It was room cleaning time, and I was on the clock.
As the kids have gotten older, they have gotten to where they are responsible for their own rooms. But let’s be honest here – most 10- and 13-year olds clean rooms the way squirrels stock away food for winter. They shove stuff here and there and hope they can find it in a few months when they need it.
It’s a text message I’m sure you’ve gotten a thousand times:
“So we found a mouse and it bit Parker, but we’ve got it covered.”
This particular message came from my daughter, who was home along with her brother when the bite happened. They had called me, but I was in a meeting and missed the call. They then called my sister, who called my mom, who handled triage remotely.
I defy you to find a more manly setting than a bunch of guys using a chainsaw in the middle of a swamp.
The day oozed of testosterone, as six of us set out to clear a stream on our family land. I am fairly certain, had we wanted, any of us could have immediately sprouted a ZZ Top beard on command. Even my six-year-old nephew. It was that manly.
The last time I owned a pair of expensive sunglasses, I’m pretty sure there were two Germanies.
I was in high school, and I saved up around $100 to buy a pair of really nice sunglasses. They were Bollé brand, and anyone who just Googled that brand for his column can tell you that “Bollé is a world leader in the manufacture and sale of technical glasses, goggles and helmets for everyday life and specialised sports.”
I realized recently that I have the perfect vacuum for my kids to use.
This happened when I was vacuuming the hallway, and I noticed that every thing I went over on the carpet was still there after the vacuum passed it. The motor was humming, the canister was creating a little whirlwind inside, but nothing was actually being picked up from the carpet.
When I was a kid, I played one year of football. I was probably about 10, and I was a small kid. I quickly learned that having much larger kids run you over was not fun, even if you had pads on.
When I got to college, I was introduced to flag football, which is football for people who don’t like to be crushed by larger people. Being small and quick is advantageous, as the way to down a player in flag football is to grab a flag off of a belt, not knock the person into a different week.
The pool and I are having a disagreement.
I believe a swimming pool should be a crystal clear place of refreshing dips and a producer of delightful childhood memories.
My pool believes it is a murky, mysterious pond, one where kids dare not venture lest they be eaten by the inevitable swamp beast lurking beneath.
Deep. Fry. Everything.
This past weekend was a foray into a world of deep-fried deliciousness. And, for a little while, deep-fried regret.
I ventured into my deep-fried adventure during Aiken’s Makin, the annual craft fair in my hometown. While crafts are aplenty, I head there every year for one reason – my wife makes me go.
I’m sure you’re like me, and you recently had a meat nap interrupted by a mouse.
Lest you think I am just stringing together random words, let me explain.
I was asked to judge a barbecue contest. And I think we can all agree the single greatest question anyone can be asked is, “Would you like to come eat a whole bunch of barbecue?”
I’ve always been the laundry guy in our house.
I’m good at it (even though it’s not that difficult), and I actually kinda like it. I wash copious amounts of clothes and dry them, leaving them in a big pile by the dryer. At that point, I turn on a good movie or a football game and mindlessly fold enough clothes to outfit everyone in Toledo.