Big Ugly Man Doll

We went up to West Virginia with my folks for the Easter weekend.  The kids get to play outside, the men get to talk about chainsaws, the women get to talk about the men – it’s a good place for a Big Ugly Man Doll.  So there we were, discussing the discrepancies between the gospels of Mark and Paul, the merits of Aku-Aku, and the origins of the heads on Easter Island, when it hit us:  There were only four beers left.  This was going to require some divine intervention – maybe even an Easter Miracle. 

Luckily, my mother needed to go into town for some paint, which may be a euphemism for “getting out of the house for an hour,” but since she did actually buy some paint, we’ll give her the benefit of that doubt.  I went with her, and we were able to find some beer, along with some “West Virginia Mountain Moonshine,” which can’t be authentic (since it’s sold in stores).  It’s tasty, though, and can be used to thin paint in a pinch.

Returning with our “paint,” we found the debate had moved to the disconnect between the theory and practice of Easter.  In theory, we’re celebrating a somber occasion marking the anniversary of the death of Jesus and his eventual resurrection.  In practice, we’re dying eggs that come from chickens with inks that come from plants and telling kids they come from rabbits.  Then we’re hiding the eggs, waking up and pointing out where the eggs are to those same kids so they can “find” them, and eating roasted pigs and chocolate candy.  My friend Bill read the bible once; he didn’t find the words “bunny” or “chocolate” in there anywhere. 
 
On a great side note, we were able to save a lot on dyes this year – SOBUMD was taking medication that turned her pee Smurf blue.  I took my multivitamin and got neon lemon yellow; between us we had green.  She figured she could use another pill that would turn hers red; the overlap from the blue would give us purple.  What?  Don’t laugh.  Do you know what part of the chicken those eggs come out of? 

Anyway, the whole rabbit thing I dunno, I was thinking we could do better.  And then, just as I thought we needed a new Easter story, what should happen but my father’s tractor cart had a flat tire. 

Stay with me now.

The tire is flat – very flat, the kind where you can see the wheel inside because there’s no bead on the rim.  It’s just rubber hanging loose on the wheel, like the time you tried on one of your older brother’s Trojans, but didn’t know what they were for other than balloons.  Dad tried the electric compressor, but it didn’t have the oomph to get the rubber on the rim.  Without the tire, there is no cart, and without the cart, there are no rides in the cart for the kids – and the angels will weep.

Remembering that my crazy neighbor told me he saw this on TV once, I grabbed a lighter, poured a little West Virginia Mountain Moonshine into the wheel well behind the rubber tire, and set it on fire.  “Oomph!”  I popped the compressor back on the nozzle, and Hey Presto, the bead sealed on the rim and the tire filled with air.

No, no, that’s not what happened.  This was EASTER!  The flat tire was dead, and therefore flat, on account of being dead.  I used the power of the spirit(s) to baptize the wheel in holy fire (and I assure you the word “Holy” was, in fact, one of the two words my dad yelled when I did this), and then the wheel was resurrected with the compressor of faith.  The new story of Easter!  “Jesus: He’s Here To Pump [clap clap] You Up!” 

And the kids got their rides, and the angels danced on their pins. 

Come on, you have to admit it makes as much sense as a rabbit with a fetish for chocolate and eggs.

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Not long ago, it was discovered that even Big Ugly Man Dolls have birthdays. Now, I’m at what I call the “Cards and Laughter” age, which is when someone cards you buying booze and you burst into laughter. I’m not complaining, but I’ve noticed I don’t get carded when I have the kids with me. I don’t know if that’s pragmatism or sympathy.

Anyway, having recently had a birthday, I thought I’d relate a quick tale of Number One Daughter, the Human Tape Recorder. This starts with MOBUMD (yes, I have a mother) bringing “The Birthday Candle” to the party. She brings one for every party; she used to just buy these in bulk and now owns stock in the company. These candles have rotating pyrotechnics, so you place it on the cake, light it, and a dozen or so small candles flop out – lit – and spin around while a mini-roman candle style firework burns in the center. All the while, a midi loud enough and high enough to makes dogs howl plays “Happy Birthday to You” relentlessly.

Once the pyrotechnics are done and you’ve blown out the smaller, more conventional weapons, you can remove this from the cake. It’s still playing Happy Birthday. You can then put it in the trash.

It’s still playing Happy Birthday.

You could hit it with a hammer. It’s still playing Happy Birthday. We tried keeping it quiet while we enjoyed our cake by putting it in the bottom of a pan filled with water. It’s still playing Happy Birthday. These things are built to survive global thermonuclear warfare.

So, we took it out of the water and put it in the trash, and took the trash outside. This is when Number One Daughter mentions what a great idea that is. “We can explain to everyone that this is how we ward away devils and zombies.”

To paraphrase the immortal Calvin’s dad, I don’t know which is the more appalling, her grasp of recycling or her grasp of demonology and necromancy. I guesss to be clear, it’s the idea that she HAS a grasp of devil-warding, demonology, and necromancy that appalls. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; this is the one born on Halloween. It comes as naturally as shopping comes to the Reigning Queen of Pink. I wonder if that’s why I don’t get carded when she’s with me…

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Sometimes, you take the kids to the zoo and not one critter is available for your viewing pleasure, or they’re out but they just lay there like logs, or they’re not doing anything you want to have to explain to the kids so you walk past the monkey enclosure very fast. Take the kids home and read them this.

