My Snot Mentor

Tags

boogers, snot, snot rockets, things I teach my son

I was a slow learner.  Naïve.  Eventually I got it, but it took a while.  Some of it was that I was raised by very traditional parents.   From a young age, whenever the booger monster attacked my nostrils, Dad always pulled an often crusty white handkerchief from his pocket to cover my nose.

“BLOOOOOOWWWWWW, Stevie!”

Even that took a while.  I responded first by emitting little boy sized puffs from my mouth.  Cute, right?  My own kids did the same thing when we first started teaching them to blow their nose.

“No, Steve, BLOOOOOOOWWWWW!”

A half-hearted wind came from my nostrils, enough to ripple the cloth in front of my nose.  Then I got it, a real honker, and the nugget launched into the receptacle.

I refused to carry the handkerchief Dad gave to me to carry.  It was nasty.  I’m pretty sure Dad used his handkerchief until every millimeter was used up.  To this day, I am not sure how Mom can stand to throw those things in the clothes washer.  Disgusting, now that I think about it.  She probably washed Dad’s handkerchief with my underwear.  What’s worse?  Me putting on underwear that was washed with a crusty handkerchief or Dad putting a handkerchief to his nose that has been washed in crusty boy’s underwear?

For some reason, I still did not learn how to properly launch a snot rocket in high school, even though I ran track and cross country, trained outside in the winter.  Like I said, slow learner.

Then I went away to college in southwest Missouri, Joplin.  There were a lot of cowboy and football types in my dorm.  Guys with names like Harley, Cletus, Pony Boy, and…

I’m not sure I ever found out why his parents named him LaVaine.  Looks like Gary Busey now judging from the picture above.  Googling his name was easy.  No other guys named LaVaine showed up in the search, and he has pictures and video out there.

LaVaine Murphy was the football player type, had long blonde hair, and a pretty decent guy.  He filled a pulpit at a church in Oklahoma on the weekends, so I didn’t really see him much.

Our dorm had community showers on each floor.  And LaVaine blew huge, loud, gobstopping goobers like cannon blasts out of his nose every morning.  First one nostril, then the other.  I watched with pure curiosity the first time I witnessed LaVaine’s early morning shower ritual.

Economical (I thought with admiration).

My kids have LaVaine Murphy for unwittingly teaching me that habit.  Saves Kleenex, eliminates the need for a snot rag.  Every morning, my loud honks reverberate from the shower walls and throughout our house.  Mir hates it.  I think I have heard Alyssa trying it.  Nate won’t.

Everyone needs a snot mentor.

 

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Human Equality = Godless Religious Bigotry

Tags

human equality, serious humor

ANGER!! (Photo credit: Za3tOoOr!)

Is the blog title true?  No way.  Can it be true?  Darn tootin’.  Make the title “Human Equality = Religious Godless Bigotry”.  The title can be applied to both sides of the fence.

I just read an attempt at humor, even tagged as humor, on another blog here.  I won’t link to that blog.  It’s not necessary.  The blog attempt was a snipe at ‘angry religious guys’, those who protest gay marriage.  I actually agree a bit with those who don’t like that angry religious guy.  I don’t like that angry religious guy for the same reason I don’t like the angry gay guy or angry human rights guy — because neither is considering the other person.  And neither wants to take a real look at the other person’s reasons for what they believe.  That’s sad.

I basically wrote a blog in the comments section of said blogger.  See if you agree with me or if at least something rings true:

”

Hmmmm… I’m what you would call a ‘religious’ guy, although I find that term as offensive as ‘fag’.  There is a huge difference between being religious and following God.  That’s not just my opinion, it’s the truth.  In my world, however, I have seen just as many gay people or human rights supporting housewives, who like thinking they are religiously supporting a cause — while being uneducated, clueless, and as fanatically frothed as any Wesboro-ite in a mean and attacking fashion.  They hang the ‘religious’ tag on me and toss their stereotype on me without taking the time to find out what I really believe.  Those who support human rights fail to notice all the hate that has been spewed at Christ followers, ignore the actions (not just words), directed at those who may be just as baffled by the hate on ‘their side’ as they are by the hate on ‘the other side’.

