FROM PARENT TO SECRET AGENT

FROM PARENT TO SECRET AGENT

                                    (Why is it so difficult to keep up with your kids?)

Those of you who follow my writings should recall the heartbreak and turmoil occasioned by Son 1.0’s departure for college (the subject of not one; but, two earlier posts).  Wife 2.0 and I wept and Son 1.0 couldn’t wait to leave.  We consoled ourselves with thoughts of unlimited cell phone minutes and what is possibly the greatest invention of our times, Skype.  Not only can one speak to loved ones, one can see them as well.  I remember a televised science program in about 1974 in which the writers predicted television telephones.  Well, that prediction came true though I am still waiting on my flying car and anti-gravity boots.

So, in this modern age, we should be able to communicate with our distant son with ease, shouldn’t we?  Well, if you are over the age of 40, you might think so.  Otherwise, you realize technology has only been a minor part of the communications dilemma.  The real problem is, has been, and will always be, teen agers posing as Russian spies.

Our kids must be Russian spies.  Think about it. They barely speak English, they won’t tell us where they’ve been, what they’re doing or who they’re doing it with.  Questions rarely draw more than a “name rank and serial number” answer and even then require truth serum, a dark room and a bright lamp. 

Much like the counter-intelligence agents depicted in black and white movies, I gather most of my information on Son 1.0 through covert surveillance.  Please don’t tell him; but, I quietly monitor his and his friends’ face book accounts and watch the web pages for his fraternity, university and specific school.  Using these sources, I have a vague idea of his world and am better armed for our infrequent visits.  Again, I feel like one of those black and white heroes interrogating foreign spies.

 ME:  “How’s school going?”

Son1.0: “K”

ME:  “Just OK?”

Son1.0: “Yeah”

ME:  “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Son1.0: “Yeah”

ME: “Why are you sleeping in class?”

Son1.0: “NOT”

ME: “Yes, chemistry last Thursday” (Thank you anonymous facebook poster)

Son1.0: (with a pained expression on his face) “How do you know?”

ME:  (while rubbing my hands together) “We have our ways – So, are you getting enough sleep OUTSIDE OF CLASS?”

Son1.0: “Well, most of the time.”

ME: “Are you doing anything stupid with the fraternity?”

Son1.0: “No.”

ME: “That so?  How about --------------------------------------last Friday at-----------? (again, thank you internet)”

Son1.0: “Do you have someone following me?”

ME: “Yes, every minute of every day.”

It is nothing short of amazing how much better we communicated after that.

 See you next time.

Yes Matthew, I have Cooked A Goat

Yes Matthew, I Have Cooked A Goat.

After much wailing, moaning and gnashing of teeth (by his grief stricken parents), son 1.0 is off to college and by all accounts doing well.  He has old friends, new friends, a new fraternity and a new found sense of independence.  In short, he is doing all the things one does when one moves from home to a distant college.  With one possible exception.  Son 1.0 and I visited briefly during his one and only (to date) visit home since leaving for school and compared notes from college circa 1979 and today.  He has more than 23,000 fellow students, I had 1100.  He lives in a metropolitan dorm surrounded by hundreds of students with a shared major.  I lived in an $80.00 per month house that was grossly overpriced.  And, I cooked a goat.

Son 1.0 has a meal plan and eats tofu and curried vegetables in one of four cafeterias (cafeterii?).  I foraged the soon to be discarded meats and produce at the local Safeway and fended for myself.  Likewise, I cooked a goat.

Unlike Son 1.0, while several years under aged, I enjoyed adult beverages and the company of others who were similarly inclined.  During a “study session” involving the afore mentioned adult beverages, someone spoke of another small school with a long history of goat roasts.  I  allowed as how there really wasn’t much to roasting a goat and that I simply did not understand the fuss.  So, in the wee hours of the morning, it was agreed we would have a small goat roast and I, being the experienced member of our besotted group was tasked with securing a goat.

Hmm.  I reviewed the local paper and there were no goats for sale.  So, several days later I contacted the local sale barn and learned that indeed, there was a sale the following day and yes, there were goats scheduled for sale.  I arrived at the sale in white painter paints, Reebok sneakers, a polo shirt and driving my 1966 Ford Mustang.  I registered as a potential buyer, received my bidder number and waited for the goats.

