Big Ugly Man Doll

Tags: Children // 5 Comments »

It’s the last Friday in April – the month has flown by!  Here’s to hoping the most dire of your horoscopes failed to come to pass.  But read on, dear friend, for here is once again another chance to catch up with your own personal astrological future. Your upcoming week will be poor, nasty, brutish, and short – but don’t let it get you down! Read on!

Aries (The Ram):    Good news bad news – your dreams will come true this week.   Unfortunately, it’s the dream you keep having about getting caught in the office break room without your clothing.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Red Tide.

Taurus (The Bull):  Today, you can fly!  Tomorrow, though, you’re going to want to lay in a supply of Percocet. 

Gemini (The Twins):   This is a good week to get that surgery scheduled.  Come on, you know you want to!  Your high-risk disease this week:  Rotavirus.

Cancer (The Crab):   This week will be lucky for you, in that you will touch wood three times.  Mind you, one of those times will be as the tree comes through your roof…

Leo (The Lion):  It’s OK to tell your friends that you’ll meet them at that bar on Wednesday and then not show up.  They were going to stand you up anyway.  In fact, no one goes to that bar anymore.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Sarcocystis Calchasi.

Virgo (The Virgin):  You know that week where it seems like every time you need to use the bathroom, the cleaning crew is in there blocking it and the stairs are blocked off for construction and the elevator doesn’t work?  Yeah?  Well, this is that week.

Libra (The Scale):  This week your life will take an interesting turn.  Left.  Then another left.  Then right at the light.  Then straight for about 3 miles, and then left when you see ol’ Roscoe (he’s a hound dog) barkin’ at the corner.   Your high-risk disease this week:  Sorghum Smut Disease.

Scorpio (The Scorpion):  This week you will learn the glory and the horror that is global search and replace, as you try to change the gender of your main character and the word “hits” becomes “shits” in several dozen places. 

Sagittarius (The Archer):   This week, you will come to truly understand the deeper meaning of the terror implicit in those immortal words:  “Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance!”   Touch it.  Touch the monkey.  You know you want to.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Spotted Fever Rickettsiosis.

Capricorn (The Sea-Goat):  By Wednesday of this week, you’ll understand the difference between having your head in the clouds and just daydreaming.  Don’t worry, the bruises will fade with time, and it’s probably not broken. 

Aquarius (The Water Bearer):  Not everyone you meet this week will consider your mere presence to be a walking requirement to shut down the nearest bar – but most of them will.  Play your cards right and you won’t pay for a drink all week.  Good thing you can remove your prosthetic arm at the shoulder – you won’t wake up that troll getting out of bed the next morning.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Staphylococcal Enterotoxin.

Pisces (The Fish):  If your manager quits this week, you might think about applying for the job.  Careful what you wish for, it’s a hot seat – but then you like to keep your rear nice and warm, don’t you?  Run.  Run while you can!

Tags: Children // 2 Comments »

So there we were, just relaxing in the kitchen, when up out of nowhere came the topic of sex.  How does this happen?  I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.  Since it was there, I took the opportunity to reiterate the standard message (“Don’t!”) to both girls and the boy, and I guess something caught and tugged on the elbow of her mind, because the Reigning Queen of Pink suddenly turned to me with questions.

RQoP:  Wait.  Have YOU had sex?
BUMD:  I’m your father.  What do you think that means?
RQoP:  Eww!  More than once?
BUMD:  Kid, count your siblings.  How many kids are there in this house?  I’ve had sex THREE TIMES!
RQoP:  Ewwwww!  Wait, was it all with Mom?

I really, really wanted to say no, but I was afraid her little blond head would explode, and then I’d have to clean brains up off the ceiling.  We are obviously not clear on the concept yet, and I’m not going to fix that anytime soon.

Then, a few nights later, I wound up having a totally different conversation with Number One Son.  Planning for the summer, I’d asked him what he thought would be a good reward if he completes all his summer assignments and does them really well.  (We’re planning a mini-homeschooling summer.  Mind you, I say planning.)

Number One Son:  Well, you should probably get me a Nintendo DS.
BUMD:  I am NOT getting you a Nintendo DS.
NOS:  Well, it would certainly motivate me.
BUMD:  Son, I understand that you’d like one, and that you think it would motivate you, but we’re not getting you a Nintendo DS.  I’ve seen kids walking around with those – they have unnaturally large thumbs and they have worse social skills than even you do.  Not happening.
NOS:  But I could play the –
BUMD:  Look kid, you will never get laid with a Nintendo DS.

