Thursday, December 20, 2012
What to do?
I could come up with five different things to write about. I could talk about my son not being able to swallow his pill. I could talk about getting ran over by my kids' pigs when I tried to weigh them the other day. Or I could come up with some cute little Christmas poem or something. But why? We all know what is on our minds the last few days. And frankly, the more a problem gets talked about, the higher chance that something will get done about it.
So let's talk about the mass shootings that seem to be in the news every other week. I remember watching the news the day after the latest shooting, at Sandy Hook Elementary, and some expert said "In fairness, we have to realize that these shootings are still rare."
What? Rare? Rare for whom, Iraq? This is America, we should expect more from ourselves. If twice a year you walk outside and find that someone has egged your vehicle, that's pretty rare. I mean, it's only twice a year, right? Every six months. But it's twice a year too much. That expert should go talk to one of the parents of the victims. I'll bet "rare" doesn't matter to them.
Okay, now for the 800 pound elephant in the room- gun control. Any person with a decent IQ knows that something has to be done. The question is what?
First let me address the argument that more gun owners need to carry their guns in public. Um, we've had that. It was called the Old West, and there was still violence. Besides, I know plenty of people that have their license to carry firearms. For instance, my sister has a license to carry a pistol. I love my sister dearly, but I can't think of one instance where I'd be comfortable with her carrying a gun. And in no way, shape or form would I ever want her engaging in a gun battle with innocent people standing around.
"But Shannon, if the principal would've had a gun none of this may have happened." Oh shut up, you're beig stupid. Tell you what- the next time you see a cop (And I mean a real cop in a real city, not some local redneck that is too lazy for a real job) stop them and ask them if they would be comfortable with one shooter on a scene, or several shooters shooting at each other on a scene. More guns and more flying bullets are not the answer, I promise. Very few people in this world can calmly and accurately shoot a gun while being shot at. And chances are, you aren't one of them.
With all of that beig said, I've got guns in my house. I enjoy shooting them, and enjoy letting my son shoot. I wouldn't for a second think about getting rid of my guns. But for the life of me, I can't come up with one single reason why anyone other than law enforcement and military personel should have an assault rifle.
Now Connecticut, the state where the last mass shooting occured, already has an assault rifle ban. So we know that banning assault rifles won't solve the problem 100%. And anyway, more than three million Americans already own the AR-15, the rifle that was used at Sandy Hook, the theatre in Colorado, and the mall shooting in Oregon a week or two ago. You are never going to get everyone to turn over guns that they already have.
But you can stop making the gun itself. And you can make stores like Academy, Dick's Sporting Goods and Gander Mountain stop selling them. Oh, you'll still be able to buy one, but it will be on the black market and it'll cost you twice as much as it does now. You'll still have people owning them, but it will be a far less number of people.
I've heard the argument that people who want to hurt a bunch of people at one time can still do it with bombs, fire, etc. And yes, that's true. But building a bomb takes a process. You have time to think about what you are doing, to calm down, to get caught or talked down by a loved one. It takes the temporarily insane offender out of play for the most part.
Speaking of being talked down by a loved one- I think this is where things will have to change mostly. We as a nation are going to have to understand something. It has never been harder to be a teenager, a father, a provider, a leader, etc. in this country. We all struggled to fit in as a teenager, but not like these kids today struggle. If you aren't rich, physically fit, have great hair, the latest phone, damn good looking and sexually active in today's world, you are an outcast. You are behind the times.
As a father, if your kids aren't wearing the latest styles, if your wife isn't driving a nice vehicle, if your family doesn't live in the nicest house on the block, you aren't doing enough. You aren't considered successful.
You can put yourself up on a pedastal and act like you don't care about some of these things if you want to, but you'd be lying to yourself. And whether or not it's right to care about these things isn't the point. The point is, this kind of peer pressure is only going to keep getting worse and worse. Which means depression, drug abuse, and people just plain snapping from frustration is going to keep escalating.
We have to start taking mental health seriously, understand that depression is a real thing and that it doesn't mean we are weak minded, and start noticing the signs in loved ones who are going through a tough time. We have to stop talking to each other on Facebook and pick up the damn phone. Slow down, have a conversation with someone, drink a beer with them, whatever.
There is a saying that will apply more and more to us, especially men, from here on out- Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Spring breaks my wallet
Okay, it's Tuesday morning of Spring Break and I'm ready for it to be over. Get these kids back in school, and I vote that they go year around like they do in China. Who's with me?
First of all, we had to go shopping just for this week. I mean, we always have to go shopping for groceries, but this week we had to buy $100 more than usual because they were going to be home all week. $100 more? Are we raising cattle?
Then we had to talk the 13 year old off the ledge because she found out we weren't "going anywhere" for Spring Break. "What? We aren't going anywhere?" she asked. "What are we going to do all week? We're just going to stay home over Spring Break? All week? No vacation?"
I told her why don't I send her to China, let her get a job with Nike, and she can pay for her own damn vacation. Or maybe she can give up her phone, half the clothes in her closet that she never wears, her cheerleading uniform that cost more than some vehicles... I'm not sure, but I think that after all the eye rolling and gasping, she finally got the picture.
I knew it was going to be bad when I couldn't watch t.v. Sunday night. You see, Sunday night is when I catch up on some t.v. shows that I DVR all week. Some of them aren't for kids. In fact, most of them aren't. But as I sat down to watch them, these kids started showing up like those little flying bugs around the lights lately.
Plus, they want to share the couch with you. I'm not their momma, I don't want to share a couch. I don't want to snuggle, or be close, or any of that. I want to stretch out, have my own space, and be comfortable. But you can't do that with these little kids all over the place.
Monday while I'm at work my wife calls me. The girls are fighting. They are texting my wife telling on each other, blackmailing each other with pictures of eating in the living room, etc. Holy... One of them even told the other one that she was going to tear her face off. Tear her face off? Who says stuff like that? What girl says stuff like that?
So I get home from work, put one foot in the door, and get bombarded with "I want to"s and "Let's do"s from everywhere. My son, who I haven't seen in a couple of days because he's been hunting with my brother-in-law, is walking around in 80 degree weather with his camoflauge hunting gear like he's Elmer Fudd. He wants to make burgers on the pit, but first I have to mow the yard, weed eat, go for a run, take a shower, do some paper work, write this column... You get the picture.
Well, needless to say, the column got put off until this morning. And now I'm late for work.
You see? That's why I don't have time for this, or the nerves. That's why I say send them to school all year around.
I used to beg my wife when we were dating that we should just keep pets- no kids. You think my dog Chuy rolls his eyes when we can't go on vacation? No, he's perfectly fine laying around all day doing nothing and watching t.v.
