The End of the Day

Some days are better than others for the working dad. Some days you come home full of energy and flush with free time. Other days you come home beat up and tired, with a tall stack of bills and paperwork waiting for you, or a list of chores a mile long. “Life maintenance” type stuff, as my dad calls it.

As a dad with three young boys, it is a rather chaotic event when I come home. Mind you, I am perfectly calm most of the time, but the kids get a little wound up. All the day’s happenings, as well as all the day’s frustrations are described to me in unison by three very loud, fast talking children. I am instantly needed for any number of very important art projects, outdoor games, indoor spy adventures and toy repair jobs. My second opinion is required on all the day’s court cases, reviewing the rulings handed down by the evil mother of justice. I, of course, always concur with the sentencing, much to the dismay of the guilty parties involved in the day’s mischief.

When the initial onslaught of rapid-fire conversations has tapered off, and I have been allowed to kiss their mother hello, I have a choice to make. To play or not to play.

On the days when I am coming home to a mountain of paperwork or chores, it is always tempting to tell my three boys that I don’t have time tonight to play with them. Daddy has a lot of work to do, and I need to go take care of it.

Now, there are times when that is a truly unavoidable situation, but most of the time, I find myself putting them off for my own convenience, not because of any true bill paying or door hinge squeaking emergency. It’s just that if I get some things done before dinner, I will have more time after dinner to do what I want to do. Namely, sitting.

I am making a conscious effort these days to resist the pitfall of turning into the guy from the “Cat’s in the Cradle” song, however. Most days, I put the chore list aside and go play some baseball in the backyard when I get home. These days I am reminding myself more and more that I am not going to get to the end of my life and wish that I had spent more time at work or more time doing chores. You only get one shot at raising your kids, and the only thing that they require from you is your time. If you’re around to play with them, you are 90% of the way there when it comes to raising them right. The other 10% is a total mystery, and if anyone knows what it is, please tell me!

One of the challenges to fatherhood is that going out and playing with the boys is not all fun and games. Many times I wish I could be doing chores instead. There are days when everyone gets along just fine, but I’ve only heard tell of them. I’ve never actually seen it happen. I always end up refereeing some kind of hullabaloo between two boys who seem to be constantly jockeying for position as Alpha Child. If Son Number One and Two were dogs, I would just let them fight it out, letting one of them finally establish dominance. But since my wife tells me we can’t do it that way, we always end up needing to “use our words” after they are peeled apart. Add a very opinionated Son Number Three into the mix, and emotions can run high in the backyard. We always have fun, but it is usually intermixed with some temper flare-ups and resulting disciplinary actions.

Still, even with the inevitable brotherly squabbles, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Not because of the fact that I’m spending quality time with them in their formative years. That’s all well and good, but it’s not the real reason I do it. I do it for the laughs, and I do it for the thrills. If you spend enough time around kids you’ll get a lot of both.

One evening a while back, when tempers and emotions were at a particularly high level, all three of the boys ended up in tears, crying about not getting their respective ways. I sat them all down and had a talk with them.

Me - “I want you guys to control your emotions, and use your words with each other. I don’t want you guys to cry when you’re mad. I want you to cry only when you’re really sad, or when you have broken your leg.”

Son Number Three – “Or your arm.”

Me – “Yes, or your arm.”

Number Three – “Or your peanuts.”

“Yes. It is definitely OK to cry then.”

That’s the kind of hidden comic gem that keeps you coming back for more. Also, the more time you spend with them, the more “teachable moments” you get to handle. Teachable moments for the working dad can be exhilarating. They are a lot like being at bat in a baseball game. You get your pitch, and you do with it what you can.

Just last night we were all out playing on the play structure and everyone was momentarily getting along. Out of nowhere, Son Number Two, the six-year-old, pipes up with, “I’m sexy and I know it.”

Now for those of you who don’t know, that is the tag line from a pop song that is currently all over the radio. (Just not the channels you listen to.) He sang it with the right inflection and beat that would suggest that he had heard the song, but I was sure he hadn’t. He also had the classic “testing the waters” look on his face, suggesting he knew it might not be appropriate, but I could tell he had no idea what it meant.

Stifling a laugh and forcing my best stern, concerned dad voice, I asked him, “Where did you hear that?”

“Kindergarten”

Son Number One piped up and said, “Well, he could have heard it at first grade, too, because a lot of kids in my class say it.”

“Really? Well, you boys don’t get to say it, because it’s not a kid thing to say. It’s an adult thing to say.”

Son Number Two, now with a big smile on his face, asked, “What does it mean?”

Some days you get fastballs at your chin, and some days you get hanging curve balls that look like they are sitting on a tee, just waiting for you to knock them out of the park.

“Well, son, it means you think girls think you’re cute and huggable and kissable.”

BAM! That’s a 500-foot shot straight out over the center field wall. Kiss that ball goodbye!!!

You should have seen the look on their faces. I don’t think there is a more horrifying thing you could tell a six or seven-year-old boy than that. We won’t be hearing that again.

It’s parenting home runs like that that make it all worthwhile. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go play some ball with my boys, and later I need to discuss home schooling with my wife.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

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The Summons

Today, I received the most dreaded piece of mail known to mankind. More hideous that an IRS audit notice. More dastardly than an eviction letter. It was The Summons for Jury Service. We’ll get back to that in a minute. Right now I want to talk about the DMV.

I had a very offensive accusation hurled at me once at the DMV. I had moved back to California from Oregon, and I was at a Los Angeles DMV office re-taking the written portion of the driver’s test to get my California driver’s license back. I tried just honking three times and flipping them the bird, but I guess an actual California driving skills test was not required.

Anyway, there were 20 of us packed into the testing room, and at 6’-1”, I was far and away the tallest person in the room. In the middle of the test I stood up straight to stretch my back from the crouching position I was maintaining at my assigned wall shelf testing location, when the permanently grumpy horn-rimmed-glasses-wearing DMV proctor lady looked me right in the eye and shouted, “You deah! Keep you eye on you own paper!”

That was the point at which I ignored her surly, broken English request and actually took a good look at the other people taking the driver’s test with me. You have got to be kidding me, lady!?! You think I’m cheating off these people? I will guarantee that you and I are the only two people in this room who actually speak enough English to have understood that sentence that you, yourself barely formed! The lady next to me has her test upside down, and this guy looks like he couldn’t spell “DMV” if we spotted him all three letters and gave him six tries!

I take offense to the jury selection process in the same way. People have a right to a trial by a jury of their peers. If I am selected to the jury, you’re telling me that I’m a peer to the neck-tattooed idiot over there who “allegedly” held up the convenience store at three in the afternoon in front of the off-duty cop? Honestly, why do we need to keep saying “allegedly?” Look at this mouth-breather. He obviously did it, which totally offends me. What about him make us peers? Warm-bloodedness, I guess.

But that begs the question, do you want a jury of his actual peers judging him? Unemployed meth addicts are unreliable at best. They would never show up on time for the already ridiculously relaxed court hours, plus they might invoke the classic stoner “duuuude, he was totally framed” defense.

I guess the term “jury of your peers” might be misleading these days. Maybe we should change it to “jury of normal people.” No matter what we call them, though, we still have to find twelve people with enough free time to spend all day at the courthouse without getting paid to be there. Now, full-time writers are a good fit for jury service from a logistics standpoint, but a horrible choice from a practical view. They have lots of free time, but we writers are a weird group with wild imaginations. Trust me, you do not want your fate decided by twelve writers! They will convict you just because it makes a better plot for the book they’re going to write about all this.

