An Addition to the Family

It was inevitable, and I knew it weeks ago.

About the time that an exchange between the people living in this house went:

Him:  “I just found us the cutest puppy.  Someone brought them to the cafeteria to show them off.”

Me:  “And where are you and your dog going to be sleeping from now on?”

We don’t need a dog. We had Bull, who was my faithful companion for over 20 years and who I still mourn, although he’s been gone almost 5 years now.  He was perfect, moving only when absolutely necessary and demanding little from life other than dry blankies at night and a ride up and down the stairs, since his arthritis prevented him from climbing them during the last few years.

Besides, his (the other who lives here, not Bull's) predisposition is for larger animals.  I like those that, in the event of a Hurricane Katrina-type disaster, can be shoved in my backpack during the evacuation.

Our lives now do not make a dog convenient.  We travel. We’re busy with work and the myriad of other things that have to be done just to live, and mostly, I don’t want to have to start over with house breaking and chewed up shoes and furniture and all that other stuff that goes along with it.

So it was inevitable that we would eventually get a dog.

As so often happens, fate stepped in and offered an alternative at dinner yesterday. It seems that our friend in the apartment on the 2nd floor of our house has wanted a dog for a while. He tried a cat a few years ago, had terrible allergic reactions and it was a complete fiasco, so I’d not been overly enthusiastic in the past when he brought up the topic of a dog before. 

Especially when those he was favoring tended to be the size of a Shetland pony.

In a one bedroom, second story apartment.

He's retired and lonely, though, and has all the time in the world and love to give to a new puppy so when it was mentioned at dinner last night I knew I was outnumbered. A dog was coming to live in this house whether I liked it or not.

I was dispatched to the nearby convenience store to get cookies and an “I Wanna”, the local rag where people sell all kinds of stuff from tractor parts to dining room china to the aforementioned Shetland pony.

The cookies were just because, what the hell, this was happening and I wanted a cookie and there are absolutely no treats in this house anywhere.

We all have a different drug of choice.

Recognizing that this process was much like the making of laws and sausage, I then went to the track to walk. When I returned an hour later, the choices had been narrowed down to two – a Boston Terrier and a Pug.

Anyone who grew up in the Oklahoma City area during the 1960’s and 70’s knows that ALL Boston Terriers are identical to those of Ho Ho the Clown, who hosted a local children’s program for eons, and they are named “Miss Jane”, regardless of actual gender and live in a D-O-G house.

It wasn't called a dog house because she didn't know she was not human, and that might offend her gentle nature.  Apparently she couldn't spell, either.

Those non-negotiables turned out to be irrelevant, though, since Mr. E preferred the Pug, having had one years before when he lived in Colombia.  (South America, not South Carolina).

This puppy had two other things going for him – first, he had a hernia that meant he was “damaged goods” in the retail world and thus found himself on the bargain table and 75% off.

The sucker in me went for the underdog (literally) here, and felt sorry for this little puppy that might be put down because of a relatively minor physical defect.

The other was that we could see him immediately, delayed gratification not being an issue.

So we bundled up in the car and drove two counties away to look at a puppy – as if there was ever any doubt about whether he’d be coming home with us.

He was playful, animated and immediately loveable. I knew I’d lost when we saw him.  I didn't mind when he started tugging on my shoelaces and then started licking me when I picked him up.

I was OK with the decision, because it gave those of us who live together the excitement of a new dog, the benefits of having a puppy to play with and, like uncles, the ability to give the little buggers back when they’re fussy or stinky or just a pain in the butt.

Besides, he’s adorable. He’s been named Andres’ (Andrew) by his “daddy”, although Uncle Larry has dubbed him “Spud”.

I’ve always claimed the eternal right of uncles everywhere to give our sibling’s children nicknames that will haunt them through college and beyond. 

Just ask Sparky, Skip or Skooter.  Their parents tried to fight it at first, but some battles can't be won.

So about 9:30 last night, money changed hands. Papers were signed, and we have a new baby in the house.

We don’t know if his daddy was up all night with him, or how many times he had to go potty or cried or anything like that. Those more unpleasant aspects of primary caregiving fall to the parent.

We’ll be showing up this afternoon, though, to make sure that he’s all revved up so he won’t sleep tonight, just as Uncles are supposed to do.

