’s bar, and my wife was nice enough to video the evidence for everyone. I’m absolutely sure that some of it will be posted somewhere at some point, but we are currently negotiating the editing process.
You see? I wouldn’t have had to worry about that if my sister had just driven me.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Running through walls
Some folks are Baptist. Some folks are Catholic. Still others are Methodist. Well, I’m Football. Texas Football Magazine is my Bible. I attend church Saturdays, Sundays, and now Friday nights… again.
This weekend, Minnesota ’s John Randle (from Hearne), Dallas ’ Emmitt Smith, San Francisco ’s Jerry Rice and a few others will be inducted into the Hall of Fame. After that, there will be football of some sort on t.v. every weekend until February 6. Halle-freaking-lujah.
I’ve done a lot of traveling over the past few years. Been to eight different states all over the South, so I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. Tennessee loves their football. Louisiana loves their football, Mississippi and Arkansas feel the same way. I’ve got some family out in South Carolina , and they are huge football fans also. But I’ve got to tell you, what they say about football in Texas is true. There’s nothing quite like it.
I watched Kenny Chesney’s new video, “The Boys of Fall”. For the next two hours, I believe I could have ran through a wall. The video did a great job of talking about locker room smells, the smell of fresh cut grass, walking through the high school halls wearing your jerseys on game days, etc.
When I watched the video and heard the song I wasn’t thinking about my own high school playing days because, well, the water boys got about as much playing time as I did. I didn’t even like football when I was that age.
I could, however, close my eyes and remember my nephew’s ten-catch game in the playoffs a few years back. I could remember when their playoff run finally came to an end, the players were openly crying on the field and their fathers were hugging them and shedding the same tears.
I could close my eyes and remember former Hearne coach Craig Slaughter running and jumping down the sideline like a kid, trying to keep pace with Ken Dunn or Montre Webber as they scored another touchdown. I could also close my eyes and see the sea of red that is the stands at a Bremond football game.
In the video, New Orleans Saints head coach Sean Payton told a group of high school players that people live vicariously through them. And God, was he right.
I’ve never, ever been more proud of my nine year old son than when he takes his helmet off of his sweaty little head after running hard in practice, or when he accidentally finds himself in the middle of a tackle and can’t wait to make sure I saw him.
Look, he weighs 50 lbs. and has the speed of cold syrup, so I know he will likely never be Colt McCoy or Drew Brees. And I couldn’t care less. In my eyes, he’s a Hall of Famer.
And the lessons that he and other little boys are learning when they play sports- hard work, responsibility, the meaning of the word team, etc.- you just can’t learn anywhere else. That’s why it amazes me when people- especially parents- tell me they aren’t sports fans. It’s such a great metaphore and teaching tool for life.
So if you ever played a little high school football, enjoy the game now, or are a woman with a son that plays, you have to watch this video. Go to YouTube, go to ESPN.com, go wherever you have to go. Just watch it.
And just try not to run through a wall.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Some folks are Baptist. Some folks are Catholic. Still others are Methodist. Well, I’m Football. Texas Football Magazine is my Bible. I attend church Saturdays, Sundays, and now Friday nights… again.
This weekend, Minnesota ’s John Randle (from Hearne), Dallas ’ Emmitt Smith, San Francisco ’s Jerry Rice and a few others will be inducted into the Hall of Fame. After that, there will be football of some sort on t.v. every weekend until February 6. Halle-freaking-lujah.
I’ve done a lot of traveling over the past few years. Been to eight different states all over the South, so I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. Tennessee loves their football. Louisiana loves their football, Mississippi and Arkansas feel the same way. I’ve got some family out in South Carolina , and they are huge football fans also. But I’ve got to tell you, what they say about football in Texas is true. There’s nothing quite like it.
I watched Kenny Chesney’s new video, “The Boys of Fall”. For the next two hours, I believe I could have ran through a wall. The video did a great job of talking about locker room smells, the smell of fresh cut grass, walking through the high school halls wearing your jerseys on game days, etc.
When I watched the video and heard the song I wasn’t thinking about my own high school playing days because, well, the water boys got about as much playing time as I did. I didn’t even like football when I was that age.
I could, however, close my eyes and remember my nephew’s ten-catch game in the playoffs a few years back. I could remember when their playoff run finally came to an end, the players were openly crying on the field and their fathers were hugging them and shedding the same tears.
I could close my eyes and remember former Hearne coach Craig Slaughter running and jumping down the sideline like a kid, trying to keep pace with Ken Dunn or Montre Webber as they scored another touchdown. I could also close my eyes and see the sea of red that is the stands at a Bremond football game.
In the video, New Orleans Saints head coach Sean Payton told a group of high school players that people live vicariously through them. And God, was he right.
I’ve never, ever been more proud of my nine year old son than when he takes his helmet off of his sweaty little head after running hard in practice, or when he accidentally finds himself in the middle of a tackle and can’t wait to make sure I saw him.
Look, he weighs 50 lbs. and has the speed of cold syrup, so I know he will likely never be Colt McCoy or Drew Brees. And I couldn’t care less. In my eyes, he’s a Hall of Famer.
And the lessons that he and other little boys are learning when they play sports- hard work, responsibility, the meaning of the word team, etc.- you just can’t learn anywhere else. That’s why it amazes me when people- especially parents- tell me they aren’t sports fans. It’s such a great metaphore and teaching tool for life.
So if you ever played a little high school football, enjoy the game now, or are a woman with a son that plays, you have to watch this video. Go to YouTube, go to ESPN.com, go wherever you have to go. Just watch it.
And just try not to run through a wall.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Just venting
I haven’t vented here in a long time. My wife told me that I sounded too grumpy a while back, so I’ve tried to sound more friendly lately. Well I give up. I can’t do it anymore. I think that trying to be friendly is unhealthy for me. I’ve been smiling a lot more lately, but the heartburn has been through the roof. So let’s look at a few things that have my blood pressure up this week.
First of all, I’m ready for school to start again. My kids are eating everything in the house that isn’t nailed down, and they play on the computer way too much. My youngest daughter can rattle off her password for Millsbury.com that is 743 characters long, but she couldn’t tell you how many planets we have in the solar system if a bowl of ice cream depended on it. Between the vacations, the food, and the electric bill I’m going to have to get a fourth job. Speaking of that…
Another thing that I’m not crazy about is President Obama extending the unemployment benefits for another six months. I just can’t imagine how someone could believe that’s a good idea.
The other day I was watching ESPN highlights of the Tour de France. Bicycle Nerd #1 was leading the race when his chain fell off his bike. Bicycle Nerd #2 passed him up and won the stage. Well, later that day Bicycle Nerd #2 got hammered by the press and Bicycle Nerd #1 for dirty racing. It seems he was supposed to stop his bike and wait on Bicycle Nerd #1 to get his chain back on.
And I remember thinking to myself, “That’s why America kicks everyone’s butt all the time- because we don’t go around trying to make sure everything is fair.” If you fall down in this country you had better get up quickly or you’ll have foot marks on your back. The next guy in line wants to be successful even more than you do.
Of course I then turned the channel from ESPN to CNN, and saw that the unemployment benefits had been extended and my whole theory went out the window. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Welfare, government handouts, and most charity makes otherwise good people lazy. It’s just human nature.
I believe if you want to make this country’s economy stronger, instead of extending free money you need to shorten the amount of time you live off the government. Force people to get out and get a job or starve. If one job isn’t enough to pay the bills, work two jobs. It won’t kill you, I promise. Allow people to live in government housing for one year, then raise the rent to a normal price and have that extra money go back to the government. That’s plenty of time for them to find a decent paying job. I guarantee that you can look at almost any government housing complex in America and you will find 20 and 30 year-old people that have never lived anywhere else and have never worked a day in their lives. That’s ridiculous.
And finally, let’s talk about the thing that has me upset the most this week. Will somebody out there please, please, please write in, call, or email me the reason that I can’t buy a damn hamburger anymore without the meat being served on top of the vegetables? It’s a full-blown epedimic.
Everybody knows that since the beginning of time whenever you eat a burger the meat goes on bottom, then the cheese, then the vegetables. But for the last year or so, eight out of every ten times I order a burger the vegetables are on bottom for some reason. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m sure there is a reason for it (Heat rises? Easier stacking?) but I don’t like it a bit. And you can’t just flip it over and eat it, because then the buns are upside down. Nope, you have to spend ten minutes deconstructing the whole thing, then building it back up the right way. Hell, with the amount of work involved they should be paying me to eat it.
Come to think of it, maybe that could be my fourth job.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
I haven’t vented here in a long time. My wife told me that I sounded too grumpy a while back, so I’ve tried to sound more friendly lately. Well I give up. I can’t do it anymore. I think that trying to be friendly is unhealthy for me. I’ve been smiling a lot more lately, but the heartburn has been through the roof. So let’s look at a few things that have my blood pressure up this week.
First of all, I’m ready for school to start again. My kids are eating everything in the house that isn’t nailed down, and they play on the computer way too much. My youngest daughter can rattle off her password for Millsbury.com that is 743 characters long, but she couldn’t tell you how many planets we have in the solar system if a bowl of ice cream depended on it. Between the vacations, the food, and the electric bill I’m going to have to get a fourth job. Speaking of that…
Another thing that I’m not crazy about is President Obama extending the unemployment benefits for another six months. I just can’t imagine how someone could believe that’s a good idea.
The other day I was watching ESPN highlights of the Tour de France. Bicycle Nerd #1 was leading the race when his chain fell off his bike. Bicycle Nerd #2 passed him up and won the stage. Well, later that day Bicycle Nerd #2 got hammered by the press and Bicycle Nerd #1 for dirty racing. It seems he was supposed to stop his bike and wait on Bicycle Nerd #1 to get his chain back on.
And I remember thinking to myself, “That’s why America kicks everyone’s butt all the time- because we don’t go around trying to make sure everything is fair.” If you fall down in this country you had better get up quickly or you’ll have foot marks on your back. The next guy in line wants to be successful even more than you do.
Of course I then turned the channel from ESPN to CNN, and saw that the unemployment benefits had been extended and my whole theory went out the window. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Welfare, government handouts, and most charity makes otherwise good people lazy. It’s just human nature.
I believe if you want to make this country’s economy stronger, instead of extending free money you need to shorten the amount of time you live off the government. Force people to get out and get a job or starve. If one job isn’t enough to pay the bills, work two jobs. It won’t kill you, I promise. Allow people to live in government housing for one year, then raise the rent to a normal price and have that extra money go back to the government. That’s plenty of time for them to find a decent paying job. I guarantee that you can look at almost any government housing complex in America and you will find 20 and 30 year-old people that have never lived anywhere else and have never worked a day in their lives. That’s ridiculous.