Unfortunately, I am not a full-time writer yet. Since I can’t support my family on the $13 a year I make as a writer, I still have a day job. The day job tends to take up a lot of my free time. That makes me a bad fit for jury duty, from my point of view. The only people who actually have enough free time to serve on a jury are the unemployed. In my experience, people are unemployed for many reasons, but the vast majority of them are unemployed for reasons that make it impossible for them to be considered a peer of yours or mine, or of anyone who holds down even a part-time job.

Retirement from a lifetime career of steady work should be the only acceptable reason for unemployment when it comes to jurist qualifications.

Now, on the one hand, since I have no time to miss work and serve on a jury, I will do whatever I can to get out of it (short of actual lying, of course, Your Honor). I have to assume that almost all people in my position, meaning my peers, would do the same. So if all my peers are trying to get out of jury duty, and we’re as smart a group of folks as I think we are, there aren’t going to be very many of my peers in the jury box.

On the other hand, if I am ever accused of a crime that requires a jury to help get me freed, it will no doubt be a case of false imprisonment, and I will really want a jury of my actual peers to help me. Kind of a Catch-22, there.

Although… come to think of it, I’m no brain surgeon. I’m not really even that bright. I mean, I can hold down a job and raise kids, but let’s face it; that’s not exactly rocket science. I don’t really want a jury of my peers. I want a jury of rocket scientists and brain surgeons. Those guys are wicked smart! They’ll see through the evil DA’s lies and deceptions. They won’t believe that crooked cop’s story. They’ll get me off.

The problem is, the brain surgeons are the ones who really can’t miss work. I can actually miss work, I just don’t want to.

Although… It says here on my summons that “state law prohibits discrimination or retaliation against an employee for taking time off to serve as a juror.” Hmm… I mean, truth be told, I’m not really that important at the office. I could miss work. Might be kind of fun…

Anyway, the more I think about this, the more I think that DMV visit might actually have been the root cause of this whole problem. Not the ridiculous and insulting accusation, but the fact that I probably re-registered to vote in California while I was there, which is probably how I got on the jury pool list. A lot of good that did me!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

Mother's Day, Part III

I think my wife is still mad about my handling of Mother’s Day two years ago. She exacted some amount of physical revenge last year by tricking me into a dangerous kids’ craft project, but I get the feeling she’s still not over it. Mostly because this year she said, “I’m going to Las Vegas for Mother’s Day. You’re in charge of the kids for three days.”

Hmm. Either she’s still upset, or she has absolutely no faith in my ability to provide a satisfactory and appropriate Mother’s Day celebration. Either way, I can’t blame her. But if she was going to leave me alone with all three boys, I would definitely be taking the opportunity to lock in my status as the cool parent. Unfortunately for them, I am far too lazy to actually take them anyplace awesome like the waterslides or the wild animal park by myself, so I did the next best thing to win their eternal love. I let them eat whatever they wanted.

My wife left for Sin City on Saturday morning. As soon as she was out the door I toasted Eggo waffles and doused them with whipped cream, syrup and chocolate chips. Yum! A few hours later we were off to the little league fields for Son Number One’s baseball game, so we ate lunch at the snack bar. Icees, nachos, hot dogs, and Drumstick ice cream cones for everybody! What’s for dinner? Pizza and donuts, of course. The next morning we had more Eggos, this time with extra chocolate chips, and Hershey’s chocolate syrup, just for good measure. Our lunch consisted of bacon. Just bacon. Sunday’s dinner was a little weird. Son Number Two had a can of black olives and half a gallon of chocolate milk. Son Number Three had two bananas and the other half-gallon of chocolate milk, and Number One had leftover pizza and a non-alcoholic beer.

I’m pretty sure I locked in my position as the cool dad with the older two, but I must say, their behavior, and their pooping schedule has been a little off. Probably just a coincidence.

To really seal the deal with One and Two, I announced on Monday morning that they would be getting hot lunch at school that day. That is a rare treat at our house, and I played it off like I was doing it out of the kindness of my heart. Truth be told, I was just far too lazy to pack their lunches in the morning.

Now, although I did a great job of winning the love of his older brothers, my efforts had the opposite effect on Son Number Three. He was upset with me for the entire weekend. Now, it wasn’t because of the menu, but because I wasn’t paying the usual amount of attention to him. My wife has always accused me of coddling him, even going so far as to say, “You’ve never told that boy ‘No’ in his whole life.” That is of course patently false, but she sees it differently than I do. That’s because I have never been totally honest with her about my handling of Number Three. It’s not that I am looking to give him special treatment, it’s just that I’m lazy. I think we’ve established that.

When you have the third child, you suddenly go from man-to-man defense to the zone. Zone defense, from a parenting standpoint, is a lot more work. Because of my inherent laziness, I have been “graciously” looking after the youngest since he was born.

It’s because he’s the lightest.

Invariably, my children want to be held in some fashion or another whenever we go somewhere. Hip, piggyback, up on the shoulders, you name it. I don’t really want to carry any of them, because they’re all pretty heavy, but if I cut my losses and volunteer to carry the littlest one, I’m instantly back to man-to-man defense, and relieved of looking after the other two. “I’ve got Number Three, babe. You’re welcome!” Like I said, I’m lazy.

My wife apparently never saw through my laziness, and assumed I was coddling our youngest. I guess Number Three never saw through my charade either, because apparently he was used to quite a high level of attention.

As soon as my wife left, I was playing zone defense big time. I was fielding eight to ten questions, requests for help, and emergency spill response calls every minute of every waking hour. By the end of the first day, I was ready to sell all three kids to the first person who offered me more than two dollars. I don’t know how my wife does it!

Anyway, when I kept telling Son Number Three that I couldn’t hold him right now, or that he would have to wait a minute until I was done helping his brother, he took it very personally. He kept getting progressively more and more upset with me, ultimately ending each evening in fits of crying and wailing at the slightest transgression by his mean old dad.

Either that, or his strange diet and lack of naps was affecting his mood. Who can say?

On Sunday night he had had enough. Shortly after lights out, he protested my rule of law and declared his never-ending love for his mother by peeing all over the bathroom floor, not six inches away from the toilet. Sure, he cried and claimed to be just as upset about it as I was (the man who was in charge of cleaning it up), but I know he was just putting on a show to avoid any trouble.

I saw through his sob story about how he “just couldn’t make it in time.” He was showing me just how he felt about my handling of the weekend.

I hear ya, buddy. Loud and clear. Mommy will be back tomorrow.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

The Pinata

As most Americans surely did, we celebrated a Mexican holiday this past Saturday. No one knows what the holiday actually signifies, but we all love Cinco de Mayo. We spent a fun evening at a friend’s house, eating Mexican food, drinking Mexican beer, and watching the kids play in the pool. The pool was American. Oh, well.

My wife was in charge of the Mexican party game, namely, the piñata. Between the five families at the party, we had twelve kids raring to smack the two-foot long paper mache motorcycle in hopes of scoring some free candy.

I say paper mache, but actually it was a store-bought piñata, so it was really a cardboard motorcycle with shredded streamer material glued to the outside. We have neither the patience, the time, nor the artistic talent to make our own piñatas at my house. We also have no piñata party skills, as it turns out.