And we’ll make sure that Spud is registered at Petsmart for anyone wanting to hold a shower.

Accountability

As much as I want to write here every day, sometimes it just doesn’t happen.

Some days I get busy with other things. Other times, there just doesn’t seem to be anything that grabs my interest and rouses my righteous indignation (which I tend to have in abundance).

Righteous indignation can be exhausting at times. I try not to waste the effort if I can help it.

Sometimes, the news is just too depressing and I can’t think of a way to spin the topic to find any different way to look at it, or some glimmer of hope out of a situation.

After all, everyone gets all the real news they need either on the television or from the internet. I’ve never claimed even the most minimal of journalistic credentials.

For example, the deep water oil well that is spewing toxins into the Gulf of Mexico has been the headline story for close to a month now.

Nothin’ funny there, as hard as I’ve tried. Generations from now our descendants will curse the stupidity of their forefathers, especially when we should have known better.

This is even more stupid than the person who introduced Kudzu into the United States.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kudzu

This is an “OH, CRAP” that can’t be remedied. The entire world is on this roller coaster and there’s no way to get off before the ride ends. All of us are going on a trip whether we like it or not. While it may not directly impact those of us alive today, we have no way of knowing how it will impact our grandchildren and beyond.

The problem with this situation is that the pimply faced teenager who’s sadistically running the controls on the ride in this case is a middle aged man with a British accent who can’t even claim the ignorance of youth.

He, and those who worked with him to disregard safety features, shore up junk science for purely economic motives and who are directly responsible for this fiasco deserve a special place in the deepest depths of Hell for their environmental sins.

That group includes a fair number of government regulators AND LEGISLATORS who allowed their wallet to do their thinking and weren’t paying attention to what was going on and safeguarding the public interest like they should have been.

And maybe, although not to quite the same extent, it includes all of us who climb into our oversized cars multiple times in a day and don’t plan our trips to minimize miles driven.

It includes those who oppose the creation of light rail systems and other forms of mass transit because it might inconvenience us temporarily.

And it includes those of us who use vehicles unnecessarily, like the mom’s who can’t let go long enough to put their children on the bus to ride to school, so they have to make the twice daily trips across town to pick them up and drop them off.

It also includes the high school students (and their parents) who allow the kids to drive to school when there’s no legitimate reason for doing so, just because it’s “cool” to have your car at school.

Call me radical, but you only have to drive by any local high school to see a parking lot that looks like a mall lot on Black Friday (another travesty for which City Planners should be held accountable) with swarms of vehicles of every size and color.

I firmly believe that if we (a) raised the absolute driving age to 18 (a permit at 16 with a licensed driver over 21 – or maybe 25) and (b) eliminated parking lots at high schools we could significantly diminish oil consumption and air quality issues in a lot of places.

We could just charge for parking permits at schools, but that favors the rich kids over those that are less affluent which doesn’t seem right.

Another way to cut down on the number of drivers? Mandatory study hall at the end of the day – if you ride the bus, bicycle or walk, you get out an hour ahead of those who drive private cars. After that, drivers are released alphabetically on a rotating schedule ten minutes apart, so that everyone doesn’t race for the parking lot at once.

We’d cut down on the number of cars being driven as well as the number of accidents that occur when inexperienced drivers are plunged into a hormone laden traffic jam.

And, before the angry emails start, I include our family in that group of sinners above and realize that the suggestion wouldn’t be popular on the home front.

It’s not likely to be implemented anyhow, given the economic interest in keeping all those cars on the road and working.

And in the meantime, we have a hole in the earth that continues to spew somewhere between 5,000 and 100,000 barrels of oil a day into the environment (either nobody is sure or no one will answer) where the plants and animals can’t complain, but merely suffer in silence other than their death cries, wondering why their eggs won’t hatch or their mate doesn’t return, and why they can’t fly or swim or breath with this black gunk all over them.

And we humans are either without the desire or the ability to stop the destruction that they’ve wrought.

Can’t spin that one cheerful, no matter how hard I try. I was wrong about the righteous indignation, though. It’s right there, ready to spew out just like the oil.

An Opportunity Lost

What can I say? Once again, my lack of foresight has cost me an opportunity that can’t be regained.

Like not buying Apple or Wal Mart in 1959.

OK, I wasn’t born then, so those weren’t really my fault. If I had, though, we’d be on that round-the-world retirement cruise already.

