The Thursday Conspiracy

Below is the the email I just sent to my mother-in-law. She is coming into town to help us with our weekly Thursday afternoon/evening transportation gauntlet. Normally this would be me doing most of this with Mom stepping into the gaps. But tomorrow Mom’s employer has their annual employee recognition dinner. And dammit if Mom didn’t do something to get recognized. Upon learning this info I had a menu of options from which to choose to express my feelings:

1)The congratulations option
“Congrats! Can’t wait to go to the dinner. Don’t worry about the kids’ stuff, we’ll make it work. Get your Mom or somebody to help out with logistics. No problemo.”

2)The Are you f’ing kidding me option
“Are f’ing kidding me!? Three dance classes, an orchestra concert, a softball practice and a softball game all the same time and um, here’s an idea, let’s add a dinner that both of us have to attend so nobody is available to cart the kids around. How about that? Awesome. What is the freaking deal with everyone, and I mean literally everyone on the freaking planet scheduling stuff on Thursdays? This didn’t happen in the 80’s. Everybody was home watching Cliff Huxtable. Who, by the way, would not have put up this! Just because Thursday is adjacent to Friday on all calendars does not mean people have nothing to do. This isn’t college. Plus according to recent polling, Thursdays approval ratings are in freefall. Down there with Don Johnson’s music career and broccoli flavored popsicles. So, I mean aside from that, great job with the recognition dinner and everything.”

3)The conspiracy option
“Seldom do I believe that something nefarious is afoot. But there is simply no other rational explanation regarding the propensity for additional activities to be scheduled on Thursdays. Someone is behind this. Someone is maniupulating the whole system. Somewhere in the shadows exists a group that thrives on the stress and anxiety of parents. Big oil, the major car companies and Col. Sanders before he wents tets up could all be in on it! I mean that rumor about the ghost of the little kid in Three Men and a Baby turned out to be true…right? So we’ll go to the dinner but if we go to the bathroom and come back to the room and the place goes all Three Days of the Condor, well, I told you so.”

Anyway, here’s the email to my mother-in-law:

“Pick up Kinsey/Bailey from school at 4.

Bring girls home, get Bails changed into dance stuff and take her to dance by 4:45.

Leave dance and go to other dance to pick up Rye at 5:30. She’s never out to the car before 5:35.

Go back to first dance and drop Rye off at 5:45 and pick up Bails at same time.

Take Bails home, pick up Kinsey and get her to the 9th grade building at 6:00 or close to it for orchestra concert. You are probably going to be behind schedule at this point. So Kinz needs to be dressed and ready with all her orchestra stuff. Not sure how long this lasts, probably done by 7. Bails may need to bring her softball uniform/equipment with her to the orchestra concert and change in the car. Or you can leave her at home and pick her up after the concert. Either way we’ll have her uniform and equipment ready for her when she gets home.

Take Bails to her rec league softball game at 7:15. Game starts at 7:30 and is on the field right by the concession stand.

Rye is getting a ride home from dance at 7:30 so you don’t have to worry about that.

If the concert isn’t over by 7, you’ll have to bug out and take Bails to softball and then go back and get Kinz. The dinner is supposed to be done at 7 so we might be able to run to the orchestra concert and pick up Kinz if you’re already out at softball. But we’ll touch base at the end of the dinner.

Thanks for the help. Any questions, let me know.”

Seriously, I’ve had it with Thursday. It used to be so cool. Magnum, Seinfeld, $5 pitchers of beer in college. Thursday, what the hell happened to you?!

Ignoring Things

You ever notice how a new TV show will debut or you will discover a new one and you are as loyal as the day is long to it…for awhile. Then you just sort of drift away from it. Kinda like my relationship with Facebook. This is what happened with Seinfeld and The Simpson’s. Not sure why. And Riptide now that I think of it. To be honest, I think I actually started cheating on Riptide with Moonlighting before I just broke up with Riptide once I became totally infatuated with Moonlighting. What? David Addison was a major influence on my life. Nick and Cody in Riptide were too. I don’t want to minimize the time investment I made there. Same thing with Thomas Magnum and Sonny Crockett. And Axel Foley, Dr. Peter Venkman, Ferris Bueller, and Prince Akeem. Wait, probably Fletch, Otter and Goose too. And Sam from Quantum Leap. But I’m getting off topic.

I bring this up because I miss Riptide. No, not really. Well maybe a little. C’mon they lived on a boat. Next to another boat full of hot chicks. And it was the 80’s. Anyway, we have this closet in our hallway upstairs. It’s generically called a linen closet. Although in our house, as in most residences in these United States, it contains more than linens. Since we moved in it has been the home to towels, cleaning supplies, toilet paper, bed sheets, various crap and two screws which used to be in my knee. And crap. With some extra crap. You don’t really realize how much crap you put away instead of throw away. We, evidently, are skilled in the crap storage arts. You just put stuff away and just forget about ever looking at it. You paid attention for awhile but then it becomes uninteresting and/or complicated and it’s just easier to close the door. Like Medicaid.

