Category Archives: Humor

A Debt of Gratitude

Miss me? Don’t answer that. Instead, say a prayer or two for me. I could use them right now. But enough about me…

A few weeks back a friend of mine was going out of town for a week. He posed a request to me. 

“Could you pet sit for us?”

I didn’t even honestly know he had a pet.

He doesn’t.

His little girl has a bunny rabbit. My motto is, if it doesn’t jump into your lap showing the affection of a hyper caffeinated child, it ain’t a pet. Also, if the slightest noise can cause it to have a heart attack and die, you might want to consider a dog. 

But we had a bunny when I was a kid. OK, we had about ten bunnies over the years. After Mom accidentally cooked Thumper I would have thought we’d learned our lesson. More on that later. 

Lepus: Latin for messed up.

Maybe it was the way he asked. He seemed genuinely embarrassed. He’s a pretty manly guy – the kind who exudes confidence that he could take on anybody in a brawl he’s that well built. To observe  this jacked dude lower his head and almost whisper the question “Think you could, um, take care of my daughter’s rabbit while we’re gone?” was quite comical. If it were up to him and he had zero regard for his little girl’s blatant admiration of her old man I think he’d let the critter starve. 

But I have a little girl too. More to the point I have a friend and here he was asking me a favor. 

Of course I said yes. And I meant it. The fact that I’m only writing about it now indicates how it truly was nothing to me because I was just helping a friend and fellow dad. 

And Fluffy and I had some good times. For a week straight I’d drive over, let myself in, watch some Cinemax, toss some hay at the rabbit, drink their wine, and leave. After five days I realized they don’t have cable and don’t drink. Once we got that straightened out I stated going next door where I encountered an emmaciated bunny. Also Cinemax has some weird titles. Fluffy and I frolicked together in the yard. I read him a few bedtime stories. Wilt Chamberlain: My Story seems to be a favorite. Every night without fail as I was putting the book down Fluffy would roll his eyes and say “Eh, I’ve got better numbers” before crawling into my lap and saying “I love you Daddy! and drifting off to sleep in my arms. 

Tonight I stopped by my friend’s house for a few minutes. It’s nice to catch up. We live a few minutes apart but see each other very sporadically. As I was on my way out the door he handed me a paper bag. “Just a little thank you for taking care of the furry little guy.” How did my brother Paul enter into this?

It was a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, and a big one at that! It was totally unnecessary but I accepted with great delight. He then added the compliment that he could tell I’ve been working out. Before you get all “that’s weird” on me, know that this man has borne the brunt of my insane desire to get in as good shape as he is for years. That compliment was very much appreciated. 

So, children, learn this lesson. When a friend asks a favor always say yes. Who knows? There might just be gin in it. And if you’re lucky you might just have a good friend who knows you like gin (and who understands how insecure you are about your body compared to his). 

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They Sold the Farm!

Some of you know that my vision is terrible. Not my “vision” vision but my actual eyesight. 

I was told when I was ten that it would get progressively worse until my mid-twenties and then level off; maybe even get better. 

They lied. I’m almost 40 and it’s still getting worse. Granted it’s not getting worse as quickly as it once was. 

Nevertheless yearly eye exams are not a luxury for me. I have to get in to the optometrist or I can’t see. 

I am currently sitting in the chair. 

This is fun. 

What in the world does that say?

I’ve already been run through the battery of pre-testing options. There’s the puff of air. Still not sure what this one is for. Then there’s the “big E” test. Newsflash: I can’t even really see the “E” at this point without my contacts. 

Some tests are new. A retinal photograph has replaced dilation. This is nice as I really never liked stepping out into the mid-day sun after one of these visits looking like an anime character. 

But they got rid of one of my favorite tests. For almost thirty years I’ve been coming to these visits and looking into a giant box at a picture of a farmhouse. Again, the purpose of this test has never been explained to me. I always assumed it had something to do with focus. Then again it could just be a way to calm me down, not that I’ve ever been agitated at the eye doctor. 

This test is so ridiculous.