Soon enough the goats were brought into the ring and after spirited bidding, I was the winner at $10.00.  What I didn’t realize was that there were 12 goats and I had just committed myself to the purchase of all 12 at $10.00 each.  As I tried to explain myself to the auctioneer while surrounded by farmers in overalls and ranchers in cowboy hats, the auctioneer became angrier and angrier until one of the farmers began to laugh followed quickly by the others.  The auctioneer softened, took pity on me and finally asked which of the 12 goats I wanted.  I finally picked the gray one.  It was then I realized I must take immediate possession of my $10.00 gray goat.  So, goat and I drove from the sale barn into town in the previously described 1966 Ford Mustang.  Me in the driver’s seat, her standing in the passenger seat.  Yes, even in rural south Arkansas, people give you funny looks when the passenger in your 1966 Ford Mustang is a gray nanny goat. 

Upon arrival at the destination, my friends and I were faced with additional issues.  First, this was a live goat and must be dispatched prior to roasting and second, despite my earlier inebriated bravado, no one knew how to roast a goat.  I will spare you the details of the “dispatching” process save to say it didn’t go any better than the auction.  One of our group then remembered hearing about cooking pigs in the ground, so a hole was dug in the side yard when we realized we had no foil and no grill or grate.  However, the neighbor had a chain link fence and several minutes later, we had a makeshift galvanized grill stretched over a roaring fire in the brand new hole. 

It turns out goats are lean animals best slow roasted over many hours on a spit, not incinerated on a galvanized fence over a roaring fire.  While portions of the goat were burnt and others were raw, virtually none of it was just right.  However, adult beverages were in good supply and like bondo on a car, beer will disguise many defects in food.  We ate burnt/raw goat, drank an entire keg of beer and spent the next several days unable to recall the previous days’ events.   

So, Matthew, my college experience was different than yours.  I cooked a goat.

See you next time. 

I Really Thought I Had This Out Of My System

“In my heart you will remain forever young…and when you finally fly away I’ll be hoping that I taught you well …for all the wisdom of a lifetime no one can ever tell.  But whatever road you choose, I’m right behind you win or lose.  Forever young………………………..”

For those dear friends who read the drivel I write, I apologize.  I really thought I had already written the Son 1.0 goes off to college story.  Apparently I didn’t quite get it out of my system.  The first story was written weeks to early.  Tonight is the last Wednesday night he lives in our home as a full time resident.  Tomorrow is the last Thursday, etc, etc. 

“May sunshine and happiness surround you when you’re far from home…”

Surely we aren’t the first parents to send a child off to college.  On the other hand, wife 2.0 and I are like Sarah and Abraham from the Old Testament.  Son 1.0 is the child of our old age, the child we thought we would never have. 

“Be courageous and be brave and in my heart you’ll always stay forever young……”

Son 1.0 is Matthew Jacob Strauss, National Merit Commended Scholar, Eagle Scout, Christian, good guy.

“May the good lord be with you down every road you roam……………..”

Matthew Jacob Strauss – His parents’ greatest accomplishment and their greatest hope.  We love you Matt.  Make us proud, we know you will.  

“And may you never love in vain ... and in my heart you’ll always remain … Forever young.

See you next time.

Please! Someone Decide How Old Is Old And Stick With It.