A couple Saturdays ago, we made the decision to tackle the linen closet. We took everything out of it and item by item decided what to do with each one. I bet it’s a similar system to how Chicago Democrats count votes. Anyway, I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit its contents. It’s like admitting that yes you do own the North and South Trilogy. Sure it’s a soap opera but it’s a Civil War soap opera.

Regardless, once we started we immediately realized we needed far more time than we had set aside. That and beers. We inventoried 13 bottles of sun screen. Various sizes with various SPF factors. Yes, there are 5 of us in the house but nobody needs that much sunscreen. We evidently are easily manipulated by sunscreen marketing. Also found 3 cans of Pledge. None scented. 5 spray cans of mosquito repellent. It’s not really summer without Off! I guess. 5 containers of shoe leather/suede protector. We obviously have a lot of unprotected shoes. 6 light bulbs. Yet the ceiling light in the linen closet hallway remains burnt out. Sewing equipment. Or tackle. Not sure the proper way to identify it. But it was all contained on or around a tiny barbie sized rocking chair. Yeah, it was weird. Scissors still in the packaging. Denim. Yeah, just oddly sized pieces of denim. The aforementioned screws from my knee. 2 unassembled door knobs. Several switchplates. A carpet cleaner. Carpet cleaner detergent. An air purifier with extra filters. A sealed bag of baby wipes. Please be advised that we haven’t had a baby in diapers that needed to be cleaned with baby wipes since 2006. 3 irons. 1 nearly empty can of spray starch. So I guess we can claim that use the irons. Or at least one of them. I guess. 16 beach towels including 5 princess themed beach towels and 2 I’ve had since college. And if you’ve been keeping score, Reagan was still president when I started college. A ticket stub from the ’96 Iowa State-Missouri football game. Troy Davis ran for 396 yards that day. Set a record. Just saying. At least 2 full sets of bed sheets that I don’t remember ever seeing before. Also suspicious that the pillow cases are breeding. 32 bath towels and 47 hand towels. The hand towels were somewhat interesting with the seasonal designs.

Who has that many towels besides Bed, Bath and Beyond?

Ended the exercise by carrying three fullsize garbage bags full of crap downstairs.

We were able to relocate all kinds of soaps, shampoos, conditioners, lotions, etc. from the bathroom vanities to the linen closet. Which freed up room for Rye’s full metric ton of beauty gear.

Now I’ll walk by the closet, open it and just enjoy it. Weird what happens after three kids and a decade and a-half of marriage.

Satisfaction

It doesn’t happen all that often. And when it does you often fail to recognize it because it is so rare. Like Jay Carney displaying something other than condescension. But you’ll be brushing your teeth, looking at yourself in the mirror and its hits you. So you smirk, tilt your head slightly and nod in actual and true satisfaction.

This happened to me this morning. And I’m not talking about the satisfaction you feel when the Patriots lose. That’s something else. Or the satisfaction you feel when you perfectly place an Anchorman quote into a serious conversation at work and only the guy across the table gets it. That’s something else too. It’s not even the satisfaction you get when you finally remember the actress that Mom looks like. Google Rosalind Allen. She’s Mom’s doppelganger. She was in Seaquest DSV. Even had appearences on Riptide, LA Law and was the “it girl” in Seinfeld. Seriously, this is Mom in the mid-90’s. I’d post a pic but they all have some kind of copyright.

Anyway, this morning I’m walking into Kinsey’s and Bailey’s room to wake them up. Except the door opens as it should. As in there wasn’t any resistance. I’m temporarily stunned. Like Apollo when Rocky lands that left upper cut in round one of their first fight. Normally, I open the door and a dirty sock, a head band and a pair of shorts get caught between the bottom of the door and carpet and become one of those makeshift door anchors. It gets weirder. Then, after entering the room, I see the carpet. A nearly total and unobstructed view of the carpet. Most of the time the carpet resembles the Federated States of Micronesia and you have to navigate the islands of clothes, shoes, books, blankets and other assorted crap.

But the room appears to be clean.

I slowly back out, shake my head violently to make sure I’m conscious, then I physically touch the walls in the hallway to make sure I’m not in some kind of hologram training room like in X-Men. Hmm, things appear normal. So I flip the light switch tell the girls its time to get up. I execute a 90 degree left turn to go back down the hallway to my room. That’s when I saw it.

The bathroom directly across the hall from the girls’ room also appears to be clean.

“What the f…ukodome is going on here?”

If I didn’t know better, it looks as if the only thing on the counter is Riley’s flat-iron. Or maybe it’s Mom’s? But that’s irrelevant. What is relevant is the bathroom, aside from all the shampoo, conditioner and soap containers in the shower/bathtub, looks like it’s being staged for a home showing.

Now I begin to get a little woozy. I tell Mom, “Hey, when Bails was up here by herself last night, I think she did some cleaning.”

“I think you’re right.”