Truly the farm was a peaceful place. If you’ve ever had this test you know what I’m talking about. It was in a field. I imagine it was in Iowa. There was a lot of corn. I made up a backstory about the farm. It was owned by an elderly couple who’s children had moved away after industrialization had rendered their role in the agri-business field redundant. This couple now wait at home for someone to visit. Once a year I pop into their lives. I feel like such a voyeur. But I think they understand. They’re just happy for the company. Their rotten kids never bring the grandkids – Kip and Karen – around. Brats. 

Where was I?

Oh yes, the farm is gone. All that remains is a hot air balloon and there isn’t enough Valium on earth to get me in that thing.

There’s also the omni-present “better/worse” flipping lens test. Yeah… as I’ve said before, leave the room, doc. I’ll flip it around and find what works. Then I’ll call you back in and you can write it down. 

St. Lucy, patroness of the blind, pray for us!

UPDATE: They just upped my script. -4.25 in both eyes and I get to try daily wears for the first time!

Raising an Exchange Son

My little bundle of alegría is getting bigger every day.

Nearly two weeks into his stay in our life forever, Sylvester – that’s my foreign exchange son – is already holding his head up on his own, walking erect, and babbling.  He might be expressing high level thoughts in a language not my own.  Who can say?

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One day we will teach you all about where you came from, son.

It dawned on me while I was brushing my teeth tonight that I should have asked him to call me “Big Daddy” as I called my father before me.  That would have been nice.  I suppose there’s still time; though he is growing like a weed.  He’s already over 5 feet tall, the little gremlin.  Someone got fed after midnight…

I’m already planning next year’s “Gotcha’ Day” festivities.  My wife says we may have to move them up to sometime in the next week.  “He has to go home,” she says.

“Honey,” I replied, “this is his home – his forever home.”

She mumbled something about delusions and international law.  I reminded her about our “passports and .45’s” discussion of the other day.  Ooh!  And my son, the biological one, picked up a nifty fu manchu-style fake mustache the other day!  I’ll bet one of us could use that at some point.

Our neighbors next door host a family get-together every weekend.  We sometimes walk out onto our porch late on Saturday night just to hear the authentic music and smell the grilling of fish.  Our neighbor on the other side calls it their “la familia parties”.  He says it with the thickest Texas accent and it sounds quaint.  We don’t mind because it’s all family and I think it’s neat to see how they celebrate that.  I’m from a big family too and we like to party.  What an unusual world we’ve brought you to, Sylvester.

Last Sunday my wife asked him how he could possibly sleep with the mostly mariachi-sounding music in the driveway outside his bedroom at 3AM.  “It’s OK,” he said.  “Maybe they are Mech-ican?”

Indeed, son.  He’s already learning so much about culture.

Took the lad to the batting cages yesterday.  He’s never swung a bat before but he did the old man proud.  Once he got into the swing of it (no pun intended; and note to self: begin working in more Dad jokes) he really knocked it out of the park.  Also note to self: stop using baseball metaphors when talking about baseball.  After a fastball came screaming down the line from the pitching machine, my little Spaniard knocked that mother back to the black hole it came from.  “Yay Sylvester!  White Daddy is so proud!”

Maybe I’ll get him a gun rack for his next birthday.

How You Say in English?

For some time now I have prayed and held fast to that elusive virtue of hope that God would bless our home with new life.  Our two saints in training have certainly given me a run for the money in supplying plentiful material for my practice of the other virtues.  But hope… Hope is a hard one to practice.  It’s so esoteric.  And certainly not for lack of trying; but we keep coming up empty.

Trust me, this is not going anywhere near where you think it’s going.

A few months ago my adoring wife asked me how I felt about taking in a foreign exchange student for a few weeks.  Her exact words were “We’re taking a foreign exchange student for a few weeks.”  Adorable.  The kid would be coming from Spain.  I like the Spanish people.  Perhaps he knows Brazilian pop star Xuxa!  Or perhaps she’s from a completely different continent and speaks Portugese.  Whatever.  I put nothing past Our Lord and Savior and recognize that He can answer prayers however He sees fit.  This, dear readers, might just be our little baby (at least for a few weeks).  Sure he shares none of our genetic code but we’re all European!  And he’s 15 so there’s that.

