Wednesday, December 28, 2011
On the run
About a month ago I stepped on a scale at work. It read 242 pounds, the heaviest I've ever been, by about a ton.
"I've got to do something," I told myself. Besides being my heaviest, I've never felt so bad physically. I'm supposed to take one Prevacid pill per day for my acid reflux. I was up to two pills a day, and a roll of Tums. And still waking up in the middle of the night a few times a week throwing up whatever I ate for dinner.
Add to all this the fact that over the last three months both my mother and father died in their 60's, and it was enough to wake me up- I needed to get myself in better shape, fast. I needed to start exercising more. Hell, I needed to start exercising, period. I needed to set some kind of goals for myself.
Now, I can't stand running, I'd rather ride a bike because when I run I get shin splints from Hell. The problem is, every time I buy a bicycle some little baggy-pants thug in the area steals it. So I made my mind up to run in the 5K at the Bremond Polish Pickle Days in June.
This isn't the first time that I've set this particular goal for myself. A few years ago, a lady I worked with at the newspaper and I agreed to participate in this 5K. I can't remember what happened to derail the plan. I think she somehow hurt her leg, or ankle, or knee. And I got switched to a different shift at my main job, so I couldn't get myself ready to run 3.1 miles. To tell you the truth, my heart probably wasn't all the way in it, either.
This time has to different, for my health's sake if nothing else. I needed to recruit someone that could be tough on me and keep me committed. On days when I don't feel like running- and rest assured, there will be many- this person has to be able to push me and make me go. They have to be persistent, relentless; maybe even get on my nerves a little. I had the perfect person in mind.
I came straight home and told my son about the run. You tell this kid that you're going to take him fishing in two weeks, and he'll remind you once an hour until his hook is in the water. I asked him if he thought he could run 3.1 miles with me.
"Pshh, yeah," he said, way too confidently for my taste. The truth is, while he probably can't run three miles right now, he'll get there way before I will.
Because make no mistake about it- I'm starting from scratch. Somehow, I've got to get myself able to run 3.1 miles in six month's time when I can't run the .1 right now. I've made smaller goals to get me there. By mid February I want to be able to run a mile, by mid April two miles, and mid June three miles.
To help myself out, I've started eating healthier too. When I say healthier, what I mean is the POWs here at Camp Hearne probably ate more than I've eaten lately.
Other than Christmas Eve and Christmas day (after all, I am human) I've had nothing but chicken and salad and salad and chicken. I've had grilled chicken, baked chicken, broiled chicken, grilled chicken salads, crispy chicken salads, and mushy chicken salad sandwhiches. I haven't had a good greasy burger, or a nice crispy pound of bacon in over a month. But as bad as that's been, I have to admit that I've had only six heartburn pills and zero Tums in a month.
The sad part? I'm still not sure if it's a good trade-off or not..
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
It’s Christmas rhyme
‘Twas a couple of weeks before Christmas
and yes, holding true to form
I haven’t done a bit of shopping.
Don’t be surprised, it’s the norm.
Christmas after Christmas, year after year,
it always comes down to time.
Everyone else is done with their shopping
and I’m just getting started with mine.
My wife wants jewelry, my son wants guns,
one daughter wants make-up and cash.
My youngest daughter wants margarita mix,
WTH? I tore up her list up in a flash.
My dog Chuy wants more bones
and a warm blanket, that’s for sure.
And he’d never say it, but I know the truth,
he wants it made out of cat fur.
Every year our list of names change
of people that we give presents to.
We have a rule- once you have kids,
Christmas is no longer about you.
We have our kids, a couple of nieces,
and maybe a nephew or two.
If you aren’t on that list, I’ve got bad news,
Christmas is going to be blue for you.
I’ve always wanted to send Christmas cards
but for some reason they never get sent.
We get a few from folks in the mail every year
and love learning how someone’s year went.
What do I want, you ask? How nice of you.
I want what everyone else does, you know.
Peace on Earth, good will towards men,
then sit and watch my loving family grow.
Bah-ha-ha, I was just joking.
Get out your notebooks and pens.
I want clothes, cash, tools, headphones,
and something to help me lose my two chins.
Or you can all come together and donate
to my iPad 2 fund that I’ve started of late.
I’m saving the money that I win from poker,
But the way it’s going, I’ll get the iPad 8.
Have a Merry Christmas, everybody. Thank you so much for reading.
‘Twas a couple of weeks before Christmas
and yes, holding true to form
I haven’t done a bit of shopping.
Don’t be surprised, it’s the norm.
Christmas after Christmas, year after year,
it always comes down to time.
Everyone else is done with their shopping
and I’m just getting started with mine.
My wife wants jewelry, my son wants guns,
one daughter wants make-up and cash.
My youngest daughter wants margarita mix,
WTH? I tore up her list up in a flash.
My dog Chuy wants more bones
and a warm blanket, that’s for sure.
And he’d never say it, but I know the truth,
he wants it made out of cat fur.
Every year our list of names change
of people that we give presents to.
We have a rule- once you have kids,
Christmas is no longer about you.
We have our kids, a couple of nieces,
and maybe a nephew or two.
If you aren’t on that list, I’ve got bad news,
Christmas is going to be blue for you.
I’ve always wanted to send Christmas cards
but for some reason they never get sent.
We get a few from folks in the mail every year
and love learning how someone’s year went.
What do I want, you ask? How nice of you.
I want what everyone else does, you know.
Peace on Earth, good will towards men,
then sit and watch my loving family grow.
Bah-ha-ha, I was just joking.
Get out your notebooks and pens.
I want clothes, cash, tools, headphones,
and something to help me lose my two chins.
Or you can all come together and donate
to my iPad 2 fund that I’ve started of late.
I’m saving the money that I win from poker,
But the way it’s going, I’ll get the iPad 8.
Have a Merry Christmas, everybody. Thank you so much for reading.
Stirring the pot
Oh yeah, it’s getting a little chilly out there now. Or maybe I should say, it’s getting chili time.
I said at the end of last winter that I was going to start making a pot of chili every year, once I found the right recipe. I think it would be cool for my kids to grow up saying “It’s getting cold outside. Almost time for some of Dad’s chili!” Or their kids asking “When does Grandpa make his chili?”
Well I’ve been looking online lately, and have got the list narrowed down to about three recipes. “As long as you don’t make it too hot for the children to eat,” my wife said.
I was standing in the kitchen thinking about it last night when an idea hit me. My mother, for years, made a big ol’ pot of chicken and dumplings for me on the first cold weekend of the year. Maybe instead of chili I could take up her chicken and dumpling cause. I just didn’t know if that would be considered manly enough.
Shannon ’s Chicken and Dumplings doesn’t sound nearly as tough as Shannon ’s Three Alarm Chili.
“What do you think?” I asked my wife.
“Sure it’s manly enough,” she said. “But I still think you had better stick to chili. Chicken and dumplings is a little out of your league.”
That stung a little, so I asked her to explain what she meant.
“Well it’s hard to screw up chili, there’s like two or three ingredients and it’s mostly just throw things in until it tastes good. Chicken and dumplings is a little harder.”
I asked her if she knew how to make chicken and dumplings.
“Of course I do, you know that. Although we all know they are not as good as your mother’s.” I detected a good bit of sarcasm there, but let it go for sake of staying on course.
“Were you born knowing how to make chicken and dumplings, or did you learn how to make them?” I asked.
“I found the recipe in a cookbook, and started making them.”
“Okay,” I ranted. “So you are telling me that you can learn how to do something, but I can’t. What you are saying is that if we both sat down and took an IQ test, you would be so far ahead of me that your score would blow mine right out of the water. Is that what you are saying?”
She got this really tired look on her face, like she had been down this road too many times. Then she sighed, “Look, this is what I’m saying. Can you tell me what all is in chili?”
“Sure I can. Meat, beans, maybe a little tomato sauce, a little cayenne pepper, can of beer…”
“Okay, okay,” she stopped me. “So you pretty much know what all goes in there. That’s half the battle. Now, tell me what all is in chicken and dumplings.”
“Um, well there’s a couple of chickens… some dumplings…salt and pepper?”
“A little more to it than that. Can you at least tell me what the dumplings are made out of?”
“Bread?”
That conquering smile that I’ve come to know well in eleven years appeared on her face, and she said “Thank you for making my point.”
“Now,” she said, as she turned toward my girls. They were at the table to do homework, but were listening and laughing to every word that was being said. “Raise your hand if you would like to eat some of Dad’s chicken and dumplings.”
All of a sudden, they were so busy reading and doing math problems that they had no time to take part in any of our discussion. Neither raised their hand, and it was as if nobody had even heard the question.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” I said to them all. “But just for that, my first pot of chili is going to be five alarm.”
Oh yeah, it’s getting a little chilly out there now. Or maybe I should say, it’s getting chili time.
I said at the end of last winter that I was going to start making a pot of chili every year, once I found the right recipe. I think it would be cool for my kids to grow up saying “It’s getting cold outside. Almost time for some of Dad’s chili!” Or their kids asking “When does Grandpa make his chili?”
Well I’ve been looking online lately, and have got the list narrowed down to about three recipes. “As long as you don’t make it too hot for the children to eat,” my wife said.
I was standing in the kitchen thinking about it last night when an idea hit me. My mother, for years, made a big ol’ pot of chicken and dumplings for me on the first cold weekend of the year. Maybe instead of chili I could take up her chicken and dumpling cause. I just didn’t know if that would be considered manly enough.
Shannon ’s Chicken and Dumplings doesn’t sound nearly as tough as Shannon ’s Three Alarm Chili.
“What do you think?” I asked my wife.
“Sure it’s manly enough,” she said. “But I still think you had better stick to chili. Chicken and dumplings is a little out of your league.”
That stung a little, so I asked her to explain what she meant.
“Well it’s hard to screw up chili, there’s like two or three ingredients and it’s mostly just throw things in until it tastes good. Chicken and dumplings is a little harder.”
I asked her if she knew how to make chicken and dumplings.
“Of course I do, you know that. Although we all know they are not as good as your mother’s.” I detected a good bit of sarcasm there, but let it go for sake of staying on course.
“Were you born knowing how to make chicken and dumplings, or did you learn how to make them?” I asked.
“I found the recipe in a cookbook, and started making them.”
“Okay,” I ranted. “So you are telling me that you can learn how to do something, but I can’t. What you are saying is that if we both sat down and took an IQ test, you would be so far ahead of me that your score would blow mine right out of the water. Is that what you are saying?”
She got this really tired look on her face, like she had been down this road too many times. Then she sighed, “Look, this is what I’m saying. Can you tell me what all is in chili?”
“Sure I can. Meat, beans, maybe a little tomato sauce, a little cayenne pepper, can of beer…”
“Okay, okay,” she stopped me. “So you pretty much know what all goes in there. That’s half the battle. Now, tell me what all is in chicken and dumplings.”
“Um, well there’s a couple of chickens… some dumplings…salt and pepper?”
“A little more to it than that. Can you at least tell me what the dumplings are made out of?”
“Bread?”
That conquering smile that I’ve come to know well in eleven years appeared on her face, and she said “Thank you for making my point.”
“Now,” she said, as she turned toward my girls. They were at the table to do homework, but were listening and laughing to every word that was being said. “Raise your hand if you would like to eat some of Dad’s chicken and dumplings.”
All of a sudden, they were so busy reading and doing math problems that they had no time to take part in any of our discussion. Neither raised their hand, and it was as if nobody had even heard the question.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” I said to them all. “But just for that, my first pot of chili is going to be five alarm.”
Alone time
My oldest daughter is growing up so fast, it’s like she’s a whole different kid. I don’t know if every parent goes through this or not, but it seems like I’m always hanging out with my son and don’t get much time with my daughters.
Not on purpose, mind you. It just so happens that my wife usually takes the girls to practice, shopping, etc. And if my son and one of the girls happen to have a game or something on the same day, it usually works out that I take my son and my wife takes the girls.
I’ve been thinking lately that I need to be closer to my girls, like spend more time with them. The numbers don’t lie- girls who grow up with dads that play a big role in their lives just do better with grades, teen pregnancies, drugs, stuff like that.
The problem comes when I try to get that time with them. First I have to explain to my son why I’d want to hang out with one of the girls instead of him. He would take that as a slap in the face. Then I have to convince one of my girls to spend time with me for no reason, and actually talk to me instead of texting nonstop, or listening to terrible music through headphones. That’s not easy. The only person that likes to spend time alone with me is, well, me.
But I got my chance to be alone with my oldest daughter this week. She had a dentist appointment, so I picked her up at school and took her myself.
As we walked from the school to my jeep, I saw her taking her headphones out and thought to myself “Here’s your chance.”
“Hey,” I told her. “Let’s leave the headphones off and talk a little on the drive there.”
“Am I in trouble for something?” she asked.
“No, just thought we’d talk.”
“How come? I mean, like, about what?”
“I don’t know. Just stuff I guess.”
So we get going, and immediately I can tell that talking will be a problem. I forgot how loud it is inside my jeep with the big tires and the plastic top. There’s nothing worse than trying to have a normal conversation, but having to scream everything.
“So how was your day?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“I said, how was your day!”
“Fine.”
“Huh?”
“Fine!”
“What did y’all have for lunch today?”
“What?”
“What did y’all have for lunch!”
“Chicken! Or something like chicken. Dad, my throat hurts. Please don’t make me scream, okay?”
I had to admit, she had a point. It was like watching two old people with bad hearing aids talk to each other over short wave radios. Neither one has a clue what the other one is trying to say, and it just makes you mad after a while.
Guess we should have just texted each other.
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 oldest daughter is growing up so fast, it’s like she’s a whole different kid. I don’t know if every parent goes through this or not, but it seems like I’m always hanging out with my son and don’t get much time with my daughters.
Not on purpose, mind you. It just so happens that my wife usually takes the girls to practice, shopping, etc. And if my son and one of the girls happen to have a game or something on the same day, it usually works out that I take my son and my wife takes the girls.
I’ve been thinking lately that I need to be closer to my girls, like spend more time with them. The numbers don’t lie- girls who grow up with dads that play a big role in their lives just do better with grades, teen pregnancies, drugs, stuff like that.
The problem comes when I try to get that time with them. First I have to explain to my son why I’d want to hang out with one of the girls instead of him. He would take that as a slap in the face. Then I have to convince one of my girls to spend time with me for no reason, and actually talk to me instead of texting nonstop, or listening to terrible music through headphones. That’s not easy. The only person that likes to spend time alone with me is, well, me.
But I got my chance to be alone with my oldest daughter this week. She had a dentist appointment, so I picked her up at school and took her myself.
As we walked from the school to my jeep, I saw her taking her headphones out and thought to myself “Here’s your chance.”
“Hey,” I told her. “Let’s leave the headphones off and talk a little on the drive there.”
“Am I in trouble for something?” she asked.
“No, just thought we’d talk.”
“How come? I mean, like, about what?”
“I don’t know. Just stuff I guess.”
So we get going, and immediately I can tell that talking will be a problem. I forgot how loud it is inside my jeep with the big tires and the plastic top. There’s nothing worse than trying to have a normal conversation, but having to scream everything.
“So how was your day?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“I said, how was your day!”
“Fine.”
“Huh?”
“Fine!”
“What did y’all have for lunch today?”
“What?”
“What did y’all have for lunch!”
“Chicken! Or something like chicken. Dad, my throat hurts. Please don’t make me scream, okay?”
I had to admit, she had a point. It was like watching two old people with bad hearing aids talk to each other over short wave radios. Neither one has a clue what the other one is trying to say, and it just makes you mad after a while.
Guess we should have just texted each other.
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.
Rubber ducks and house shoes…
At some point in the near future- and probably for some years to come- I will be seen walking down the street wearing pajamas, a full length robe, and house shoes. My hair will be a mess, I’ll have at least two weeks of stubble on my face at all times, and chances are I’ll be muttering incoherently for no reason whatsoever. Sort of like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man… “Welcome, to People’s Court. Of course I’m an excellent driver. Hot water burn baby!”
Do you want to know why I’m going to be walking down the street wearing a robe, with messy hair, and babbling like a crazy person? It’s because I’m a parent, and these kids are driving me bananas.
Take for instance my bathroom. When you walk in there, thirteen rubber ducks are staring at you right in the eye. Thirteen rubber ducks. People, I’ve got thirteen rubber ducks lined up along the edge of the tub watching me do… whatever.
And I don’t know why there are thirteen rubber ducks in there. Hell, I don’t know why there are any rubber ducks in there at all. My youngest kid is nine years old, which in theory is way past rubber ducky age, right?
Speaking of the bathroom, it’s like Bed, Bath and Beyond in there. My son and I are embarrassed to even walk in. You’ve got almond and shea butter shampoo, vanilla strawberry body lotion, sweat pea body lotion, and orange hand scrubber. I’m telling you, if my two daughters walk in the same room together it smells like a dang fruit basket exploded.
And how on Earth those two girls leave the house looking so pretty in the morning is beyond me. I’m surprised they could find any clothes at all in that room. I’ve seen footage of war-torn countries that don’t look as messy as my daughters’ bedroom.
The worst thing about being a parent is that I’m so insecure about every decision I make now. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be confident, sure of myself, maybe even a little cocky. Now I’m doing everything but flipping a coin to make important life decisions.
Should I be strict? Or should I be the cool dad that changes with the times? Should I jump in when I see a kid being taken advantage of? Or should I stand back and let them learn the hard way? Should I push them in school and sports, so they know what pressure and competition is like? Or should I let them find their own way, in their own time?
Every year you will see some great kid on Good Morning America or the Today Show that saved their allowance or kept their money from their lemonade stand all summer, and they’re donating it to a food shelter for Thanksgiving dinner or something like that. Man, I want one of those kids. How do you raise a kid like that?
Meanwhile, my oldest daughter’s whole entire day was ruined beyond devastation Monday because she had to wear her sister’s knee pads during a volleyball game. And the youngest daughter? She acted like we were asking her to donate a kidney… to a stranger. I’ve seen these two fight like deranged cats over a hair brush in the mornings.
