Tuesday, October 30, 2007

A Clarification

I've been getting a lot of queries about yesterday's swimming pool post. So, let me try to clear up a few uncertainties and misconceptions.

First, yes, Swimming Pool is available from both Netflix and Blockbuster. In fact, Blockbuster even has the used DVD for sale for just $7.99 for standard riff-raff and $7.19 if you're a vaunted "subscriber". But, just between us, I can point you to a website where we can do a lot better for that kind of money, if you know what I mean. This is really a rental-quality film.

Second, the conversation between Dad and Mom at PF Chang's was purely fictional. I know you people like to think I spend a lot of time transcribing my real life into the blog, but not all my material is autobiographical. Here are some clues that this was a dramatization:
  1. The characters were named "Dad" and "Mom." If it were a factual event from my life, they would have been named, "Me, CherkyB" and "The Mrs.," respectively.
  2. The "Mom" character used the phrase "lunch date". The Mrs. would never use the word "date" for fear that I would, shall we say, expect something.
  3. The "Mom" suggests PF Chang's as someplace nice. The Mrs. would suggest Outback, then after being reminded for the 34 bazillionth time that Outback is not open for lunch, she would suggest Red Robin.
  4. The "Dad" is surprised that the kids are along on the date. The Mrs. has not been separated from The Childrens for a meal with Me, CherkyB since poor DaveyB and MaryB offered to babysit once as a dry run for their own family-building. That was a little over 2 years ago.
  5. The "Dad" remarks about the baggy, olive drab sweatshirt and locker-room gray pants. While this is without question The Mrs.'s favorite wardrobe selection, I've long ago learned not to mention it for fear of triggering a tirade much like that in the story.
  6. During her tirade, the "Mom" notes that "[her] mother was right." In real life, The Mrs.'s mother is quite happy with the selection of Me, CherkyB as a husband for her daughter. And this is not just in comparison to the, uh, questionable choices she has made in husbands for herself, but because I am truly an exceptionally wonderful man.
  7. The rant included the phrases, "f'k you", "you bastard", and "asshole". The Mrs. actually greatly prefers the term "cocksucker" when she's berating me.
So there you have it. Next time, you can use some of the above clues to separate journalistic accounts from dramatizations.

Monday, October 29, 2007

64

The number of ounces of Diet Mountain Dew you have to drink before you pee exactly the same shade of yellow.

Swimming Pool Observations

No, I'm not talking about that dreadful French film that you are thinking about renting because Mr. Skin named it "Best breasts in a foreign film" in 2003. Which it may very well have been, mind you. No, I'm talking about little things that came to mind as I sat in the bleachers during HannahC's swimming lesson this evening. See, I am assigned the task of taking her to swimming on Mondays because MaxieC has a hard time sitting for an hour in bleachers with nothing to do, and because The Mrs. still labors under the misconception that being "The Dad" involves more than just holding down a steady, decently-paying job, and I don't have the heart to tell her otherwise.

I took my laptop to her lesson a couple weeks ago to do the first installment (and only thus far) of Diversity Corner, but this week I did not plan to blog from there. I planned instead to go to Lowe's to return one of the two 300W-equivalent compact fluorescents I bought yesterday. The one that worked for about 10 minutes. For $19, I expect my lightbulbs to last more than 10 minutes. Then, I also planned to hit Liquor Max cuz I was out of vodka (on account of the sudden popularity of the screw yu driver) and white wine.

Turns out that was about 20 minutes total, so I had a while to sit around and observe. As all of you who have blogs (well, those of you have have decent blogs (well, none of you)) know, you can't just sit around and observe anymore. Everything is material. Not having my laptop or any means of writing things down, I had to take notes on the notepad application on my cellphone. This surprised me, as I thought I had a voice memo feature on my phone. I guess that was the previous phone.

So I'm going to cop an Andy Rooney style here. Which means annoying little observations with little underlying theme tying them together. I hope to make Andy Rooney money off of it, but if I'm lucky, I'll make $1.

First off, it is not OK to pound on the window directly behind me when I am playing Asphalt Urban GT 3D on my cellphone because you want to be let in the exit door. The door that is always always always locked and that you can't even see from the parking lot, so the only way you know it is there is because you've been inside the building before, in which case you know it is going to be locked because no one leaves an exit door open that lets you get in to the pool without paying at the entrance, even if you don't have to pay today because it's lesson day.

