Big Ugly Man Doll

It’s Friday, and that means answer time! For those of you who have commented with questions from previous ManFAQs, thank you. I’m adding yours to the list of questions women have asked about men over the years, and I will answer them all in turn – to continue to demystify the more malodorous gender for those of the gentler. 

Question:  Why do men shave and say they cleaned it up, yet there is still hair EVERYWHERE?

Answer:   This is actually a corollary to the “5-second” rule, which states that dirt and germs don’t begin to accrue on an object until 5 seconds have gone by.  Cleaning the sink involves dirt that just got there, so of course it doesn’t need to be cleaned right away.  We’ll make a few halfhearted swipes with the other side of the tissue we just used and move on with our lives.  If you leave it there long enough, we’ll probably get to the rest of it. 

Yes, most of us really do think like that.  The idea that you’d be pissed that we forgot to clean up from shaving gets washed away in a tidal wave of hormones and testosterone.  The surprise you see on his face when you yell at him is genuine – you’re mad because he didn’t clean the sink, and in the back of his mind he’s wondering why you’re dressed. 

Now you know. Please, feel free to comment with any questions you’d like answered!

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Operation Wedding:  1200 Miles in 5 Days
My cousin’s getting married in Chicago.  Game on.

Now, there are some things you should know before we get to the church.  Things like, the side bets my family makes about the insurance premiums and structural integrity of the building when I walk into a house of worship.  Things like the questions they still ask about those explosions.  Things like the chances that it’s still a church when I leave.  The last time my folks talked me into coming to church with them was at a military chapel.  Before the end of the mass, the Father introduced a 3-star general who announced that the building was going to be re-purposed for barracks, have a nice day.  They’ve never asked me back. 

So when I tell people I don’t usually go to churches, it’s not because I don’t like it.  It’s just that I can’t countenance putting all those other people at risk.  It’s a public service, really, just like the ego-reducing lining in my hats that helps keep my massive ego from accidental property damage.  I’m a considerate guy, you know? 

Speaking of hats, someone mentioned getting dressed up for the wedding.  This depressed me a little, because I did not get dressed up for the wedding.  Getting dressed up used to be fun – you break out your fancy clothes, put a tie on, grab your best hat – all the things that let you know you’re doing something special.  I didn’t get “dressed up.”  I dress like this all the time.  I wore what I usually wear to work.  I feel cheated, really, because for me to get dressed up, I’d need a frigging tuxedo, and of course there’s no call to wear a tuxedo because I’m not getting married.  My job here is to make sure that none of my children make farting noises during the ceremony.  (OK, my job is to make sure that none of my children make farting noises louder than Uncle Jerry during the ceremony.)  SOBUMD’s job, it turns out, is educating the kids on the new surroundings, since they obviously don’t get to church much more often than I do.

We step into the pew and take a seat.  There are large hymnals in the book holders in front of us.  “What books are those?” asks the Reigning Queen of Pink. 

My sister picked up a hymnal and said, “These are bibles.”  She clearly comes here as often as I do. 

“What’s a Bible?”  asks the Reigning Queen of Pink. 

Gobsmacked.  I lost all powers of speech for a moment, right there, and my sister was so pole-axed that she couldn’t respond either. 

SOBUMD jumped to our rescue:  “It’s OK, they’re just like Korans.”

Luckily the services hadn’t started, because it took several more minutes to restore order in our section of the church.  SOBUMD, who is so digital that she firmly believes God can be downloaded onto her iPhone (“There’s an App for that!”), noted that there were several WiFi networks near enough to connect to from there; one of them was called “Death Star”.  I can only hope that it was a local neighbor geek and not a subtle indictment of papal authority, but these days you never know. 

Once we all settled into our places, the celebrants started filtering into the church.  The bride was lovely in white, as brides are, except more so, on account of she’s beautiful, and the groom wore – yeah right.  No one looks at the groom.  He looked fine, you know, for my cousin.  At least he got to dress up.  Toward the end of the ceremony there was a bit with candles; the mothers each lit a candle and used them together to light a single new candle. 