Speaking of that, it’s time to wake them up for school. Geesh, I hope I can find a robe that matches my pajamas and house shoes.
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.
At some point in the near future- and probably for some years to come- I will be seen walking down the street wearing pajamas, a full length robe, and house shoes. My hair will be a mess, I’ll have at least two weeks of stubble on my face at all times, and chances are I’ll be muttering incoherently for no reason whatsoever. Sort of like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man… “Welcome, to People’s Court. Of course I’m an excellent driver. Hot water burn baby!”
Do you want to know why I’m going to be walking down the street wearing a robe, with messy hair, and babbling like a crazy person? It’s because I’m a parent, and these kids are driving me bananas.
Take for instance my bathroom. When you walk in there, thirteen rubber ducks are staring at you right in the eye. Thirteen rubber ducks. People, I’ve got thirteen rubber ducks lined up along the edge of the tub watching me do… whatever.
And I don’t know why there are thirteen rubber ducks in there. Hell, I don’t know why there are any rubber ducks in there at all. My youngest kid is nine years old, which in theory is way past rubber ducky age, right?
Speaking of the bathroom, it’s like Bed, Bath and Beyond in there. My son and I are embarrassed to even walk in. You’ve got almond and shea butter shampoo, vanilla strawberry body lotion, sweat pea body lotion, and orange hand scrubber. I’m telling you, if my two daughters walk in the same room together it smells like a dang fruit basket exploded.
And how on Earth those two girls leave the house looking so pretty in the morning is beyond me. I’m surprised they could find any clothes at all in that room. I’ve seen footage of war-torn countries that don’t look as messy as my daughters’ bedroom.
The worst thing about being a parent is that I’m so insecure about every decision I make now. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be confident, sure of myself, maybe even a little cocky. Now I’m doing everything but flipping a coin to make important life decisions.
Should I be strict? Or should I be the cool dad that changes with the times? Should I jump in when I see a kid being taken advantage of? Or should I stand back and let them learn the hard way? Should I push them in school and sports, so they know what pressure and competition is like? Or should I let them find their own way, in their own time?
Every year you will see some great kid on Good Morning America or the Today Show that saved their allowance or kept their money from their lemonade stand all summer, and they’re donating it to a food shelter for Thanksgiving dinner or something like that. Man, I want one of those kids. How do you raise a kid like that?
Meanwhile, my oldest daughter’s whole entire day was ruined beyond devastation Monday because she had to wear her sister’s knee pads during a volleyball game. And the youngest daughter? She acted like we were asking her to donate a kidney… to a stranger. I’ve seen these two fight like deranged cats over a hair brush in the mornings.
Speaking of that, it’s time to wake them up for school. Geesh, I hope I can find a robe that matches my pajamas and house shoes.
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.
The Breakup
I’m glad you took my call. We need to talk, and I’m afraid it’s bad news. The reason I’m not doing this in person is because, well, I don’t think I’m strong enough to go through with it if I’m looking at you.
You see, Mexican Food, I can’t be with you any longer. Calm down, please. Let me explain. It’s not that I don’t love you, I swear. Surely you know that, right?
Yes, I know I’m throwing away some good years. But when I was younger, you didn’t seem to hurt me like you do now. You’ve seen me get out of the shower, Mexican Food, and you know we are no good for each other. I’ve got to do what’s best for me, and for my family.
I’ve always loved you, but lately I’ve been craving you more and more. Now I have to have you three, sometimes four times a week. A couple of days a week I’ll have breakfast tacos. Once or twice a week I’ll slam some enchiladas, or maybe an overstuffed burrito. I’m obsessed with you, and frankly I’m getting scared. I don’t know when it will stop.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just stay with the corn tortillas instead of the flour, and maybe just the meat or the chicken for filling. But I always have to have the potatoes, the beans, the sour cream… and the cheese. Always with the cheese. My God, how could I not love you?
What? Is there someone else? Yeah, I guess now that you mention it there have been a few times when I’ve strayed. The truth is, I’ve always enjoyed a good greasy burger. I’m a sucker for all types of sausage, and of course anything smothered with gravy will turn my head.
And yes, you know about the relationship I have with Bacon. But if I remember right, Mexican Food, more than once it was your idea to ask Bacon to join us. Does the phrase Bacon, Egg and Cheese ring a bell?
It’s important to me, though, that you understand I’ve always come back to you. You were my first love, and no one has made me as happy as you have over the years. The feelings I have for fajitas covered with onions on a warm tortilla will stay with me until the day I die, I promise. And don’t get me started on the Dos Equis with chips and hot sauce… good googly moogly.
But for the sake of my health, I think it’s better if we part ways for a while. I’m not saying forever- just until I lose some of this weight that’s bringing me down, you know? I mean, who’s to say that we won’t see each other once a week or so, when nobody’s looking?
After all, it’s only about twenty pounds that I need to lose. Give me a couple of weeks of drinking nothing but water, eating boring stuff like wheat bread, chicken breasts and salad after salad, and I’ll be good as ne…
What? Taco salad? With picante sauce, too? Damn girl, why didn’t you say something earlier? Fiesta!
I’m glad you took my call. We need to talk, and I’m afraid it’s bad news. The reason I’m not doing this in person is because, well, I don’t think I’m strong enough to go through with it if I’m looking at you.
You see, Mexican Food, I can’t be with you any longer. Calm down, please. Let me explain. It’s not that I don’t love you, I swear. Surely you know that, right?
Yes, I know I’m throwing away some good years. But when I was younger, you didn’t seem to hurt me like you do now. You’ve seen me get out of the shower, Mexican Food, and you know we are no good for each other. I’ve got to do what’s best for me, and for my family.
I’ve always loved you, but lately I’ve been craving you more and more. Now I have to have you three, sometimes four times a week. A couple of days a week I’ll have breakfast tacos. Once or twice a week I’ll slam some enchiladas, or maybe an overstuffed burrito. I’m obsessed with you, and frankly I’m getting scared. I don’t know when it will stop.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just stay with the corn tortillas instead of the flour, and maybe just the meat or the chicken for filling. But I always have to have the potatoes, the beans, the sour cream… and the cheese. Always with the cheese. My God, how could I not love you?
What? Is there someone else? Yeah, I guess now that you mention it there have been a few times when I’ve strayed. The truth is, I’ve always enjoyed a good greasy burger. I’m a sucker for all types of sausage, and of course anything smothered with gravy will turn my head.
And yes, you know about the relationship I have with Bacon. But if I remember right, Mexican Food, more than once it was your idea to ask Bacon to join us. Does the phrase Bacon, Egg and Cheese ring a bell?
It’s important to me, though, that you understand I’ve always come back to you. You were my first love, and no one has made me as happy as you have over the years. The feelings I have for fajitas covered with onions on a warm tortilla will stay with me until the day I die, I promise. And don’t get me started on the Dos Equis with chips and hot sauce… good googly moogly.
But for the sake of my health, I think it’s better if we part ways for a while. I’m not saying forever- just until I lose some of this weight that’s bringing me down, you know? I mean, who’s to say that we won’t see each other once a week or so, when nobody’s looking?
After all, it’s only about twenty pounds that I need to lose. Give me a couple of weeks of drinking nothing but water, eating boring stuff like wheat bread, chicken breasts and salad after salad, and I’ll be good as ne…
What? Taco salad? With picante sauce, too? Damn girl, why didn’t you say something earlier? Fiesta!
Bad news sells
Boy, you knew it was going to be a bad week when Andy Rooney died. Between he and Joe Frazier, the world lost a couple of pretty good ones this week.
I’ve stolen more column ideas from Rooney than anyone else I can think of. The first half of his life story reads like a great movie- fancy high school, upscale college, the war, etc. Then he had a whole wonderful second half of life also, working for CBS. He complained about everything from crammed kitchen drawers to airplane industries, but somehow did it in a way that you still loved him when he was done. In fact, most of the time you loved him more.
I wish I could figure out how he did that. I fuss about a lot of stuff, too. Just yesterday I came home and unloaded on all three kids at three different times, and even butted heads with my wife before the night was over. I didn’t get the feeling that anyone loved me more by the end of the night. Somehow he did that for 40 years.
Frazier was one of the few guys that put Muhammed Ali on his back. I wish there had been more. In fact, I wish that Frazier could have beaten Ali in all three matches that they fought. Frazier stuck up for Ali when Ali got in trouble for draft-dodging, and even loaned him money when he needed it.
Ali paid him back by mocking and making fun of him to the media before they fought, at one time even calling him an Uncle Tom. Ali made his one-time friend look silly and small time in front of the media time after time after time, and he did it all just for publicity. Not one time has Ali apologized for treating Frazier that way, and it’s too late now.
Pop singer Michael Jackson’s doctor was found guilty this week for giving the icon drugs that he overdosed on. Here’s my take on that situation- if it hadn’t of been this doctor, it would have been someone else. When you have a habit like Michael Jackson did, and the money to pay for it, you will find a way to feed the habit. I’m guessing that seventy five percent of the people reading this column would have done the same thing this doctor did if the money was the same, and to say otherwise would be lying. He deserves to do some time, but I hope it’s not too much. Jackson was just as guilty as the doctor.
Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain is in some hot water now. The fourth woman has come forward to accuse him of sexual assault, and I’m sure his numbers will take a nose dive now. I’m not sure who I believe in this story.
On one hand, it’s hard for me to believe that all four women can be making this up out of clean air. I always pay attention to how many people have to be lying in order for someone to be telling the truth. In this case it’s already four to one, and I bet it gets worse before it gets better.
On the other hand, three of the women won’t show their faces, and the fourth one hired Gloria Allred as her attorney. That’s one strike against her in my book. Also, why wait until the man is running for President? Fifteen years is a long time to sit on something that supposedly bothered you so much. It makes me think that she was biding her time until the price for silence was at an all-time high.
And finally, the Penn State scandal is sickening and disturbing. Former defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky is accused of molesting at least eight kids- on campus- and higher ups at the college are accused of either covering up for him or not doing enough to make it stop. I’ve read the 23 page grand jury report, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
I think everyone from the president of the university down to the water boy need to apologize and be replaced. In a situation like this, it’s not enough to just report something to your boss and leave it alone. Any time a kid is being sexually abused, you first call should be to the cops. Then you worry about what your bosses think.
Here’s hoping next week’s news headlines are a little more cheerful. But then that wouldn’t sell as well, would it?
Boy, you knew it was going to be a bad week when Andy Rooney died. Between he and Joe Frazier, the world lost a couple of pretty good ones this week.
I’ve stolen more column ideas from Rooney than anyone else I can think of. The first half of his life story reads like a great movie- fancy high school, upscale college, the war, etc. Then he had a whole wonderful second half of life also, working for CBS. He complained about everything from crammed kitchen drawers to airplane industries, but somehow did it in a way that you still loved him when he was done. In fact, most of the time you loved him more.
I wish I could figure out how he did that. I fuss about a lot of stuff, too. Just yesterday I came home and unloaded on all three kids at three different times, and even butted heads with my wife before the night was over. I didn’t get the feeling that anyone loved me more by the end of the night. Somehow he did that for 40 years.
Frazier was one of the few guys that put Muhammed Ali on his back. I wish there had been more. In fact, I wish that Frazier could have beaten Ali in all three matches that they fought. Frazier stuck up for Ali when Ali got in trouble for draft-dodging, and even loaned him money when he needed it.
Ali paid him back by mocking and making fun of him to the media before they fought, at one time even calling him an Uncle Tom. Ali made his one-time friend look silly and small time in front of the media time after time after time, and he did it all just for publicity. Not one time has Ali apologized for treating Frazier that way, and it’s too late now.
Pop singer Michael Jackson’s doctor was found guilty this week for giving the icon drugs that he overdosed on. Here’s my take on that situation- if it hadn’t of been this doctor, it would have been someone else. When you have a habit like Michael Jackson did, and the money to pay for it, you will find a way to feed the habit. I’m guessing that seventy five percent of the people reading this column would have done the same thing this doctor did if the money was the same, and to say otherwise would be lying. He deserves to do some time, but I hope it’s not too much. Jackson was just as guilty as the doctor.
Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain is in some hot water now. The fourth woman has come forward to accuse him of sexual assault, and I’m sure his numbers will take a nose dive now. I’m not sure who I believe in this story.
On one hand, it’s hard for me to believe that all four women can be making this up out of clean air. I always pay attention to how many people have to be lying in order for someone to be telling the truth. In this case it’s already four to one, and I bet it gets worse before it gets better.
On the other hand, three of the women won’t show their faces, and the fourth one hired Gloria Allred as her attorney. That’s one strike against her in my book. Also, why wait until the man is running for President? Fifteen years is a long time to sit on something that supposedly bothered you so much. It makes me think that she was biding her time until the price for silence was at an all-time high.
And finally, the Penn State scandal is sickening and disturbing. Former defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky is accused of molesting at least eight kids- on campus- and higher ups at the college are accused of either covering up for him or not doing enough to make it stop. I’ve read the 23 page grand jury report, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
I think everyone from the president of the university down to the water boy need to apologize and be replaced. In a situation like this, it’s not enough to just report something to your boss and leave it alone. Any time a kid is being sexually abused, you first call should be to the cops. Then you worry about what your bosses think.
Here’s hoping next week’s news headlines are a little more cheerful. But then that wouldn’t sell as well, would it?
It’s got to be French’s
The running argument in my house these days centers around my twelve year old daughter and her desire to go trick-or-treating. It is well known to most readers that I have a “no trick-or-treating” policy for those over ten years old. If you are older than ten, and you come begging around my house, you get turned away. Or you may get something healthy to eat. Last year I handed out Halloween pencils to the older kids, this year I’m thinking about ketchup and mustard packs. I’m going to put two or three of them in those cute little Halloween bags and staple it shut. That way nobody knows until they get back to their house and open the bags. Hahahahahahaha.
“But Dad, all my friends are going trick-or-treating,” she whines to me. “Their parents don’t think they are too old.”
This is the worst argument in the world to bring me. First of all, there is nothing worse than a follower. I thought I did a good job of pounding that in my children’s minds, but I guess not. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather my daughters be leaders even more than my son. There is all kind of trouble that a young lady can get in to if she doesn’t have a backbone.
Secondly, I need her to stay home that night and hand out the candy bags. Halloween will be on a Monday night, which means that Monday Night Football will be on. I’m not a big fan of kids anyway, much less a bunch of them coming to my house. If I have to miss football because I’m passing out candy- free candy at that- I’ll really be in a sour mood.
Also, if a twelve year old pretty girl is handing out candy, nobody will think she was the one passing out the mustard and ketchup packs. If a grumpy old man is handing out the candy, I’ll be the first suspect on the list when you open that little bag and see French’s mustard instead of Reece’s Pieces.
Another reason I don’t want her trick-or-treating is the economy. Look, everyone knows that dads have to eat the leftover candy, along with any of the good stuff that they can sneak away with. And everyone also knows how the economy goes, Halloween candy goes. There will be way less chocolate this year, and even more dollar store junk. The last couple of years I’ve had to eat millions of those small Tootsie Rolls and banana Laffy Taffies. I’ve got two kids that will bring me dollar store junk already, I don’t need three kids bringing it back.
And who knows? Maybe once this column comes out, she might even bring home a pencil or some ketchup packs of her own. Lord knows I will have enough of them already.
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.
The running argument in my house these days centers around my twelve year old daughter and her desire to go trick-or-treating. It is well known to most readers that I have a “no trick-or-treating” policy for those over ten years old. If you are older than ten, and you come begging around my house, you get turned away. Or you may get something healthy to eat. Last year I handed out Halloween pencils to the older kids, this year I’m thinking about ketchup and mustard packs. I’m going to put two or three of them in those cute little Halloween bags and staple it shut. That way nobody knows until they get back to their house and open the bags. Hahahahahahaha.
“But Dad, all my friends are going trick-or-treating,” she whines to me. “Their parents don’t think they are too old.”
This is the worst argument in the world to bring me. First of all, there is nothing worse than a follower. I thought I did a good job of pounding that in my children’s minds, but I guess not. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather my daughters be leaders even more than my son. There is all kind of trouble that a young lady can get in to if she doesn’t have a backbone.
Secondly, I need her to stay home that night and hand out the candy bags. Halloween will be on a Monday night, which means that Monday Night Football will be on. I’m not a big fan of kids anyway, much less a bunch of them coming to my house. If I have to miss football because I’m passing out candy- free candy at that- I’ll really be in a sour mood.
Also, if a twelve year old pretty girl is handing out candy, nobody will think she was the one passing out the mustard and ketchup packs. If a grumpy old man is handing out the candy, I’ll be the first suspect on the list when you open that little bag and see French’s mustard instead of Reece’s Pieces.
Another reason I don’t want her trick-or-treating is the economy. Look, everyone knows that dads have to eat the leftover candy, along with any of the good stuff that they can sneak away with. And everyone also knows how the economy goes, Halloween candy goes. There will be way less chocolate this year, and even more dollar store junk. The last couple of years I’ve had to eat millions of those small Tootsie Rolls and banana Laffy Taffies. I’ve got two kids that will bring me dollar store junk already, I don’t need three kids bringing it back.
And who knows? Maybe once this column comes out, she might even bring home a pencil or some ketchup packs of her own. Lord knows I will have enough of them already.
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, October 7, 2011
It’s way overdue
We buried my mother this past Saturday.
I usually try to keep it pretty light in this column. My readers seem to like it more when I’m writing something funny about my kids, or admitting how much weight I’ve gained over the years, or making fun of fifteen year old kids for Trick-or-Treating.
But we buried my mother this past Saturday, and I’m going to use this column to vent. A few of you aren’t going to like what I have to say, but that doesn’t bother me. And fair warning to you- this column gets pretty graphic.
My mother was diagnosed a couple of years ago with Dementia. It was complicated by scar tissue build-up, which she received from brain surgery she had as a teenager. Dementia is exactly what it sounds like- eventually the patient ends up being demented. There is no “maybe” or “what ifs” or anything like that. All roads lead to losing their ability to walk, talk, eat, and eventually even think clearly.
