I have been known to do some odd things in my sleep. When I was little I fell asleep on the toilet one time, which is really kinda convenient if you think about it.
I have also awakened myself with the loudness of my own snoring. Come to think of it, there was one time when my brother threw a pillow at me while we were staying at a hotel, and then he yelled at me for snoring. As serious as could be, I answered him by saying, "How could I be snoring if I'm sitting here talking to you?" It made sense at the time.
But I would like to point out that I'm not the only one who has weird nocturnal issues. One time, shortly after we got married, I was trying to find a pair of scissors in our apartment late at night, and I went in to wake Mrs. Smoot to ask her where where I could find them. She appeared to be perfectly awake when I asked her about the scissors, but she responded by saying, "They're in there."
"Uh, where?" I responded. "They're in there!" she replied again. "WHERE?!" I asked impatiently, apparently because I really needed to cut something. "They're in one of the conditions." Finally, I knew where to find the scissors. They were in one of the conditions. I gave up on cutting anything that night.
But my favorite sleepy Mrs. Smoot story was the night when she sat bolt upright all of a sudden in the middle of the night. She calmly looked around for a moment and then said, "H-o-l-y $%#&!" And then her head fell back to the pillow and she was sound asleep again. Of course I was up for quite a while wondering exactly what had just happened.
Mrs. Smoot will be glad to tell you that I am much more annoying and bizarre late at night, and I've done much weirder things while being asleep. To her I offer these words: Get your own blog! It's in one of the conditions.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Mucus Permeates the Cavern
We were at church last Sunday morning, and a few minutes before the service started, one of our church leaders approached me in the narthex and quietly said, "If you see Grant, please tell him 'the monkey is up front.'"
Naturally when I heard this, I was pretty excited. Judging from the tone of his voice, facial expressions, etc., I could tell that this was a very top secret communique, and that I should treat this message very seriously. I excitedly and immediately began to search for Grant, who is a member of our youth group.
Sure enough, I found Grant in the back of the church, and I pulled him aside so I could deliver the message. As quietly and carefully as I had received the message, I passed it along to Grant in the same way: "The monkey is up front," I told him. Grant nodded, and began to walk way.
I didn't want to pester him, or risk breaching national security or anything, but of course I really wanted to know the meaning of all of this. So I just came right out and asked him whether this was some sort of secret code phrase, like the type of thing they may have used back in the old days to warn troops that an enemy force was approaching, or how they might communicate the timing of an attack or something.
Stone faced, Grant looked and me and said, "No, it's literal." Turns out there was indeed a literal monkey (in the form of a puppet), and it was in the front of the church. Grant was in charge of shoving his arm up the monkey's personal region and providing it with a voice during the service as a means of promoting our Vacation Bible School week to the kids.
Nonetheless, my enthusiasm for the whole spy communication thing was piqued, and I knew Little Smoot would join me in turning it into something really annoying for anyone around us. So for the rest of the day, including a long drive to take her to summer camp, we were saying stupid things to each other like, "The crow flies at dawn." And, "The cashew rests upon the mantle." And, "The sloth has crawled upon the carpet." Oh, and let's not forget Little Smoot's favorite one: "The stain is in the underwear." Of course we both giggle ourselves silly each time we come up with one of these things.
While she was at camp, we were able to send her e-mail messages that would be printed out and delivered to her at the dining hall. In one of my messages, I concluded by telling her, "The platypus barks in the shadows." And that was the first thing she said to me when I picked her up from camp yesterday. I like to think that the camp staff reads these things before giving them to the kids, and they were really wondering what was going on. Little do they know that I was being literal about the platypus.
Naturally when I heard this, I was pretty excited. Judging from the tone of his voice, facial expressions, etc., I could tell that this was a very top secret communique, and that I should treat this message very seriously. I excitedly and immediately began to search for Grant, who is a member of our youth group.
Sure enough, I found Grant in the back of the church, and I pulled him aside so I could deliver the message. As quietly and carefully as I had received the message, I passed it along to Grant in the same way: "The monkey is up front," I told him. Grant nodded, and began to walk way.
I didn't want to pester him, or risk breaching national security or anything, but of course I really wanted to know the meaning of all of this. So I just came right out and asked him whether this was some sort of secret code phrase, like the type of thing they may have used back in the old days to warn troops that an enemy force was approaching, or how they might communicate the timing of an attack or something.
Stone faced, Grant looked and me and said, "No, it's literal." Turns out there was indeed a literal monkey (in the form of a puppet), and it was in the front of the church. Grant was in charge of shoving his arm up the monkey's personal region and providing it with a voice during the service as a means of promoting our Vacation Bible School week to the kids.
