Cheese, George Washington, And Not Much In Between...

You know from previous posts that my children say and do some pretty strange things. I don't mind; it gives me great amusement, something to post about, and it also gives me great fodder--along with pictures of Blake riding his scooter through the house buck naked on his way to take a bath--that I will use in the future to mortify them in front of girls they bring home.

The other night we were on our way home from church, and the topic of conversation turned, as it usually does, to cheese.

Despite the fact that cheese is basically milk that sat around so long it turned solid, we like cheese a great deal, and talk about it often.

Yes, now that you mention it, I do lead a very sad existence. But anywho...

From the back seat of the car, Blake asks me, "Daddy, is cheese good for you?"

"Well," says I, "It can be, but like everything else, if you eat too much of it, it can be bad for you."

Blake, ever one to apply his new knowledge to everyday life, says "So if George Washington ate ten thousand pounds of cheese, he'd be really sick."

It took a moment for me to process this statement, but I eventually replied, "George Washington is dead."

"Oh," says Blake. "How much cheese did he eat?"

I have to admit that I'm stumped by this one.

I am mystified (and more than a little entertained) by how a child's mind can come up with the notion that cheese is almost certainly what killed our first president.

You can see why I remain consistently and constantly amused.

And perplexed.

Now I'm wondering when I'll have to field a similar question about yogurt...
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Double-Digits...

Today is a very special day, for me, for the world in general, and for one very outstanding young man in particular:

Today, Hunter turns 10.

Yeah, he knows he's cool...

I could joke about how the time flies. I could make cracks about how I'm not old enough to have a 10-yr-old son.

But I think instead that I'll just talk about him.

Ten years ago today, he brought a joy and love into my life that I never even knew I was missing.

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of him, of his gentleness, his intelligence, his creativity...his just in general coolness.

Since he came into the world, he's been my inspiration. My inspiration to do better. To be better.

I nearly lost him once, and honestly don't think I could have made it without him.

I love both of my children very much. I love them both differently, but equally.

But Hunter will always be my firstborn.

Ten years doesn't seem like a very long time, and yet I can't remember a time without him.

Truthfully, I don't really want to.

Happy birthday, Hunter.

I love you.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Praying for October...

Let me begin by making one thing perfectly clear:

I hate summer.

To paraphrase Frankenstein's Monster, "Summer BAD!!!!"

When it's cooler to stand in the blistering sunlight than it is to drive a car, it's too hot.

When you pop into a sweat when reaching for the TV remote, despite the fact that you're sitting inside, right under the A/C vent (to quote an old friend of mine, "I don't remember signing up for that"), it's too hot.

When opening the front door causes you to a.) lose the will to live, and b.) not care that you've lost the will to live, it's too hot.

It has come to my attention that there are a lot of people who like this kind of weather. I would like to say (and I really do say this with the utmost respect) that you are all crazy.

I realize that being slightly overweight (read: fat) and hairy (ironically, the only place I can't grow hair is the top of my head) has something to do with this, but even without the extra insulation (blubber) and fur coat (I sometimes look in the mirror and think my brain has been transplanted into the body of a silverback gorilla...or possibly a Sasquatch), I just plain don't like heat.

My own personal temperature comfort zone is something like this:

0-35: A bit chilly. Probably ought to wear a jacket.
36-75: Perfect. Break out the shorts and Hawaiian shirts.
76 and up: Unholy.

Yes, the temp zone where I'm most comfortable is rather large, but it should be pointed out that we spend relatively little time in that comfort zone.  Where I live, we seem to go from "so cold that Titanic-killing icebergs are in the front yard" to "quite honestly, the surface of the sun would be more comfortable" overnight.

That being said, it doesn't help matters any that I am constantly accosted by people who, while seeing by the redness of my face that I am clearly about to explode, feel the need to ask "Is it hot enough for ya?"

This is not amusing.

I usually manage a weak chuckle (it's too hot to fake laughter) and say something like "Yeah, pretty hot, ain't it?" when what I really want to say is "Well, no, I really like it when my face begins to melt and slide away from my skull. I really wish it were about a hundred degrees hotter, with ten thousand percent humidity, so I can really start enjoying the great outdoors! Now, give me your phone number, because during the winter, I'm going to call you every single day and ask 'Is it cold enough for you, you heat-loving weirdo? I have all the windows open at home so I can bask in this lovely breeze...'".

Clearly, I'll survive. I have every year so far, and usually without bursting into flames.

I just feel the need to rant a bit, because I'm so darn miserable during this time of year that I do in fact spend a great deal of time praying for October to get here (by the way, I think that "Praying For October" would be a great name for a band).

In closing, I'd just like to ask that if any of you find me passed out from heat exhaustion after the effort of taking the trash out to the curb, please roll me over so I can at least get an even tan.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Real Men Wear Pink

A couple of weeks ago, we had our annual Vacation Bible School (VBS) at my church.

