If you want to have a seat at Christmas Eve Mass you better get there a half an hour early. And since we are usually half an hour late to regular Sunday mass, GreatMom shoots for an hour early. Some years we make it just in time to sit in the cry room or stand in the back of church. This year OurDad painted himself as the hero who got us to church in time to grab the last four seats.
We got to sit, in church, for Christmas mass, and all because be didn't waste time messing around with the shoe polish. "We're in a hurry. Who needs shoe polish when you've got a Sharpie pen". Oh God can OurDad embarrass us. At least he didn't whip out that black Sharpie to unscuff his wingtips during mass.
However, we were able to make the best of it because Christmas mass is one of those extraordinary events that allows the BoyChild and I to see people even more embarrassing than OurDad. Christmas mass is like a county fair or the airport, full of freaks you'll never see again.
This year was no disappointment.
There were two women who apperentyly thought that fishnets were the new Christmas stocking. And what's with the earth tones, for Christmas? You can't work something out with red, green, blue, silver, and gold? Blue yes, blue jeans no, but if you must, make it your good pair that doesn't have a hole in the knee. And then there was the the lady that froze out half the church out by opening the door over and over. I'm really sorry you had hot flashes on Christmas.
We may not be safe from Duct Tap and Sharpie pens, but we can get through the holidays because Christmas mass shows us there are people even worse than OurDad.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Could OurDad be a Pedophile like James Perry?
Yesterday OurDad said something disturbing, “My pee is radioactive.” I just don’t think my brother and I should be exposed to such cryptoeroticism, and it made me wonder what other weirdness we’ve been exposed to throughout our young lives. Then I read today’s Detroit Free Press article on the conviction of James Perry for molesting children.
The evidence against Mr. Perry is shocking, and even more shocking are the similarities to OurDad!
Perry is a teacher. OurDad is a teacher.
Perry has hundreds of pictures of children in his house. OurDad has hundreds of pictures of children in our house.
Perry has videotaped children. OurDad has videotaped children.
Perry had hundreds of children’s films like The Lion King, or Harry Potter. We have those same movies. We have more kid’s videos and DVD’s at our house than I can count.
Experts quoted in the Free Press article stated that pedophiles often become teachers, scout leaders or coaches to get closer to their victims. OurDad is all three! He coaches the BoyChild’s soccer team, and he’s the leader of the BoyChild’s Cub Scout den.
Perry has been warned not to sit children on his lap. We have sat in OurDad’s lap like a gazillion times.
Perry lived next door to a school. We live close to our school.
I know that pedophiles are adults that like to do weird sex things to boys and girls. OurDad is always doing weird stuff, but I’m not sure if it’s sexy though. Maybe if someone coached me I’d get it right. Now that I think of it OurDad has seen us naked. In fact, and the BoyChild confirmed this, he wasted no time and peered at our exposed naked bodies. He saw us naked on the very day we were born.
I’m really scared, please someone tell me, Do you think OurDad is a pedophile?
Monday, December 18, 2006
They Pay him for This? or A Day off from School...
At some time before 5 am on Monday morning someone, or someones, executed a flawless plan to relive the Monday morning blues for the entire WoundTight School District. They let the air out of the tires of all 50-some-odd school buses. Hoooray, you Jerks! I had to spend the entire day with OurDad at the old CC. The GirlChild had a friend call this morning so she had a play date all day. Does OurDad call anyone for me. Noooo. Some such and such about, “We don’t just invite ourselves over, bla, bla, bla.”
I think he just wants me to see the college atmosphere. I’m Ten, give it a break already. Ok so we get to the old CC and I find out what he does all day-- Nothing! No-things-at-all! I mean it. He walks into class and hands out a test, and he just sits there and reads a book. And he complains about adjunct pay?! I brought books today too, two of them. And I finished them both so why don’t they pay me? Look I know OurDad’s salary helps pay for a few things around the house, but after what I saw today... I’ve gotta be objective. I don't know what they are paying him for. What he’s complaining about? He’s making a killing. Look, he teaches two classes and I saw him “teach” both of them today. He did nothing! For the love of god some one has to stop the madness and cut adjunct pay or OurDad will never go find a real job.
Eragon Stinks
The movie that is. Ok OurDad was right, but he’s the one who hyped the whole thing in the first place. Our Family loves the Eragon story, even the GirlChild. We’ve all listen to the audio version in the car a couple of times, and GreatMom and I have read the books one and two.
(Warning, don’t get OurDad started on audio books. He’ll go on and on about how he doubles his reading in the car. At least he’s not trying to write while he’s driving, yet.)
Anyway he got everyone all excited about the movie version. He actually started a “This Many Days to Eragon” count down on the family marker board. But then as the day approached he starts warning us about screen adaptations. “How do you turn a 544 page book into a movie?” “You Don’t! I don’tr want you kids getting your hopes, it’s gonna stink.”