Nonetheless, my enthusiasm for the whole spy communication thing was piqued, and I knew Little Smoot would join me in turning it into something really annoying for anyone around us. So for the rest of the day, including a long drive to take her to summer camp, we were saying stupid things to each other like, "The crow flies at dawn." And, "The cashew rests upon the mantle." And, "The sloth has crawled upon the carpet." Oh, and let's not forget Little Smoot's favorite one: "The stain is in the underwear." Of course we both giggle ourselves silly each time we come up with one of these things.
While she was at camp, we were able to send her e-mail messages that would be printed out and delivered to her at the dining hall. In one of my messages, I concluded by telling her, "The platypus barks in the shadows." And that was the first thing she said to me when I picked her up from camp yesterday. I like to think that the camp staff reads these things before giving them to the kids, and they were really wondering what was going on. Little do they know that I was being literal about the platypus.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Weechers and Bocks
When Little Smoot was a little girl, around age 3, she came up with this song that she would sing when it was raining. I have no idea where she got the idea for these lyrics, but her song went like this:
"The rain came down... the Weechers had a Bock!"
The tune was pretty catchy -- and short and to the point -- and we really did enjoy listening to her sing it from time to time, but it left us with just a few burning questions. For one, who are the Weechers? And what the hell is a Bock? And why do the Weechers only have Bocks when it's raining? Can the sun destroy a Bock? Do the Weechers enjoy the Bocks, or are they bad things?
It goes without saying that I have spent many sleepless nights worrying about the state of affairs with the Weechers, and whether or not they had enough Bocks. Could there be a Bock shortage? I have no idea.
She wouldn't tell us much of anything when we quizzed her about these things. We'd ask her all the time what these things were, and she'd just giggle and refuse to tell us what it meant. It's like it was some sort of deep secret, and the magnitude of revealing these things could destroy the common fabric of toddlers everywhere. It was clearly serious stuff.
So I asked her about this again recently. I figure now that she's 11, surely we have earned her trust to the point where she could tell us the meaning of this song so we can finally get a solid night of sleep around here. When I asked her about it, she remembered the song just fine, and sang it just like she did seven or eight years ago.
But she claims she has no recollection whatsoever of what a Weecher or a Bock might be. And I doubt that she would even know who to ask about such a thing.
So I am reaching out to my vast reading audience (both of you) to see if you could please do a little research amongst your three-year-old friends to see if they could shed some light on this subject. If they won't talk, I am going to have to condone torture in this particular instance.
"The rain came down... the Weechers had a Bock!"
The tune was pretty catchy -- and short and to the point -- and we really did enjoy listening to her sing it from time to time, but it left us with just a few burning questions. For one, who are the Weechers? And what the hell is a Bock? And why do the Weechers only have Bocks when it's raining? Can the sun destroy a Bock? Do the Weechers enjoy the Bocks, or are they bad things?
It goes without saying that I have spent many sleepless nights worrying about the state of affairs with the Weechers, and whether or not they had enough Bocks. Could there be a Bock shortage? I have no idea.
She wouldn't tell us much of anything when we quizzed her about these things. We'd ask her all the time what these things were, and she'd just giggle and refuse to tell us what it meant. It's like it was some sort of deep secret, and the magnitude of revealing these things could destroy the common fabric of toddlers everywhere. It was clearly serious stuff.
So I asked her about this again recently. I figure now that she's 11, surely we have earned her trust to the point where she could tell us the meaning of this song so we can finally get a solid night of sleep around here. When I asked her about it, she remembered the song just fine, and sang it just like she did seven or eight years ago.
But she claims she has no recollection whatsoever of what a Weecher or a Bock might be. And I doubt that she would even know who to ask about such a thing.
So I am reaching out to my vast reading audience (both of you) to see if you could please do a little research amongst your three-year-old friends to see if they could shed some light on this subject. If they won't talk, I am going to have to condone torture in this particular instance.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Summer "Camp"
So we dropped Little Smoot off at summer "camp" this weekend. I have to keep putting "camp" in quotes, because her version of "camp" this summer is a drastically different-looking experience than what she has done in past years. And it's a whole HECK of a lot different than when I was a camper, back in the Paleolithic era.
We dropped Little Smoot off on Sunday, expecting that she would be staying in the same sort of cabins where she spent her time the last few years at the same place. But this time she was assigned to a building that hardly seems like a "camping" experience to me. In the future, if we visit a fancy Hilton Hotel, she is going to feel let down, compared to her "camping" arrangement this week.
She has a room that she'll share with one other camper and two counselors. It's modern, nicely furnished and carpeted, has its own private bathroom and shower, and it even has air conditioning for heaven's sake. Air conditioning!