My wife filled the piñata with candy prior to the party. That was about the only piñata-related step we got right in the whole process. Two other things you need for a piñata are a string or rope to hang it from, and a bat to hit it with. We forgot both of those. The house we were at did not contain any string, so we ended up using a waterski rope from their boat, complete with the rainbow pattern nylon weave and the foam rubber handle. All things considered, it was fairly festive looking, so we were off to an OK start. As far as the bat goes, we couldn’t come up with one of those either, so we used a long, stout, fairly straight stick from the woodpile. That probably worked just fine for the inventor of the first piñata, so it would be fine for us.

We tied the waterski rope through the zip-tie loop on the top of the piñata, threw the rope over the basketball hoop in the backyard sport court, and we were ready to go. The first kid in line picked up the authentic piñata stick and hit the cardboard motorcycle fairly gently, which immediately broke the zip-tie, sending the candy-filled Trojan horse to the ground. All twelve kids rushed forward to pounce on it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You have to wait until the candy comes out,” said my wife.

We pulled the piñata out from under the pile of children and threaded the waterski rope through the cardboard opening that the zip tie loop had previously been in. We strung it back up on the basketball hoop and let the first kid have another crack at it.

He made very slight contact again and ripped the rope right out of the top of the piñata. It hit the ground again, and this time some candy spilled out with it. When we retrieved it from under the pile of screaming, candy-crazy children again, we no longer had any attachment point for our rope. We could have prevented two injuries and a lot of near misses and adult stress and strife if we had just stopped right there and poured out the rest of the candy onto the ground. Unfortunately, we were determined to keep going.

Not having any place to tie off the rope, we simply hog-tied the entire piñata with the rope, wrapping it around and around the body of the cardboard motorcycle until we were sure it would not come loose and hit the ground again.

The second kid in line hit it so hard, he put a hole right through the middle of it and sent half the candy spraying across the ground. He threw the stick down and dove for the candy, along with the other eleven miniature candy fiends.

Hmm… This doesn’t seem right. How come he got such a good piece of it? Wait a minute… We’re supposed to be working the rope, moving it up and down to make it harder to hit! We forgot that part.

The third kid got up to the plate and swung for the fences, expecting an outcome similar to the previous batter. At the last second, but for the first time that night, I yanked the rope and pulled the piñata up and out of the way of his monster swing. He was so prepared to hit the candy-filled target squarely, that upon missing it unexpectedly, his momentum spun him around 720 degrees, and he landed face-first on the concrete. He came up crying, holding tight to an injured thumb that had taken the brunt of his spinning fall.

Whoops. Our first piñata injury. I don’t think that’s supposed to happen. Come to think of it, why did that happen? Why are they swinging like they’re up to bat trying to hit a home run? Wait a minute… I think we’re supposed to spin them around first to get them dizzy and off balance so they can’t get so set before the swing…

We spun kid number four, and he looked a little dizzy, but he still teed off on the thing. He knocked the front wheel of the motorcycle off at such a high velocity that one of the dads took a Jolly Rancher in the face hard enough to put him down, tragically spilling much of his Corona.

Wait a minute... I think we’re also supposed to blindfold them…

Kid number five stepped up to the piñata with a blindfold on, and after being properly spun around to disorient her, she was our first contestant of the night that reminded us all of a proper piñata at-bat. She had that awkward, drunken sword wielding swing of a slightly disoriented blind person, but she still managed to make pretty decent contact with the moving target.

Kid number six took a wild swing and made solid contact sending more candy flying. As the horde of children rushed toward him, he proceeded to take another cut at it, narrowly avoiding decapitating two of the kids. He was in the middle of a third swipe as my wife, yelling “NOOOOOOO” like a slow motion action film star, came diving across the group of children, trying to save them from certain piñata-stick death. She came within mere inches of taking the fast moving stick in the teeth as she tried to pull the kids back away from the piñata-crazed seven-year-old’s swing radius.  

After she got done chastising our oldest son for almost killing half the kids at the party, and his own mother, she declared in a rather loud and frantic voice the new rule of, “Everyone back ten feet and nobody moves!!!”

By the time kids seven through nine were done, the piñata had been hit so many times, I wasn’t sure there was any candy left. There really wasn’t much piñata left. It looked like it had spent all day on an artillery range. The only thing keeping it from falling to the ground in eight small pieces was the fact that it was completely enveloped in a spider web of waterski rope.

Why is this thing taking such a beating? This still doesn’t seem right… These kids are like piñata savants. No one is missing…

Kid number ten walked unsteadily toward the plate. He was obviously dizzy, but he was squaring up nicely on his target. When I yanked the rope and pulled the piñata straight up in the air, his head snapped up to follow its movement…

They can see through the blindfold!

The stretchy shirt we had been using as a blindfold, when finally tested by my wife, was found to be less than blinding. In fact, she said she could see really well through it.

Whoops. Either all the kids were in cahoots and keeping it quiet, or we really didn’t do a good enough job of explaining what a blindfold was and what it was supposed to accomplish.

Either way, from a how-that-whole-thing-was-supposed-to-work standpoint, it is safe to say that we universally failed at piñata.

Our failures only seemed to matter to us, however. The great thing about kids is they never knew the difference. As far as they were concerned, the piñata was a great success. They all got a bunch of candy, and they all got to hit something with a stick. Two things kids love.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

Flushless Toilets

There is a disturbing trend happening in the men's room. No, I'm not talking about the creepy bathroom attendant that sits by the sinks and watches you wash your hands, then hands you a paper towel and offers you cologne in exchange for a tip. That is certainly disturbing, but I think (at least, I hope) it’s on the decline. I'm referring to flushless urinals.

Flushless toilet technology has existed ever since Adam first had to go Number 2. It was called squatting wherever you wanted to. This is still the case in much of the uncivilized world, but here in America we quickly developed the outhouse (still flushless, but more convenient), and then graduated to the water closet, today known simply as the toilet. In my opinion, beer and the flush toilet come in as number 1 and 2 respectively as the greatest inventions of all time. (Get it?)

Shortly after the flush toilet was invented, the public restroom was invented, and shortly after that, the first line to use the potty was invented. In the case of the women’s room, no amount of technological advancements could change the fact that women go to the bathroom in groups and stay in there forever, so their lines have remained long throughout history.

In the case of the men's room, it soon became evident that another technology could be employed to accommodate man's natural desire to pee standing up, making many of the bathroom trips faster, so the first urinal was invented. It was a flush toilet that bolts to the wall, and it was the third greatest invention ever. It improved our bathroom efficiency so much that men’s rooms now only have lines during halftime and the seventh inning stretch.

America has always been on the leading edge of good toilet technology. While the British invented it, we made it work right, and we mass-produced it. Widespread adoption of the flush toilet could be the single greatest environmental achievement of all time. It is certainly the single greatest improvement of the bathroom environment of all time. Not only did we Americans make the toilet functional and affordable to the common man, but we have also showed great restraint in not getting too crazy with it. To our credit, the wild Japanese talking toilets that are more like a car wash than a commode have not caught on here. We never even embraced the bidet. It’s been around as long as the toilet has, but still to this day they are only found in five-star hotels and really rich people’s houses, and they only pretend that they use them. They’re not fooling us.