Ok the right characters were in it, but that’s about it. Even the Dragon, Saphira, looks wrong. Did the animators even read the book, leathery not feathery. The whole movie turned into a game with each of us racing to see who’d say, “wrong”, whenever the script went awry of the book. OurDad got a little carried away keeping score and all, but I think the people that came in the theater with the flashlights distracted him. From then on we just hummed uha uha to each other.
Even GreatMom said, “Did Paolini approve of the script?” But OurDad was leading the critique as usual: editing this, voice-over that, plot lines, character development, I warned you guys, bla, bla, bla.
After an hour or so of Eragon (the Movie) bashing it hit me: OurDad hyped the whole thing back in November only to shift gears at the last moment so he could tell us he told us so. And boy did he tell us so.
That’s OurDad
Sorry Christopher, but the movie version isn’t going to boost book sales, but we’re still looking forward to the next book.
Really when's the last time you saw a good movie that was a book first? No The Lord of the Rings doesn't count.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Ten Bucks?! But I already paid for that!
Apparently someone at the old CC isn’t sure OurDad actually graduated from anywhere, and they are demanding official transcripts from both of the schools he claims to have attended. The GirlChild and I love OurDad’s sense for loopholes, but GreatMom told him to, “Put those diplomas back on the wall”.
Defeated again by GreatMom’s over overruling sense of “things you just don’t do” OurDad got on the Internet, the solution to all problems, and soon Great Mom was wishing she’d let him drag the diplomas, frame-in-all, down to the old CC.
“Ten Buck for a transcript?! Ten stinkin’ dollars! What the hell was all that tuition for at MooCow U.” Hick State doesn’t charge a dime for transcripts, and that’s where I got my Ph. D. Lucky I don’t have a whole bunch of jobs or we go broke just trying to prove I gradated.” He was so mad he called the registrar’s office at MooCow U not to complain, but to ask how much a replacement diploma costs--$30.
GreatMom threatened to revoke his phone privileges and told him to quit making a federal case of it, and just order the transcripts like every one else.
“For ten bucks a shot I otta just fold up my diploma and carry it around in my wallet.”
We’re still not sure if he’s teaching next semester or not. God help us if he’s home all day by himself.
That’s OurDadThe Tattletale Loophole or Revenge is a Dish Best Served by Dad
Ourdad and great Mom are always pester the BoyChild and me to learn every detail of our day. News Flash: we don’t want to tell you every thing we do, and we don’t even remember most of it. We told you: School is, except recess, booooring. However, today I let OurDad know all about it: See the boys in my class are mean especially one named K. They push you and grab you and pull you. OurDad actually said I could push back, but if I do K will tell on me and I’ll get in trouble. I hate him, and I’m not allowed to use that word. I wanna hit him, but if I do that I’ll get in trouble. I’m not gunna tell the teacher, because they don’t like tattletales. OurDad calls it a lose, lose or lose situation. I told him the whole thing; I was so mad I was crying!
And then OurDad said something brilliant, “What do you want me to do, email Mrs. F (that’s my teacher) and tell her what a bad boy K was, and that she should beat him.” “Yes!” It was great. I couldn’t believe he would something like this for me. Then he lunched into yet another rant about sarcasm, and gullibility, bla bla bla. I knew my teacher wasn’t about to beat K even if he deserved it, but ourDad had stumbled upon a great loophole. If he told on K I wasn’t the tattletale. I repeated my story heightening every detail of K’s brutal attacks on girls and his uncanny ability to know just when a teacher’s head is turned or when the principal is coming. When a teacher is looking he just pretends to be a nice; he is bad.
OurDad soaked it all in. He listened to every word, asked questions and made positive declarations and gave me exasperated looks. I was sure K would suffer. The letter OurDad would craft would have K parents in the office the very next day to discuss terms of his expulsion. My problems were solved, no tattling, no fighting, and no more K. But then I had to settle for the following email to Mrs. F. He actually cced me to prove he’d sent it.
Dear Mrs. F.
My daughter is frustrated with the social stratification among her classmates, which appears to fall along gender lines. I’m bringing this to your attention because apparently it only rears its ugly head when yours is turned due to the evident supernatural powers of at least one boy in the class. Thus allowing the boys, free reign to push, shove and grab my daughter and other girls. I think it’s a girls will be girls and boys will be boys issue, and I'm not too worried. In fact I'd chalk it up to dramatics. "I don't want to be a tattletale, but this is really getting to be a problem," she said. I’m not sure if my telling you the sorted details of third–grade politics clears her of tattletale status, or if that distinction has now fallen upon me. Please let me know where you stand on the assignment of the tattletale condition so that we can avoid any such emails in the future.
