What to wear?
Hey, we’re all family here, right? Well then I have a question for you. How in the Hell do all you guys have cool clothes to wear all the time?
I’m not talking about the women reading this. I understand how you have clothes, because you go shopping every now and then. But how do your men always show up with cool stuff to wear? Do you buy it for him? How do you know what he likes to wear? And how do you keep up with his size? I don’t even know my own size half the time.
For the past year or so I’ve been noticing other men’s clothes. (And yes, I’m well aware that isn’t the manliest thing I’ve ever said. But remember, we are family.) Whether my wife and I are at a restaurant, or I’m at one of my kids’ games, or just hanging out playing poker or something, lately I always notice what other guys are wearing. And it’s always better than what I’m wearing.
I’m not sure when this happened, because just a few years ago I was about even with everyone else. But I guess I got busy with kids, work, family and stuff like that. I just never think about shopping for clothes until I have to. And even if I did think about it, there’s always something else that needs to be paid for.
I was looking at some pictures the other day, and came across a couple of photos that were about three years old. It suddenly hit me that the shirt I was wearing in the picture was the same shirt that I was wearing now, three years later. And- here’s the bad part- it’s considered one of my nicest shirts.
Once I thought about it long enough, I got up and went to my closet. What a sad, sad sight.
I’ve got a funeral or wedding jacket (whichever one I’m attending at the time), a plain white button up shirt that goes with it, and my “going out” shirt- a long sleeve button up with stripes.
I’ve got three short sleeve button ups that I’ve had for years (one of which I’m wearing in the photo), one polo shirt that is way too tight on me, and a couple of old sweaters and hoodies. Half of those are Longhorn sweatshirts that I couldn’t wear last winter because they couldn’t win a game.
Speaking of the Longhorns, I have a 2005 National Championship t-shirt in my closet. And I still wear it. A lot. The other ones either have Franklin Cowboys or Mumford Mustangs on the front.
Pants? I’ve got two pair of jeans that I can work in, and one pair of nice jeans that are still nice and new only because I haven’t been able to button them for the past two years. Hence I don’t wear them.
And thank God I haven’t been to a wedding or funeral in a while, because the tan slacks that go with the nice jacket and shirt are at least fifteen pounds away from fitting. And I don’t own a nice belt, either- my belt has homemade holes punched out.
Don’t even get me started on the footwear. I have a pair of flip flops, an old pair of Nikes, and some steel toed work boots in the bottom of my closet.
So my question is, how do guys today end up with nice clothes to wear? Do they go buy a few items at a time? Or just go load up two or three times a year? And how do they keep from feeling guilty about spending the money?
My wife said to me, “Just take a hundred bucks out of your poker account and go shopping. Look for sales.” I told her you probably couldn’t buy a nice pack of underwear for a hundred bucks nowadays.
And speaking of underwear- I’m glad I’m married. If I were dating, I wouldn’t want anyone to see mine.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Was it worth it?
I was cruising the internet, and came across this story from Florida. Two guys got into a fist fight in public, and one of them got hurt pretty bad before the fight could be broken up. The other one went to jail of course, and the whole incident is going to cost both of them plenty of dough- one with hospital bills and the other with court fees.
Here’s a quote from one of the guys, “I’m not even sure how it escalated so far. One minute we were fine, the next minute we were swinging on each other like madmen.”
Do me a favor. Play along and try to guess what they were fighting about… No, it wasn’t politics. And no, it wasn’t money related, drug related, or in-law related. The two guys- grown men, mind you- were fighting over a referee’s call in a Pee Wee football game.
“It’s silly,” said one witness. “These are eight and nine year old boys. There isn’t even playoffs on this level.”
I’ll bet you something. I’ll bet you both of these guys are really pretty decent guys. I’ll bet you that ten minutes before the altercation, both men were just as normal as you and I. Both of them probably have families, jobs, and friends in the community. Each of them has probably lectured their children on how to act in public, and to treat others with respect. Even when their opinions differ from your own.
I’ll bet you that neither guy ever dreamed that they would be involved in a fight, much less in public and over something as silly as eight year olds playing ball.
