Blog

Today, after three busy months of relatively carefree bliss, our boys reluctantly returned to school. So now our household has a sixth grader, a second grader and a teacher who still gets that pit in his stomach when August ‘Back to School’ season comes around.

Personally I think the infamous ‘Back to School’ sales are a retail gimmick designed to entice parents to spend more money after the summer sales dip. It may boost the third quarter sales leading into Christmas but it only depresses the kids who want summer to never end. Fulfilling those supply lists every year guarantees our stash of unused college-ruled notebooks and unsharpened number two pencils will never be exhausted. I think I could make an interesting sculpture out of our partially used glue stick inventory.

The big ‘must have’ back to school item when I was in sixth grade had to be the Trapper Keeper. I don’t even know if they make them anymore, but looking back it’s ridiculous to think that us kids were getting all hyped up over a three ring binder with a velcro flap. I guess it was kind of cool. After all, it DID have two pockets and punched folders! It wasn’t long before the blank colorful outsides of the Trapper Keeper sold out to merchandisers of kids’ toys, cartoons, movies and television shows. Soon, it became more difficult to get your hands on just a ‘plain’ one which frustrated me to no end. (I was no sell out!) Besides, I preferred not to advertise to my entire school that I, too, watched and loved Scooby Doo in sixth grade.

After the initial rush for school supplies subsided you could always find heavily discounted Trapper Keepers in the bargain bins. I felt sorry for those boys whose parents cashed in on these deals and ended up spending their entire year carrying around a Trapper Keeper emblazoned with a cute trio of kittens playing with a ball of yarn or a mythical unicorn majestically perched in a rainbow-filled sky. My parents were very practical and budget-conscious people but even they wouldn’t subject me to such ridicule.

My oldest son just started his second year of midget football and has been struggling through practices. Not so much because he is out of shape but because his pants don’t fit. Running wind sprints is difficult when your pants slide down to fit more like a gunny sack in a potato race. We determined that the problem isn’t the size of the pants, but the fact that the ‘belt’ really isn’t a belt because it doesn’t loop through the pants around the waist. Instead the two ends, each about six inches long, are sewn to the front. Essentially the best he can do is cinch his pants. Poor kid. He’s usually too big for his britches. I think we’ll be cocooning his trousers up with athletic tape tonight.

Much to our chagrin, the envelope-pushing, foul-mouthed white rapper, Eminem has been getting plenty of airplay lately. It seems standard these days for one musician to team up and work collaboratively with another (they must split royalties and make more or something) and Marshall Mathers is no different. With compilations featuring the likes of Rhianna, Hayley Williams, Little Wayne and Elton John(?) it seems Slim Shady’s been everywhere. The worst part is my eleven-year-old has his ears on. Even though they blank out the expletives on the radio, my kid knows how to fill in the blanks. I have to admit I’m poor at screening songs because I’m not listening to the lyrics, so when some of the garbage comes on the radio I find myself humming along to it. Thank goodness my wife is there to help act as a filter.

I’ve got absolutely nothing against personal expression but I think the commission should slap down some guidelines with regard to a player’s hair length in the NFL. Sorry guys, but those hippie dreads make you look like a dirty mop wearing a helmet. I would think that aside from looking ridiculous, it would slow these rushers down considerably. If that isn’t enough of a reason to Bic it, according to NFL officials it’s considered fair game to hair pull these ‘long hairs’ to bring them down. I say it’s time to fine these ‘bad’ boys and send them to MasterCuts. This means you Randy Moss, Larry Fitzgerald, Troy Polamalu, Chris Johnson, Devin Hester, Steven Jackson, Roddy White, Sidney Rice…

Without fail there are a number of meals that one of our boys loves and the other hates. Still other meals that we may find delicious, they both find disgusting. And, yes, there are even some that they both beg for that we’re not crazy about. Regardless of how the ‘finicky’ formula falls, the cook always seems to have the toughest critics. Naturally when we stumble upon a winning meal, where everyone is in agreement, we’re sure to prepare it more often. Such is the case with BLTs. This simple sandwich is a hands-down favorite in our household. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that ANY meal prepared with bacon will be given top consideration for all-time favorite dish by our boys.

It’s amazing how many things we accumulate in a lifetime. I have a tendency to keep more than I will ever want/need/use in a lifetime simply because I hate to see useful stuff go to the landfill. The irony of it all is the only time I ever consider an item’s utility is when I pack or unpack it, see it and ponder whether or not to keep it.