The tag on this blog might be a bit of a fib, by the way.  Sarcasm, maybe.  Humor, no.  Your last statement makes you no better than any screaming, angry religious guy. (the statement indicated that those in heaven might just be inclined to suck dick)

Most Christians believe in common sense and don’t see the gay lifestyle as common sense.  They know God doesn’t either.  They also believe that God is in control no matter if their neighbors are cocksuckers,.. and that won’t keep them from believing in God, even if this world tries to stop that.  And that’s the real issue if you really listen to that angry religious guy.”

(Note:  I am probably being a bit harsh and judgemental when it comes to those who are sporting that new Human Equality symbol as their FB icon or somewhere else.  There are plenty who are displaying that symbol for the right reason.  It is those who are displaying it as a protest rather than a symbol of reason that I am talking about)

In The Crosshairs

6 mm plastic BBs (0.12 g). A sample of inexpensive pellets. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I need more challenges to being a dad than I need another hole in the head.

Wait for this.

You may not want to read this.

Last night I nearly had another hole in my head, inflicted by my 13 year old son.

Airsoft guns.  If you are familiar with BB guns, but not with Airsoft, think of Airsoft guns as BB guns that shoot plastic BBs instead of metal.  I had an air rifle when I was a boy that shot both BBs and pellets.  Nate and his friends have Airsoft guns, powerful but safe if used properly.  Normally my son does use his gun properly and he has a lot of gun fun with his friends.

The black cloud is lingering over my head right now.  When I arrived home last night, I noticed that little pieces of roof shingle were scattered across my front lawn.  Uh oh.  There has been a little leak in the portion of the garage roof where the garage roof meets the front porch roof.  As I walked into the garage, I looked up at the front corner of the garage where that leak had been.  It’s still a leak, but it’s also now a gaping hole.  I saw sunlight.  Stink.  We have very little in our savings account.  A look at our 25+ year old roof showed me what I already knew.  It needs to be replaced.  Our cars both need repairs.  The needs list for our children rivals War and Peace.  I walked in the door, sat down at the kitchen table, and my forehead met my hands as I talked to Mir about it all.

I had also bought an ice bag at Walgreens on the way home.  My left foot is so bloated it resembles Lindsay Lohan on a binge.  Mir sighed in recognition of my pain as I removed my walking boot and the sock.  She knows that waiting for the foot to heal has been torture for me, especially as my friends have started to get out for bike rides.

Yes, I was having one of those “it sucks to be me” evenings.  Really, I have been at this family thing long enough to be used to life’s challenges, so even if it seems bad I know that these things will pass.  Call me simple if you want, but I have come to know that God will take care.  He has so far and He will continue.  So I was feeling OK despite the weight of the circumstances.  I took care of the tasks required for the evening, filled the ice bag and settled in on the couch to tend to the rest my foot needed.

Have I mentioned that it is school Spring break for the kids?  It is.  They are on vacation all week.  Nate is having a lot of fun with his friends.  His friend, Kyle, came over and goofed off with Nate upstairs as I watched American Idol .  As the show finished up, Nate came down and asked if I would take him to the gas station with Kyle for a soda, then take him to Kyle’s house.  Mir had already approved it and had told me so before she went out for the evening.  So the boys piled into the back seat of my PT Cruiser-To-The-Auto-Parts-Store and I took them to the gas station.

*click* from the back seat.  Then I saw stars.

Nate thought it would be funny to aim his Airsoft gun at my head and shoot me while I was driving.  Before the click, I could hear them chuckling to each other.  Boys do strange things, things they might not do if their friends are not around, and Nate pulled the trigger.  Point blank.  The plastic BB hit my right temple and then bounced around the car.

This should be where I go ape, right?  It was actually where I restrained myself, but intentionally showed enough anger to show them that what had just happened was seriously wrong.  I didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, just told Nate that what he had just done was incredibly stupid.

I waited while he and Kyle went into the station to buy their drinks.  Should I just take Kyle home and tell Nate his evening of fun was over?  I knew that I was angry.  Maybe it was best to give myself time to cool off.  It was very near my bed time, something I need because I get up before five in the morning for work.  If I took him home and inflict punishment, it was going to be a confrontation that would likely mean I would not see sleep until after midnight.  So I decided to let it go.

As Nate returned to the car and got in, he tossed a pile of napkins from the station’s snack station at me.

“Here, you can clean up the blood with these.”  Sarcastic.  As if I was making a big deal about nothing, basically challenging me to make an issue in front of his friend.

I refused to bite.  I took him to Kyle’s house, letting him know I was going to talk to Mir and decide on a punishment.  It was time for me to start getting ready for bed.  No one was home.  I took a little time to say a prayer, felt the calm overtake the bit of anger and my heart rate returned to normal.