And I’ll bet you something else, too. I’ll bet you that ten minutes after the altercation, both guys felt terrible over what happened. They were probably worried, scared, embarrassed, and remorseful.
While we are betting, I’ll bet you that not one kid on either team would have given the referee’s call a second thought after ten minutes. Their minds are more worried about who’s house they can spend the night at, who can spend the night at their house, where Dad is taking them to eat after the game, and how they can talk him into seeing the Lion King in 3D.
At some point, everyone reading this has been at a football, basketball, baseball, softball or volleyball game and has left shaking their heads. There’s always someone in the crowd yelling at a ref, a coach, an umpire, another parent, or even a kid. Sometimes they even yell at their own kid from the sidelines, maybe expecting more than the little fellow is capable of.
“Yeah, but even though they are only eight years old, it’s still important to teach them that second place is just the first place loser,” I can hear you say. “Everyone wants to win, even eight year olds. Besides, what happened in Florida is extreme, it would never happen here.”
I’ll bet you one more thing. Both of those guys probably used to say the exact same thing.
I was cruising the internet, and came across this story from Florida. Two guys got into a fist fight in public, and one of them got hurt pretty bad before the fight could be broken up. The other one went to jail of course, and the whole incident is going to cost both of them plenty of dough- one with hospital bills and the other with court fees.
Here’s a quote from one of the guys, “I’m not even sure how it escalated so far. One minute we were fine, the next minute we were swinging on each other like madmen.”
Do me a favor. Play along and try to guess what they were fighting about… No, it wasn’t politics. And no, it wasn’t money related, drug related, or in-law related. The two guys- grown men, mind you- were fighting over a referee’s call in a Pee Wee football game.
“It’s silly,” said one witness. “These are eight and nine year old boys. There isn’t even playoffs on this level.”
I’ll bet you something. I’ll bet you both of these guys are really pretty decent guys. I’ll bet you that ten minutes before the altercation, both men were just as normal as you and I. Both of them probably have families, jobs, and friends in the community. Each of them has probably lectured their children on how to act in public, and to treat others with respect. Even when their opinions differ from your own.
I’ll bet you that neither guy ever dreamed that they would be involved in a fight, much less in public and over something as silly as eight year olds playing ball.
And I’ll bet you something else, too. I’ll bet you that ten minutes after the altercation, both guys felt terrible over what happened. They were probably worried, scared, embarrassed, and remorseful.
While we are betting, I’ll bet you that not one kid on either team would have given the referee’s call a second thought after ten minutes. Their minds are more worried about who’s house they can spend the night at, who can spend the night at their house, where Dad is taking them to eat after the game, and how they can talk him into seeing the Lion King in 3D.
At some point, everyone reading this has been at a football, basketball, baseball, softball or volleyball game and has left shaking their heads. There’s always someone in the crowd yelling at a ref, a coach, an umpire, another parent, or even a kid. Sometimes they even yell at their own kid from the sidelines, maybe expecting more than the little fellow is capable of.
“Yeah, but even though they are only eight years old, it’s still important to teach them that second place is just the first place loser,” I can hear you say. “Everyone wants to win, even eight year olds. Besides, what happened in Florida is extreme, it would never happen here.”
I’ll bet you one more thing. Both of those guys probably used to say the exact same thing.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Letter to My Wife
Thirteen years ago, I married my best friend. I know that’s an old, silly, cliché thing to say, but it’s true. There are very few people in this world that I need to talk to on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one I can think of.
Some days, I’m at work before you even wake up for the day. But even then, my day doesn’t start until I at least get a text from you saying good morning.
I’ll never forget the day I proposed to you. We’d been broken up for a while, and things were going downhill for me pretty fast. One Friday morning I woke up late for work with a hangover, and on the way to work my truck broke down. I said to myself, “You know, my life just seemed to go better when I was with her.” An hour later, I wrote a little note asking you to marry me.
