Ouch!

I have been building an addition onto the house for....a while now. I have, until yesterday, been injury free. I'm talking about the self inflicted kind. I have a habit of doing bad things to myself, and I have impressed myself with my restraint. Up until last night, that is. I had to put some A35s on the rafters to connect to the ridge beam. They weren't on the drawings, and I have a BIG beam that the ridge beam sits on, and the rafters have birds mouth cuts to follow the profile, but the inspector said to put em in, and he wrote it down, so I had to do it. I waited till it was dusk, and I waited for a hot day, and I waited till the night before the inspection. All big warning signals. It was hot, and dark, and I was sweaty, and I was in a hurry. Oh, and I was perched on the top of a 6ft ladder in a room with an 11.5 foot cathedral ceiling. Smart. I should have my own TV show. Probably cable. One with lots of liability insurance.

I am left handed, so it gets to wield the hammer. It is a strong, agressive hand, and it likes the sound of nails being driven into wood. The right hand is the crazy cousin. For some reason, it always takes a beating. I was swinging the hammer with the left, while the right did that timing thing to hold the hold down in place just until the hammer got there and then let go quickly and scurry to safety. Well, the index finger has been at this for a long time, and knows damn well when to get the hell out, but the middle finger, the defiant one (think hand signals), always takes his time, daring the left hand to do his worst. He did. Bastard. He smacked it on the side so hard it split open, right along the stitch line from when I shattered it while water skiing. (see- accident prone...). It literally split open in a sickening splat sound. I cursed, and of course, the kids heard. And the bolder one acually started calling out the word. "Dad said ****" I had to say it again because it hurt so much. So did the great red bold one.

I made a huge effort not to bleed all over the place, and at the same time not fall off the ladder. That would have been great. I fall, die, and then bleed out through my finger. I can almost see the chalk outline on the plywood, with a big red stain at the finger. Hmm. That might make a great picture. And a great gag. Imagine, twenty years from now, the new owner (assuming the boys don't burn the house down) takes up the flooring to put down carpet and finds that. "WTF! That wasn't in the disclosures......" But that would pique the interest of the inspector, and we want him out of here as soon as possible, becuase the more time he spends here, the more likely he will notice some of the "creative" solutions in play.

BTW I failed the inspection this morning. I did everything that was listed on the notes sheet from the last failure, but this was a different inspector, and he noticed something the other guy didn't. I can live with it, but I want to get this project done with so I can move on to other projects. But first, I have to have a long talk with my hands. Stop hitting each other. Sit still.
Don't break things. Sort of the same things I am always saying to the boys. If you don't hear from me for a while, I was observed having said conversation sans another human being, and have been placed on psych watch. I think it's 72 hours now. Might be a nice to have some alone time, come to think of it.

Remember, in any construction project, you only need one yes. I just hope it doesn't take a thousand nos to get there..... There's a parallel. Construction and dating.

Zen Mom

I took one of those on line surveys this morning after I dropped the little darlings off at school. It turns out I am a "Zen Mom". Whatever. I live here, and I am pretty sure there is little in the way of "Zen" going on here....unless you count "Zending them to their rooms". There were some interesting questions with interesting response choices... What do you do to unwind? One of the choices was " Shopping Spree/Retail Therapy". I guess that shopping is a form of therapy. Hey, the clerk has to listen to you while you are paying, right. Beats tradional therapy by a mile I guess. Sure, there are people who spend countless dollars and countless hours paying someone professional to listen to their problems. In my experience, those folks never get better, they just get poorer, and become dependent on their "therapist". My therapist is at the local cigar shop. He listens to me recount the horrors of my life while I support the hardworking folks in Central America who hand craft the products I sacrifice in small ritual fires. It is cheaper, it feels better, and the smoke keeps the truly annoying away. What more could I ask for? I golf occasionally ( I shot a 143 last outing with my buddy Chris, who did a whole lot of the framing work on the addition while I got bandaids for my various self inflicted injuries), but that takes a lot of time, and time is something in short supply in my life. Besides, in reality, golf is a drug-it has been described as "Crack" for the upper middle class. It's not a sport- it's an activity. Anything that you can do AND smoke and drink while riding in a cart is not a sport. And don't tell me that it is because you are sore the next day. The golf swing is a modified stretching exercise used as preperation for real sports. I am not big on it, but I do get a kick out of playing. It's always a surprise to look up and see where the ball went. For sport I practice Haganah ( Krav Maga, Hisardut, and Gracie style Jui Jitsu) because it feels good to beat up on a sparring partner; and the Catholic in me is very accepting of the punishment that gets inflicted on me.....

