Never Miss a Month

A few weeks ago I explained how, in our church, the men are assigned to be Home Teachers.  The women have the same responsibility only they are called Visiting Teachers.  On Saturday we had an open house at my grandmother's church to celebrate her 80th birthday.  The open house was held in the room where the women have their class.  Above the blackboard was a simple sign that said "Never Miss a Month," a reminder for the women to complete their Visiting Teaching each month.

When I saw the sign I told the wife that I was going to steal the sign and mount it to the headboard on our bed.  Occassionally a reminder is needed there too to never miss a month.  She hasn't spoken to me since.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

We all know that sometimes kids can unintentionally say the most insulting, hilarious comments ever.  In the past few days a couple of the neighbor kids have given me some real gems. 

Kid #1: My mom says you have too many kids.
Me:  Your mom eats too many cheeseburgers.

Kid #2: Your toilet is flooding
Me (Looking into the toilet):  Wow, what did you do to it?

Niece #3: (While playing her violin)  My A string is messed up.
Me:  My G string is messed up.

Kid #4:  Hey Numbnuts
Me:  (long period of stunned silence) Oh, hey.

Typically I have a quick response to a statement like this.  However, the fact that the neighbor is a girl left me speechless.

Old Stories

An unintended result from this blog has been that it makes me pay close attention to what happens around me.  Sometimes it’s easy to slip into the habit of letting days pass by without noticing the funny little events that transpire throughout the day.  Since I feel like I need to write something everyday, I am always watching and listening, wondering if I can spin what I observe into an interesting blog entry.  It has gotten to a point where something will happen and my kids will say, “Dad, you should blog about that.”  I actually appreciate the new perspectives this blog has given me.

Having said that, I can’t help but feel frustrated when I have nothing to say.  Occasionally I’ll think of something really funny to write about, but the subject matter is questionable enough for me to reconsider and go to the wife for her approval.  I know I shouldn’t do this since I go into it knowing full well that she’ll put the kiabosh on any idea I am even remotely hesitant about.  For example, the other day I asked permission to write about the overwhelming number of “augmented” women in our neighborhood (If this makes you panic, wondering "do they know?"  the answer is yes, we know, we always know).  I promised to be tactful, discrete and nonspecific, but she would have none of it.  You can thank her for missing out on an unprecedented post worthy of the Pulitzer.  We’re talking the Tale of Two Cities of blogs.

When I have moments of writers block, I typically write about events from the past.  I like to live in the present, but please forgive me if I tell old, worn out stories from the past every once in a while.  I’m sure I have the wife’s approval on this, especially if it means I’m not looking to “augmented” women for inspiration. 

Farewell Gary

Our cat Gary was hit and killed by a car on Friday night.  We had him for nine years, so our kids don’t even remember life before Gary.  Needless to say, it was a very sad weekend at our house.  As a tribute to Gary, the following are highlights from his life.

• Nine years ago the wife nearly hit him with her car near a farm when he was just a kitten.  She pulled over and the farmer told her she could take him home.  We named him Gary after SpongeBob’s pet snail.
• Gary wasn’t feeling well so we took him to the vet and had a pellet removed from his stomach.
• He loved pooping in my neighbor nemesis’ flowers.  They tried everything from sprinkling pepper in the flower garden to hauling him to the pound.  Nevertheless, Gary loved sunning himself on their grass and always came back for more.  He loved showing everyone exactly who ran things.
• The only placed he loved sunning himself more than the neighbor’s lawn was the middle of the road.  He casually strolled out in into the road with all of the attitude in the world and made all of the cars go around him.  He always owned the place, no matter where he was.
• Sometimes Gary thought he was a dog.  When Wally and I walked through the fields by our house looking for pheasants he walked with us the entire trip.  Any other time we went on a walk through the neighborhood Gary would walk with us.
• The wife liked to stand near him and tap her legs with her hands.  Every time she did this Gary would immediately jump up into her arms.
• We moved to our new house a couple of miles away from our old house and, from time to time, we wouldn’t see him for a few days.  All we had to do was drive over to the old neighborhood, roll down the window and call his name.  It wouldn’t be long before Gary came trotting out of the fields.
• A few days after coming back from an out of town baseball tournament Gary was missing.  After a few weeks we decided that something had happened and we’d never see him again.  Eight months later the pound called saying they picked him up in a town 10 miles away.  It honestly felt like he had come back from the dead.  Once again, our neighbor’s plan to get rid of him was foiled.
• Once, as he regularly did, Gary brought a mouse in from the fields.  As he was toying with the mouse, my old friend and I were out talking, watching Gary at work.  For some reason, Gary let the mouse go and it ran straight into my friend’s garage.  I looked at my friend and his glazed-over eyes told me that he was envisioning the nightmare infestation of mice that his house had just had thrust upon it.  We spent the next 20 minutes tearing his garage apart until we were able to eliminate the intruder.