And thirteen years later, it still seems like it was the right thing to do. I’m sure we both know where and what I would be right now if it weren’t for you. So I wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for those three gorgeous, healthy children that I act like I can’t stand to be around sometimes. Other than being a little too spoiled for my taste, they are perfect. Thank you for giving me a family, and a reason to be a responsible adult.
Thank you for running the household when I was off working out of town, or spending way too many hours at one job or another instead of at home helping you change diapers, clean house, cook supper or do homework.
Thank you for understanding when I’ve slept on the couch every Monday night for the past twelve years in order to write the sports section, or being patient with me when I put our lives into this silly column every week. Even as our vehicles were being egged and firecrackers were being set off on our front porch, you’ve never asked me to stop writing what I felt.
And God knows it hasn’t been easy. I’m not the sweetest or friendliest person to be around, especially when times get tough. I gripe when family visits. I complain when friends visit. I get mad when the phone rings. I’m sure at times it feels like you’re living with a cranky old man who is never satisfied with anything.
But over the past thirteen years you’ve made me realize that tough times surrounded by family and friends beats the Hell out of tough times all by yourself. And I know that without you and the things you bring to the table, some of the tough times over the years would have won.
I guess what I’m trying to say with all this yapping I’m doing is this- thank you for making the past thirteen years my best thirteen years.
Now, I’m well aware that nobody hates romance or public displays of affection more than you do, so I know I’m going to be in trouble when this hits the newspaper.
Like I tell our kids, some things are worth getting in trouble for. Happy Anniversary.
Thirteen years ago, I married my best friend. I know that’s an old, silly, cliché thing to say, but it’s true. There are very few people in this world that I need to talk to on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one I can think of.
Some days, I’m at work before you even wake up for the day. But even then, my day doesn’t start until I at least get a text from you saying good morning.
I’ll never forget the day I proposed to you. We’d been broken up for a while, and things were going downhill for me pretty fast. One Friday morning I woke up late for work with a hangover, and on the way to work my truck broke down. I said to myself, “You know, my life just seemed to go better when I was with her.” An hour later, I wrote a little note asking you to marry me.
And thirteen years later, it still seems like it was the right thing to do. I’m sure we both know where and what I would be right now if it weren’t for you. So I wanted to say thank you.
Thank you for those three gorgeous, healthy children that I act like I can’t stand to be around sometimes. Other than being a little too spoiled for my taste, they are perfect. Thank you for giving me a family, and a reason to be a responsible adult.
Thank you for running the household when I was off working out of town, or spending way too many hours at one job or another instead of at home helping you change diapers, clean house, cook supper or do homework.
Thank you for understanding when I’ve slept on the couch every Monday night for the past twelve years in order to write the sports section, or being patient with me when I put our lives into this silly column every week. Even as our vehicles were being egged and firecrackers were being set off on our front porch, you’ve never asked me to stop writing what I felt.
And God knows it hasn’t been easy. I’m not the sweetest or friendliest person to be around, especially when times get tough. I gripe when family visits. I complain when friends visit. I get mad when the phone rings. I’m sure at times it feels like you’re living with a cranky old man who is never satisfied with anything.
But over the past thirteen years you’ve made me realize that tough times surrounded by family and friends beats the Hell out of tough times all by yourself. And I know that without you and the things you bring to the table, some of the tough times over the years would have won.
I guess what I’m trying to say with all this yapping I’m doing is this- thank you for making the past thirteen years my best thirteen years.
Now, I’m well aware that nobody hates romance or public displays of affection more than you do, so I know I’m going to be in trouble when this hits the newspaper.
Like I tell our kids, some things are worth getting in trouble for. Happy Anniversary.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
In the news…
Not that much going on at home this week that I can talk about here in the paper, so I turned to the internet for column ideas.
The first story I read was about people saying how the Weather Channel and politicians overrated Hurricane Irene. Critics said that the storm wasn’t close to being as bad as everyone predicted, and there should not have been so many evacuations. My reaction to the story was “Um, what?”
Thirty eight people died from this storm so far, and it was overrated? Just how many people have to die for these idiots to constitute a bad storm?
Now listen, the first thing you have to do is take the Weather Channel with a grain of salt. They will over-hype any storm, because they fight for ratings just like every other television channel. That’s totally understandable.