Despite our track record of toilet-forward progress, sadly, with regard to the urinal, our country seems to be regressing. I am seeing more and more “waterless” urinals out there. I will explain what these are, since some of you men and most of you women have probably not seen these yet. It looks like a regular urinal, but there is no flush valve of any kind on top. Down where the water and the urinal cake normally live, there is nothing but a perforated plastic plate. When you pee into it, it disappears under the plate.

Regular toilets and urinals are very simple. Fresh water sits in what is called a “U-bend,” gracefully shielding the user from the unpleasant smell of the sewer pipe on the other side, and more importantly, protecting the bathroom and whatever it is attached to from filling up with noxious and potentially explosive sewer gases. When you place something that you no longer want in the toilet, and flush it, new fresh water comes rushing in to whisk your refuse away and replace the water in the U-bend with nice, clean, fresh, nothing-but-water, water. Simple, clean, and effective.

When you pee into a “waterless” urinal, you don’t get to send nice clean fresh water after it to whisk it away. So, where, you might ask, has that pee gone? It stays right underneath the perforated plastic plate, going nowhere until someone else replaces it with more pee, forcing your old pee down the U-bend. No fresh water in the equation. Hmmm. I’m no expert, by any means, but that plan seems ultimately flawed to me. We seem to be relying on a constant supply of “fresh pee” to keep things hygienic. You can surely understand my misgivings with that plan.

Now, besides the fact that this technology seems iffy at best from a physics, or a hygienic, or a just plain old common sense standpoint, my real problem with it is psychological. It’s the lack of the flush that irks me the most. Not the water itself, just the flush. The action of flushing. The satisfying finality of pushing the handle down and hearing the roar of the water.

The industrial-strength deluge of the urinal flush is special. It is final. It not only signals to the next guy in line that he’s up, but it signals to your psyche that you are done. Mission accomplished. A true sense of relief that comes from finishing the job. You walk-jogged up to that urinal with a powerful need to pee. You relieved yourself and it was in fact a big relief, but it’s not really, truly, 100% satisfying until you’ve slapped that handle down and heard that “whoosh.”

Now, you ladies might be thinking, well if you guys like the flush noise so much, how come you like peeing outdoors more than indoors? Great question! While it is true that we love to pee outside, there is a distinct lack of finality because of nothing to flush. That shortcoming with the outdoor pee, however, is totally offset by the fact that when peeing outdoors, we get to pee on something. The tree, the bush, the big rock, the fence post. Cursive writing in the snow. Aiming and hitting your mark outdoors completely overshadows the flush and makes it a moot point. Not so with the waterless urinal.

In fact, that leads us to the final problem I see with the flushless urinals. When we’re not outside peeing on the ants that are trying to climb the tree, we still like to aim. It is a universal truth that any man standing at a urinal will attempt to be helpful by cleaning off any cigarette ash, specks of dirt, or any other debris that happens to be anywhere inside the porcelain curvature, guiding the foreign material down to the pool of water at the bottom with our incredible accuracy. With a standard urinal, the flush creates a rush of water down the back side to actually clean it off after we’re done “helping.” The waterless urinal doesn’t have that self-cleaning feature.

Do the businesses and organizations willingly installing these flawed devices not see the inherent problems associated with a lack of fresh water? And much more importantly, why do they want to take our flush noise away? Who’s in charge over there?

Oh well. I guess we’ll all just pee outside more in the future. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I saw some ants trying to climb the tree in my backyard.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

Over Texted

My wife and I took our kids out to dinner last night to celebrate Son Number Three’s fourth birthday. On the way home, we stopped at Target because Son Number One wanted to buy a batting glove before his next baseball game. He and I went in to look for the glove while my wife stayed in the car with the other two boys, because when you don’t have to bring all three into the store, you don’t. You just don’t.

Number One and I found a suitable batting glove that fit a seven-year-old’s budget, checked out, and headed back to the car. When we got home, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and noticed that I had a missed call. From my wife. From 20 minutes ago. I was with her 20 minutes ago…?

“Honey, did you call me 20 minutes ago?”

“Yeah, when you were walking across the parking lot heading into Target. I was calling to tell you that you were going in the wrong door. You were going to the grocery side.”

Now, come on! That’s what we’re using our phones for now? I think that’s a little much. It’s not like if we went in the wrong door we were going to fall into a hidden tiger pit. Or be attacked by a swarm of angry bees. Those would be legitimate reasons why I would want you to call me and tell me not to go in that door. But calling me to warn me that we’re going to have to walk an extra 50 feet? That is getting a little out of hand with the cell phones, don’t you think?

When we got in the door at Target, I had no idea where the batting gloves would be. Did I stop and get my phone out to call or text someone and ask them where I should walk? Of course not. I’m a 39-year-old man. I looked around, pointed myself in a likely direction, started walking and read the signs. I was born in a time when the only phones we had were permanently attached to the wall.

Unfortunately, I fear we are raising a generation of teenagers who would actually stand inside the door of Target and text someone for assistance. Why? Because it’s easy, I guess. And the phone was already in their hand, where it resides all day.

 “at trgt.. omg so lost.. wer is sports stuf?”

OMG.

If you are my age or older, try to imagine this scenario: When you were a teenager, you walked into Target, went over to the pay phone on the wall, put in a dime, called home, and asked your mom where the sporting goods aisle was. I’m not sure you would have been allowed to come home.

The fact that my wife has apparently started to use her phone more like a teenager than a 40-year-old had me worried, so I got online and looked up the last bill, curious about our respective texting habits.

Last month, I sent 138 texts. I was shocked. I considered that to be a lot. My wife, on the other hand, sent 592. That’s 20 per day. I can’t name one other activity, besides breathing, that I do 20 times per day.

The only people that were on the phone 20 times per day when I was a kid were stock traders and the 911 operator in the big city. Everyone else used the phone three times a day. Four max.

Because I was shocked at my wife’s text numbers, and because I knew that she was still probably way low compared to today’s youth, I looked up the national averages.

OMG.

The average teenager these days sends 3,339 texts per month. The average teen girl sends 4,050 per month. That’s 135 per day. I don’t think I even breathe in and out that many times per day. They must have thumbs like ninjas.

The usage drops off astronomically, as you would expect, as the user group gets older. The 55-64-year-old crowd hardly texts at all, and the 65+ crowd apparently does not even know what a text is. Astonishingly, my wife is actually average for the 35-45 crowd. I am the slacker of my age group with only 138 texts per month. That worries me.

I am honestly concerned about this. I grew up without a cell phone, and I consider it to have been a tremendously successful upbringing. Today’s kids are growing up not only with a cell phone, but a cell phone constantly in their hands, constantly using it. When they are not sending one of their 135 texts for the day, they are checking to see if they have any texts from other people, checking to see what Shakira and Justin Bieber are up to, playing Angry Birds, updating their Facebook status to, “OMG did you just see what Justin Bieber just tweeted?”, and then sending another nine OMG texts. Seriously, watch a teenager for two minutes. If they do not look at their phone in that two minutes, they are either asleep or dead.

There is the exact same number of minutes in the day today as there was when I was growing up, and I assume teenagers still have to do homework, so what activity that was prevalent in my youth is losing out to all this screen time today? I don’t know for sure, but my guess is it’s the one that was instrumental in the development of social skills, concentration, patience, problem solving skills, and common sense. All traits that I see on the decline with today’s youth.

We have to ask ourselves this very important question: As a society, do we really want to be raising kids who can’t make toast, multiply fractions, or find their own shoes if the battery dies on their phone? Think about it, people. OMG!