In this case, it’s much less significant, but still, I regret the decision.

I could have had a pair of actual, honest to goodness fur lined bedroom slippers.

I don’t mean those with the faux sheepskin inside, that acrylic stuff that’s good for a couple of weeks before it all gets matted down and disgusting, but rather a pair of nice fuzzy slippers with something that used to be on the outside of a critter on the inside comforting my tootsies.

If only I’d realized the bounty that awaited and taken some decisive action.

I came to this realization yesterday afternoon, as I toted the sixth squirrel off in my little Hav-a-Hart box trap as a part of my neighborhood’s annoying animal relocation program.

We always have a high population of these little rats with a good marketing campaign running around. Most of the time, I don’t worry about them a lot and limit my ranting to (a) when they get in the attic and make noises knocking things over and (b) when I catch them raiding the bird feeders.

The birds are already on a budget – they get 25 pounds of food a month, which is enough to promote codependency among the winged wildlife population in our area as long as the fur-bearing creatures stay out of the feeders.

A couple of weeks ago, I realized that the “squirrel proof” feeder is not and decided it was time to take drastic measures.

Well, semi-drastic. I have resisted the urge to open the kitchen window and draw a bead on them, in part because I know in my heart it’s just going to annoy the local police and in part because it’s been so long since I fired any kind of gun off that I’m not sure I could still hit the little buggers.

So my trap comes out, baited with that fool-proof lure for most of us – peanut butter.

The neighbors and I have an informal agreement regarding the trapline. We move it around in the place we think most likely to have success without regard to property lines or actual ownership of the squirrels involved. Generally, we net 3 or 4 animals a season. The most dramatic one, which the neighbor caught on video, is when a squirrel is in the trap in his back yard – as a fox is trying to figure out how to open the trap up for a snack.

It’s the only time that I’ve seen one of Bullwinkle’s little friends actually eager to stay in the trap. Usually they’re bouncing around and chewing on the wire trying to escape.

This year, though, either the population is so thick or the young are so dumb that they’ve practically stood there waiting for me to return the trap so they can jump in.

Six of them in the last 48 hours, in fact.

I find that I don’t have the stomach to kill them, even though they are little more than rats that have figured out how to work the system better than their homlier cousins.

I can do a quick clean kill if necessary – snap traps (which I don’t set because I like the chipmunks. Go figure), poison (which is a hassle to set so that neither the birds nor the chipmunks can get to it) or a borrowed pellet gun are all possibilities.

Instead, though, I’d rather invite them in for a meal and then when they find they’ve overindulged and can’t leave simply take them for a ride to one of the parks or the lake, hoping the heartburn will kill them, given that most forest creatures have no access to Prilosec.

Knowing what some in my family might be thinking, I will say up front that I do not take them to the boat ramp at the lake to see if they can swim. Instead I turn them loose to become someone else’s problem, figuring that if they can navigate a five-lane highway to come back to my house, they’ve probably earned the opportunity to stay here until they’re dumb enough to drop by for another peanut butter sandwich.

Most seem so eager to get away from me that they don’t worry too much about their new surroundings and have travelled enough that I don’t think I’ve caught the same one six times. I can tell because the bird feeders aren’t empty every 24 hours since I started.

But because of my lack of planning I’ve missed out on a pair of fur-lined slippers. Granted, they would have been “on the hoof” and probably would have taken more effort than I am willing to put out, but there it was for the taking.

If I really wanted to “go green” it could even have been about as local as food can get, since you can’t just harvest the fur and let the little goomers run around naked.

We’re not that hungry, though, and still prefer that our protein come on little trays with shrink wrap from the grocery store.

I guess I’ll confine my “hunter-gathering” urges to a nice catalog. Maybe they’ll have fur-lined slippers on sale since it’s the off season.

In the meantime, though, I see that #7 has dropped by for a snack and now needs to be walked, perhaps over by the soccer fields a few miles away.

Supression

Juan Carlos-Cruz has been arrested for trying to hire homeless people to kill his wife.

That, in itself, isn’t much in the way of news, as things like that probably happen on a somewhat regular basis. It’s really only news at all (other than to Mrs. Cruz, who was probably pretty interested in the details once she found out about it) because he used to be a television celebrity on Food TV.