While I suspect most will not recognize the name, Kerry Collins, a better than average NFL quarterback, announced his retirement today after what one writer characterized as a “long and storied” career.  Another referred to Mr. Collins as “nearly ancient”.  Kerry Collins is retiring after 16 years of professional football at the age of 38.  Apparently, “old” in professional football is 38.
MSN recently published an article on its web site about the retirement of Command Sergeant Major Jeff Mellinger, the last Viet Nam era veteran who was drafted in 1972 at the age of 19.  On the other hand, two of my high school friends joined the service at 17 and retired after 20 years.    So, “old” in the United States Army is a moving target somewhere between 37 and 58.   
Because my very next birthday starts with a five and ends with a zero, the single least exclusive fraternity on earth, the AARP, recently invited me to join their membership.  In an effort to seal the deal, they enclosed a “complimentary” copy of their recent publication.  Apparently, now that I am nearly 50, laxatives, health insurance and vacation planning are of vital importance.  Despite their kindness, I did not feel “complimented”. “Old” as determined by the American Association of Retired Persons is 50.
With apologies to Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Brutus, Marcus Antonius and every person who attempted to teach me grammar, in perhaps “the most unkindest cut of all” Kroger offers a senior citizen discount to those 55 and older every Thursday.  Apparently our food retailer thinks we are old at 55.   
I am of sufficiently advanced years (my next birthday starts with a “5”) that roughly once a year I receive an update from the folks at the Social Security administration explaining my anticipated benefits should I live to retirement age (in light of my most recent physical examination, I can assure you this is purely an academic exercise on their part).  Wife 2.0, who is nearly five years my senior, receives similar notices.  Because I was feeling particularly decrepit, I recently examined the two notices and discovered a remarkable discrepancy.  According to the folks at Social Security, Wife 2.0 may retire at 67 while I must wait until 72.  Upon further investigation, I learned that Social Security retirement age, which for seven decades had been either 62 (“early retirement”) or 65 (“regular retirement”) is no longer a fixed number.  Rather, the younger one is, the older one must be to retire.   Applying the ratio differential from wife 2.0 to me, then on to son 1.0, I have discerned that he will retire at 143.      So, according to the Social Security Administration, Wife 2.0 is “old” at 67, I am “old” at 72 and son 1.0 will NEVER be old.
Of course, for me, retirement in any form is purely an academic exercise, a cruel hoax perpetrated by the AARP, the SSA or one of the other alphabet agencies whose advertisements feature retirees windsurfing or opening vineyards.  I am 50 (not really; but dangerously close ).  I have an 18 year old child (Son 1.0) who if history is to be believed, will manage to cram four years of college education into six years of lackluster attendance which will be closely followed by two years of graduate school in his personal quest to emulate Peter Pan (you know, the boy who never grew up).  Consequently, in eight years I can devote my resources to retirement rather than Son 1.0’s higher education.  Given that the experts tell us it takes 30 years to reasonably fund  retirement, I will finally be “old” enough to retire at 88. 

 So, I’m not sure how old is old, just that according to my sources, it is somewhere between 37 and 88.  I am, however, sure I will never, ever, be old.

See you next time. 

There Is A Reason Married Men Don’t Help Around The House and Yes, It Is Our Time To Declare Independence From The Tyranny of Others Directing Our Laundry.

Following just short of 30 years of marriage (yes, you have to add them all up), I’ve learned a few things (Wife 2.0 would say darn few).  Among the few things I’ve learned is that while wives say they want husbands to fold clothes, mow the yard, etc., what they really want is the opportunity to tell husbands they are performing the task incorrectly.  While the older, more accepted version may be “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, the modern equivalent is”Passive aggressive behavior hath no firmer adherent than the modern wife.” 

Wife 2.0 has a very precise way of folding everything, towels, shirts, shorts, foundation garments, you know, everything.  Likewise, she sees no humor in my considered opinion it matters not how one folds one’s underwear only that one actually wear the underwear and then only if one anticipates participating in a subsequent automobile accident.    But, back to the issue at hand;  I would  suppose it doesn’t matter that the towel is  folded along it’s longitudinal axis times three rather than first along it’s horizontal axis, also times three.  For, should you fold along the horizontal axis (times three) first; the towels end up slightly square rather than slightly rectangular.  They work as well at drying one’s bum under either sequence, horizontal or longitudinal.  Likewise, given that they are used in the shower just off the master bed room, absolutely no one on planet earth other than Wife 2.0 and I will ever see them. But, by gosh, right is right and I mistakenly folded an entire load of towels horizontally rather than longitudinally and was then required to sit through an excruciating remedial session of “longitudinal then horizontal” folding for idiots and married men.    I try to be a good sport; but when Wife 2.0 dumped a load of my already folded underwear for the crime of improper folding, after all, they were my tighty whitys and as referenced above, are worn each and every single day without regard to my auto accident plans.  So, given the relatively low numbers in the entire population of my undershorts, I was confident to a moral certainty that even the wrongly folded undershorts would remain in the wrongly folded condition no longer than 48 hours.      However, much like John Hancock, Paul Revere, George Washington and the many other patriot founding fathers, it was timesto tell King Henry (Wife 2.0) that the tea was going in the harbor, and taxation without representation was at an end.  Or, in my case I would fold my tighty whitey undershorts in any manner I saw fit.  The same would hold true for my towels, my side of the bed and the direction I hang clean shirts (one should be looking at the left sleeve rather than the right sleeve as the shirts rest on the hanger.)