Sincerely ,
SourDad
PS
If you could let her know that you got an email from me I'm sure that will make her feel much better.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Four Legs Good, Star Wars Baaaaad
Boy child here: Newsflash, I have all the reading material I will ever need, thanks to the extensive network of authors working in cooperation with Lucasfilm Ltd. Sure I’ll read the last Harry Potter and Eragon books too, but I’m not waiting around for those to come out. I love the Star Wars books, there’s Jude Watson’s Jedi Quest series, Elizabeth Hand’s Boba Fett series, the Jedi Apprentice books, and the Last of the Jedi books, there’s books set between the movies, and even before the movies start and end. There’s too many to count, it’s amazing. You should read them!
But at our house they’re practically banned books. “How can’t expect to become president some day if all you’ve ever read is this Star Wars stuff,” says OurDad. I have to hide this Lucas limited contraband in my backpack, and I’m forced to read it in the dark with a flashlight. Can’t a kid be a kid? It’s bad enough that we have to listen to all his Lit land books on tape whenever we are in the car with him. Oh the curse words the Girl Child and I hear. I’ve tried reading his recommendations but they are booooring, and now he’s insisting I read some book about animals that take over the farm. I got as far as the singing sheep and I couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe if they had laser cannons it would be more fun.
“You can’t do any more book reports on Star Wars”, he says.
I don’t care if the animal book is short, I don’t want to read it or the book about king of the flies, or the pearl thing or the one about the pony, and please no biographies real people are boring.
So what’s a kid to read?
God help me if he wants me to read the special issue of Witness on Exile in America that just came in the mail today.
That’s our Dad
But at our house they’re practically banned books. “How can’t expect to become president some day if all you’ve ever read is this Star Wars stuff,” says OurDad. I have to hide this Lucas limited contraband in my backpack, and I’m forced to read it in the dark with a flashlight. Can’t a kid be a kid? It’s bad enough that we have to listen to all his Lit land books on tape whenever we are in the car with him. Oh the curse words the Girl Child and I hear. I’ve tried reading his recommendations but they are booooring, and now he’s insisting I read some book about animals that take over the farm. I got as far as the singing sheep and I couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe if they had laser cannons it would be more fun.
“You can’t do any more book reports on Star Wars”, he says.
I don’t care if the animal book is short, I don’t want to read it or the book about king of the flies, or the pearl thing or the one about the pony, and please no biographies real people are boring.
So what’s a kid to read?
God help me if he wants me to read the special issue of Witness on Exile in America that just came in the mail today.
That’s our Dad
We're Back
The Girl child and I got away from the blogging thing, and we’re actually sorry. We stopped for lots of reasons: First of all we thought we’d get caught, but now we think Great Mom has a bit more of a sense of humor than we give her credit for, and so what if we spell out some of OurDad’s frustrations at the old CC he might actually get a real job if he got fired. Our second excuse: We were too busy or maybe we just were being too creative with the posts so we are going to take it easy on ourselves. Our new blog motto: More posts, less quality.
Wow, Boy Child how “Jerry Maguire” of you, but he’s got a point, with no entries there’s no quality. When we think back on all the things we didn’t blog over the summer and the first half of the school year we were really bummed that we didn’t get them blogged, there was our trip Camp Grandma Gandpa Gandma Grandpa all by ourselves, and OurDad’s beating all his teammates a the big race up north, loosing soccer seasons, the great homework blowout of 2006, how about OurDad's daily rants against the war and president Bush, the democratic takeover, his never ending book recommendations and too many more. The mere fact that we can’t remember it all was proof enough we needed to ease off the home work and get back to blogging because he is still driving us crazy, just don’t tell GreatMom or OurDad.
Wow, Boy Child how “Jerry Maguire” of you, but he’s got a point, with no entries there’s no quality. When we think back on all the things we didn’t blog over the summer and the first half of the school year we were really bummed that we didn’t get them blogged, there was our trip Camp Grandma Gandpa Gandma Grandpa all by ourselves, and OurDad’s beating all his teammates a the big race up north, loosing soccer seasons, the great homework blowout of 2006, how about OurDad's daily rants against the war and president Bush, the democratic takeover, his never ending book recommendations and too many more. The mere fact that we can’t remember it all was proof enough we needed to ease off the home work and get back to blogging because he is still driving us crazy, just don’t tell GreatMom or OurDad.
Friday, May 12, 2006
I Don’t Believe in... or It’s Just a Story
Yesterday OurDad made me cry. He said I was killing fairies, and he wouldn’t stop.
I was trying to get ready for school, and I couldn’t find the bookmark for my book called The Trouble with Tink. You know, Tinkerbell. I like Tink, but she is a fictional character.
“Maybe Tink stole it, she is a sneaky fairy”, OurDad said. All I wanted was help finding my bookmark, but as with all things to do with books OurDad has to analyze it to death, or point out the “true meaning” or worse play up some theme.
“Tink didn’t steal my bookmark because she isn’t real.”