He was the Calorie Commando, and touted the benefits of low fat, low calorie diets. Some of his recipes weren’t so bad – with a few modifications, we made a burger out of ground turkey with spinach in it that’s actually one of our favorites.

Like many other low fat, low calorie foods, though, lots of the things tasted like cardboard cutouts with Styrofoam gravy.  That’s not his fault, though.  It comes from the attempt to change the essential nature of something.

In that case, from inedible to edible.

You can’t help but notice that he doesn’t have the same makeup people available at the jail that he had on Food TV. Looking at his mug shot, it’s hard to imagine that he could tell you how to whip up a tasty dinner.

Then again, nobody really looks good in those orange jumpsuits.

http://www.tmz.com/person/juan-carlos-cruz

Someone else who’s world is starting to crumble around him is George Alan Rekers, a pseudo-scientist and Southern Baptist minister who’s made a career of hate mongering against LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) individuals.

It seems this bastion of conservatism who’s charged numerous state governments hundreds of thousands of dollars to act as an expert witness in cases to prevent gay couples from adopting was busted coming home from a 10 day European vacation.

The vacation itself wasn’t such a big deal – what makes it interesting is the fact that the “travelling companion” for this trip was obtained through http://www.rentboy.com/ . He states that he’d recently had surgery and was unable to lift his luggage, and thus hired a 20 year old man who advertises himself as “Lucien” and posts sexually provocative pictures in his ad to help him.

DISCLAIMER – www.Rentboy.com is not for the faint of heart. If you click on that link, you’re going to see pictures, words and advertisements that most assuredly will not appear in People Magazine or Guideposts. On the other hand, if you do go there, you’ll realize that only a damned fool would not recognize that those advertisements are not for “luggage handlers” but are instead for male prostitutes. You’ll also find that “Lucien’s” ad has been removed.

It hasn’t helped his case any that Mr. Reker was photographed at the Miami airport carrying his own luggage while “Lucien” stands nearby doing what attractive young prostitutes do best – acting as eye candy and being noticed.

It also didn’t help his story that this young workin’ man made a late night telephone call to George – a call which was both on the speaker phone and in the presence of two reporters from the Miami Herald – which was pretty incriminating.

Reverend Reker, of course, has recognized the error of his ways in hiring a “luggage handler” who he didn’t know very well before taking him to Europe for 10 days, especially since cell phones with digital camera capabilities are so prevalent in airports these days.

For someone who claims to be so well educated, he's not very bright about some things.

The saddest detail about the whole event is not that this pathetic excuse for a human has built his life and career on lies about gay and lesbian people while repressing his own nature.

Details at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Alan_Rekers

It’s not the fact that he’s lost the slight credibility that he had because of this scandal. (Note that his testimony in the last couple of big cases has been thrown out by the judges as completely unbelievable and lacking any scientific basis whatsoever – essentially, in the Arkansas and Florida cases he got almost $200,000 for just makin’ stuff up. That’s not bad work if you can get it!)

The saddest thing may be that this loser had to write a contract with his Rentboy that required the kid to spend at least 8 hours a day and two meals with him.

There’s no mention of hour long massages daily in the contract, an oversight probably due to the fact that his training is in theology rather than in law.

It’s sad because if your personality is that caustic, your life must not be very happy overall.

So neither Juan nor George are having a particularly good week. It just shows that if you try to suppress the hard-wiring of your brain with which you are born, it’s going to find a way to leak out eventually, and probably in a way that won’t work to your benefit. You can only keep things bottled up for so long before something gives.

George obviously wasn’t suppressing too much if he was taking a handsome young man he didn’t know on an expense paid vacation to Europe.

Juan, on the other hand, might have been able to avoid a jail sentence and still have a career cooking if he’d only had a double bacon cheeseburger and a large order of chili fries. He’d then have been able to figure out that a divorce, while more expensive, is probably the better choice than trying to put out a contract on his wife.

Especially when you’re trying to hire the homeless to do the deed. Good help is hard enough to find; when the applicants list their address as “under the I-77 Bridge at Exit 29,” that ought to be a big red flag.

When it gets right down to it, a person can’t suppress their true nature forever.

The De-Cluttering Begins

Today is one that will be spent moving slowly, with the primary form of exercise being that of clicking the remote, opening an aspirin bottle and washing the contents down periodically.