At the end of the day, I suspect Wife 2.0 doesn’t care how I do laundry.  She just wants to me do it in any fashion so that she can assure me it was wrong.  It appears that at long last, I found my role in this marriage; I am the whetstone on which she sharpens her sword, her intellect and her truly evil sense of humor.  I think next week I will mow the yard wrong and let her spend a great deal of time showing me the “right way” to cut grass.  After all, I am a visual learner, not one to follow verbal direction.  Oh well. See you next time.      

It's Not Just Married Men That Are Clueless, Dads Are As Well

Son 1.0 is actually child 2.0; but, because they sprang from wives 1.0 and 2.0, both my children were raised as only children. And, because of that anomaly, I didn’t get to share in the “going off to college” experience with daughter 1.0 and for that I will be eternally sorry.  Consequently, I am, as son 1.0 says, “going way off the deep end” in preparation for his departure to higher education and the unforgiving world of grown-upness.  (Yes, I know that’s not a word; but, it should be.)   

Son 1.0 is possessed of a freshly minted high school diploma and a freakishly high ACT score.  Likewise, he is soon to be possessed of a dorm refrigerator, micro-wave, homemade curtains, homemade heirloom quilt and a stereo with speakers substantially larger than the refrigerator.  More importantly, he is blessed with the hopes and dreams of his sister, four uncles, three aunts, five cousins, four grandparents and an extraordinarily overwrought set of parents. 
His 15 year old low mileage automobile has been checked, flushed, drained, re-shoed, and given the attention paid to the space shuttle prior to its next flight.  The class schedule is at hand, the books are ordered six weeks in advance and a meal plan purchased.  He has a GPS for the three hour trip he has already made 15 or more times, a fresh cell phone and multiple chargers.    Fresh clothes are on new hangars and new shoes are in new boxes in the floor of the closet that otherwise looks like the bottom of a gerbil cage. 
Despite all this effort, something is dramatically, desperately wrong.  We were there when he was born, there when he was baptized, there when he graduated from elementary, middle and high schools.  We were there on his first and last campouts and every single one in between. We were there when he became an Eagle Scout,  a Vigil member of the Order of the Arrow and the 2010 recipient of the National Order of the Arrow Founders Award and when he was elected to serve in both statewide and regional offices with scouting’s honor society, the afore mentioned Order of the Arrow. 
We were always there and now we will not be there.  Our son walks this road and all that follow without us.  Son 1.0 is a great kid, a great human being, and will be a great mechanical engineer someday.  He doesn’t need us to stand between him and the world like a giant shield.  He doesn’t mind, he is both ready for and excited about the challenge.  It is me and wife 2.0 that are devastated.  So, something is dramatically, desperately wrong.  Not only are married men clueless, apparently dads are as well.

Matthew, I love you.  I cherish you and I will miss you desperately.  I do already.

See you next time.

Why Is There No Hot Water And Why Are ALL The Lights On?

Some years ago, wife 2.0 and I remodeled and expanded home 1.0 rather than purchase home 2.0.  For those of you confident in the strength of your marital relationship and longing for a means to test your resolve, I highly recommend living in a home that is also a construction zone and at random intervals has no electricity, no hot water and during late February and early March, a door sized hole in the wall open to the world.  I am reminded of the old expression to the effect “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”  I’m not sure who coined that phrase and I am also loathe to offend; however, that particular genius is terminally stupid (God bless his heart), a liar, or has never been married.  2.0, I and son 1.0 emerged from the experience much like those who fail in the attempt to scale Mt. Everest, weakened, needing medical attention and swearing never to do it again. 