I realize that some people probably considered him a nuisance and are happy he is gone, but I suppose that makes us even since those peoples’ children are always a nuisance (I’m not sure if I’m kidding or being completely sincere).  Pets are definitely inconvenient, messy and a pain in the backside.  They cause stress and tension among neighbors and most of the time we wonder why we even put up with them (the pets, not the neighbors).  At the same time, they are loyal, sincere and want nothing more than the love and attention of their owner.  Gary was definitely all of the above.  We’ll miss him, but realize that we were lucky to have him in our lives for nine of the most impressionable and memorable years of our family.  When our children grow up and think back to their childhood, they will definitely remember Gary as a significant part of it.  Isn’t that, after all, why we have pets in the first place?



The Happy Dance

Few surprises are more exciting than putting on a winter coat for the first time of the year and finding money in the pocket.  Because this almost never happens, it definitely justifies the Happy Dance.  I learned the Happy Dance from the wife’s younger brother.  A few months ago we were watching old home movies and noticed that every time he was happy (usually when opening a Christmas gift) he would throw his hands in the air and shake his hips back and forth.  For a visual feel free to ask me in person. 

Anyway, on the way home from work last week I found a hundred dollar bill in my pocket, metaphorically speaking of course.  While changing through the radio stations something caught my attention.  I somehow landed on the Bible Broadcasting Network and, much to my surprise, heard the real Ned Flanders.  Listening to the program had me diddley doing the happy dance all the widdley way home.  I’ve always recognized The Simpsons as loaded with satire, but I never once imagined I’d find the inspiration to THE Ned Flanders. 

Before I direct you to the program let me give you the background.  The program I found is called The Captains Club.  The Captains Club is a children’s radio program hosted by Captain Chesapeake and Sparkle.  The meat and potatoes of the show occurs when Ned narrates a story, which turns into people acting out the parts.  It reminds me so much of Ralphie on The Christmas Story rushing home to listen to Little Orphan Annie on the radio.  The music, complete with an organ for dramatic effect, is straight from the Disney movies of the 30’s. 

Wednesday’s story involved Mike and his neighbor, Mr. Peterson.  Mike’s parents were constantly fighting so he decided that he had had enough and was going to run away.  Lucky for him, he ran into “Mr. Pete” who talked Mike into staying to work on his boat with him while he talked Mike through his issues.  I’m not sure what I loved most, Ned Flanders, the superb voice acting, the dramatic organ or the fact that I kept waiting for Mike and Mr. Pete’s already awkward relationship to turn romantic, causing irreparable emotional damage to the obviously vulnerable Mike.   

Tonight I’d like you to gather your children on the living room floor to listen to your favorite radio program just like any other night.  The only difference in tonight being, instead of turning on the old Philco, I’d like you to go to this link to listen to a show that really knows how to reach today's generation of kids.  If you’re short on time, the story usually beings at about the 15 minute mark.  I’m sure you’ll be enlightened and uplifted. 

http://www.bbnradio.org/wcm4/english/RadiobrBroadcast/Programs/ProgramScheduleandLinks/tabid/459/ItemID/50/Default.aspx



Tribute to the Utes

Why I think the University of Utah is gimmicky.

After this one, what more needs to be said?