Then, if I get up to let you in, it is also not OK to say, "I didn't want to interrupt your texting, but I was outside." Finally, all of this becomes especially, wildly not OK if the next thing you do is start talking to your 25-year old son who is sitting literally 4 feet over from me in front of the exact same window doing not a damned thing but sitting, but you didn't decide to bang on the window behind his head.

Oh, and while we're at it, once inside, it is not OK to set your goddamned backpack down in physical contact with me, even more so given that there are a grand total of two people besides you on this two-row, 24 ft-long bleacher, and the OTHER one is your own son. And it's not OK to set your grandchildren down at my feet and not their dad's. And none of this is made "all better" by looking me straight in the eye and shrugging your f'ing shoulders.

I wonder exactly what it is that would motivate a pretty, young woman to have a Playboy Bunny tattooed on the back of her neck. A pretty, young woman with improbably large headlights given the relatively slight frame. If you really are a Playboy Bunny (maybe, maaaybe a "college girls" or "girls next door" edition), does this actually improve your stock to have this tattooed on your neck? And if you're not, how pathetic is it that you put this permanently on your neck? If you're hot, people can tell you're hot without checking the back of your neck. This just says, "trash." You need to set your sights higher. You could have scored a dentist or a podiatrist or maybe even a tax attorney. I mean, this is Fort TomCollins. It's not like there's a lot of competition.

Hey bikini mom in the "mommy'n'me" baby swimming class, everybody hates you. I can see it in their eyes even from up in the balcony. The other moms resent you because you have gotten your flat stomach (mostly) back despite having a 1-yr. old, and the dads are upset because your mere presence costs them untold hours of grief:
[ring ring]

Dad: "Hello?"

Mom: "Hi honey. How about you meet me for a lunch date? I feel like doing something special today!"

Dad: "OK. Where?"

Mom: "Somewhere nice. PF Chang's." [it's Ft. TomCollins - ed.]

[Later]

Dad: "Oh, you brought the kids. How wonderful. And I see you got dressed up in your baggiest olive drab sweatshirt and the matching locker-room gray sweatpants, too!"

Mom: "So maybe you'd like it if I pranced around all day in a bikini like Ms. All-that? 'Oh lookit me, I just sit around all day going to the gym and getting my nails done while the nanny raises my kids. Oh, don't I have the most marvelous flat stomach!' Well f'k you, you bastard. Maybe you should try chasing around after these kids all day long. Or maybe you should have been smarter so you could have gotten a better-paying job and gotten yourself a trophy wife like you always wanted. And maybe a hot nanny too since your trophy wife is a f'king alcoholic because of the sheer boredom of being married to you. And then you can dress her up in diamonds and a slutty cocktail dress and take her out to PF Chang's, where she can show off her big, fake boobs that you paid for for all the other people to look at. Is that what you want? Well, I'm sorry I don't live up to your lofty expectations. Maybe you can go marry Ms. Thang and her bikini, except you probably don't make enough money or have a big enough dick. I can't believe you called me a fat slob! You're such a pig. My mother was right. Asshole. And in front of the kids, too."

Dad: "Uh. I have a meeting during lunch tomorrow."
Save us all the trouble and get a modest one-piece for the mommy'n'me classes. Save the bikini for when you're getting drunk on the speed boat on the weekends. You'll thank me for this the first time little precious gets terrified of "swimming" on her own and lunges out in a panic to grab a hold of the only thing within arms reach. And everyone in the place has a camera on his cellphone.

Speaking of one-pieces, hey teacher in the hot pink one piece, it's now about week 9 of the swimming lesson season. You haven't figured out by now that your bathing suit becomes transparent as soon as it gets wet? Nobody has mentioned it to you? Nobody at all? One of the other teachers, maybe? Have you ever wondered why there are so many dads in your mommy'n'me class? Dads who apparently recognized your Mark Spitz-like mastery of swimming and need lengthy private consults with you at the end of each class to go over exactly how Johnny is progressing?