Despite my absolute commitment to avoid duplicating the experience, there was an upside.  For example, we now have two bathrooms, a 50 gallon water heater rather than a 35 gallon water heater and a sewing room.  By the way, why are those things called “hot water heaters”?  It seems to me that if the water were indeed hot, it would need no heating.  But, I digress.  I immediately saw the benefit to a second bathroom (remember, wife 2.0 and teen aged son 1.0?).  However, I still don’t understand the need for a sewing room with lighting such that x-rays are unnecessary.  That 10’ by 14’ room has more lights than the rest of the house put together. 2.0’s explanation is that by using klieg lights worthy of the London blitz in 1941, she can see the “true” colors of the fabric.  It occurred to me that because the rest of the world has “normal” lighting and not Broadway spotlights, she would have to bring the world’s population, one by one, into the sewing room to see the “true” colors incorporated in her sewing projects; but, as the title of this blog suggests, married men are clueless.

While I may not have understood the cumulative lumens required in the sewing room, I immediately saw the benefit of an additional 15 gallons of hot water.  We could wash dishes, clothes, and ourselves simultaneously.  That is, we could do all those things simultaneously until son 1.0 reached 16.  It was at that point showers went from five minutes to 30.  It turns out that with a 30 minute shower, one can exhaust 50 gallons of hot water and the additional hot water generated during the 30 minute shower. 

Not only does son 1.0 delight in causing me to take cold showers (I SWEAR those are completely unnecessary at my age), both he and wife 2.0 feel the need to turn on every light in the house.  Arkansas Power and Light (yes, I know it is Entergy) sends us Christmas cards and when we were gone a few days, sent someone by to make sure we were still alive.  Son 1.0 is a great kid, a bona fide genius, who for some reason has the ability to move a light switch up; but, is genetically incapable of moving one down.  I attribute this to his mother’s side, for she is similarly afflicted. 

So, for those of you who might have wondered why I am cold and grumpy, muttering under my breath as I wander through the house turning off lights, televisions, radios, video games, stereos, etc, now you know.

See you next time.

Why Is My Hair White When My Eyebrows Are Brown?

My grandmother, May, was older than my grandfather, Roy Virgil.  For reasons I never really understood, this fact embarrassed her and we weren’t allowed to talk about it.  Social mores’ were such that women just didn’t marry younger men and it was considered scandalous when they did.  So, Mamaw was a hussy.  It was only after she died that I learned both Mamaw and Papaw were divorced prior to their marriage.  Oh the shame. 

Apparently this sort of shameless behavior runs in the family.  In addition to being wife 2.0, wife 2.0 is five years older than me.  I take great pleasure in reminding her of this fact from time to time.  The problem is, she takes great pleasure in reminding me my hair is the color of fresh snow while hers is the same color as the day she graduated from high school.  Her father’s hair (what little he has left) is bright white and her mother’s hair (mother-in-law 2.0?) is like wife 2.0’s, a nice chestnut brown.  One might think wife 2.0 and mom-in-law 2.0 avail themselves of modern chemistry to keep the snow out of their hair.  One would be mistaken.  I SWEAR these women, mid 50’s and late 70’s have no gray hair.  However, like Typhoid Mary, they are both carriers.  The men in their lives age at a freakishly rapidly pace like a tuna fish sandwich in the August sunshine.

Nature has a way of achieving an equilibrium or balance in all things.  Female black widow spiders need nutrition to give birth to their thousands of offspring; so, they kill and eat their mates shortly after breeding.  This natural balance must explain why 2.0 and Mamaw sought out younger men. It also explains why Mamaw outlived Papaw and I’m beginning to look a little worse for the wear myself. 

Not only am I beginning to dissolve under the onslaught, I’m doing so in an oddly uneven fashion.  The hair I can see is white; though, I’m told the hair I can’t see is a nice shade of brown, and continuing the joke, nature has seen fit to leave my eye brows brown as well.  The ultimate effect is to give the appearance I was put together from left over mismatched parts, much like some 21^st century Frankenstein.                

I really must stop looking in the mirror.

See you next time.

How Do We Establish Priorities – And – Why Doesn’t Everyone Agree with Me?

