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.
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Friday, June 18, 2010
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.
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