Let me tell you about the accommodations I had at camp when I was little. Note that I didn't use quotes around the word camp this time. We had these musty, cinderblock cabins which were mostly held together by dust and spider webs. In fact, we often took showers with spiders that were the size of soccer balls.
Our rooms were lit by a few light bulbs that hung down from the rafters, and most of the time only a couple of them actually illuminated when they were turned on. (Being young adolescent boys, we were always illuminated and turned on, but that's another story entirely.) And if you were creative, you could actually trap a fellow camper in his sleeping bag and tie him up to the rafters, not that any of us ever did such a thing, of course.
Camp food was another issue entirely. It was always consistently horrible, and we used to drink "bug juice" with it, which I do believe was made from actual bugs. Not Little Smoot's camp, though! I have had the opportunity to be a counselor at her camp for a couple summers, and the food at this camp is not only edible, it's actually GOOD! They have a fancy little salad bar and everything.
Last summer when I was a counselor there, we stayed in a typical cabin. It was much fancier than what I had grown accustomed to while growing up, but it was still something I would call camping, without the quotes. We immediately discovered that something had apparently died in our bathroom, either somewhere in the ceiling, or in the floorboards, and it smelled putrid for the entire week. But that is camping!
Frankly, when I go back as a counselor next month I am hoping that we'll get the typical old-style cabins that I'm used to... if only because I really think of that as being a big part of the whole summer camp experience. I have a feeling that when Little Smoot gets home this weekend, we're going to have to put little mints on her pillow for a week or so, just to ease her back into life at home. Yeesh.
We dropped Little Smoot off on Sunday, expecting that she would be staying in the same sort of cabins where she spent her time the last few years at the same place. But this time she was assigned to a building that hardly seems like a "camping" experience to me. In the future, if we visit a fancy Hilton Hotel, she is going to feel let down, compared to her "camping" arrangement this week.
She has a room that she'll share with one other camper and two counselors. It's modern, nicely furnished and carpeted, has its own private bathroom and shower, and it even has air conditioning for heaven's sake. Air conditioning!
Let me tell you about the accommodations I had at camp when I was little. Note that I didn't use quotes around the word camp this time. We had these musty, cinderblock cabins which were mostly held together by dust and spider webs. In fact, we often took showers with spiders that were the size of soccer balls.
Our rooms were lit by a few light bulbs that hung down from the rafters, and most of the time only a couple of them actually illuminated when they were turned on. (Being young adolescent boys, we were always illuminated and turned on, but that's another story entirely.) And if you were creative, you could actually trap a fellow camper in his sleeping bag and tie him up to the rafters, not that any of us ever did such a thing, of course.
Camp food was another issue entirely. It was always consistently horrible, and we used to drink "bug juice" with it, which I do believe was made from actual bugs. Not Little Smoot's camp, though! I have had the opportunity to be a counselor at her camp for a couple summers, and the food at this camp is not only edible, it's actually GOOD! They have a fancy little salad bar and everything.
Last summer when I was a counselor there, we stayed in a typical cabin. It was much fancier than what I had grown accustomed to while growing up, but it was still something I would call camping, without the quotes. We immediately discovered that something had apparently died in our bathroom, either somewhere in the ceiling, or in the floorboards, and it smelled putrid for the entire week. But that is camping!
Frankly, when I go back as a counselor next month I am hoping that we'll get the typical old-style cabins that I'm used to... if only because I really think of that as being a big part of the whole summer camp experience. I have a feeling that when Little Smoot gets home this weekend, we're going to have to put little mints on her pillow for a week or so, just to ease her back into life at home. Yeesh.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Maker of Labels
I like labeling things. Always have.
I can remember having one of those old label makers when I was a kid. Remember the ones where you had to twirl that round thing around to each individual letter, and then squeeze the trigger with all of your might to emboss the letter into the tape? And then when you screw up a single letter you have to start all over again? I can attribute my amazing wrist strength to all of the exercise I used to get with that thing.
Nowadays things are much more convenient when it comes to making labels. I have had a "Brother P-touch" label maker for several years, and it's just awesome. It has a regular keyboard, so I can just type what I want, and *poof*, out comes a very professional-looking label.
Since it's so easy now, I label everything. If you look closely in our house, you'll find that there are labels all over the place. Any time we buy a new appliance or electronic gadget (which I tend to do almost weekly) I always label the date on it, along with where we bought it. This way, I can see how long our stuff lasts without having to guess when we bought it.
I have even labeled some of our new, allegedly energy efficient lights to see how long they last. They claim that they're supposed to be good for many years, but my labels will reveal the truth! Take that, light manufacturers!
I also labeled the cat the other day. He didn't seem too enthusiastic about it, but for an hour or so he ran around the house with a label on his tail that said, "CAT." That way, I knew exactly what type of pet I was looking at, as he ran around in circles in an attempt to remove the label.