And his food doesn't cost $100.
Okay, it's Tuesday morning of Spring Break and I'm ready for it to be over. Get these kids back in school, and I vote that they go year around like they do in China. Who's with me?
First of all, we had to go shopping just for this week. I mean, we always have to go shopping for groceries, but this week we had to buy $100 more than usual because they were going to be home all week. $100 more? Are we raising cattle?
Then we had to talk the 13 year old off the ledge because she found out we weren't "going anywhere" for Spring Break. "What? We aren't going anywhere?" she asked. "What are we going to do all week? We're just going to stay home over Spring Break? All week? No vacation?"
I told her why don't I send her to China, let her get a job with Nike, and she can pay for her own damn vacation. Or maybe she can give up her phone, half the clothes in her closet that she never wears, her cheerleading uniform that cost more than some vehicles... I'm not sure, but I think that after all the eye rolling and gasping, she finally got the picture.
I knew it was going to be bad when I couldn't watch t.v. Sunday night. You see, Sunday night is when I catch up on some t.v. shows that I DVR all week. Some of them aren't for kids. In fact, most of them aren't. But as I sat down to watch them, these kids started showing up like those little flying bugs around the lights lately.
Plus, they want to share the couch with you. I'm not their momma, I don't want to share a couch. I don't want to snuggle, or be close, or any of that. I want to stretch out, have my own space, and be comfortable. But you can't do that with these little kids all over the place.
Monday while I'm at work my wife calls me. The girls are fighting. They are texting my wife telling on each other, blackmailing each other with pictures of eating in the living room, etc. Holy... One of them even told the other one that she was going to tear her face off. Tear her face off? Who says stuff like that? What girl says stuff like that?
So I get home from work, put one foot in the door, and get bombarded with "I want to"s and "Let's do"s from everywhere. My son, who I haven't seen in a couple of days because he's been hunting with my brother-in-law, is walking around in 80 degree weather with his camoflauge hunting gear like he's Elmer Fudd. He wants to make burgers on the pit, but first I have to mow the yard, weed eat, go for a run, take a shower, do some paper work, write this column... You get the picture.
Well, needless to say, the column got put off until this morning. And now I'm late for work.
You see? That's why I don't have time for this, or the nerves. That's why I say send them to school all year around.
I used to beg my wife when we were dating that we should just keep pets- no kids. You think my dog Chuy rolls his eyes when we can't go on vacation? No, he's perfectly fine laying around all day doing nothing and watching t.v.
And his food doesn't cost $100.
Judge carefully
The big news of the week is about the New Orlean Saints and their former defensive coordinator Gregg Williams. Williams allegedely led a bounty system for his players while coaching in New Orleans, where they were paid extra when opposing players were knocked out, carted off the field. or didn't come back into the game.
Nobody knows how bad this is going to get yet, but every expert I've read expects the National Football League to come down hard on Williams, the Saints, and even head coach Sean Payton. And of course, they should.
Not so much for the bounty stuff- a defensive lineman is going to hit the quarterback as hard as he can every time, no matter whether he's getting paid extra or not. No, the NFL should come down hard on the Saints because they are trying to run one of the biggest businesses in the country. And you know what can bring down a big business? Lawsuits.
If some quarterback takes a helmet to helmet hit while playing against the Saints and struggles to put kid puzzles together for the next thirty years, can you imagine the lawsuit that his wife and children would have againt the league? Especially if the league found out about this bounty system and chose to do nothing about it? It would be a big enough lawsuit to maybe cripple the league. And if you don't think a little lawsuit can cripple a big business, just ask the big tobacco companies, the big gun companies, the big petroleum companies, etc.
One part of this story actually makes me laugh, though. I love how every single time there is a scandal in sports, in politics, or in Hollywood, people act like the sky is falling. They just can't believe that people would go outside of the rules like this. They want celebrities to be better people and role models, especially athletes. And of course, they themselves would never act that way if they had the opportunity that these guys do.
Um, hello? Do you know how much money is at stake here? We are talking about multi-million dollar contracts in this sport, from coaches and players. And if you can't get the job done, there are five other guys right there on the roster that are ready to take your spot- and salary.
I've never been a moralist when it comes to things like this. I think once you start judging other people, you open yourself up for people to judge you. You can judge Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton and all these other guys all you want, but the fact is that you don't know what happens in their houses and bedrooms (and more importantly, what doesn't).
You can judge Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire all you want. But the fact is, you don't have the chance to earn millions of dollars for producing like they did. Let me tell you something- If I thought for one second that poking a needle in my butt a few times a week would help me earn a salary that would set my kids and grandkids up for life, my backside would have more holes than a screen door. And whether you want to admit it or not, 90% of you reading this feel the same way.
And for all the 10% of you that are judging my morals right now, remember that this is tax season. I'll bet I could go to the person doing your taxes and he could tell me a thing or two about your morals...
The big news of the week is about the New Orlean Saints and their former defensive coordinator Gregg Williams. Williams allegedely led a bounty system for his players while coaching in New Orleans, where they were paid extra when opposing players were knocked out, carted off the field. or didn't come back into the game.
Nobody knows how bad this is going to get yet, but every expert I've read expects the National Football League to come down hard on Williams, the Saints, and even head coach Sean Payton. And of course, they should.
Not so much for the bounty stuff- a defensive lineman is going to hit the quarterback as hard as he can every time, no matter whether he's getting paid extra or not. No, the NFL should come down hard on the Saints because they are trying to run one of the biggest businesses in the country. And you know what can bring down a big business? Lawsuits.
If some quarterback takes a helmet to helmet hit while playing against the Saints and struggles to put kid puzzles together for the next thirty years, can you imagine the lawsuit that his wife and children would have againt the league? Especially if the league found out about this bounty system and chose to do nothing about it? It would be a big enough lawsuit to maybe cripple the league. And if you don't think a little lawsuit can cripple a big business, just ask the big tobacco companies, the big gun companies, the big petroleum companies, etc.
One part of this story actually makes me laugh, though. I love how every single time there is a scandal in sports, in politics, or in Hollywood, people act like the sky is falling. They just can't believe that people would go outside of the rules like this. They want celebrities to be better people and role models, especially athletes. And of course, they themselves would never act that way if they had the opportunity that these guys do.
Um, hello? Do you know how much money is at stake here? We are talking about multi-million dollar contracts in this sport, from coaches and players. And if you can't get the job done, there are five other guys right there on the roster that are ready to take your spot- and salary.
I've never been a moralist when it comes to things like this. I think once you start judging other people, you open yourself up for people to judge you. You can judge Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton and all these other guys all you want, but the fact is that you don't know what happens in their houses and bedrooms (and more importantly, what doesn't).