The Aardvarks ate arsenic, they died with a frown
The Bears bit their keepers and they all were put down
The Cougar got loose, dunno where she’s at
And the Dingoes dropped dead, life’s tough and that’s that
The Elephant’s absent, not tardy or late
The Falcon found something unkind on his plate
Giraffes have been gone now for many a year
But the Horses have only stepped out for a beer
The Iguanas just lay there, they might just be dead
Just like the Jackals, who never got fed
And the Kangaroo’s hopping right out of the gate
And Lion’s case worker’s been left to his fate
And the Manatee left with a “love you long time”
And the Naked Mole Rat got a job fighting crime
The Owls are all gone, they were too wise to stay
And the Panda’s been recalled – to where, I can’t say
A Queen Snake got loose and she caused quite a stir
Along with a Rattler that Queenie called “Sir”
The Sea Lion sabbatical has twice been prolonged
And the Tapir beat feet, tapped his hooves, said “so long”
An Upland gorilla got a job writing code
The Vulture found dinner on the other side of the road
The Wombat is talking to old Charles Fort
And the Xenopus Frog has found a new sport
And the Yak’s in Tibet, ’cause this place was too hot
And the Zebra changed stripes, ’cause his new name is Spot
Yeah I went to the zoo, ’cause there’s so much to see
But the only one left in the whole place was me!

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OK, the Big Ugly Man Doll does not, as a rule, do food reviews for things I didn’t actually cook myself, but we’re making an exception today. If you like meat and you do not live within about 90 minutes drive of the Washington DC metro area, you might want to skip this post and read the last one, which is a good bit and has Number One Son in it.

Because SOBUMD just took me to Ray’s Hell Burger, on Wilson Blvd in Arlington. And yes. Oh, hell yes.

Several years ago, there was a great quote from Car and Driver talking about the then-new VW Touareg. The upshot of the article was hey, this is a nice car, don’t get me wrong, but “to what question is the answer, ‘a $65,000 Volkswagen?’” I’ve since seen the Touareg, and I still don’t have a question to go with that answer.

In the same light, a person might well hear of a place that sells slabs of ground meat on a bun, and wonder to what question is the answer, “a $17 hamburger?”

I can answer that one. The question is, what should you splurge on, once a year, because it’s your birthday, when you’re at Ray’s Hell Burger? You should order “The Burger of Seville,” which lacks only Bugs Bunny on the piano. It’s a massive 10-ounce meal built with freshly ground, hand-trimmed beef. They then pack on foie gras, bordelaise sauce, awe-inspiring mushrooms, and – I’m not even making this up – white truffle oil, on a toasted brioche bun. The guys behind the counter had the cojones to ask if I wanted any side orders. These people are trying to kill me – I think they get kickbacks from the EMTs.

NOTE: Anyone prone to heart disease would do well to recall the subtitle of Rossini’s original Barber of Seville: “The Useless Precaution.” This burger comes with no precautions. Your taste buds will be under full-on frontal attack. They will surrender faster than the French army. And you will love it.

The day being clear and the sky being bright, we ate outside. SOBUMD had a delicious if more classic (read: cheaper) burger, done au poivre with fried onions and Swiss cheese; both were perfectly cooked to order, medium rare. Both dripped juices and grease down our arms as we enjoyed the day, the sun, and the meat.

The bad news is that I finished all of mine, scraped up the stray mushrooms from my plate, then polished off the little bite that SOBUMD was too full to finish. The GOOD news is that the people sitting next to us were Greenpeace activists in town for a lobbying convention, and they were able to mobilize a rescue team to roll me back into the surf. I’ll be fine.

Until next year.

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We have an arrangement with the local school system. They agreed to keep an eye on Number One Son in exchange for us giving him his meds before school in the morning. Trust me that we have the upper hand in this relationship. They’re very much attuned to his peculiarities.

Part of “keeping an eye on him” is telegraphing change – when you’re dealing with hard-core ADHD on top of high-functioning autism, one of the best ways to help him maintain equilibrium is to let him know what’s going to be happening in advance. This is usually only a matter of the 2-minute warning: “Hey, we’re going to switch from Art to Math in few minutes,” instead of “drop the colored pencils and take out your workbooks.” Normally these messages are conveyed to the classroom at large, because nearly everyone benefits from a little foreknowledge, however brief.

In his case, though, this is extended – just to him – to include “Hey, we’re going to have a fire drill in a few minutes, it’s going to be a really loud noise, but we’ll go outside as a class – just like last time.” And in this fashion, they maintain classroom equilibrium even under stimuli that might otherwise put Mr. ADHD/HFA into high-gear.

This works great when the school knows it’s coming. A few days ago, in the middle of lunch – fresh chaos all its own – some 2nd grader got a head-start on high school. They decided they *really* didn’t want to take that quiz, and that if they pulled the fire alarm, they might not have to. (Come on, you always wanted to do that – and some of you tried it.) CLANGCLANGCLANG.

The report from one of the saints who “keeps an eye out” is that Number One Son kept his cool, followed the class as they were all stewarded out the door by the adults, and waited in line with his class outside. As soon as he saw her, he raised his hand politely, even outside. She says she walked over to him and said, “Yes, C__?”

“What the HELL is going on?”

She reports that she failed to keep a straight face.

Appropriateness Score: Situation 1, Age 0. Crazy – it means not sweating the details.

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