Newsflash - it's not because Ms. All-that Thang is in the class. If you must wear pink, perhaps you should consider a slightly darker shade. Women just aren't fluorescent hot pink in those areas, I don't care what you've seen on your boyfriend's Hentai DVDs.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Gourdo

Today was the great pumpkin carving day. We decided on today because it was pretty warm and because HannahC has classes that run pretty late on Monday and Tuesday, so we wouldn't have time after today.

MaxieC claimed the largest of the three giant pumpkins from the garden, and he drew up a picture of how he wanted it carved. HannahC was at first livid that he claimed the largest, but she was OK once it was decided that she could have the other two.


We lobotomized the pumpkins out in the yard next to the garden where they grew. This way, we avoided the sticky mess on the kitchen floor we have most years.


To HannahC, everything is a potential gym apparatus.


The Mrs. raked up a pile of leaves for The Childrens to jump in. Unfortunately, she did not clean up the dog poop from the yard first, so when MaxieC jumped in, he landed in a pile of poop. Not to worry, as he had his dog poop cleaner-upper handy.


Now this one is a design study in unrealized potential. See, I saw these two pumpkins sitting on the wagon queued up to be moved to the front porch, and I said to The Mrs., "Go kneel down behind those so I can take a picture."

She started to, then she realized what was going on and said, "No. You do it. If you do it, it's funny. If I do it, it's just trashy."

The Mrs. has absolutely no sense of humor, in case you haven't figured that out already.

So, trying to make lemons out of lemonade, I kneeled down behind these generous orbs, and then I stuck my head between them.

The Mrs., again with the impeccable sense of humor, refused to take the picture. Thus, this crap is all you get. This is what The Mrs. considers "funny."


We had some little dinky pumpkins that were free from some farm field trip I didn't go on. These also got carved up, and the seeds are soaking to be cooked tomorrow. Big giant pumpkin seeds taste terrible.


Here's the porch in "all done" mode. We didn't carve those two medium-sized pumpkins. Six was all we could get through. Maybe tomorrow.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Friday, October 26, 2007

Something Not to Do 13

Let's say, purely hypothetically, that you're on a hike through the mountains with your fambly, and the day is cooling off due to an incoming cold front. You wife happens to say to you, "I'm a little cold."

The correct response, no matter what your finely honed interpersonal relationship skills may tell you, is not, "Ha! A little?"

That would be Something Not to Do.™

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A mish and mash

I know it has been a while since I posted. I normally blog starting about 10pm. But I'm on vacation, you see, and thus by the time I would normally start blogging, I'm too absolutely insane to do anything other than play web sudoku. And maybe have a nightcap or more.

But for some reason, today both Childrens are sitting peacefully watching Cars. So, I sat down and installed the software for our new digital camera, a Canon PowerShot SD850 IS that we picked up at Office Depot on Monday. Office Depot had a great sale on these this week (20% off a very competitive price to begin with - cheaper than anything I found mail-order), so we nabbed one. Only had to go to two Office Depots to find one in stock (the last one). Which is good, cuz there are only two Office Depots around these parts.

It warmed up a whole bunches during the week, so we hit the zoo Tuesday. Here is where I discovered that MaxieC really enjoys his condiments on his hot dogs:


We managed to swing by the bird house in time for the 2:00 bug toss, which is where they give all the kiddies handfuls of meal worms, and then the kiddies toss them to the rainforest birds. The birds weren't all that hungry, but a good time was had by all. All but me. I got pooped on. A big, giant, steaming-hot rainforest bird poop. Luckily, it just hit my arm, so I was able to wash it right off.


Today, it was time for more wacky hi jinx. The Mrs. had been yapping about going for a hike or something the last couple days, so I decided it would be cool to hike up to this local landmark called "Horsetooth Rock" that we can see out our back window. However, when I started to read up on how far a hike it was (5 miles round trip), and how it was pretty steep and involved some bouldering, I decided that my back wasn't in the kind of shape it would need to be to carry MaxieC through all of that. So I found an easier trail in the same park that went to a waterfall and showed up as one of the recommended local hikes for kids. The descriptions were non-committal about whether there would actually be water in the waterfall at this time of year, but whatever. Off we went.


Oh deer.