Then Mir got home.  As I told her what happened, Nate came home with Kyle and two other friends in tow.  And they started mocking me.  I told them to go home, but Mir said she had given them permission to stay until 11 if they were quiet and let me sleep.  But they weren’t.  They gathered in Nate’s room while Nate played his guitar while he and the boys made up lyrics about my being angry about my head.

He’s not going to like his punishment.  The boy is very privileged, has too many things.  Those things are going to be taken away, locked away so that no one but me can give them back.  He is going to have to earn them back, not only by doing but by respecting.  I am not only tired, but I know that I need to be serious about doing the things he needs to be able to learn.  That is not going to be easy for me, mainly because I am married to someone who does not believe that punishment is love.  She is going to have to learn also and I am going to have to be tough with her as well.

Heal foot, heal.  I need to get away.  I need to ride away some of this frustration!

Caddy Shack

Tags

caddy, cantigny, fatherhood

Cantigny Park, with its Youth Links Golf Course in the bottom right. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Interesting day today.  I talked with the guy who is in charge of caddies at the golf course that Nate will be caddying at this year, Cantigny.  The guy really impressed me.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.  The course is one of the best courses in Illinois.  I won’t bore you with the details, but I was really encouraged by what the guy left me with – “this is going to be a life changing summer for your son, one that will really mature him.  I have seen it happen with countless numbers of kids his age”.  Nate has the personality to succeed at this venture because he is one to take initiative, isn’t afraid to call and volunteer, which the guy told me is not only encouraged but is something that will impress.  The caddies who show interest get moved to the top of the list.

If I wasn’t convinced before, I definitely am now.  Nate needs this experience.  He is that age where maturity, emotional maturity, is going to be a key to his success as a boy becoming a man.  There are only a few crests to navigate before he is expected to act like a man.

It is also that point where I need to put on my big boy pants and act like a father.  Giving my son my time has never been an issue.  I have given more time to him than most.  What I have lacked in is giving him the quality, have been less of a listener, have not focused enough on teaching him what it takes to be a man.  Oh, he has seen a lot of example from me, but there has been more doing than anything else.  My influence is going to be needed whether he knows it or not.

I need to be creative in how that influence is given.  That mountain bike I bought a few weeks ago is hopefully going to be one tool.  Nate is already talking about having the privilege of riding with me.  I like that.  Last year we played a lot of golf together.  I called the caddy supervisor today to find out what will be the best day of the week for me to take Nate away for a few days of guy time, a trip down south a few hours without the girls, to share some time together on the golf course, and hopefully to get down to brass tacks.  We need to talk about our girls and other girls, without the girls around.  There is a championship caliber course 15 minutes from my parents’ house.  Inexpensive.  Voila.  Guy time made easy.

I want to talk to him about how to deal with me and also with his mother, a big issue right now, and a hurdle he needs to overcome.  His mother is not letting go of her boy child easily and I see how much he both hates and loves that.  He wants to see a better example from me and we also need to talk about that.  We need to talk about the stresses we both go through and will go through.  And we just need to have some fun together.  Four short years and he will be (hopefully) wanting to leave the nest.

Interesting day.

Something In Common

Tags

marriage, marriage issues

“We really don’t have anything in common, do we?”

When I get that question from Mir, there are only two choices to make – run away or face the music.  This is one I usually face, mainly because for me it’s a non-issue.  There are a number of ways I can react to that question.

I can agree with her.

I can disagree with her.

I can laugh at her.  Mock her.

I can be offended by what her statement may be implying.

Mir and I are not alone with this dilemma.  A friend told me recently how she and her husband also wrestle with the same question, her own husband asking the same question.  My gut tells me  that this is an issue most couples experience at one time or another durng the course of a marriage.  More often than not, I hear it from someone who is going through a rough period with their spouse or. even worse, a separation or divorce.  At this point in my life, I have heard it for the latter reason more often than I care to hear it.  In that context, the question is usually followed or preceded by “I am not sure I still love you or have ever loved you.”.  Oh my.

And that is what makes that question a scary proposition.  In a way, it is an expression of resignation.

In my own marriage, what has changed?  Essentially nothing has changed except for the passage of time and the infusion of children into the mix of our relationship.  Mir has been asking me this same question as long as I can remember.  Twenty some years she has been posing that same question to me.  Why?