One thing is for sure. If my kids ever text me from Target asking where to find something, I will text them back this message: “removing u from cell phone plan now L”

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

How to be a Parent

Two things occurred to me this morning at 3:15 A.M., while I sat on the floor in my boys’ bedroom, wiping pee off my three-year-old’s legs. The first thing was that parenting, despite some of the odd hours and strange tasks, is still the greatest thing I’ve ever done with my life. The second was that people who don’t have kids yet might not realize that sometimes people with kids are sitting on the floor at 3:15 A.M. cleaning up pee. So I thought I would try to use some of my experiences to help prospective parents prepare for life with children.

If you happen to be someone who has their first child on the way, or someone who is just thinking about starting a family, and you find yourself wondering what it will be like to live with, and be responsible for, small children, I can help. I have developed a series of real-life do-it-yourself examples that will help prepare you for parenthood.

Since we already touched on the subject of odd-hour odd tasks, let’s start there.

Nighttime

You never know what you’ll need to be doing when you’re woken up in the middle of the night by a child, so here’s how to prepare:

Get yourself three new alarm clocks. Have someone you know and trust set each one for a random time between the hours of midnight and 6:00 A.M. Start yourself off easy and only activate one at a time for a while. On the first night, when the alarm goes off, get out of bed and do laundry. On the next night, get out of bed and pour yogurt on your shoulders and the carpet, then do some more laundry and clean the carpet. On night number three, get out of bed and go to the store and buy cough syrup, milk, yogurt, oatmeal, diapers, children’s suppositories, and a humidifier. Then come home and change all the sheets on all the beds in the house. Then pour the yogurt in your lap, pour some of the milk on the couch, do laundry, clean the shower, and go back to bed. You can work up to having all three alarm clocks activated at once.

That should cover you for the standard issues, but it is really only a simulation for having kids ages one through eight. If you really want to prepare for what it’s like when you bring a newborn baby home, just stay up for 19 days in a row.

Morning

Once you have kids, you will never sleep in again. That is a hard reality to accept, so here’s how to get ready:

Set your regular old alarm clock for 5:45 A.M. Get up every morning at that time no matter what day it is. Do this forever.

Ages Zero to Four

You carry the young kids a lot. To get ready for this, buy a 30-pound bag of flour or rice. Carry it on your hip everywhere you go. You can only set it down for two minutes at a time, every two hours. If you ever drop it on accident, you have failed.

Random Daytime Shopping Emergencies

Kids are demanding, and their schedule almost never fits yours, so try this. Once or twice a month, leave work at an unexpected time and go to the store and buy cough syrup, milk, yogurt, oatmeal, diapers, children’s suppositories, and a humidifier. Then go back to work.

Volume

As the kids get older, they get louder. They are never louder than when you’re on the phone. To simulate what that will be like, go to a garage sale and find an old “boom box” portable stereo. Stock it with new D-cell batteries and have it with you at all times. Keep it tuned to a talk radio station. Whenever your phone rings, before you answer it, turn on your boom box and put it on your left shoulder, on volume level 10. Then answer your phone, put it up to your right ear and carry on your conversation as you would normally, only whenever you hear the words “and” or “the” from the radio, say, “Just a minute, please. Mommy’s on the phone.”

Driving

You’re a great driver. You’ve been driving for a long time. Driving with kids in the car won’t be an issue, right? Think again. The best way to simulate driving with children in the car is to get your hands on three cats and a rhesus monkey. Put all three cats in a medium-sized burlap bag, and place the bag in the back seat. Place the rhesus monkey on top of the bag. Drive as you would normally.

Ridiculous Emotions and Fake Problems

Kids have great imaginations and also lots of emotions they cannot fully control. Lots of times, those two forces collide and you are faced with cleaning up the teary-eyed mess. To prepare for this, search out and befriend someone who is notoriously neurotic and irrational. Follow them around and attempt to solve every one of their most inane daily problems. It is critical that you develop the ability to seem very concerned and forlorn about their most trivial issue. When you can say, “I’m really sorry that happened. What can I do to help?” with a serious look of concern on your face when they tell you that their imaginary friend lost her imaginary cat, you’re ready.

The Questions

Parenthood, when really boiled down to its essence, is about answering questions. An average child will ask approximately five bazillion questions by age seven. To get ready, buy all 26 versions of Trivial Pursuit. Carry the cards around with you all day, and every two minutes have someone ask you one of the questions. It is not critical that you actually know the correct answer, but you need to be able to come up with a plausible answer without hesitation. Have the person ask you three follow-up questions about your answer. Again, the actual answer is not critical. The ability to answer is what counts. That being said, it wouldn’t hurt to pay close attention to the Trivial Pursuit Ultimate Disney Edition. That will come in very handy. 

Home Improvement

Remove the existing can lights from your kitchen ceiling and install track lighting. Three days later, remove the track lighting, because it “just doesn’t go as well with everything else as she thought it would,” and put the old can lights back in.

(Sorry, this was accidentally transferred from the list of real-life do-it-yourself examples that will help prepare men for getting married. My mistake.)

Sports

As the kids grow up, they start getting interested in hitting things with sticks and bats. Often times, when minding your own business, one of those things is you. You’ll want to toughen up a little for this. Get a plastic Wiffle ball bat. Every day, hit yourself in the shins, knees, calves, and occasionally, the groin.

Toys Everywhere

Kids come with toys, and the toys live on the floor. Normally, that’s not a problem, but with older kids, you will need to be prepared for one major hazard: Nighttime Legos in the carpet. Since you don’t have kids yet, chances are you don’t have a lot of Legos available to you. No problem. Broken glass is a perfectly realistic substitute. Just break a few wine bottles and scatter the shards around your living room carpet. Turn off all the lights and walk across the room barefoot. When you can do it without yelping loud enough to wake the dead, you’re ready.

That should just about do it. Now, please don’t get me wrong. This list won’t fully prepare you for parenthood, but it will give you some very real-world practice so you won’t be caught too off guard when that first bundle of joy arrives. Have fun!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

April Fools

Since I am a self-employed performing artist who owns an Alternative Fuel Vehicle Refueling Property and also produces Cellulosic Biofuel, and my registered domestic partner is an Indian Coal Producer who also has healthcare expenses related to black lung, and we have both been receiving Ottoman Turkish Empire Settlement Payments, needless to say, our taxes were a little complicated this year.

Filling out my federal Form 2106 for the special handling of my performing artist expenses was easy. The problems arose when I tried to figure out if I could claim a deduction for my registered domestic partner’s health insurance costs. Since he is an Indian Coal Miner, I am unclear on whether California recognizes the fact that I am self-employed and paying his insurance premiums since he is also self-employed. Kind of vague there.

We also got a little confused about what to do with the interest we have received from our Ottoman Turkish Empire Settlement Payments. The federal government lets us deduct them, but California won’t. Does that mean that we have to give the money back? Believe me, I don’t want to give those Ottoman Turks another inch!

Figuring out my Alternative Fuel Vehicle Refueling Property Credit was no picnic, either. I read Form 8911 in its entirety, but I’m still confused. I produce and sell biodiesel mixed with ethanol, natural gas, hydrogen and wheat grass juice specifically formulated for today’s greener vehicles, and today’s less discerning alcoholics. The fact that I own the only vehicle that can actually run on this fuel is a moot point as far as I’m concerned, and the IRS agrees.