Number One Son leaned over and whispered, “Daddy, what’s the point of the candles?” 

“Well,” said I, “the two flames are the two people getting married, and they’re being married into a single new flame together, as a married unit – a single spiritual being in the eyes of god.  Or, it may signify the bikini waxing the bride got yesterday for the wedding night.”

“What?” 

“Nothing, never mind.”  No wonder they don’t know what bibles look like. 

The wedding went off without a hitch, or rather with one, if you catch my drift, and if you’re still reading after a pun that bad I should probably apologize, but I won’t.  The reception followed at a nice hotel, where friends and families gathered, caught up, ate up, and got down with their bad selves.  There was plenty of great food, yummy things to drink, and music and dancing.  I got to dance with all my cousins, which was great except for one of them, who left me alone on the dance floor 45 seconds into the song.  Why he wouldn’t want to dance to Right Said Fred’s I’m Too Sexy with the Big Ugly Man Doll, I’m sure I don’t understand.  I mean, I left most of my clothes on!  Just not comfortable enough with his masculinity, I guess…  Ah well, we love him anyway.   I have to say, not because no one else would, but because none of the rest of them (barring SOBUMD) are blogging:  Our family rocks – and it’s nice to have a new family member! 

Next up: The Return to Ohio

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In what I can only hope, for your sake, is the very remote chance that you ever stop for lunch in Sturgis, Michigan, be sure to stop at Dan’s Family Restaurant.  If you’re over 80, I’m sure you’ve heard of it already.  Word gets around on The Facebooks, you know – Dan’s Family Restaurant has a discount for seniors that can’t be beat! 

Dan's Family Restaurant, Sturgis, Michigan

Obviously the waitress, on the other hand, can be beat.  I say this not because the service was slow, or bad – it was fine.  I think our waitress had been beaten far too often, though – every other sentence was “I’m sorry!”  She apologized for everything, regardless of whether or not it was something she could control, up to and including the weather.  I think it was a defense mechanism built in from getting beaten too often by cane-wielding Q-tips wondering about the discount.  She held her own behind the counter, though:  “Mike, this says Chicken Tenders, not Chicken Wings – do I need to buy you a pair of glasses?  I’ll go buy you a pair of glasses if you need them!” 

It’s easy to get to Dan’s Family Restaurant, though.  All you need is a Betty. 

It’s also easy to tell when your kids have been hanging out with their Grandfather – anything with an automated voice system, like a GPS, gets named Bitchin’ Betty.  This stems from the early automated aviation advisory voices in Viet Nam-era aircraft (and continuing today) that would tell a pilot “Low on Fuel” or “Watch out for that Mountain.”  These days the iPhone will do the same thing, so in our car we had Dad’s GPS, in SOBUMD’s van we had her iPhone set for MapQuest, calling out the same set of

“Recalculating Route”
“Turn left, 2 miles” 
“Make a safe and legal U-Turn” 
“Recalculating”

All of which cause the kids to want to tell Bitchin’ Betty to shut up.   They figure poor Betty gets pretty tired of “Recalculating” every time we turn around.  We all got out of the cars at Dan’s Family Restaurant and the HTR piped up with, “Daddy, Bitchin’ Betty sounds pretty depressed.  I think she should try Cymbalta.”  Number One Son doesn’t miss a beat:  “Depression hurts, Daddy.  Cymbalta can help.”

Dear god, I *really* need to monitor what the hell they’re watching on television.  Also, I need my ears checked again; at first I thought they said she needed to take Cialis.  Which would probably also take Betty’s mind off recalculating the route for the 478th time, but I’d rather not explain that to the kids.

The best part of Bitchin’ Betty is the pinpoint accuracy of the iPhone/MapQuest application.  SOBUMD excused herself to the bathroom (“Excuse me, where’s the bathroom?”  “I’m sorry, it’s just down that hallway.”) and took her purse – I never know why, and I don’t want to.  In this case, though, she reports that as she was walking out of the stall, Betty piped up from her purse unexpectedly:  “Recalculating!” 