I thought I'd share all of this with you in case you ever wanted a reliable way to see how long your various appliances last, or if you want to keep track of what types of pets you have.
I can remember having one of those old label makers when I was a kid. Remember the ones where you had to twirl that round thing around to each individual letter, and then squeeze the trigger with all of your might to emboss the letter into the tape? And then when you screw up a single letter you have to start all over again? I can attribute my amazing wrist strength to all of the exercise I used to get with that thing.
Nowadays things are much more convenient when it comes to making labels. I have had a "Brother P-touch" label maker for several years, and it's just awesome. It has a regular keyboard, so I can just type what I want, and *poof*, out comes a very professional-looking label.
Since it's so easy now, I label everything. If you look closely in our house, you'll find that there are labels all over the place. Any time we buy a new appliance or electronic gadget (which I tend to do almost weekly) I always label the date on it, along with where we bought it. This way, I can see how long our stuff lasts without having to guess when we bought it.
I have even labeled some of our new, allegedly energy efficient lights to see how long they last. They claim that they're supposed to be good for many years, but my labels will reveal the truth! Take that, light manufacturers!
I also labeled the cat the other day. He didn't seem too enthusiastic about it, but for an hour or so he ran around the house with a label on his tail that said, "CAT." That way, I knew exactly what type of pet I was looking at, as he ran around in circles in an attempt to remove the label.
I thought I'd share all of this with you in case you ever wanted a reliable way to see how long your various appliances last, or if you want to keep track of what types of pets you have.
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Cat-spiracy
What is it with cats? I like cats, I really do. I'm not one of these manly people who won't admit to liking cats because they're more "feminine" sorts of animals. I like them just fine. But they really seem to have it in for me.
When I was little we had a cat named Pumpkin. I don't know what I ever did to honk this cat off, but it was always retaliating against me for some reason. We had a bean bag chair at my parents' house, and I always enjoyed using it as I watched TV. And this was one of those vinyl types of beanbag chairs, one that would not simply absorb liquids, if you catch my drift.
It seemed like once a week or so, the damn cat would drink as much water as a feline can handle from its bowl, and she'd take a giant whiz on that beanbag chair. I know this wasn't a coincidence. I am absolutely positive that Pumpkin knew precisely when I was heading home from school, and that Three's Company was going to be on soon, and that's where I was going to plop myself.
I can remember one time I watched an entire show before I realized that I had cat whiz covering my body from my armpit down to my knee. Damn cat.
Nowadays we have a cat, too. Murray, or "Furry Murray" as we like to call him, is really a great cat. He is Little Smoot's best buddy. Little Smoot will go upstairs to go to bed, and if Murray is downstairs, he'll look at the stairs for a second, then he'll leap into action to follow her up to bed. In the mornings he'll sit there in the bathroom while she gets ready for school.
And he's out to get me.
The other day he decided to barf all over the floor -- a floor he knows I walk on -- just before I was getting Little Smoot off to school. I am certain that he calculated this, knowing that I had to get the kid off to school, and I didn't have time at that moment to clean this mess up. And he knew that by the time I got home from dropping her off, I would have forgotten all about it.
And I know that he knew that I was going to be walking around in my bare feet for a bit, and that he had positioned his work in just the right spot so that I'd step directly in it. And he was right. I don't know what it sounds like when cats laugh, but I am positive that I heard him chuckling at the same instant I stepped in that treat. Thanks, Bud.
When I was little we had a cat named Pumpkin. I don't know what I ever did to honk this cat off, but it was always retaliating against me for some reason. We had a bean bag chair at my parents' house, and I always enjoyed using it as I watched TV. And this was one of those vinyl types of beanbag chairs, one that would not simply absorb liquids, if you catch my drift.
It seemed like once a week or so, the damn cat would drink as much water as a feline can handle from its bowl, and she'd take a giant whiz on that beanbag chair. I know this wasn't a coincidence. I am absolutely positive that Pumpkin knew precisely when I was heading home from school, and that Three's Company was going to be on soon, and that's where I was going to plop myself.
I can remember one time I watched an entire show before I realized that I had cat whiz covering my body from my armpit down to my knee. Damn cat.
Nowadays we have a cat, too. Murray, or "Furry Murray" as we like to call him, is really a great cat. He is Little Smoot's best buddy. Little Smoot will go upstairs to go to bed, and if Murray is downstairs, he'll look at the stairs for a second, then he'll leap into action to follow her up to bed. In the mornings he'll sit there in the bathroom while she gets ready for school.
And he's out to get me.