But the weirdest thing is that NOBODY ASKED HER TO DO IT. She just did it. When questioned about it she said, “Well, it was dirty, I thought it needed to be cleaned.”

Hallelujah!

Actual evidence that something we taught them actually took hold. Um, which parents know what they’re doing? We do. Boom. That just happened.

Then I realized that my influence was even more profound. I had to pick up Rye from dance last night and on the way home we had to swing by and get Kinz from softball hitting practice. And it was kinda on the way home so I was already counting it as a win. One of the CD’s I have in my truck is Tesla’s Greatest. Rye gets in and The Way It Is comes on. From a parenting perspective, this song’s message is actually pretty good. And, FYI, it freaking rocks.

I am, however, expecting the normal eye rolls, feigned disgust and general 13 year-old condescension aimed at all the music recorded while I was in college. But it doesn’t happen. By the end she’s kinda humming along.

“Hey Dad, that was actually kinda good.”

I was like the guy in the AT&T commercial after the girl tells him about the werewolf.

“Um, what?”

So I put on Little Suzi as we arrive at hitting practice. We go in and get Kinz. As we’re walking back to the truck Rye says, “Kinsey, we’re listening to a rock song. It’s pretty good.”

Did you see what just happened there? Not only did Tesla’s awesomeness cut through generational lines and possibly even the fabric of time and space itself, but my 7th grader acknowledged out loud and in front of me that something I like actually is good. And she did it without sarcasm.

Boom. Shaka. Laka.

Despite the best efforts of my kids, the secular left and my penchant to use the 70’s Steelers as my parenting guide, I have in fact managed to positively influence my kids.

I believe my work is done for the day…

Drop offs, Pick ups and Zombies

Tell me if you’re Thursday went like this:
3:45: Leave work early in order to pick up 3rd grader and 5th grader so 3rd grader makes it to dance class on time. Reason? School bus transportation lacks urgency.

4:00: Pick up 3rd grader and 5th grader from school after waiting behind the Mom who breaks the “pick-up” rules by parking her car in the pick-up line and going into the school. This is the reason otherwise mild-mannered sane people key other people’s cars.

4:20: Leave house with 3rd grader for dance class. Thankfully 3rd grader is so conditioned to this routine, I do not even have to remind her or double check once in the truck to see if she remembered to bring the dance bag and a snack/water bottle.

4:40: Arrive 5 minutes early to dance class! Woo Hoo! Subtlety congratulate self on logistical awesomeness.

4:41: Ignore crying newborn, thank the dear Lord Jesus Christ that we do not currently have a newborn in our house and under our care and then continue reading World War Z while waiting. Some people are drawn to the zombie genre because they like dark, ghoulish stories. Some just think its cool. Others, like me, simply can’t stop themselves. The Zombie Apocalypse is quite possibly the scariest thing I can think of. Nancy Pelosi back in as Speaker of the House, what the 70’s Steelers would have been like without the ’74 draft, having three teenage daughters in the house at the same time…all terrifying in their own right. But the Zombie Apocalypse, especially how it is described in World War Z, is not Michael Myers offing teenagers in Haddonfield, IL scary, it is disturbingly scary because it is so believable the way it plays out. Anyway…

5:10: Leave dance at Dance Studio #1 to go pick up 7th grader at Dance Studio #2. Curse Thursday yet again for being ridiculous with its after school activities. C’mon folks, there are six other days in the week. Monday is going to start suing over neglect if we don’t get some crap moved over there.

5:25 Get gas for truck. When do we start seeing the impact of all the drilling going on in North Dakota at the pump?

5:36: 7th grader enters truck for transportation back to Dance Studio #1. 7th grader has two dance classes at two separate dance studios on Thursdays. Regrettably, American scientists have not developed teleportation technology, not officially anyway, allowing me to get 7th grader to dance class at 4:30 and 3rd grader to dance class at 4:45. Thankfully, a friend’s mom takes her to the 4:30 class. 7th grader tells me Fire Woman by The Cult “isn’t really her vibe.” Asks to change radio station. Request denied.

5:47: Arrive back at Dance Studio #1. 7th grader dropped off, 3rd grader picked up. 3rd wants to wear shorts to school on Friday. Of course 3rd grader wants to wear shorts to school in January. Short discussion about the appropriate air temp for shorts. Decision tabled until further info is available.

6:04: Arrive home. Scavenge for food. Looks like its cottage cheese for dinner for me. Seems that 3rd grader is again dining at Dad’s Deli – turkey sandwich, chips, a pickle and some water. Mom lets me know that she dropped off 5th grader at rec league softball practice. She also lets me know that 5th grader decided to walk around the kitchen in her cleats. The same cleats she wore last Saturday during two games played on a muddy field. Translation? Please clean the kitchen floor while Mom goes to Dance Studio #2 for a “team dinner” and information session on this weekend’s dance competition in Omaha. Remind Mom not to forget to bring her assigned food contribution – a fruit plate. Thank all those concerned that I do not have to go to this “team dinner.”