We are different.  Duh.  I think you and I, oh blog person, have had this conversation before.

When she looks at me today, does she still see me as she did some twenty years ago?  Is she able to do that, see the man whose touch once made her clothes fall off?  Am I not that same man?

In the beginning, it did not matter that we are different from each other.  That was part of the attraction.  The attraction was what we had in common.

I think back to the very beginning.

Our second date, after I had cooked dinner for her and took her to a movie, a night that was simply a night to experience each other in a very polite, stress free way.  I liked her.  She was different than most of the girls I had dated, her expectation only to get to know me, a very relaxing escape from the sex charged encounters that had preceded her.  That was what I wanted.  And we had that in common.  So I asked her to do something out of her comfort zone, which was to meet me at Waterfall Glen, a local forest preserve, at sun up.  That was easy for me, not so easy for her.  We walked together in the pristine quiet of a crisp October morning, and I asked her if I could hold her hand.  As we walked hand in hand, I learned to really like her.  She smiled.  She laughed.  She liked me.  And we enjoyed breakfast together.  It was a perfect morning.

Our third date was an adventure outside of Chicagoland, to Starved Rock State Park for a picnic lunch.  I decided to test her tastes in music on the way there by putting what was an obscure artist to some in my car stereo, Larry Norman.  She cooed as she heard the music, and sang the lyrics she knew well.  Oh my.  I loved that.  We shared our lunch on a crisp sunny afternoon.  I asked her if I could kiss her there, in the sun next to the river at the park, and we lost ourselves in the most wonderful kisses either of us ever have experienced.  The trails at Starved Rock never saw two people more in love.  That was the day that changed both of our lives.

Until our children were born.  Lord, did that change our lives.  Two reminders of who we are.  Constantly.

But we have nothing in common.,,

Except for that house that we so carefully chose together.

Or the faith that has always seemed to define our relationship.

Tijuana.  Houses built there.  With our children and friends.

Prayers that our son will survive through school.

Countless conversations about the boys who our red haired daughter attracts.

Holding her hand while the doctor tells her what is about to happen to that child she thought she was carrying in her womb.

Playing catch for the two children she did.

Holding her hand and the hands of her six sisters who surrounded the bed of her mother as her mother breathed her last breath.

Comforting my brother together as he mourned the news that his soon to be ex wife delivered to him.

Warm satisfaction as we cuddled in front of our fireplace after a Christmas dinner for two.. and what followed that.

Laughing and working together with our first child, a black and tan welsh terrier, a handsome yet challenging imp of a first child.

We have nothing in common.  Nothing.  Nada.

The One Thing I Have Taught My Son

Tags

March Madness Pools Brackets Fatherhood

English: National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) logo. Source: http://www1.ncaa.org/eprise/main/Public/mlp/promotions_special_events/pe_web/promo_manual/memos/identity.pdf Converted by User:King of Hearts from :Image:National Collegiate Athletic Association logo.png using Inkscape. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Gambling.

My son is doomed to be a professional March Madness bracket addict.  And a fantasy football freak.  By looking at his grades, I would say he had best do very well with his bracket picks.  He won’t be able to get a job if he graduates high school.  AND HE IS NOT GOING TO LIVE WITH ME UNLESS HE LEARNS TO SHARE HIS PS3.

It really is my fault.  I let him play fantasy football in one of my leagues when he was eight years old.  He won.  Then he won my fantasy baseball league and won the next year’s fantasy football league.  So I thought “hey, let him enter a March Madness bracket since he’s hot”.  Didn’t win.  But I did.  So he thinks fantasy sports are the road to riches.  His friends all have fathers who have corrupted their sons.  Nate is the bookie for their league.

And he is mocking my picks for this year’s NCAA basketball tournament.

“REALLY?  GONZAGA SUCKS!”

“YOU THINK SAINT LOUIS IS GOING TO WIN IT ALL?!!!?”

Listen, sucker, how about a side bet?  My brackets score higher than yours, the PS3 is mine for a week.  Deal?

He had to think about that one. Not so cocky now that the stakes get serious.

Notice that I said bracketSSSSS.  Plural.  You can’t eat just one.

Brackets 1 & 2, in different pools, Saint Louis, Indiana.

Bracket 3, Miami (almost picked Louisville).

I mailed off my donations tonight…..

Yes Dear

Tags

humor, relationship, Thought, Wife, Yes Dear

OK, guys, raise your hand high if you have ever said (thought) this.