Yeah, I know, Father of the Year Award.  I hadn’t noticed his sister, the 13-yr-old Human Tape Recorder, standing in the doorway to his room, listening.

HTR, commenting from the doorway:  Truth.  You will NEVER get laid if you get a DS.
NOS:  Ha!  So it’s too late, since I’ve already done that three times!

The HTR and I looked at each other in something very near to horror, since you can never quite be certain if he knows just exactly what the hell he’s talking about.  On the off-chance that he was clear on this concept, I promptly took the coward’s way out and suddenly needed to put away the toothbrushes.  From the bathroom I heard her:

HTR:  Dude, do you even know what that MEANS?
NOS:  I have a pretty good idea, yes!
HTR:  OK, what?
NOS:  Having sex!
HTR:  Ohmygod.  (Retreats to her own room, slams door.)  I am so not having this conversation anymore!

Deciding I’d better man up on this one, I returned to his room:  “So, um, just exactly with whom would this blessed event have occurred?”  Mind you, what I’m worried about is the zero-point-something-small percent chance that he’s not making this up – he’s that cute, but I still list “eleven” as waaaaaaaaay too young.  (As noted, the standard message is “Don’t.”)

“No,” he said, “I meant that you’ve gotten laid three times!”

Oh, right.  With his mother.  He’s got proof of each of the three times, he himself being Exhibit Two.   “Well,” said I, “that’s because I don’t have a Nintendo DS.  If I’d had one, you might never have been born!  Now, go to bed and think of something else to motivate you!”

And quit trying to give your father a coronary.  Sheesh.

Tags: Children // 3 Comments »

0415 is a disgusting and unholy time of the morning, but there I was, awake and getting dressed.  Yep – we’re going back to Huntsville.

SOBUMD and the three lunatic children dropped me off at my folks’ house Tuesday evening.  As I’ve gotten older, the bedtime routine with my parents has evolved – I miss the bedtime stories, but the good-night Scotch is a welcome addition.  This kids acknowledged my blandishments about behaving for SOBUMD with their usual nonchalance, left with SOBUMD, and we shortly retired to sleep.

I may have mentioned in previous posts that my father collects penguins.  I’m used to all the birds around the house, but I’ll confess the penguin mobile over my bed was freaking me out a little.  The windows were open, and the little bastards were swaying, floating gently just below the ceiling.  Penguins just shouldn’t fly, ya know?  Of course, I’ve only myself to blame – I’m pretty sure we bought it for him.

Time in the wee hours progressing in the manner of a dream, I suddenly found myself thanking FOBUMD for the stay and the ride to the airport and walking into the eerily empty, post-apocalyptic vision that is DCA before 0500.  Neither the folks from TSA not the ticket agents speak, not even to each other.  I guessed they were communicating through some godless pre-dawn telepathy, as though to break the silence would profane even further this already unholy hour of the morning.  As I make my way to the check in desk, they all stare at me like somnambulant feral zombies, with only their eyes moving, waiting for any sign of weakness.  I had the distinct and uncanny sense that, were I to stumble, even for a moment, they’d be on me like a pack of hungry dingos on a baby.

I have no memory of checking in.  I suppose it’s possible that I might have supressed such a memory to protect my sanity, such as it is.  The next thing I remember was boarding a plane, finding my seat, and getting up again to make room for my cute twin blonde seatmates.

Things were looking up.  I like this dream.  So did they, evidently – they were both asleep before we pulled away from the gate.

As I reseated myself, an even more stunning brunette stopped in front of me and asked if she could move my hat.  I took it from the overhead bin and, after watching her struggle for a moment, offered to help with getting her carry-on up into the bin.  Mind you, when I say carry on, as far as US Airways is concerned, if it has wheels, it’s a carry on.  This was proven by the fact that she was pulling a 1973 Ethen Allen hardwood dresser that was taller than the Reigning Queen of Pink.  It had rolling casters on it, though, so it’s a carry on.  For $25 per checked bag, I didn’t really blame her.

My sleeping beauties made a few kind remarks about how strong I was, how polite I was, and US Airways redefining “carry on” – and drifted back to sleep.