“Ohhhh,” cried OurDad clutching his chest like he was having another coronary, “don’t say that! You know what happens every time you say that.”
“Stop it. I can’t find my bookmark. You probably stole it. Fairies aren’t real,” I said still leafing through the pages of The Trouble with Tink looking or the bookmark.
“Ohhhh,” he cried again now dropping to his knees and still clutching his chest, “I order you to stop killing fairies.”
“No you stop!” I said back and opened my backpack to look for it in there. There are no such thing as FAIRIES!”
Now OurDad stood up and pretended to be angry. “You stop that right now or there won’t be any Tink to read about.”
“I just want my bookmark before I miss the bus, and I don’t believe in fairies.
He clutched his chest again, “Ahhhh, don’t say that, he cried in totally fake agony. Then I let him have with a chorus of I don’t believe in fairies. I don’t believe in fairies.” He writhed in agony, and I thought, my, that rolls of the tongue so smoothly like someone really thought it out like a poem or a song.
Then he stood back up towering above me and roared “STOP KILLING FAIRIES!” He was jabbing his finger at me. He was so mad and for real. I dropped my backpack and it spilled on the floor, and out poured papers and pencils I hadn’t seen before.
“But fairies aren’t real,” I whimpered, my eyes getting all watery. He didn’t have to yell at me.
“AHHH There goes another one. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, and if the man who created Sherlock Holmes believed in fairies that should be good enough for you.” I started going through the things on the floor, but I still didn’t find the bookmark.
“Dad, please stop it,” I asked. “They’re just stories,” I said as I put the Trouble with Tink into my backpack.
“Oh so just because they are in stories you don’t believe in them. Fine go ahead kill them, but first think about a world with no Tinkerbell or no Captain Holly Short. Two strong female characters, actually they are the same character. You should admire them, but no, you’re trying to kill them.”
“Dad, They are just stories.”
“Oh, so now you don’t believe in stories”
“No, I just don’t believe in—“
“Don’t say it! Don’t you get it fairies are the hope, and dreams of magic and miracles and mysteries,” he said waiving his arms around like he was trying to do magic himself.
“Dad, they don’t even want us to know they exist.”
“That’s because you’re trying to kill them.”
Just then I heard a rumbling and colossal bouncing coming up our potholed street. “Dad! My bus!” I screemed slinging my backpack over both shoulders and running for the door.
He stood at the door behind me waving as I ran down the street to my bus stop and said, “have a good day sweetie, and please don’t kill anymore fairies.”
“I won’t," I yelled back.
I still haven’t found my bookmark and I’ll have to start reading Tink from the beginning again, and I almost missed the bus all because he wanted to argue about fairies.
That’s OurDad.
I was trying to get ready for school, and I couldn’t find the bookmark for my book called The Trouble with Tink. You know, Tinkerbell. I like Tink, but she is a fictional character.
“Maybe Tink stole it, she is a sneaky fairy”, OurDad said. All I wanted was help finding my bookmark, but as with all things to do with books OurDad has to analyze it to death, or point out the “true meaning” or worse play up some theme.
“Tink didn’t steal my bookmark because she isn’t real.”
“Ohhhh,” cried OurDad clutching his chest like he was having another coronary, “don’t say that! You know what happens every time you say that.”
“Stop it. I can’t find my bookmark. You probably stole it. Fairies aren’t real,” I said still leafing through the pages of The Trouble with Tink looking or the bookmark.
“Ohhhh,” he cried again now dropping to his knees and still clutching his chest, “I order you to stop killing fairies.”
“No you stop!” I said back and opened my backpack to look for it in there. There are no such thing as FAIRIES!”
Now OurDad stood up and pretended to be angry. “You stop that right now or there won’t be any Tink to read about.”
“I just want my bookmark before I miss the bus, and I don’t believe in fairies.
He clutched his chest again, “Ahhhh, don’t say that, he cried in totally fake agony. Then I let him have with a chorus of I don’t believe in fairies. I don’t believe in fairies.” He writhed in agony, and I thought, my, that rolls of the tongue so smoothly like someone really thought it out like a poem or a song.
Then he stood back up towering above me and roared “STOP KILLING FAIRIES!” He was jabbing his finger at me. He was so mad and for real. I dropped my backpack and it spilled on the floor, and out poured papers and pencils I hadn’t seen before.
“But fairies aren’t real,” I whimpered, my eyes getting all watery. He didn’t have to yell at me.
“AHHH There goes another one. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, and if the man who created Sherlock Holmes believed in fairies that should be good enough for you.” I started going through the things on the floor, but I still didn’t find the bookmark.
“Dad, please stop it,” I asked. “They’re just stories,” I said as I put the Trouble with Tink into my backpack.
“Oh so just because they are in stories you don’t believe in them. Fine go ahead kill them, but first think about a world with no Tinkerbell or no Captain Holly Short. Two strong female characters, actually they are the same character. You should admire them, but no, you’re trying to kill them.”
“Dad, They are just stories.”
“Oh, so now you don’t believe in stories”
“No, I just don’t believe in—“
“Don’t say it! Don’t you get it fairies are the hope, and dreams of magic and miracles and mysteries,” he said waiving his arms around like he was trying to do magic himself.
“Dad, they don’t even want us to know they exist.”
“That’s because you’re trying to kill them.”
Just then I heard a rumbling and colossal bouncing coming up our potholed street. “Dad! My bus!” I screemed slinging my backpack over both shoulders and running for the door.
He stood at the door behind me waving as I ran down the street to my bus stop and said, “have a good day sweetie, and please don’t kill anymore fairies.”
“I won’t," I yelled back.
I still haven’t found my bookmark and I’ll have to start reading Tink from the beginning again, and I almost missed the bus all because he wanted to argue about fairies.
That’s OurDad.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Cinco de Mayo
In our house we are very serious about our language. No, not English. I mean swear words. If some one says the S word they get a warning, even OurDad. Same for the D word. “Stupid and Dumb are mean and hurtful words.” However, they do sometimes apply like on Friday night. We usually go out to eat on Friday nights, and everyone takes turns choosing where we go. But some choices are just stupid, and it’s dumb that we can’t go to MacDonald’s or Burger King on Friday nights. Well, this Friday it was Cinco de Mayo, and OurDad insisted on eating Mexican. We argued, and I got in trouble for saying it was stupid to celebrate Mexican Independence in America, ok the US. But it is stupid.
When we go to the restaurant, the one where the authentic Mexican band sings Ole Ole a lot, it was packed. We were saved we thought. There were people shoulder to shoulder on the deck and cars parked across the street in a vacant lot. Great Mom started to crack, “it doesn’t look like Mexican was such a great idea, hun.” Dhuu, it was OurDad’s idea, and it’s Cinco de Mayo.
OurDad insisted, “I’ll just run in and see how long a wait to get a table.” With the place looking totally packed Great Mom figured it was safe and let him go. We weren’t so sure. You have to understand that if OurDad wants to eat somewhere he’d wait till we all starve for a table. A hostess could tell him 45 minutes, and he’s come back to the car saying, “lets go, they can seat us right away.”
“We’re really hungry, now.” the Boy Child and I claimed hoping Great mom would take our side. No luck he was gone. This place was bursting with bodies, and Great Mom thought we were safe from even OurDad’s determination.
When OurDad came back claiming, “hey we’re next on the list.” I thought it was a clever new lie, and I couldn’t believe Great Mom fell for it, but he was telling to truth. The place was packed, but they had a table for us because it was packed with people standing around the bar getting drunk. It was horrible, and I couldn’t believe Great Mom would do this to us. It was the loudest place I have ever been in. Every one was talking, and that Mexican band was playing, Ole Ole over and over. People were even smoking, which makes the Boy Child nearly sick. “We don’t want to eat here,” we screamed, but Great Mom couldn’t hear us. The chips came and even the Boy Child abandoned me, they all stuffed their faces till the food came. I think their chips are stupid.
It was so packed with drunk people they were bumping into us and dancing everywhere when the band played. I don’t know what was wrong with these grownups, but Great Mom and OurDad seemed to think it was just great. Then OurDad tried to get me to Dance, I screamed, “NO WAAAY,” as loud as I could.
When we finally finished eating and got up to leave we had to push our way through stumbling adults to the door. Once we were out on the deck the smoke was gone and we could breath again. The blasting noise and music were gone and I could hear again. There were just a few men left in the chilled air on the deck arguing about birds.
“I don’t give a Fuck about the regular season, the Red Wings are Assholes during the playoffs.
That made up for the whole night. When we got to the car I said, “I heard the F word, and the A word. The real ones!”
It’s not exactly family night on Cinco de Mayo.
That’s OurDad
When we go to the restaurant, the one where the authentic Mexican band sings Ole Ole a lot, it was packed. We were saved we thought. There were people shoulder to shoulder on the deck and cars parked across the street in a vacant lot. Great Mom started to crack, “it doesn’t look like Mexican was such a great idea, hun.” Dhuu, it was OurDad’s idea, and it’s Cinco de Mayo.
OurDad insisted, “I’ll just run in and see how long a wait to get a table.” With the place looking totally packed Great Mom figured it was safe and let him go. We weren’t so sure. You have to understand that if OurDad wants to eat somewhere he’d wait till we all starve for a table. A hostess could tell him 45 minutes, and he’s come back to the car saying, “lets go, they can seat us right away.”
“We’re really hungry, now.” the Boy Child and I claimed hoping Great mom would take our side. No luck he was gone. This place was bursting with bodies, and Great Mom thought we were safe from even OurDad’s determination.