“Yes, dear” (now, go away)

I polled several guy friends that I know, without their significant (m)other present, and they all admitted to using this tactic frequently with their spouse — agree without resistance, hoping the topic will be dropped and no further discussion required.  Wasn’t the confirmation the only requirement?

Yes, Dear (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It does work.  No woman is ever going to admit that.  Every wife is going to say they are aware of their man’s tactic and they are just letting them get by with it.  Ha.  You, sister slyness, are not fooling any one.  Not one iota of a bit.

Now I am not talking about the typical “does this dress make my butt look large?” question.  For one thing, a “yes, dear” response to that question is far too honest and dangerous, although it might be the most effective response.  My wife refuses to accept pretty much any response I give to the “does this make my butt look big?” trap.

“Oh, come on, be honest with me.  You think this makes my butt look big.”

“That would be impossible, my sweet.”

(Mir turns and faces me with her hands on her hips} “Nice try.  Now just tell me what you think.”

“Yes, dear.”

I learned around 20 years ago to walk out of the room while delivering that last response.  Usually that is the best time to at least pretend that I need to answer nature’s call.  There was a time when that question also was my cue to fondle my wife’s back side, wrap my arms around her tiny waist (which, at nearly fifty years of age is STILL tiny), and kiss the back of her neck while whispering “how’s this for an honest response, sweet cheeks?”.  That was the time in our marriage where that would cause us to miss whatever event we were getting ready for, the pre-kids era.  Oh to have a time machine at my disposal.

Really, the effectiveness of any “yes, dear” is in the delivery.  Too much enthusiasm gives it away.  Too little raises an eyebrow.  Finding a middle ground is the key.  Refusing to make eye contact is the other.  My wife sees it in my eyes and my goose is cooked.

“Are you going to mow the lawn this afternoon?”

(Steve looks up, hoping she doesn’t realize I have a tee time at 1:00) “Yes, dear.”

“Are you sure?”

“YES, dear.” (Steve gets up and begins to shuffle in the direction of the bathroom)

“Where are you going?”

“OK, I have a tee time at 1:00.”

I also don’t fib well.  Most men really don’t.  My 13 year old son has yet to figure that out, but what he does do well is cover his back side by telling the fib then trying to cover up by continuing to talk.  The kid is the master of denial.  Surround the fib with a mass of innocuous non-information (should I look up the definition of innocuous before I publish this blog?  naaaaaa), hide it by piling a shovel full of words over the fib in the hope Mom won’t dig it out.  Thing is, she knows what he is doing.  She just chooses to ignore the fib, occasionally pointing it out so that he knows she is on to him.   He will learn, as I have, that the best tactic is to keep it minimal.  If eye contact is made, don’t lose contact and maintain a soft look of love, your charms too much for the moment.  By the time she realizes the crime, you are gone.

Yeah, I know.  Dream on.

The thing is, I am trying to  think of an instance where “yes, dear” has really worked for me.  That is why I didn’t address that supposition when I posed it above.  I have hoped something would emerge as I talked.  Yes, I am typical male.  Doesn’t work, does it?

But it does.  Admit it.

My maternal grandfather was the master of the “yes, dear”.  Why?  Because it was his standard response.  Sometimes he varied the response to “yes, Enola”  or mixed up the timing by slowly removing his pipe from his mouth and/or taking a quick puff, but always his tone was the same — a patient even manner delivered with a mischievous upturn of his mouth and a twinkle in his eye.  No wonder my grandmother loved him so much.  There are times when I watched her face soften as she watch him respond with that twinkle.  I’m pretty sure he could have said “yes, dear banana fart monkey” with the same delivery and it would have been OK.

And really, when you get down to it, that is the key to this all.  A guy who is a deceiving bastard will not get a loving response, will be challenged more often than not when he delivers a “yes, dear” because his wife knows, she senses the evil.  No man is a good liar.  Not really, not even the ones who seem to get by with it.  A pure heart in front of my wife is always accepted and she knows it.  There have been times in the past twenty plus years of marriage where my heart hasn’t been all that pure.  That is when a “yes, dear” has not been acceptable.  I know it.  Perhaps it’s my body language as I say “yes, dear” or in my eyes, but she knows.

Geez, how did this turn into a blog about lying to one’s spouse?

In twenty years, my wife has had to learn to accept me for who I am, let the good outweigh the bad, the deposits into our emotional bank account building up so that occasional withdrawal doesn’t make a dent into what we have gathered over time.  That is the key to survival, the key to accepting….