And finally, let’s talk about the thing that has me upset the most this week. Will somebody out there please, please, please write in, call, or email me the reason that I can’t buy a damn hamburger anymore without the meat being served on top of the vegetables? It’s a full-blown epedimic.
Everybody knows that since the beginning of time whenever you eat a burger the meat goes on bottom, then the cheese, then the vegetables. But for the last year or so, eight out of every ten times I order a burger the vegetables are on bottom for some reason. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m sure there is a reason for it (Heat rises? Easier stacking?) but I don’t like it a bit. And you can’t just flip it over and eat it, because then the buns are upside down. Nope, you have to spend ten minutes deconstructing the whole thing, then building it back up the right way. Hell, with the amount of work involved they should be paying me to eat it.
Come to think of it, maybe that could be my fourth job.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Hard to compete with that…
Hello from Surfside, Texas . We are here on vacation this week, which implies that I will be doing a lot of relaxing and having fun. Haha. In the words of the great Lee Corso, “Not so fast my friend.”
We are renting a different beach house this year than we usually do, and it has one television and no ESPN. And ten minutes into swimming, my oldest daughter was stung by a jellyfish. So yeah, it might be a long week.
Tell you what, though. It is kinda nice to sit on the beach and just stare at nothing for a while. I was in the middle of doing that earlier when I started thinking about my nephew and his new bride, who are celebrating their honeymoon on another beach a few thousand miles away right now.
It was a beautiful wedding, with everything going without a hitch. And it lasted about twenty minutes, which is unheard of these days. Every other wedding I’ve been to lately is an all day event.
My nephew cried as the bride’s father walked her down the isle. I’m sure his buddies will poke him in the ribs a little for that, but I won’t. I did the same thing thirteen years ago at my own wedding. You’ve somehow convinced the girl of your dreams to spend the rest of her life with you- if that doesn’t make you a little emotional, something is wrong.
I’ll tell you what I will have a few words with him about, though. In fact, I’m thinking of putting a bag of sugar in his gas tank the next time I see him. He wrote a song for their first dance at the reception. It detailed their time together, from when they first met all the way into the future when they have children. It was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever witnessed, and every married man there wanted to beat him with a tube sock full of batteries.
Have you any idea what kind of pressure that put the rest of us married guys under? We can’t compete with that. Every wife in there turned to their husbands and scolded them for never writing a song about them. As a married man, how was I supposed to follow that up? “Um, baby, want another jello shot? This one’s blue.”
Luckily, we had this vacation planned right after the wedding. So while everyone else’s wife had to go back to work this week, my wife gets to sit on the beach and watch me run into the ocean wearing a tiny speedo. That outta make her fall in love with me all over again. Heck, she might even write a song about me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Hello from Surfside, Texas . We are here on vacation this week, which implies that I will be doing a lot of relaxing and having fun. Haha. In the words of the great Lee Corso, “Not so fast my friend.”
We are renting a different beach house this year than we usually do, and it has one television and no ESPN. And ten minutes into swimming, my oldest daughter was stung by a jellyfish. So yeah, it might be a long week.
Tell you what, though. It is kinda nice to sit on the beach and just stare at nothing for a while. I was in the middle of doing that earlier when I started thinking about my nephew and his new bride, who are celebrating their honeymoon on another beach a few thousand miles away right now.
It was a beautiful wedding, with everything going without a hitch. And it lasted about twenty minutes, which is unheard of these days. Every other wedding I’ve been to lately is an all day event.
My nephew cried as the bride’s father walked her down the isle. I’m sure his buddies will poke him in the ribs a little for that, but I won’t. I did the same thing thirteen years ago at my own wedding. You’ve somehow convinced the girl of your dreams to spend the rest of her life with you- if that doesn’t make you a little emotional, something is wrong.
I’ll tell you what I will have a few words with him about, though. In fact, I’m thinking of putting a bag of sugar in his gas tank the next time I see him. He wrote a song for their first dance at the reception. It detailed their time together, from when they first met all the way into the future when they have children. It was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever witnessed, and every married man there wanted to beat him with a tube sock full of batteries.
Have you any idea what kind of pressure that put the rest of us married guys under? We can’t compete with that. Every wife in there turned to their husbands and scolded them for never writing a song about them. As a married man, how was I supposed to follow that up? “Um, baby, want another jello shot? This one’s blue.”
Luckily, we had this vacation planned right after the wedding. So while everyone else’s wife had to go back to work this week, my wife gets to sit on the beach and watch me run into the ocean wearing a tiny speedo. That outta make her fall in love with me all over again. Heck, she might even write a song about me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
And the survey says…
My wife and I were having a discussion the other day. Well, I’m not sure “discussion” is the word to use. It was one of those talks that married people have where you make sure and chuckle after everything you say, just so it won’t turn into a real argument.
Anyway, during the “discussion” she let me know that I was a jerk- only she didn’t say jerk. She used another word for jerk that would never make the paper. It has seven letters, and begins with the letter ‘A’. I’m sure if you use your imagination you can come up with it. But for this column, we’ll use the word jerk.
I disagreed with her, of course. I know I used to be an as-, um, jerk. But I honestly don’t think I am anymore. Maybe it’s being a father, maybe it’s conversations I’ve had with people that I respect. It could be that I’ve just grown older and wiser. Either way, I think I’ve changed a good bit in the last few years.
“Tell you what,” I told her. “Here’s my phone. Let’s call ten people from my contact list that know me well, and we’ll just see how many people think I’m really a jerk.”
She didn’t just run across the room. She did three somersaults and a double back flip on the way. Come to think of it, maybe that was a bad omen for me.
We tried calling one of my nieces, but couldn’t get hold of her. Then we called my boss. The first thing I did was let him know that he was on speaker (always a good idea), then I filled him in on what my wife and I were doing. After what seemed like an hour he finally sided with me- he didn’t think that I was a jerk the majority of the time.
We then called my old boss here at the paper. Again, he took his time thinking about it, but in the end he also took my side and I led two to zip. Then the wheels fell off.
One of my closest friends in the world agreed with my wife. “I’m sorry Shannon ,” he told me. “But I’m a Christian man, and I have church tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can go with a clear conscience if I lie today.”
I told my wife that he shouldn’t really count, because he was letting religion cloud his thinking. I hate when people do that.
“Well, let’s call your sister then,” she said. That didn’t turn out so well. She also agreed with my wife, and it didn’t take her near as long to think about it as the first three people.
Told my wife that her vote shouldn’t count, either. She didn’t really know me that well anymore.
“She’s your sister!” my wife hollered. “I think she knows you pretty well.” Yeah, but we hardly see each other anymore. I’m a different guy now. Anyway, we were tied 2-2 when my wife’s friend Valerie’s name popped up on the screen. Oh Hell.
“Valerie,” my wife told her. “Shannon and I are doing a survey, and we want to know if you think he’s a jer-“
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to answer right now,” I told her. “Take your ti-“
“Yes.”
“Look,” I pleaded, “Think about it for an hour or so, and call us back in a little whil-“
“Yes.”
And that’s pretty much how it went from there. Another one of her friends said I was a jerk. Another one of my friends said I was a jerk. Hell, before long we had people calling the house asking to vote.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I finally threw in the towel. Imagine being made to watch a Nancy Grace marathon with bamboo sticks underneath your fingernails- that’s how painful it was towards the end.
That’s okay though. This weekend, I think we’ll call ten people from my wife’s phone and see who all thinks she is a, um, “jerk”. Any volunteers?
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
My wife and I were having a discussion the other day. Well, I’m not sure “discussion” is the word to use. It was one of those talks that married people have where you make sure and chuckle after everything you say, just so it won’t turn into a real argument.
Anyway, during the “discussion” she let me know that I was a jerk- only she didn’t say jerk. She used another word for jerk that would never make the paper. It has seven letters, and begins with the letter ‘A’. I’m sure if you use your imagination you can come up with it. But for this column, we’ll use the word jerk.
I disagreed with her, of course. I know I used to be an as-, um, jerk. But I honestly don’t think I am anymore. Maybe it’s being a father, maybe it’s conversations I’ve had with people that I respect. It could be that I’ve just grown older and wiser. Either way, I think I’ve changed a good bit in the last few years.
“Tell you what,” I told her. “Here’s my phone. Let’s call ten people from my contact list that know me well, and we’ll just see how many people think I’m really a jerk.”
She didn’t just run across the room. She did three somersaults and a double back flip on the way. Come to think of it, maybe that was a bad omen for me.
We tried calling one of my nieces, but couldn’t get hold of her. Then we called my boss. The first thing I did was let him know that he was on speaker (always a good idea), then I filled him in on what my wife and I were doing. After what seemed like an hour he finally sided with me- he didn’t think that I was a jerk the majority of the time.
We then called my old boss here at the paper. Again, he took his time thinking about it, but in the end he also took my side and I led two to zip. Then the wheels fell off.
One of my closest friends in the world agreed with my wife. “I’m sorry Shannon ,” he told me. “But I’m a Christian man, and I have church tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can go with a clear conscience if I lie today.”
I told my wife that he shouldn’t really count, because he was letting religion cloud his thinking. I hate when people do that.
“Well, let’s call your sister then,” she said. That didn’t turn out so well. She also agreed with my wife, and it didn’t take her near as long to think about it as the first three people.
Told my wife that her vote shouldn’t count, either. She didn’t really know me that well anymore.
“She’s your sister!” my wife hollered. “I think she knows you pretty well.” Yeah, but we hardly see each other anymore. I’m a different guy now. Anyway, we were tied 2-2 when my wife’s friend Valerie’s name popped up on the screen. Oh Hell.
“Valerie,” my wife told her. “Shannon and I are doing a survey, and we want to know if you think he’s a jer-“
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to answer right now,” I told her. “Take your ti-“
“Yes.”
“Look,” I pleaded, “Think about it for an hour or so, and call us back in a little whil-“
“Yes.”
And that’s pretty much how it went from there. Another one of her friends said I was a jerk. Another one of my friends said I was a jerk. Hell, before long we had people calling the house asking to vote.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I finally threw in the towel. Imagine being made to watch a Nancy Grace marathon with bamboo sticks underneath your fingernails- that’s how painful it was towards the end.
That’s okay though. This weekend, I think we’ll call ten people from my wife’s phone and see who all thinks she is a, um, “jerk”. Any volunteers?
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Where’s your Tat?
I see on Facebook where a buddy of mine is showing off his new tattoo. I’ve wanted another one for some time now. Tattoo, I mean, not a buddy.
I’ve had a tattoo of a spider on my right calf since I was about 23 years old or so. And before you ask, let me say for the one trillionth time- yes, I know I have a spider on my leg. That was only funny once.
No, I take that back. That was never funny.
I must of had a reason for choosing to get a spider, but to tell you the truth I can’t really remember what it was. Like everything else I did when I was in my early 20’s, it’s either a little fuzzy or it doesn’t really make much sense to me now. I’m sure I was going through a tough time and it symbolized something to me. It’s ironic how something that seemed so dramatic to a 23 year old can seem so trivial when you turn 37.
Anyway, if I ever got another tattoo I wouldn’t know where to put it. I hardly ever go without a shirt- even at the beach- so to put one on my chest or my back would be a waste of money and ink. Nobody would ever see it.
I could get one on my forearms, but then it would be seen too much. There are times in a man’s life (What if I meet the President or someone else of importance?) when you don’t want to show off a tattoo. I don’t want to walk around in long sleeves in hot weather just to cover up a tattoo.
My buddy got a picture of barbed wire wrapped around his bicep. I don’t really have the guns for that anymore. Not that I ever looked like Popeye to begin with, but these days I look a whole lot closer to Olive Oyle when it comes to my upper arms.
Now let me stop right here and say something. I don’t want all you young fellas out there to read that last line and take it as an invitation to try and run up on me some day. This old bull might be a little older, but I still have enough horns to get the job done. Damnit.
Anyway, I’m not even sure what tattoo I would get if I found a place for it. I’m too old for barbed wire and things that make you look tough. I can’t pull that kind of stuff off anymore. And I’ve always thought that big murals and pictures of loved ones were a little too gaudy and obnoxious.
I guess I would get the names of my children or their initials or something. Speaking of my kids, I wonder if they will ever get tattoos? Once they move out, I mean. Their mother and I would never allow it until then, anyway.
I’m pretty sure my oldest daughter will at some point. All it would take is for one or two of her friends to get one, and she would follow the herd. I worry about her when it comes to that.
I know for a fact that my youngest daughter will get one because, well, that’s what people do in prison. And don’t “Oh, Shannon ” me. Everyone has that one kid that you just know is going to do some time at some point in their life. I hope I’m wrong but…
My son? I don’t know if my son has it in him or not to ever get a tattoo. He’s not the dramatic type, so I doubt he will ever feel the need to prove his toughness or make a statement with body art. Plus, he’d probably be too scared of the needles.
Well, maybe my youngest daughter will get enough tattoos for the whole family.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
I see on Facebook where a buddy of mine is showing off his new tattoo. I’ve wanted another one for some time now. Tattoo, I mean, not a buddy.
I’ve had a tattoo of a spider on my right calf since I was about 23 years old or so. And before you ask, let me say for the one trillionth time- yes, I know I have a spider on my leg. That was only funny once.
No, I take that back. That was never funny.
I must of had a reason for choosing to get a spider, but to tell you the truth I can’t really remember what it was. Like everything else I did when I was in my early 20’s, it’s either a little fuzzy or it doesn’t really make much sense to me now. I’m sure I was going through a tough time and it symbolized something to me. It’s ironic how something that seemed so dramatic to a 23 year old can seem so trivial when you turn 37.
Anyway, if I ever got another tattoo I wouldn’t know where to put it. I hardly ever go without a shirt- even at the beach- so to put one on my chest or my back would be a waste of money and ink. Nobody would ever see it.
I could get one on my forearms, but then it would be seen too much. There are times in a man’s life (What if I meet the President or someone else of importance?) when you don’t want to show off a tattoo. I don’t want to walk around in long sleeves in hot weather just to cover up a tattoo.
My buddy got a picture of barbed wire wrapped around his bicep. I don’t really have the guns for that anymore. Not that I ever looked like Popeye to begin with, but these days I look a whole lot closer to Olive Oyle when it comes to my upper arms.
Now let me stop right here and say something. I don’t want all you young fellas out there to read that last line and take it as an invitation to try and run up on me some day. This old bull might be a little older, but I still have enough horns to get the job done. Damnit.
Anyway, I’m not even sure what tattoo I would get if I found a place for it. I’m too old for barbed wire and things that make you look tough. I can’t pull that kind of stuff off anymore. And I’ve always thought that big murals and pictures of loved ones were a little too gaudy and obnoxious.
I guess I would get the names of my children or their initials or something. Speaking of my kids, I wonder if they will ever get tattoos? Once they move out, I mean. Their mother and I would never allow it until then, anyway.
I’m pretty sure my oldest daughter will at some point. All it would take is for one or two of her friends to get one, and she would follow the herd. I worry about her when it comes to that.
I know for a fact that my youngest daughter will get one because, well, that’s what people do in prison. And don’t “Oh, Shannon ” me. Everyone has that one kid that you just know is going to do some time at some point in their life. I hope I’m wrong but…
My son? I don’t know if my son has it in him or not to ever get a tattoo. He’s not the dramatic type, so I doubt he will ever feel the need to prove his toughness or make a statement with body art. Plus, he’d probably be too scared of the needles.
Well, maybe my youngest daughter will get enough tattoos for the whole family.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Ahh, lemonade
I love, love, love those times in parenthood when you are teaching a lesson and a circumstance comes up that proves to your child that you know what you’re talking about. It doesn’t happen very often- especially with me- but when it does you have to take full advantage of the situation.
Early last week my wife and I were giving our oldest daughter the “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” speech. I can’t even remember the basis for the discussion now, but it was obvious she wasn’t buying it.
Well, my youngest daughter turned eight years old over the weekend and we were throwing her a party at our house Friday evening. She invited a few of her little friends to come swimming, and of course we were having a bunch of family over. (Because as you know, I’ve always said that the only thing I love more than a little family coming over is a whole lot of family coming over.) Anyway, my wife informed me that I was supposed to cook hamburgers for everyone like a good dad should do. Despite the 95 degree heat.
It just so happened that I was working out of town Wednesday and Thursday, so I got up at an ungodly hour Friday morning and drove half-way across Texas in order to get my work done and be home in time to cook for the party. Now before I go any further, I want to make sure you people understand the sacrifice that this took on my part. My alarm clock usually doesn’t even start working until 6:30 a.m. , so for me to already be on the road by then is a remarkably unselfish act of kindness and thoughtfulness. Rivaled only by war heroes, kidney doners, and point guards in an All-Star game.
And everything was going as planned, too. I got my work done as expected, and was heading back home with time to spare when the unthinkable happened. My work truck, which is three years older than the damn Flinstone-mobile, just flat out quit on me going down the road.
I mean I lost everything- power steering, brakes, gauges, etc. The engine was over heating, too. So I was two hours away from home on a Friday evening, sitting on the side of the road, with 5 o’clock starring me right in the face. Lemons, right?
I knew I could call someone from my office to come pick me up, but decided with the sun beating down on me, no working air conditioner, and my drinking water running low, that I had better try to nurse the truck to the nearest convenience store or something. Then we could see about getting a tow truck or sending me a ride.
Sure enough, about a mile down the road I spotted a little building with a few cars and trucks out front. A restaurant or something, I figured. When I muscled the steering wheel enough to get in the parking lot my eyes fell upon the most beautiful sign in the whole wide world- “Huffman’s Tavern”. Ahh, lemonade.
I took my duffle bag inside and changed into my shorts and flip-flops quicker than Clarke Kent in a phone booth hopped up on speed. Within seconds I was sitting in the cool shade of the awning outside and drinking a frosty cold beer, then another. Then I called my office and asked them to send me a tow truck.
There were a few more lemons along the way.
I had to wait another hour for the tow truck to show up (lemon). After a few beers in that heat, the ride home was a little bumpier than usual (lemon). And I didn’t make it in time to cook the hamburgers for my little girl (lemon).
I did, however, get there just in time to grab a couple of burgers that my wife’s uncle cooked- in 95 degree heat- straight from the grill.
See? Lemonade.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
I love, love, love those times in parenthood when you are teaching a lesson and a circumstance comes up that proves to your child that you know what you’re talking about. It doesn’t happen very often- especially with me- but when it does you have to take full advantage of the situation.
Early last week my wife and I were giving our oldest daughter the “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” speech. I can’t even remember the basis for the discussion now, but it was obvious she wasn’t buying it.
Well, my youngest daughter turned eight years old over the weekend and we were throwing her a party at our house Friday evening. She invited a few of her little friends to come swimming, and of course we were having a bunch of family over. (Because as you know, I’ve always said that the only thing I love more than a little family coming over is a whole lot of family coming over.) Anyway, my wife informed me that I was supposed to cook hamburgers for everyone like a good dad should do. Despite the 95 degree heat.
It just so happened that I was working out of town Wednesday and Thursday, so I got up at an ungodly hour Friday morning and drove half-way across Texas in order to get my work done and be home in time to cook for the party. Now before I go any further, I want to make sure you people understand the sacrifice that this took on my part. My alarm clock usually doesn’t even start working until 6:30 a.m. , so for me to already be on the road by then is a remarkably unselfish act of kindness and thoughtfulness. Rivaled only by war heroes, kidney doners, and point guards in an All-Star game.
And everything was going as planned, too. I got my work done as expected, and was heading back home with time to spare when the unthinkable happened. My work truck, which is three years older than the damn Flinstone-mobile, just flat out quit on me going down the road.
I mean I lost everything- power steering, brakes, gauges, etc. The engine was over heating, too. So I was two hours away from home on a Friday evening, sitting on the side of the road, with 5 o’clock starring me right in the face. Lemons, right?
I knew I could call someone from my office to come pick me up, but decided with the sun beating down on me, no working air conditioner, and my drinking water running low, that I had better try to nurse the truck to the nearest convenience store or something. Then we could see about getting a tow truck or sending me a ride.
Sure enough, about a mile down the road I spotted a little building with a few cars and trucks out front. A restaurant or something, I figured. When I muscled the steering wheel enough to get in the parking lot my eyes fell upon the most beautiful sign in the whole wide world- “Huffman’s Tavern”. Ahh, lemonade.
I took my duffle bag inside and changed into my shorts and flip-flops quicker than Clarke Kent in a phone booth hopped up on speed. Within seconds I was sitting in the cool shade of the awning outside and drinking a frosty cold beer, then another. Then I called my office and asked them to send me a tow truck.
There were a few more lemons along the way.
I had to wait another hour for the tow truck to show up (lemon). After a few beers in that heat, the ride home was a little bumpier than usual (lemon). And I didn’t make it in time to cook the hamburgers for my little girl (lemon).
I did, however, get there just in time to grab a couple of burgers that my wife’s uncle cooked- in 95 degree heat- straight from the grill.
See? Lemonade.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Move!