Back to the Zen mom thing....Joe had to sleep in our bed last night, because his brother, who he is currently bunking with because his room is not yet finished, has a cold. While cleaning up the mess that follows him everywhere, I found his pants. The pants Mary set out for him. I didn't check to see if he had pants on when I dropped him off- I know, I know, by now I should check everything all the time- because, well, I just assumed he had them on. It's a basic thing, right? Anyway, I am trying to decide if I want to call the school and have them check, or just let it go. If he doesn't have them on, then I am pretty sure the school will call, because he also has a habit of going commando.....see my dilemma? I haven't checked the student handbook, but I am pretty sure that undies are a requirement. They have a thick enough file on us already. I think I'll just do the Zen thing and let it go.

Bowling

They opened a new bowling alley less than a mile from our house. It is not the bowling alley of my youth- this place is PIMP! The lanes are all automated, the scores computed for you, and they even have your ball speed up on the screen for all to see. What more could you ask for? Big screen TVs with sports? Check. Real good sports bar and restaurant? Check. Video arcade- and not one of those cheap closet sized ones, but a real one filled with the latest games? Check. No hot waitresses, though....mostly older, sweaty ex-professional bowler types.

What could be better family fun than to go to the bowling alley? It was one of those “hey, that sounds like a good idea!” moments that, in retrospect, wasn't. Funny, my life is full of those. As it turns out I still suck at bowling. The first game, we all lost to the 5 yr. old. Pretty sad. He was the only one to break 100. Even with his odd style of throwing the ball from over his head (hardwood does indeed dent....), and his incredible ball speed ( less than 4 mph on average), he still cleaned up. He had no clue what he was doing, and no plan for what he would do when it was his turn, and yet, he triumphed. Zen bowling. The boys and I were preoccupied with ball speed. A 20 mph gutterball, while awesome, is NOT better than a strike. One child, who shall remain nameless, actually bowled a strike after falling backwards and landing on his back a ways down the lane, releasing the ball on the backswing (he was, thank god, facing the wrong way at the time). He never saw the shot- and had a melt down even after being told he got a strike, because in baseball, strikes are bad. I promised him I would contact the governing body of bowling and see about a name change for that.....must add that to my to do list.

Anyway, we went on to play two more games- I won one, and Pat won one. The wife sent half her balls in the gutter. I know, there's a great joke in that, but I am not going to go there with a ten foot pole. I am in enough trouble as it is.

“Learnings”

Have the side rails up for the wife.
Keep an eye on the little guy so he doesn't crush his head with the ball.
Make sure the little guy bowls down our lane....
More pizza, more root beer (less beer beer for the little woman).
Nail file for the daughter.
Some sort of guard for the ball return hole so the redhead does not crush his skull clowning around waiting for his ball to pop up by stuffing his head down the hole and pulling it out just before the ball gets there ( "it's OK dad- I can hear it, really! I'm not stupid!").

The countdown game...

Anyone watch "Lost"? You know the countdown game, where they have to enter a number at a certain time, or the world might end? My wife and I play that game. Every day. Every 6 hours, to be exact. Joe needs a set of medications every six hours. He has to have them every six hours because the effectiveness of the medications wears off. Once that happens, the degeneration of his cells starts to accelerate. The meds don't stop the process, but they really hamper it. It's an odd biochemical explanation that I don't care to spew, but it works and so we do it. But the catch is that he needs it every six hours. My wife and I take turns, and on the 6 and the 12, day and night, we medicate him. This has been going on for 4 years now. It's both routine for us, and a maddening ticking time bomb. Like the Lost folks, we won't see any immediate effects, but on the other end of his life, time will be cut away. Time that he won't get back; time we have no count of, and no way to measure, but time none the less. We both absolutely panic when we get close to the time, because given the just in time nature of the medical response to most urgent issues, we want to give him as much slack as possible. Looking at it another way, we want to prolong his life as much as possible, even though we don't know when that is. So I have a real good idea where I will be at midnight. If it's my turn I will be kneeling by his bedside with a cup of water and some nasty smelling pills. If not then I will be sleeping, because if I get to sleep early, then I am responsible for the 6AM meds. Noon and dinner seem to get done without much fanfare. I can count on my hand the times we have missed the mark- not bad for a guy who sometimes puts the trash out on Tuesday for the Thursday AM pickup, huh.