You can judge Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire all you want. But the fact is, you don't have the chance to earn millions of dollars for producing like they did. Let me tell you something- If I thought for one second that poking a needle in my butt a few times a week would help me earn a salary that would set my kids and grandkids up for life, my backside would have more holes than a screen door. And whether you want to admit it or not, 90% of you reading this feel the same way.
And for all the 10% of you that are judging my morals right now, remember that this is tax season. I'll bet I could go to the person doing your taxes and he could tell me a thing or two about your morals...
It's gotta be the shoes
Can you tell me the most important issue that seems to be gripping our country today? Is it the economy? Unemployment rates? The upcoming election? No, it's the latest Nike shoe release.
I've been reading on the internet where a bunch of morons have stood in line for hours and even rioted in a few places just to get a new pair of these shoes that just came out. Let me just state right now that unless you live in some war-torn third world country, if you've ever stood in line for more than a couple of minuts to buy anything, you're an idiot.
I'll tell you what I'd like to see happen. First of all, I'd love it if they went to one of these stores and gave everyone an IQ test. The scores can't be that high. Next, they should take down all the names of people standing in line for these $220 shoes and fine them heavily or throw them in jail if they ever have children. People like this should never procreate. Ever.
When you watch the videos, half of these people can't run right because they are holding up their pants. That right there tells you they can't be that bright. You have to know when you leave the house whether or not you need a belt.
Honestly though, these people need to be studied. As a country, we have to find out what makes people like this tick. What makes one stand in line for hours for a pair of shoes that, let's be honest, they probably can't afford? What makes people buy houses and cars that puts them in debt for years and years? What makes people treat Ranch dressing and sugar like it's oxygen? A low IQ plus a lack of self control is a dangerous thing. We need to get to the bottom of it.
I'm going out on a limb here and say that if you went to one of these stores and talked to these kids, you'd see that their parents act the same way. The kid that is payig $220 for sneakers probably has the parent that spends $100 a week on lottery tickets and beer, or the parent that buys a $200,000 house when they can only afford a $100,000 house.
As parents, we have to understand that our kids watch the way we act, what we say, how we deal with problems, how we spend our money, etc. Even if they don't realize they copy us, they do. They can't help it, it's all they know.
Recently I saw a video on YouTube of two Hearne students fighting behind a fence. That's disturbing, but not unusual. I saw plenty of fights in school, even participated in a few myself. The disturbing part came when the girl holding the camera said "Mom, move! I can't see!" This is the kind of parent I'm talking about here. Her daughter doesn't have a chance, if her mother is the kind who stands aside watching two young girls roll around on the ground beating each other senseless.
Too many parents are showing their kids how to act without self control instead of showing them how to stay calm, think things through, get what they want through hard work, and spend their money wisely.
After all- you ever see a riot over work boots?
Can you tell me the most important issue that seems to be gripping our country today? Is it the economy? Unemployment rates? The upcoming election? No, it's the latest Nike shoe release.
I've been reading on the internet where a bunch of morons have stood in line for hours and even rioted in a few places just to get a new pair of these shoes that just came out. Let me just state right now that unless you live in some war-torn third world country, if you've ever stood in line for more than a couple of minuts to buy anything, you're an idiot.
I'll tell you what I'd like to see happen. First of all, I'd love it if they went to one of these stores and gave everyone an IQ test. The scores can't be that high. Next, they should take down all the names of people standing in line for these $220 shoes and fine them heavily or throw them in jail if they ever have children. People like this should never procreate. Ever.
When you watch the videos, half of these people can't run right because they are holding up their pants. That right there tells you they can't be that bright. You have to know when you leave the house whether or not you need a belt.
Honestly though, these people need to be studied. As a country, we have to find out what makes people like this tick. What makes one stand in line for hours for a pair of shoes that, let's be honest, they probably can't afford? What makes people buy houses and cars that puts them in debt for years and years? What makes people treat Ranch dressing and sugar like it's oxygen? A low IQ plus a lack of self control is a dangerous thing. We need to get to the bottom of it.
I'm going out on a limb here and say that if you went to one of these stores and talked to these kids, you'd see that their parents act the same way. The kid that is payig $220 for sneakers probably has the parent that spends $100 a week on lottery tickets and beer, or the parent that buys a $200,000 house when they can only afford a $100,000 house.
As parents, we have to understand that our kids watch the way we act, what we say, how we deal with problems, how we spend our money, etc. Even if they don't realize they copy us, they do. They can't help it, it's all they know.
Recently I saw a video on YouTube of two Hearne students fighting behind a fence. That's disturbing, but not unusual. I saw plenty of fights in school, even participated in a few myself. The disturbing part came when the girl holding the camera said "Mom, move! I can't see!" This is the kind of parent I'm talking about here. Her daughter doesn't have a chance, if her mother is the kind who stands aside watching two young girls roll around on the ground beating each other senseless.
Too many parents are showing their kids how to act without self control instead of showing them how to stay calm, think things through, get what they want through hard work, and spend their money wisely.
After all- you ever see a riot over work boots?
A bet is a bet...
Ahh, it's good to be back. After not writing a column for a couple of weeks, it occurred to me how much I missed not having anywhere to vent. My wife must have went to the paper and begged for my column slot back because she was tired of listening to me rant. Let's catch up, shall we?
I heard somewhere that when you are trying to lose weight, it takes about four weeks before you can really tell the difference in yourself. They said it takes about eight weeks before your signigicant other realizes, and about twelve weeks before the general public sees something. Well, some of you people better start noticing pretty quick, or I'm going to be depressed.
So far, I've lost between 23 and 25 pounds (it fluctuates daily) since the day after Thanksgiving. I've still got about fifteen more to go. The worst problem I've had with losing weight is the eating- or lack thereof. I'm an eater, I've always been an eater, and I'll always be an eater. I enjoy food like most people enjoy family time, or good company. When I'm eating a big plate of enchiladas or cutting into a chicken fried steak covered in cream gravy, it gives me a homey, comfortable feeling.
When I eat chicken, rice cakes and salad I feel like what my wife's friends must feel like when they come to the house and I happen to be home- kind of cold, lonely, and pretty much unwanted.
The running has been going pretty good, too. I'm in week eight of the nine week program that will train me to run a 5K (3.1 miles). Right now I' up to 2.8 miles when I run, and I think I'll keep going until I can run four miles comfortably. I've got to admit, though, that there is an asterisk by that statement. I've seen tax returns come back faster than I run that 2.8 miles.
In fact, a couple of weeks ago I was bragging about my jogging program at the poker table. One of my buddies kind of chuckled and said that he could outrun me in a mile, easily. At first I ignored him because the fact is, he was one Hell of an athlete back in the day. And I... well, I wasn't. Let's just leave it at that.