Every year, I issue a challenge to the kids: get a certain number of kids registered, and I'll do something that most grown-ups really wouldn't consider doing.

You see, I was born without the ability to feel embarrassment when it comes to entertaining children. If it makes kids laugh, I'm good with it. If it challenges them to achieve something worthwhile in the process, all the better.

Usually, I shave my head. That's always worked well (and hey, it's summer--too hot for hair anyway), but it's become a bit...expected. The novelty wears off when it becomes institution.

Last year, I did something a little different: I got a green mohawk.

This year, we kept with the mohawk theme, but decided to up the ante: if the kids met the goal we set for them, I'd get a pink mohawk.

The kids stepped up, over-shot the goal by about forty, and so I present my documentation of the what-would-be-mortifying-for-most-other-people-but-not-me process of the Pink 'Hawk.

We learned last year that my hair is too dark for most color to show up, so this year, we did it right, and I became a blonde first.  The darker part of my beard shows you what color most of my hair was:

Silver and Gold...

Wow!  I'm already havin' more fun!!!

Then out came the razor, followed by the cheapest, gaudiest pink hair spray I could find:

I pity da foo...you know, in a pink, cotton candy way...

Yes, Blake.  Daddy's a weirdo...

A thorough washing led to:

Bringing the "Popples" look back from the 80's...

Which of course led to the final phase of the project (remember, I never promised I'd keep the pink mohawk):

Insert "Three Stooges" joke here...

So there you have it. I debased myself, the kids laughed themselves silly, and now my head is smooth and refreshingly cool.

I have no idea how to top this next year.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tan my head...
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Thanks for reading my ranting,
Brad

Second Star, Dragon-y Goodness

For those of you who don't follow Second Star to the Right, please check it out. I've got a new post up, with a pic of a wood-burning project I'm doing for my son, Hunter.

And check back here later for a post about my journey from "salt-and-pepper, receding hairline guy" to "pink mohawk guy" (yes, you read that right), to "bald guy".

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Pondering Life's Mysteries...

I ponder things.

Sometimes I tackle the big ones, like "Why are we here?" or to get deep about it, "Where is here, really?".

Sometimes I get really intense, focusing on things like "If a tree falls on a mime, does he make a sound, or, more importantly, does anyone care?"

If you're a mime, go ahead and yell at me from inside your little invisible box; I won't hear you.

But there is one issue that I have pondered since I was a child, one to which I have never received a satisfactory answer, and one that was brought back to the front of my mind (such as it is) this evening as I gave the boys their dessert:

Just what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks flavor of ice cream is Superman?!?

I mean, I understand the coloring: red, blue, and yellow, same as Superman's costume. That makes sense, and the colors are very obvious.

But what flavor is it????

What flavor is it??????

The name "Superman" is uselessly non-descriptive flavor-wise! I mean, yes, the word conjures up heart-warming images of truth, justice and the American way, but it doesn't say "tasty".

And tasting it to determine the flavor doesn't help in the least; it's totally unidentifiable. As a matter of fact, the only description I can come up with for it is "not chocolate".

Or maybe "not vanilla".

I don't know; one of those two.

Asking the clerk serving the brightly-colored concoction at the local Dapper Dan's does no good either. All I've ever gotten in response to this question, which I've been asking since I was five years old, is a glassy-eyed stare along with "Did you want one or two scoops?"

When I get to Heaven, I think this will be the second thing I ask God, right behind "What's up with the platypus?"

This is why I don't eat Superman ice cream that often anymore.

It angries up the blood...
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Thanks for reading my ranting,
Brad

Monty Python, Where Are You When I Need You?

Monday evening, Blake and I were waiting for Hunter to get done with his karate class.

Normally, we go and play on the playground, or watch one of the Little League games going on behind the school, but we've had about two days this past month that it hasn't rained.  Monday wasn't one of them, so we sat in the car.

Blake was looking at one of Hunter's books, a rather largish text-book-sized tome about building things with macaroni and straws and stuff.

Then he said (and those of you who know Blake can probably hear the exact tone of voice he used), "I'm gonna hit myself in the head."

"Buddy," I said. "That's probably not a very good idea; that's a very big book."

Well, that's what I was going to say. Actually, what I said was, "Buddy..."

THWACK!!!!

"Ooo," said Blake. "This is a big book."

THWACK!!!!

"Hee-hee-hee!"

THWACK!!!!

Then he says ( I swear I'm not making this up):

"Mmmm...wordy..."

The only thing keeping this from being a Python movie is that there was no Gregorian chant preceding the "THWACK".

You can imagine how proud I am.

Also, how mystified.

But hey, at least he's enjoying books...

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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad