Thursday, September 30, 2010

Why, I Otta...!


Yes, Officer. It was one of these Cads, these Ner-do-well's who threw the... Oh, never mind!



I was beaned by a tennis ball at my church today.

Some kid who smelled like feet with braces and poor aim nailed me as I walked into the gym to grab tables. I slowly turned and politely asked them to leave the room because frankly, I didn’t want to have a bunch of unsupervised kids I didn’t know throwing stuff at me and, possibly seeing me cry.

Actually I am used to lumps on the back of my head – usually acquired during my stint as a young ballroom dancer. But a lump is a lump, left either by a tennis ball in the lord’s house or from an elbow from Vanessa, the tallest girl in the world who was assigned to be my dancing partner - who I was supposed to lift over my head and twirl like a tree trunk lighter than air (plus ten pounds of rhinestones and a sharp and pointy thing in her hair).

But back to the beaning, the pointing & laughing. And, of course, the crying.


Truth be told, I may have freaked out just a tinnsey. Of coerce the kids laughed at the old guy with the lump, tripping over their size 13 honkers when I asked them to leave. To make matters worse, as I loaded the tables into my mini-van not one of the church dudes standing around not supervising asked if they could help me - as I am sure any kind church dude should when an old man with a lump on the back of his head is alone loading tables. And I think, out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the men give me an evil eye.

There is no doubt in my feeble little mind that this guy was the parent of big foot – who was not being supervised in the gym when some poor man was attacked! Assailed, probably by the prince of headgear and his friend super orthodonture boy as they hurled a…a softball at me deliberately to get me to leave them alone. Or maybe it was to enforce some gang territory of which I was unaware (not having received my copy of the Big -Footed -Teen- With -Braces- Basketball Throwers Weekly in the mail.

Maybe if the evil eyeing man had been attending to his son’s completely antisocial behavior his senses as a parent/sentinel/warden would have been properly engaged and there would have been a proper lack of time and ability to harass the old & lumpy man touting tables. In fact, rather than bullying poor almost-senior citizens, perhaps one of the throbbing, gathering mob could have seen fit to extent a hand of Christian-like help-y-ness to the meek and gentle VICTIM with a goiter and a hunch on his back, so that the sweet old man that I am wouldn’t have to mutter to himself and make a mountain out of a tennis ball.


Someone needs to teach this kids a lesson, and I am just the man to...

Excuse me? ...Well, I'm sure it was an accident... Oh, no thank you young fellow, this is the last table I need moved.

But aren’t you sweet for asking?


Monday, September 27, 2010

Growth Spurts, and Other Bank Busters.



This belly represents a significant parental financial investment in this boys future that he will never fully appreciate.


I just purchased two dozen eggs, several pounds of bacon, gallons of spaghetti sauce pounds of noodles, various and sundry carts of groceries. That will take care of lunch.


Dinner may be a little sparse unless my check clears, or the blood bank will start letting me donate plasma more that three times a week.

My youngest son has decided to spend his football season growing and talking back. The sarcasm and the mouthiness I can handle. The growth spurt is what most concerns me as the man who pays the bills. The groceries are killer.

And then there are the clothes. By the time he has unwrapped the new boxer briefs I bought for him he has out grown them. I hear seems bursting from the other room. Fortunately he only changes his clothes every other week so the fact that his socks are stretched to the max is not as much of a problem as the fact that they are trying to make a break for it – a feeble attempt to crawl out of his basement room on their own - which would not be a problem excepts it spooks the neighbors.

Laundry scared spit-less is not my concern anymore. My wife lost a bet and so the laundry is now her responsibility until the end of football season. It did require that I buy her her own gas mask and respirator as I tailored mine to fit only my bulbous cranium - which had to be done anyway as the end of the world is at hand and I promised everyone their own gas mask and protective wear.

She insisted that before she take over the laundry responsibilities I also install a has mat shower in case the hamper decides to to spew forth like mount st Helen's. I also have stocked each room with a chemical spill/burn units for when anyone has to enter his bed room or bathroom.

While laundry is happily my wife's headache, groceries and all other things edible are my responsibility, and I take my responsibility seriously. My youngest son will shrivel up and die if I do not have a twelve pack of Gatorade, between six to nine jack-links, a pan of fried rice and a super sized icee read for him when he is through with his homework – which he can only do in front of the TV with his ipod blaring loudly enough that I can hear it through his own headset in the living room from where I am at the stove preparing round two.

The good thing is that he will eat almost anything. The bad news is that he will eat almost anything. I am having to hide the dog food or he will fill a bowl as an after dinner before snack snack. At least I can feed anything left over to our pet – on those rare occasions when there are leftovers.

So, my sons life depends on whether or not I can come up with money for a 24 pack of premium creamies. I am going to sit here by the phone and wait for the plasma center to return my phone call. Maybe I throw on some pasta while I am waiting.

I suppose I have time for a batch of laundry, but I am to tired to don my has-mat suit.


Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Bewildering, Beguiling, Bejeweling...


Sometimes my brain takes a while to shut down due to excessive and exhausting use during the day. It could happen.

I find that a quick 50 minute or three hour game of Pretty and Colorful Gemstones Falling and Lining up in Threes (I call it that because I never remember its name. I have a mental block from all the exhaustive stuff I do during the day) does me good for calming down and sliding into something that resembles brain-neutral. The problem that I have is that my wife is not able to sleep due to the flashing colored lights that are part of my new found evening relaxation. The spectacular array in my game of Cascading Gems Of Many Colors and Shapes that puts me to sleep keeps her awake.

I don’t care about that. What I care about is that my eyesight is not what it was when I was young and not flabby, and by that I mean more youthful and firm, and by that I mean… oh, never mind. My eyes are not what they used to be back when I had hips. To deal with this I back the screen up a bit.

The good news is that I can then see the whole screen. The bad news is that I am going to have to hire one of my kids to hold it far enough away - which may in turn be good news because they both could use a summer job.

Funny thing is that when I pull it back I get to see the big picture and I am unable to focus on small or insignificant individual peaces or concentrate on one small area excessively. Seeing the whole screen from a distance gives me a perspective I didn’t have, and I find that I get the job done with more skill and that all important better score.

Cool.

There seems to be a message in this somewhere for me and for my family. Something about keeping ones perspective when times get tough, and remembering that even though we are running around like chickens feebly attempting to make the day to day fit or match-up, someone above has the big picture and it will all work out in His time in the end.

That and I had better recharge the screen before my wife sees that I was up to three a.m. playing Happy Jewels Cascading in Beauty.