But as the night wore on, I got to thinking about the bet. "You know," I told myself, "he does smoke about a pack a day. He hasn't done any real running in years, and the guy outweighs you by at least thirty pounds." I'm not joking there, either. Anytime he wears a red t-shirt little kids chase him down on the street, trying to get the Kool-Aid man's autograph.
So finally, my pride got the best of me. I told him I'd accept the bet, we settled on an amount (because I'm not running a mile free for anyone), and decided to meet at the track at 9:30 the next morning.
Thirty minutes before we were supposed to meet at the track, my phone rang. "Let's do it for half the amount we said," my buddy told me.
"Nope," I said. "A bet is a bet."
He said it was half, or it was nothing. "Nope, a bet is a bet."
Let's just forget about it then, he said. We both get to keep our pride. "Huh uh, you owe me at least half," I told him. "Or you can meet me at the track and at least have a chance at winning. But a bet is a bet."
So my son and I met him at the track when we were supposed to, and my buddy proceeded to outrun me by a pretty huge margin. I still don't know how he did it. I kept the same pace for all four laps, and he stayed right there with me. At one point, he even got thirty yards ahead of me and walked until I caught up. The dude had time to stop and walk while he caught his breath! In the end, he finished about twenty seconds ahead of me. By the time I crossed the finish line, he was on his back well into his second heart attack.
Still not sure what sucks more- eating all this dry chicken every day, or the memory of having to pay Professor Klump his cash right in front of my own son. Oh, and hearing him painfully wheeze out the words "A...bet...is...a...bet."
Ahh, it's good to be back. After not writing a column for a couple of weeks, it occurred to me how much I missed not having anywhere to vent. My wife must have went to the paper and begged for my column slot back because she was tired of listening to me rant. Let's catch up, shall we?
I heard somewhere that when you are trying to lose weight, it takes about four weeks before you can really tell the difference in yourself. They said it takes about eight weeks before your signigicant other realizes, and about twelve weeks before the general public sees something. Well, some of you people better start noticing pretty quick, or I'm going to be depressed.
So far, I've lost between 23 and 25 pounds (it fluctuates daily) since the day after Thanksgiving. I've still got about fifteen more to go. The worst problem I've had with losing weight is the eating- or lack thereof. I'm an eater, I've always been an eater, and I'll always be an eater. I enjoy food like most people enjoy family time, or good company. When I'm eating a big plate of enchiladas or cutting into a chicken fried steak covered in cream gravy, it gives me a homey, comfortable feeling.
When I eat chicken, rice cakes and salad I feel like what my wife's friends must feel like when they come to the house and I happen to be home- kind of cold, lonely, and pretty much unwanted.
The running has been going pretty good, too. I'm in week eight of the nine week program that will train me to run a 5K (3.1 miles). Right now I' up to 2.8 miles when I run, and I think I'll keep going until I can run four miles comfortably. I've got to admit, though, that there is an asterisk by that statement. I've seen tax returns come back faster than I run that 2.8 miles.
In fact, a couple of weeks ago I was bragging about my jogging program at the poker table. One of my buddies kind of chuckled and said that he could outrun me in a mile, easily. At first I ignored him because the fact is, he was one Hell of an athlete back in the day. And I... well, I wasn't. Let's just leave it at that.
But as the night wore on, I got to thinking about the bet. "You know," I told myself, "he does smoke about a pack a day. He hasn't done any real running in years, and the guy outweighs you by at least thirty pounds." I'm not joking there, either. Anytime he wears a red t-shirt little kids chase him down on the street, trying to get the Kool-Aid man's autograph.
So finally, my pride got the best of me. I told him I'd accept the bet, we settled on an amount (because I'm not running a mile free for anyone), and decided to meet at the track at 9:30 the next morning.
Thirty minutes before we were supposed to meet at the track, my phone rang. "Let's do it for half the amount we said," my buddy told me.
"Nope," I said. "A bet is a bet."
He said it was half, or it was nothing. "Nope, a bet is a bet."
Let's just forget about it then, he said. We both get to keep our pride. "Huh uh, you owe me at least half," I told him. "Or you can meet me at the track and at least have a chance at winning. But a bet is a bet."
So my son and I met him at the track when we were supposed to, and my buddy proceeded to outrun me by a pretty huge margin. I still don't know how he did it. I kept the same pace for all four laps, and he stayed right there with me. At one point, he even got thirty yards ahead of me and walked until I caught up. The dude had time to stop and walk while he caught his breath! In the end, he finished about twenty seconds ahead of me. By the time I crossed the finish line, he was on his back well into his second heart attack.
Still not sure what sucks more- eating all this dry chicken every day, or the memory of having to pay Professor Klump his cash right in front of my own son. Oh, and hearing him painfully wheeze out the words "A...bet...is...a...bet."
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Give'em the finger
I'm learning how to use the social media for column ideas. Lately, I'll keep an eye on Twitter to see what's trending. Also, I'll put something on Facebook and see if I get a reaction or two. I think of it like I think of my column- I could care less whether someone agrees with me or not. I just want to be interesting. If I can make someone so happy or so mad that they want to read my column again next week, then I've done my job. It's that simple.
Last week, I posted something on Facebook about Arizona Governor Jan Brewer pointing her finger in the face of President Barack Obama. I'm sure you've all seen it by now, if you haven't you can Google it. The President stepped off of Air Force 1, the Arizona Governor was there to meet him, and sparks flew.
All I said was no matter if you are Republican or Democrat, male or female, white or black- if you put your finger in the President's face, you deserve to have it broken. And boy, did I get just the reaction I was looking for.
Some people agreed with me, others made it clear that if Mr. Obama was burning they wouldn't take the time to put him out. And one girl who is ten times smarter than me wrote something so long and so over my head that I finally just stopped reading because it was making me feel dumber.
I'm not a huge Barack Obama fan. I'm not in favor of his health care program, and every time he extends the unemployment benefits I want to scream. I think if you haven't found a job in almost three years, you're being a little picky on what you're looking for.
But I'll tell you this- the way that people disrespect the man and the office in which he holds is almost enough to make me back him. No other president- and I promise you, there have been worse- has been this disrespected so many times. Right from the beginning, during his first State of the Union address, someone yelled out "You lie" while he was talking. Right there, in front of millions of t.v. viewers. Can you imagine if someone had yelled like that while George Bush Sr. were addressing the nation?