Okay folks, enough is enough. I’ve tried staying quiet about this for a few years. Even when I brought it to someone’s attention as they messed up I did it in a nice, polite manner. But no more. It’s too hot outside, and I’m getting a little older- which means I’m getting grumpier and grumpier by the day.
So hopefully, for the last time, let me go over two more rules for you that are very, very important to remember. I’m going to use small words when I write this, so maybe it will be a little easier to make sense of for you.
When you are driving on a four lane highway- and that means that two lanes of traffic are coming toward you and two lanes of traffic are going the same way as you- it is very important to stay in the far right lane. You understand?
The only time you should ever be in the left lane- which we folks with jobs and places to go call the fast lane- is when you are passing someone. Look it up in your little Driver’s Ed. books or on the internet. And as soon as you have passed that car, guess what you are supposed to do? Move! Get back in the right lane. That little maneuver gets you out of my way, which in turn keeps my blood pressure down. Then there is no reason for me to daydream about slamming into the back of your car, or to flip you off when I finally get past you.
And I’ll bet a bunch of you are thinking that I’m picking on old people right now, but you would be wrong. I love old drivers. They usually drive ten miles under the speed limit, and stay in the far right lane out of everyone’s way. They aren’t trying to get anywhere anytime soon.
No, I’ve paid attention to the idiots who make me pass them on the right side (which would be the wrong side) and most of them are young drivers. Most of them have a buddy in the car and they are going over Justin Beiber’s latest video, or they are on their cell phones, talking or texting.
And hey, I’m not Oprah Winfrey. You can talk or text all you want while you drive, I don’t care. But the least you can do is write your phone number on the back window with shoe polish, so I can text you to move the Hell out of the way.
There is nothing more frustrating than trying to get somewhere when you are stuck behind a slow driver in the wrong lane. Well, almost nothing more frustrating. That leads me to this…
I live in a small town with a lot of little small streets. This time of year, when school is out and Little League baseball games are going on, children will be walking and riding their bikes all over town. And hey, that’s great. Most kids nowadays are bigger around than they are tall, so you want them to put the Cheetos and the video games down and get a little more exercise now and then.
But for God’s sake, would you talk to these little idiots and tell them to stay out of the damn street? Would you let them know that when they cross the street right in front of a car- so slow that you can actually hear their flip flops dragging the ground- that they are actually in the wrong. Because I swear, when you yell at them to “Move!” they look at you like you were the dumb one, every time.
Just the other day we were driving to one of my kids’ baseball games or something and three little thugs were walking side by side, taking up my half of the road.
When I refused to move over and forced two of them to jump out of the way just in time to avoid being hit, guess who had to listen to his wife fuss at him for three more blocks? That’s right, me. And I’ll explain it to you right now like a I explained it to her.
First of all, the fact that they were wearing their shorts down to their calves and the brim of their hats were all flat and tilted to the side got on my nerves anyway. God, I can’t wait for that to go out of style.
Secondly, I’m always in one of two vehicles- one of them is a very heavy work truck that makes a lot of noise and has a big huge ladder on top, and the other is very tall bright yellow jeep with big huge tires. Both of them are very, very easy to see coming. I don’t sneak up on anybody.
Call me crazy, but if a kid is old enough to walk or ride his bike on the streets by himself, then he should be old enough to understand to walk or ride on the side where he isn’t in the way. And if he finds himself in the way, then he should move- not me. I’m the one in the 2,000 pound vehicle.
All you have to do, parents, is tell them to move.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Okay folks, enough is enough. I’ve tried staying quiet about this for a few years. Even when I brought it to someone’s attention as they messed up I did it in a nice, polite manner. But no more. It’s too hot outside, and I’m getting a little older- which means I’m getting grumpier and grumpier by the day.
So hopefully, for the last time, let me go over two more rules for you that are very, very important to remember. I’m going to use small words when I write this, so maybe it will be a little easier to make sense of for you.
When you are driving on a four lane highway- and that means that two lanes of traffic are coming toward you and two lanes of traffic are going the same way as you- it is very important to stay in the far right lane. You understand?
The only time you should ever be in the left lane- which we folks with jobs and places to go call the fast lane- is when you are passing someone. Look it up in your little Driver’s Ed. books or on the internet. And as soon as you have passed that car, guess what you are supposed to do? Move! Get back in the right lane. That little maneuver gets you out of my way, which in turn keeps my blood pressure down. Then there is no reason for me to daydream about slamming into the back of your car, or to flip you off when I finally get past you.
And I’ll bet a bunch of you are thinking that I’m picking on old people right now, but you would be wrong. I love old drivers. They usually drive ten miles under the speed limit, and stay in the far right lane out of everyone’s way. They aren’t trying to get anywhere anytime soon.
No, I’ve paid attention to the idiots who make me pass them on the right side (which would be the wrong side) and most of them are young drivers. Most of them have a buddy in the car and they are going over Justin Beiber’s latest video, or they are on their cell phones, talking or texting.
And hey, I’m not Oprah Winfrey. You can talk or text all you want while you drive, I don’t care. But the least you can do is write your phone number on the back window with shoe polish, so I can text you to move the Hell out of the way.
There is nothing more frustrating than trying to get somewhere when you are stuck behind a slow driver in the wrong lane. Well, almost nothing more frustrating. That leads me to this…
I live in a small town with a lot of little small streets. This time of year, when school is out and Little League baseball games are going on, children will be walking and riding their bikes all over town. And hey, that’s great. Most kids nowadays are bigger around than they are tall, so you want them to put the Cheetos and the video games down and get a little more exercise now and then.
But for God’s sake, would you talk to these little idiots and tell them to stay out of the damn street? Would you let them know that when they cross the street right in front of a car- so slow that you can actually hear their flip flops dragging the ground- that they are actually in the wrong. Because I swear, when you yell at them to “Move!” they look at you like you were the dumb one, every time.
Just the other day we were driving to one of my kids’ baseball games or something and three little thugs were walking side by side, taking up my half of the road.
When I refused to move over and forced two of them to jump out of the way just in time to avoid being hit, guess who had to listen to his wife fuss at him for three more blocks? That’s right, me. And I’ll explain it to you right now like a I explained it to her.
First of all, the fact that they were wearing their shorts down to their calves and the brim of their hats were all flat and tilted to the side got on my nerves anyway. God, I can’t wait for that to go out of style.
Secondly, I’m always in one of two vehicles- one of them is a very heavy work truck that makes a lot of noise and has a big huge ladder on top, and the other is very tall bright yellow jeep with big huge tires. Both of them are very, very easy to see coming. I don’t sneak up on anybody.
Call me crazy, but if a kid is old enough to walk or ride his bike on the streets by himself, then he should be old enough to understand to walk or ride on the side where he isn’t in the way. And if he finds himself in the way, then he should move- not me. I’m the one in the 2,000 pound vehicle.
All you have to do, parents, is tell them to move.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
We fix weedeaters and screen doors
I’ve got this neighbor, let’s call him Jack. His name really isn’t Jack, but I forgot to ask if I could use his real name and I’m writing this column at 4:30 in the morning, so we’ll have to go with Jack for now.
Anyway, Jack is one of these guys that can make, build and fix anything he puts his hands on. Seriously, he’s like “Bob the Builder” on steroids. And it’s ticking me off. First he did a whole bunch of cool stuff to the yard, then he re-roofed the house, now he’s adding on another room- all by himself. And it looks like a professional carpenter did it.
The bad thing is that my wife and my mother-in-law make hurtful little comments all the time, like “Look at Jack, he sure knows what he is doing over there,” and “Boy, Jack is coming right along with that new room, all by himself.”
What they are really saying is “Dang Shannon, Jack can do all this stuff around the house, and meanwhile your daughters can’t shut the door to their bedroom because it might not open again without a butter knife. And you can’t do anything about it.”
Oh I’ve tried to be the guy who fixes things around the house, it’s just not me. I re-roofed the little house where we used to live, and we ended up with a foot-sized whole in our bedroom ceiling. I’ve replaced the doorknob to our daughters’ room twice, and both times I somehow locked myself on the wrong side of the door. I even started painting our dining room, until my wife told me to just get out of the way and let her finish it.
Tell you what, though. I might have finally turned the corner and gained a little ground on Jack. A few weeks ago we had about 300 kids over here playing in our yard. Actually, it was closer to seven or eight kids, but it seemed like 300. Anyway, one of them somehow pulled the screen door off it’s hinges. Don’t ask me how, but one of the hinges was literally torn right in half.
By the grace of God, I somehow replaced the hinges and got the screen door back to where it actually opens and shuts like it is supposed to. Well, almost like it’s supposed to- it kind of sticks just a little bit when you close it. But it still ended up way closer to being right than I figured it would when I started.
My wife actually clapped her hands and gave me a high five.
Then one day I was using my weedeater when it stopped working. I mean it just quit. It was working fine ten minutes earlier, then it just decided to stop altogether. So I smashed it against a tree and threw it on the ground a couple of times until it broke into pieces. And it you’ve ever used a weedeater in 90 degree heat when it stopped working you don’t blame me a bit.
Well, rather than buy a new one I took three broken weedeaters into my shed and came out a couple of hours later with one semi-working weedeater. I even used it for a few minutes in my yard. This time, the whole family lined up and gave me a standing ovation.
There’s no stopping me now. I’m thinking about putting a sign out here on my shed. “Scasta & Son Household Repair- we fix weedeaters…and screen doors”.
Who knows? I might even give ol’ Jack a job if he can hang with me.
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I’ve got this neighbor, let’s call him Jack. His name really isn’t Jack, but I forgot to ask if I could use his real name and I’m writing this column at 4:30 in the morning, so we’ll have to go with Jack for now.
Anyway, Jack is one of these guys that can make, build and fix anything he puts his hands on. Seriously, he’s like “Bob the Builder” on steroids. And it’s ticking me off. First he did a whole bunch of cool stuff to the yard, then he re-roofed the house, now he’s adding on another room- all by himself. And it looks like a professional carpenter did it.
The bad thing is that my wife and my mother-in-law make hurtful little comments all the time, like “Look at Jack, he sure knows what he is doing over there,” and “Boy, Jack is coming right along with that new room, all by himself.”
What they are really saying is “Dang Shannon, Jack can do all this stuff around the house, and meanwhile your daughters can’t shut the door to their bedroom because it might not open again without a butter knife. And you can’t do anything about it.”
Oh I’ve tried to be the guy who fixes things around the house, it’s just not me. I re-roofed the little house where we used to live, and we ended up with a foot-sized whole in our bedroom ceiling. I’ve replaced the doorknob to our daughters’ room twice, and both times I somehow locked myself on the wrong side of the door. I even started painting our dining room, until my wife told me to just get out of the way and let her finish it.