6:43: 3rd grader is fed so leave to pick up 5th grader. 3rd grader insists on staying home instead of accompanying me. “Okay, but no answering the door, no going outside. Take a shower and then watch TV until I get back.” Think to self that this 3rd grader is pretty independent. Also think to self that I would never have left 7th grader home by herself when she was a 3rd grader. Funny what experience and fatigue will do.

6:58: Leave rec league softball practice with 5th grader in order to take said 5th grader to tournament league softball hitting practice. Because, naturally, one softball team isn’t enough.

7:06: Read text message from Mom asking me to pick up 7th grader at Dance Studio #1 and bring her to Dance Studio #2. She evidently needs to be there for some reason. Read text message from 7th grader asking me to pick her up from Dance Studio #1 and take her to Dance Studio #2 so she can be there for something. Drop head and slump shoulders as I realize multiple women telling me what to do is pretty much what I can expect until 3rd grader leaves for college in 2022.

7:17: After applauding myself for making excellent time to Dance Studio #1 while outsmarting the mobile speed camera cleverly mounted on the dashboard of a clearly marked local police car, I pick up 7th grader a bit early from her class and transport her back to Dance Studio #2. No extra revenue from me coppers!

7:31: Drop off 7th grader at Dance Studio #2. Read email from 3rd grader’s rec league softball coach about four practices scheduled between Sunday the 7th and Tuesday the 16th. Three of the four create no logistical issues. That is a win baby! Crank Cinderella’s Gypsy Road.

7:44: Arrive back at hitting practice, pick up World War Z and read for 15 minutes before entering batting cages. Check for zombies after exiting vehicle.

8:04: Leave hitting practice while 5th grader compliments herself on an excellent display of hitting at both of her practices. “Dad, at the first practice I was hitting them clear into the outfield. Then at hitting practice, even though my hands were super tired, I didn’t miss any from the pitching machine.”

8:16: Arrive home. Watch the NIT Finals. Then realize I missed Person of Interest. You know, John in Person of Interest is exactly the kind of guy who survives World War Z…

1990 and Cupcakes

I’m going with a spring 1990 vibe with my drivetime music right now. This replaces the spring 1983 thing I had going for the last couple weeks. Stop smirking, you’d be stunned how quickly Affair of the Heart and Human Touch takes you back to 7th grade. Or, if you’re currently in 7th grade like Rye, you’ll be pleased at the level of disdain and scorn you can heap upon your Dad while he listens. Anyway, spring 1990. Not only did it give us a classic like Steven Seagal’s Hard to Kill, we also had Warrant’s Sometimes She’s Cries and Whitesnake’s Now You’re Gone. And listen, nothing and I mean nothing, will disgust a 13 year old brainwashed into thinking Nicki Minaj and Rhianna are the pinnacle of popular music coolness than the vocals of Jani Lane and David Coverdale. And just so you know, it doesn’t matter how many times the phrase “Dad, can I change it” is uttered, Now You’re Gone and by extension, 1990, will not be browbeaten into capitulation. Because hair metal surrenders to no one!

That being said, there are things that you do simply because your kids ask. No parent is cold hearted enough to say no in every instance a “no” is in fact the right parenting answer. Hey, sometimes you suck as parent. I’m no exception. I’m not sure its worse when you’re a Dad with three daughters – meaning I have no hard data to prove it is a metaphysical certitude that Dads do head-shakingly absurd stuff for their daughters, but I suspect it’s the case.

While I have yet to learn or develop the skills and tactics necessary to apply make-up at dance recitals and/or performances, I did master the fine art of toe nail polish deployment on 6 year-old little girls. I have, on occasion, been unable to utilize the “tough sh*t” strategy when your 5th grader calls from school saying they left their clarinet/saxophone/violin/something else at home and would it be possible for me to detour my route to work and return home, retrieve said musical instrument and drop it off in the office at school. This morning however was the first time I went grocery shopping for a 7th grader at 6:30 a.m. I suspect it is probably not the last time.

Last night after leaving work early to pick up Bails and Kinz from school, a move necessary because I was consistently unable to get Bails to dance class on time due to tight time windows between school bus drop offs and dance classes, and after shuttling between Bails’ dance class and Rye’s two dance classes, and after picking up Kinz from softball practice, I’m lying on the couch drifting into and out of consciousness. Rye walks up and frantically lets us know that she just remembered she’s supposed to bring the ingredients for cupcakes to school tomorrow for class.

Now listen I don’t have anything against cupcakes. I like chocolate ones. I like vanilla ones. I like cupcakes that are chocolate and vanilla mixed together. They are loosely related to donuts and muffins and can at least attend the same parties as coffee cake. Its all good.