Song and Dance

Our kids range in age from 12 to 1.  Sometimes I worry that by having siblings so much older than they, the younger kids will learn things too quickly and have a tendency to be too big for their britches.  For example, when Wally was 7 years old he started playing superleague baseball.  At the very first meeting, one of the coaches mentioned they’ll run the team like soccer players.  One of the kids, who has significantly older siblings, responded, “Soccer is for homos.”  I could tell by the blank expressions that no one else knew what a “homo” was.

When Alimatu got here, she arrived as a 3 year old with basically a blank slate.  The other two girls immediately broke out their watercolors and began to create their own work of art on her slate, some good, some not so good.  Last night she was standing on the countertop, shaking her hips in an assortment of dance moves her sisters taught her.  I decided to join in the fun by singing a song she could dance to.  She seems to have a bit of a bladder control issue, so I added my own words to make Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” a little more appropriate.  She just smiled and danced through the entire song, completely oblivious to the fact that I was teasing her.

Let's go all the way tonight

I will wet my pants tonight
No regrets, just love

No diaper?  No prob
We can dance until we die

I will soak my underwear
You and I

I will pee
We'll be young forever

In my pants forever

You make me

I will pee
Feel like I'm living a

Into my underwear

Teenage Dream

Forever
The way you turn me on

Until the end of time
I can't sleep

I can soak
Let's runaway

Straight through my jeans
And don't ever look back

In every single pair
Don't ever look back

Every single pair

My heart stops

I can’t stop
When you look at me

When I feel that pee
Just one touch

I don’t try
Now baby I believe

No you can’t make me
This is real

I won’t learn
So take a chance

So just don’t try
And don't ever look back

I will forever pee
Don't ever look back

In my underwear

I know neither the real song nor my version is appropriate, but I choose to blame my parents for letting me listen to Weird Al as a kid.  Who could forget some of the other classics I came up with as a kid?

Scooby Scooby Do, where are you?  We need some help from you now.

Scooby Scooby Do, where did you poo?  Right behind the curtains.

Strawberry Shortcake with her freckled nose, Raspberry Tart with her cute little fart.

And my favorite from Kenny Rogers:

Lady, I’m your knight in shining armor, and I love you.

Lady, you are dumb and you are stupid, and I hate you.

Yes, I am still working out my “girls have cooties” issues.

Food and Flatulence

Today we need to make this blog more fun and entertaining.  After thinking about it for 5 minutes (sorry, my attention span doesn’t allow me to spend more than 5 minutes on anything) I decided that the best way to spice up this blog is to make it more interactive so today I am going to ask for your help.  I want you to send me your most embarrassing moment.  You can either post it as a comment or email it to me at myfilterisbroken@gmail.com and I will post it on the blog.  I won't, of course, mention your name.  Since I don’t have a ton of followers, I’m inviting you to send the link to your friends, asking them to contribute.  Even though I don’t embarrass easily, I’ll get us started by mentioning some of my shining moments.

1. When I was young we had a family reunion at a lake resort.  One night we were roasting hot dogs on the campfire.  I grabbed a roaster that already had a hot dog on it.  My uncle looked at me and asked, “Why are you burning the handle of my roaster?”  Taking a closer look what I thought was a hot dog was the wooden handle of the roaster.
2. In 8^th grade drama class I jumped forward in my seat to get into a conversation.  The force of the motion caused my stomach to contract and I…ahem (tooted).  Luckily someone turned to the boy next to me and exclaimed, “Geoff!!!!”
3. At a company Christmas lunch a couple of years ago I popped what I thought was divinity into my mouth.  Immediately, I knew something was wrong.  Hoping no one noticed, I hurried and swallowed but my boss questioned, “Did you just eat butter?” for the world to hear.  I don’t know why people have to get fancy in their presentation of butter anyway.
4. Once at a park I got out of the car and...ahem (tooted) in the immediate direction of the car parked next to us.  When I turned to leave I noticed a woman inside the car feeding her baby, laughing out of control.

What does it say about me that all of my stories are about food or flatulence? 

Ok, now it’s your turn.  Don’t be shy. 

November

I realize we have all been holding in our excitement for months and months.  Now that it is November it’s time to officially let our excitement show.  No, I’m not talking about college football or Christmas (Yuck, I hate Christmas).  I’m talking about the most important date of the year, November 19^th.  If you don’t know what happens on November 19^th get off my blog and never come back.  I’m being 100% serious about this one (hahaha, like I’ve ever been 100% serious). 