Tell you what, though. I might have finally turned the corner and gained a little ground on Jack. A few weeks ago we had about 300 kids over here playing in our yard. Actually, it was closer to seven or eight kids, but it seemed like 300. Anyway, one of them somehow pulled the screen door off it’s hinges. Don’t ask me how, but one of the hinges was literally torn right in half.
By the grace of God, I somehow replaced the hinges and got the screen door back to where it actually opens and shuts like it is supposed to. Well, almost like it’s supposed to- it kind of sticks just a little bit when you close it. But it still ended up way closer to being right than I figured it would when I started.
My wife actually clapped her hands and gave me a high five.
Then one day I was using my weedeater when it stopped working. I mean it just quit. It was working fine ten minutes earlier, then it just decided to stop altogether. So I smashed it against a tree and threw it on the ground a couple of times until it broke into pieces. And it you’ve ever used a weedeater in 90 degree heat when it stopped working you don’t blame me a bit.
Well, rather than buy a new one I took three broken weedeaters into my shed and came out a couple of hours later with one semi-working weedeater. I even used it for a few minutes in my yard. This time, the whole family lined up and gave me a standing ovation.
There’s no stopping me now. I’m thinking about putting a sign out here on my shed. “Scasta & Son Household Repair- we fix weedeaters…and screen doors”.
Who knows? I might even give ol’ Jack a job if he can hang with me.
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Wednesday, May 12, 2010
"Friend”ly reminder
My wife and I went out to eat the other night, and as we walked past a table of guys eating dinner one of them looked up and said hello to me. He used my name, so I knew that we had met before- I just didn’t know where. Without even waiting for me to ask who it was, my wife filled me in on how I knew the guy.
That’s funny to me, that she has to do that all the time. A lot of people are terrible with names, but I’m way beyond that. I forget names and faces. I forget friends. I forget family members. Hell, my kids have to wear name tags half the time.
And I have no idea why I’m like that. I mean, I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m getting older, but I don’t think that is the whole reason either. I say that because I can still remember old addresses where I used to live, old telephone numbers, old t.v. shows and commercials, etc.
I can tell you that Michael Jordan came into the NBA in 1984, led the league in scoring ten times, had a scoring average of 31.5 points per game, and was named to the All-Defensive team nine times. But I can’t give you five names from my daughter’s softball team.
I can tell you that when I was seven years old my grandfather kept a bag of bite-sized Snickers under the seat of his red and black GMC pickup, but if you ask me the names of my wife’s co-workers I wouldn’t get past “Um…”.
I can remember every word from the book “A Separate Peace”, and recall deer hunting stories from Edwin Cooper’s column that he wrote five years ago. Yet my wife has to remind me what we have planned for the coming weekend five times.
I told you all that to tell you this. Sometimes when I’m at work I’ll have a few minutes to spare so I’ll play a game or look at Facebook on my phone. And every now and then, not often, someone will ask to be my friend on Facebook.
Now, let me tell you that I have right at 300 “friends” on Facebook. I know who about 20 of them are. What happens is that when someone sends a request, I go ahead and confirm it. Then every so often my wife will go through the list with me and re-remind me who everyone is.
Well, the other day I checked my phone and saw that two or three people requested that I “friend” them. I read the names, and as usual they sounded familiar but nothing special jumped out at me. So without thinking twice about it I went ahead and confirmed everyone on the list.
Ten minutes later my wife called me laughing so hard she could barely talk. I had confirmed the friendship of some porn sight, and everyone reading Facebook at the time saw that “ Shannon is now friends with so and so”. My wife didn’t recognize the name, so she looked at this lady’s profile and came across some pretty racy photos and comments. She said she knew it was a mistake, because I’m too old and out of shape to even think about doing some of the stuff this lady was suggesting we do together.
Well, all I can say is that’s one name and story I won’t be forgetting for a while. My wife will make sure of that, I’m afraid.
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My wife and I went out to eat the other night, and as we walked past a table of guys eating dinner one of them looked up and said hello to me. He used my name, so I knew that we had met before- I just didn’t know where. Without even waiting for me to ask who it was, my wife filled me in on how I knew the guy.
That’s funny to me, that she has to do that all the time. A lot of people are terrible with names, but I’m way beyond that. I forget names and faces. I forget friends. I forget family members. Hell, my kids have to wear name tags half the time.
And I have no idea why I’m like that. I mean, I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m getting older, but I don’t think that is the whole reason either. I say that because I can still remember old addresses where I used to live, old telephone numbers, old t.v. shows and commercials, etc.
I can tell you that Michael Jordan came into the NBA in 1984, led the league in scoring ten times, had a scoring average of 31.5 points per game, and was named to the All-Defensive team nine times. But I can’t give you five names from my daughter’s softball team.
I can tell you that when I was seven years old my grandfather kept a bag of bite-sized Snickers under the seat of his red and black GMC pickup, but if you ask me the names of my wife’s co-workers I wouldn’t get past “Um…”.
I can remember every word from the book “A Separate Peace”, and recall deer hunting stories from Edwin Cooper’s column that he wrote five years ago. Yet my wife has to remind me what we have planned for the coming weekend five times.
I told you all that to tell you this. Sometimes when I’m at work I’ll have a few minutes to spare so I’ll play a game or look at Facebook on my phone. And every now and then, not often, someone will ask to be my friend on Facebook.
Now, let me tell you that I have right at 300 “friends” on Facebook. I know who about 20 of them are. What happens is that when someone sends a request, I go ahead and confirm it. Then every so often my wife will go through the list with me and re-remind me who everyone is.
Well, the other day I checked my phone and saw that two or three people requested that I “friend” them. I read the names, and as usual they sounded familiar but nothing special jumped out at me. So without thinking twice about it I went ahead and confirmed everyone on the list.
Ten minutes later my wife called me laughing so hard she could barely talk. I had confirmed the friendship of some porn sight, and everyone reading Facebook at the time saw that “ Shannon is now friends with so and so”. My wife didn’t recognize the name, so she looked at this lady’s profile and came across some pretty racy photos and comments. She said she knew it was a mistake, because I’m too old and out of shape to even think about doing some of the stuff this lady was suggesting we do together.
Well, all I can say is that’s one name and story I won’t be forgetting for a while. My wife will make sure of that, I’m afraid.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Let them work
A few things drove me crazy this week. The older and grumpier I get, the more that happens to me.
This whole immigration thing in Arizona is one of them. Arizona passed a law that says authorities can stop and question a person who they suspect of being an illegal alien. It doesn’t say they are going to stop a thousand people a day, or that they are going to racially profile anyone. It just says that they have the right to stop and question someone.
And now, of course, everyone in America is mad at the officials in Arizona , claiming they are insensitive and racist. People are marching and gathering together, actors and famous people are chiming in, even Major League Baseball is putting their two cents in.
You know who isn’t complaining, though? Most of the people of Arizona . And Arizona Border Patrol agents. And Arizona law enforcement officials who, by the way, I’m guessing are made up of Mexican Americans for the most part. I say that because I spend a pretty good bit of time in deep, deep South Texas by the border. And at least eighty percent of the law officers and Border Patrol agents that I see are Hispanic.
So I doubt they will abuse their privileges much at all. This law is probably more about curbing the drug flow, and keeping some of the violence that is happening on the other side of the border from coming over.
I really don’t see what’s so hard about it. If you get pulled over, pull out your card and show them that you are here legally. What’s so hard about that?
Sunday, the show “60 Minutes” had another story about immigration. Some company had a big canal built a few years back that carries water to all of the farming communities in southern California . The farming communities employ a lot of illegal immigrants to do the work in the fields, but on the way there a whole lot of immigrants are drowning in the canal. Something like six hundred in the last few years.
Listen, there is no way to say this without sounding insensitive- but so what? The reporter for “60 Minutes” made the company that built the canal sound like the criminal because they wouldn’t put safety features in the canal. It’s like they are telling someone to tie up their vicious dog so it wouldn’t bite anyone who breaks into their house.
Stories like this one, and the Arizona law that I talked about earlier, always forget to mention one thing. The people who are coming here illegally are breaking the law. Plain and simple, they are doing something illegal and that makes them criminals.
I’m all for people coming to this country to better themselves. This country was built from the work of immigrants, and we owe them a great deal. I can think of nothing harder than leaving my family for long periods at a time in order to make a better life for them. But nobody is telling them to come here illegally. We have laws and ways to help people come here the right way.
Listen, in the 50’s and 60’s, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But drugs and 9/11 changed all of that. Because law enforcement got so tough around Miami , most of the cocaine from Columbia now goes through Mexico . And the cartels there make their money from shipping it north to the U.S.
And I’m pretty positive that I read somewhere that almost every one of the terrorists of 9/11 came through Mexico to get here also, which is another reason that the Border Patrol needs all the help they can get.
The truth is, yes, I guess at some point some American citizen might feel like they are harassed just a little. But I’ve said a thousand times, you don’t hire Clint Eastwood to come clean up your town, then get mad when he shoots someone. We are asking the Border Patrol and law officials in border towns to do an impossible job, so let’s shut up and get out of their way so they can do it.
It’s just funny to me that the people who are holding rallies and doing all the fussing are from Washington , Austin , San Francisco , etc. Those people don’t have to live in Arizona , or protect their border.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
A few things drove me crazy this week. The older and grumpier I get, the more that happens to me.
This whole immigration thing in Arizona is one of them. Arizona passed a law that says authorities can stop and question a person who they suspect of being an illegal alien. It doesn’t say they are going to stop a thousand people a day, or that they are going to racially profile anyone. It just says that they have the right to stop and question someone.
And now, of course, everyone in America is mad at the officials in Arizona , claiming they are insensitive and racist. People are marching and gathering together, actors and famous people are chiming in, even Major League Baseball is putting their two cents in.
You know who isn’t complaining, though? Most of the people of Arizona . And Arizona Border Patrol agents. And Arizona law enforcement officials who, by the way, I’m guessing are made up of Mexican Americans for the most part. I say that because I spend a pretty good bit of time in deep, deep South Texas by the border. And at least eighty percent of the law officers and Border Patrol agents that I see are Hispanic.
So I doubt they will abuse their privileges much at all. This law is probably more about curbing the drug flow, and keeping some of the violence that is happening on the other side of the border from coming over.
I really don’t see what’s so hard about it. If you get pulled over, pull out your card and show them that you are here legally. What’s so hard about that?
Sunday, the show “60 Minutes” had another story about immigration. Some company had a big canal built a few years back that carries water to all of the farming communities in southern California . The farming communities employ a lot of illegal immigrants to do the work in the fields, but on the way there a whole lot of immigrants are drowning in the canal. Something like six hundred in the last few years.