And politicians? Well, they have to scream “Run!”- especially after Hurricane Katrina. You remember Katrina, right? When politicians, weathermen, scientists and everyone else spent a week begging, pleading and doing everything they could to get the people of New Orleans and the surrounding areas to evacuate. We all know that a lot of people didn’t evacuate, and the government came out looking like the bad guy in the end. So yes, Hurricane Irene might have been a little overrated by those in charge. Do you blame them?
As I was writing the paragraphs above, I had my television on CNN listening to the news. A religious nut came on, saying that Hurricane Irene was some kind of payback from God for the way we live and act in this country. Or maybe it was a lesson of some kind. A divine occurrence, I think he called it. I stopped typing long enough to wonder 1) Holy cow, it’s 2011 and people still think like that? And 2) Why is there a religious nut on my news channel? I’m not watching Fox News, I’m watching CNN. I shake my head at the thought of some CNN producer thinking this was a good idea.
I turn my attention back to the internet and see that Florida has recently passed a law that requires those that sign up for welfare to pass a drug test. If they pass the drug test, they can receive help. If not, they get no help until they pass the drug test next year. Several other states are thinking about passing this law- sadly, Texas is not one of them.
Critics of the law say that it is an invasion of privacy, and it doesn’t save much money in the long run because less welfare recipients than you think take illegal drugs. I say of course they should be drug tested. Every job I’ve ever had required me to pass a drug test. If an accident happens at work, I have to take a drug test. Most of the time when you sign up for insurance, you take a drug test. Not one time have I been offended, or considered it an invasion of my privacy. Stop trying to live off of someone else, and you can get high all you want. Drugs don’t bother me one bit, mooching off of my tax dollars does.
And finally, I read that Dancing With The Stars has announced their new lineup of B-level entertainers that will dance this season. Now, except for Erin Andrews and Kim Kardashian dances, I’ve not watched ten minutes of this show in all the years it’s been on. It doesn’t interest me in the least. But then I see that Nancy Grace is on the roster, and I start daydreaming about her embarrassing herself so bad that she would quit her show and never come back to t.v. again…
Hmm, divine occurrence?
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Not that much going on at home this week that I can talk about here in the paper, so I turned to the internet for column ideas.
The first story I read was about people saying how the Weather Channel and politicians overrated Hurricane Irene. Critics said that the storm wasn’t close to being as bad as everyone predicted, and there should not have been so many evacuations. My reaction to the story was “Um, what?”
Thirty eight people died from this storm so far, and it was overrated? Just how many people have to die for these idiots to constitute a bad storm?
Now listen, the first thing you have to do is take the Weather Channel with a grain of salt. They will over-hype any storm, because they fight for ratings just like every other television channel. That’s totally understandable.
And politicians? Well, they have to scream “Run!”- especially after Hurricane Katrina. You remember Katrina, right? When politicians, weathermen, scientists and everyone else spent a week begging, pleading and doing everything they could to get the people of New Orleans and the surrounding areas to evacuate. We all know that a lot of people didn’t evacuate, and the government came out looking like the bad guy in the end. So yes, Hurricane Irene might have been a little overrated by those in charge. Do you blame them?
As I was writing the paragraphs above, I had my television on CNN listening to the news. A religious nut came on, saying that Hurricane Irene was some kind of payback from God for the way we live and act in this country. Or maybe it was a lesson of some kind. A divine occurrence, I think he called it. I stopped typing long enough to wonder 1) Holy cow, it’s 2011 and people still think like that? And 2) Why is there a religious nut on my news channel? I’m not watching Fox News, I’m watching CNN. I shake my head at the thought of some CNN producer thinking this was a good idea.
I turn my attention back to the internet and see that Florida has recently passed a law that requires those that sign up for welfare to pass a drug test. If they pass the drug test, they can receive help. If not, they get no help until they pass the drug test next year. Several other states are thinking about passing this law- sadly, Texas is not one of them.