The problem is that Form 8911 says that the following are alternative fuels.

-          Any fuel at least 85 percent of the volume of which consists of one or more of the following: ethanol, natural gas, compressed natural gas, liquefied natural gas, liquefied petroleum gas, or hydrogen.

-          Any mixture which consists of two or more of the following: biodiesel (as defined in section 40A(d)(1)), diesel fuel (as defined in section 4083(a)(3)), or kerosene,  and at least 20% of the volume of which consists of biodiesel determined without regard to any kerosene in such mixture.

-          Electricity.

Now, my special blend is only 75% ethanol, natural gas and hydrogen, but it contains biodiesel. Just not diesel or kerosene. You can see my obvious dilemma. I tried to read section 40A(d)(1), but I fell asleep. I don’t know if I qualify for the credit. If only the federal government were more specific on the treatment of wheat grass juice with respect to taxation, I would have some clear direction here.

Then there is Form 6478 – Alcohol and Cellulosic Biofuel Fuels Credit.

I need to determine where my cellulosic biofuel ranks from the following options:

- Alcohol 190 proof or greater and alcohol 190 proof or greater in fuel mixtures

- Alcohol less than 190 proof but at least 150 proof and alcohol less than 190 proof but at least 150 proof in fuel mixtures

- Qualified cellulosic biofuel produced after 2008 that is alcohol (see instructions for election)

- Qualified cellulosic biofuel produced after 2008 that is not alcohol (see instructions for election)

You can see my dilemma here, again. I know my cellulosic biofuel is alcoholic, because when we drink it, we get plumb tore up! But I’m really not sure what proof it is. Every time we think to test it, we end up passing around the Mason jar and forget again.

Also, the IRS has informed me that before claiming a credit on Form 6478, the alcohol fuel mixture credit must be taken against any section 4081 liability on Form 720. Any credit in excess of the section 4081 liability can be taken as a claim for payment on Form 8849 or an income tax credit on Form 4136. Clear as a bell.

Also, figuring out my registered domestic partner’s Form 8835 - Renewable Electricity, Refined Coal, and Indian Coal Production Credit has been no walk in the park. I do know that Indian coal means coal which is produced from coal reserves which on 6/14/05 were owned by an Indian tribe or held in trust by the United States for the benefit of an Indian tribe or its members. I also know that resources means wind, closed-loop biomass,  poultry waste, open-loop biomass, geothermal energy, solar energy, small irrigation power, municipal solid waste, hydropower production, marine and hydrokinetic renewables, refined coal, and Indian coal.

What I can’t figure out is how Form 8835 relates to Form 990-BL - Information and Initial Excise Tax Return for Black Lung Benefit Trusts and Certain Related Persons. We know that my registered domestic partner’s black lung issues are a direct result of both his Indian Coal mining activities and also his excessive intake of my cellulosic biofuel.

Should we try to combine Forms 8835, 990-BL and 6478 to give the IRS a clear picture of the predicament we find ourselves in?

Oh, forget it. Where’s that jug of biofuel?

If you ever get the impression that the tax code has anything to do with revenue collection, you need to think again.

April Fools Day is not April 1^st. It’s April 15^th!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

Mostly Proud Father

I had a very almost awesome, mostly exciting experience as a father the other night that left me half beaming with pride.

Son Number One, the oldest of the three, is seven years old. He’s on a seven and eight-year-old baseball team this year, and he is most assuredly in over his head. He is on the young side of the roster in the first place, but add to that the fact that he could care less if he is any good at baseball, and you have a kid who should really still be playing with the six-year-olds. He enjoys playing for the most part, but the internal drive and fire to be the best player he can be is completely missing. He strikes out, and runs back to the dugout with a smile on his face, just as happy as can be.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not the kind of dad that needs his kids to be all-stars. In fact, I have a “better living through mediocrity” philosophy when it comes to kids’ sports. I end up with a lot more free time if they stay middle of the road, athletically speaking. When you have an all-star, all of a sudden every single one of your weekends is spoken for with one tournament of champions or another. To that, I say no thanks.

That being said, I would like my eldest boy to be slightly more into the game of baseball than he seems to be. It doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest that almost every other kid on his team can hit, field, and throw better than he can. He’s still having fun, though, and that’s what counts in my book.

So, anyway, the other night he had the game of his life. His usual M.O. at the plate is to swing at the first three pitches, no matter what they look like. Also, when he swings at them, he makes sure that the ball is already in the catcher’s mitt before starting the bat around. It makes for a pretty entertaining at-bat when the kid pitching bounces it in the dirt twice before it crosses the plate, the catcher loses it between his legs and is scrambling for the ball behind him, and then the batter swings. We’re having him tested for near-sightedness, far-sightedness, and blindness.

His first at-bat went as per usual. Three bad pitches, three late swings, and one happy kid running back to the bench. On his second at-bat, however, it was time for the coach to be pitching, so he got some balls that actually came across the plate. Out of nowhere, the planets aligned, the stars crossed, the bat started moving at the right time, and Son Number One ripped one up the middle past the second baseman for a single that moved his runner from first to third. Standing there on first base, beaming proudly at me, was the first glimmer I had seen all season of an honest-to-goodness baseball player. I was beaming back at him from the stands just as proud as I could possibly be. I was glowing.

It didn’t last long.

In the middle of the next kid’s at-bat, my superstar future Cal Ripken was not poised with one foot on the bag, stretched out and ready to run to second base. He was, instead, standing with both feet in the middle of the bag, facing away from second base, looking alternately at me and his base coach, holding his groin with both hands, hopping up and down, and generally giving us the universal “I’ve gotta pee really bad!” signals. When I suggested from the stands that he might want to hold it, his pained expression was replaced with a look of abject terror that immediately caused his base coach to call a pinch runner out of the dugout. Off went Son Number One like a rocket, straight off the field, through the dugout, and heading for the restrooms, abandoning what might have very well been his one base running opportunity of the year. I hung my head, and climbed out of the stands to follow him to the potty.

He was in the door to one of the restrooms well ahead of me, and when I opened the door to follow him, I was prepared to give a rather stern talking to about holding it next time in the middle of the game to a boy with his pants around his ankles, peeing into a toilet. What I found, however, was a heartbroken little boy, crying next to the potty, still fully clothed. He hadn’t made it in time. My seven-year-old had peed his pants. My heart melted, and I immediately switched to consoling dad mode. He was embarrassed, and terrified that everyone would know.

While I worked on stopping the tears and calming him down, I pieced together what had happened. As it turns out, the required athletic cup can backfire on this age group. While it is meant to be a protective device, it very much limits the wearer’s ability to “squeeze it off” in a pee emergency. Live and learn.

At the beginning of the year when we received my son’s uniform, I took one look at the pants and said to my wife, “You’re kidding, right?” White pants with red pin stripes, combined with red socks, navy blue jerseys, and black hats. They sort of look like the miniature Harlem Globetrotters of baseball. That night, however, I was thrilled with the white pants. After an initial examination of the damp young man, I was very happy to report to him that it was impossible to tell that his pants were wet. He would have to live with the fact that his underwear was squishy, but the general public would never know anything was amiss. The white pants had saved the day. We wiped off the tears, put a smile on our faces, and raced back to the field.