Listen, there is no way to say this without sounding insensitive- but so what? The reporter for “60 Minutes” made the company that built the canal sound like the criminal because they wouldn’t put safety features in the canal. It’s like they are telling someone to tie up their vicious dog so it wouldn’t bite anyone who breaks into their house.
Stories like this one, and the Arizona law that I talked about earlier, always forget to mention one thing. The people who are coming here illegally are breaking the law. Plain and simple, they are doing something illegal and that makes them criminals.
I’m all for people coming to this country to better themselves. This country was built from the work of immigrants, and we owe them a great deal. I can think of nothing harder than leaving my family for long periods at a time in order to make a better life for them. But nobody is telling them to come here illegally. We have laws and ways to help people come here the right way.
Listen, in the 50’s and 60’s, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But drugs and 9/11 changed all of that. Because law enforcement got so tough around Miami , most of the cocaine from Columbia now goes through Mexico . And the cartels there make their money from shipping it north to the U.S.
And I’m pretty positive that I read somewhere that almost every one of the terrorists of 9/11 came through Mexico to get here also, which is another reason that the Border Patrol needs all the help they can get.
The truth is, yes, I guess at some point some American citizen might feel like they are harassed just a little. But I’ve said a thousand times, you don’t hire Clint Eastwood to come clean up your town, then get mad when he shoots someone. We are asking the Border Patrol and law officials in border towns to do an impossible job, so let’s shut up and get out of their way so they can do it.
It’s just funny to me that the people who are holding rallies and doing all the fussing are from Washington , Austin , San Francisco , etc. Those people don’t have to live in Arizona , or protect their border.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Smart phone, dumb owner
The thing about these smart phones is that they are, well, smarter than I am. Anytime that I need to do something with mine- download a song, get a newer version of the software, etc- my wife has to do it for me. I’m just too dumb, period.
And getting my wife to do things like that for me isn’t always easy, because she is a busy woman. She works a full time job, takes three kids to baseball and softball practice just about every day, helps with homework, cooks, cleans, and all of that.
Oh I help her with taking the kids to practice and stuff whenever I can, but mostly she just tells me to stay out of the way. She doesn’t even let me anywhere near the kids’ homework.
So anyway, my phone was giving me a little bit of trouble last week. The music player part wasn’t working, and that was driving me crazy. I depend on that thing a pretty good bit when I’m working, because it somehow helps keep me focused on what I’m doing. Without it I start daydreaming, or thinking too much, or something.
I finally got my wife to take a few minutes out of her busy schedule to help me out with the phone. I had already called the phone place, and they told me to plug it up to my computer and sync it with something, or download something, or something. I don’t know.
Well when she finally got to messing with the phone, it was about 11 p.m. Now, let me say something about my wife here. She might do a lot of things and stay pretty busy during the day, but once the sun goes down she’s done. I don’t believe she’s seen the clock turn midnight since we were dating.
So I knew I was taking a chance on her doing anything to my phone that late at night, but I was in a Catch-22. If I let her mess with it, I was risking the life of my phone. But if I pointed out to her that she doesn’t do well that late at night, I was risking my own life. And, she would never help me with my phone again. And, my music player still wouldn’t work. So I bit my tongue and let her work.
Sure enough, a few minutes later she came and told me that not only did the music player work, but she had also lost all of my applications and my contacts.
“Let me get this straight,” I told her. “You are saying that a few minutes ago I had a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and now I have zero. Is that about right?”
“Yes, I’m sorry” she said- while she yawned. “I’ll mess with it again when I can. If nothing else, you can copy them from my phone.”
The problem with that logic (I thought to myself but didn’t have the guts to tell her) is that I couldn’t care less if I lost Aunt Whatever or Cousin What’s His Name’s number. She has probably 50 family and friends on her phone. I’ve got like three family members and friends, total. I can fit their numbers on the palm of my hand if I have to. What I have in my phone- or, what I had in there before Sleeping Beauty got hold of it, was about 200 contacts.
Real people’s numbers. People that I need to talk to about work, or sports, or something important. Not what kind of casserole we are bringing to a dadgum birthday party. So no, sweetie, I don’t think I can copy the numbers from your phone.
Like I said, though, I didn’t really tell her that. My phone can’t wash my clothes or cook me dinner.
The next day I took my phone to the phone store and got a new one. I explained to the guy what happened, what my wife did, and so on. He wrote down what all I should do and sure enough, when I got home I plugged in my phone and got all my contacts back.
Even Aunt Whatever and Cousin What’s His Name.
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The thing about these smart phones is that they are, well, smarter than I am. Anytime that I need to do something with mine- download a song, get a newer version of the software, etc- my wife has to do it for me. I’m just too dumb, period.
And getting my wife to do things like that for me isn’t always easy, because she is a busy woman. She works a full time job, takes three kids to baseball and softball practice just about every day, helps with homework, cooks, cleans, and all of that.
Oh I help her with taking the kids to practice and stuff whenever I can, but mostly she just tells me to stay out of the way. She doesn’t even let me anywhere near the kids’ homework.
So anyway, my phone was giving me a little bit of trouble last week. The music player part wasn’t working, and that was driving me crazy. I depend on that thing a pretty good bit when I’m working, because it somehow helps keep me focused on what I’m doing. Without it I start daydreaming, or thinking too much, or something.
I finally got my wife to take a few minutes out of her busy schedule to help me out with the phone. I had already called the phone place, and they told me to plug it up to my computer and sync it with something, or download something, or something. I don’t know.
Well when she finally got to messing with the phone, it was about 11 p.m. Now, let me say something about my wife here. She might do a lot of things and stay pretty busy during the day, but once the sun goes down she’s done. I don’t believe she’s seen the clock turn midnight since we were dating.
So I knew I was taking a chance on her doing anything to my phone that late at night, but I was in a Catch-22. If I let her mess with it, I was risking the life of my phone. But if I pointed out to her that she doesn’t do well that late at night, I was risking my own life. And, she would never help me with my phone again. And, my music player still wouldn’t work. So I bit my tongue and let her work.
Sure enough, a few minutes later she came and told me that not only did the music player work, but she had also lost all of my applications and my contacts.
“Let me get this straight,” I told her. “You are saying that a few minutes ago I had a whole bunch of phone numbers in my phone, and now I have zero. Is that about right?”
“Yes, I’m sorry” she said- while she yawned. “I’ll mess with it again when I can. If nothing else, you can copy them from my phone.”
The problem with that logic (I thought to myself but didn’t have the guts to tell her) is that I couldn’t care less if I lost Aunt Whatever or Cousin What’s His Name’s number. She has probably 50 family and friends on her phone. I’ve got like three family members and friends, total. I can fit their numbers on the palm of my hand if I have to. What I have in my phone- or, what I had in there before Sleeping Beauty got hold of it, was about 200 contacts.
Real people’s numbers. People that I need to talk to about work, or sports, or something important. Not what kind of casserole we are bringing to a dadgum birthday party. So no, sweetie, I don’t think I can copy the numbers from your phone.
Like I said, though, I didn’t really tell her that. My phone can’t wash my clothes or cook me dinner.
The next day I took my phone to the phone store and got a new one. I explained to the guy what happened, what my wife did, and so on. He wrote down what all I should do and sure enough, when I got home I plugged in my phone and got all my contacts back.
Even Aunt Whatever and Cousin What’s His Name.
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Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Letter to My Children
Dear Kids,
Your old man isn’t a very emotional guy. Other than Hall of Fame speeches, Barry White songs, and the scene where Gus dies in “Lonesome Dove”, nothing much gets to me. In fact, the older I get the more I realize that emotions usually get in the way of making sound decisions in life.
But I have to admit, this past Saturday tugged at the ol’ heart strings a little bit. Seeing all three of you playing sports made your mother and I so proud. Girls, we are used to seeing your brother play, but we are so happy that you two decided to play this year, too.
You see, the thing about sports is that they are such a great metaphore for life- you get out whatever you put in. Hard work and brains will usually pay off, and laziness and ignorance hardly ever will.
I want to say a little something to all three of you, but I don’t want to use your names. Right now it’s cool for you to read your name in the paper, but I have a feeling that when you are teenagers you won’t be so happy about it.
To my oldest daughter- You were the one that I pushed the hardest to play, and the one that I worried most about. I want you to pay attention and realize how much fun you are having, and how good it feels to compete at something. You are doing so well for it to only be your first year of playing. Keep working hard, listen to your coaches, and above all else, stay positive.
Oh and by the way, try to pay more attention to what is happening on the field. I promise you, you aren’t missing anything out here in the stands. And if you do, your mom will fill you in on all the gossip after the game.
To my youngest daughter- I knew sports would be right up your alley. You have the heart, aggressiveness, and mindset to be good at anything you do. You aren’t scared to step up to the plate and swing away, and I want you to live your whole life that way.
Right now you are swinging at pitches that are over your head, or on the ground, or even behind you. That’s okay. We can always teach you to scale back and be more selective. Just stay aggressive.
And that brings me to my son. You have always been a good kid. You are always so laid back, and never get in much trouble. But that might actually work against you in sports. You have to remember not to be so timid when you play.
Yes, you’re going to strike out every now and then. The best hitters in baseball only get on base three out of ten times. You might even hit into a double play once in a while. We can live with that, though. The most important thing is that if you do strike out, you strike out swinging.
We’ve worked hard on your swing, and it’s a good one. In fact, you work on it every night. Learn to trust it, and trust yourself. Swing the bat, son. In baseball, in life, in whatever you do- swing the bat.
I’m proud of you kids.
Love,
Dad
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Dear Kids,
Your old man isn’t a very emotional guy. Other than Hall of Fame speeches, Barry White songs, and the scene where Gus dies in “Lonesome Dove”, nothing much gets to me. In fact, the older I get the more I realize that emotions usually get in the way of making sound decisions in life.
But I have to admit, this past Saturday tugged at the ol’ heart strings a little bit. Seeing all three of you playing sports made your mother and I so proud. Girls, we are used to seeing your brother play, but we are so happy that you two decided to play this year, too.
You see, the thing about sports is that they are such a great metaphore for life- you get out whatever you put in. Hard work and brains will usually pay off, and laziness and ignorance hardly ever will.
I want to say a little something to all three of you, but I don’t want to use your names. Right now it’s cool for you to read your name in the paper, but I have a feeling that when you are teenagers you won’t be so happy about it.
To my oldest daughter- You were the one that I pushed the hardest to play, and the one that I worried most about. I want you to pay attention and realize how much fun you are having, and how good it feels to compete at something. You are doing so well for it to only be your first year of playing. Keep working hard, listen to your coaches, and above all else, stay positive.