It’s not my norm for weekend days, because there’s always so much to do and so little time to do it. Some weekends, though, you put all the work up front and all the rest on the back end. This is the case now.

We’ve started our “Clean out the House” effort in earnest. On the trip back to Oklahoma, the fam was put on notice that they should speak to claim those items of furniture that have familial sentimental interest which they would like to possess, either now or in the future. Some are young adults looking toward their first apartments; others are mature adults moving to different homes and have space or inclination for these things. Some just can’t let them go.

In our effort to clean out the clutter, though, we decided that the place to start was at the top. Specifically, in the attic.

Before those of you in the flatlands begin to picture that cramped space above the ceiling and below that minimally sloped roof that all ranch houses built in the 1960’s came with, let me explain how this house is different.

Our attic has a flight of stairs to it. It’s winding and narrow, and the architect who designed them deserves to spend extra time in purgatory having to live in a house with just such a stairway. But it’s better than a pull-down ladder.

Once you’re up there, it’s an entire floor of the house. It’s larger than most houses that I’ve lived in, with about 1,000 square feet of floor space and ceiling height that allows you to stand upright.

Unfortunately, it’s floor space that had not been cleaned in years, if not decades. There were still things up there that belonged to the Millers, who built the house in 1930 and lived here until their deaths in the 1980’s.

Plus what we contributed to the mix. After all, if the basement is somewhat damp, what do you with those bulky things you have to store somewhere but really don’t need in the house with you? You put them in the attic.

Oh, and let’s not forget enough Christmas Decorations to do Macy’s windows on a good year.

So yesterday, while half the people in the house were away travelling on business, the other half (i.e. me) decided that my surprise present would be to attack the project. This isn’t altogether altruistic, mind you – our work styles are different and disagreements are fewer sometimes if we’re not working side-by-side.

The kids who thought they were coming to work in the yard at first thought this would be easier. By lunchtime, they were really wanting to go back out to mow and weed, mostly because it was cooler out in the sun than it was in the attic, even with the windows open and the fans running.

Having adopted a mindset that we’re not going to end up on television as the subject of an intervention program for hoarders, most of the decisions about what to keep and what to eliminate were fairly easy. We’d skimmed through documents, letters and papers and sent them off to the shredder earlier. Suitcases that are no longer suitable for travel become convenient storage boxes for some of the Christmas decorations that don’t fit in bins. Furniture was either stacked to be photographed and put on e-Bay or was taken directly to the truck to go to the Habitat Store.

After all, you never know who’s going to need 10 ft. long window valances from 1972 covered in Carolina Blue silk with those little hangy balls decorating the edges.

We shouldn’t through them away, since someone might get some use out of them. But not us.

There is a fairly substantial stack of things that are permanently consigned to the attic. They are things that have been removed or changed in the house that were a part of the original fixtures.

In some cases, they’re the actual fixtures. The original tile from the kitchen was removed (not by us) and stored in boxes. Along with the towel racks, faucets, hinges, light fixtures and an assortment of other doo-dads that we feel compelled to keep because, after all, we’re just the caretakers of this historic home for a while.

A “while” that will end in a new, single level condominium with no yard and maintenance people to take care of things. That’s another story, though, and a dream for the future.

Its amazing what you can accomplish in a fairly short period of time when you have a willing workforce who is absolutely clueless as to what you’re trying to accomplish, but recognize that whether in the attic or in the yard, it all pays the same.  They're also motivated by the fact that we're not leaving until I finish the project, and the sooner it's done the sooner we're out of that bake oven on top of the house.

I did get some surprised looks, though, like when I sent one down to bring up the vacuum cleaner. Given the choice between sweeping up a storm that would have looked like those postcards of northwest Oklahoma in the 1930’s and subduing the dustbunnies and filth mechanically, I opted for the latter. My lungs don’t need another coating of abuse.

At 3:00, when we couldn’t tolerate any more, I’d accomplished the target for the day. That, and I simply couldn’t stand / bend / walk any more. Even my teenage assistants were showing signs of fatigue and an executive decision was thus made to call it a day and close up the shop.

While I still wouldn’t walk barefoot across the floor, it doesn’t leave footprints when you come down the stairs into the house. With few exceptions, all the stuff that was leaving is gone and the other stuff is organized and can be dealt with during the next couple of weeks.