This spider, which was about 4 inches from tip-to-tip, reared up on its hind legs and scared the living hell out of a girl in the family that was a few hundred yards ahead of us. She was probably 8 or 9. I don't know what kind of spider it was. I'll look it up and get back to you.


Very early on into the hike, HannahC found a rock that she really loved. She carried it with her the entire way. It possibly slowed her down some.


MaxieC needed to climb to the top of every boulder we passed. This drove The Mrs. fabulously insane. It was my job to climb up with him to assure safety. I also tried to teach him how to pose like a true adventurer whenever he was at the summit of a boulder and someone took his picture.


It's possible that my role model for a true adventurer is Captain Morgan, though...

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

MaxieC, Chip off the old Block

MaxieC: "Momma, Momma, do you know what?"

The Mrs.: "What?"

MaxieC: "Your momma."

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Well

At least the house is clean.

Just when you thought schools couldn't get any stupider

Second Grade Student Suspended for Drawing Stick Figure Firing Gun

This, I might add, is what happens when you leave Democrats in charge instead of the grown-ups.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

What comes around

Today after I picked HannahC up from gymnastics and The Mrs. brought MaxieC back from grocery shopping, I happened to mention while we were standing in the garage that I had not completed the yard work during their brief, two hour absence. MaxieC then said he would help me. HannahC asserted, no, she would help me. Then they proceeded to yell at each other a bit.

HannahC hollered, "Don't you understand that I'm the older one, so I'm the one that is big enough to help with the yard work?" MaxieC got angry and ran out of the garage into the front yard. She proceeded to run after him, taunting him about being too small to help.

Then, I heard a splash followed by a whole lot of screaming from HannahC. MaxieC darted across the front of the garage away from the noise. I went out to investigate.

I found HannahC screaming her head off and dripping wet from head to toe.

MaxieC had pushed her into the koi pond.

Let the Suffering Begin

23 hours before the arrival of her mother, and The Mrs. has cranked it into high gear. She's bossing everybody around and huffing and puffing that the house isn't clean. I 'splained to her that her mother already knows she doesn't keep a tidy house, but I just got yelled at for that.

So my role is apparently that of scapegoat. It is my job to watch MaxieC and "keep him busy" while at the same time making more forward progress on cleaning the house in an hour than The Mrs. makes in an entire week, because she can't make forward progress while watching MaxieC.

I better go. I hear growling.

Friday, October 19, 2007

A New Milestone

Fat Camp reached a new milestone yesterday: a new waitress at Lucky Joe's now recognizes us well enough to know what we drink and to not require a credit card to run a tab. This is an important milestone, as the previous waitress that knew us got moved up to bartender recently. While it's always good to have a bartender that knows you, if you don't sit at the bar, it's better if the waitress knows you.

As a result of a funny series of events touched off by this post, we now have a new catch-phrase: "Boom...Muffler!" That post was intended to just be a stupid throwaway filler post with no deeper meaning, but thanks to Bozzetto's dogged determination in searching for deeper meaning where none exists, we've managed to actually laugh so hard that it has brought tears to our eyes.

The beer may have helped, too. But I was still laughing today.

I'm not going to explain the catchphrase, as this is a fambly blog. The answer can be found on the web if you need it. It can be found much more easily than my now defunct super-secret blog. I really recommend you not look for it, though.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

OK, Let me explain

Monday, I was having dinner with the fambly as I always do, and The Mrs. and I somehow got to talking about my craft. About halfway through, she gets this look of revelation on her face and says, "Oooooohhhh! You put Yukon Jack in a screwdriver. That's why you spelled it, 'Y-u'."

So I think to myself, "Self, The Mrs. is the smartest of all your readers, as evidenced by her intelligence in capturing such a great husband. I bet others also did not understand this as well, as is often the case being that your humor is so advanced."

Then, on Tuesday, I happened to be chatting with Rico and Bozzetto. I told the story of The Mrs. and Her Revelation to Rico, who is not a regular blog reader as he spends most of his evenings curled up in a ball with a wine hangover from the one glass he has at dinner or something. As I'm telling the story, Bozzetto goes, "I don't get it. What's a screwdriver?"