He's had his Christianity questioned. I'd be willing to bet that not one of the 43 previous presidents had it rumored that they were Muslim. First of all, not all Muslim fly airplanes in to buildings and are bad people. That's like saying all Catholic priests molest little boys, or all Baptist preachers pay homosexual men in drugs to massage them. Secondly, one day people were in an uproar over what Obama's preacher had said in church one Sunday. The next day, they were calling him a Muslim. Make up your minds, is he a Muslim or does he go to church?
Then there was a movement led by Donald Trump of all people to make Obama prove he was even American. Say it out loud with me, folks. Donald Trump, a reality t.v. star who has gone bankrupt more than once, had the gall and the backing to convince the President of the United States to produce his birth certificate. How embarrassing and disgusting. And the worst part is, Trump had the whole Republican party on his side.
And now he's got some crazy lady in a terrible pant suit shaking her finger in his face in public. It just so happens, she was also promoting a book in which she mentions an earlier meeting with him at the White House. Minutes after the meeting she said he had been cordial and attentive. In the book she wrote he was rude and arrogant. You decide for yourself it that was a coincidence or not.
And for those who defend Governor Brewer or still think I'm overreacting to this, I want you to think back on when the Dixie Chicks were at a concert overseas and spoke out against the war and George W. Bush. Oh my God, people went crazy. They couldn't believe how those girls spoke out against America. They hated soldiers. Other rednecks were blasting them on award shows. People were smashing their CDs in the streets. It was chaos. And all they did was speak their minds, not wag fingers in faces.
Now look, I know most politicians are slimy. I've never met a politician that didn't feel just a little greasy to me, Republican or Democrat. And I know that both sides of Congress is a joke and a waste of taxpayer money. But the office of the President- whether it is filled with Bill Clinton and his many mistresses, George W. and his goofy faces and remedial reading skills, or Barack Obama and all his problems- I still feel should be respected. If you have a problem with his politics, that's fine. Just don't make everything so personal.
And don't shake your damn finger in his face.
I'm learning how to use the social media for column ideas. Lately, I'll keep an eye on Twitter to see what's trending. Also, I'll put something on Facebook and see if I get a reaction or two. I think of it like I think of my column- I could care less whether someone agrees with me or not. I just want to be interesting. If I can make someone so happy or so mad that they want to read my column again next week, then I've done my job. It's that simple.
Last week, I posted something on Facebook about Arizona Governor Jan Brewer pointing her finger in the face of President Barack Obama. I'm sure you've all seen it by now, if you haven't you can Google it. The President stepped off of Air Force 1, the Arizona Governor was there to meet him, and sparks flew.
All I said was no matter if you are Republican or Democrat, male or female, white or black- if you put your finger in the President's face, you deserve to have it broken. And boy, did I get just the reaction I was looking for.
Some people agreed with me, others made it clear that if Mr. Obama was burning they wouldn't take the time to put him out. And one girl who is ten times smarter than me wrote something so long and so over my head that I finally just stopped reading because it was making me feel dumber.
I'm not a huge Barack Obama fan. I'm not in favor of his health care program, and every time he extends the unemployment benefits I want to scream. I think if you haven't found a job in almost three years, you're being a little picky on what you're looking for.
But I'll tell you this- the way that people disrespect the man and the office in which he holds is almost enough to make me back him. No other president- and I promise you, there have been worse- has been this disrespected so many times. Right from the beginning, during his first State of the Union address, someone yelled out "You lie" while he was talking. Right there, in front of millions of t.v. viewers. Can you imagine if someone had yelled like that while George Bush Sr. were addressing the nation?
He's had his Christianity questioned. I'd be willing to bet that not one of the 43 previous presidents had it rumored that they were Muslim. First of all, not all Muslim fly airplanes in to buildings and are bad people. That's like saying all Catholic priests molest little boys, or all Baptist preachers pay homosexual men in drugs to massage them. Secondly, one day people were in an uproar over what Obama's preacher had said in church one Sunday. The next day, they were calling him a Muslim. Make up your minds, is he a Muslim or does he go to church?
Then there was a movement led by Donald Trump of all people to make Obama prove he was even American. Say it out loud with me, folks. Donald Trump, a reality t.v. star who has gone bankrupt more than once, had the gall and the backing to convince the President of the United States to produce his birth certificate. How embarrassing and disgusting. And the worst part is, Trump had the whole Republican party on his side.
And now he's got some crazy lady in a terrible pant suit shaking her finger in his face in public. It just so happens, she was also promoting a book in which she mentions an earlier meeting with him at the White House. Minutes after the meeting she said he had been cordial and attentive. In the book she wrote he was rude and arrogant. You decide for yourself it that was a coincidence or not.
And for those who defend Governor Brewer or still think I'm overreacting to this, I want you to think back on when the Dixie Chicks were at a concert overseas and spoke out against the war and George W. Bush. Oh my God, people went crazy. They couldn't believe how those girls spoke out against America. They hated soldiers. Other rednecks were blasting them on award shows. People were smashing their CDs in the streets. It was chaos. And all they did was speak their minds, not wag fingers in faces.
Now look, I know most politicians are slimy. I've never met a politician that didn't feel just a little greasy to me, Republican or Democrat. And I know that both sides of Congress is a joke and a waste of taxpayer money. But the office of the President- whether it is filled with Bill Clinton and his many mistresses, George W. and his goofy faces and remedial reading skills, or Barack Obama and all his problems- I still feel should be respected. If you have a problem with his politics, that's fine. Just don't make everything so personal.
And don't shake your damn finger in his face.
Strong fences
When former Penn State head coach Joe Paterno died Sunday, ESPN and all the other networks spent most of the morning talking to friends, former colleagues and players. One former player who went on to play in the NFL got my attention with something he said about Paterno. I'm paraphrasing here, but pretty much what he said was JoPa acted as an extension of your father when you left home. And for those players who came from a home with no father, he became their father figure. He taught them so much more than how to play football. He taught them how to tuck their shirt in, how to say "yes, sir and no, sir", how to treat a lady, etc. The player said that Paterno had just as much impact on his life at that critical age of 18-22 years old as his own father did.
That hit home to me because I had someone just like that in my life. At about the age of 17 or so I started working for the newspaper, putting on address labels the night before we shipped them out. The man who owned the paper at that time also owned a ranch, and before long I started going out there and helping him build fences, work cows, and all that fun country boy stuff. I also did newspaper routes for him at night, and pretty much whatever else he needed me to do.
My father and mother divorced when I was so young that I can't even remember him at all from my childhood, and my mom went on to marry someone else. They also divorced when I was pretty young, so this man that I worked for became the closest thing to a father figure that I had ever known. Or maybe it was a big brother type of relationship, I don't know.
Whatever it was, he was the one to teach me about so many things. He taught me to never put all my eggs into one basket. If you make your living from two or three different places, then one place will never have a complete hold on you. He taught me how to provide for a family, to put your wife and kids' needs first- way above yours.