Now that’s an accurate system.  

We said our sad goodbyes to Sturgis and our lovely and apologetic waitress and climbed back in the saddles, driving through the settling lunch and setting sun until we reached our destination – Uncle Dan (no relation to the Restaurant) and Aunt Mary Ann’s house, which has Ivy.  Not ivy, Ivy.  Ivy is a Wheaten Terrier, which makes complete sense since they live a in suburb called Wheaton – I assume she came with the house.  Ivy and Number One Son, to the surprise of pretty much everyone including themselves, became close pals.  

Ivy Meets Number One Son: A Dog and Her Boy

We had a wonderful time eating pizza and visiting with family that we never get to see often enough.  Number One Son met a dog who wasn’t too scary, jumpy, or annoying, and a great time was had by all.  I looked all around the house, but was unable to find the “Dorian Gray” painting of my Aunt, who looks like I’ve always remembered her – I don’t know how she does it, but she has not aged a day in at least 20 years.  Maybe the dogs do her aging for her.  Uncle Dan just looks more like himself; I’ve seen pictures of him when he was younger, and he looks like he’s waiting to grow into how he looks now.  My cousins look good and married well too – maybe there’s something in the genes; it’s just a good looking family all around.  Of course, they’re all related to me, so certainly that explains part of it. 

The next morning dawned with coffee and breakfast yummies, including pancakes that even the Reigning Queen of Pink couldn’t be allergic to, which was very sweet.  Mind you, she still didn’t eat them, but she *could* have, and that’s the point, really.  We eventually got dressed, loaded the car, and headed to the Death Star.

Next up:  Saturday:  Operation Wedding

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Operation Wedding:  1200 Miles in 5 Days
My cousin’s getting married in Chicago.  Game on.

So there we were, exiting the Waffle House in Frederick, Md.  Thus fortified, and for some of us thus horrified, we moved people and things into the rain and into the cars, and then moved things and people again, still in the rain, until we had a good sense that we’d reached an equilibrium.  This involved me, my sister, my father, and Number One Son in my father’s car, and the rest of the girls in SOBUMD’s minivan – with my mother driving, embracing her inner yuppie and indulging her need for speed.  We followed along in the Toyota Sienna-sized hole left where the rain wasn’t falling anymore as my mother created a tunnel of “not rain” while trying to see if it would really hit 130 miles per hour. 

In the back seat of Dad’s car, my sister was exchanging ideas with Number One Son, who having been fed was promptly medicated.  One of these ideas was “read a book,” whereupon he mentioned not having a book in this car.  She, of course, had a book in this car, in fact she had two to choose from – Neil Stephenson’s Snow Crash, and Christopher Moore’s Fool. 

If you’ve never read either, I can recommend both.  Are they “appropriate” for a 10-yr-old?  Probably not – this just became a “lesser of two evils” question.  Right, Snow Crash – it’ll hold his interest.  She handed it to him and we lost him for about 30 minutes until he started giggling.   “What do you think of the book?” 

“I like all the swear words!” 

My sister wondered about my choice, which I maintain is still better than letting him read “Fool.”  Snow Crash has conversational swearing.  Fool uses it as an art form.  Snow Crash is about computers and hacking; Fool is a game of Grand Theft Auto mashed up with Shakespeare at his pornographic best – medieval porn and gratuitous murder, yeah baby!  At least he’s reading.  Me, it’s email, email, email on the Blackberry – plus a great example of technology in action:  Dad mentioned he’d like to hear Pat Boone singing “The Old Rugged Cross” and in 90 seconds it’s coming off some YouTube hard drive in the ether, over an IP network, to a wireless network, down the airwaves to my Crackberry, and into sound in the car, with my Dad singing along – all at 75 miles an hour, in the driving rain.  I love technology!