Except for the Christmas decorations, which have a room all to themselves up there and will take decisions that lie above my pay grade.

The scary part is that the attic was merely a prelude to the basement, which comes next.

Draft Betty White

Facebook, or rather the members of Facebook, have shown that they are not an entity with whom one should trifle.

A few weeks ago, they started the campaign to have actress Betty White, who’s now 88, host Saturday Night Live. I suspect this started as a substance-promoted idea in a college dorm late one night. Someone, probably watching a rerun of either Mary Tyler Moore or Golden Girls got the wild idea that Betty White should be the guest host on SNL.

The irony of an octogenarian hosting a show that is geared toward teenagers and stoned college students was simply too much to pass up. Being of the social network generation, someone immediately created a Facebook page, sent notices out to their friends and it “went viral” from there.

We taped the show. I couldn’t stay up late enough to watch SNL when I was a teenager or college student; in midlife, it’s even less likely that I’m going to stay up that late, especially after I learned years ago that I am usually not in touch enough with that genre of current events to recognize either the guest host or the music being highlighted.

It was about like I remembered SNL, though. There were lots of crude jokes and some skits that were beaten into the ground as they tried to fill the time slot. It wasn’t horrible enough to be noteworthy, but it also will be taped over in fairly short order.

This wasn’t the moon landing or the last episode of MASH.

The reason it was important, though, is that it shows the power of social networking and communication. Lots of us, me included, clicked that we “liked” this option – it didn’t cost anything, I had nothing in particular against it, and it had the potential to spotlight a talented senior actress to a generation that might not otherwise have been exposed to her humor.

Humor that is somewhat innocent and direct, doesn’t generally put down other people and while it may border on the bawdy at times is never overtly obscene. For the most part, I can sit in the room with both parents and children and watch Betty White without any of us being terribly embarrassed and at some point, we’ll all laugh at the same thing.

Is that a reason enough to publicly “like” something, though? The network and the actress herself were very open about the fact that Ms. White was invited only because of the pressure from Facebook. They made these social and economic decisions based upon that grassroots feedback.

I’ll have to think on that. In the meantime, someone has started a Facebook page to draft Carol Burnett to host Saturday Night Live.

Public Radio Pledge Week

It’s the spring pledge drive on Public Radio, which means that it’s one of the two times a year that I actually change the radio channel.

The problem is that I didn’t get the music gene from anyone. My preference has always been for words rather than melodies, even as a little kid. Music is simply noise that fails to move my soul, and I like discussion or quiz shows or audiobooks better.

Public radio offers all of these, but without the screaming that is so common on regular radio – either from the shock jocks who are spewing hate from one side or the other or the insipid morning shows that are heavy on loud advertising and prank telephone calls and short on actual events that might be of some lasting importance.

Except during pledge week. Then the regular programming schedule – that which is etched into my brain after years of exposure – is interrupted with pleas for donations, challenges to encourage giving to fulfill a matching grant and offers of a variety of gifts showing one’s appreciation.

It essentially becomes AM radio, just at a lower volume and in monotone.

Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate the fact that they have to ask for money. I am a supporter of our local public radio station, and have been so for many years. It’s a lot cheaper than the cable bill and is a part of my charitable giving because I think they spend the money that I give them every year wisely and on worthwhile things.

Especially programming that I like.

I donate during the fall drive, either out of habit or because the perks seem better then, I’m not sure which. After all, you can never have too many WFAE coffee mugs or tote bags.

It’s just the process that I hate, in part because it’s so repetitive and disrupts the normal flow of the universe.

They play the same ads that they’ve used for several years now, but it doesn’t bring a smile to your face the way you know it’s Christmas in Oklahoma because the BC Clark Jingle starts playing on television.

For those that don’t know, this jingle (http://www.bcclarkjingle.com/audio) is supposedly the oldest continually used piece of advertising music in the United States.

Instead, the radio ads are just tired and something to be avoided, the same way people get word during Sunday School that it’s “Gideon Sunday” and slip out of church.

If I’ve heard the pitch a dozen times before, I’m either going to give or not. Hearing the story again isn’t likely to change my mind.

I feel the same way about political advertising, too. While some ads have confirmed who I will NOT be voting for, I can’t think of a single instance where one has swayed me to vote for someone.

My truck radio really doesn’t need more than 3 buttons, which allow me to swap between the various NPR stations in the areas that I normally travel.