Then, he asked me for like the 100th time if there was some other definition of muffler that would make this post funny.

Now, Bozzetto and I work together for the same The Company. He's been there about the same amount of time I have, and he and I are both at the exact same level of advancement within the hierarchy of pay grades and titles. So, either there is great injustice within The Company, or he is considered to be as remarkably intelligent as I am.

For the record, I'm going with the injustice thing. It's also the only thing that explains The JohnnyB.

But, at any rate, here are the only two readers I ever converse with in person, and neither understood the drink title. So I figured I better apologize before all my readers stopped reading cuz they didn't understand my posts anymore.

There you have it.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

A Cherkypology

It's very rare for me to do this, as I am largely infallible, but I am going to issue an official apology today. Here it is:
I apologize profusely for greatly overestimating the intelligence and worldliness of you, my loyal readers. I'm sorry if I made you feel bad or stupid or like a slack-jawed, mouth-breathing bumpkin. It was not my intention. I assumed facts not in evidence, and if that made you uncomfortable, I apologize.
See, in my most recent DrinkPact, I assumed that people would already know what a screwdriver was, and thus I assumed that if I posted a drink recipe that was a screwdriver plus Yukon Jack, people would understand where the name "Screw Yu Driver" came from.

I was wrong to assume that. I am very sorry if I made you feel stupid or moronic or simply idiotic because you did not understand the derivation of "Screw Yu Driver". I often forget what a big bunch of morons, excuse me, a Diverse bunch of readers I have. I will in the future try to dial my cleverness back from 11 down to a more reasonable 4 or 5 so that only about half of you are lost.

You have my heartfelt apologies.

Monday, October 15, 2007

CherkyB, Unlikely Parenting Hero

I was sitting in the hot tub with HannahC tonight while The Mrs. surfed the web and left snarky comments on everyone's blogs. Nobody beats The Mrs. and snarky commenting. Present company excluded, of course.

Anyways, HannahC suddenly jump out of the hot tub and says, "I want to see what that bug is!"

It's a big, giant roly-poly. HannahC then proceeds to wax warmly about all the fun she's going to have with her new pet. After a few minutes of listening to her go on about how she's going to play with it by holding it in her hand and petting it, I say this:
Me, CherkyB: "You know, HannahC, roly-polies don't understand 'playing'. All they understand is 'eat', 'sleep', and 'try not to get eaten'. They don't have brains. It's going to say, 'This isn't eating, this isn't sleeping, I better try not to get eaten.'"

HannahC: "They understand 'pooping,' too."
At this point I pretended to have gotten some spray from the jets in my eye, because I didn't want my daughter to see me cry. Even if they were tears of joy.

Later, inside:
HannahC: "Roly-polies must have brains. Otherwise how could they live?

Me, CherkyB: "Democrats live."

Diversity Corner #1

Welcome, adoring readers, to the very first installment of a new, recurring feature here called Diversity Corner. For those of you who don't remember when I first described it (and, who are we kidding, my readers are by and large not bright enough to remember what they had for breakfast two weeks ago Thursday, much less some casual aside I tossed in to some otherwise-riveting post), I'll lay the foundation for this segment again.

My new building at The Company has bowed to the pressures of the Diversity crowd and has established a "multi-cultural" room at work. As can be expected wherever there is a multi-cultural room, the room is decorated with such things as Islamic prayer rugs, copies of the Koran, and literature about Islam being a religion of peace. To go along with this standard fare, there is also a little bookcase labeled "Diversity Library" that has a shelf labeled "Diversity Reading". One glance at the titles contained in said library lets you know immediately that you are in Colorado, not California. In Colorado, people still think that "diversity" includes diversity of opinions, whereas in California they have given in to the widely-accepted definition that it refers entirely to the race and/or culture of the speaker, and that to achieve "diversity" you must have the one and only one wacko-Marxist "correct" opinion presented continuously by different peoples.

So, amongst the standard leftist group-think drivel in our Diversity Library, one is able to find a few eyebrow-raisers. I am thus going to kick off Diversity Corner with a discussion of one such book. It's a book I have been wanting to read for a long time, but is always checked out of the public library. Imagine, if you will, my excitement at finding Dr. Laura Schlessinger's "The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands" just sitting there on the Diversity shelf!