But I’ve literally been out driving around from 3:45 until about 7:45 and have driven past a grocery store at least 13 times. I’m not kidding about this. I looked at the map. I drove right past or was within a mile of a grocery store 13 times. Rye was in the car for at least 4 of those drive-bys. At no time did it pop into her head that she needed stuff for cupcakes. You know what did pop into her head? Telling me how much David Coverdale sucks. That’s what. But she has the steely resolve, I mean the self-absorbed audacity to ask me to drag my backside off the couch in the middle of the best Sweet 16 game of the night and go to the store to get crap for cupcakes. Cupcakes that I’m not even going to get to freaking eat! You don’t lay down some hateful smack about David Coverdale and Whitesnake and go and ask for a cupcake favor. I don’t care if the cupcakes are made out of beer, I’m not doing it. Seriously, though, if they had beer cupcakes I’d totally get the stuff to make those.

I mean I have already initiated the 40something night time total body shutdown sequence. With every passing minute it becomes more difficult for me to form sentences because the muscles that control jaw movement are asleep. Which, as it turns out, must be God’s way of making sure you can’t drop an expletive laced carpet bombing tirade on your kids. Kind of failsafe protocol for parents.

So naturally, we drove to the grocery store before school and picked up white cake mix, white frosting, vegetable oil, egg whites and those foil cupcake cup things. I’m assuming that when I see her this afternoon she’ll smile and let me know that it was all a false alarm and she didn’t really need the stuff for some reason. But that’s way a 13 year-old brain works. It develops at a natural rate until right about 7th grade and then it randomly works, malfunctions, works, shuts down, works and then regresses before finally it begins normal development again after college. It’s a lot like the career of Steven Tyler.

Top Spring 1990 Videos For You to Watch on Youtube:
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Lent is Complicated

Mom is gone this week. Which means my transportation and logistics responsibilities should have at least doubled. But I reserved Grandma’s time for this particular week way back in January. So I’m good. Turns out that Grandma was going to be here anyway. My hometown-in-law is back in the state basketball tournament for fourth straight year. Defending state champs. And Grandma and Grandpa are retired so they’re here all week watching games regardless how their team does. Its not like they have some place to be. Worked out well. Even took the girls and I out to a new Mexican restaurant last night. Mmmmm…

This did, however, bring up an interesting dilemma. Lent. I decided to make it count this year. All foods that are come in some type commercially packaged bag or box. I was targeting chips and cookies. Fritos, pretzels and oreos. That’s what I had in mind. And listen, me not eating any type of snack chip, pretzel or cracker for 40 days is like the President not blaming Boehner for well, everything, for 40 days. Except I ran into some issues.

Most notably was that there a tremendous amount of food that comes in a commercially packaged bag or box. You don’t realize this until you decide not to eat it. It’s like having a discussion of the best movies of 1986 and leaving out Running Scared. You just can’t do it.

So I was forced to develop some loose guidelines. It’s like Lentquestration. But without the media crapping itself over it. Pretty sure Rachel Maddow said zombies have taken over the most of the major airports as a result of the impertinence of House Republicans. Anyway, all chips, pretzels, crackers and cookies that come in a bag or box are out. They are easy to identify. Like liberals at a NASCAR event. Girls pointed out that cereal comes in a box. And some cereals are really like eating cookies. But I eat Fiber One. And that’s not really the same. So that’s an exception. Sort of. Homemade cookies? No box! Loophole. Donuts? That’s easy. Allowed. Unless you buy a bag of Hostess mini-donuts. Disallowed. What about the chips and salsa they give you at Mexican restaurants? Well the chips definitely come in a box. So they need to be out. Salsa is fine by the way.

But what about nachos? Well, turns out everybody needs an escape hatch. Nachos are mine. So they have been deemed permissible. Strangely, I’ve only had them once since Lent began. Turns out I suck at exploiting loopholes.

So I’ve made it this far without eating any deliciously bagged or boxed salty snack chips, pretzels or crackers. And listen, it is freaking amazing how long they last in the house when I’m not eating them. It’s weird and a little bit disconcerting. Like Steve Perry’s hair in the Separate Ways video. I mean I am evidently a voracious consumer of this stuff. But a side effect has been that my pop consumption has spiked.

Giving up pop is not a hill I’m ready to climb. Only so much can be expected of a man.

Oscar and Friends

Anne Hathaway needs to go away. She had a dream? And it came true? What? I can’t be the only person who thinks that utterance was something less than spontaneous. I mean I’m pretty much good if she takes a break from movies. She seems to have ascended to the top of the annoying self important list. Displacing Gwenyth Paltrow. Who succeded a rather entrenched Susan Sarandon. Who pushed out Barbara Streisand.

Did you see the commercial for the Royal Carribean Dancing With the Stars Cruise? Which stars? Because I’m not real interested in going if Pam Anderson, Erin Andrews and Kelly Monaco aren’t going to be there. I’d rather have an NFL Films cruise. Sit in the ballroom watching film with Ron Jaworski, Merril Hoge and Mike Mayock discussing the draft and key NFL games from the past.

Kristin Chenoweth needs to eat a danish. Seriously. A big giant bear claw. And an oversized cinnamon roll. She looks like a muppet.