When OurDad came back claiming, “hey we’re next on the list.” I thought it was a clever new lie, and I couldn’t believe Great Mom fell for it, but he was telling to truth. The place was packed, but they had a table for us because it was packed with people standing around the bar getting drunk. It was horrible, and I couldn’t believe Great Mom would do this to us. It was the loudest place I have ever been in. Every one was talking, and that Mexican band was playing, Ole Ole over and over. People were even smoking, which makes the Boy Child nearly sick. “We don’t want to eat here,” we screamed, but Great Mom couldn’t hear us. The chips came and even the Boy Child abandoned me, they all stuffed their faces till the food came. I think their chips are stupid.
It was so packed with drunk people they were bumping into us and dancing everywhere when the band played. I don’t know what was wrong with these grownups, but Great Mom and OurDad seemed to think it was just great. Then OurDad tried to get me to Dance, I screamed, “NO WAAAY,” as loud as I could.
When we finally finished eating and got up to leave we had to push our way through stumbling adults to the door. Once we were out on the deck the smoke was gone and we could breath again. The blasting noise and music were gone and I could hear again. There were just a few men left in the chilled air on the deck arguing about birds.
“I don’t give a Fuck about the regular season, the Red Wings are Assholes during the playoffs.
That made up for the whole night. When we got to the car I said, “I heard the F word, and the A word. The real ones!”
It’s not exactly family night on Cinco de Mayo.
That’s OurDad
Busted
Busted
Sorry about they delay, but OurDad's in-laws were in town. Hiding this blog from Great Mom is one thing, but with Grandma and Grandpa, and Great Grandma here--not a chance.
OurDad is a cyclist, and Great Mom, well let’s say she likes things on the safe side. Between the two of them I can't believe were allowed out of the house without body armor. Anyway, OurDad is a huge helmet proponent. “You never ride with out a helmet!” I could go on with his descriptions of closed head trauma, but it makes me feel nauseous just to think about it. Needless to say, The Girl Child and I always wear our helmets when riding our bikes.
So the other day (Thursday to be exact) OurDad was spotted riding his bike WITHOUT HIS HELMET! Was it just up and down our street to test out a modification or a repair to his to ridiculously over-priced full-suspension mountain bike with hydraulic disk brakes, and carbon fiber components? NO! It was on a major street, Orchard Lake, between 15 mile and 14 mile. When this information came to us, through an anonymous source, we told Great Mom right away. We, all three of us, promptly ganged up on him.
"What were you doing riding on Orchard Lake without a helmet?!"
There was the usual "well, ummm" and a facial combination of sock and guilt. We had miscalculated and struck too hard. Had we come at him more easily he may have tried to deny it. Unfortunately, he didn’t as we had hoped he would. Our source was very reliable and we could have busted him for lying too.
So what was OurDad’s big excuse for breaking the house rule second only to the one involving matches and the stove and BBQ propane tanks and severe beatings? His excuse: “I forgot.” Sure there was a whole detailed story, but I’m not boring you with it. We didn’t even listen to the whole thing, before Great Mom started reciting his closed-head injury lecture, but I got grossed out so she had to stop.
“I forgot”
That’s OurDad
Hooray for Great Mom
Delayed post from Wednesday, May 3
Ok we said that this blog was about OurDad, but today Great Mom made us real proud and somehow OurDad didn’t do anything too bad. It was Great Mom’s big day, and he was on his best behavior. That actually kind of freaked us out; if OurDad's behaving, there's no one to make us look good!
Great Mom ran her first 5K and she ran the whole way! We had fun cheering for her and went out for ice cream afterwards!
Why did Great Mom do this: to get in shape, to accomplish something, or just to get a smaller butt? We're thinking it is some combination weighted toward the butt.
Great Mom has made the following observation about runners: Runners never have big butts. So which is the cause and which is the effect. She's banking on it being that runners have small butts because they run, as apposed to the inverse hypothesis; that they can run because they have small butts.
We think OurDad favors the former hypothesis too. You should have seen him cheering her on.
That's OurDad...
Ok we said that this blog was about OurDad, but today Great Mom made us real proud and somehow OurDad didn’t do anything too bad. It was Great Mom’s big day, and he was on his best behavior. That actually kind of freaked us out; if OurDad's behaving, there's no one to make us look good!
Great Mom ran her first 5K and she ran the whole way! We had fun cheering for her and went out for ice cream afterwards!
Why did Great Mom do this: to get in shape, to accomplish something, or just to get a smaller butt? We're thinking it is some combination weighted toward the butt.
Great Mom has made the following observation about runners: Runners never have big butts. So which is the cause and which is the effect. She's banking on it being that runners have small butts because they run, as apposed to the inverse hypothesis; that they can run because they have small butts.
We think OurDad favors the former hypothesis too. You should have seen him cheering her on.
That's OurDad...
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
The B is Silent?