I was recently at a government office attempting to pay the fee for a pavilion rented (by phone) for son 1.0’s “end of school” party.  Given that all the arrangements were handled previously (by phone) and all that remained was issuing payment and signing the forms, one would think this was a five minute process.  One would be wrong.

The civil servant handling the transaction was extraordinarily pleasant; but, during the course of our meeting, she took (I SWEAR), 9 telephone calls from other citizens seeking to reserve pavilions in city parks.    It occurred to me that there was a decision making process at play I didn’t fully understand.  It seemed to me that one’s priority should rest with the customer standing in your presence, cash in hand, not the knuckleheads on the telephone.  I confess, along about the fifth call, I was beginning to head in the general direction of aggravation when it occurred to me, three days earlier, I was the knucklehead on the phone interrupting some other paying customer.  Hmm.  Then I had an epiphany, we (the rest of the world and I) need to establish a system of priorities that somehow involves me being at the top of the list.  Problem solved!  In my joy at having reached an eminently reasonable and workable solution, I shared this information with wife 2.0 and son 1.0 and it turns out they reached precisely the same conclusion. Unfortunately, there are now at least three people in the universe (me, W2.0 and S1.0) who must at all times be at the absolute apex of anyone’s priority list.  The natural collision of these competing positions revealed itself when I instructed 1.0 to take out the garbage.  He engaged in the same sort of mental gymnastics I experienced in the government office building and determined that his priorities involved further destruction of aliens on some grievously overpriced video game.  Unfortunately, his priority collided with my clearly established priority of having the remnants of last night’s fish supper taken to the curb, while at the same time colliding with 2.0’s established priority concerning who was to do the dishes.  Hmm.

It turns out that what I thought was a clearly established protocol in which everyone would simply move my wants, needs and desires to the top of their priority list, might not be a workable solution after all.  Who woulda figured? Well, actually 2.0 woulda figured given that she is wife 2.0, not wife 1.0 and that perhaps at some point in my life, my wants, needs and desires ran head long into the wants needs and desires of someone else.  I suppose all I can say in response is that when it comes to this relationship, I am husband 2.0.  Who woulda figured?

See you next time.

Since When Did A Television Become My Hourglass?

As wife 2.0 and I reach middle age (if 50 is middle age, I must be planning to reach 100), we notice more often how technology measures our lives.  For example, my earliest “technology memories” involve black and white television, by the 3^rd grade, color television and high school, video games.  A decade later, it was personal computers and another five years brought widespread internet.  Clearly, at some point 2.0 and I stopped using the calendar and started measuring the passage of time with gadgets.

Son 1.0 was born along with the internet and attended grade school with cell phones.  Junior High was digital high definition TV and IMAX 3D movies.  High school was electric cars.  Who knows how we’ll measure college and grandchildren?

Tonight, however, was old fashioned stereo hi-fidelity, a genuine throwback to 1978.  Son 1.0 discovered my three foot speakers stored in the attic with the powder blue 100% polyester leisure suit. Explaining their function was like describing space travel to the pilgrims.  This child of the lap-top generation has a remarkable sound system; but, the “big” speakers are approximately the size of a pair of Twinkies and driven by an iPod smaller than a deck of cards.  Much like our relationship, we both thought our technology wouldn’t interface.  However, it turns out that with a borrowed audio receiver, a series of adapters and old fashioned stereo cable, 2011 will indeed connect to 1978 (or, a 2011 iPod will connect to 1978 speakers through a 1984 receiver).    It also turns out we both like Credence Clearwater Revival really loud. It further turns out the neighbors do not.         

Have you ever noticed that teen agers don’t wear watches?  They have cell phones.  On the other hand, my mom (74 and counting) doesn’t carry an iPod and still has a VCR that flashes 12:00.  (I SWEAR she uses electrical tape to cover the VCR clock because she can’t program the time.)

So, it turns out we don’t need calendars, we just need technology and good memories.

See you next time.  