Now, those of you who know me know that I am a calculating sort. I did not immediately grab the book and run home with it. No, I first had to spend a good deal of time trying to figure out if The Mrs. would consider it a personal affront for me to be in possession of such a book. But, I eventually decided to risk it, in particular because I needed some blog material, and either way we have a winner. I did decide, though, that I would read the book myself despite it being targeted at wives (and therefore womens, despite it being in the Diversity Library) on the pretense that I was trying to make sure that my actions were not unreasonable as a husband. Much like if you could actually get your car to read the owners manual so it would say to itself, "Self, my driver has followed the prescribed maintenance schedule faithfully, my fluids are all within spec, and it's only 25 degrees out. Hmmm... This means I better f'ing start this morning."

Also, because I've given that recommendation to a couple dudes I know, and I wondering if such rot actually works in real life. I always suspected that the womens would see right through it, but that it would establish the level of plausible deniability that is necessary in order to escape punishment. For my part, The Mrs. saw right through it, but not only did she only act with snide derision a couple of times while I was reading it (lamentably predictable stuff like, "Oh, are you planning to get a husband, cuz we could sure use someone to do some housework around here?"), but she also then read it herself. That worked out exactly as I had assured folks in the past that it would.

I am, oddly enough, a relationship guru.

Now, for those of you who have not heard of this book (i.e., the womens in my readership who are deep in denial), this book purports to be a user's manual about husbands. Once you get to reading it you realize, hey, yeah, this is actually a user's manual about husbands. It's amazing how the good Dr. could take a series of anecdotes from her radio show and weave them into a fabric that is dead-nuts on in so many ways. In fact, if there's one great comfort in reading this book as a husband, it's that your wife isn't the big mean ogre you thought she was. She's just a normal wife who never read the manual and is getting by on the advice of her bitter mother, bitter friends, and the odd collections of freaks and weirdos she comes across in the normal course of business. And Russian mail-order brides almost always secretly swipe your money so that they can import their boyfriends from Russia and then divorce you the second they get permanent residency.

OK, that last part wasn't in the book. But it's something topical to keep in mind.

The book is comprised of a total of eight chapters, so it's a pretty quick read. The first couple chapters do an excellent job setting up the theme, and the book finishes quite well. The middle chapters are a bit repetitive, in my opinion, but it could also be that they just didn't speak to me as personally as the others.

I found in this book a remarkably adept description of the transformation from loving wife to completely-child-consumed mother that I have witnessed happen to so many of my dear, dear friends. Sadly, the recommended fix - to put your husband back at the top of the priority list instead of at the bottom - seems to be one that is almost laughably unworkable given that the situation involves a woman.

My favorite chapter is Chapter Six: "What's Sex?"

This [...I wanted him to love me and accept me just the way I was] is not an unusual sentiment for me to hear from women, who express hostility that their husbands would like them to clean up, dress up, and tone up. They act like their husbands are selfish, sex-crazed, superficial, insensitive barbarians, which isn't the case. The, "If they loved me, they wouldn't make a fuss about such things" point of view is simply irresponsible and destructive.

There's a lot more good, naughty stuff in there, but this is a fambly blog.

The Mrs., while she was reading the book (the whole book, not just chapter 6, you perverts), gave me 4 of the happiest days we've had since we had children, so I can say that the advice contained therein is actually useful. Unfortunately, as soon as the book was completed and the cover shut, it evaporated as though it had never happened. Thus, I question the long-term applicability of the advice.

Overall, I give it 4 out of 5 Diversity Stars.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

DrinkPact #2

It has been a while since I have shared my creative energies in the mixology field with you my multitudinous fans. In fact, it has been nearly a year since I posted the one and only entry on the topic.

I started out thinking it would be a good time for a Halloween drink. So, what would make a good Halloween drink? Clearly, there is a whole world of cider drinks already on the books. And the only way to make a drink "scary" is to set it on fire.

As a general rule, I try to avoid drinks that are on fire. Not because I'm afraid of the fire or afraid of anything catching on fire. No, it's because having a fabulous background in engineering and the sciences, I know that the only thing that burns in a drink is the alcohol, and the alcohol is the only reason you made the damn drink in the first place. It's like buying a beer, then pouring the top third of it out on the counter.