I have vague and uncomfortable memories of channelling OJ Simpson in the airport at Charlotte, NC, which is somewhere between “bigger than I expected” and “fucking enormous.”  Mind you, when I say I was channelling OJ Simpson, I don’t mean I was jumping over furniture and people, I mean I looked like a slow-moving white Bronco going through the interminable hallways.  Walking out to the tarmac to board the next hop, I realized that happiness is seeing US Airways loading your luggage onto the same plane you’re boarding.  Mind you, since my luggage is technically smaller than most Buicks (at least smaller than pre-1990’s Buicks), I could have saved myself the worry and just carried it on.

We landed in Huntsville, where I was reunited with my luggage, rental cars, and that smell of Alabama air that is unlike anything else.  It’s not just roast pig, it’s something else undefinable.   It was a nice day, so with the windows down I drove about until hearing from my cohort that they’d meet me for lunch.  That right – it was time for Thomas Pit.

It remains a subject of myth and legend up here in the northern climes, but it’s real, and it’s been real since 1932, when between 80% and 90% of all Huntsville voted for Franklin Delano Roosevelt and put their faith and their BBQ in the New Deal.  Since then, it’s been pulled pig the best way, in a smokehouse behind the restaurant that may have seen a layer of paint on the outside, but the inside is just the same as it’s always been.  You cook pigs for 80 years, you get damn good at it, is my guess.

But I was stymied!  The cohorts were late getting out of their meetings, and we were all due back to work (I do, actually, work sometimes, hard though that is to believe) in short order.  We settled for nearby and quick.  It was Steak-n-Shake.

I have to admit that Steak-n-Shake does not suck.  The problem lies in its reach – I can go to Steak-n-Shake without leaving my home state.  (I don’t, but I could.)  I’ll go to chains at home, but when I’m travelling, I want to eat the local fare, not homogenized Generican food you can get anywhere.   However, in this case as in so many others, omnivorousness was trumped by expedience, and we retired back to the work.

Dinner turned out to be a return to the Ol’ Heidelberg, which lives up to its name by hanging multiple pictures of the bridge over the Rhine showing the ruins of the old Heidelberg castle in the background.  The surest sign that you’re not really in Germany is the wait, though – people don’t actually wait, usually, for dinner in Germany; if the place is full, you go down the street a block to a place that isn’t.  In this case, we waited for 20 minutes outside in the fading nice day, until we realized that we could get beer and then bring it back outside to keep waiting, but with beer.  Elements of my cohort were keen on a repeat of the last trip to the Ol’ Heidelberg, which involved Spaten Optimator.  My cohort whispered, “Optimator!”  I looked at her and said, “Optimator!”  But again, we were stymied!  They had Spaten, to be sure, and they had a few other varients, but not the Optimator.

What’s that you say?  A locally brewed Porter, you say, on draft?  You can recommend it since I liked the Optimator?  Hmmm.  Well, what’s it called?

“Big Bear.”  How could we go wrong with a local brew called Big Bear?  And so, we had us some Bears.

It turns out that Big Bear Black Bear Porter is actually brewed in Florida.  Now, local can have several meanings, and Alabama does – and I keep forgetting this – border Florida, so I was willing to give the waitress a pass on that, until I realized that it’s brewed in Coral Springs, which is just shy of Ft. Lauderdale and more than 800 miles from Huntsville.  We’ll settle for “redefining local” and roll with it, since it’s really, really good beer.  The Black Forest Schnitzel, veal topped with a Marsala wine sauce with mushrooms, onions, and the all-important bacon, was amazing as well.

The next day dawned with a shot a breakfast in the hotel, which turned out to include waffles.  That’s it.  Just waffles.  There was no protein, no meat, nothing but waffles and something that had been carefully manufactured to closely resemble butter.  Physically adjacent to the hotel, however, was a Waffle House, where they serve more than just waffles.  Oh, yes they do.

Several sausage and grits and waffles and biscuits and eggs later, I resumed the work with the intrepid cohort and we carried on our way.  Today, the dawn had broken in our favor, and the Great Pig was smiling on us.  Lunch was on for Thomas Pit.

This is the best pulled pork I’ve ever had.  I’ve said it before, I’m sure I’ll say it again.  The cohort – and we dragged several new mouths to this font of pork – tended to agree with me, to the extent they spoke at all; mostly we ate.  Mouth melting piles of hot porcine goodness, with a tasty tangy vinegar sauce next to it – excellent but not needed on pig this good.