Some kid on the other team had made an unassisted triple play at third base right about the time that we had hit the restroom, so Son Number One’s entire team had already taken the field, and they were yelling for him to hurry up. Due to his late arrival, he was placed at the pitcher’s mound next to the coach instead of his usual spot in left field. Besides the fact that he ran out to the mound with his feet spread wide apart, waddle-running like his pants were wet, you never would have been able to tell his pants were wet. Crisis averted!

I had gone from super-proud and excited to less-than-thrilled and annoyed to empathetic and consoling to relieved and happy in the span of two minutes. As I sat back down in the stands, I was physically tired from all the emotions. I had barely caught my breath when I was back up on my feet, cheering wildly and beaming with pride again. For the second time that night the planets and stars all fell into place. The batter hit a dribbling ground ball back at the mound. Son Number One charged the ball, fielded it effortlessly, and pivoting on his right foot, threw a rifle-shot to first base to get the batter out by half a step. I have never seen him throw a ball that fast or that accurately. I was glowing once again.

The game ended shortly after that, and I bought him a celebratory Icee at the snack bar. We had a serious discussion about remembering to go potty before the game from now on, and more excited talk from his proud father about his hit and his play at the mound. We also decided that since it was a late game and his mom was home with his younger brothers, we would tell her all about his highlights, but keep the part about the pee to ourselves. We figured it was guy stuff, and since no one else knew, she didn’t need to know either. So if you happen to see him, just high-five him for the hit and the out. You don’t know anything about any accident.

True to form for my not-so-sports-oriented seven-year-old, however, if you ask him about that game today, he’ll probably remember only one thing. The Icee.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

Random Thoughts

As with most weekly column writers, I keep a list of possible future topics for my articles. At least, I assume other writers do this. I actually don’t ever talk to other writers since most of us tend to be neurotic weirdoes. Anyway, a lot of things end up on the list that fall into the category of single random thoughts. Not enough of an idea to write an entire article on (at least, not one that you would want to read), but still important enough to me to keep. Eventually they pile up and need to be freed from the constraints of the list and unleashed upon the world. These are they.

Why does everyone offer senior discounts? In my experience, seniors tend to be the ones with all the money. What we need is “guys in their 30’s and 40’s with three kids” discounts. We’re broke.

It makes more sense to be a strong swimmer than a strong runner. You never drown when you stop running.

I recently received a FedEx delivery slip that said, "Sign legibly." Sorry, FedEx, but you're going to have to pick one or the other.

More and more these days, every time I go to a discount gas station, it seems like I am the only person there not currently on, looking for, or selling methamphetamines. I pay more for gas now just so I can be around other people who still have all their teeth.

Why do we still say, “Hang up the phone?” At this point, shouldn't it be, “Push the button?”

All the hand sanitizer in the world won't help if your kid is going to lick the shopping cart handle.

I have never understood the saying, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.” Why would you want to “have” your cake without eating it? To stare at it because it’s pretty? Who wants to sit and look at a cake?

It has occurred to me that “multi-tasking” is the decision to accomplish multiple tasks poorly in more time than it takes to accomplish one task well.

I have decided that the best benchmark of where you are financially in your life is not your bank account balance. It is whether or not the advertisement of “free appetizers” has a profound impact on your decision making.

How come the word symmetrical isn’t a palindrome, like noon or radar?

The people at the Army need to talk to me. If you want to stop an enemy, simply steal their shoes and spread Legos everywhere. Nothing is more effective.

The other day, while trying to go to dictionary.com I typed in dictonary. They should probably have a function that just blocks you from the site for 48 hours to punish you for being an ironic jackass.

I received a letter the other day that had a return address of 3542 Solitude Way. Shouldn’t it be 1 Solitude Way?

Why do I have to spell approximately correctly every time?

I have found that if you donate enough money to the right charities, you will never have to buy return address labels as long as you live.

If you work at the Federal Reserve, wouldn’t it be easier if they just paid you in cash?

As I get older, I’m finding that gravity is really starting to let me down.

It is very obvious that classy is either inherited or earned. It cannot be purchased.

On my last trip to Las Vegas, I flew out from Sacramento on a flight that was advertised as a 55 minute trip, but my flight back from Las Vegas to Sacramento was billed as 1-1/2 hours gate-to-gate. On the return trip, the captain announced that despite leaving the gate 15 minutes late we would still be arriving on time. Is it just me, or are the airlines using fuzzy math?

Why are “sun-dried” tomatoes better than any other way of drying a tomato? A dried tomato is a dried tomato, right?

Why is abbreviation such a long word?

In my experience, people who have a lot to say often say most of it on the back of their car.

There should be a constitutional amendment banning the use of the number 0 and the letter O in alpha-numeric strings. It should also ban the use of the letters V and W. I can never tell if it’s a W or two V’s. Forget about it if they’re next to each other. Is it W-V, or is it V-W? Is it two W’s or four V's, or V-W-V?

Q is in the wrong place in the alphabet. There is no way it should be between P and R. It should be way at the end with V-Z.

Why is the grass in between the sidewalk and the parking lot at Walgreens and Arco always nicer than mine? That offends me on some level.

If you drop your vitamin-C tablet into a hotel sink, is that considered a stalemate?

Money and toilet paper have something in common. They are both easy to take for granted until you run out.

And finally,

How come you never see any bald Eskimos? Someone needs to figure out what’s up with their hair and patent it.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

I'm Listening, Honey

“My wife told me I never listen to her. At least, that’s what I think she said.”

It’s a classic joke, and like all good humor, it’s funny because it’s rooted in the truth. All my life I have been hearing about wives complaining that their husbands don’t listen. When I first got married I remember thinking, “Well, that’s silly. I would never do that to my wife. Why would you choose to live the rest of your life with someone, but choose not to listen to them? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Little did I know, it all makes perfect sense. You just have to be married for a while and have kids before it starts.

Ten year into the marriage and three boys later, I totally understand, and I’m here today to tell you ladies, it’s not that we’re not listening, it’s that we’re not remembering.

I’m almost 40 years old now, and I can say with absolute certainty that my brain is much, much smaller than when I was 30. At least it feels that way. It doesn’t actually feel like it has become physically smaller and rattling around inside my skull, it just feels like it cannot hold and process near as much information as before. It’s not necessarily slower, it just has less capacity.

I think it has been filled up with questions. When you have small kids, approximately 78% of your day is devoted to answering questions. This tax on your brain is exacerbated by the fact that your average day is now 78% busier than it used to be, specifically because of the kids. That’s the double-edged sword of child rearing from a brain capacity standpoint. Your brain is now doing approximately 156% more work than it did before you had kids.

Even though your brain is being heavily taxed at home by your children and your schedule, if you’re the dad with the job, you still have to go to work and earn a living. Unfortunately, even though you want to, you can’t just go into the office and stare at the wall and drool, like your brain wants you to do. You have to be at least a little bit productive or they are likely to stop paying you.

So with a brain going full-tilt nearly 18 hours a day, you tend to do information triage on all the incoming data. This is where the wives tend to mistake the husbands’ lack of recall for lack of listening in the first place. I can assure you ladies, we listened to everything you just told us, it’s just that we only retained the information that required our later action.

Allow me to explain with this totally hypothetical situation that happened last week:

My wife sits me down after the kids go to bed and tells me four things:

Wife’s information packet number 1:

We’re going somewhere on Wednesday night after you get home from work. We’ll leave from home.

My brain’s processing of that information:

She will tell me what to wear when I get home from work on whatever night that she just said, and then she’ll tell me where to drive the car. No action required on my part. No need to store this information. Immediately forgotten.