Not long after she was diagnosed, my sister and I made the decision for her to enter the nursing home here in our town. My sister had been pretty much taking care of our mother by herself until then, but it just proved to be too much. She was constantly falling, her moods were all over the place, and her condition was ruining two lives, not just one.
And while we as a family were incredibly satisfied with the care she received in the nursing home, the truth of the matter is long before she lost her mind, she was unhappy. Her spirit and quality of life left her long before her wits did. Everything we loved about this woman died well over a year ago. For the past 365 days she existed as a mumbling, wheelchair bound, emotional one hundred pound ball of pity.
In the end, it got really ugly. In her diminished state of mind, she kept ripping her feeding tube out of her stomach. The doctor told us that we had two choices- we could choose to leave the feeding tube in as long as she was restrained twenty four hours a day, or we could remove the tube and let nature take its course. In other words we could tie our mother down like a mad pit bull in the back yard for who knows how long, or we could starve our mother to death. We chose the second option, and luckily it only took four days instead of the projected two weeks that it could have taken.
Other than my sister, nobody on Earth knew my mother as well as I did. And I am one hundred percent positive that if it would have been legal, my mother would have chosen to end her life long before it got that bad. She would have chosen euthanasia, or assisted suicide, or whatever you want to call it. Whatever name you attach to it, it beats the Hell out of someone changing your diapers for the last year of your life.
The fact that Oregon is the only state in America where assisted suicide is legal (Oregon Death With Dignity Act, 1997) is appalling to me. It’s ridiculous, disgusting, and back-woodsy of the so-called smartest nation on Earth. We’ve come so far in women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights, children labor laws, etc. But for some reason, we still refuse to allow terminally ill patients to choose when and how they die. Everyone in America deserves dignity except the dying, unless you happen to live in Oregon.
And why? Can anybody reading this column write in and give me one good reason why it’s still illegal to end your own misery? To keep yourself from being a burden on your loved ones? To die with a little pride left? I did a fair amount of internet surfing on this subject, and I’ve yet to find a credible argument against euthanasia.
I know it can’t be tax dollars. I promise you that Medicaid and Medicare spent more money keeping my mom alive the past year than the government earned from taxes that she paid.
It could be regulated fairly easily. In Oregon, at least two doctors have to sign off on the decision to assist the patient, as well as a psychologist. You don’t have to worry about the young wife killing the old rich husband off.
If your answer is religion, you can keep it. After watching a grandmother battle Alzheimer’s, a childhood friend with Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and now a mother with Dementia, religion isn’t the answer I’m looking for or listening to anymore.
If there is a God, he’s got some explaining to do.
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.
We buried my mother this past Saturday.
I usually try to keep it pretty light in this column. My readers seem to like it more when I’m writing something funny about my kids, or admitting how much weight I’ve gained over the years, or making fun of fifteen year old kids for Trick-or-Treating.
But we buried my mother this past Saturday, and I’m going to use this column to vent. A few of you aren’t going to like what I have to say, but that doesn’t bother me. And fair warning to you- this column gets pretty graphic.
My mother was diagnosed a couple of years ago with Dementia. It was complicated by scar tissue build-up, which she received from brain surgery she had as a teenager. Dementia is exactly what it sounds like- eventually the patient ends up being demented. There is no “maybe” or “what ifs” or anything like that. All roads lead to losing their ability to walk, talk, eat, and eventually even think clearly.
Not long after she was diagnosed, my sister and I made the decision for her to enter the nursing home here in our town. My sister had been pretty much taking care of our mother by herself until then, but it just proved to be too much. She was constantly falling, her moods were all over the place, and her condition was ruining two lives, not just one.
And while we as a family were incredibly satisfied with the care she received in the nursing home, the truth of the matter is long before she lost her mind, she was unhappy. Her spirit and quality of life left her long before her wits did. Everything we loved about this woman died well over a year ago. For the past 365 days she existed as a mumbling, wheelchair bound, emotional one hundred pound ball of pity.
In the end, it got really ugly. In her diminished state of mind, she kept ripping her feeding tube out of her stomach. The doctor told us that we had two choices- we could choose to leave the feeding tube in as long as she was restrained twenty four hours a day, or we could remove the tube and let nature take its course. In other words we could tie our mother down like a mad pit bull in the back yard for who knows how long, or we could starve our mother to death. We chose the second option, and luckily it only took four days instead of the projected two weeks that it could have taken.
Other than my sister, nobody on Earth knew my mother as well as I did. And I am one hundred percent positive that if it would have been legal, my mother would have chosen to end her life long before it got that bad. She would have chosen euthanasia, or assisted suicide, or whatever you want to call it. Whatever name you attach to it, it beats the Hell out of someone changing your diapers for the last year of your life.
The fact that Oregon is the only state in America where assisted suicide is legal (Oregon Death With Dignity Act, 1997) is appalling to me. It’s ridiculous, disgusting, and back-woodsy of the so-called smartest nation on Earth. We’ve come so far in women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights, children labor laws, etc. But for some reason, we still refuse to allow terminally ill patients to choose when and how they die. Everyone in America deserves dignity except the dying, unless you happen to live in Oregon.
And why? Can anybody reading this column write in and give me one good reason why it’s still illegal to end your own misery? To keep yourself from being a burden on your loved ones? To die with a little pride left? I did a fair amount of internet surfing on this subject, and I’ve yet to find a credible argument against euthanasia.
I know it can’t be tax dollars. I promise you that Medicaid and Medicare spent more money keeping my mom alive the past year than the government earned from taxes that she paid.
It could be regulated fairly easily. In Oregon, at least two doctors have to sign off on the decision to assist the patient, as well as a psychologist. You don’t have to worry about the young wife killing the old rich husband off.
If your answer is religion, you can keep it. After watching a grandmother battle Alzheimer’s, a childhood friend with Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and now a mother with Dementia, religion isn’t the answer I’m looking for or listening to anymore.
If there is a God, he’s got some explaining to do.
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.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Landa Mowery
Let me begin by saying that the children, grandchildren and other family members of Landa Mowery want to express our gratitude to everyone helping us celebrate her life this morning. We know the temperature is rising by the minute, and we promise not to keep you out here very long.
Also, we would like to thank Sherrie Conn for making the Hearne Community Center available to us for lunch after the services. To those who donated something to the dinner, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Please drop by and eat with us when we are done here.
And now, let’s talk about Mom.
Landa was born in Portsmouth, Ohio on December 29, 1948. She was 62 years old at the time of her passing, which was Wednesday September 28, 2011. She had been a resident of the Hearne Health Center for approximately a year and a half, and the family is so grateful for the wonderful care she received from the loving and caring staff during her stay. Thankfully, she was surrounded by family when her time came.
We are so happy that Mom’s older sister, Toni, could be here with us today. Toni is battling cancer for the second time, and we pray for a speedy recovery for her. She certainly has the family’s love behind her.
Mom’s younger sister, Kim, is also here with her family. Mom thought the world of both her sisters, and as her children we take comfort in knowing that the feeling was mutual. They were a tight bunch, for sure.
Mom had six children- Glen, Teresa, Rob, Jay, Shannon and Raymond. Jay couldn’t be here with us today, but thankfully the rest of us made it- as did our father, Glen Wilson, all the way from South Carolina. We thank him so much for being here in our time of need.
Sixty two years old sounds young, doesn’t it? In our minds, we picture ourselves much older when we die- mid ‘70s at least, maybe even beyond that. But don’t fool yourselves. Mom lived enough life for all of us. In fact, you could almost say she lived several different lives.
There’s an old saying that goes something like this- Don’t look back on yesterday, or you’ll get depressed. Don’t worry too much about tomorrow, or you’ll get too anxious. Live for today, and you’ll always be in the moment. And I agree with that saying 99% of the time.
But I have to believe that when Mom looked back on her past, she had to do so with pride. I say pride because she overcame so many challenges and obstacles, demons and ghosts, struggles and hardships.
I was nine years old when Mom went through a divorce and once again became a single mother. With her chin held high, she worked her fingers to the bone night and day to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. I can remember more than once when she held down two jobs to make ends meet.
I don’t mean to make it sound like she was all work and no play. Mom knew a good time when she saw it, in fact a good many of you here now probably remember some of those times. She loved to share a beer or two, had a quick smile that she showed often, and would dance the soles right off of her shoes.
A few years ago she had a very serious car wreck. As these things sometimes do, it changed her life drastically and forced her to re-evaluate her priorities. Family became even more important to her, she dedicated herself to working even harder than before… and she found religion.
Oh, she was serious with her religion, too. If you ever stopped by to check on her when you were in a hurry, you’d find out just how serious she was about it. She’d talk your ears off about Jesus, and unless you had a good excuse for getting away, you were just going to hear it.
A quick story about that: A few years back my boss took me for a ride in his small airplane. Now, I had never been on a plane before, and I was scared to death. This thing was small, not much more than a soda can with wings. But once we got in the air I really enjoyed it, and the first call I made back on the ground was to Mom.
“Mom,” I yelled. “It was so smooth and peaceful up there, I couldn’t believe it.”
She let out a long sigh, and sounded like she was dreaming when she said “Son, just think how it will be in Heaven.”
I chuckled to myself when she said it- I just wasn’t used to her newfound religious views yet. But today I know she’s on the smoothest, most peaceful ride that she’s ever been on.
And that’s what we’d like for everyone to remember about our mother- she was several different women in her lifetime, and we are here to celebrate all of them.
Some of us here knew the wild and crazy Landa, some of us knew the conservative, devoted Christian Landa. But we all remember the loving mother, grandmother, sister and friend that worked tirelessly and stayed fiercely independent and hard-headed till the end.
And if you don’t believe that last part, just ask the nurses who tended to her these last few days. At least one of them is glad that Mom didn’t have her dentures in anymore.
Again, thank you all for being here. It warms our hearts to know so many people thought that much of our mother.
Let me begin by saying that the children, grandchildren and other family members of Landa Mowery want to express our gratitude to everyone helping us celebrate her life this morning. We know the temperature is rising by the minute, and we promise not to keep you out here very long.
Also, we would like to thank Sherrie Conn for making the Hearne Community Center available to us for lunch after the services. To those who donated something to the dinner, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Please drop by and eat with us when we are done here.
And now, let’s talk about Mom.
Landa was born in Portsmouth, Ohio on December 29, 1948. She was 62 years old at the time of her passing, which was Wednesday September 28, 2011. She had been a resident of the Hearne Health Center for approximately a year and a half, and the family is so grateful for the wonderful care she received from the loving and caring staff during her stay. Thankfully, she was surrounded by family when her time came.
We are so happy that Mom’s older sister, Toni, could be here with us today. Toni is battling cancer for the second time, and we pray for a speedy recovery for her. She certainly has the family’s love behind her.
Mom’s younger sister, Kim, is also here with her family. Mom thought the world of both her sisters, and as her children we take comfort in knowing that the feeling was mutual. They were a tight bunch, for sure.
Mom had six children- Glen, Teresa, Rob, Jay, Shannon and Raymond. Jay couldn’t be here with us today, but thankfully the rest of us made it- as did our father, Glen Wilson, all the way from South Carolina. We thank him so much for being here in our time of need.
Sixty two years old sounds young, doesn’t it? In our minds, we picture ourselves much older when we die- mid ‘70s at least, maybe even beyond that. But don’t fool yourselves. Mom lived enough life for all of us. In fact, you could almost say she lived several different lives.
There’s an old saying that goes something like this- Don’t look back on yesterday, or you’ll get depressed. Don’t worry too much about tomorrow, or you’ll get too anxious. Live for today, and you’ll always be in the moment. And I agree with that saying 99% of the time.
But I have to believe that when Mom looked back on her past, she had to do so with pride. I say pride because she overcame so many challenges and obstacles, demons and ghosts, struggles and hardships.
I was nine years old when Mom went through a divorce and once again became a single mother. With her chin held high, she worked her fingers to the bone night and day to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. I can remember more than once when she held down two jobs to make ends meet.
I don’t mean to make it sound like she was all work and no play. Mom knew a good time when she saw it, in fact a good many of you here now probably remember some of those times. She loved to share a beer or two, had a quick smile that she showed often, and would dance the soles right off of her shoes.
A few years ago she had a very serious car wreck. As these things sometimes do, it changed her life drastically and forced her to re-evaluate her priorities. Family became even more important to her, she dedicated herself to working even harder than before… and she found religion.
Oh, she was serious with her religion, too. If you ever stopped by to check on her when you were in a hurry, you’d find out just how serious she was about it. She’d talk your ears off about Jesus, and unless you had a good excuse for getting away, you were just going to hear it.
A quick story about that: A few years back my boss took me for a ride in his small airplane. Now, I had never been on a plane before, and I was scared to death. This thing was small, not much more than a soda can with wings. But once we got in the air I really enjoyed it, and the first call I made back on the ground was to Mom.
“Mom,” I yelled. “It was so smooth and peaceful up there, I couldn’t believe it.”
She let out a long sigh, and sounded like she was dreaming when she said “Son, just think how it will be in Heaven.”
I chuckled to myself when she said it- I just wasn’t used to her newfound religious views yet. But today I know she’s on the smoothest, most peaceful ride that she’s ever been on.
And that’s what we’d like for everyone to remember about our mother- she was several different women in her lifetime, and we are here to celebrate all of them.
Some of us here knew the wild and crazy Landa, some of us knew the conservative, devoted Christian Landa. But we all remember the loving mother, grandmother, sister and friend that worked tirelessly and stayed fiercely independent and hard-headed till the end.
And if you don’t believe that last part, just ask the nurses who tended to her these last few days. At least one of them is glad that Mom didn’t have her dentures in anymore.
Again, thank you all for being here. It warms our hearts to know so many people thought that much of our mother.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
What to wear?
Hey, we’re all family here, right? Well then I have a question for you. How in the Hell do all you guys have cool clothes to wear all the time?
I’m not talking about the women reading this. I understand how you have clothes, because you go shopping every now and then. But how do your men always show up with cool stuff to wear? Do you buy it for him? How do you know what he likes to wear? And how do you keep up with his size? I don’t even know my own size half the time.
For the past year or so I’ve been noticing other men’s clothes. (And yes, I’m well aware that isn’t the manliest thing I’ve ever said. But remember, we are family.) Whether my wife and I are at a restaurant, or I’m at one of my kids’ games, or just hanging out playing poker or something, lately I always notice what other guys are wearing. And it’s always better than what I’m wearing.
I’m not sure when this happened, because just a few years ago I was about even with everyone else. But I guess I got busy with kids, work, family and stuff like that. I just never think about shopping for clothes until I have to. And even if I did think about it, there’s always something else that needs to be paid for.
I was looking at some pictures the other day, and came across a couple of photos that were about three years old. It suddenly hit me that the shirt I was wearing in the picture was the same shirt that I was wearing now, three years later. And- here’s the bad part- it’s considered one of my nicest shirts.
Once I thought about it long enough, I got up and went to my closet. What a sad, sad sight.
I’ve got a funeral or wedding jacket (whichever one I’m attending at the time), a plain white button up shirt that goes with it, and my “going out” shirt- a long sleeve button up with stripes.
I’ve got three short sleeve button ups that I’ve had for years (one of which I’m wearing in the photo), one polo shirt that is way too tight on me, and a couple of old sweaters and hoodies. Half of those are Longhorn sweatshirts that I couldn’t wear last winter because they couldn’t win a game.
Speaking of the Longhorns, I have a 2005 National Championship t-shirt in my closet. And I still wear it. A lot. The other ones either have Franklin Cowboys or Mumford Mustangs on the front.
Pants? I’ve got two pair of jeans that I can work in, and one pair of nice jeans that are still nice and new only because I haven’t been able to button them for the past two years. Hence I don’t wear them.
And thank God I haven’t been to a wedding or funeral in a while, because the tan slacks that go with the nice jacket and shirt are at least fifteen pounds away from fitting. And I don’t own a nice belt, either- my belt has homemade holes punched out.
Don’t even get me started on the footwear. I have a pair of flip flops, an old pair of Nikes, and some steel toed work boots in the bottom of my closet.
So my question is, how do guys today end up with nice clothes to wear? Do they go buy a few items at a time? Or just go load up two or three times a year? And how do they keep from feeling guilty about spending the money?
My wife said to me, “Just take a hundred bucks out of your poker account and go shopping. Look for sales.” I told her you probably couldn’t buy a nice pack of underwear for a hundred bucks nowadays.
And speaking of underwear- I’m glad I’m married. If I were dating, I wouldn’t want anyone to see mine.
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.
Hey, we’re all family here, right? Well then I have a question for you. How in the Hell do all you guys have cool clothes to wear all the time?
I’m not talking about the women reading this. I understand how you have clothes, because you go shopping every now and then. But how do your men always show up with cool stuff to wear? Do you buy it for him? How do you know what he likes to wear? And how do you keep up with his size? I don’t even know my own size half the time.
For the past year or so I’ve been noticing other men’s clothes. (And yes, I’m well aware that isn’t the manliest thing I’ve ever said. But remember, we are family.) Whether my wife and I are at a restaurant, or I’m at one of my kids’ games, or just hanging out playing poker or something, lately I always notice what other guys are wearing. And it’s always better than what I’m wearing.
I’m not sure when this happened, because just a few years ago I was about even with everyone else. But I guess I got busy with kids, work, family and stuff like that. I just never think about shopping for clothes until I have to. And even if I did think about it, there’s always something else that needs to be paid for.
I was looking at some pictures the other day, and came across a couple of photos that were about three years old. It suddenly hit me that the shirt I was wearing in the picture was the same shirt that I was wearing now, three years later. And- here’s the bad part- it’s considered one of my nicest shirts.
Once I thought about it long enough, I got up and went to my closet. What a sad, sad sight.
I’ve got a funeral or wedding jacket (whichever one I’m attending at the time), a plain white button up shirt that goes with it, and my “going out” shirt- a long sleeve button up with stripes.
I’ve got three short sleeve button ups that I’ve had for years (one of which I’m wearing in the photo), one polo shirt that is way too tight on me, and a couple of old sweaters and hoodies. Half of those are Longhorn sweatshirts that I couldn’t wear last winter because they couldn’t win a game.
Speaking of the Longhorns, I have a 2005 National Championship t-shirt in my closet. And I still wear it. A lot. The other ones either have Franklin Cowboys or Mumford Mustangs on the front.
Pants? I’ve got two pair of jeans that I can work in, and one pair of nice jeans that are still nice and new only because I haven’t been able to button them for the past two years. Hence I don’t wear them.
And thank God I haven’t been to a wedding or funeral in a while, because the tan slacks that go with the nice jacket and shirt are at least fifteen pounds away from fitting. And I don’t own a nice belt, either- my belt has homemade holes punched out.
Don’t even get me started on the footwear. I have a pair of flip flops, an old pair of Nikes, and some steel toed work boots in the bottom of my closet.
So my question is, how do guys today end up with nice clothes to wear? Do they go buy a few items at a time? Or just go load up two or three times a year? And how do they keep from feeling guilty about spending the money?
My wife said to me, “Just take a hundred bucks out of your poker account and go shopping. Look for sales.” I told her you probably couldn’t buy a nice pack of underwear for a hundred bucks nowadays.
And speaking of underwear- I’m glad I’m married. If I were dating, I wouldn’t want anyone to see mine.
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.
Was it worth it?
I was cruising the internet, and came across this story from Florida. Two guys got into a fist fight in public, and one of them got hurt pretty bad before the fight could be broken up. The other one went to jail of course, and the whole incident is going to cost both of them plenty of dough- one with hospital bills and the other with court fees.
Here’s a quote from one of the guys, “I’m not even sure how it escalated so far. One minute we were fine, the next minute we were swinging on each other like madmen.”
Do me a favor. Play along and try to guess what they were fighting about… No, it wasn’t politics. And no, it wasn’t money related, drug related, or in-law related. The two guys- grown men, mind you- were fighting over a referee’s call in a Pee Wee football game.
“It’s silly,” said one witness. “These are eight and nine year old boys. There isn’t even playoffs on this level.”
I’ll bet you something. I’ll bet you both of these guys are really pretty decent guys. I’ll bet you that ten minutes before the altercation, both men were just as normal as you and I. Both of them probably have families, jobs, and friends in the community. Each of them has probably lectured their children on how to act in public, and to treat others with respect. Even when their opinions differ from your own.
I’ll bet you that neither guy ever dreamed that they would be involved in a fight, much less in public and over something as silly as eight year olds playing ball.
And I’ll bet you something else, too. I’ll bet you that ten minutes after the altercation, both guys felt terrible over what happened. They were probably worried, scared, embarrassed, and remorseful.
While we are betting, I’ll bet you that not one kid on either team would have given the referee’s call a second thought after ten minutes. Their minds are more worried about who’s house they can spend the night at, who can spend the night at their house, where Dad is taking them to eat after the game, and how they can talk him into seeing the Lion King in 3D.
At some point, everyone reading this has been at a football, basketball, baseball, softball or volleyball game and has left shaking their heads. There’s always someone in the crowd yelling at a ref, a coach, an umpire, another parent, or even a kid. Sometimes they even yell at their own kid from the sidelines, maybe expecting more than the little fellow is capable of.
“Yeah, but even though they are only eight years old, it’s still important to teach them that second place is just the first place loser,” I can hear you say. “Everyone wants to win, even eight year olds. Besides, what happened in Florida is extreme, it would never happen here.”
I’ll bet you one more thing. Both of those guys probably used to say the exact same thing.
I was cruising the internet, and came across this story from Florida. Two guys got into a fist fight in public, and one of them got hurt pretty bad before the fight could be broken up. The other one went to jail of course, and the whole incident is going to cost both of them plenty of dough- one with hospital bills and the other with court fees.
Here’s a quote from one of the guys, “I’m not even sure how it escalated so far. One minute we were fine, the next minute we were swinging on each other like madmen.”
Do me a favor. Play along and try to guess what they were fighting about… No, it wasn’t politics. And no, it wasn’t money related, drug related, or in-law related. The two guys- grown men, mind you- were fighting over a referee’s call in a Pee Wee football game.
“It’s silly,” said one witness. “These are eight and nine year old boys. There isn’t even playoffs on this level.”
I’ll bet you something. I’ll bet you both of these guys are really pretty decent guys. I’ll bet you that ten minutes before the altercation, both men were just as normal as you and I. Both of them probably have families, jobs, and friends in the community. Each of them has probably lectured their children on how to act in public, and to treat others with respect. Even when their opinions differ from your own.
I’ll bet you that neither guy ever dreamed that they would be involved in a fight, much less in public and over something as silly as eight year olds playing ball.
And I’ll bet you something else, too. I’ll bet you that ten minutes after the altercation, both guys felt terrible over what happened. They were probably worried, scared, embarrassed, and remorseful.
While we are betting, I’ll bet you that not one kid on either team would have given the referee’s call a second thought after ten minutes. Their minds are more worried about who’s house they can spend the night at, who can spend the night at their house, where Dad is taking them to eat after the game, and how they can talk him into seeing the Lion King in 3D.
At some point, everyone reading this has been at a football, basketball, baseball, softball or volleyball game and has left shaking their heads. There’s always someone in the crowd yelling at a ref, a coach, an umpire, another parent, or even a kid. Sometimes they even yell at their own kid from the sidelines, maybe expecting more than the little fellow is capable of.
“Yeah, but even though they are only eight years old, it’s still important to teach them that second place is just the first place loser,” I can hear you say. “Everyone wants to win, even eight year olds. Besides, what happened in Florida is extreme, it would never happen here.”
I’ll bet you one more thing. Both of those guys probably used to say the exact same thing.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Letter to My Wife
Thirteen years ago, I married my best friend. I know that’s an old, silly, cliché thing to say, but it’s true. There are very few people in this world that I need to talk to on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one I can think of.
Some days, I’m at work before you even wake up for the day. But even then, my day doesn’t start until I at least get a text from you saying good morning.
I’ll never forget the day I proposed to you. We’d been broken up for a while, and things were going downhill for me pretty fast. One Friday morning I woke up late for work with a hangover, and on the way to work my truck broke down. I said to myself, “You know, my life just seemed to go better when I was with her.” An hour later, I wrote a little note asking you to marry me.
And thirteen years later, it still seems like it was the right thing to do. I’m sure we both know where and what I would be right now if it weren’t for you. So I wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for those three gorgeous, healthy children that I act like I can’t stand to be around sometimes. Other than being a little too spoiled for my taste, they are perfect. Thank you for giving me a family, and a reason to be a responsible adult.
Thank you for running the household when I was off working out of town, or spending way too many hours at one job or another instead of at home helping you change diapers, clean house, cook supper or do homework.
Thank you for understanding when I’ve slept on the couch every Monday night for the past twelve years in order to write the sports section, or being patient with me when I put our lives into this silly column every week. Even as our vehicles were being egged and firecrackers were being set off on our front porch, you’ve never asked me to stop writing what I felt.
And God knows it hasn’t been easy. I’m not the sweetest or friendliest person to be around, especially when times get tough. I gripe when family visits. I complain when friends visit. I get mad when the phone rings. I’m sure at times it feels like you’re living with a cranky old man who is never satisfied with anything.
But over the past thirteen years you’ve made me realize that tough times surrounded by family and friends beats the Hell out of tough times all by yourself. And I know that without you and the things you bring to the table, some of the tough times over the years would have won.
I guess what I’m trying to say with all this yapping I’m doing is this- thank you for making the past thirteen years my best thirteen years.
Now, I’m well aware that nobody hates romance or public displays of affection more than you do, so I know I’m going to be in trouble when this hits the newspaper.
Like I tell our kids, some things are worth getting in trouble for. Happy Anniversary.
Thirteen years ago, I married my best friend. I know that’s an old, silly, cliché thing to say, but it’s true. There are very few people in this world that I need to talk to on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one I can think of.
Some days, I’m at work before you even wake up for the day. But even then, my day doesn’t start until I at least get a text from you saying good morning.
I’ll never forget the day I proposed to you. We’d been broken up for a while, and things were going downhill for me pretty fast. One Friday morning I woke up late for work with a hangover, and on the way to work my truck broke down. I said to myself, “You know, my life just seemed to go better when I was with her.” An hour later, I wrote a little note asking you to marry me.
And thirteen years later, it still seems like it was the right thing to do. I’m sure we both know where and what I would be right now if it weren’t for you. So I wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for those three gorgeous, healthy children that I act like I can’t stand to be around sometimes. Other than being a little too spoiled for my taste, they are perfect. Thank you for giving me a family, and a reason to be a responsible adult.
Thank you for running the household when I was off working out of town, or spending way too many hours at one job or another instead of at home helping you change diapers, clean house, cook supper or do homework.
Thank you for understanding when I’ve slept on the couch every Monday night for the past twelve years in order to write the sports section, or being patient with me when I put our lives into this silly column every week. Even as our vehicles were being egged and firecrackers were being set off on our front porch, you’ve never asked me to stop writing what I felt.
And God knows it hasn’t been easy. I’m not the sweetest or friendliest person to be around, especially when times get tough. I gripe when family visits. I complain when friends visit. I get mad when the phone rings. I’m sure at times it feels like you’re living with a cranky old man who is never satisfied with anything.
But over the past thirteen years you’ve made me realize that tough times surrounded by family and friends beats the Hell out of tough times all by yourself. And I know that without you and the things you bring to the table, some of the tough times over the years would have won.
I guess what I’m trying to say with all this yapping I’m doing is this- thank you for making the past thirteen years my best thirteen years.
Now, I’m well aware that nobody hates romance or public displays of affection more than you do, so I know I’m going to be in trouble when this hits the newspaper.
Like I tell our kids, some things are worth getting in trouble for. Happy Anniversary.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
In the news…
Not that much going on at home this week that I can talk about here in the paper, so I turned to the internet for column ideas.
The first story I read was about people saying how the Weather Channel and politicians overrated Hurricane Irene. Critics said that the storm wasn’t close to being as bad as everyone predicted, and there should not have been so many evacuations. My reaction to the story was “Um, what?”
Thirty eight people died from this storm so far, and it was overrated? Just how many people have to die for these idiots to constitute a bad storm?
Now listen, the first thing you have to do is take the Weather Channel with a grain of salt. They will over-hype any storm, because they fight for ratings just like every other television channel. That’s totally understandable.
And politicians? Well, they have to scream “Run!”- especially after Hurricane Katrina. You remember Katrina, right? When politicians, weathermen, scientists and everyone else spent a week begging, pleading and doing everything they could to get the people of New Orleans and the surrounding areas to evacuate. We all know that a lot of people didn’t evacuate, and the government came out looking like the bad guy in the end. So yes, Hurricane Irene might have been a little overrated by those in charge. Do you blame them?
As I was writing the paragraphs above, I had my television on CNN listening to the news. A religious nut came on, saying that Hurricane Irene was some kind of payback from God for the way we live and act in this country. Or maybe it was a lesson of some kind. A divine occurrence, I think he called it. I stopped typing long enough to wonder 1) Holy cow, it’s 2011 and people still think like that? And 2) Why is there a religious nut on my news channel? I’m not watching Fox News, I’m watching CNN. I shake my head at the thought of some CNN producer thinking this was a good idea.
I turn my attention back to the internet and see that Florida has recently passed a law that requires those that sign up for welfare to pass a drug test. If they pass the drug test, they can receive help. If not, they get no help until they pass the drug test next year. Several other states are thinking about passing this law- sadly, Texas is not one of them.
Critics of the law say that it is an invasion of privacy, and it doesn’t save much money in the long run because less welfare recipients than you think take illegal drugs. I say of course they should be drug tested. Every job I’ve ever had required me to pass a drug test. If an accident happens at work, I have to take a drug test. Most of the time when you sign up for insurance, you take a drug test. Not one time have I been offended, or considered it an invasion of my privacy. Stop trying to live off of someone else, and you can get high all you want. Drugs don’t bother me one bit, mooching off of my tax dollars does.
And finally, I read that Dancing With The Stars has announced their new lineup of B-level entertainers that will dance this season. Now, except for Erin Andrews and Kim Kardashian dances, I’ve not watched ten minutes of this show in all the years it’s been on. It doesn’t interest me in the least. But then I see that Nancy Grace is on the roster, and I start daydreaming about her embarrassing herself so bad that she would quit her show and never come back to t.v. again…
Hmm, divine occurrence?
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.
Not that much going on at home this week that I can talk about here in the paper, so I turned to the internet for column ideas.
The first story I read was about people saying how the Weather Channel and politicians overrated Hurricane Irene. Critics said that the storm wasn’t close to being as bad as everyone predicted, and there should not have been so many evacuations. My reaction to the story was “Um, what?”
Thirty eight people died from this storm so far, and it was overrated? Just how many people have to die for these idiots to constitute a bad storm?
Now listen, the first thing you have to do is take the Weather Channel with a grain of salt. They will over-hype any storm, because they fight for ratings just like every other television channel. That’s totally understandable.
And politicians? Well, they have to scream “Run!”- especially after Hurricane Katrina. You remember Katrina, right? When politicians, weathermen, scientists and everyone else spent a week begging, pleading and doing everything they could to get the people of New Orleans and the surrounding areas to evacuate. We all know that a lot of people didn’t evacuate, and the government came out looking like the bad guy in the end. So yes, Hurricane Irene might have been a little overrated by those in charge. Do you blame them?
As I was writing the paragraphs above, I had my television on CNN listening to the news. A religious nut came on, saying that Hurricane Irene was some kind of payback from God for the way we live and act in this country. Or maybe it was a lesson of some kind. A divine occurrence, I think he called it. I stopped typing long enough to wonder 1) Holy cow, it’s 2011 and people still think like that? And 2) Why is there a religious nut on my news channel? I’m not watching Fox News, I’m watching CNN. I shake my head at the thought of some CNN producer thinking this was a good idea.
I turn my attention back to the internet and see that Florida has recently passed a law that requires those that sign up for welfare to pass a drug test. If they pass the drug test, they can receive help. If not, they get no help until they pass the drug test next year. Several other states are thinking about passing this law- sadly, Texas is not one of them.
Critics of the law say that it is an invasion of privacy, and it doesn’t save much money in the long run because less welfare recipients than you think take illegal drugs. I say of course they should be drug tested. Every job I’ve ever had required me to pass a drug test. If an accident happens at work, I have to take a drug test. Most of the time when you sign up for insurance, you take a drug test. Not one time have I been offended, or considered it an invasion of my privacy. Stop trying to live off of someone else, and you can get high all you want. Drugs don’t bother me one bit, mooching off of my tax dollars does.
And finally, I read that Dancing With The Stars has announced their new lineup of B-level entertainers that will dance this season. Now, except for Erin Andrews and Kim Kardashian dances, I’ve not watched ten minutes of this show in all the years it’s been on. It doesn’t interest me in the least. But then I see that Nancy Grace is on the roster, and I start daydreaming about her embarrassing herself so bad that she would quit her show and never come back to t.v. again…
Hmm, divine occurrence?
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.
Disaster Class
I’ve taken a few weeks off lately. Actually I thought I was done writing, period. I didn’t know if anyone even read the column anymore, and frankly, I had run out of things to talk about. And then? Well, then I attended HAZMAT class.
Firemen, volunteer firemen, and everyone else who works around chemicals, at some point, has to take this class. It teaches you how to deal with hazardous chemical spills, what level of protective gear to wear, how to read placards on vehicles that ship chemicals, etc.
You also don those hot, sweaty chemical suits in 105 degree heat and practice dealing with leaks, spills, and injuries. I must have lost 10 pounds worth of sweat with all the water pouring out of me.
If I had to sum it up in just a few words, it would be “40 hours of Hell”. That’s nothing against the teacher of the class, he did a great job. And the mock disasters that they have set up at this fire school were pretty neat. It’s just that that kind of stuff doesn’t interest me at all. But then again, what does interest me?
One of the things that made this class Hell on me was the people I took the class with. Every one of them seemed like great guys, but they were just different people that I would ever hang out with. From what I gathered, it was a bunch of firemen, volunteer firemen, and safety gurus from huge plants and oil rigs. And all of them took themselves way, way, way too seriously.
For instance, if you asked a yes/no question in the class, the answer would never just be yes or no. To a man, the guys I went to class with answered a yes/no question by saying “affirmative” or “negative”. Every. Single. Time.
Everyone knows a guy that still has a keychain hanging from his belt loop, one of those real tall wallets hanging out of his back pocket, and uses fireman talk everywhere he goes. Well, imagine spending eight hours a day for five straight days with 25 of those guys.
Like I said- all great guys, just different people from what I would normally hang out with.
And then the kicker- One day we were going over a quiz, which was multiple choice. The first question was an easy one, with the answer being “B”. From the back of the room I heard someone say “Beta”. Before I knew it, instead of “A, B, C, or D” every answer I heard was either “Alpha”, “Beta”, “Charlie” or “Delta”. I’m 100% serious.
After about the third question I started laughing out loud and said “Wow, really?” Nobody even understood that I was questioning their lingo. To them it was as natural as me saying “A, B, C or D”.
Needless to say, by the middle of the third day I was ready to pull my hair out. “Fireman guy taking himself too seriously” is the one disaster that they didn’t teach me how to deal with.
I’ve taken a few weeks off lately. Actually I thought I was done writing, period. I didn’t know if anyone even read the column anymore, and frankly, I had run out of things to talk about. And then? Well, then I attended HAZMAT class.
Firemen, volunteer firemen, and everyone else who works around chemicals, at some point, has to take this class. It teaches you how to deal with hazardous chemical spills, what level of protective gear to wear, how to read placards on vehicles that ship chemicals, etc.
You also don those hot, sweaty chemical suits in 105 degree heat and practice dealing with leaks, spills, and injuries. I must have lost 10 pounds worth of sweat with all the water pouring out of me.
If I had to sum it up in just a few words, it would be “40 hours of Hell”. That’s nothing against the teacher of the class, he did a great job. And the mock disasters that they have set up at this fire school were pretty neat. It’s just that that kind of stuff doesn’t interest me at all. But then again, what does interest me?
One of the things that made this class Hell on me was the people I took the class with. Every one of them seemed like great guys, but they were just different people that I would ever hang out with. From what I gathered, it was a bunch of firemen, volunteer firemen, and safety gurus from huge plants and oil rigs. And all of them took themselves way, way, way too seriously.
For instance, if you asked a yes/no question in the class, the answer would never just be yes or no. To a man, the guys I went to class with answered a yes/no question by saying “affirmative” or “negative”. Every. Single. Time.
Everyone knows a guy that still has a keychain hanging from his belt loop, one of those real tall wallets hanging out of his back pocket, and uses fireman talk everywhere he goes. Well, imagine spending eight hours a day for five straight days with 25 of those guys.
Like I said- all great guys, just different people from what I would normally hang out with.
And then the kicker- One day we were going over a quiz, which was multiple choice. The first question was an easy one, with the answer being “B”. From the back of the room I heard someone say “Beta”. Before I knew it, instead of “A, B, C, or D” every answer I heard was either “Alpha”, “Beta”, “Charlie” or “Delta”. I’m 100% serious.
After about the third question I started laughing out loud and said “Wow, really?” Nobody even understood that I was questioning their lingo. To them it was as natural as me saying “A, B, C or D”.
Needless to say, by the middle of the third day I was ready to pull my hair out. “Fireman guy taking himself too seriously” is the one disaster that they didn’t teach me how to deal with.
Advice Column
Know what we haven’t done in a while? I haven’t answered any of your questions about life, love and lunatics. Let’s get to some of those.
“Booger” in Gause wants to know “Shannon, what do you think of the debt ceiling debate? And should I listen to the right or left?”
Booger, I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s pretty funny to listen to these highly educated puppets argue, bicker and fight over something that my wife or countless other bill-paying spouses could take care of within a week. The first seven or eight years of our marriage she had to find ways every payday of paying huge bills with small paychecks, deciding which bills to pay, who to put off until next time, and exactly how much we could spend on what. And trust me, she got paid a whole lot less for her trouble than these politicians do.
Booger, try this from now on. Starting today, every time you see a politician on t.v.- republican or democrat- go to YouTube and download about thirty minutes of a comedian named George Carlin. It’ll put politics in perspective for you. It also works for the crazy Jesus nuts that get to you from time to time.
“Jealous Much?” wrote me from the northern part of the county. She says “Dear Shannon, my best friend loves to sing and she is really good. I’m afraid that when we grow up, she’ll be really famous and won’t remember me. Any advice?”
The way I see it “Jealous”, you’ve got two options here. You can either crush her voice box and make it look like an accident, or you can pay attention in school, get good at math, and try to be her manager. Get it in writing now, while she’s still poor.
“Taken Advantage Of” told me that he lent $1,000 to two relatives a while ago, and still hasn’t been paid back yet. He said he’s dropped a few hints, but nothing came out of them yet. What should he do?
First of all, “Taken”, why would you mix family with money in the first place? That’s a huge no-no, everyone knows that. Now, about getting the money back…
Try blasting it on Facebook first. That might shame them into paying you back. If that doesn’t work, go to the nearest biker bar, pay two guys $100 to take a ride with you, and scare your family members to death. You’ll still come out $900 ahead.
If you’d like some great advice, simply write to Shannon Says by going to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Waving the ban-ner
I was having one of those days. You know the kind of day I’m talking about- you work your butt off, do everything right, try to make smart decisions with your money, and still nothing goes right. You can’t seem to keep up, much less get ahead.
A plumber had just given me an estimate on replacing some pipes, I was having expensive lawn mower trouble, and my kids were whining about something we couldn’t go do or something they couldn’t have.
Then I turned on my computer and the clouds parted and the sky got a little brighter. One of the headlines read “Restaurant bans kids”. I swear I heard angels singing Hallelujah.
Earlier that day I had been eating lunch at a restaurant in Bryan, and a lady with a kid picked the table next to me. Within seconds of watching this little monster, I knew I had seen this movie before. I was about to either stuff down my food as fast as possible, or spend the next forty-five minutes listening to this lady shshshing her kid over and over and over. So I got up and switched tables. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, I didn’t give the kids a dirty look or anything, in fact I avoided eye contact all together and tried to not even let on what I was doing.
But somehow the lady caught on to my plan, and stared at me like I was Casey Anthony with the plague.
Look, nobody is saying that I don’t like kids. Kids are fine, most of them. And had I been at a McDonald’s or Chuck E Cheese, it would have been different. You have to expect unruly kids at those places. That’s why I avoid those establishments like the flu.
The restaurant in the internet story banned children from the ages of six and under. What a great, great idea. Only I say take it a step further. I say until a kid is eight years old, keep them at home. Or at least limit the public places in which you take them. There are tons of places that cater to kids. Most towns have some sort of children’s museum, a park, a jail cell… There is no reason to take a small kid to a nice restaurant that serves drinks. Chances are, grown-ups are there to get away from their own children.
That’s the one thing Hollywood couples do right. Madonna, Brad and Angelina, Tom Cruise and his wife, all these famous stars all do the same thing. They have kids one day (or, go to some third world country and adopt one) and you don’t see their kids again until they are drug-addicted teenagers on the cover of magazines.
I wish all places would ban kids, but I know it won’t happen. For some silly reason, the whole damn world loves kids. Anything with the word “kids” attached to it is a huge business and makes huge money. Don’t even get me started on kids sports… That’s a whole other column.
Can we at least agree to do this? Let’s pass a law that says if you take your kid to a restaurant that serves beer, and your kid disturbs even one customer, you have to buy the house a round of drinks right there on the spot.
That way, we can get tipsy enough to put up with your kid.
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 was having one of those days. You know the kind of day I’m talking about- you work your butt off, do everything right, try to make smart decisions with your money, and still nothing goes right. You can’t seem to keep up, much less get ahead.
A plumber had just given me an estimate on replacing some pipes, I was having expensive lawn mower trouble, and my kids were whining about something we couldn’t go do or something they couldn’t have.
Then I turned on my computer and the clouds parted and the sky got a little brighter. One of the headlines read “Restaurant bans kids”. I swear I heard angels singing Hallelujah.
Earlier that day I had been eating lunch at a restaurant in Bryan, and a lady with a kid picked the table next to me. Within seconds of watching this little monster, I knew I had seen this movie before. I was about to either stuff down my food as fast as possible, or spend the next forty-five minutes listening to this lady shshshing her kid over and over and over. So I got up and switched tables. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, I didn’t give the kids a dirty look or anything, in fact I avoided eye contact all together and tried to not even let on what I was doing.
But somehow the lady caught on to my plan, and stared at me like I was Casey Anthony with the plague.
Look, nobody is saying that I don’t like kids. Kids are fine, most of them. And had I been at a McDonald’s or Chuck E Cheese, it would have been different. You have to expect unruly kids at those places. That’s why I avoid those establishments like the flu.
The restaurant in the internet story banned children from the ages of six and under. What a great, great idea. Only I say take it a step further. I say until a kid is eight years old, keep them at home. Or at least limit the public places in which you take them. There are tons of places that cater to kids. Most towns have some sort of children’s museum, a park, a jail cell… There is no reason to take a small kid to a nice restaurant that serves drinks. Chances are, grown-ups are there to get away from their own children.
That’s the one thing Hollywood couples do right. Madonna, Brad and Angelina, Tom Cruise and his wife, all these famous stars all do the same thing. They have kids one day (or, go to some third world country and adopt one) and you don’t see their kids again until they are drug-addicted teenagers on the cover of magazines.
I wish all places would ban kids, but I know it won’t happen. For some silly reason, the whole damn world loves kids. Anything with the word “kids” attached to it is a huge business and makes huge money. Don’t even get me started on kids sports… That’s a whole other column.
Can we at least agree to do this? Let’s pass a law that says if you take your kid to a restaurant that serves beer, and your kid disturbs even one customer, you have to buy the house a round of drinks right there on the spot.
That way, we can get tipsy enough to put up with your kid.
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, July 12, 2011
Welcome back, kids
My two youngest children were gone this past week, visiting relatives in Killeen . The house felt way too quiet. It’s funny, I fuss about how much noise they make when they are here (especially when I’m working nights and trying to sleep during the day), but the truth is I slept better once they got back home.
Now, I missed both of them the same, and neither one more than the other. However, it never occurred to me how much my son helped out around the house until he was on “relative leave”.
He usually takes out the trash in the evenings. In fact, it turns out that he must take the trash out a couple of times a day. When he was gone I couldn’t believe how much trash we go through as a family- and that was with two of us gone. The average American creates 1600 pounds of garbage per year. I think we had half of our numbers in one week.
He usually cleans the pool, too. I mean, all three have “clean the pool” on their list of chores once a week, but he by far does it the most and the best. Two days without him being there, the pool was like swimming in a pasture tank. I swear I felt a catfish nibbling on my toes at one point.
My son is in charge of feeding the dog every morning also. And I think somewhere around Wednesday I caught my dog on the corner up the street holding a “will bark for food” sign.
Speaking of the dog, he looked lost the whole week as much as I did. He’s used to playing and running around the house with the kids for a little while every day. That is, until he’s had enough and starts growling and snapping at them to leave him alone.
Of course, I had to mow the lawn by myself this week, too. It turns out that the push mower is a little heavier than I remember it being. I’m so used to riding on my mower and watching him push his. I started off speed walking behind that thing, and by the time I made it to the front yard I was using it more for a walker than a lawn mower.
The morning papers? It’s my son’s job to grab those every morning, too. Do you understand the effort I had to put out, walking all the way outside every morning just to grab a couple of newspapers? I should’ve had people lined up along the sidewalk there and back holding out water cups, like they do in the marathons.
And as I said before, it wasn’t just my son that I missed. Jenna, my youngest daughter, also gives a great shoulder massage while we’re watching t.v. in the evenings. I had to pay some lady in the mall $20 to do what Jenna does a couple of times a week for a simple trip to the piggy bank.
And most of all, I depend on those kids to provide their mom with plenty of hugs and kisses every day. She has to reach a certain quota every day, or the next day she’s going to need even more. Without them here, guess who had to feel in all week?
Hey, now that I think about it… Anybody out there need a couple of kids for a week or so?
My two youngest children were gone this past week, visiting relatives in Killeen . The house felt way too quiet. It’s funny, I fuss about how much noise they make when they are here (especially when I’m working nights and trying to sleep during the day), but the truth is I slept better once they got back home.
Now, I missed both of them the same, and neither one more than the other. However, it never occurred to me how much my son helped out around the house until he was on “relative leave”.
He usually takes out the trash in the evenings. In fact, it turns out that he must take the trash out a couple of times a day. When he was gone I couldn’t believe how much trash we go through as a family- and that was with two of us gone. The average American creates 1600 pounds of garbage per year. I think we had half of our numbers in one week.
He usually cleans the pool, too. I mean, all three have “clean the pool” on their list of chores once a week, but he by far does it the most and the best. Two days without him being there, the pool was like swimming in a pasture tank. I swear I felt a catfish nibbling on my toes at one point.
My son is in charge of feeding the dog every morning also. And I think somewhere around Wednesday I caught my dog on the corner up the street holding a “will bark for food” sign.
Speaking of the dog, he looked lost the whole week as much as I did. He’s used to playing and running around the house with the kids for a little while every day. That is, until he’s had enough and starts growling and snapping at them to leave him alone.
Of course, I had to mow the lawn by myself this week, too. It turns out that the push mower is a little heavier than I remember it being. I’m so used to riding on my mower and watching him push his. I started off speed walking behind that thing, and by the time I made it to the front yard I was using it more for a walker than a lawn mower.
The morning papers? It’s my son’s job to grab those every morning, too. Do you understand the effort I had to put out, walking all the way outside every morning just to grab a couple of newspapers? I should’ve had people lined up along the sidewalk there and back holding out water cups, like they do in the marathons.
And as I said before, it wasn’t just my son that I missed. Jenna, my youngest daughter, also gives a great shoulder massage while we’re watching t.v. in the evenings. I had to pay some lady in the mall $20 to do what Jenna does a couple of times a week for a simple trip to the piggy bank.
And most of all, I depend on those kids to provide their mom with plenty of hugs and kisses every day. She has to reach a certain quota every day, or the next day she’s going to need even more. Without them here, guess who had to feel in all week?
Hey, now that I think about it… Anybody out there need a couple of kids for a week or so?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Our night out
I’ve had better parenting moments.
My wife and I made plans to go out this past Friday night. My two daughters wanted to go with us, and started pouting when I told them no. You would have thought that we told them they were never leaving the house again.
Now, every kid pouts every now and then so that isn’t what made me mad. What set me off was the “we never get to do anything” comments. Oh, please.
“Let me tell you something,” I told my oldest daughter, who was pouting the most. “You’ve gotten to do more in your twelve years than I got to do in my first twenty-five. You’ve got friends coming over all the time, you have your own cell phone, you can go swimming anytime you want to, day or night. We are a month away from taking you to the beach- for the sixth straight year. Hell, I was almost thirty before I ever even saw the beach. So little girl, don’t whine to me about you never get to do anything.”
Then I really lost it, and couldn’t stop myself.
“For the past eight months, it’s been all about you kids. Kids this, kids that. Kids, kids, kids. Every single night, one of you little parasites has had baseball practice or softball practice or volleyball practice. If you didn’t have practice, then you had a game. If you didn’t have practice or a game, you had five hours of homework that we had to help you with.
“So no, you can’t go tonight. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take your mother- who by the way is still my wife- out on a nice, romantic date.”
Evidently, the word “romantic” is the magic word that makes little girls say “eeww!” like I just swallowed a bug in front of them.
“We’d like to go eat at a nice restaurant for once. One that doesn’t have a drive-thru window, styrofoam cups, or crayons with their menus. I want to pay the check at the table with one of those fancy black notebooks instead of standing at the register. And speaking of menus, there won’t be any chicken strips, chicken wheels or chicken sandwiches at the restaurant where we are going. Nothing chicken.
“There will be a candle on the table, a couple of glasses of wine or other adult beverages, and we’ll be playing footsies the whole time. I might even kiss your mother square on the mouth at some point.”
Again there was a loud “eeww!” Sadly, this time it was from my wife.
Because this is a family newspaper, I left a couple of choice words that I said to them out of this column. As we left, I wasn’t sure who was more upset- the girls because they couldn’t go or my wife because she thought I might try to kiss her.
So I guess I lost the Father of the Year Award again this year. Due to the new chore lists, I’m not sure I was in the running for the award anyway.
Well I guess there is always next year…
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’ve had better parenting moments.
My wife and I made plans to go out this past Friday night. My two daughters wanted to go with us, and started pouting when I told them no. You would have thought that we told them they were never leaving the house again.
Now, every kid pouts every now and then so that isn’t what made me mad. What set me off was the “we never get to do anything” comments. Oh, please.
“Let me tell you something,” I told my oldest daughter, who was pouting the most. “You’ve gotten to do more in your twelve years than I got to do in my first twenty-five. You’ve got friends coming over all the time, you have your own cell phone, you can go swimming anytime you want to, day or night. We are a month away from taking you to the beach- for the sixth straight year. Hell, I was almost thirty before I ever even saw the beach. So little girl, don’t whine to me about you never get to do anything.”
Then I really lost it, and couldn’t stop myself.
“For the past eight months, it’s been all about you kids. Kids this, kids that. Kids, kids, kids. Every single night, one of you little parasites has had baseball practice or softball practice or volleyball practice. If you didn’t have practice, then you had a game. If you didn’t have practice or a game, you had five hours of homework that we had to help you with.
“So no, you can’t go tonight. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take your mother- who by the way is still my wife- out on a nice, romantic date.”
Evidently, the word “romantic” is the magic word that makes little girls say “eeww!” like I just swallowed a bug in front of them.
“We’d like to go eat at a nice restaurant for once. One that doesn’t have a drive-thru window, styrofoam cups, or crayons with their menus. I want to pay the check at the table with one of those fancy black notebooks instead of standing at the register. And speaking of menus, there won’t be any chicken strips, chicken wheels or chicken sandwiches at the restaurant where we are going. Nothing chicken.
“There will be a candle on the table, a couple of glasses of wine or other adult beverages, and we’ll be playing footsies the whole time. I might even kiss your mother square on the mouth at some point.”
Again there was a loud “eeww!” Sadly, this time it was from my wife.
Because this is a family newspaper, I left a couple of choice words that I said to them out of this column. As we left, I wasn’t sure who was more upset- the girls because they couldn’t go or my wife because she thought I might try to kiss her.
So I guess I lost the Father of the Year Award again this year. Due to the new chore lists, I’m not sure I was in the running for the award anyway.
Well I guess there is always next year…
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.
Can’t go wrong with tiger print
Well we made it back from the lake, with everyone and everything still intact. Actually, it turned out to be a little easier to drive, maneuver, and set up the travel trailer than I thought. In fact, I’d have to say it was quicker and easier than putting up a tent. Of course, it’d be great if I didn’t have to drop light-bill-type money on gas whenever we took it out.
The only problem I had with taking the travel trailer out was this- I’ve now moved into the age bracket that enjoys RVing. I paid attention all weekend long, and everyone I saw was either under the age of 16 or over the age of 45. There were no cool twenty-somethings there. The sting of that realization was up there with the pain of a pretty girl calling you “sir” and your son blowing by you on the basketball court.
The funniest part of the weekend came when an old man two campsights down came outside in a Speedo. A very, very small Speedo. And he felt very comfortable wearing it all weekend long, much to my kids’ horror. They shrieked and ewwed every time he came outside. And that was just the green one. You should have heard them scream when he broke out the tiger-print Speedo on Sunday.
Anyway, I’ve decided to embrace my aging process. Instead of eating fast food Monday, I stopped and had lunch at Luby’s with all the other old people. I love the food there, and there are so many options to choose from. My only problem is I feel like I’m holding up the line while I’m deciding.
In fact, one old lady let me know I was waisting her time. She kept elbowing me and hitting my tray with her tray, like I was keeping her from watching an episode of “Murder, She Wrote” or something. I wanted to point out to her that nobody nudged her while she drove the last 17 miles with her dang blinker on at 40 mph. But instead I just let it slide. Call it part of getting older and more mellow.
Back to the RVing. We really enjoyed it and plan to take it out more, when we can. We’ve decided to keep to the state parks as much as possible, because they are a little more strict on the drinking and things like that. Folks will always drink, of course, but it seems a little more subdued at the state parks. And a little more quieter.
We’ve revamped our list of things we need to take with us, also. For instance, this last time we forgot to take bicycles for the kids. They were bored a good bit of the time. We need to put a fan or two in there, some books or something, and for God’s sake, a coffee pot. If I’m going to wake up with three kids and a wife bouncing around all happy and chirpy like, then I’m going to need a pretty big cup of strong coffee. Or three.
And finally, we can’t forget to pack the jewel of every fun-filled RVing weekend from here on out… my own tiger-print Speedo.
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.
Well we made it back from the lake, with everyone and everything still intact. Actually, it turned out to be a little easier to drive, maneuver, and set up the travel trailer than I thought. In fact, I’d have to say it was quicker and easier than putting up a tent. Of course, it’d be great if I didn’t have to drop light-bill-type money on gas whenever we took it out.
The only problem I had with taking the travel trailer out was this- I’ve now moved into the age bracket that enjoys RVing. I paid attention all weekend long, and everyone I saw was either under the age of 16 or over the age of 45. There were no cool twenty-somethings there. The sting of that realization was up there with the pain of a pretty girl calling you “sir” and your son blowing by you on the basketball court.
The funniest part of the weekend came when an old man two campsights down came outside in a Speedo. A very, very small Speedo. And he felt very comfortable wearing it all weekend long, much to my kids’ horror. They shrieked and ewwed every time he came outside. And that was just the green one. You should have heard them scream when he broke out the tiger-print Speedo on Sunday.
Anyway, I’ve decided to embrace my aging process. Instead of eating fast food Monday, I stopped and had lunch at Luby’s with all the other old people. I love the food there, and there are so many options to choose from. My only problem is I feel like I’m holding up the line while I’m deciding.
In fact, one old lady let me know I was waisting her time. She kept elbowing me and hitting my tray with her tray, like I was keeping her from watching an episode of “Murder, She Wrote” or something. I wanted to point out to her that nobody nudged her while she drove the last 17 miles with her dang blinker on at 40 mph. But instead I just let it slide. Call it part of getting older and more mellow.
Back to the RVing. We really enjoyed it and plan to take it out more, when we can. We’ve decided to keep to the state parks as much as possible, because they are a little more strict on the drinking and things like that. Folks will always drink, of course, but it seems a little more subdued at the state parks. And a little more quieter.
We’ve revamped our list of things we need to take with us, also. For instance, this last time we forgot to take bicycles for the kids. They were bored a good bit of the time. We need to put a fan or two in there, some books or something, and for God’s sake, a coffee pot. If I’m going to wake up with three kids and a wife bouncing around all happy and chirpy like, then I’m going to need a pretty big cup of strong coffee. Or three.
And finally, we can’t forget to pack the jewel of every fun-filled RVing weekend from here on out… my own tiger-print Speedo.
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 15, 2011
Just Relax
Buckle up your seatbelts, folks. The Scasta Family Vacation will kick off about lunchtime Friday afternoon. And I will probably be calling for help sometime about one o’clock or so.
My wife came up with the idea of going camping for a couple of days, to celebrate Father’s Day. Here’s the problem- I don’t like camping. I’m not an outdoor, woodsmen, campfire kind of guy. My idea of the perfect Father’s Day would be to actually sit down on the couch for a few minutes, maybe grill something on the pit, and spend all day opening presents.
We bought a travel-trailer about a year ago, and her and the kids want to take it out this weekend. I’ve never hauled one around or set it up before, so this should be quite the adventure.
Let’s compare the two ideal days, shall we?
Open a present, walk to the kitchen for something to eat, come back to the couch, open another present, walk back to the kitchen, come back to the couch, open another present, change the channel on the t.v., open another present, etc. See how enjoyable that sounds?
Now let’s compare that to what’s really going to happen.
Go hook up trailer to Tahoe, break out in a sweat because it a gazillion degrees outside. Catch a finger in the trailer hook, scream like a girl. Start heading for the lake, blow a tire fifteen miles into the trip. Narrowly avoid a huge wreck because trailer is flailing around in the wind. Call roadside assistance, sign away next three years of income to help pay for that.
Arrive at the campsite, spend three hours setting up trailer. Start sweating again, because it’s still a gazillion degrees outside. Find out that something- hot water heater, air conditioner, water- doesn’t work. Spend the rest of the evening mad.
Wake up way too early, take kids fishing. Spend thirty bucks at the bait shop on silly stuff you don’t need. Walk a mile to the good fishing spot, break out in a sweat from walking because it’s already a gazillion degrees outside.
Fish for three hours without a single bite, and watch my son pull in fish after fish the whole time. Catch hook in finger trying to take a fish off of my daughter’s line. Explain for the 100th time why we are throwing the fish back instead of keeping and cleaning them.
Spend half the next day packing everything back up, and start driving back home. Fifteen miles into the return trip, call roadside assistance because the Tahoe is overheating from pulling the trailer. Sign away three more years of income.
Wake up Monday morning tired as Hell from the “relaxing Father’s Day weekend”.
Buckle up your seatbelts, folks. The Scasta Family Vacation will kick off about lunchtime Friday afternoon. And I will probably be calling for help sometime about one o’clock or so.
My wife came up with the idea of going camping for a couple of days, to celebrate Father’s Day. Here’s the problem- I don’t like camping. I’m not an outdoor, woodsmen, campfire kind of guy. My idea of the perfect Father’s Day would be to actually sit down on the couch for a few minutes, maybe grill something on the pit, and spend all day opening presents.
We bought a travel-trailer about a year ago, and her and the kids want to take it out this weekend. I’ve never hauled one around or set it up before, so this should be quite the adventure.
Let’s compare the two ideal days, shall we?
Open a present, walk to the kitchen for something to eat, come back to the couch, open another present, walk back to the kitchen, come back to the couch, open another present, change the channel on the t.v., open another present, etc. See how enjoyable that sounds?
Now let’s compare that to what’s really going to happen.
Go hook up trailer to Tahoe, break out in a sweat because it a gazillion degrees outside. Catch a finger in the trailer hook, scream like a girl. Start heading for the lake, blow a tire fifteen miles into the trip. Narrowly avoid a huge wreck because trailer is flailing around in the wind. Call roadside assistance, sign away next three years of income to help pay for that.
Arrive at the campsite, spend three hours setting up trailer. Start sweating again, because it’s still a gazillion degrees outside. Find out that something- hot water heater, air conditioner, water- doesn’t work. Spend the rest of the evening mad.
Wake up way too early, take kids fishing. Spend thirty bucks at the bait shop on silly stuff you don’t need. Walk a mile to the good fishing spot, break out in a sweat from walking because it’s already a gazillion degrees outside.
Fish for three hours without a single bite, and watch my son pull in fish after fish the whole time. Catch hook in finger trying to take a fish off of my daughter’s line. Explain for the 100th time why we are throwing the fish back instead of keeping and cleaning them.
Spend half the next day packing everything back up, and start driving back home. Fifteen miles into the return trip, call roadside assistance because the Tahoe is overheating from pulling the trailer. Sign away three more years of income.
Wake up Monday morning tired as Hell from the “relaxing Father’s Day weekend”.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The business of raising kids
I’m not sure how it works around your house, but we kind of run ours like a business. My wife and I are owners in the company and- as cruel as it may sound- our kids are kind of the employees. I don’t believe that my wife looks at it that way, but I do.
Just like most businesses, one partner does most of the real work, the planning, the buying and selling, etc. In our house, she pretty much runs the show. She takes care of the books, buys the groceries, pays the bills, decides when and where we go on vacations, and so on.
I’m pretty much only consulted on the really big decisions or when there is a major crisis- like buying a new car, dealing with a kid who’s crossed the I’m-gonna-tell-your-father! line, or putting up the pool for the summer. Every now and then I’ll take a peek at the books and inquire about the bottom line.
Now, in theory, I’d like to believe that I own 51% stock in the Scasta household. My wife owns the other 49%. As our children get older and contribute to the business they can start to buy stock themselves, and as stockholders can have a small say in some of the decisions.
Right now they are entry-level employees with no stock options. They perform certain jobs around the house, and in turn we pay them with food, shelter, clothes, and all kinds of other junk. Hopefully a few of the lessons that we teach will pay off for them later in life, which I guess is our version of a 401K program, if you will.
I’ve noticed lately that all three employees are getting the same pay, but don’t seem to be putting out the same effort. Every evening I watch my wife and mother-in-law do laundry and dishes for hours. And every evening I think to myself, “Don’t we have two daughters that should be doing that?” But these girls… Well, these girls wouldn’t know how to fold a towel if it had dotted lines and instructions.
My son is different. I could drop my ten year old son off in downtown Houston and within an hour and a half he’d have a full-time job, a part-time job, and an apartment.
I take the blame for that, because I’ve had a more hands-on approach in teaching my son these things. I’ve been way too easy on my girls for way too long.
But like any good CEO of a company would do I identified the problem, rolled up my sleeves, and came up with a solution- I’ve got to teach my daughters the same work ethics and responsible behavior that I’ve taught my son. So I came up with some chores.
There will be many chores. Lots of them. The grimy, slimy, back breaking type of chores that will take two hands to perform. That way, my 12 year old will actually have to stop texting and put down her phone long enough to do them.
A company meeting was called in the conference room (the kitchen) where my partner and I handed out the new job descriptions. It went over about as well as we expected (Ever tell a young girl that she has to scrub toilets?).
My wife seems to think the girls will go about their work quietly, but I expect a little pushback. I just hope that if they go on strike, it’s a hunger strike. This summer vacation food bill is hurting the bottom line.
I’m not sure how it works around your house, but we kind of run ours like a business. My wife and I are owners in the company and- as cruel as it may sound- our kids are kind of the employees. I don’t believe that my wife looks at it that way, but I do.
Just like most businesses, one partner does most of the real work, the planning, the buying and selling, etc. In our house, she pretty much runs the show. She takes care of the books, buys the groceries, pays the bills, decides when and where we go on vacations, and so on.
I’m pretty much only consulted on the really big decisions or when there is a major crisis- like buying a new car, dealing with a kid who’s crossed the I’m-gonna-tell-your-father! line, or putting up the pool for the summer. Every now and then I’ll take a peek at the books and inquire about the bottom line.
Now, in theory, I’d like to believe that I own 51% stock in the Scasta household. My wife owns the other 49%. As our children get older and contribute to the business they can start to buy stock themselves, and as stockholders can have a small say in some of the decisions.
Right now they are entry-level employees with no stock options. They perform certain jobs around the house, and in turn we pay them with food, shelter, clothes, and all kinds of other junk. Hopefully a few of the lessons that we teach will pay off for them later in life, which I guess is our version of a 401K program, if you will.
I’ve noticed lately that all three employees are getting the same pay, but don’t seem to be putting out the same effort. Every evening I watch my wife and mother-in-law do laundry and dishes for hours. And every evening I think to myself, “Don’t we have two daughters that should be doing that?” But these girls… Well, these girls wouldn’t know how to fold a towel if it had dotted lines and instructions.
My son is different. I could drop my ten year old son off in downtown Houston and within an hour and a half he’d have a full-time job, a part-time job, and an apartment.
I take the blame for that, because I’ve had a more hands-on approach in teaching my son these things. I’ve been way too easy on my girls for way too long.
But like any good CEO of a company would do I identified the problem, rolled up my sleeves, and came up with a solution- I’ve got to teach my daughters the same work ethics and responsible behavior that I’ve taught my son. So I came up with some chores.
There will be many chores. Lots of them. The grimy, slimy, back breaking type of chores that will take two hands to perform. That way, my 12 year old will actually have to stop texting and put down her phone long enough to do them.
A company meeting was called in the conference room (the kitchen) where my partner and I handed out the new job descriptions. It went over about as well as we expected (Ever tell a young girl that she has to scrub toilets?).
My wife seems to think the girls will go about their work quietly, but I expect a little pushback. I just hope that if they go on strike, it’s a hunger strike. This summer vacation food bill is hurting the bottom line.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Rapture
Well, I see that we’ve all survived the Rapture. Whew, that was a close one.
Seriously though, that’s why I’ve always said that religion is just like alcohol, drugs, sex, and everything else in life. Moderation is the key to everything.
I don’t think there is anything wrong with having a beer or two every now and then, as long as you aren’t in the bars every night. Growing up, I knew tons of people who smoked weed and still functioned normally. It’s the guys who sit on the couch all day and eat Doritos and drink Mountain Dew that give it a bad name.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way saying that I want to come home and find one of my kids on the back patio blowing smoke rings. Until you are 18 or you move out of my house (which is a drug-free zone), you follow my rules. All I’m saying is that it would be just as bad if I came home and they were talking about religion every minute of every day.
Now, back to the Rapture. I didn’t pay it much mind this past weekend, so I treated Saturday just like any other day. But I started thinking about what all I would do if I really did believe that the end was coming in a few days. Don’t worry, this is a family paper so I’m not going to talk about everything.
Now, it should go without saying that most of my time would be spent with family and friends. But my wife keeps pointing out how selfish I am, so I doubt that all of my time would be spent with them.
First thing I would do, have my mother-in-law make a pot of coffee and sit on my back porch with the newspaper. She makes the best coffee ever. I’d read it nice and slow, every article, in peace and quiet with nothing to bother me.
Then I’d take the top down on my jeep and ride down a country road somewhere. With the radio blaring a little Tupac, some Bob Segar, maybe a little George Jones, and I’d tie it all together with some Willie Nelson.
Then I would drive my jeep right to the best Mexican food place I know and try to eat everything on the menu. And wash it all down with Dos Equis, over and over. Oh, and that’s just for breakfast.
After breakfast I’d ask the owner of my favorite fishing spot if I could go out there. I’d drop a line in the water, sit down in a folding chair with my battered old copy of Gone With the Wind, and not give a damn if I caught something or not.
I’d do that ‘till lunch time, when I’d go to my favorite barbeque spot and try to eat everything on their menu, too.
After lunch I would try to gather up all my poker buddies for one more big cash game. We wouldn’t play for money, though. What good would money do when the world is ending anyway? Instead of $1, $5 and $10 chips, we’d play for potato chips, chili cheese fries, and Bud Light.
Once I’ve won the tournament and eaten everything in front of me, I’d bring a big ol’ glass of sweet tea to the couch and pop in my copy of the best movie ever made- Lonesome Dove.
That way, Gus and I could ride off into the sunset at the same time.
Well, I see that we’ve all survived the Rapture. Whew, that was a close one.
Seriously though, that’s why I’ve always said that religion is just like alcohol, drugs, sex, and everything else in life. Moderation is the key to everything.
I don’t think there is anything wrong with having a beer or two every now and then, as long as you aren’t in the bars every night. Growing up, I knew tons of people who smoked weed and still functioned normally. It’s the guys who sit on the couch all day and eat Doritos and drink Mountain Dew that give it a bad name.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way saying that I want to come home and find one of my kids on the back patio blowing smoke rings. Until you are 18 or you move out of my house (which is a drug-free zone), you follow my rules. All I’m saying is that it would be just as bad if I came home and they were talking about religion every minute of every day.
Now, back to the Rapture. I didn’t pay it much mind this past weekend, so I treated Saturday just like any other day. But I started thinking about what all I would do if I really did believe that the end was coming in a few days. Don’t worry, this is a family paper so I’m not going to talk about everything.
Now, it should go without saying that most of my time would be spent with family and friends. But my wife keeps pointing out how selfish I am, so I doubt that all of my time would be spent with them.
First thing I would do, have my mother-in-law make a pot of coffee and sit on my back porch with the newspaper. She makes the best coffee ever. I’d read it nice and slow, every article, in peace and quiet with nothing to bother me.
Then I’d take the top down on my jeep and ride down a country road somewhere. With the radio blaring a little Tupac, some Bob Segar, maybe a little George Jones, and I’d tie it all together with some Willie Nelson.
Then I would drive my jeep right to the best Mexican food place I know and try to eat everything on the menu. And wash it all down with Dos Equis, over and over. Oh, and that’s just for breakfast.
After breakfast I’d ask the owner of my favorite fishing spot if I could go out there. I’d drop a line in the water, sit down in a folding chair with my battered old copy of Gone With the Wind, and not give a damn if I caught something or not.
I’d do that ‘till lunch time, when I’d go to my favorite barbeque spot and try to eat everything on their menu, too.
After lunch I would try to gather up all my poker buddies for one more big cash game. We wouldn’t play for money, though. What good would money do when the world is ending anyway? Instead of $1, $5 and $10 chips, we’d play for potato chips, chili cheese fries, and Bud Light.
Once I’ve won the tournament and eaten everything in front of me, I’d bring a big ol’ glass of sweet tea to the couch and pop in my copy of the best movie ever made- Lonesome Dove.
That way, Gus and I could ride off into the sunset at the same time.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Mother’s Day, Schmother’s Day
It got pretty cold here the last couple of days, and I wasn’t prepared for it at all. In fact, I had to work the night shift this week and had to spend a little time outside- on the north side of the building.
As much as I tried to avoid it, as bad as I didn’t want to call my wife, I finally broke down and did it.
“Will you bring me a sweater with a hood on it?” I asked her, holding the phone a foot away from my ear so the high-pitched cussing wouldn’t damage my ear drums. After all, it’s a twenty minute drive each way and I knew she hardly ever has that kind of time to kill in the evenings.
“Of course I will. Do you need anything else?” she said.
I looked at the phone, made sure I was actually on the line with my wife, then listened closely to make sure she didn’t have me on speakerphone. That could be the only explanation to her being so nice- other people had to be listening. Any other time I’d ask her to do something nice for me she would get hotter than one of those plates at a Mexican restaurant.
Come to think of it, she’d been nice to me for the past couple of weeks. She hadn’t fussed when I needed a part for my new truck, she let me sleep late Sunday and -holy cow- she even cooked for me one evening before work.