Critics of the law say that it is an invasion of privacy, and it doesn’t save much money in the long run because less welfare recipients than you think take illegal drugs. I say of course they should be drug tested. Every job I’ve ever had required me to pass a drug test. If an accident happens at work, I have to take a drug test. Most of the time when you sign up for insurance, you take a drug test. Not one time have I been offended, or considered it an invasion of my privacy. Stop trying to live off of someone else, and you can get high all you want. Drugs don’t bother me one bit, mooching off of my tax dollars does.
And finally, I read that Dancing With The Stars has announced their new lineup of B-level entertainers that will dance this season. Now, except for Erin Andrews and Kim Kardashian dances, I’ve not watched ten minutes of this show in all the years it’s been on. It doesn’t interest me in the least. But then I see that Nancy Grace is on the roster, and I start daydreaming about her embarrassing herself so bad that she would quit her show and never come back to t.v. again…
Hmm, divine occurrence?
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Disaster Class
I’ve taken a few weeks off lately. Actually I thought I was done writing, period. I didn’t know if anyone even read the column anymore, and frankly, I had run out of things to talk about. And then? Well, then I attended HAZMAT class.
Firemen, volunteer firemen, and everyone else who works around chemicals, at some point, has to take this class. It teaches you how to deal with hazardous chemical spills, what level of protective gear to wear, how to read placards on vehicles that ship chemicals, etc.
You also don those hot, sweaty chemical suits in 105 degree heat and practice dealing with leaks, spills, and injuries. I must have lost 10 pounds worth of sweat with all the water pouring out of me.
If I had to sum it up in just a few words, it would be “40 hours of Hell”. That’s nothing against the teacher of the class, he did a great job. And the mock disasters that they have set up at this fire school were pretty neat. It’s just that that kind of stuff doesn’t interest me at all. But then again, what does interest me?
One of the things that made this class Hell on me was the people I took the class with. Every one of them seemed like great guys, but they were just different people that I would ever hang out with. From what I gathered, it was a bunch of firemen, volunteer firemen, and safety gurus from huge plants and oil rigs. And all of them took themselves way, way, way too seriously.
For instance, if you asked a yes/no question in the class, the answer would never just be yes or no. To a man, the guys I went to class with answered a yes/no question by saying “affirmative” or “negative”. Every. Single. Time.
Everyone knows a guy that still has a keychain hanging from his belt loop, one of those real tall wallets hanging out of his back pocket, and uses fireman talk everywhere he goes. Well, imagine spending eight hours a day for five straight days with 25 of those guys.
Like I said- all great guys, just different people from what I would normally hang out with.
And then the kicker- One day we were going over a quiz, which was multiple choice. The first question was an easy one, with the answer being “B”. From the back of the room I heard someone say “Beta”. Before I knew it, instead of “A, B, C, or D” every answer I heard was either “Alpha”, “Beta”, “Charlie” or “Delta”. I’m 100% serious.
After about the third question I started laughing out loud and said “Wow, really?” Nobody even understood that I was questioning their lingo. To them it was as natural as me saying “A, B, C or D”.
Needless to say, by the middle of the third day I was ready to pull my hair out. “Fireman guy taking himself too seriously” is the one disaster that they didn’t teach me how to deal with.
I’ve taken a few weeks off lately. Actually I thought I was done writing, period. I didn’t know if anyone even read the column anymore, and frankly, I had run out of things to talk about. And then? Well, then I attended HAZMAT class.
Firemen, volunteer firemen, and everyone else who works around chemicals, at some point, has to take this class. It teaches you how to deal with hazardous chemical spills, what level of protective gear to wear, how to read placards on vehicles that ship chemicals, etc.
You also don those hot, sweaty chemical suits in 105 degree heat and practice dealing with leaks, spills, and injuries. I must have lost 10 pounds worth of sweat with all the water pouring out of me.
If I had to sum it up in just a few words, it would be “40 hours of Hell”. That’s nothing against the teacher of the class, he did a great job. And the mock disasters that they have set up at this fire school were pretty neat. It’s just that that kind of stuff doesn’t interest me at all. But then again, what does interest me?