High School Football

I served as chaperone for my daughter and her friends as they attended our local high school football team home game. This means I drove them, attended the game, but did not hang with them (except in the food line, where my presence was tolerated because I have money). I don't mind at all. I love football. I can watch any game, any time. It was a nice feeling to sit in the stands full of kids and know that I had no responsibilities except to not be in the same place as them at the same time. I saw a lot of friends from town, and I got to take in a real good game. Our team won, and it was a convincing win. The kind where the kids who usually don't get to play got to play, even when they made mistakes. They still stayed in, because there was no danger of loosing. That's gotta feel good all around.

The daughter was fine. She didn't even watch the game that I could see. For her it was a big social. All her friends were there, and it was cool to see them all having fun and not getting into any trouble. I envy her this time in life. It is probably the most carefree time she will ever have. Her boyfriend is treating her well, she is doing well in school, she has good friends, and she doesn't have to work. OK, she has chores, but I don't see them getting done on a regular basis- so I don't count that.

When I dropped her off I took the time to enjoy a fine cigar in the parking lot. A lot different than High School when we had to sneak off for that, but times have changed- or rather, time has marched on. All in all it feels good to be alive. All for six bucks. Plus snacks.

A moving experience

The other night I was lying in bed with the wife, basking in the silence of all the children being in bed and asleep, when I farted. It was a strong, manly fart. I was impressed because the force of it made the sleep number bed tremble. My wife did not appreciate it, and let me know of her displeasure. I retorted that it was indeed a good one, and I had raised my hand, as is the custom in my house (Be proud! Take ownership of your work!). She feels we have been married a bit too long if this sort of thing is now acceptable in my mind. Now? When was it not acceptable? Oh, sure, when we first started dating I would make a token effort to mute them, but as any man knows, this always produces some sort of strained facial expression that always gets noticed, and then some long dramatic discussion ensues about my feelings, or her feelings, or some other crap. It's just better to let 'em fly. And raise your hand! Be proud of your work! My wife thinks I am a pig.

Tonite, sitting on the sofa watching TV, she let one go. And then, before she could think about it, she raised her hand. Talk about the influence of environment. She is one of us. Deep down inside, we are all pretty much the same.

Oink.

Family and the blog

My wife was reading this blog last night. She has “concerns” that people might be getting the wrong idea about our family. Let it be said that we are a real happy lot- we just have a greater than average incidence of “incidents”. I for one prefer it that way. What will the normal families talk about at the dinner table twenty years from now? “remember that time when you boys went with mom to pick up your sister at the gym, and you sat quietly in your seats while mom went in and got her from practice?” Dull dull dull. Our conversation would go “remember the time when you boys went with mom to pick up your sister at the gym and when mom went in to get her you boys worked together to start the van, put it in gear, drove across the parking lot and crashed into a car, doing $6000 worth of damage? And how you both scrambled back into your seats so when mom got to the van and opened the door you could pretend to have no clue?” Much better. I can't wait for the boys to bring girls over for dinner- imagine how that will go....”right where you are sitting, in that very chair, my son, your charming boyfriend, set fire to the kitchen towel. He held it over his head, basking in the glow, right up to the point where he realized that he had a flaming towel over his head, and he had no plan for it”. The girl will probably coo and say “how cute!”. She will have no idea what she will be in for. And we won't tell her. We need to preserve the boy's marketability.

