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.
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