So then I got to thinking that maybe I should just do an orange drink. Orange is a nice Halloween color, plus it doubles as an autumn color in case you can't think of a Thanksgiving drink, or in case the Thanksgiving drink starts like this, "Take 3oz of turkey gravy..."

I didn't go quite as adventurous with this one as with Minty Fresh, instead making just a minor modification to an existing favorite by mating it with old friend.

Here is your special CherkyB Halloween concoction:

Screw Yu Driver

6 oz. Orange Juice
1 oz. Vodka
1 oz. Yukon Jack

Mix. Stir. Enjoy.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Make it Quiet

This is the muffler on The Mrs.'s minivan. It makes the van quieter. In theory. To tell you the truth, I've never actually tried the van without the muffler to see if it was any louder.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

One of these things

Is not like the other.
One of these things
Just doesn't belong.

Can you tell me which thing
Is not like the other?
Tell me before my song is done.
And now my song is done.


The Mrs. has a new hiding spot for her stash. She hides it from MaxieC cuz he's an obsessive cleaner. That makes her feel inadequate, so she hides the cleaning stuff and makes him go play outside. It's like we've been blessed by god with the gift of a child who likes to clean, and we are spitting in god's face.

Oddly enough, Sesame Street stopping singing the "doesn't belong" song because they felt it made diversity uncomfortable. I never let my children watch Sesame Street because it was taken over by one world gub'ment socialist pansies. And I never felt particularly uncomfortable despite being a diversity.

Today was a wonderful chest-thumping day. It was a day when I finally, finally got to shoot that new gun I bought back in April. Six months in the safe, sad and lonely, sad and lonely.

See, the Iceman and Tinfoil were going to go sporting clays shooting today, on account of it's almost bird season or Halloween or something, and I weaseled my way in for the trip (never having shot sporting clays). I figured it'd be a good excuse to get to buy a scattergun. But then Tinfoil got sick yesterday. After a whole lot of hemming and hawing by Iceman, we decided to head out to his members-only range in the middle of nowhere to do a little handgunning and high-powered rifle shooting. He also invited Seiborg, who wanted to shoot his slightly newer but at least he used it once .22.

However, the logistics of this are complicated. I work at one of those places where they fire you if you park in the parking lot with a gun in your vehicle. Even an unloaded, field stripped, locked up gun. None of us wants to get fired too terribly, so the choices are to leave the guns at home until you're ready to go, or park on city streets. Unlike any of the previous locations I have worked for The Company, there is actually a city street that allows parking within walking distance to the plant. However, someone at work swears that neighborhood (which is all apartments) is loaded with drug dealers.

Now, I've lived in neighborhoods loaded with drug dealers, and they look nothing like this area. But it stuck in my mind, so I decided to leave the guns at home lest they get ripped off while parked in a drug-dealer infested apartment complex. Everyone else made the same decision.

Then, when the time came to go, neither Ice nor Seiborg were ready. In fact, they delayed roughly two hours. That's the kind of thing that happens when you're single or married with no children. But i was on a strict deadline. Thus, despite packing up the .40 and the .300 Win Mag, I only had 45 minutes of shooting time, so I could only shoot the new .40. The dear moose gun sits another year unused. Year 7. I have not shot it since HannahC was 4 months old, which is the last time The Mrs. allowed me to go hunting.

I got home 6 minutes late, which I didn't think was bad given I was 30 miles away at some place I had never driven back from. It took a little longer to return than it took to get there. I don't know why. The Mrs. appeared to be fuming at my lateness, but then I decided she was just cranky cuz it was late in the day, she was hungry, and she spends all day every day with The Childrens who will literally drive you insane within about 16 hours. Then you just kind of hang on for the ride the next 18 years. I don't think it had anything to do with me.

Tonight, after HannahC did her homework and MaxieC was in bed, I taught HannahC how to field strip and clean the .40. The Mrs. walked in in the middle of the lesson (which took place at the kitchen counter), and told me she now understood why I seemed so unusually animated this evening.

She's not used to me being happy.

Don't worry, though. I'm sure it won't happen again for a long, long time.