Oh and by the way, try to pay more attention to what is happening on the field. I promise you, you aren’t missing anything out here in the stands. And if you do, your mom will fill you in on all the gossip after the game.
To my youngest daughter- I knew sports would be right up your alley. You have the heart, aggressiveness, and mindset to be good at anything you do. You aren’t scared to step up to the plate and swing away, and I want you to live your whole life that way.
Right now you are swinging at pitches that are over your head, or on the ground, or even behind you. That’s okay. We can always teach you to scale back and be more selective. Just stay aggressive.
And that brings me to my son. You have always been a good kid. You are always so laid back, and never get in much trouble. But that might actually work against you in sports. You have to remember not to be so timid when you play.
Yes, you’re going to strike out every now and then. The best hitters in baseball only get on base three out of ten times. You might even hit into a double play once in a while. We can live with that, though. The most important thing is that if you do strike out, you strike out swinging.
We’ve worked hard on your swing, and it’s a good one. In fact, you work on it every night. Learn to trust it, and trust yourself. Swing the bat, son. In baseball, in life, in whatever you do- swing the bat.
I’m proud of you kids.
Love,
Dad
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Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Hush, just for a second
I’ve been training this young kid at my job.
Well, I guess I shouldn’t call him a kid, he’s 25 years old. But when you are my age, anyone who doesn’t know who shot J.R. is considered a kid.
One of the things that I love about my job is that I usually work by myself. I don’t like anyone working with me. Or riding with me. Or talking to me during the day, really.
You see, I’ve got a certain way that I go about my job. There is usually a good bit of driving involved, so I listen to the radio a lot. And mostly, talk radio.
Until 9 a.m. , I listen to ESPN radio. After that, until 1 p.m. , I listen to more ESPN radio. From 1-5 p.m. I listen to political and news talk, and if I’m still in the truck after 5:00 there are these two guys that have a show just dedicated to guy talk.
But here’s the problem- this kid wants to yap, and yap, and yap. If he’s not telling me about his wife and son, he’s telling me about shark fishing on the coast. If it’s not that, it’s something else.
The thing about listening to talk radio is that you have to do just that; listen. You can’t be talking the whole time like you can while you listen to music. If a song comes on that you’ve heard a hundred times, it’s not big deal to talk through it or turn the radio down. Chances are, you’ll hear it again the next hour.
With talk radio, you only get one chance to hear what they have to say, so I need silence. Not with this cat, though. Silence must be the only word that isn’t in his vocabulary.
And he commits one of my worst pet-peeves almost daily. He talks on the phone loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear everything that he says. We’ve all been at a restaurant next to a table where someone is doing this, haven’t we? Not only do they force you to hear their voice, but they suck you into the conversation enough that you can pretty much tell what the party on the other line is saying, too. So now you are invested in a conversation that you didn’t care about in the first place.
All the talking is rough, but I can overlook it for another week or so. What happened Monday, though, cannot be so easily brushed off.
We were working in San Antonio , and it was about time for lunch. I told him that I knew this perfect little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, where the food was spicy and the prices were cheap.
“Ahh man,” he whined. “That barbecue stand down the street has been smelling good all morning, and I had my heart set on it. Do you mind if we grab something from there?”
Ah-yah-yah. Who goes to San Antonio and doesn’t want to eat Mexican food? That’s like flying to Italy and ordering a burger, or driving to New Orleans for a taco. You’ve got some of the best Mexican food in the state right at your fingertips, and you want to munch on dried up sausage? And anyway, I’ve already got my favorite barbecue place. After you’ve eaten at Toodie’s right here in Hearne , Texas , everything else pretty much falls short.
But my wife has been telling me for two weeks to be nice to this kid, so I gave in. I stomached the pork ribs, sawed my way through the brisket, and fought my way around the iced tea that came already heavily lemoned. I hate lemon in my tea.
Things could get worse later on this week, because we’ll be rooming together a few nights out on the road.
I’m telling you right now, people- if he snores, he’s outta there.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Contact Shannon at http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ or http://robconews.com/ and leave a comment.
I’ve been training this young kid at my job.
Well, I guess I shouldn’t call him a kid, he’s 25 years old. But when you are my age, anyone who doesn’t know who shot J.R. is considered a kid.
One of the things that I love about my job is that I usually work by myself. I don’t like anyone working with me. Or riding with me. Or talking to me during the day, really.
You see, I’ve got a certain way that I go about my job. There is usually a good bit of driving involved, so I listen to the radio a lot. And mostly, talk radio.
Until 9 a.m. , I listen to ESPN radio. After that, until 1 p.m. , I listen to more ESPN radio. From 1-5 p.m. I listen to political and news talk, and if I’m still in the truck after 5:00 there are these two guys that have a show just dedicated to guy talk.
But here’s the problem- this kid wants to yap, and yap, and yap. If he’s not telling me about his wife and son, he’s telling me about shark fishing on the coast. If it’s not that, it’s something else.
The thing about listening to talk radio is that you have to do just that; listen. You can’t be talking the whole time like you can while you listen to music. If a song comes on that you’ve heard a hundred times, it’s not big deal to talk through it or turn the radio down. Chances are, you’ll hear it again the next hour.
With talk radio, you only get one chance to hear what they have to say, so I need silence. Not with this cat, though. Silence must be the only word that isn’t in his vocabulary.
And he commits one of my worst pet-peeves almost daily. He talks on the phone loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear everything that he says. We’ve all been at a restaurant next to a table where someone is doing this, haven’t we? Not only do they force you to hear their voice, but they suck you into the conversation enough that you can pretty much tell what the party on the other line is saying, too. So now you are invested in a conversation that you didn’t care about in the first place.
All the talking is rough, but I can overlook it for another week or so. What happened Monday, though, cannot be so easily brushed off.
We were working in San Antonio , and it was about time for lunch. I told him that I knew this perfect little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, where the food was spicy and the prices were cheap.
“Ahh man,” he whined. “That barbecue stand down the street has been smelling good all morning, and I had my heart set on it. Do you mind if we grab something from there?”
Ah-yah-yah. Who goes to San Antonio and doesn’t want to eat Mexican food? That’s like flying to Italy and ordering a burger, or driving to New Orleans for a taco. You’ve got some of the best Mexican food in the state right at your fingertips, and you want to munch on dried up sausage? And anyway, I’ve already got my favorite barbecue place. After you’ve eaten at Toodie’s right here in Hearne , Texas , everything else pretty much falls short.
But my wife has been telling me for two weeks to be nice to this kid, so I gave in. I stomached the pork ribs, sawed my way through the brisket, and fought my way around the iced tea that came already heavily lemoned. I hate lemon in my tea.
Things could get worse later on this week, because we’ll be rooming together a few nights out on the road.
I’m telling you right now, people- if he snores, he’s outta there.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Contact Shannon at http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ or http://robconews.com/ and leave a comment.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
What a job
Was sitting around thinking about the coolest jobs the other day, and then tried to come up with my top five. I had to put a little thought into it, because it was a little harder than it sounds.
I mean, some jobs are like ducks. They seem cool and calm on the surface, but underneath the water their feet are going 90 to nothing.
People used to tell me all the time that I had the perfect job when I covered sports. And for the most part, I loved it. Until I was stuck in the rain on the sidelines, or some mom whined that her baby never got his picture in the paper. And of course, every Monday night I slept on the couch and wrote everything up in the middle of the night.
So I had to really put some thought in to come up with my list.
The news anchor is what made me think of all this in the first place. I don’t mean the guy right out of college who has to cover the boring city council meetings, or who has to put in all the research for a story.
I mean the guy who gets dressed up in a free suit every night, and the toughest two things about his job are having to wear makeup and reading the teleprompter.
I love to drive, so I think truck driving and hot-shotting would be a cool job. You get to drive all over the country, listen to talk radio all day, and the hardest thing you have to do is pump gas in your vehicle. Most of the loading and unloading of the trailer is done by other people.
Every now and then, I’ll see a group of cowboys around here eating lunch or breakfast together. They all have their horses in their trailers outside, and sometimes even their dogs are in the back of the truck. Every time I see them, I get jealous.
Can you imagine? Being a real cowboy for a living has to be one of the all time greatest jobs ever. My God, there are songs written about you, man.
Speaking of songs, my second cool job on the list is probably a country music singer. Not one of these new guys or girls, who have all the competition and singing lessons to deal with. They actually have to hit the road and work hard, and go on tour and shoot videos all day.
I mean the older guys, like George Straight or Willie Nelson. Trust me, nobody is telling Willie Nelson what he has to do every day. And I’ll bet you he hasn’t taken a singing lesson in a good while.
And now, my favorite job of all time. It has to belong to Guy Fieri, the t.v. host of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.
This lucky guy gets to travel the country, in a convertible no less, and visit restaurants for a living. Now, at some point I know he worked hard, because he is a very famous chef, and God only knows how many years of school he attended to get there. But now, he’s living the good life. He’s eating barbecue in Austin one day, gumbo in New Orleans the next day, and clam chowder in New England the day after that. He gets to meet new people all the time, and eat some of the best food in the world… for free.
Don’t know about you, but it beats my job.
Was sitting around thinking about the coolest jobs the other day, and then tried to come up with my top five. I had to put a little thought into it, because it was a little harder than it sounds.
I mean, some jobs are like ducks. They seem cool and calm on the surface, but underneath the water their feet are going 90 to nothing.
People used to tell me all the time that I had the perfect job when I covered sports. And for the most part, I loved it. Until I was stuck in the rain on the sidelines, or some mom whined that her baby never got his picture in the paper. And of course, every Monday night I slept on the couch and wrote everything up in the middle of the night.
So I had to really put some thought in to come up with my list.
The news anchor is what made me think of all this in the first place. I don’t mean the guy right out of college who has to cover the boring city council meetings, or who has to put in all the research for a story.
I mean the guy who gets dressed up in a free suit every night, and the toughest two things about his job are having to wear makeup and reading the teleprompter.
I love to drive, so I think truck driving and hot-shotting would be a cool job. You get to drive all over the country, listen to talk radio all day, and the hardest thing you have to do is pump gas in your vehicle. Most of the loading and unloading of the trailer is done by other people.
Every now and then, I’ll see a group of cowboys around here eating lunch or breakfast together. They all have their horses in their trailers outside, and sometimes even their dogs are in the back of the truck. Every time I see them, I get jealous.
Can you imagine? Being a real cowboy for a living has to be one of the all time greatest jobs ever. My God, there are songs written about you, man.
Speaking of songs, my second cool job on the list is probably a country music singer. Not one of these new guys or girls, who have all the competition and singing lessons to deal with. They actually have to hit the road and work hard, and go on tour and shoot videos all day.