Except during pledge week, when all of them are running the same advertising and pleas for funding and I have to put some other type of programming in.

Which is hard, because my truck is so old that it has a cassette player, meaning you have to use an adapter of some type to play your iPod or other gizmo of choice over the car radio.

Fortunately, pledge week only happens twice a year and it’s almost over.

I have to go call in now, though, because they’re offering a “Best of Car Talk” CD if you donate $120 or more before the top of the hour.

The 8th Grade Dance

It’s the time of year when important events occur. It’s not the June Wedding Season. Fortunately, we’re a few years away from that.

It’s prom / birthday / dance / end of school season, though, which means that there are a lot of social events happening.

Just as the twins experienced their prom last week, this week is the 8th grade dance for our youngest son.

For the first time, he was going to have to acknowledge – and identify – someone who was more than just one of his buddies and who would actually be going on a date with him.

This, less than a month after he got braces put on and his voice dropped another octave.

It’d be more than just a “pull up in the drive and honk for her to come out”, too, because no parent is going to let this opportunity go by without a photographic record. New clothes had to be bought to coordinate with the young lady’s outfit, especially given that he’s grown almost 5 inches in the last 7 months.

So Friday evening found us all at his mom’s house, cameras in hand. The logistics of travel to an 8th grade dance are different than those of a prom, given that the attendees are (hopefully) not quite old enough to drive. A parent has to act as chauffer.

His siblings (both biological and chosen) were on hand, ready to give their opinions as only siblings can do. They were quick to point out that, “you have to put the corsage on her, stupid, don’t just hand her the box,” and “tuck in your shirt again, you look like a slob.”

Sometimes the noble intent gets lost in the private language of brothers and sisters.

For the big event, he (and most of his contemporaries) had opted out of the traditional dark suit. Given his growth rate, we didn’t push for buying one of those right now, either. It was hard enough to find a size 17 ½ shirt with 37 inch sleeves.

Especially one in iridescent pink. You got to love the internet sometimes.

A pink silk shirt and black tie were chosen to compliment his date’s outfit. It was somewhat reminiscent of those we wore in the late 70’s, although I didn’t bring that up.

His adopted brother Jacob couldn’t stop touching it and quipped, “I’d go to the dance with you just to get to touch this shirt!”

It was great to see the kids interact, though, and how they might not say it but were happy for him to reach this milestone.

They didn’t say anything that would intentionally embarrass him much in front of his date, April, who seemed to take it all in good stride.

It’s early Saturday morning now, and we’ve not received a final report. Text messages indicated that it was, “OK, but the music was kinda lame.”

The after-party and sleepover was back at his mom’s house, where we suspect that a good time was had by all given that there were no calls from either the police or the hospital, the standards for all successful events involving adolescents.

I hope that Caleb and April had a good time with their classmates. But I’m not sure that we’re ready to see them quite this grown up yet.

The Birthday Present

The twins turned 17 this week. 17 is kind of a letdown as far as birthdays go. It doesn’t have the panache of 16 when you get your driver’s license, or 18, when you’re an “adult” and certainly none of the perks of 21 when that vixen alcohol finally becomes legally available.

Presents are hard to think up at 17 as well. In an unusual twist, our son got a hemorrhoid.

I don’t think it’s what he really wanted, and it hadn’t been mentioned as a potential birthday present when we were coordinating the celebratory dinner.

Instead, once we all got to the restaurant it became the topic of conversation.

When you have a couple of medical types in your parental group, you’re brought up with the idea that most any bodily function or condition is fair game as a dinner topic regardless of who is present. That’s changed a little as they’ve gotten older, recognizing that an 8 year old doesn’t have quite the sensitivity to having some personal topic discussed in front of his playmates that an adolescent does in front of someone they’re dating.

Not being of the healing arts myself, I used to get a medical condition called “blowing a lobe” whenever some topic I wasn’t used to (or particularly comfortable with) came up.

It means that the topic is so outrageous that we have to stop whatever we’re doing and find that part of my brain that just exploded and flew away.

It doesn’t happen quite so much after this many years, but I have to admit at first I thought it would when the subject of hemorrhoids – and his hemorrhoid in particular -- came up at a birthday dinner involving roughly a dozen people, including he and his sister’s dates.