He showed me how to work hard, how to take pride in whatever I was doing at the time. I remember carrying a very heavy cedar corner post through a dry creek bed one day, and I was tripping on brush and sliding down the bank over and over. Finally I got mad and asked him why we had to use such heavy posts to make a stupid fence, anyway.
"Because," he told me, "the corner posts are constantly getting pressure from all sides. The other parts of the fence- the t-posts, the gates, even the wire, are all getting their strength from the corner posts. That's why we sink them in the ground so deep, pour in concrete, and stomp dirt all around them. No, if you want to build a good fence, a fence that will last, you have to have good, strong corner posts."
I don't get to talk to him very much any more- once or twice a year, at best. He's got family and work, I've got family and work... But I still feel exactly the same about him today as I did twenty years ago. It's kind of like what that football player said about Paterno- even though he didn't see him much anymore, or even talk to him, he always knew he was there. And that was enough. He could always draw strength from that.
Kind of like a corner post.
When former Penn State head coach Joe Paterno died Sunday, ESPN and all the other networks spent most of the morning talking to friends, former colleagues and players. One former player who went on to play in the NFL got my attention with something he said about Paterno. I'm paraphrasing here, but pretty much what he said was JoPa acted as an extension of your father when you left home. And for those players who came from a home with no father, he became their father figure. He taught them so much more than how to play football. He taught them how to tuck their shirt in, how to say "yes, sir and no, sir", how to treat a lady, etc. The player said that Paterno had just as much impact on his life at that critical age of 18-22 years old as his own father did.
That hit home to me because I had someone just like that in my life. At about the age of 17 or so I started working for the newspaper, putting on address labels the night before we shipped them out. The man who owned the paper at that time also owned a ranch, and before long I started going out there and helping him build fences, work cows, and all that fun country boy stuff. I also did newspaper routes for him at night, and pretty much whatever else he needed me to do.
My father and mother divorced when I was so young that I can't even remember him at all from my childhood, and my mom went on to marry someone else. They also divorced when I was pretty young, so this man that I worked for became the closest thing to a father figure that I had ever known. Or maybe it was a big brother type of relationship, I don't know.
Whatever it was, he was the one to teach me about so many things. He taught me to never put all my eggs into one basket. If you make your living from two or three different places, then one place will never have a complete hold on you. He taught me how to provide for a family, to put your wife and kids' needs first- way above yours.
He showed me how to work hard, how to take pride in whatever I was doing at the time. I remember carrying a very heavy cedar corner post through a dry creek bed one day, and I was tripping on brush and sliding down the bank over and over. Finally I got mad and asked him why we had to use such heavy posts to make a stupid fence, anyway.
"Because," he told me, "the corner posts are constantly getting pressure from all sides. The other parts of the fence- the t-posts, the gates, even the wire, are all getting their strength from the corner posts. That's why we sink them in the ground so deep, pour in concrete, and stomp dirt all around them. No, if you want to build a good fence, a fence that will last, you have to have good, strong corner posts."
I don't get to talk to him very much any more- once or twice a year, at best. He's got family and work, I've got family and work... But I still feel exactly the same about him today as I did twenty years ago. It's kind of like what that football player said about Paterno- even though he didn't see him much anymore, or even talk to him, he always knew he was there. And that was enough. He could always draw strength from that.
Kind of like a corner post.
In the news...
A lot of folks have asked me about the whole workout regimen. It's going pretty good so far. I've lost a few pounds (not enough), I've been running three times a week, and my heartburn has pretty much gone away. But now it will start getting tougher.
The weather will start getting colder and nastier. I have to start adding more minutes to my run. But the worst thing about trying to be healthy right now is trying to avoid the Girl Scout Cookies. I can only have 1,875 calories a day, which isn't near as much as it sounds. And I'm telling you, I can eat that much in Girl Scout Cookies by lunch time. So the next couple of weeks will be a test.
Let's see, what else is in the news?
I see the GOP debates are going pretty strong now. My guess is that Mitt Romney will be the one to go against President Obama when it's all said and done. But we'll have to see how these Super Packs shake things up. For those that don't know, Super Packs are groups of very, very rich people that can raise all the money they want, in some cases up to $350 million, and use it to back a certain candidate. If they are backing Candidate A, they can say whatever they want to about Candidate B and C, true or not. And Candidate A doesn't have to take responsibility for anything they say, because they aren't really affiliated with them. It's going to make things even dirtier than they usually are, and that's saying something.
This cruise ship running aground off the coast of Italy bothers me a little. My wife and I have been wanting to take a cruise at some point, but now I don't know. I mean, I know it's a freak accident and it will probably never happen again, but still. I'm not a strong swimmer, in fact I can barely swim at all. If things were to go haywire, I know I'd let women and children grab the lifeboats first. But then what? I'd be stuck with one of those silly little orange vests, and an upside down coffee table or something. I've seen Titanic, I know how that situation usually ends up.
And finally, I don't know about you but I'm glad Tim Tebow and the Denver Broncos are out of the playoffs. Well actually, I do know about you. Or 40% of you, anyway. ESPN did a poll of Tebow fans, and 40% of them said they believed tthey divine intervention played a role in a few of his wins. Come on, folks.
Despite my wife begging me not to, I poked fun at a few Tebow fans on Facebook. Couldn't help myself. To me there is nothing more fun that jabbing people that are on the far, far right. And that's where most Tebow fans reside.
One lady told me that I had a problem with his religion. I promise, that isn't it. But let me ask you this- what if that were it? Would that be so bad? I am 100% sure that more than a few of his fans like him just because of his religious views, so why can't someone not like him for the same reason? I like sandwiches on wheat bread, my wife likes white bread. That doesn't mean that one of us is a bad person, or we are going to Hell, or anything like that. It just means we are different, that's all. The same should apply to political views, religious views, and Tebow fans.
Half the players in the NFL are religious, two of my three friends are religious, my wife and kids are religious, etc. Religious people don't bother me at all. I'm not a Tebow fan because he isn't very accurate with the football. And as crazy as it sounds, I like my quarterbacks to be accurate.
I'm sure he's a great guy and everything, but I wish people wouldn't build him up so much in that regard. Everytime fans or the public build someone up too high, there is only one way they can go. And then through no fault of their own, they look like hypocrites when the fact is, they are just human. Nobody can live up to the standards that folks have put on some of these celebrities. Everyone has their own Girl Scout Cookie craving that they submit to from time to time.
A lot of folks have asked me about the whole workout regimen. It's going pretty good so far. I've lost a few pounds (not enough), I've been running three times a week, and my heartburn has pretty much gone away. But now it will start getting tougher.