The GirlChild here. Today I learned it's T-H-U-M-B not T-H-U-M. Thumb, it's one of my spelling words this week. I asked OurDad, "What's this word, thumb?" I said pronouncing the B. Hey how was I to know?
"It's just thumb, like in Tom Thumb" he said giving me a wiggling thumbs up.
"Tom Thumb, who's that?"
"Tom Thumb. He's a guy no bigger than your thumb. It's a classic. In fact it's a fairy story, you'll love it." Oh no, here we go again. All I wanted to know is what's with this letter B in the word thum, but I get yet another trip to Literary Land. OurDad has a PhD in microbiology, and you think he be able to sort out a second grader's spelling list, but no OurDad has to be a literary wannabe too.
"I don't care about Tom Thumb. Why is there a B in this word!," I shouted pointing to the letters T-H-U-M-B on my spelling list.
"Oh, well it's silent," OurDad tells me.
There's silent B's too? I was so depressed. What other silent letters am I in for in the coming years? "Why," I asked, "why is the B silent?"
"It just is." What kind of conformist garbage is that? 'It just is.'
"Well if it's silent, why does it have to be at the end? Couldn't it be B-T-H-U-M, or T-H-B-U-M, or T-H-U-B-M? It couldn't be T-B-H-U-M; that wouldn't make the TH sound."
"It just can. Now just spell them like they are on the list, Ok."
Then I asked him when Great Mom would be home, and he shook his head and started reading his book again. What good is that PhD if he can't even explain my spelling words?
That's our Dad.
"It's just thumb, like in Tom Thumb" he said giving me a wiggling thumbs up.
"Tom Thumb, who's that?"
"Tom Thumb. He's a guy no bigger than your thumb. It's a classic. In fact it's a fairy story, you'll love it." Oh no, here we go again. All I wanted to know is what's with this letter B in the word thum, but I get yet another trip to Literary Land. OurDad has a PhD in microbiology, and you think he be able to sort out a second grader's spelling list, but no OurDad has to be a literary wannabe too.
"I don't care about Tom Thumb. Why is there a B in this word!," I shouted pointing to the letters T-H-U-M-B on my spelling list.
"Oh, well it's silent," OurDad tells me.
There's silent B's too? I was so depressed. What other silent letters am I in for in the coming years? "Why," I asked, "why is the B silent?"
"It just is." What kind of conformist garbage is that? 'It just is.'
"Well if it's silent, why does it have to be at the end? Couldn't it be B-T-H-U-M, or T-H-B-U-M, or T-H-U-B-M? It couldn't be T-B-H-U-M; that wouldn't make the TH sound."
"It just can. Now just spell them like they are on the list, Ok."
Then I asked him when Great Mom would be home, and he shook his head and started reading his book again. What good is that PhD if he can't even explain my spelling words?
That's our Dad.
Sorry Mom
We’ve been begging Great Mom for months to let us blog about OurDad, but she always says, “The answer’s still, NO.”
Actually the first time we asked she said, “What’s a blog?” When we explained she laughed a lot, then she realized we were serious. That’s when we made the mistake of showing her a few blogs, and we got banned from using the computer for a month. “
“No! The way your father plays around on the internet he’s bound to find it sooner or later, and then... well, do you really want him to know what we say about him when he’s not around. It would ruin all the fun.”
She had a point, “But why should we keep it all to ourselves?”
“N-O!”
However, today he did something so “OurDad”, N-O or not, we took it as a sign. Like Great Mom’s gonna find out; she can hardly find her email.
So here goes:
I’m Boy Child (5/16/96) and I’m Girl Child (7/2/98) some of our posts will be from me and others will be from me, and some by the both of us, but they will all be about OurDad.
OurDad is great when he’s not driving us crazy, or embarrassing us, or making us do homework (even during summer), or worst of all trying to fill our heads with literary classics. Keep that Emily lady and that creepy Poe guy to yourself. We don’t care what you think of Shel Silverstein. We like him. And we don’t care if you’re from Missouri we’re not reading Huck Finn. We were born in Michigan, and we’ll keep reading Johnathan Rand’s chillers.
Usually OurDad is just driving us crazy and no one gets hurt, but today, oh boy, it was really embarrassing. We’re glad we weren’t there to see it, and that, luckily, no one got hurt. It was so bad in fact that we didn’t even tell Great Mom—which is usually the first thing we do when she gets home from her executive job with an automotive supplier. That is if we don’t call her cell phone first. “We’ll tell mom” are the three most powerful words spoken at our house.
This year summer has started early for OurDad, because some full-timer at the CC where he teaches biology decided they wanted the overload pay and took his class so he’s not teaching the summer I semester. Now, you’d think that with “nothing” to do his mind would be clear enough to get through a day without the aforementioned driving us crazy and embarrassing us ect. But with nothing to focus his thoughts—it’s worse. We hate summer for this very reason. While our friends are all way at camp, we get “Dad Camp”—his name not ours. For the next few weeks, thank God we’re still in school, but Great Mom is a nervous wreck—sure that OurDad will burn the house down while he’s home all alone with “nothing” to do. We think that’s why she’s letting him work on his project at the library.