Daniel Day Lewis is really, really cool. He looks cool. He talks cool. He’s just cool. George Clooney on the other hand exudes arrogance the way Seth McFarland exudes boob jokes. And why is Ben Affleck trying to be George Clooney? He won an Oscar. Shouldn’t he just kinda be good with being himself now?

Mom and Rye watch the interviews on the red carpet like normal people watch College Gameday on Saturday mornings. They give their top 3 best dressed lists and match them up against the hosts’ lists. Um, what? And how do Kristin Chenoweth, Kelly Rowland, Lara Spencer and Robin Roberts end up as the red carpet inteviewers? I’m not ashamed to admit two things in this discussion. One, I had no idea who Lara Spencer was. Two, the only reason I knew who Kristin Chenoweth was that she was a couple episodes of Glee and, well, Mom was kinda addicted to it for a season or two. Anyway, what are the qualifications to be a red carpet interviewer? What was the selection process? Is a there draft of some sort? Who does the drafting? Was there a list? Did a committee put together the list? How is that committee chosen? Because, and I’m just spitballin’ here, they don’t seem like The A-Team when it comes to interviewing. I’m not saying and I’m just saying…

Favorites

So I noticed the girls were having a serious discussion the other day about favorites.  It sounded a lot like when my sisters and I used to do Mad Libs back in the day.  But different.  So maybe it wasn’t like Mad Libs at all.  Anyway, Kinz stapled together 14 Post-It notes.  Each Post-It alternated between a question and that question’s answer.  For example the first question asked you for your favorite TV show.  And she was quizzing Bails, Rye, our neighbor and anybody else who was around.  And well I couldn’t really help myself.  I mean she was essentially conducting an opinion poll and I really like opinion data and I don’t mind at all registering my opinion in said data.  So I engaged.

Favorite TV Show – Kinsey’s answer was Full House.  Yeah, that Full House.  Didn’t really watch the show back in its prime.  I mean how many 19 year-old college dudes are watching Full House?  The ones who probably played Dungeons & Dragons.  Not this guy.  Too busy trying to earn the Beers Around the World t-shirt.  Just by drinking 325 different beers from around the world you get a free t-shirt.  What?  I wasn’t a math major.  Anyway, now that I’m a Dad I have a whole new appreciation for Full House.  This, my friends, is a wonderful show for your daughters to watch.  DVR it and make them watch it.  Do it.  Not kidding.  Enforce it as a house rule.  I didn’t realize it at the time but it’s a late 80’s/early 90’s version of the Brady Bunch.  Excellent lessons and messages are tackled in every episode.  It’s like having an extra parent around.  Who knew John Stamos was a role model and not just a hair model?  All three of the girls are watching the show.  And remember they range in age from 9 to 13.  But my answer wasn’t Full House.  It’s not my favorite show.  But it is my favorite show for the girls.  Mine?  Person of Interest.  It’s got a little bit of LOST in it.  Totally sucked into The Following too.  Also love The New Girl.  But Person of Interest, that’s my favorite.  Well, I mean if you aren’t including the NFL Network’s coverage of the Combine this weekend.

Although I gotta admit I’ve spent most of the last two weeks catching up on The Walking Dead.  Don’t do this.  Not being flippant here.  You can’t watch 15 episodes over 3 days and be the same guy.  This show changes you.  I backed out the garage on Sunday night to pick Bails and Kinz up from softball camp and I was seriously checking for walkers.  I was running through scenarios in my head about how to react if I came upon a herd of them.  Front of the truck needs to be modified with those hedgerow cutters our boys welded onto the fronts of their Shermans back in the Normandy bocage in ’44!

After all those episodes its pretty damn apparent that I am completely and utterly unprepared for the Zombie Apocolypse.  I don’t have the right kind of weapons.  Well, really any weapons of note.  I don’t have any supplies.  Not only would I have to keep Mom and the girls safe but myself too.  That’s five freaking people.  I wouldn’t last the first 48 hours.  Not ashamed to admit that its kind of stressing me out.  I spent ALL DAY at work on Monday thinking about The Walking Dead.  My house has way, way too many entry points that would need to be sealed off and barricaded.  It’s the suburbs so there are terrible sight lines.  There could be a herd of walkers down the street and we wouldn’t even know it.  No natural barriers exist.  And now I can’t keep myself from watching the trailer for World War Z.  Seriously, I gotta stop.

Next question was favorite band.  Kinsey’s?  One Direction.  Boo and boooooo.  Mine?  Close finish but probably Poison.  Def Leppard, Tesla, Guns N’ Roses and AC DC are all close finishers.  Kinda like Rick Springfield a little too.  And Huey Lewis.  Anway, it’s Poison.  Why?  Because they didn’t have any of the political statements or social commentary like all those asshat bands like Green Day.  They just wanted to rock out, drink beers and have a good time.   And when you consider that Poison was at it’s peak between ’88 and ’93 and when you also consider that I was between the ages of 18-23, I think the correlation is pretty clear.