The other day he decided to barf all over the floor -- a floor he knows I walk on -- just before I was getting Little Smoot off to school. I am certain that he calculated this, knowing that I had to get the kid off to school, and I didn't have time at that moment to clean this mess up. And he knew that by the time I got home from dropping her off, I would have forgotten all about it.
And I know that he knew that I was going to be walking around in my bare feet for a bit, and that he had positioned his work in just the right spot so that I'd step directly in it. And he was right. I don't know what it sounds like when cats laugh, but I am positive that I heard him chuckling at the same instant I stepped in that treat. Thanks, Bud.
Friday, June 11, 2010
And the Father of the Year Award Goes to...
I like to think of myself as being a pretty good dad. Really I do. But it seems like there are a lot of times when I'm trying extra hard to be a good dad, and that's when I wind up doing the most damage.
Of course we can go back to the summer of 2005 when I took Little Smoot on a super-fun camping trip and she wound up getting run over by a pickup truck, breaking three bones in her foot. Let's just not go there... but suffice it to say, there's a fine example of trying to be a good dad but ultimately winding up at a hospital.
The other night Little Smoot had softball practice, and she asked me if I'd stay late and do a little more practicing with her. So my "let's be a great dad" instinct kicked in, and we stuck around and tossed the ball around a bit. She practiced some batting, and I got it in my head that I should do some batting, too. You never know when the team might have too few players, and they'll call upon my services to pose as an 11-year-old girl on the team.
Little Smoot headed into the outfield, and I amused myself with my manly ability to smack the ball consistently to the outfield fence with just about every hit. And Little Smoot would field the ball and throw it back in to me.
Well, you can probably guess where this story is going. It was just starting to get a little dark, and I was heaving the ball into the outfield in a manly fashion, and one of the balls hit a little rut in the field and took an odd bounce... directly into the path of Little Smoot's nose.
I sprinted into the field as soon as I saw it bonk her in the face, and she looked like a human version of Old Faithful, only instead of spouting water and steam into the air, she was a blood geyser. I bounced into First Aid mode, trying to figure out how to simultaneously get her to stop bleeding, and figure out how to keep her from ruining the shirt she was wearing since we bought it in Maui and it was one of her new favorites.
It was interesting to try to get her to walk from the outfield all the way to my car with her head tilted backwards and with blood literally dripping from her arms. Nice job, Dad!
Father's Day is just a couple weeks away. I'm just hoping that I won't get a lump of coal on this special occasion.
Of course we can go back to the summer of 2005 when I took Little Smoot on a super-fun camping trip and she wound up getting run over by a pickup truck, breaking three bones in her foot. Let's just not go there... but suffice it to say, there's a fine example of trying to be a good dad but ultimately winding up at a hospital.
The other night Little Smoot had softball practice, and she asked me if I'd stay late and do a little more practicing with her. So my "let's be a great dad" instinct kicked in, and we stuck around and tossed the ball around a bit. She practiced some batting, and I got it in my head that I should do some batting, too. You never know when the team might have too few players, and they'll call upon my services to pose as an 11-year-old girl on the team.
Little Smoot headed into the outfield, and I amused myself with my manly ability to smack the ball consistently to the outfield fence with just about every hit. And Little Smoot would field the ball and throw it back in to me.
Well, you can probably guess where this story is going. It was just starting to get a little dark, and I was heaving the ball into the outfield in a manly fashion, and one of the balls hit a little rut in the field and took an odd bounce... directly into the path of Little Smoot's nose.
I sprinted into the field as soon as I saw it bonk her in the face, and she looked like a human version of Old Faithful, only instead of spouting water and steam into the air, she was a blood geyser. I bounced into First Aid mode, trying to figure out how to simultaneously get her to stop bleeding, and figure out how to keep her from ruining the shirt she was wearing since we bought it in Maui and it was one of her new favorites.
It was interesting to try to get her to walk from the outfield all the way to my car with her head tilted backwards and with blood literally dripping from her arms. Nice job, Dad!
Father's Day is just a couple weeks away. I'm just hoping that I won't get a lump of coal on this special occasion.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Let the Anxiety Begin
I have a dentist appointment on Thursday. The folks at my dentist office are actually very nice people, but I still cringe every time I think of them.
Of course I'll attempt to trick them into thinking that I'm an avid flossing fanatic; I'll floss a few times a day between now and then in order to make them think that I've been doing this religiously the last six months. But they'll see right through that, and she'll whack away at my teeth with that pointy little spear thing of hers.
Mrs. Smoot often wonders what would happen to me if I ever faced an actual, serious medical situation. I'd probably explode in flames out of pure fear, that's what would happen. When we watch TV shows that feature blood and stuff, I always ask Mrs. Smoot to add things to the list of stuff I don't want to have done to me.