I mean the older guys, like George Straight or Willie Nelson. Trust me, nobody is telling Willie Nelson what he has to do every day. And I’ll bet you he hasn’t taken a singing lesson in a good while.
And now, my favorite job of all time. It has to belong to Guy Fieri, the t.v. host of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.
This lucky guy gets to travel the country, in a convertible no less, and visit restaurants for a living. Now, at some point I know he worked hard, because he is a very famous chef, and God only knows how many years of school he attended to get there. But now, he’s living the good life. He’s eating barbecue in Austin one day, gumbo in New Orleans the next day, and clam chowder in New England the day after that. He gets to meet new people all the time, and eat some of the best food in the world… for free.
Don’t know about you, but it beats my job.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Just the facts
Came across some crazy facts the other day, and figured I would pass them on to you.
Like this one that says that Americans collectively eat one pound of chocolate per second, or the fact that more Americans have died in car accidents than have died in all the wars ever fought by the United States .
That makes sense to me, because we have way more women and teen drivers than ever before. Add to that the fact that most of them are eating chocolate while they are driving, and well…
Did you know that almonds are a member of the peach family? Or that one in every four Americans has appeared on television? Of course, most of them in the south are talking about the tornado or the flying saucer they just saw.
Speaking of rednecks- in Jasper, Alabama , it is illegal for a husband to beat his wife with a stick larger in diameter than his thumb.
Where are you going to find a good whooping stick that’s smaller than your thumb? Is it really worth even doing, then, if you can’t do it the right way? (Just joking, save your emails.)
In Hartford , Connecticut , it is illegal to educate a dog. In my house it’s legal, just impossible.
In Waterville , Maine , it is illegal to blow one’s nose in public.
That should be a law everywhere, if you ask me. Nothing is worse than trying to eat breakfast and hearing some old guy right behind you filling up his napkin.
Crocodiles can’t stick out their tongues, and they swallow stones to help them dive deeper. Think I’m gonna try that one with my kids. Then maybe they can get those ridiculous little sticks off the bottom of our pool.
It says here that most dreams last between five and twenty minutes. Which is bad news if you’re dreaming about a car wreck or running from a bear, but great news if you’re dreaming about Carrie Underwood. I mean, I guess. I don’t really know or anything.
Speaking of hot chics, if Barbie were life-size her measurements would be 39-23-33. Hey now… The bad news is that you would have to be Shaquille O’Neal to go out with her, because she would stand 7’2”.
A toothpick is the object most often choked on by Americans, although 100 people a year can’t cough up a ball point pen.
A Koala Bear, and my oldest daughter, sleep twenty-two hours of every day… Fingernails grow fastest on the hand you favor. Did you know that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo? Nobody knows why.
And I believe that these next two are related. Women end up digesting most of the lipstick that they apply, and eighty percent of arguments between married couples occur in the bathroom.
And finally, some bad news for the male members of my family. One’s eyes are the same size from birth, but your nose and ears never stop growing. Damnit. I’d rather be 7’2”.
Came across some crazy facts the other day, and figured I would pass them on to you.
Like this one that says that Americans collectively eat one pound of chocolate per second, or the fact that more Americans have died in car accidents than have died in all the wars ever fought by the United States .
That makes sense to me, because we have way more women and teen drivers than ever before. Add to that the fact that most of them are eating chocolate while they are driving, and well…
Did you know that almonds are a member of the peach family? Or that one in every four Americans has appeared on television? Of course, most of them in the south are talking about the tornado or the flying saucer they just saw.
Speaking of rednecks- in Jasper, Alabama , it is illegal for a husband to beat his wife with a stick larger in diameter than his thumb.
Where are you going to find a good whooping stick that’s smaller than your thumb? Is it really worth even doing, then, if you can’t do it the right way? (Just joking, save your emails.)
In Hartford , Connecticut , it is illegal to educate a dog. In my house it’s legal, just impossible.
In Waterville , Maine , it is illegal to blow one’s nose in public.
That should be a law everywhere, if you ask me. Nothing is worse than trying to eat breakfast and hearing some old guy right behind you filling up his napkin.
Crocodiles can’t stick out their tongues, and they swallow stones to help them dive deeper. Think I’m gonna try that one with my kids. Then maybe they can get those ridiculous little sticks off the bottom of our pool.
It says here that most dreams last between five and twenty minutes. Which is bad news if you’re dreaming about a car wreck or running from a bear, but great news if you’re dreaming about Carrie Underwood. I mean, I guess. I don’t really know or anything.
Speaking of hot chics, if Barbie were life-size her measurements would be 39-23-33. Hey now… The bad news is that you would have to be Shaquille O’Neal to go out with her, because she would stand 7’2”.
A toothpick is the object most often choked on by Americans, although 100 people a year can’t cough up a ball point pen.
A Koala Bear, and my oldest daughter, sleep twenty-two hours of every day… Fingernails grow fastest on the hand you favor. Did you know that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo? Nobody knows why.
And I believe that these next two are related. Women end up digesting most of the lipstick that they apply, and eighty percent of arguments between married couples occur in the bathroom.
And finally, some bad news for the male members of my family. One’s eyes are the same size from birth, but your nose and ears never stop growing. Damnit. I’d rather be 7’2”.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Wild animals and marriage?
I’m a fan of the show “Ax Men” that airs on Sunday nights. Monday my wife called me to say that one of the show’s characters lost his 4-year old son to an attack by the family Rottweiler.
My first reaction was sadness, because any time a young child dies it bothers me. My second reaction was “duh”. I believe you can either own a 4-year old kid, or you can own a Rottweiler, but you can’t own both.
I already know what you are going to say. “But Shannon , it’s how you raise the dog that matters. Not all Rottweilers and pit bulls are bad.” And of course that’s true. But let me explain something to you.
Our family dog has an anger problem. He has one of the worst temperaments that I’ve ever seen on a dog, and at least twice a week he snaps at my son or somebody else. The difference is, we own a small dog that could chew on my son’s arm for a week and not get it chewed off.
I did a little research, and it turns out that Rottweilers, pit bulls, and Presa Canarios (don’t know what that is) are responsible for 74% of reported dog attacks, 65% of the deaths, and 68% of the maimings. What I take from that is every dog can have a bad day, but when one of these dogs has a bad day it turns into a bad day for everyone involved.
And while we are on the subject of animals, let’s come up with a new rule- no more pity parties for people who get killed by wild animals when they are messing with them.
The comedian Chris Rock had a great line when talking about the Tiger that attacked the Las Vegas performer Sigfried, or Roy , or whatever his name was. He said “That Tiger didn’t go crazy, he went Tiger.”
I felt the same way last week when the television news was flooded with the story of the Disney World trainer who was killed by a Killer Whale. “Tragic” is what they called it. I call it a matter of time. Folks, they named the species “Killer” Whale. Not “Warm and Snuggly” Whale, or “Come Ride on my Back” Whale. “Kil-ler” Whale.
Stop calling these deaths tragic. The Holocaust was tragic. September 11 was tragic. The Sopranos ending their t.v. run was tragic. These deaths were a lack of common sense. Leave wild animals alone.
Now, let’s end this column on a high note.
My wife and I know two young couples that are very close to getting married. Both of them are in that “can’t get enough of you” stage, and boy has it been fun to watch from afar.
One of the couples will leave each other little messages on Facebook, and my wife and I will call each other and talk about it. The other couple is involved in the pre-marriage classes that most churches offer nowadays.
I was reminissing about the time when we were in our own pre-marriage classes, and I got the best piece of advice of my life. The teachers were an older married couple who had gone through their own ups and downs over the years.
The guy teacher told us “You always hear that marriages are 50-50 effort from both partners, and that’s not true. In fact, it’s hardly ever 50-50. It might be 60-40 on her part one day, and 80-20 on his part the next day. She might put 70-30 effort in for a whole year, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that when either partner needs the other to carry the load, he or she does so without question or complaint.”
That has been a valuable piece of information for me over the last 12 years, and I hope they still teach that in those classes.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ or http://robconews.com/ and leave Shannon a message.
My first reaction was sadness, because any time a young child dies it bothers me. My second reaction was “duh”. I believe you can either own a 4-year old kid, or you can own a Rottweiler, but you can’t own both.
I already know what you are going to say. “But Shannon , it’s how you raise the dog that matters. Not all Rottweilers and pit bulls are bad.” And of course that’s true. But let me explain something to you.
Our family dog has an anger problem. He has one of the worst temperaments that I’ve ever seen on a dog, and at least twice a week he snaps at my son or somebody else. The difference is, we own a small dog that could chew on my son’s arm for a week and not get it chewed off.
I did a little research, and it turns out that Rottweilers, pit bulls, and Presa Canarios (don’t know what that is) are responsible for 74% of reported dog attacks, 65% of the deaths, and 68% of the maimings. What I take from that is every dog can have a bad day, but when one of these dogs has a bad day it turns into a bad day for everyone involved.
And while we are on the subject of animals, let’s come up with a new rule- no more pity parties for people who get killed by wild animals when they are messing with them.
The comedian Chris Rock had a great line when talking about the Tiger that attacked the Las Vegas performer Sigfried, or Roy , or whatever his name was. He said “That Tiger didn’t go crazy, he went Tiger.”
I felt the same way last week when the television news was flooded with the story of the Disney World trainer who was killed by a Killer Whale. “Tragic” is what they called it. I call it a matter of time. Folks, they named the species “Killer” Whale. Not “Warm and Snuggly” Whale, or “Come Ride on my Back” Whale. “Kil-ler” Whale.
Stop calling these deaths tragic. The Holocaust was tragic. September 11 was tragic. The Sopranos ending their t.v. run was tragic. These deaths were a lack of common sense. Leave wild animals alone.
Now, let’s end this column on a high note.
My wife and I know two young couples that are very close to getting married. Both of them are in that “can’t get enough of you” stage, and boy has it been fun to watch from afar.
One of the couples will leave each other little messages on Facebook, and my wife and I will call each other and talk about it. The other couple is involved in the pre-marriage classes that most churches offer nowadays.
I was reminissing about the time when we were in our own pre-marriage classes, and I got the best piece of advice of my life. The teachers were an older married couple who had gone through their own ups and downs over the years.
The guy teacher told us “You always hear that marriages are 50-50 effort from both partners, and that’s not true. In fact, it’s hardly ever 50-50. It might be 60-40 on her part one day, and 80-20 on his part the next day. She might put 70-30 effort in for a whole year, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that when either partner needs the other to carry the load, he or she does so without question or complaint.”
That has been a valuable piece of information for me over the last 12 years, and I hope they still teach that in those classes.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ or http://robconews.com/ and leave Shannon a message.
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