Wife’s information packet number 2:

We’re having some of our friends over for dinner on Friday night. They will arrive at our house after you get home from work. I am making food.

My brain’s processing of that information:

Do we have beer in the garage fridge? Yes. OK. Husbands and I are all set. She will tell me what to wear when I get home from work on whatever night that she just said. No action required on my part. No need to store this information. Immediately forgotten.

Wife’s information packet number 3:

The boys have back-to-back baseball games on Saturday. We’ll all go to the fields in the morning in two separate cars, and then after Son Number Two’s game, you will stay to watch Son Number One’s game with Son Number Two and I will take Son Number Three home for his nap. You will bring Number One and Two home after the second game.

My brain’s processing of that information:

She will tell me what to wear when I wake up on whatever morning she just said, and she’ll tell me where to drive the car. No action required on my part. No need to store this information. Immediately forgotten.

Wife’s information packet number 4:

The guest bathroom faucet is dripping.

My brain’s processing of that information:

That is the lever kind of mixing valve where you need to replace the plastic cartridge underneath the handle. I’ll have to turn the water off under the sink to do it, and sometimes when you do that, the seals in the shut-off valve go out on you, too. I’d better make sure I get a couple spare shut off valves along with the cartridge when I go to the hardware store. I’d also better remember to find my big shut-off wrench in the garage and have it handy before I get started in case one of the valves under the sink does start to leak and I need to shut the main water off out by the sidewalk in a hurry. I have that all-day meeting on Tuesday, but I can probably get to the hardware store Wednesday on my lunch hour and knock that out on Wednesday night.

“Do we have anything going on Wednesday night?”

“Arrrggghhhh! I just told you five minutes ago that we’re going to the Johnson’s for the piano recital. You never listen!"

I hope that little example helps you ladies out there to understand where we husbands are coming from. We’re not ignoring you. We’re just trying to use our smaller brains as efficiently as possible so we don’t forget to pick up the kids when you ask us to.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!

The Leprechaun Trap

Last night I found myself in one of the classic dad-with-elementary-school-kids situations. My wife looked at me lovingly over the dinner table and said, “Honey, after dinner you need to help your son build a leprechaun trap for school. It’s due tomorrow.”

“It’s due tomorrow?!? Why am I just hearing about it now?”

“You’re not. I told you about it twice last week, and again two days ago. Would you like me to tell you the exact times, dates and locations when I told you, or exactly what you said each time I told you?”

“So, a leprechaun trap, huh son? I have some great ideas of what we’re going to build tonight!”

Luckily for me, I am not only trained as a mechanical engineer, but I also happened to have a good sized piece of cardboard, some metal coat hangers, and a roll of duct tape in my garage. Also luckily for me, I was an expert trapper in my youth. I never actually trapped anything, per se, but I did own one heck of a cool galvanized steel, two-door, tray-triggered animal trap when I was a kid.

I saved my money and bought it from a mail-order trap manufacturer whose ad I had been studying for months in the back of Outdoor Life magazine. It was easily the coolest thing I had ever purchased, and at ten years old, I had visions of wearing a coon-skin cap and running a lucrative trap line business, with a large knife on my hip and a rifle over my shoulder, just in case. As it turns out, the fields behind our house weren’t exactly a trapper’s paradise, and my mom wouldn’t let me walk around town with a rifle, so eventually the trap was retired to the rafters in the garage and my career aspirations took a new path. Looking back on it, I’m glad I never trapped anything, because it would most likely have been a skunk.

Anyway, I remembered exactly how the trap door mechanism worked on my old trap, and it was perfect for a leprechaun trap that needed to be built in a hurry, on (arguably) short-notice. Off to the garage we went after dinner, to start the often challenging, yet always rewarding process of building something with a 5-five-year-old. Being a semi-seasoned father of three boys, I was prepared for the logistical challenges ahead involving overanxious young helpers and sharp cutting implements. I was totally unprepared for, however, all the questions about leprechauns.

Apparently, St. Patrick’s Day is a pretty major holiday at the elementary school level, and apparently the existence of leprechauns is the overriding theme. Apparently, this time of year, preschools and elementary schools are overrun by mischievous leprechauns, who apparently invade the classrooms at nighttime, in search of gold and snacks. It is apparently the duty of every God-fearing American boy and girl, ages three through eight, to help attempt to trap these Irish varmint-sized marauders, and take their gold.  

“Dad, there must be lots of different kinds of leprechauns, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there are so many of them.”

“Why do you think there are so many of them?”

“Because there are a lot of schools, and they come to all the schools, right?”

“Sure they do.”

“Why do they come to schools, dad?”

“Pass me that blow torch, son. Have I ever shown you how to weld?”

I’m still trying to keep my story straight on Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. It’s hard enough to explain how and why they all know to come to your house, but now I have to try and explain why leprechauns sneak around, also?

“Once there was green leprechaun pee in the toilet at the pre-school. How did he use the toilet if they’re so small? What are they looking for at the schools? Why do they like glitter? What do leprechauns eat? What do we do with them if we catch one in the trap?”

How am I supposed to know? This is (arguably) the first time I’m hearing about this. I’m just trying to get through the already challenging task of building a working scale model of a trigger-door animal trap using cardboard and coat hangers, and now I’m fielding a bunch of questions and trying not to contradict the unknown-to-me answers that the teacher may or may not have already given.

To add an extra layer of difficulty, my design is being constantly monitored by a little kid who believes that his trap will actually need to snare and contain a small magical Irish elf, so I am needing to bend to some design constraints that wouldn’t otherwise be a concern, such as, not putting any of the connecting duct tape on the inside of the trap because, “the leprechaun would just tear it off and escape.”

On top of the mechanical, mental and mythical challenges the project presented, the other two boys added their own level of difficulty. As Son Number Two sat at the workbench and “helped” me, Sons Number One and Three tore around the garage playing Star Wars. So, as I tried to put the trap together and carefully answer and/or evade the leprechaun inquiries, I was constantly being hit in the legs with plastic light sabers and repeatedly shot with Nerf bullets. The evening reminded me of what astronaut training must be like. Doing complicated math problems while pulling four G’s in a spinning chair and getting Ping-Pong balls and jets of hot steam shot at you, just to see how you react to the chaos.

I am happy to report that I survived the space training exercise, and ended up with a pretty awesome leprechaun trap for my son. We couldn’t reproduce my old animal trap’s food tray door trigger, so we went with the tried-and-true “stick propping up the door” trick. 

“So, when he moves the stick, the door will fall, this latch will swing down into place to keep the door shut, and bam! You’ve got a leprechaun in your trap.”

“Why will he move the stick, dad?”

Why will he move the stick? It was my last mental exercise of the night. Why would he move the stick? The “stick” happened to be a piece of a Home Depot paint stir stick, so it was flat and had some room to write on it. A green Sharpie solved my last design hurdle of the evening.

“Dear Mr. Leprechaun, move this stick to get treats.”

That was perfectly logical in the mind of the five-year-old leprechaun hunter, and he went to bed satisfied that he had the best trap ever. I went to bed about three minutes after he did, completely mentally exhausted.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

Have kids? Have grandkids? Need a great gift?

Go to www.smidgebooks.com today and get your copy of My Giraffe Makes Me Laugh, Marc’s exciting new children’s book. Get ready for a wild rhyming adventure!