It was soon apparent, though, that it was not only the topic of dinner conversation within the family unit but had been fodder for the rumor mill all over the high school since it’s existence became known.

His friends on the baseball team razzed him for sitting on an innertube during practice.

Not one of those medical ones made for that purpose that you buy at the pharmacy, but an actual tire innertube. I didn’t ask where he got it.

It has apparently brought him sympathy from the girls roughly equal to having a foot amputated as “get well” wishes flowed into his cell phone almost as fast as birthday greetings.

This was a paradox that again, made me almost blow a lobe.

He’s got a healthy attitude, though. “It’s not like it’s anything to be ashamed of. It’s just a medical condition,” he says.

His parents have said this to me many times during the past few years, especially when I’ve been in the process of “blowing a lobe.”

Apparently the worst part of the ordeal has been when his mom explained what the treatment was. The thought of doing that – or having it done – exceeded the pain of the condition. Claiming ownership and control over certain parts of this body, he’s made the determination that some treatment will not occur, and that nature will be allowed to run its course.

We’ll check back on that if it’s still there without improvement in a week.

He says the only embarrassing thing about it has been the number of people that have asked to see it. Apparently hemorrhoids are such an anomaly in high school that, in an effort to broaden their education, the kids want to do independent research.

I haven’t asked whether he’s showed it to anyone or not; there are some things a parent just doesn’t want to know. I suspect, though, that the guys on the baseball team have had their medical knowledge horizons expanded somewhat.

I realized that I’d made a mistake last night when he was sitting there with a couple of his buddies who were kidding him about everyone wanting to see it and I said, “You should have just taken a picture and you could have posted it on FaceBook.”

I swear, I was just kidding.

But the way they all immediately brightened up, I’m afraid to check his profile this morning.

Ohio State Flashmob

I saw this on another blog that I follow - wickedgayblog.com.  It does nothing but make you smile and once again testify to the energy, enthusiasm and intelligence of young people.

It's worth the three minutes out of your day to check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDNOB6TnHSI&feature=player_embedded

Pharmacology

It’s one of those milestones of maturity, and we’ve reached it.

There are pill bottles in the kitchen. Not those occasional ones that come with allergies or seasonal afflictions, but those “maintenance meds” as the call them, something that seems to imply you’ve reached 100,000 miles and now can expect to go to the service station more frequently.

I blame the annual physical. You can feel fine, nothing’s out of the norm, but when they read your blood all the sudden you have conditions of which you were totally unaware, and which all need some type of pill for treatment.

And you’re supposed to feel better about it when they explain the dietary changes that you’ll be making if you hope to live to see 60 and you realize that the bacon cheeseburger you had a few weeks back is the last one to be enjoyed in your lifetime.

And they’ll know if you cheat, because the tests are now more sensitive than drug screens used by the FBI.

So you’re now eating lots of salads. With no dressing. Or croutons. Or bacon bits or ham or diced eggs or any of the things that distinguish a “salad” from a plate of lawn clippings.

It’s a gift, of course, to know about one’s cholesterol or triglycerides or blood pressure prior to having “the big one” and finding out the hard way. It’s just that it feels like we’ve moved to a more senior level with pill bottles on the counter.

Of course, most of those bottles aren’t “real” medicine, but instead are the voodoo concoctions that we’ve learned about either from the internet or The People’s Pharmacy (www.Peoplespharmacy.com) or someplace like that.

The preference is for something holistic over something with side effects, although these things come with their own sets of issues.

The cinnamon pills, which are to help with cholesterol and blood sugar regulation, are big enough to choke a mule, not to mention the fact that you’ll burp cinnamon for the rest of the morning.

It is better than burping the fish oil, though, especially after you’ve brushed your teeth.

Then there’s the pill – I’m really not sure which – that makes you think you’ve been eating asparagus every time you go to the bathroom.

The other problem, of course, is that after a while I forget why exactly I’m taking something. I only remember that I take two of the big white ones, a little brown one, a black one and an assortment of others, now including a bright blue gel cap that adds a festive air to the whole shot-glass full of pharmaceuticals.

It’s no wonder that people with substantial health conditions sometimes just give up on trying to sort it all out and take whatever is handed to them.

The bright side is there’s lots of room in the pantry for the pills, since all of the chips, cookies, crackers and other “good stuff” has been purged.