For example, we love to watch House, but I really get antsy about the stuff that happens under the care of their doctors. Like the season finale where House had to amputate a woman's leg while she was pinned in a building. I have had bad dreams about that one for a month or so now.
There was an article in the newspaper a few weeks ago about this great new surgery that allowed doctors to remove brain tumors by going in behind the eye socket. They were ecstatic about how non-invasive the surgery was, because they could go back there, suck the tumor out, and never have to go through the scalp to get to it. Cosmetically, it's supposed to be just wonderful, and the healing time is supposed to improve dramatically.
Sounds great, until you realize that they have to pop your eyeball out of your freakin' head, and drill a hole back there, and then say a little prayer that you'll actually be able to regain your vision when they stick your eye back in place. No thank you.
I know a guy who had to have some sort of horrible, horrible surgery where they had to pop his eyeball out WHILE HE WAS AWAKE. Just imagine that your vision is being controlled by someone who is pointing your eyeball in different directions for you, and you can't do a thing about it. And maybe while they're working, they leave your eyeball dangling there and you have no choice but to stare at your own nostril while they do whatever it is they're doing.
And now I have to be even more worried, now that I know that I am apparently the only person who operates my knife and fork with the wrong hands. Clearly I am lucky to have gone this long without major spleen damage.
Of course I'll attempt to trick them into thinking that I'm an avid flossing fanatic; I'll floss a few times a day between now and then in order to make them think that I've been doing this religiously the last six months. But they'll see right through that, and she'll whack away at my teeth with that pointy little spear thing of hers.
Mrs. Smoot often wonders what would happen to me if I ever faced an actual, serious medical situation. I'd probably explode in flames out of pure fear, that's what would happen. When we watch TV shows that feature blood and stuff, I always ask Mrs. Smoot to add things to the list of stuff I don't want to have done to me.
For example, we love to watch House, but I really get antsy about the stuff that happens under the care of their doctors. Like the season finale where House had to amputate a woman's leg while she was pinned in a building. I have had bad dreams about that one for a month or so now.
There was an article in the newspaper a few weeks ago about this great new surgery that allowed doctors to remove brain tumors by going in behind the eye socket. They were ecstatic about how non-invasive the surgery was, because they could go back there, suck the tumor out, and never have to go through the scalp to get to it. Cosmetically, it's supposed to be just wonderful, and the healing time is supposed to improve dramatically.
Sounds great, until you realize that they have to pop your eyeball out of your freakin' head, and drill a hole back there, and then say a little prayer that you'll actually be able to regain your vision when they stick your eye back in place. No thank you.
I know a guy who had to have some sort of horrible, horrible surgery where they had to pop his eyeball out WHILE HE WAS AWAKE. Just imagine that your vision is being controlled by someone who is pointing your eyeball in different directions for you, and you can't do a thing about it. And maybe while they're working, they leave your eyeball dangling there and you have no choice but to stare at your own nostril while they do whatever it is they're doing.
And now I have to be even more worried, now that I know that I am apparently the only person who operates my knife and fork with the wrong hands. Clearly I am lucky to have gone this long without major spleen damage.
Monday, June 7, 2010
All Forked Up
Please help me settle a dispute with Mrs. Smoot. Hey, that rhymes!
Anyway...
We seem to have a serious difference in opinions about how to use a fork and knife, and as a result, we're probably screwing up Little Smoot's meat carving abilities for life.
First, I should point out that I write left handed, but I do everything else right handed, which instantly makes me a freak of nature to begin with. I don't dispute that. I know I'm screwy that way. Nonetheless, I think Mrs. Smoot's method of cutting and eating food is wrong, counterproductive, and potentially fatal.
Under normal circumstances, I always use my right hand to work my fork. My method of cutting meat and eating it is pretty simple. I use my right hand to operate my fork, and my left hand to operate a knife. So if I cut a piece of steak, I use my left hand to slice it, and my right hand is still in charge of elevating the food from the plate up to my mouth.
Mrs. Smoot does something entirely different. Like me, she normally uses her right hand to manipulate her fork. But when it comes time to cut meat, she actually switches her fork to her left hand so she can use her right hand to control her knife. This seems crazy to me. It seems to me that even a professionally trained juggler would risk stabbing him or herself in the heart while maneuvering utensils all over the place like that.
Yet this is what Mrs. Smoot is trying to teach Little Smoot to do.
When we die, most of us hope that our obituaries will say that we finished our lives doing something heroic, like saving a young child from drowning in a river, or tossing someone out of the way of a runaway train or whatever. You don't want it to say "Mrs. Smoot, 40, of Smootville, died in an unnecessary accident involving her spleen and a very sharp knife."