Ahhh, then it hit me. Mother’s Day is this week. Hence the being nice all of a sudden, the jewelry magazines lying around everywhere, etc.
“Well now I’m stuck”, I thought. If she took almost an hour out of her busy evening at home to bring me a sweatshirt when I should have grabbed one myself, then I have to go get her something for Mother’s Day.
And the kicker is that whatever I get her will be twice as expensive than what I get for Father’s Day, you can bet on that. But I can’t go too cheap, because then I won’t get hardly anything at all when it’s my turn. Instead of the usual pack of underwear and some socks, I’m liable to just get a card. Unsigned.
I’ll say this- whoever thought up Mother’s Day knew what they were doing. And whoever came up with Father’s Day didn’t. I haven’t done the research on it (surprise, surprise), but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Father’s Day was dreamed up years after Mother’s Day was. What they should have done is put Father’s Day first on the calendar.
Think about it, the women already get the best of every other holiday. They get better presents on their birthdays than we do, better presents on Christmas, and they make us take them out on New Year’s every year. And Valentine’s Day? Please.
All we get is Thanksgiving. Would it kill them to let us get the upper hand on this Mother’s/Father’s Day thing? How can they argue with that?
Well, now that I think about it I guess you could call the day of the Super Bowl a guy holiday. And yes, the 4th of July is more of a barbecuing, beer drinking kind of day. And of course, there’s the opening day of deer season…
Tell you what. What do you say we at least switch years every now and then?
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It got pretty cold here the last couple of days, and I wasn’t prepared for it at all. In fact, I had to work the night shift this week and had to spend a little time outside- on the north side of the building.
As much as I tried to avoid it, as bad as I didn’t want to call my wife, I finally broke down and did it.
“Will you bring me a sweater with a hood on it?” I asked her, holding the phone a foot away from my ear so the high-pitched cussing wouldn’t damage my ear drums. After all, it’s a twenty minute drive each way and I knew she hardly ever has that kind of time to kill in the evenings.
“Of course I will. Do you need anything else?” she said.
I looked at the phone, made sure I was actually on the line with my wife, then listened closely to make sure she didn’t have me on speakerphone. That could be the only explanation to her being so nice- other people had to be listening. Any other time I’d ask her to do something nice for me she would get hotter than one of those plates at a Mexican restaurant.
Come to think of it, she’d been nice to me for the past couple of weeks. She hadn’t fussed when I needed a part for my new truck, she let me sleep late Sunday and -holy cow- she even cooked for me one evening before work.
Ahhh, then it hit me. Mother’s Day is this week. Hence the being nice all of a sudden, the jewelry magazines lying around everywhere, etc.
“Well now I’m stuck”, I thought. If she took almost an hour out of her busy evening at home to bring me a sweatshirt when I should have grabbed one myself, then I have to go get her something for Mother’s Day.
And the kicker is that whatever I get her will be twice as expensive than what I get for Father’s Day, you can bet on that. But I can’t go too cheap, because then I won’t get hardly anything at all when it’s my turn. Instead of the usual pack of underwear and some socks, I’m liable to just get a card. Unsigned.
I’ll say this- whoever thought up Mother’s Day knew what they were doing. And whoever came up with Father’s Day didn’t. I haven’t done the research on it (surprise, surprise), but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Father’s Day was dreamed up years after Mother’s Day was. What they should have done is put Father’s Day first on the calendar.
Think about it, the women already get the best of every other holiday. They get better presents on their birthdays than we do, better presents on Christmas, and they make us take them out on New Year’s every year. And Valentine’s Day? Please.
All we get is Thanksgiving. Would it kill them to let us get the upper hand on this Mother’s/Father’s Day thing? How can they argue with that?
Well, now that I think about it I guess you could call the day of the Super Bowl a guy holiday. And yes, the 4th of July is more of a barbecuing, beer drinking kind of day. And of course, there’s the opening day of deer season…
Tell you what. What do you say we at least switch years every now and then?
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.
Snickers satisfies
I had a Snickers bar for a snack the other day at work. Not one of the new Snickers bars, with all kinds of new stuff added to it. I had the original, old-fashioned Snickers bars. And it was great.
I know that in today’s world of 24 hour CNN and all the other news on t.v., my mid-day snacks aren’t really news-worthy. But you wouldn’t believe how that one little candy bar opened a flood gate in my memory.
First of all, I had forgotten just how good a Snickers bar really is. You’ve got your peanuts, nougat, caramel and chocolate all rolled up in to one convenient little package. If ever there were a billion dollar product that was underrated, it’s a Snickers bar.
When I was young, my grandfather kept a bag of Snickers under the seat of his pickup truck. When I’d go with him to check cows or make a run to the Co-op, he was always good for at least one treat. And if he happened to turn his head for a second, he was good for at least two.
If I’m not mistaken, he was also the one that introduced me to putting peanuts in my coke. Pepsi, I think it was. Whenever I walk in the house nowadays with peanuts in my Coca-Cola, my kids look at me like I’m from Mars. I’ve tried to get them to give it a shot, but they aren’t having any.
As a high school student I worked part time at the little Texaco station here in my hometown. Most evenings I’d put me a Dr. Pepper and Butterfinger bar in the cooler for a few hours. That’s the way to eat a Butterfinger folks, or just about any candy bar, now that I think about it. But it works best on Butterfingers, and there isn’t a better snack in all the land.
See, the trick is to get the Butterfinger bar just cold enough to break easily, but not so cold that it freezes and you have to chip a tooth biting into it.
Thinking about that job at Texaco makes me think about all my buddies that used to stop by and talk to me while I worked. And first girlfriends. And my first pickup truck, a ’78 GMC with a big ol’ homemade iron bumper on the front. We all called it a “cow catcher” bumper, because it reminded you of the big metal thing that trains used to have on the front that protected them from cows on the tracks.
What a great truck, too. Brown with chrome wheels, and you started it by pushing a button. I always thought that was so cool, that I pushed a button to start the truck.
I bought it from a kid that I went to school with, and $10 bucks would allow you to ride around all weekend. Heck, $10 worth of gas wouldn’t get you down the block now.
You know what I miss about those old vehicles? The smell of whatever it was when you started them on a really cold morning. I don’t know if it was gas, or gas mixed with something else, or what. All I know is that I loved cranking that old truck up.
A friend and I were riding around in that truck one night when I pulled out in front of someone and caused a wreck. The first thing I remember thinking when I came to was “Great. I’ve got this big huge bumper on the front, and I get hit on the side. That’s my luck.”
It’s funny- I hadn’t thought of that truck in years. Until I had that Snickers bar for a snack.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
I had a Snickers bar for a snack the other day at work. Not one of the new Snickers bars, with all kinds of new stuff added to it. I had the original, old-fashioned Snickers bars. And it was great.
I know that in today’s world of 24 hour CNN and all the other news on t.v., my mid-day snacks aren’t really news-worthy. But you wouldn’t believe how that one little candy bar opened a flood gate in my memory.
First of all, I had forgotten just how good a Snickers bar really is. You’ve got your peanuts, nougat, caramel and chocolate all rolled up in to one convenient little package. If ever there were a billion dollar product that was underrated, it’s a Snickers bar.
When I was young, my grandfather kept a bag of Snickers under the seat of his pickup truck. When I’d go with him to check cows or make a run to the Co-op, he was always good for at least one treat. And if he happened to turn his head for a second, he was good for at least two.
If I’m not mistaken, he was also the one that introduced me to putting peanuts in my coke. Pepsi, I think it was. Whenever I walk in the house nowadays with peanuts in my Coca-Cola, my kids look at me like I’m from Mars. I’ve tried to get them to give it a shot, but they aren’t having any.
As a high school student I worked part time at the little Texaco station here in my hometown. Most evenings I’d put me a Dr. Pepper and Butterfinger bar in the cooler for a few hours. That’s the way to eat a Butterfinger folks, or just about any candy bar, now that I think about it. But it works best on Butterfingers, and there isn’t a better snack in all the land.
See, the trick is to get the Butterfinger bar just cold enough to break easily, but not so cold that it freezes and you have to chip a tooth biting into it.
Thinking about that job at Texaco makes me think about all my buddies that used to stop by and talk to me while I worked. And first girlfriends. And my first pickup truck, a ’78 GMC with a big ol’ homemade iron bumper on the front. We all called it a “cow catcher” bumper, because it reminded you of the big metal thing that trains used to have on the front that protected them from cows on the tracks.
What a great truck, too. Brown with chrome wheels, and you started it by pushing a button. I always thought that was so cool, that I pushed a button to start the truck.
I bought it from a kid that I went to school with, and $10 bucks would allow you to ride around all weekend. Heck, $10 worth of gas wouldn’t get you down the block now.
You know what I miss about those old vehicles? The smell of whatever it was when you started them on a really cold morning. I don’t know if it was gas, or gas mixed with something else, or what. All I know is that I loved cranking that old truck up.
A friend and I were riding around in that truck one night when I pulled out in front of someone and caused a wreck. The first thing I remember thinking when I came to was “Great. I’ve got this big huge bumper on the front, and I get hit on the side. That’s my luck.”
It’s funny- I hadn’t thought of that truck in years. Until I had that Snickers bar for a snack.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
New dads and old stories
This young fellow that I play poker with every week is a brand new dad. You can tell he’s a great one, too. He’s quick with a story, lets us know how much he helps out, and even after a few months is eager to show a picture of the little guy. In fact, he almost skipped poker this week because the baby wasn’t feeling good, and he wanted to stay home and do whatever he could to help.
Of course, this earned him some good-natured ribbing from the fellas. You can’t threaten to miss poker and come with an excuse like that.
“What are you, a doctor?” someone asked. “Maybe he’s more like a nurse” someone else said. “Hell, that’s why I got married in the first place, so I wouldn’t have to miss poker when things like that came up,” said another guy.
And that led us all to talk about how when our first-borns came along we would take them to the emergency room for coughing or sneezing, weekend or not. I mean we didn’t take any chances whatsoever.
By the time the second child showed up you still made doctor appointments and everything, but you tried to at least wait out the weekend. No since in racking up that weekend rate. And as they got older you would always try a cough medicine or something yourself before taking them in to see the doctor.
Then those of us guys at the table with three kids admitted that by the time the third one came along, it was way worse. I came clean to everyone at the table that my third kid would have to walk in the house holding a body part in her hand before we saw a doctor on the weekend. Colds and flues weren’t enough to seek medical attention anymore. If you want professional help in my house, you at least have to cough up a lung or something.
One older guy chimed in and said that along those same lines, it also got easier to leave the kids with someone to babysit.
“Our first born was probably a year old before we let anyone else keep them,” he said. “And even then, it was only my wife’s mother. By the time our third kid came along, we didn’t even care who took the baby home from the hospital. We went from never letting the first kid out of our sight to paying whatever it took for a babysitter every now and then just to get out of the house.”
As the poker chips and family stories made their way around the table, I started thinking and remembering stories of my own over the years. And for each picture on someone’s phone or in their wallet, a snapshot in time of one of my three kids came to mind.
It seems like only yesterday that I was that nervous new daddy, willing to drive through a brick wall if her forehead even felt warm to the touch. And now twelve years later…
Who wants to babysit? Anyone? Hello?
This young fellow that I play poker with every week is a brand new dad. You can tell he’s a great one, too. He’s quick with a story, lets us know how much he helps out, and even after a few months is eager to show a picture of the little guy. In fact, he almost skipped poker this week because the baby wasn’t feeling good, and he wanted to stay home and do whatever he could to help.
Of course, this earned him some good-natured ribbing from the fellas. You can’t threaten to miss poker and come with an excuse like that.
“What are you, a doctor?” someone asked. “Maybe he’s more like a nurse” someone else said. “Hell, that’s why I got married in the first place, so I wouldn’t have to miss poker when things like that came up,” said another guy.
And that led us all to talk about how when our first-borns came along we would take them to the emergency room for coughing or sneezing, weekend or not. I mean we didn’t take any chances whatsoever.
By the time the second child showed up you still made doctor appointments and everything, but you tried to at least wait out the weekend. No since in racking up that weekend rate. And as they got older you would always try a cough medicine or something yourself before taking them in to see the doctor.
Then those of us guys at the table with three kids admitted that by the time the third one came along, it was way worse. I came clean to everyone at the table that my third kid would have to walk in the house holding a body part in her hand before we saw a doctor on the weekend. Colds and flues weren’t enough to seek medical attention anymore. If you want professional help in my house, you at least have to cough up a lung or something.
One older guy chimed in and said that along those same lines, it also got easier to leave the kids with someone to babysit.
“Our first born was probably a year old before we let anyone else keep them,” he said. “And even then, it was only my wife’s mother. By the time our third kid came along, we didn’t even care who took the baby home from the hospital. We went from never letting the first kid out of our sight to paying whatever it took for a babysitter every now and then just to get out of the house.”
As the poker chips and family stories made their way around the table, I started thinking and remembering stories of my own over the years. And for each picture on someone’s phone or in their wallet, a snapshot in time of one of my three kids came to mind.
It seems like only yesterday that I was that nervous new daddy, willing to drive through a brick wall if her forehead even felt warm to the touch. And now twelve years later…
Who wants to babysit? Anyone? Hello?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
No more Mr. Nice Guy
I had several people mention to me how much they enjoyed last week’s column. “It was so sweet,” they would tell me. “You must have turned over a new leaf.”
Um, not quite. It’s just that I’ve not mentioned the things that drive me crazy lately. But don’t worry, I’ve still got a list.
For instance, I’m sick of login passwords on the computer. I’ve got two or three different passwords at work, an Apple iTunes password, a password for poker, a password for the satellite radio, etc. Every single time I turn on my dadgum computer, it wants me to come up with a password. I try using the same word for as many of them as I can, but sometimes they want you to put numbers and letters with it, or capitalize some of it, or make some of it in four different languages…
You can click the little box that says “Remember my password”, but that only lasts a couple of weeks. Then sure enough I’ll try to check my mail or something and it will ask me “Do you remember your password?”
Well Hell no I don’t remember my password! That’s why I clicked the dang box, because I want YOU to remember my password.
Here’s another one that drives me crazy, and I’ll bet I’m not the only guy that has this problem. I was trying to pack some leftovers for my lunch the other day and went looking for a Tupperware bowl. I opened the drawer where I saw them last, and lo and behold there were about a gazillion different bowls and lids in there. Round Tupperware bowls, square Tupperware bowls, bowls in the shapes of animals, butter bowls, cool whip bowls, you name it. But I couldn’t find a lid to fit one of those bowls if my life depended on it.
Don’t get me wrong, we had enough lids. Heck, we must have had three lids for every bowl. But none of the lids I found would fit any of the bowls that I pulled out.
My wife heard me cussing and digging around in there, and came in to the kitchen rolling her eyes and making that “disgusted with me” sound that she makes (You know, like I’m the stupid one). She walked right to the opposite side of the kitchen, opened up a totally different cabinet, and pulled out two Tupperware bowls with the lids already on them.
Here’s another one for you. If you or someone you know is in the food serving business, can you please explain to them to cut back on the tattoos and stuff? I don’t want someone painted up like the Lizard Guy bringing my food to my table. I’m not crazy about grabbing my burger and fries from a couple of hands that have “F**K” and “You” on the knuckles.
And for God’s sake girls, can we cut down on the hickeys, please? First of all, if you are old enough to be a waitress then you are old enough not to have hickeys anymore. This isn’t junior high. Secondly, it upsets my stomach when you ask for my order and I look up to see a big disgusting bruise on the side of your neck. Did you get it two days ago? Yesterday? Seven minutes ago in the break room? It just screams “nasty”. That isn’t the word you want running through your mind while you are trying to eat.
Finally, the last thing on the list that drives me crazy is when I see a police officer sitting on the side of the road or just over a little hill hiding. You don’t know how many times I’ve prayed that a big sign or tree would suddenly get struck by lightning and fall right on top of a squad car. Not to hurt them, just to mess up their car.
Listen, if you pass me and you catch me speeding, I deserve it. Go on and give me a ticket. But there’s something about seeing a cop hiding like a nasty little rat that makes my blood boil. It just seems like the easy way out. I always want to stop and yell “Earn your paycheck!” or something. Or stop a half mile away and hold up a big sign warming everybody what’s ahead.
And that, folks, is one column that I’m sure I’ll pay for one day.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
I had several people mention to me how much they enjoyed last week’s column. “It was so sweet,” they would tell me. “You must have turned over a new leaf.”
Um, not quite. It’s just that I’ve not mentioned the things that drive me crazy lately. But don’t worry, I’ve still got a list.
For instance, I’m sick of login passwords on the computer. I’ve got two or three different passwords at work, an Apple iTunes password, a password for poker, a password for the satellite radio, etc. Every single time I turn on my dadgum computer, it wants me to come up with a password. I try using the same word for as many of them as I can, but sometimes they want you to put numbers and letters with it, or capitalize some of it, or make some of it in four different languages…
You can click the little box that says “Remember my password”, but that only lasts a couple of weeks. Then sure enough I’ll try to check my mail or something and it will ask me “Do you remember your password?”
Well Hell no I don’t remember my password! That’s why I clicked the dang box, because I want YOU to remember my password.
Here’s another one that drives me crazy, and I’ll bet I’m not the only guy that has this problem. I was trying to pack some leftovers for my lunch the other day and went looking for a Tupperware bowl. I opened the drawer where I saw them last, and lo and behold there were about a gazillion different bowls and lids in there. Round Tupperware bowls, square Tupperware bowls, bowls in the shapes of animals, butter bowls, cool whip bowls, you name it. But I couldn’t find a lid to fit one of those bowls if my life depended on it.
Don’t get me wrong, we had enough lids. Heck, we must have had three lids for every bowl. But none of the lids I found would fit any of the bowls that I pulled out.
My wife heard me cussing and digging around in there, and came in to the kitchen rolling her eyes and making that “disgusted with me” sound that she makes (You know, like I’m the stupid one). She walked right to the opposite side of the kitchen, opened up a totally different cabinet, and pulled out two Tupperware bowls with the lids already on them.