The weather will start getting colder and nastier. I have to start adding more minutes to my run. But the worst thing about trying to be healthy right now is trying to avoid the Girl Scout Cookies. I can only have 1,875 calories a day, which isn't near as much as it sounds. And I'm telling you, I can eat that much in Girl Scout Cookies by lunch time. So the next couple of weeks will be a test.
Let's see, what else is in the news?
I see the GOP debates are going pretty strong now. My guess is that Mitt Romney will be the one to go against President Obama when it's all said and done. But we'll have to see how these Super Packs shake things up. For those that don't know, Super Packs are groups of very, very rich people that can raise all the money they want, in some cases up to $350 million, and use it to back a certain candidate. If they are backing Candidate A, they can say whatever they want to about Candidate B and C, true or not. And Candidate A doesn't have to take responsibility for anything they say, because they aren't really affiliated with them. It's going to make things even dirtier than they usually are, and that's saying something.
This cruise ship running aground off the coast of Italy bothers me a little. My wife and I have been wanting to take a cruise at some point, but now I don't know. I mean, I know it's a freak accident and it will probably never happen again, but still. I'm not a strong swimmer, in fact I can barely swim at all. If things were to go haywire, I know I'd let women and children grab the lifeboats first. But then what? I'd be stuck with one of those silly little orange vests, and an upside down coffee table or something. I've seen Titanic, I know how that situation usually ends up.
And finally, I don't know about you but I'm glad Tim Tebow and the Denver Broncos are out of the playoffs. Well actually, I do know about you. Or 40% of you, anyway. ESPN did a poll of Tebow fans, and 40% of them said they believed tthey divine intervention played a role in a few of his wins. Come on, folks.
Despite my wife begging me not to, I poked fun at a few Tebow fans on Facebook. Couldn't help myself. To me there is nothing more fun that jabbing people that are on the far, far right. And that's where most Tebow fans reside.
One lady told me that I had a problem with his religion. I promise, that isn't it. But let me ask you this- what if that were it? Would that be so bad? I am 100% sure that more than a few of his fans like him just because of his religious views, so why can't someone not like him for the same reason? I like sandwiches on wheat bread, my wife likes white bread. That doesn't mean that one of us is a bad person, or we are going to Hell, or anything like that. It just means we are different, that's all. The same should apply to political views, religious views, and Tebow fans.
Half the players in the NFL are religious, two of my three friends are religious, my wife and kids are religious, etc. Religious people don't bother me at all. I'm not a Tebow fan because he isn't very accurate with the football. And as crazy as it sounds, I like my quarterbacks to be accurate.
I'm sure he's a great guy and everything, but I wish people wouldn't build him up so much in that regard. Everytime fans or the public build someone up too high, there is only one way they can go. And then through no fault of their own, they look like hypocrites when the fact is, they are just human. Nobody can live up to the standards that folks have put on some of these celebrities. Everyone has their own Girl Scout Cookie craving that they submit to from time to time.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Letter to my oldest
This is going to sound like a corny cliche, but it's the truth. It seems like just yesterday that your mom went in to labor with you. I remember everything about that day. It was a Sunday. Your mom and I had lunch at your aunt's house earlier, like we always did on Sundays. Now we were home, watching The Sopranos on t.v., like we always did on Sundays. And we were both inhaling Mint Girl Scout cookies, like we always did on Sundays during The Sopranos. Other than it being your mom's birthday, it was just like every other Sunday of the year.
Then, every other Sunday turned into the best Sunday of my life. Your mom told me she thought "it was time", and we loaded up the bags and headed to the hospital. The next day the most gorgeous little girl in the world was born, and my life would never be the same.
And now you are turning the big thirteen. It's crazy to me how time slowed down and even seemed to stop on the day you were born, but it has gone by so fast in the last thirteen years. I'm so mad at myself because even now when I'm trying my hardest, I can't remember the first step you took, or the first word you uttered, or how old you were when you gave up the bottle and pacifier.
Anyway, let me get to the point of the letter. Some of what I'm going to tell you, I've already told you a hundred times. Some of it will be new to you. And I know that as a teenager, you aren't going to be happy being a part of my column anymore. So I'll make you a deal- if you promise to cut this one out and save it, I'll make this the last one that is solely about you.
Okay, first of all I want you to know that over the next few years you will have tons of firsts- first time driving, first time going to a teenager party, first love, etc.
And at times, it will all seem like a roller coaster for you. You will have the time of your life one day, and be lower than low the next. Unfortutnately, the lows are just as much a part of life as the highs. You will get your heart broken, but it will only make you appreciate real love when you find it. You will lose a friend or family member along the way, but it will only make you appreciate the friends or family members that you still have. If you remember anything from this letter, remember this- almost nothing in life is ever as bad, or as good, as it seems to be at the time. There will always be a way to get out of a jam, or to get something done. The level-headed will always be more likely to find it. So learn the difference between being passionate about something, and being emotional.
Remember that you carry our last name with you wherever you go. Your mother and I have worked hard to earn a good reputation, so don't screw it up. I'm not saying that you shouldn't have fun, because you should. But always conduct yourself as if you are being watched at all times (knowing your mother like I do, you probably are).
And finally, know that some people will let you down from time to time. Everyone makes mistakes, even those that you put on a pedestal. Hold them accountable, but try not to judge them too harshly.
I wish I could promise you that your teenage years will be all butterflies and hearts, but I can't. Here's a few things that I can promise you, though.
I promise that your mother and I will always have high expecations for you, butt into your business, read your text messages, and just overall get on your very last nerve from time to time. I promise you that we aren't just being mean or nosey. From the first day that your mom knew you existed, every single decision that we've made has been to help you succeed in life. Every single one. No matter what, that won't change.
And finally, I promise that you will get a job as soon as it's legal for you to work. Someone has to pay for all these birthday parties.
This is going to sound like a corny cliche, but it's the truth. It seems like just yesterday that your mom went in to labor with you. I remember everything about that day. It was a Sunday. Your mom and I had lunch at your aunt's house earlier, like we always did on Sundays. Now we were home, watching The Sopranos on t.v., like we always did on Sundays. And we were both inhaling Mint Girl Scout cookies, like we always did on Sundays during The Sopranos. Other than it being your mom's birthday, it was just like every other Sunday of the year.
Then, every other Sunday turned into the best Sunday of my life. Your mom told me she thought "it was time", and we loaded up the bags and headed to the hospital. The next day the most gorgeous little girl in the world was born, and my life would never be the same.