So here's what I am asking you to do. Go have something for lunch today that involves a knife. A slice of ham, for example. Midway through your meal, look down at your hands and see what utensils they're holding, and report back to me. If you find your knife in your right hand, report back to me quickly before you stab yourself in your heart and/or spleen.
Anyway...
We seem to have a serious difference in opinions about how to use a fork and knife, and as a result, we're probably screwing up Little Smoot's meat carving abilities for life.
First, I should point out that I write left handed, but I do everything else right handed, which instantly makes me a freak of nature to begin with. I don't dispute that. I know I'm screwy that way. Nonetheless, I think Mrs. Smoot's method of cutting and eating food is wrong, counterproductive, and potentially fatal.
Under normal circumstances, I always use my right hand to work my fork. My method of cutting meat and eating it is pretty simple. I use my right hand to operate my fork, and my left hand to operate a knife. So if I cut a piece of steak, I use my left hand to slice it, and my right hand is still in charge of elevating the food from the plate up to my mouth.
Mrs. Smoot does something entirely different. Like me, she normally uses her right hand to manipulate her fork. But when it comes time to cut meat, she actually switches her fork to her left hand so she can use her right hand to control her knife. This seems crazy to me. It seems to me that even a professionally trained juggler would risk stabbing him or herself in the heart while maneuvering utensils all over the place like that.
Yet this is what Mrs. Smoot is trying to teach Little Smoot to do.
When we die, most of us hope that our obituaries will say that we finished our lives doing something heroic, like saving a young child from drowning in a river, or tossing someone out of the way of a runaway train or whatever. You don't want it to say "Mrs. Smoot, 40, of Smootville, died in an unnecessary accident involving her spleen and a very sharp knife."
So here's what I am asking you to do. Go have something for lunch today that involves a knife. A slice of ham, for example. Midway through your meal, look down at your hands and see what utensils they're holding, and report back to me. If you find your knife in your right hand, report back to me quickly before you stab yourself in your heart and/or spleen.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Fashion Family
It's not just me.
Most people who know me will fondly remember the Easter Sunday when I went to church, greeted numerous people, and then realized that I was inexplicably wearing two ties. As odd as that was, I am happy to say that I am not the only member of the Smoot clan to have issues with fashion anomalies.
Last night was Little Smoot's band concert, which featured students from three elementary schools, the high school jazz ensemble, and an auditorium that had no air conditioning.
Moments before we were about to head out the door, Mrs. Smoot looked down and realized that she was wearing two different shoes. This wasn't a case where she had two extremely similar shoes that were technically different, like having a black shoe and a really dark blue shoe. She has done that before, and even after hearing her say "these shoes don't match," I couldn't tell the difference.
No, these shoes were quite extremely different, almost like wearing a boot on one foot, and a flip-flop on the other. So she fixed that problem before we left.
And then Little Smoot came down the stairs, all dressed up for her big night of trumpet playing. But Mrs. Smoot happened to notice that Little Smoot was unknowingly wearing her dress backwards. Yes, backwards.
Of course neither Mrs. Smoot nor Little Smoot managed to actually go into public with their own wardrobe malfunctions in place, but perhaps that will happen soon. I just thought it was rather ironic that I was the only person in the house who managed to dress correctly for once. At least as far as I am aware...
Most people who know me will fondly remember the Easter Sunday when I went to church, greeted numerous people, and then realized that I was inexplicably wearing two ties. As odd as that was, I am happy to say that I am not the only member of the Smoot clan to have issues with fashion anomalies.
Last night was Little Smoot's band concert, which featured students from three elementary schools, the high school jazz ensemble, and an auditorium that had no air conditioning.
Moments before we were about to head out the door, Mrs. Smoot looked down and realized that she was wearing two different shoes. This wasn't a case where she had two extremely similar shoes that were technically different, like having a black shoe and a really dark blue shoe. She has done that before, and even after hearing her say "these shoes don't match," I couldn't tell the difference.
No, these shoes were quite extremely different, almost like wearing a boot on one foot, and a flip-flop on the other. So she fixed that problem before we left.
And then Little Smoot came down the stairs, all dressed up for her big night of trumpet playing. But Mrs. Smoot happened to notice that Little Smoot was unknowingly wearing her dress backwards. Yes, backwards.
Of course neither Mrs. Smoot nor Little Smoot managed to actually go into public with their own wardrobe malfunctions in place, but perhaps that will happen soon. I just thought it was rather ironic that I was the only person in the house who managed to dress correctly for once. At least as far as I am aware...
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Thank You for Thanking Me!
See, when we went to Hawaii, one of the highlights of our trip was an awesome luau on Maui. We had reserved the luau several months in advance, and we were seated right up front and center as a result of booking so early. We had the pleasure of sitting with a very nice couple from Wisconsin for the dinner and show.