One of the things that made this class Hell on me was the people I took the class with. Every one of them seemed like great guys, but they were just different people that I would ever hang out with. From what I gathered, it was a bunch of firemen, volunteer firemen, and safety gurus from huge plants and oil rigs. And all of them took themselves way, way, way too seriously.
For instance, if you asked a yes/no question in the class, the answer would never just be yes or no. To a man, the guys I went to class with answered a yes/no question by saying “affirmative” or “negative”. Every. Single. Time.
Everyone knows a guy that still has a keychain hanging from his belt loop, one of those real tall wallets hanging out of his back pocket, and uses fireman talk everywhere he goes. Well, imagine spending eight hours a day for five straight days with 25 of those guys.
Like I said- all great guys, just different people from what I would normally hang out with.
And then the kicker- One day we were going over a quiz, which was multiple choice. The first question was an easy one, with the answer being “B”. From the back of the room I heard someone say “Beta”. Before I knew it, instead of “A, B, C, or D” every answer I heard was either “Alpha”, “Beta”, “Charlie” or “Delta”. I’m 100% serious.
After about the third question I started laughing out loud and said “Wow, really?” Nobody even understood that I was questioning their lingo. To them it was as natural as me saying “A, B, C or D”.
Needless to say, by the middle of the third day I was ready to pull my hair out. “Fireman guy taking himself too seriously” is the one disaster that they didn’t teach me how to deal with.
Advice Column
Know what we haven’t done in a while? I haven’t answered any of your questions about life, love and lunatics. Let’s get to some of those.
“Booger” in Gause wants to know “Shannon, what do you think of the debt ceiling debate? And should I listen to the right or left?”
Booger, I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s pretty funny to listen to these highly educated puppets argue, bicker and fight over something that my wife or countless other bill-paying spouses could take care of within a week. The first seven or eight years of our marriage she had to find ways every payday of paying huge bills with small paychecks, deciding which bills to pay, who to put off until next time, and exactly how much we could spend on what. And trust me, she got paid a whole lot less for her trouble than these politicians do.
Booger, try this from now on. Starting today, every time you see a politician on t.v.- republican or democrat- go to YouTube and download about thirty minutes of a comedian named George Carlin. It’ll put politics in perspective for you. It also works for the crazy Jesus nuts that get to you from time to time.
“Jealous Much?” wrote me from the northern part of the county. She says “Dear Shannon, my best friend loves to sing and she is really good. I’m afraid that when we grow up, she’ll be really famous and won’t remember me. Any advice?”
The way I see it “Jealous”, you’ve got two options here. You can either crush her voice box and make it look like an accident, or you can pay attention in school, get good at math, and try to be her manager. Get it in writing now, while she’s still poor.
“Taken Advantage Of” told me that he lent $1,000 to two relatives a while ago, and still hasn’t been paid back yet. He said he’s dropped a few hints, but nothing came out of them yet. What should he do?
First of all, “Taken”, why would you mix family with money in the first place? That’s a huge no-no, everyone knows that. Now, about getting the money back…
Try blasting it on Facebook first. That might shame them into paying you back. If that doesn’t work, go to the nearest biker bar, pay two guys $100 to take a ride with you, and scare your family members to death. You’ll still come out $900 ahead.
If you’d like some great advice, simply write to Shannon Says by going to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.
Waving the ban-ner
I was having one of those days. You know the kind of day I’m talking about- you work your butt off, do everything right, try to make smart decisions with your money, and still nothing goes right. You can’t seem to keep up, much less get ahead.
A plumber had just given me an estimate on replacing some pipes, I was having expensive lawn mower trouble, and my kids were whining about something we couldn’t go do or something they couldn’t have.
Then I turned on my computer and the clouds parted and the sky got a little brighter. One of the headlines read “Restaurant bans kids”. I swear I heard angels singing Hallelujah.
Earlier that day I had been eating lunch at a restaurant in Bryan, and a lady with a kid picked the table next to me. Within seconds of watching this little monster, I knew I had seen this movie before. I was about to either stuff down my food as fast as possible, or spend the next forty-five minutes listening to this lady shshshing her kid over and over and over. So I got up and switched tables. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, I didn’t give the kids a dirty look or anything, in fact I avoided eye contact all together and tried to not even let on what I was doing.