But all good things must come to an end, even lunch, and the cohort split up for planes and offices and hotels. I met the boss back for dinner at Dreamland – Ain’t Nothin’ Like ‘Em Nowhere – and we split a rack of ribs; they were fine, good perfectly adequate.  Plus they changed the channel so the boss could watch the boxing match hockey game, which was nice of them.  We broke some pig, solved the socioeconomic problems of the world, and retired to our respective hotels to prepare for the morning’s flights.

0445 is a disgusting and unholy time of the morning, but there I was, awake and getting dressed.  Despite the hour, I was actually late to check in for my flight.  The US Airways ticketing lady was nice enough to put me on a later flight without charging me anything extra, so that was OK.  For a very nice change, the HSV TSA folks didn’t find any reason to take me aside and ask me about those embarrassing pieces of cutlery in my bag, mostly since I’d taken a different bag this time and deliberately failed to put anything with an edge on it in the new bag.  Ha!  That’ll show ’em.

My luggage and I eventually found our way back home, and SOBUMD picked me up in time for some lunch before she had to rush home to get the kids from school.  We went to a great Irish place called P Brennens, and had a plate called an Irish Breakfast.  Despite the afternoon, it was the first breakfast I’d had, and it was great.

It’s good to be back in my own bed – the beds in all the hotels are lacking something, no matter where I stay.  Mostly they’re lacking SOBUMD, but that’s a different post.  Huntsville was once again marvelous in food and people, and I was glad to have gotten to introduce more of the cohort to Thomas Pit.  With any luck, a return to their primal pig lies somewhere in my summer!

Tags: Children // 6 Comments »

Another Friday, another chance to catch up with your own personal astrological future. Your upcoming week will be poor, nasty, brutish, and short – but don’t let it get you down! Read on!

Aries (The Ram): Not a bad week coming up.  Your biggest concern is cutting your tongue while licking your knife clean at the fancy restaurant you’re going to on Wednesday.  Try not to bleed on the linens.

Taurus (The Bull):  Good news Bad news – this week, you will finally find enough courage in that bottle to ask your sweetie to marry you.  The answer will be no.  Back to the bottle, and despair.    Your high-risk disease this week:  Mycoplasma Gallisepticum.

Gemini (The Twins):  You will spend the week making up for lost time in bed, resting.  Yeah, that’s what they call it these days.  Resting.

Cancer (The Crab):   This will be a good week for watching the Hunger Games again, then re-reading the book and noting the differences.  Try not to slip into the madness there; you’ll never come out.  Next, you’ll be casting the movies yourself, and that is the path to insanity and despair.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Orange Sugarcane Rust.

Leo (The Lion):  You know you’re not supposed to do that with those cans of compressed air, right?  Not a healthy habit, and this is week to break it.  Just say no.  Be strong.  Join a support group.  You can beat this. 

Virgo (The Virgin):  This week you’re going to hell, you’re going to the races, and you’re going to lose anyway.  May as well go with a bang.  Tuesday will be nice if you buy a present for a Sagittarius.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Pineapple Sugarcane Disease.

Libra (The Scale): You’re going to have a Dale Carnegie kind of week, in that people will try to win and influence you.  Stick to your guns – your weird old guns. 

Scorpio (The Scorpion): This is a great week for reading quietly and pretending you can’t hear those noises upstairs.  Her name isn’t Luka, and you probably shouldn’t ask.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Plague.

Sagittarius (The Archer): This is a good week to smack the HR person who makes life so miserable.  It won’t help in the long run, but you’ll feel better when you hear the cheers from the cubicles around you!

Capricorn (The Sea-Goat): .  This week you will need to remember the lessons your old scoutmaster taught you:  You don’t have to outrun the bear.  You just have to outrun the Virgo behind you.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Rabbit Hemorrhagic Disease.

Aquarius (The Water Bearer):  You will go to a steak joint that will rock your world this week, and by your world I mean your wallet.  Will it be worth it?  Only you and the cow you’re eating can say for sure.  Don’t forget to tip your waitress. 

Pisces (The Fish): Gemini plays a large role in your week this week, as will the exercise of your democratic rights.  Monday’s not a good day for buying books, stay home instead.  Your high-risk disease this week:  Rabies.

Tags: Children // Add Comment »