That’s where he was headed today when it happened. He’s on his way to the library at the same time the middle school kids are getting out for the day. Nice early start there dad. Busses all over the neighborhood, but that shouldn’t stop him, his head off in Literary Land. As he approached the entrance to our subdivision there was a bus stopped-- flashing red lights and that red octagon flap open with the letters S-T- O and P. Never mind all the visual cues, but the honking horn and screaming bus driver brought him back from Lit Land in time to slam the brakes and stop before passing the entire length of the bus, and before, any kids were actually crossing the street. A bus full of kids staring, the bus driver screaming, and some nosey neighbors looking out their windows to see just who was trying to mow down the middle schoolers. The kids got off the bus, and crossed the street, behind his truck, he watched the bus roll away in the rearview and he drove on. Definitely one for the embarrassing column.
That’s OurDad.
A tad anticlimactic you say? This was just his first day home alone! Sorry, Great Mom, but we’re not going to make it through this summer without telling someone what we’re in for at the hands of OurDad. And frankly, if we tell you, you might have a stroke, and then we’d be left with absolutely no parents what so ever.
He’s OurDad, but we love him.
Boy Child
Girl Child
Actually the first time we asked she said, “What’s a blog?” When we explained she laughed a lot, then she realized we were serious. That’s when we made the mistake of showing her a few blogs, and we got banned from using the computer for a month. “
“No! The way your father plays around on the internet he’s bound to find it sooner or later, and then... well, do you really want him to know what we say about him when he’s not around. It would ruin all the fun.”
She had a point, “But why should we keep it all to ourselves?”
“N-O!”
However, today he did something so “OurDad”, N-O or not, we took it as a sign. Like Great Mom’s gonna find out; she can hardly find her email.
So here goes:
I’m Boy Child (5/16/96) and I’m Girl Child (7/2/98) some of our posts will be from me and others will be from me, and some by the both of us, but they will all be about OurDad.
OurDad is great when he’s not driving us crazy, or embarrassing us, or making us do homework (even during summer), or worst of all trying to fill our heads with literary classics. Keep that Emily lady and that creepy Poe guy to yourself. We don’t care what you think of Shel Silverstein. We like him. And we don’t care if you’re from Missouri we’re not reading Huck Finn. We were born in Michigan, and we’ll keep reading Johnathan Rand’s chillers.
Usually OurDad is just driving us crazy and no one gets hurt, but today, oh boy, it was really embarrassing. We’re glad we weren’t there to see it, and that, luckily, no one got hurt. It was so bad in fact that we didn’t even tell Great Mom—which is usually the first thing we do when she gets home from her executive job with an automotive supplier. That is if we don’t call her cell phone first. “We’ll tell mom” are the three most powerful words spoken at our house.
This year summer has started early for OurDad, because some full-timer at the CC where he teaches biology decided they wanted the overload pay and took his class so he’s not teaching the summer I semester. Now, you’d think that with “nothing” to do his mind would be clear enough to get through a day without the aforementioned driving us crazy and embarrassing us ect. But with nothing to focus his thoughts—it’s worse. We hate summer for this very reason. While our friends are all way at camp, we get “Dad Camp”—his name not ours. For the next few weeks, thank God we’re still in school, but Great Mom is a nervous wreck—sure that OurDad will burn the house down while he’s home all alone with “nothing” to do. We think that’s why she’s letting him work on his project at the library.
That’s where he was headed today when it happened. He’s on his way to the library at the same time the middle school kids are getting out for the day. Nice early start there dad. Busses all over the neighborhood, but that shouldn’t stop him, his head off in Literary Land. As he approached the entrance to our subdivision there was a bus stopped-- flashing red lights and that red octagon flap open with the letters S-T- O and P. Never mind all the visual cues, but the honking horn and screaming bus driver brought him back from Lit Land in time to slam the brakes and stop before passing the entire length of the bus, and before, any kids were actually crossing the street. A bus full of kids staring, the bus driver screaming, and some nosey neighbors looking out their windows to see just who was trying to mow down the middle schoolers. The kids got off the bus, and crossed the street, behind his truck, he watched the bus roll away in the rearview and he drove on. Definitely one for the embarrassing column.
That’s OurDad.
A tad anticlimactic you say? This was just his first day home alone! Sorry, Great Mom, but we’re not going to make it through this summer without telling someone what we’re in for at the hands of OurDad. And frankly, if we tell you, you might have a stroke, and then we’d be left with absolutely no parents what so ever.
He’s OurDad, but we love him.
Boy Child
Girl Child
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