Yes, dear.

2012 Specialized Hardrock

Tags

Craigslist find, new bicycle, Specialized Hardrock

I get paid for the sick time I don’t take, as a bonus. This year’s bonus check bought me a nice little prize — a 2012 Specialized Hardrock mountain bike. While it’s not top of the line, it’s definitely better than the heavy old Trek I was riding. And it was cheap. A guy bought it last summer thinking he wanted to ride off road. He has been on the bike twice, on crushed limestone.

Now if this stinking foot will heal so I can ride it!

Off To The Ball

The mice are getting Cinderelly Mirelly ready and the pumpkin coach is set to arrive in a few minutes.  I, the prince, await my princess.  She already knows to leave the glass slippers at home.  They are too treacherous on the snow and ice around here.

The annual employee recognition dinner for my company is tonight.  It’s a large formal affair at a fancy banquet hall with open bar, orchestra, and a bit of fanfare.  All the directors, sales managers, managers, and a lot of friends of the company from around the world will be there.  People from Belgium, France, Saudi Arabia, Canada, China, Singapore, Brazil, Mexico.. to name a few.. will be represented.  Our company is a small enterprise with a broad outreach.  And it’s fun just to see the women dressed to the nines, the men uncomfortable in their suits, and the controlled mayhem.  After an hour of cocktails, the awards are presented (yawn — it takes a while), then we eat our filet mignon or lobster or chicken or veggie whatchamacallit.  Our entertainment is usually someone like Jim Gaffigan, Sinbad, Bill Engvall, Louie Anderson, Phyllis Diller.  This event is a big deal.

I have my suit coat and tie on.  I hate ties.  Mir-indirella laments that men can wear the same outfit, a suit, to an affair like tonight’s because we can.  Women can’t.  Most women use tonight’s dinner as an excuse to go clothes shopping.  My dear wife does not enjoy spending money on clothes she will wear once or twice (can I get an AMEN?), so she doesn’t usually do that.  Mid week she decided to wear the same dress she wore a few years ago.  I’m not complaining.  She looks absolutely wonderful in that dress.

 

♫Moving to the country gonna eat a lot of peaches♫

Tags

efile, peaches, spousal abuse, taxes, TurboTax

View of Clallan County Courthouse in the film, Ma and Pa Kettle (1949). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Millions of peaches, peaches for me, millions of peaches, peaches for free.

Yeah, my taxes are done, over with, filed and presumably finished traveling cyberly to the place where cyberly filed taxes are cyberly received.  Whoopee.  Triple gonzo!

My Soundgarden internet radio channel helped me to survive the relatively painless ordeal.  Gonna eat a lot of peaches, I tell YOU.

Why do I feel dirty?  Like I just lied to my mother or something?  I file via Turbo Tax, so there is little room to fib.  I did claim the dog and cat as dependents.  They are technically just that and often I mistake the dog for my son, so they count.  It might have been a bit much to claim my purchases of baked beans as an energy improvement to my home.

I have been using Turbo Tax for a long, long, long, long time.  Long enough that I just tell Turbo Tax to transfer my info from last year’s return, verify it, answer a few simple questions, do a naked tax return dance around my computer before I press the “calculate my return” button, and then send off my return.  E-filing used to be a bit scary — I’m pretty sure I saw some guy outside my bedroom window with a foil antenna trying to steal my personal info the first time I filed.  That might have been easy.  In those days, I had to hope my wife didn’t pick up the phone downstairs or someone didn’t call in between to mess up the phone modem.  But it’s so not a problem in these modern times.  I think I will strap on my rocket pack and zip over to the local DQ for a milkshake to celebrate.

Doing the taxes, working on the checkbook and paying bills gets me wonky off kilter.  I’m going to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches.  Forget the milkshake.

It is pretty amazing to me how many people now accept electronic transactions so matter of factly.  Even Mike, my coworker who has sworn for years that he would never e-file, did his taxes online this year.  Mike is one of those guys who refuses to quit wearing the floodwater pants and ratty cardigan sweater he has worn for the last 12 years.  He swore until this year that electronic filing was evil.  He confessed that he enrolled in an epayment service through his bank a few weeks ago.  I wanted to tell him that I forget what an envelope and stamp look like.  Mailing a check seems like something Ma and Pa Kettle did.

Now to go lie to my wife about the amount of our refund.  Good night.