November 19^th is the day Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows comes out in theaters.  I can’t wait to put on my cloak, straighten my glasses and arm myself with my 11” Holly Wand with a Phoenix feather core and head to the theater.  Ok, so I might not be so extreme as to dress up for the movie, but I am a pretty big fan.

I’m beginning to wonder if the wife thinks I have a problem.  Yesterday she had The Hunger Games in her hand and told me I should read it.  I told her that I am perfectly content with Harry Potter thank you very much.  She’s worried that I’m half-way through the books for the fourth time and thinks I should give another book a chance.  With a look of great concern in her eyes she told me that I need to expand my horizons a bit.  After reading the series for the first time I became a casual user, reading a HP book, another book, the next HP, another book and so on.  Now that I don’t have much time to read I pretty much stick with HP. Just because JK Rowling sold her soul to the devil (how else could you explain such a literary masterpiece?) it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t enjoy the books.  After all, I’m only hurting myself.

On to the point of my story…I have a really bad toothache but can’t go to the dentist because I don’t have insurance.  The only thing that makes me feel better are HP books.  Strangely enough, this morning my HP books were missing and my toilets were all plugged.  I tried knocking on a few doors in the neighborhood but no one had the books.  Does anyone have a book I could borrow? 

By the way, if anyone tries organizing an intervention, I swear to you I will run and never come back.  Actually, an intervention might be kinda fun.  Tonight at 7:00 we are having a Harry Potter intervention at my house.  Please bring a letter that tells me how much you care for me and how badly it hurts to see me doing this to myself.  I promise to tear up a little when you read it out loud.

Jets vs Sharks

Yesterday was the last day of the month and if you would have driven through my neighborhood between the hours of 12:00 and 2:00 you would have witnessed a very strange phenomenon.  There you would see men in shirts and ties, scurrying from door to door like a well orchestrated ant colony.  In my neighborhood the last day of the month means that it’s time to do Home Teaching.  For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, our church divides the men in pairs of two and assigns them 2 or 3 families to visit.  Each month the companionship is supposed to visit the family to get to know them, check on their well being and bring a short, spiritual lesson to share with them.

The worst part about the situation is that we have to report whether or not we have visited each family every month.  At least once a month a lesson regarding the importance of home teaching is given and we are all reminded that only 15% of home teaching was done the previous month.  Each month it’s the same thing, “brethren we can do better,” while all heads are down, staring at the floor, hoping no one will make eye contact with them, especially the fathers of the families they are supposed to visit.  After 45 minutes of pure and unadulterated guilt, we all shamefully file out of the chapel, promising ourselves we’ll win the star of gold for being the world’s greatest home teacher next month.  However noble our intentions may be, the last day of the month always sneaks up on us.  This makes for an incredibly awkward visit on the last day of every month, with the home teachers and the families pretending that it’s not the last day of the month because that might indicate the home teachers are there out of duty instead of genuine concern. 

So yesterday I was visiting a family with two very young children when the father asked where our kids go to school.  Approximately half of the kids in our neighborhood attend a charter school while the other half go to public school.  My kids go to the public school but my companion told the family that he sends his kids to the charter school because he has noticed that the kids who go to public school “have no respect.”  He then tried to clarify by making a comparison of one of the worst behaved boys in the neighborhood to one of the most angelic girls you would ever meet.  Obviously she is an angel because she goes to a charter school and he is terrible because he goes to public school.  Because my filter is broken I turned to him and asked, “Are you comparing my children to HIM?”  The father, trying to diffuse the situation, then said he is leaning toward sending his kids to public school for the athletics and my companion mentioned that the charter school stresses the liberal arts more than sports.  I replied that it’s fine if he wants his kids to walk around the house singing, “when you’re a jet you’re a jet all the way” (yes, I did do the snapping choreography) but he better send them to my house where I’ll play sports with them and toughen them up a bit for the real world.  Now that I think about it, maybe I should’ve gone to a charter school so that I could treat people with a little more respect. 

For the record, I love West Side Story.