Here’s another one for you. If you or someone you know is in the food serving business, can you please explain to them to cut back on the tattoos and stuff? I don’t want someone painted up like the Lizard Guy bringing my food to my table. I’m not crazy about grabbing my burger and fries from a couple of hands that have “F**K” and “You” on the knuckles.
And for God’s sake girls, can we cut down on the hickeys, please? First of all, if you are old enough to be a waitress then you are old enough not to have hickeys anymore. This isn’t junior high. Secondly, it upsets my stomach when you ask for my order and I look up to see a big disgusting bruise on the side of your neck. Did you get it two days ago? Yesterday? Seven minutes ago in the break room? It just screams “nasty”. That isn’t the word you want running through your mind while you are trying to eat.
Finally, the last thing on the list that drives me crazy is when I see a police officer sitting on the side of the road or just over a little hill hiding. You don’t know how many times I’ve prayed that a big sign or tree would suddenly get struck by lightning and fall right on top of a squad car. Not to hurt them, just to mess up their car.
Listen, if you pass me and you catch me speeding, I deserve it. Go on and give me a ticket. But there’s something about seeing a cop hiding like a nasty little rat that makes my blood boil. It just seems like the easy way out. I always want to stop and yell “Earn your paycheck!” or something. Or stop a half mile away and hold up a big sign warming everybody what’s ahead.
And that, folks, is one column that I’m sure I’ll pay for one day.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
No Sale
“I just don’t understand why you want to sell it,” my son pleaded with me. He was talking about my Jeep, and it sounded like he was going to cry. “It’s still in good shape and it runs good. I just don’t understand why you want to sell it.”
Since the day I bought that Jeep I’ve been regretting it. It’s terrible on gas mileage, it’s so rough that my wife all but refuses to ride in it, and above all else I can’t stand the color. Why in the world I picked bright yellow, I’ll never know. My brother-in-law says I look like a big M&M coming down the road.
I can’t even tell you exactly why I bought the Jeep in the first place. I just woke up one day a couple of years ago, found myself to be 30-something years old, and decided I needed a Jeep. I call it my mid-life crisis vehicle. I needed to do something drastic, and it was buy this Jeep or get a girlfriend. The Jeep was cheaper and got me in less trouble.
Well, a little less trouble, anyway. When I told my wife how much I was spending for the tires and the lift kit she didn’t exactly throw me a party.
But even though I’ve regretted buying it, I never really thought about selling the Jeep until a couple of weeks ago. A buddy of mine that I work with came to me with a nice offer that got my wheels to spinning. It was enough to pay off what I owe on the Jeep and leave me with a few thousand more.
My kids weren’t as happy about it as I was. “It’s so fun to ride in dad!” said one. “My friends think it’s cool that my dad drives a cool Jeep,” said another. “What about all the memories? I just don’t understand why you want to sell it,” they cried.
So I told them that’s what life is about, making a profit. Never let emotion get in the way of life decisions. Houses, cars, whatever you have. If someone offers you more that it’s worth, you take the money and put it in the bank. Everything can be replaced, and everything is for sale- even memories.
So I went down to a friend’s car lot, “Jimmie’s Deals”, to look for something to drive after I sold this one. While I looked for my next vehicle, Jimmie told me he could get way more for my Jeep than I had been offered. He took a gazillion pictures, slapped them on the internet, and I was fielding calls within hours. I’m telling you folks, this guy is good. If you want one, or need to get rid of one, come see this cat. He knows what he’s doing.
Sure enough, some guy calls me from Oklahoma and offers me way more than my buddy at work did. He sent a friend to test drive it and everything. We made a deal over the phone, and I started spending the money in my head. New dining room floor, here I come!
I sat down to call the bank for the title and stared out the back door at my Jeep while I dialed. And then it happened. As I started to dial, I looked out and saw all three kids sitting in that Jeep, laughing, hollering, whooping it up, and waving me over. The damn dog was even in there, with his paws on the dash and wagging his tail.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because I know it sounds silly. I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, and junk like that either. But there they were in that Jeep, plain as day. It was like the scene from Lonesome Dove, when the spirit of Deets led Pea Eye to safety.
Then I started remembering stuff. Like going through the automated car wash with my nephew, laughing and scared to death because we didn’t know if the soft top would hold up to the pressure of the water or dryer. And going mudding for the first time at Lake Somerville with my wife’s cousin- one of my favorite people to hang out with. I remembered taking my father-in-law for a ride not long before he died. We found a little mud that day too, and I had never seen him laugh so hard or have so much fun.
I remembered driving down a dirt road with the top down, and my kids standing on the back seat leaning over the roll cage, with their arms stretched high and letting the wind hit them like they were flying. And I remembered one Sunday afternoon when my wife and I went on a three-hour ride down every country rode in the county, just talking and listening to Texas country music. It was so quiet, and so peaceful, and we weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere.
All of these memories hit me in a thirty second span, and I pressed the “End Call” button on my phone. I knew I wouldn’t sell it. I couldn’t.
It turns out my son was right. Sometimes memories- even in this house- just aren’t for sale.
I still hate that damn yellow though.
“I just don’t understand why you want to sell it,” my son pleaded with me. He was talking about my Jeep, and it sounded like he was going to cry. “It’s still in good shape and it runs good. I just don’t understand why you want to sell it.”
Since the day I bought that Jeep I’ve been regretting it. It’s terrible on gas mileage, it’s so rough that my wife all but refuses to ride in it, and above all else I can’t stand the color. Why in the world I picked bright yellow, I’ll never know. My brother-in-law says I look like a big M&M coming down the road.
I can’t even tell you exactly why I bought the Jeep in the first place. I just woke up one day a couple of years ago, found myself to be 30-something years old, and decided I needed a Jeep. I call it my mid-life crisis vehicle. I needed to do something drastic, and it was buy this Jeep or get a girlfriend. The Jeep was cheaper and got me in less trouble.
Well, a little less trouble, anyway. When I told my wife how much I was spending for the tires and the lift kit she didn’t exactly throw me a party.
But even though I’ve regretted buying it, I never really thought about selling the Jeep until a couple of weeks ago. A buddy of mine that I work with came to me with a nice offer that got my wheels to spinning. It was enough to pay off what I owe on the Jeep and leave me with a few thousand more.
My kids weren’t as happy about it as I was. “It’s so fun to ride in dad!” said one. “My friends think it’s cool that my dad drives a cool Jeep,” said another. “What about all the memories? I just don’t understand why you want to sell it,” they cried.
So I told them that’s what life is about, making a profit. Never let emotion get in the way of life decisions. Houses, cars, whatever you have. If someone offers you more that it’s worth, you take the money and put it in the bank. Everything can be replaced, and everything is for sale- even memories.
So I went down to a friend’s car lot, “Jimmie’s Deals”, to look for something to drive after I sold this one. While I looked for my next vehicle, Jimmie told me he could get way more for my Jeep than I had been offered. He took a gazillion pictures, slapped them on the internet, and I was fielding calls within hours. I’m telling you folks, this guy is good. If you want one, or need to get rid of one, come see this cat. He knows what he’s doing.
Sure enough, some guy calls me from Oklahoma and offers me way more than my buddy at work did. He sent a friend to test drive it and everything. We made a deal over the phone, and I started spending the money in my head. New dining room floor, here I come!
I sat down to call the bank for the title and stared out the back door at my Jeep while I dialed. And then it happened. As I started to dial, I looked out and saw all three kids sitting in that Jeep, laughing, hollering, whooping it up, and waving me over. The damn dog was even in there, with his paws on the dash and wagging his tail.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because I know it sounds silly. I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, and junk like that either. But there they were in that Jeep, plain as day. It was like the scene from Lonesome Dove, when the spirit of Deets led Pea Eye to safety.
Then I started remembering stuff. Like going through the automated car wash with my nephew, laughing and scared to death because we didn’t know if the soft top would hold up to the pressure of the water or dryer. And going mudding for the first time at Lake Somerville with my wife’s cousin- one of my favorite people to hang out with. I remembered taking my father-in-law for a ride not long before he died. We found a little mud that day too, and I had never seen him laugh so hard or have so much fun.
I remembered driving down a dirt road with the top down, and my kids standing on the back seat leaning over the roll cage, with their arms stretched high and letting the wind hit them like they were flying. And I remembered one Sunday afternoon when my wife and I went on a three-hour ride down every country rode in the county, just talking and listening to Texas country music. It was so quiet, and so peaceful, and we weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere.
All of these memories hit me in a thirty second span, and I pressed the “End Call” button on my phone. I knew I wouldn’t sell it. I couldn’t.
It turns out my son was right. Sometimes memories- even in this house- just aren’t for sale.
I still hate that damn yellow though.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
You say tomato…
It’s funny how as you get older, your tastes in everything changes. Well, I don’t know if “changes” is the right word, but maybe you just notice things that you didn’t notice before.
For instance, the older I get the more I like farm fresh tomatoes, documentaries, and Bob Seger music. Good God, just reading that sentence back to myself makes me want to go put on a pair of khaki slacks and pull them up to my chest like old men do. But it’s true.
I was eating at a restaurant the other day (can’t even remember where) and they served a couple of slices of tomato on the side of the plate, almost like a garnish.
I sprinkled a little salt and pepper on them, and they were so good I made a comment to the waitress about them. She told me that the owner of the restaurant gets most of the vegetables from a Farmer’s Market or something like that, to make sure that everything is fresh and chemical free. I couldn’t get over how good that damn tomato was. I’m pretty sure that if she brought the whole thing out, I would have eaten it like an apple.
Documentaries are the same way to me now- I can’t get enough of them. When I was younger I thought they were too slow and boring. Now that I’m 3-, I mean, 29 years old, they seem more interesting to me.
Maybe the film makers are just getting better, I don’t know. But lately I’ve watched documentaries on everything from the breakdown of companies like Enron, to young soldiers in Afghanistan trying to cope with what they are going through, to a hillbilly family in West Virginia that will leave you feeling better about your own family.
And Bob Seger? That was an unexpected gem. Don’t get me wrong, I grew up in a bar so I’ve always known about Bob Seger. It’s just that I had forgotten how much I liked him. Or maybe never really listened to the words of his songs. It could just be that I’m at the age where the words of his songs are more relevant.
All I know is that I can’t listen to “Night Moves” without getting misty-eyed and remembering my youth, which happens to be slipping away at the speed of light lately.
Every now and then I have a little down time at work. When I do, I’ll pull out my phone and either watch a movie on Netflix or listen to Pandora radio, where I came across my new –found love for Seger music.
It’s ironic to me that something so new and high-tech as the iPhone 4 could be so helpful in making you appreciate something as “old-school” as documentaries and music from the ‘70s and ‘80s. I can even watch a baseball game on there, which is something else I love more and more now that I’m old.
Now if I could just get it to grow tomatoes for me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
It’s funny how as you get older, your tastes in everything changes. Well, I don’t know if “changes” is the right word, but maybe you just notice things that you didn’t notice before.
For instance, the older I get the more I like farm fresh tomatoes, documentaries, and Bob Seger music. Good God, just reading that sentence back to myself makes me want to go put on a pair of khaki slacks and pull them up to my chest like old men do. But it’s true.
I was eating at a restaurant the other day (can’t even remember where) and they served a couple of slices of tomato on the side of the plate, almost like a garnish.
I sprinkled a little salt and pepper on them, and they were so good I made a comment to the waitress about them. She told me that the owner of the restaurant gets most of the vegetables from a Farmer’s Market or something like that, to make sure that everything is fresh and chemical free. I couldn’t get over how good that damn tomato was. I’m pretty sure that if she brought the whole thing out, I would have eaten it like an apple.
Documentaries are the same way to me now- I can’t get enough of them. When I was younger I thought they were too slow and boring. Now that I’m 3-, I mean, 29 years old, they seem more interesting to me.
Maybe the film makers are just getting better, I don’t know. But lately I’ve watched documentaries on everything from the breakdown of companies like Enron, to young soldiers in Afghanistan trying to cope with what they are going through, to a hillbilly family in West Virginia that will leave you feeling better about your own family.
And Bob Seger? That was an unexpected gem. Don’t get me wrong, I grew up in a bar so I’ve always known about Bob Seger. It’s just that I had forgotten how much I liked him. Or maybe never really listened to the words of his songs. It could just be that I’m at the age where the words of his songs are more relevant.
All I know is that I can’t listen to “Night Moves” without getting misty-eyed and remembering my youth, which happens to be slipping away at the speed of light lately.
Every now and then I have a little down time at work. When I do, I’ll pull out my phone and either watch a movie on Netflix or listen to Pandora radio, where I came across my new –found love for Seger music.
It’s ironic to me that something so new and high-tech as the iPhone 4 could be so helpful in making you appreciate something as “old-school” as documentaries and music from the ‘70s and ‘80s. I can even watch a baseball game on there, which is something else I love more and more now that I’m old.
Now if I could just get it to grow tomatoes for me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Newspaper Man, What’shisface
I’m terrible with names, I always have been. About half of the time I can recall a face, but 90% of the time I can’t put a name to it. When I’m telling a story, for the most part I have to say “What’shisname” or “What’sherface”.
My wife says it’s because I’m old and forgetful, but that’s not true because I’ve been that way forever.
I think I forget names and faces because I’m a very self-absorbed person- no sense in lying about that. The simple fact is that if something doesn’t affect me directly, I’m usually not very interested in it. Most people that I meet don’t affect me directly, therefore I’m not very interested in them.
I’ve made a vow to try and be better about remembering names, though. And the reason is, now I know how it feels have your name forgotten.
A buddy of mine sent me a text the other day and asked a favor of me. He delivers newspapers every night for a living, and wanted to take a night off. I spent years doing paper routes of my own, and he knew this, so naturally he figured I’d be a good fill-in.
I told my wife that I agreed to do his route for him Saturday night, and she started laughing. “Have you forgotten how much you hated waking up in the middle of the night?” she asked. “Have you forgotten how much I hate waking up so I can wake you up?”
I told her I remembered all of that, but it was just one night. Plus it was an extra couple hundred bucks. And more importantly, a buddy had asked a favor of me.
I went to high school with this guy, known him for years, even played ball with him. We both dropped gallons of sweat like pigs in two-a-days, busted our butts to get through it, and leaned on each other when the going got tough. Because I had done so many paper routes myself, I knew how hard it was to find someone to fill in for a night.
“No,” I told her. “My buddy has asked me for a favor, and I’m not going to let him down.”
One trick that I learned back when I did routes was to keep a tape of my route. You can have someone ride with you for four or five nights to memorize all the stops (and they will probably still forget a few), or you can make a tape of the route and someone can do it right the first night.
So my buddy picked me up the day before and we rode over his route while I made a tape of it. It was about four hours long, so we had plenty of time to talk and catch up.
We talked about old times, old coaches, old girlfriends, etc. We wondered to each other where this person is now, where that person is now, have you seen how big this person has gotten?
And so you can imagine how much it stung when three and a half hours into the route my buddy- the guy who I was doing all of this for, the guy who asked me to wake up at 1:30 in the morning, in the cold, and do his paper route for him with my own $20 a gallon gas, the guy who I talk to on the sideline of every football game that I cover- looked at me and said “Man, I keep forgetting your name.”
What the? Are you serious? I couldn’t believe it. I asked him how in the Hell he sent me a text in the first place if he didn’t know my name. What was my number saved under in his phone?
“Newspaper Man,” he said.
Newspaper Man. Wow.
Well, I guess that beats the heck out of What’shisname.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
I’m terrible with names, I always have been. About half of the time I can recall a face, but 90% of the time I can’t put a name to it. When I’m telling a story, for the most part I have to say “What’shisname” or “What’sherface”.
My wife says it’s because I’m old and forgetful, but that’s not true because I’ve been that way forever.
I think I forget names and faces because I’m a very self-absorbed person- no sense in lying about that. The simple fact is that if something doesn’t affect me directly, I’m usually not very interested in it. Most people that I meet don’t affect me directly, therefore I’m not very interested in them.
I’ve made a vow to try and be better about remembering names, though. And the reason is, now I know how it feels have your name forgotten.
A buddy of mine sent me a text the other day and asked a favor of me. He delivers newspapers every night for a living, and wanted to take a night off. I spent years doing paper routes of my own, and he knew this, so naturally he figured I’d be a good fill-in.
I told my wife that I agreed to do his route for him Saturday night, and she started laughing. “Have you forgotten how much you hated waking up in the middle of the night?” she asked. “Have you forgotten how much I hate waking up so I can wake you up?”
I told her I remembered all of that, but it was just one night. Plus it was an extra couple hundred bucks. And more importantly, a buddy had asked a favor of me.
I went to high school with this guy, known him for years, even played ball with him. We both dropped gallons of sweat like pigs in two-a-days, busted our butts to get through it, and leaned on each other when the going got tough. Because I had done so many paper routes myself, I knew how hard it was to find someone to fill in for a night.
“No,” I told her. “My buddy has asked me for a favor, and I’m not going to let him down.”
One trick that I learned back when I did routes was to keep a tape of my route. You can have someone ride with you for four or five nights to memorize all the stops (and they will probably still forget a few), or you can make a tape of the route and someone can do it right the first night.
So my buddy picked me up the day before and we rode over his route while I made a tape of it. It was about four hours long, so we had plenty of time to talk and catch up.
We talked about old times, old coaches, old girlfriends, etc. We wondered to each other where this person is now, where that person is now, have you seen how big this person has gotten?
And so you can imagine how much it stung when three and a half hours into the route my buddy- the guy who I was doing all of this for, the guy who asked me to wake up at 1:30 in the morning, in the cold, and do his paper route for him with my own $20 a gallon gas, the guy who I talk to on the sideline of every football game that I cover- looked at me and said “Man, I keep forgetting your name.”
What the? Are you serious? I couldn’t believe it. I asked him how in the Hell he sent me a text in the first place if he didn’t know my name. What was my number saved under in his phone?
“Newspaper Man,” he said.
Newspaper Man. Wow.
Well, I guess that beats the heck out of What’shisname.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
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