Favorite Animal.  Hmm.  Well Kinsey’s was a dog.  Actually a puppy.  Mine?  Well I have two tied for first place.  Favorite animal 1A is one that isn’t my pet.  Love those animals.  Favorite animal 1B is one that will keep rabbits and chipmunks out of my yard, eat carrion and have the presence of mind not to live in the yard.  Used to be the Siamese cat that lived up the street.  Now it might be the opossum that lives in the neighborhood somewhere.  Both were pretty good enforcers.  Like Jason Statham but with fur.

Favorite Clothing Store.  Kinsey’s is Aeropostale.  I guess that’s fine.  If you’re 10.  And a girl.  Me?  Scheel’s.  Local sporting goods store.  Place has everything.  If it had its own microbrewery, I’d probably sleep in the store room.

Favorite Food.  This is a tough one.  Kinsey was really on target with her choice of donuts.  Can’t go wrong with donuts.  Some folks might go with pizza.  Myself?  Well, I considered a pizza made out of donuts.  But Donut Pizza isn’t really a thing.  Yet.  So naturally you’d move to cheesburgers here.  And I do like cheeseburgers.  But I’m really partial to one pot meals.  Or, in essence, a big pile of stuff I like mixed together.  Which is what nachos are.  Hence their perch atop my list of favorite foods.  Chips?  Good.  Cheese?  Good.  Jalapenos, black beans, onions, salsa, guacamole?  Also good.

Favorite Sport.  Kinsey had gymnastics.  Which I considered a small upset over softball.  But I’d venture a guess that Kinz’ favorite sport sorta moves with the seasons.  Mine does not.  Football.  Now if you were to ask me about my favorite sport to play then the answer would be cricket.  No, I’m kidding.  Cricket?  C’mon man you gotta be smarter than that.  Basketball.  Loved playing basketball.  But a couple of rearrangements to God’s design inside my knee kinda set that aside.  But nothing beats watching football.  Especially the NFL.  I even kinda miss the USFL every year around this time.  College basketball finishes a strong second.

Favorite Color.  Blue.  No, yellooooooooooooow…  Monty Python reference.  Kinsey’s is hot pink.  Not real sure here when it comes to me.  Probably Houston Oiler/Carolina/UCLA blue.  Do like cardinal and gold on Saturdays.  And black and gold on Sundays…

So I guess there you have it.  You’ve gained almost nothing from reading this.  Other than now contemplating how unprepared you are for the impending zombie apocalypse.

It is a superpower…

I know where stuff is. At least within the confines of my house. Nothing is lost. You give me enough time and I find stuff. None of my kids have inherited this. Its infuriating. But maybe that’s a superpower that develops with age. Mom’s superpower is a bit more nebulous. But here is an example. Riley’s room is painted some shade of purple. On one wall is a small design that Mom painted back when Rye was little. It says “Dream” and it has some flowers. She wants it painted over now. No problem. Just need to find the paint can in the basement and hope it hasn’t dried up or worse. All we can find in our old paint cans is a color called Lilac Glacier. If the Titanic had hit a lilac glacier it would probably still be floating. Anyway, we open the can and it appears to be same the color. At least to me. Mom isn’t so sure. So we stir it up and she takes a sample upstairs.

Lilac Glacier, as it turns out, is not the predominant wall color. It’s too dark.

So she sends me downstairs to find the right color. Because I can find anything. After a thorough search reveals nothing, it is decided that we either used all the paint of that color or we threw away the can that revealed the correct color.

So we don’t know what the name of the correct paint color is. But we know it isn’t Lilac Glacier.

She spends a few seconds looking at the small sample that she painted with Lilac Glacier and quickly decides that while Lilac Glacier is in fact the wrong color, the right color is within the same family.

“What you mean like a cousin or a younger sibling?”

We originally bought the paint at Lowe’s and since we have to drop off Kinz and Bails at softball camp, we figured we’d drop by the store. Because Mom is pretty sure about this. So sure that she makes the bold statement that the correct color is two shades lighter than Lilac Glacier which means we just need to find the appropriate color swatch and buy the color two shades lighter.

What. Ever.

Nobody looks at two similar colors on a wall, conducts a scientific color analysis in their brain and correctly comes to the conclusion that the shade is two colors lighter. You need some kind of hypo-electric color analyzer to get that kind of accuracy.

Anyway we head to Lowe’s, Mom gives the paint guy the current wall color and he goes on a quest to find it.

Turns out the Lilac Glacier is discontinued but if we want it, he can mix it. Mom says no thanks BUT what we need is the color that is two shades lighter than Lilac Glacier. He pulls out the color swatch and the color that is exactly two shades lighter than Lilac Glacier is Ice Crystal. He says no problem he’ll mix it up. Mom asks for a sample in case she’s wrong.

“If you’re right about the color I will be seriously impressed. Like Dolphins-Chargers ’81 playoffs impressed when Don Strock came off the bench to throw for like 5 touchdowns and bring the fish back from a 24-0 deficit.”