My daughter's boyfriend (we will call him X to protect his identity) actually enjoys coming over to our house. He is an only child, so the activity level of our house is new and exciting to him. He likes the family interaction. Little miss attitude is mortified. Poor girl. It will only get worse. Once the boys really grasp the impact their buffoonery has on her and her “relationships”, you can bet your a** they will crank it up. Yay for her.

Oh, and she wants more about her. What's with women? It's always about them. More press for the princess. A request she may soon regret. “I'll put the investigative reporting team right on it honey”.

That one won't be moving out within the normal timeframe

The big blond twin has found a new skill. He tends to practice it in the evening after everyone has showered and we are all enjoying quiet time watching TV before bed. Quiet time is a relative term for us; I mean quieter than what it usually is around here.

He gets down on all fours like a dog and swings his head back and forth, increasing in speed and intensity until he makes one final great heave, throwing his big round head off to the side and behind him with such force that he actually picks the rest of him off the ground and spins himself in place like some sort of mad dog chasing his tail. He always lands with a crash, because he throws himself with such exuberance that he is just a little bit out of control.

My great big blond Labrador lap kid. He will be lying on the floor at my feet when I am in a home for aged lunatic fathers. If only he could fetch.....

Banned from The Outback

Went to Outback restaurant to celebrate my birthday. Brought all the hooligans. We have a policy of going to eat before the crowds so that we have fewer people who can disapprove of whatever it is that will happen. This was one of those rare occasions when we didn't get our act together to get out early enough. I had that sinking feeling while I was driving to the restaurant, but we were already on the road...what was I supposed to do...

First, let me relate the positives. Connor chose vegetables over french fries (“Aussie Chips”...cheeky dipsticks...). It would be our one triumph of good parenting. Damn we were smug. OK. That's it for the positives.

Negatives....hmm, where to begin. They give everyone steak knives. REAL steak knives. Kids who like movies about castles and knights should not be given knives such as these. Use your imagination. Not a good parenting triumph. Ordering food. It is standard practice in our family for everyone to talk at the waitress at the same time. Raising your voice helps. Yelling really helps. Helps to get a second wait person (funny, it's always some big guy...) assigned to the table. Bread and butter. Bread was used by the ancients as a weapon to ward off evil and sometimes, evil twins. Times have not changed for us. As a table we tend to go through a LOT of bread. Around this time the busboy starts hanging around our table.

It has been said that I am the instigator of many of the events that occur around our family. I am simply trying to help in the development of my children's super powers. Who's to say that Pat's ability to flare his nostrils incredibly wide will not one day save the world (it's SO cool- I should take a picture of it and post it...I never get tired of seeing it. It's so damn funny). My daughter can throw both of her hips out of joint at the same time. She has used this skill to get out of class (...uh, Mr.XXXXX, I think I need to go to the office and see the nurse....) She says the boys are fascinated. THAT will be an uncomfortable explanation I'll have to make to her....probably just gonna let it slide. I have admonished her to only use her powers for good, but development takes time. Anyway, progress on the development of these powers (and others) always seems to get reviewed in restaurants. Did you know that some kids can stuff both their hands into their mouth at the same time, and still make milk come out the nose? Oh yes, it's true! It's worth it just to see the look on my wife's face. These powers do tend to make us look unusual. People fear those who are different; that's all I'm saying...

We managed to make it to the entree. After a while a quiet came over the table. It allowed us to hear a ruckus going on across the restaurant. Mary and I both looked at each other with that smug “ thank god that's not our children” look. A quick glance around the table showed three chairs empty. Chairs that should have had boys in them. Upon closer scrutiny, the voices from across the room had familiar elements. Like names. I, the model of discreetness, ran across the place just in time to see one twin plant a right cross on the other (they are taking lessons....). They were in the bar. Honey, get the camera! It's the boy's first bar fight! Lucky me. Most parents don't get to see this until their kids go off to college, but I, the raiser of two boys WAY outside the second standard deviation, get to see it shortly after their ninth birthday. And, as an added bonus, I got to break up their first bar fight. One for the scrap book. For the record, all the men in the bar looked at me with a level of respect and fear usually only reserved for prizefighters and nuns. “Now that guy knows how to raise boys!” Damn straight! They can come testify at my trial. Character witness for the defense.

We won't (can't) go back there.