We collectively decided that we liked Ohio better than Maryland and Pennsylvania, because it wasn’t raining in Ohio.  They have sun there.  Quite a relief.  We drove past Youngstown, got to Twinsburg, and headed for the hot tub.  After a dip, we retired to our rooms, I plugged in the McGuffin, er, Blackberry charger, and headed for the local restaurant.  (There’s only one.)   After some food at a table lit by the largest television screens known to man, we returned to the hotel.  As we retired to our rooms, I determined that there was Scotch in the lobby.  I bought one for SOBUMD, then let my dad know that there was Grandpa Juice available downstairs.  He allowed as how he knew that, he and my sister having acquired same before we left for dinner.  I mentioned the (low) price and was instructed in how the pros do it: “You gave them money?  I just said “Room 425” and we pressed on.” 

Clearly, I don’t stay at hotels often enough.  Eager to test this new lesson, I went back downstairs and got another glass of Grandpa Juice, this time charging it to Room 425, just like he said.  That I was in Room 423 was not really relevant. 

In the morning, we found something very much like breakfast, loaded everyone into the cars again, and pressed on. 

Next, miles 293-613 – Destination: That Toddling Town.

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Operation Wedding:  1200 Miles in 5 Days
My cousin’s getting married in Chicago.  Game on.

Thursday starts, like all Thursdays do, on the Wednesday before.  In this case, at Gloria’s Hair Salon, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to drive from here to Chicago with the mop I’m sporting – that much hair could significantly affect the vehicle’s performance, handling, and mileage.  I made up the cost of the haircut in the gas we saved in the first 100 miles. 

Besides, who feels like driving when you’re not rockin’ your own head?  I built this haircut on rock-n-roll, baby, and I’ve got the gray to prove it.

So Thursday dawns, as Thursday must, and we load the kids into the car.  We have everything:  medication, a teddy bear (the kids did not take teddy bears or dolls; I, however, brought mine), books, music, cell phone chargers, good clothes, bad clothes, and an appetite for road food.  We eased away from our berth, down past the docks, and out of view of the house, our only companion the constant hammer of Nicole – the 16th named tropical storm this year, which graced the Eastern Seaboard with rain for the first time in 4 months.  Not a drop of the wet stuff on the brown patches of dirt that used to pass for my lawn, and on this traveling morning Mother Nature decides to switch on the fire hose?  Bitch. 

When you pause to consider the rain, the traffic, and the incredible distance (yep, 42 miles) we needed to cover that morning, we did pretty well.  We maintained an average speed of 28 miles per hour, which is pretty safe for a Model T Ford.  That we were driving a 1999 Toyota Sienna with a 6-cylander engine and a top speed of 130 miles per hour – not that it’s ever seen that speed, but I hear tell – well, we’ll just let that slide, in much the same way that we slid into the Waffle House in Frederick, MD to meet my folks and sister, who were driving with us in the driving rain to Ohio and Points West. 

Death before dishonor, but neither before breakfast.  My parents, it should be noted, are considerably more healthy than I am; my mother can kill a deer with a cast iron skillet at 30 paces and my father runs marathons for fun and profit.  I used to hope to be in as good shape as they are when I reach the same age; these days I’ve lowered my sights to just reaching the same age.  Needless to say, the idea of actually *eating* in the Waffle House holds a sick, fascinating attraction for them; it’s like realizing that you can order dessert for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and no one will yell at you.  That they were the thinnest adults in the place did not bother anyone – they’ll serve anyone at the Waffle House. 

We greased up, gassed up, and also saw to the needs of the cars, if you know what I mean.  Breakfast, while watching it rain in sheets, was going to be the last fun thing for a good hundred miles, and we enjoyed it as only road foodies can – which is to say quickly, cheaply, and messily.  We looked like great white sharks trying to decide between the cute one swimming by herself or the fat one with the surfboard, and realizing that hey, I’m a shaaaark, I don’t have to choose.  I can just eat them both! 

And we did.  I love me some Waffle House. 

Tomorrow, we cover miles 42 – 292.

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