While we were there, I had taken a photo of this couple, and they asked if I would mind sending them a copy, and I told them I would. I'm sure they never in a million years expected me to actually send them a print, but I was born with this stupid conscience that would have kept me up at night had I decided to simply blow this off.
So a week or so after we got back from our trip, I mailed them a 5x7 print and a nice note letting them know how much we enjoyed visiting with them that night.
Here it is, a couple weeks later, and I got this mysterious package in today's mail. Inside was a nice note from them, along with a block of Wisconsin cheese and some locally-made sausage! Very cool. I enjoy snacks like that, especially when they come directly from an area that's famous for particular kinds of food like that. I'd probably be in my glory if someone sent me a fresh potato directly from Idaho, or a fresh bowl of chowder from Boston... or a fry from France.
Now I feel compelled to drop them another note to thank them for their kind gesture. But what if that prompts them to send me another note, thanking me for thanking them? Obviously I'd have to send them yet another note, thanking them for thanking me for thanking them, and so it would go on and on. I just don't envision any possible scenario that involves a peaceful ending.
When I posted this dilemma on Facebook, one of my friends suggested that this is just the kind of gesture that can progress to the point where we exchange cards on holidays forever, and eventually we'll vacation together and ultimately we'll all move into the same retirement village. I would not be at all surprised.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Artificial Sweetener
I'm not particularly good at sugarcoating things. I have always had a tendency to say pretty much whatever is on my mind, and more often than not the content of my mind doesn't go through a sugarcoating filter in my brain first. Nope, things go straight from raw thoughts to verbal communication with me, and that's probably not a good thing.
Since my sugarcoating filter seems to be largely missing, I make an honest effort nowadays to keep my mouth shut in certain situations, even if I think of something that I believe would be rather hilarious, but hurtful to someone else. Of course there are also plenty of times when I've let loose with the hilarious comment, only to regret it later.
Anyway, I got to thinking about this whole sugarcoating thing this weekend while visiting an acquaintance I hadn't seen for nearly two decades. He is actually an old friend of Mrs. Smoot's, and we learned (thanks to Facebook, naturally) that we were going to be in the same area this past weekend, so we got together for a delicious, gourmet lunch at Wal-Mart.
As soon as Mrs. Smoot's friend saw me, before even saying hello, his eyes got wide and he said, "GRAY HAIR!" And then he laughed in my general direction. Ok, so he's not always good at sugarcoating either. But as we were about to leave, he said, "Good to see that you're looking... healthy." I had to think about that one for a bit.
Was he being serious in stating that I looked "healthy" in some way? I mean, I wasn't using a Hoveround, nor am I visibly missing any major appendages or anything. I didn't have boogers dripping from my nose, and I wasn't hacking on my food... so I guess by all accounts, I appeared to be "healthy."
But I have a feeling, especially given that his first comment was about the gray hair thing, that the "healthy" comment was really an attempt at sugarcoating. I kinda think he meant "healthy" in the sense of "You look like you have been eating well. Really well. Like way too much, lard butt!"
For the record, though, I do feel healthy. Now where are those leftover chips from Memorial Day?
Since my sugarcoating filter seems to be largely missing, I make an honest effort nowadays to keep my mouth shut in certain situations, even if I think of something that I believe would be rather hilarious, but hurtful to someone else. Of course there are also plenty of times when I've let loose with the hilarious comment, only to regret it later.
Anyway, I got to thinking about this whole sugarcoating thing this weekend while visiting an acquaintance I hadn't seen for nearly two decades. He is actually an old friend of Mrs. Smoot's, and we learned (thanks to Facebook, naturally) that we were going to be in the same area this past weekend, so we got together for a delicious, gourmet lunch at Wal-Mart.
As soon as Mrs. Smoot's friend saw me, before even saying hello, his eyes got wide and he said, "GRAY HAIR!" And then he laughed in my general direction. Ok, so he's not always good at sugarcoating either. But as we were about to leave, he said, "Good to see that you're looking... healthy." I had to think about that one for a bit.
Was he being serious in stating that I looked "healthy" in some way? I mean, I wasn't using a Hoveround, nor am I visibly missing any major appendages or anything. I didn't have boogers dripping from my nose, and I wasn't hacking on my food... so I guess by all accounts, I appeared to be "healthy."
But I have a feeling, especially given that his first comment was about the gray hair thing, that the "healthy" comment was really an attempt at sugarcoating. I kinda think he meant "healthy" in the sense of "You look like you have been eating well. Really well. Like way too much, lard butt!"
For the record, though, I do feel healthy. Now where are those leftover chips from Memorial Day?
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