“You know what, just give me a whole pint, it’s the right color.”

Who is that confident about eyeballing a paint color? Not this guy. You want to know who was in the ’86 Final Four, I can tell you.

Duke, Louisville, LSU and Kansas. Dad’s useless NCAA Tourney knowledge go boom.

But you want me to pick the correct color of the paint on my daughter’s bedroom wall by looking at it, taking a mental picture and then go to the store and match that mental photograph to a color swatch surrounded by a thousand other color swatches? No, I sincerely apologize, but I am unable to complete that task.

We pay for the pint of Ice Crystal and head home. Mom pops open the can, dips a paper towel in it and covers a small spot on the wall.

“HA!”

That, in case you don’t have a Mom translator, is the word she uses when she’s pleased with herself. She grabs a brush and covers the rest of the area she wanted to paint.

“Who is awesome?”

Again, for those of you without the translator, this is the question she asks when she expects, “you are” as the answer.

Seriously, there is no reasonable explanation for her ability to do this. It’s spooky. And weird. But it sure solves a lot of problems.

The Wind Chill and Birth Order

One of the things I found interesting both before and after we had kids are the theories on birth order and the resulting personality traits. For example, Parents Magazine says the first born tends to be reliable, conscientious, cautious, structured and an achiever. The middle kid is a people-pleaser, rebellious, thrives on friendships, has a large social circle and is a peacemaker. The last born is apt to be fun-loving, uncomplicated, manipulative, out-going and an attention-seeker.

All of the first born characteristics listed about can be confidently applied to Rye. She’s all of them. However, I think when you turn 13 your brain starts going through chemical changes and those changes continue for about a decade leading to, more often than not, questionable decision making. Unfortunately for us, this is just beginning with our oldest. This morning its -5 degrees outside as Rye is getting ready to walk to the bus stop. She puts on her winter coat, grabs her backpack and starts for the door. I notice that she’s as prepared for below zero weather as Chuck Hagel is to be Defense Secretary.

“Hey, what the heck are you thinking? Hello? Hat. Gloves. Other assorted military grade polar wear.”

“Hat will mess up my hair.”

“Good strategy. You know what else will mess up your hair? Siberian temps that freeze the moisture inside each strand making it brittle and susceptible to FALLING OFF! Put on a freaking hat.”

“I”ll wear my hood.”

“Fine. Do you have gloves?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you wearing them?”

“I don’t know.”

But she still proceeds to pull out these crappy thin knit gloves. Pretty sure your hands would be cold if it was 75 degrees out and you were wearing these. Her lack of brain activity now apparent, I just hand her some of Mom’s winter gloves and she’s off.

As you may recall Thursday is a big dance practice day. I do a good deal of taxi work. I also made the switch to picking up Kinz and Bails from school instead of having them ride the bus because it buys us an extra 10 minutes or so at home and helps us get to Bails’ dance class on time. Quick note, we have been on time exactly twice. Last week and yesterday. Class started in August by the way. Anyway, it was about 4 degrees outside when I arrived in the parent pickup line outside of school. There are about 15 cars in front of me. I was worried about being a bit late but the line of cars quickly relieved me of any concern. Then I see them. Bailey coming around the corner of the school, face cringed, coat unzipped, no hat, no gloves, backpack in tow. Kinsey in tears. Hat on, gloves on, carrying both backpack and clarinet. She opens the door and instead of unloading her stuff and getting in the car and thereby escaping the brutally cold weather, she immediately begins to scold me.

Talking through her tears she lets me know that I came too late and they were outside shivering. Shivering! I inquire as to why they simply didn’t wait inside the door instead of outside. Kinz explains they did but they came outside earlier to see if I was there and then went back in. So, just to explain, they get out of school at 3:55. They have to go to their lockers, get their winter coats on, grab their stuff and walk to the parent pickup door. I arrived at the school at 4:10. So its gotta take the them at least 5 minutes to get to the door. Than at least a minute to fight their way through the other kids to get outside in a spot where they can view the line of cars. Then another minute or so to get back inside the building to wait until I arrive. It took them less than 15 seconds to walk from the door to my truck. So, just to sum up, they were outside for approximately 2 minutes and 30 seconds.

But she’s in tears. This is typical Kinsey behavior. Typical middle child behavior? Hmm, let’s review. People-pleasing? No, not in this case. Rebellious? Yes, but it doesn’t really pertain here. Thrives on friendship and has a large social circle, both true but not relevant. Peacemaker? Definitely but not real sure how that applies. Prone to exaggerate the effects of cold weather on human skin? Yes, yes she does exhibit that type of behavior. Overly dramatic when she wants to make a point? Yes, yes that is something at which she excels.

I look at Bails with what must have a look of disgust mixed with some astonishment and possibly a bit of indifference. Her response?

“Don’t look at me Dad. I wasn’t crying. Not even that cold.”

Uncomplicated. This is a last born child trait that I am going to reinforce in Bails with every fiber of my being.