But somehow the lady caught on to my plan, and stared at me like I was Casey Anthony with the plague.
Look, nobody is saying that I don’t like kids. Kids are fine, most of them. And had I been at a McDonald’s or Chuck E Cheese, it would have been different. You have to expect unruly kids at those places. That’s why I avoid those establishments like the flu.
The restaurant in the internet story banned children from the ages of six and under. What a great, great idea. Only I say take it a step further. I say until a kid is eight years old, keep them at home. Or at least limit the public places in which you take them. There are tons of places that cater to kids. Most towns have some sort of children’s museum, a park, a jail cell… There is no reason to take a small kid to a nice restaurant that serves drinks. Chances are, grown-ups are there to get away from their own children.
That’s the one thing Hollywood couples do right. Madonna, Brad and Angelina, Tom Cruise and his wife, all these famous stars all do the same thing. They have kids one day (or, go to some third world country and adopt one) and you don’t see their kids again until they are drug-addicted teenagers on the cover of magazines.
I wish all places would ban kids, but I know it won’t happen. For some silly reason, the whole damn world loves kids. Anything with the word “kids” attached to it is a huge business and makes huge money. Don’t even get me started on kids sports… That’s a whole other column.
Can we at least agree to do this? Let’s pass a law that says if you take your kid to a restaurant that serves beer, and your kid disturbs even one customer, you have to buy the house a round of drinks right there on the spot.
That way, we can get tipsy enough to put up with your kid.
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I was having one of those days. You know the kind of day I’m talking about- you work your butt off, do everything right, try to make smart decisions with your money, and still nothing goes right. You can’t seem to keep up, much less get ahead.
A plumber had just given me an estimate on replacing some pipes, I was having expensive lawn mower trouble, and my kids were whining about something we couldn’t go do or something they couldn’t have.
Then I turned on my computer and the clouds parted and the sky got a little brighter. One of the headlines read “Restaurant bans kids”. I swear I heard angels singing Hallelujah.
Earlier that day I had been eating lunch at a restaurant in Bryan, and a lady with a kid picked the table next to me. Within seconds of watching this little monster, I knew I had seen this movie before. I was about to either stuff down my food as fast as possible, or spend the next forty-five minutes listening to this lady shshshing her kid over and over and over. So I got up and switched tables. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, I didn’t give the kids a dirty look or anything, in fact I avoided eye contact all together and tried to not even let on what I was doing.
But somehow the lady caught on to my plan, and stared at me like I was Casey Anthony with the plague.
Look, nobody is saying that I don’t like kids. Kids are fine, most of them. And had I been at a McDonald’s or Chuck E Cheese, it would have been different. You have to expect unruly kids at those places. That’s why I avoid those establishments like the flu.
The restaurant in the internet story banned children from the ages of six and under. What a great, great idea. Only I say take it a step further. I say until a kid is eight years old, keep them at home. Or at least limit the public places in which you take them. There are tons of places that cater to kids. Most towns have some sort of children’s museum, a park, a jail cell… There is no reason to take a small kid to a nice restaurant that serves drinks. Chances are, grown-ups are there to get away from their own children.
That’s the one thing Hollywood couples do right. Madonna, Brad and Angelina, Tom Cruise and his wife, all these famous stars all do the same thing. They have kids one day (or, go to some third world country and adopt one) and you don’t see their kids again until they are drug-addicted teenagers on the cover of magazines.
I wish all places would ban kids, but I know it won’t happen. For some silly reason, the whole damn world loves kids. Anything with the word “kids” attached to it is a huge business and makes huge money. Don’t even get me started on kids sports… That’s a whole other column.
Can we at least agree to do this? Let’s pass a law that says if you take your kid to a restaurant that serves beer, and your kid disturbs even one customer, you have to buy the house a round of drinks right there on the spot.
That way, we can get tipsy enough to put up with your kid.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion
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