I Hate Daylight Savings Time; But Mostly I Hate Change And Tomato Sauce

Many books are written about change, adapting to change, taking advantage of change, etc.  I confess that like most men of my generation, I have both benefited from and resisted change in the same breath.  I read "Jonathon Livingston Seagull" in the early 70's and "Who Moved My Cheese" in the new century.   I sat through a 6 day leadership seminar aimed at "Accepting Change In The New Millenium" and about two days in realized it might be the "New Millenium"; but, it was the same tired truisms about the same tired subject.  The only difference was I was now in my late 40's, not my late 20's like the first  time I heard some "corporate trainer" who had never had a real job telling me how to do mine.    Then it occurred to me that I hadn't just heard this twice before; rather, like all married men (who, by the way, are clueless), I hear this more much more frequently.  It turns out that wife 2.0 is an amateur corporate trainer.  So, the same chapter, just a slightly different verse.  The change we (2.0 and I) deal with involves things like where the measuring cups belong, where to put the phone book and my unswerving, unwaivering hatred of tomato sauce on pasta.  I'm not sure why it is important that I embrace change concerning kitchen utensils or tomato sauce; but, it is apparently excruciatingly important. 

As discussed in an earlier posting, I make the random attempt at helping with the household chores both because it is the right thing to do and because wife 2.0 fusses at me when I don't.  However, as also discussed in that same earlier posting, my efforts usually don't end well.  I simply can not understand why 2.0 put her clothes in the laundry basket; but, doesn't want actual laundry to actually be done. I'm reminded of the great line "If you didn't want grits, why did you order breakfast? If you didn't want the clothes washed and dried, why did you put them in the laundry basket? 

Not only do I fail at laundry, I fail at doing the dishes. I simply do not understand why the measuring cups now go in the drawer to the left of the coffee pot when for 12 years they went in the drawer to the right of the coffee pot.  When I asked why, 2.0 told me that they were moved to the left side three years ago and asked why I resisted change.  Of course, I thought it was very clever when I asked if the measuring cups had indeed been on the left side for three years, why was she resisting change now that I wanted to move them back to the right?  As the title of this blog suggests, Married Men Are Clueless and I learned this whole acceptance of change issue applies differently to husbands and wives.  This may well explain why men keep the same underwear for decades and women upgrade regularly. Men clearly oppose change in all things.  

So, I still hate Daylight Savings Time and I still hate tomato suace on pasta.

See you next time.

How Do We protect The Things We Love- and - The Things We Don't

Because my job frequently requires me to travel with large quantities of books and documents, I have a very compact, folding two wheel cart or "dolly" that resides in my office.  It is a handy device and makes me the envy of my colleagues who also travel with large quantities of books and documents.  Consequently, dolly would disappear for days at a time.   This was both aggravating and debilitating; so, I set my mind to discerning a solution.  Then it hit me, I needed a dolly lo-jack.  Unfortunately, it turns out that the cost of a radio frequency satellite capable auto location device greatly exceeds the replacement cost of a two wheeled cart. Actually, it turns out that it greatly exceeds the replacement cost of several dozen dollies.  So, I settled for a bicycle chain connected to the sewing machine base that serves as my computer table.  I suspect it is the only such set up in all the known universe.

 

   This low tech effort at security caused me to consider the other things wife 2.0 and I strive to protect.  There is a bicycle tethered to the rail on our front porch that I wish someone would steal.  On the other hand, my gas grill, the ultimate expression of the manly arts, stands bravely unguarded on the same porch and has remained unmolested for the last five years.  I suppose it can be argued the beagles, Ralph and Mocha, "protect" the house though they would be easily distracted by a pork chop or a friendly scratch behind the ears.  2.0 protects her sewing room by threat of immediate death; though, I suspect like the bicycle on the front porch, it is an object not worthy of serious attention.  2.0 guards her health through serious efforts at exercise and nutrition though in my case, those were "stolen" many years ago. 

 

My great grandfather died more than 100 years ago and his grave marker was an incredible monument until vandals destroyed it a few months ago.  Apparently there are some things we just can't protect.

 

2.0 and I have attempted to "protect" child 2.0's future (actually, for wife 2.0, he is child 1.0; but, that is a story for another day) by insisting he do his homework, observe the scout law and wash behind his ears.   We have locks on the camper and a genuine Masterlock (patent pending in all 50 states and 31 countries) on the gate to the back yard.  On the other hand, there is nothing in the back yard but the beagles, Ralph and Mocha, who much like the well chained, though never used bicycle, could disappear with no serious angst on my part.