Sentimental items simply add another layer of throw-away difficulty. Though none are really useful (I can’t think of the next time I’ll ever use my high school mortarboard tassel), they help us to remember a significant or special event/person inevitably adding to the clutter of our lives.

I had a friend recently ask me what I considered the most difficult thing to throw away. After listing several sentimental items as possible answers he replied with, ‘a garbage can.’ Turns out he had an old trash can that was no good and had put it on the curb with the rest of his junk but the garbage men wouldn’t take it. Even after writing the word ‘trash’ on it he would still find it on his curb when he returned home from work. After three weeks of unsuccessful attempts to dispose of this worthless trash can he finally took his saws-all and cut it into pieces. I guess sometimes an item that isn’t sentimental or even useful can’t be easily thrown away.

I always wondered if someone was paid to come up with those weird verification words we’re asked to type in on secure sites. Granted most are just gibberish but every once in a while you’ll see something that seems coherent. Even more amusing is the fact that these things actually have a name: CAPTCHAs. It’s an acronym that stands for Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart. I’d feel better if there was a human on the other end generating these. If a computer randomly plugs characters in and creates the distorted shape how secure can it really be? Wouldn’t there be a way around it? It’s like radar detectors. I’m pretty sure the one I used back in high school would be completely worthless today because the technology is constantly improving. How long will it be before we start getting a CAPTCHAs that a computer AND human can’t read.

Ever wonder why girls don’t have warts on their fingernails? Turns out nail polish is the perfect home remedy for eliminating them. Yes, the unsightly viral blemish of witch noses and alleged side effect of handling toads is no match for nail polish. I’ve never had warts, but my two boys have been infected.

We tried the fancy (and expensive) Dr. Scholl’s Wart Bandages, but just like regular band-aids you have to keep them on to be effective. Needless to say, we went through a box within a week. In most cases it would make the wart appear worse. My oldest was shocked to see something that resembled a frosted mini-wheat growing out of his hand after removing the bandage one day. I couldn’t help but agree with his complaint that it appeared to have gotten bigger. It was time for a new remedy.

We had always heard that you should smother a wart in order to kill it; like putting duct tape over it (this must look incredibly ridiculous so we voted against that remedy). The other solution was coating the wart with a healthy amount of nail polish. My wife has plenty of clear nail polish and she was more than happy to oblige them. After several weeks of the daily nail polish treatment, my oldest is proudly sporting a wart-free hand. It’s humorous to see them diligently applying nail polish to their warts like a couple of high maintenance teen girls. (Don’t tell them I wrote that. This post will already get me in trouble.)

Well, it looks like the Vikings’ dream came true… again. In dramatic Favre form, the legendary quarterback agreed to come back for another season with the Vikes after months of speculation. I kind of feel sorry for Childress and the rest of the Minnesota squad being strung along and played like that. Brett’s über-celebrity status is so blown out of proportion that I’m beginning to fear that this return’s even more about the money than the love of the game. Or maybe twenty is a rounder number (twenty million certainly is).

I like Favre, but I’m beginning to lose more respect for him every season. That beloved aw-shucks, good old boy charm that he’s feeding the media with statements like ‘I’m here to have fun’ (clearly, because making practice at the beginning of training camp wasn’t an option) and ‘there’s nothing left for me to prove’ (except that he’ll be the only 40-year-0ld quarterback in the NFL to do what he’s doing) is beginning to wear thin. Minnesota’s so desperate to win a Super Bowl that Favre can pretty much name his price to get what he wants out of it. Sad. The ‘loyal team player’ legacy Favre established with the Packers became tarnished with me the day he came out of retirement the first time.

Traveling with the boys can be challenging at times. Their close proximity to one another while strapped in is a tempting opportunity for them to irritate and taunt each other. This almost always ends in some physical contact, screaming, crying and yelling. As torturous as it sounds for each of them, it’s really the driver who loses. Yet another case of their extreme competitiveness rearing its ugly head. Yes, there’s nothing quite like taking some good old fashioned sibling rivalry on the road.

To help alleviate some of this needless bickering, my wife created somewhat of a game. Each participant is to find as many yellow vehicles as they can (by the way, construction vehicles don’t count), each time indicating their success by yelling the word ‘SCORE!’ Although the game was intended to keep their eyes on the road and off of each other, the basis of racking up points naturally degraded this into another competition. Before we knew it, they took turns denying that one had actually seen a yellow car/truck/vehicle while the other loudly protested. When their diplomacy of screaming at each other failed they resumed pounding each other.

We’ve since modified this game to be a team effort only – with no individual scores – which has helped, but I still can’t help but cringe every time I spot a yellow vehicle while driving.