And now you are turning the big thirteen. It's crazy to me how time slowed down and even seemed to stop on the day you were born, but it has gone by so fast in the last thirteen years. I'm so mad at myself because even now when I'm trying my hardest, I can't remember the first step you took, or the first word you uttered, or how old you were when you gave up the bottle and pacifier.
Anyway, let me get to the point of the letter. Some of what I'm going to tell you, I've already told you a hundred times. Some of it will be new to you. And I know that as a teenager, you aren't going to be happy being a part of my column anymore. So I'll make you a deal- if you promise to cut this one out and save it, I'll make this the last one that is solely about you.
Okay, first of all I want you to know that over the next few years you will have tons of firsts- first time driving, first time going to a teenager party, first love, etc.
And at times, it will all seem like a roller coaster for you. You will have the time of your life one day, and be lower than low the next. Unfortutnately, the lows are just as much a part of life as the highs. You will get your heart broken, but it will only make you appreciate real love when you find it. You will lose a friend or family member along the way, but it will only make you appreciate the friends or family members that you still have. If you remember anything from this letter, remember this- almost nothing in life is ever as bad, or as good, as it seems to be at the time. There will always be a way to get out of a jam, or to get something done. The level-headed will always be more likely to find it. So learn the difference between being passionate about something, and being emotional.
Remember that you carry our last name with you wherever you go. Your mother and I have worked hard to earn a good reputation, so don't screw it up. I'm not saying that you shouldn't have fun, because you should. But always conduct yourself as if you are being watched at all times (knowing your mother like I do, you probably are).
And finally, know that some people will let you down from time to time. Everyone makes mistakes, even those that you put on a pedestal. Hold them accountable, but try not to judge them too harshly.
I wish I could promise you that your teenage years will be all butterflies and hearts, but I can't. Here's a few things that I can promise you, though.
I promise that your mother and I will always have high expecations for you, butt into your business, read your text messages, and just overall get on your very last nerve from time to time. I promise you that we aren't just being mean or nosey. From the first day that your mom knew you existed, every single decision that we've made has been to help you succeed in life. Every single one. No matter what, that won't change.
And finally, I promise that you will get a job as soon as it's legal for you to work. Someone has to pay for all these birthday parties.
And now my holiday begins...
Shhshsh. Do y'all hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of piece and quiet. The holidays are finally over, and my kids are mercively on their way back to school. I swear, I don't see how you home-school parents do it.
Look, save the hate mail and phone calls. Nobody is saying that I don't love my kids. It's just that, well, I love them even more when they are in school.
Now that I'm pretty much only working one job, I've got a lot of free time on my hands. My schedule now is seven on, seven off. And I love my seven off. When I tell people my schedule, they usually say "Wow, it's like having having a vacation every other week." And that's true, that's about how I feel about it, also.
But you know what ruins vacations more than anything? Kids.
Usually on my days off I'll sleep til about 7 or 7:30 a.m., get up and eat a little breakfast, then if I have any errands to run I run them. If not, I sit and watch a little t.v. The bottom line is this- when I'm off, I usually do what I want to do, when I want to do it. During the holidays, however, all that goes to Hell.
When they are home I have to worry about what they are going to eat. There are empty soda cans on the counter, the trash is always full, and someone will without a doubt leave their plate on the table for me to pick up.
If I try to go watch a little t.v., I have to wrestle the remote away from some little person that is watching Drake and Josh, or Phineas and Ferb, or some other silly little show like that.
And if I do manage to steal the remote, I've got about 30 minutes before my son starts yelling at me. "Hey Dad, what are we gonna do today? Let's go do something, Dad. What can we go do? Let's go do something."
The only time I really have to myself is if I happen to wake up really early, because they usually stay up late. Too late.
I, like any other red-blooded American male, enjoy a good old fashioned Rated-R show every now and then. Nothing too bad, get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about movies that use cuss words, like regular people. And ones with a lot of blood. And, if there is a sex scene or two, well, that's just the price you have to pay to watch. Who am I to complain? Because I married who I did, the only time I get to watch good movies like that is at night, when everyone else is asleep.
But not over the holidays when the kids are awake. Hell, when they are in the room I can't even watch re-runs of Two and a Half Men. You ever tried to watch a good action movie with all the blood and guts and cussing taken out? It sucks. Someone with a bazooka blowing things up should never utter the phrase, "Ah, shucks!"
But all that is over now. My wife is back to work, my kids are back in school, and it's just me and the dog here in charge of the remote. And now, if you will excuse me, I believe Pulp Fiction is on the tube.
Shhshsh. Do y'all hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of piece and quiet. The holidays are finally over, and my kids are mercively on their way back to school. I swear, I don't see how you home-school parents do it.
Look, save the hate mail and phone calls. Nobody is saying that I don't love my kids. It's just that, well, I love them even more when they are in school.
Now that I'm pretty much only working one job, I've got a lot of free time on my hands. My schedule now is seven on, seven off. And I love my seven off. When I tell people my schedule, they usually say "Wow, it's like having having a vacation every other week." And that's true, that's about how I feel about it, also.
But you know what ruins vacations more than anything? Kids.
Usually on my days off I'll sleep til about 7 or 7:30 a.m., get up and eat a little breakfast, then if I have any errands to run I run them. If not, I sit and watch a little t.v. The bottom line is this- when I'm off, I usually do what I want to do, when I want to do it. During the holidays, however, all that goes to Hell.
When they are home I have to worry about what they are going to eat. There are empty soda cans on the counter, the trash is always full, and someone will without a doubt leave their plate on the table for me to pick up.
If I try to go watch a little t.v., I have to wrestle the remote away from some little person that is watching Drake and Josh, or Phineas and Ferb, or some other silly little show like that.
And if I do manage to steal the remote, I've got about 30 minutes before my son starts yelling at me. "Hey Dad, what are we gonna do today? Let's go do something, Dad. What can we go do? Let's go do something."
The only time I really have to myself is if I happen to wake up really early, because they usually stay up late. Too late.
I, like any other red-blooded American male, enjoy a good old fashioned Rated-R show every now and then. Nothing too bad, get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about movies that use cuss words, like regular people. And ones with a lot of blood. And, if there is a sex scene or two, well, that's just the price you have to pay to watch. Who am I to complain? Because I married who I did, the only time I get to watch good movies like that is at night, when everyone else is asleep.
But not over the holidays when the kids are awake. Hell, when they are in the room I can't even watch re-runs of Two and a Half Men. You ever tried to watch a good action movie with all the blood and guts and cussing taken out? It sucks. Someone with a bazooka blowing things up should never utter the phrase, "Ah, shucks!"
But all that is over now. My wife is back to work, my kids are back in school, and it's just me and the dog here in charge of the remote. And now, if you will excuse me, I believe Pulp Fiction is on the tube.
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.
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