 

So, at the end of the day, there is no rhyme or reason to the things we protect; but, I still wish I had a lo-jack for my dolly.

 

See you next time.

When Will I Be As Smart as My Dogs?

Wife 2.0 and I have two beagles and I have recently come to the conclusion they are smarter than me.  I work long hours at a job that is at times very tense and very difficult. The beagles, Ralph and Mocha, lay in the shade in the backyard unless the weather is bad, when they move indoors.  I struggle with chronic issues, high blood pressure, diabetes, sleep apnea, etc.  Ralph snores and Mocha creates a terrible odor and I swear they giggle about it like we did in Jr. High. 

2.0 and I pay the mortgage, Ralph and Mocha sleep anywhere, the yard, the crate, on each other and in my favorite memory, with a recently deceased skunk still fully possessed of its delicate fragrence.

2.0 and I purchase the groceries and Ralph and Mocha seem to prefer the contents of the cat box to the $7.00 kibble. 

So, you can easily understand why 2.0 and I thought the beagles were stupid.  We were reminded of the story of the Grasshopper and the ants: 

The fable concerns a grasshopper that has spent the warm months singing while the ant (or ants in some editions) worked to store up food for winter. When that season arrives, the grasshopper finds itself dying of hunger and upon asking the ant for food is only rebuked for its idleness. Versions of the fable are found in the verse collections of Babrius (140) and Avianus (34), and in several prose collections including those attributed to Syntipas and Apthonius.

Instead of making us feel better, 2.0 and I suddenly realized we were the ants feeding the grasshoppers, FOREVER.  Unlike the grasshopper in the fable, our grasshoppers (the beagles) will never see the error of their ways.  They subject 2.0 and me to a lifetime of servitude.  When they aren't happy with the service, Mocha makes that smell and I SWEAR they look at me and laugh. 

I may never be as smart as my dogs.

See you next time 

"Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; but I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. New American Standard Bible (©1995)

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Why Can't You Dry Women's Clothing?

I've been married 24 years, 30 if one counts all the years from all the marriages.  During the most recent 24 years, marriage 2.0 if you will, we've moved from a single television without a remote to, at last count, 5 televisions for three people.  All five televisions are high def, TiVo'ed, remote activated and though I'm not positive, I think at least one of them can cook.  Our cars have electric windows, cruise control, DVD's and GPS.  Clearly, we, wife 2.0, and I, have moved into the 21st century. 

Yet, despite our firm embrace of the 21st century, we can not use the electric dryer on any of 2.0's clothes and only a few of 2.0's clothes can be machine washed.  2.0 may live in the 21st century; but, her laundry lives in 17th century  While my dress clothes are dry cleaned, the vast majority of my clothes,  holey undershorts, blue jeans, Molly Hatchet T-Shirts, etc., all get thrown in the frond load washer.  I don't sort by color, the reds go in with the whites, the sweatshirts with the T shirts and the blue jeans with the chinos.  My washing machine is a melting pot of which Lady Liberty herself would be proud.  2.0's washing machine, while rarely used, is a segregationist of the worst sort.  Whites, colors and because I don't know if beige is a white or color, we have beige/ecru/egg shell loads (yes, egg shell is a color).  And, most important of all, they are never dried in the electric dryer.  For, if they are dried, they shrink.  If they shrink, 2.0 will buy new clothes and it will be my fault. 

Early in our marriage, after having dried a size 10 down to a size eight, I asked 2.0 the question that all new husbands ask.  Why not just buy the size 12 that fits after it is dried.  It was that day I learned that  allowing male logic to collide with female logic is the rough equivalent of allowing matter to collide with anti-matter.  Seriously bad stuff happens and once again, I bought 2.0 an entire new wardrobe.  Seriously, it reminded me of the year 2.0 told me she didn't want a present for her birthday, so, I didn't buy one.   The next day I bought yet another complete wardrobe.

24 years later and I still don't know why you can't dry women's clothing.  Married men truly are clueless.

See you next time.