We got our home ready for our new arrival.  I think they call it nesting.  I made his room up for him.  I wonder if he’ll be a Mets fan like his old man host father family.  Of course we’ll have to call the church and schedule the baptism.  Imagine my shock when I found out that my wife had consigned the crib and that our new exchange son was 15 and would in all likelihood return to Spain after three weeks leaving us again childless except for the two we already have.  Since this would be baby’s first visit to his new home country we wanted to instill a bit of pride in our great land.  We hung the red, white, and blue bunting from our windows and raised Old Glory above the garage eaves.  Little Champ is going to love America.  I’m so freaking excited!

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Found this picture online of a generic orphanage in Spain.  How lonely must have been his days…

We waited at the delivery airport with American flag balloons and a copy of People for our new bundle of joy student.  He would need to be brought up to speed on culture quickly.  Also I do not speak Spanish except for a few dozen words I picked up in Newark as a kid.  I know just what to say in traffic.  Ordering at a restaurant, not so much.  They tell me his name was Javier but we have renamed him Sylvester after the second century pope.  I may have started legal adoption paperwork.  Who can say.

Sylvester arrived with a group of similar adoptees after a ten hour flight from Madrid.  I think that’s where the orphanage is.  His birth parents had left him there… to board his plane to the United States.  We wanted his experience of America and of Texas in particular to be spectacular.  We even arranged for 100 degree heat and spongy humidity.  He’ll never forget this.  In fact, none of his group are likely to forget any of these few weeks.

Adopting an exchange student whom you’re not really adopting is a challenge.  We had been told that his English was OK but that we weren’t to speak Spanish to him.  Again, that’s not really a problem for us.  But just to try some immersion techniques I turned the on the radio on our drive home.  Unfortunately it was a Justin Bieber song called Despacito.  He laughed.  Then he said “I think he’s just rhyming words.”  “Yes, son,” I told him, remembering so well all the little lessons I’m supposed to teach my young ones.  It comes back so naturally.  “That’s what most songs do.  They rhyme.  That means the words sound alike.”  My wife chimed in at this point.  “No, he means the words the song is rhyming are nonsensical.  Burrito, bandito, Frito.  It’s just a silly song.”  I’ll say.  Must remember where I put all the Baby Einstein DVD’s.

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His namesake.  Noble.  Pious.

When we got home I heated a bottle of milk.  Then we took Sylvesteriér to dinner.  Just something light.  We figured Cheesecake Factory would suffice.  My little boy’s eyes popped out of his head when he saw the portion sizes.  That’s right, little man, Mommy and Daddy will always take care of you in America.  We had also been told not to let him go to sleep until it got late on our time.  Listen here, orphanage, we’ve done this before.  I’ll put my kids to bed when I see fit.  Still there was some logic to their thinking.  He had been up for close to 24 hours.  Clearly we should force him to stay awake a few more and everything would be beautiful.

On a side note, another parent had taken a child from this group and texted us a picture of her girl petting a zebra.  I’m not even joking.  This was within two hours of landing.  I wondered if they had simply gone to the zoo.  Turns out the woman has a zebra on her property.  Apparently she bought the Neverland Ranch.

Over the next week or so we’ve gotten to know Sylvester quite well.  It’s amazing how much personality they have even at this age.  Since he appears to be a bit older than we were expecting in a baby I may have to have that certain talk with him sooner than I was thinking.  It’s a good thing I can just draw pictures since he still hasn’t learned to talk… English.

And I can’t believe it’s almost time to take the boy out to Sears for his portraits!  The time goes by so quickly.  There’s still so much to do with him.  I haven’t even taught him how to shoot a gun.  On that front, when I asked if he would want to go to a range with me he seemed afraid to even hear the word gun.  Oh the things they’ve done to you, Sylvester.  The tales from your orphanage are frightening, no doubt, and one day you will have to share them with American Daddy.

My wife tells me we’re apparently going to have to let go of him in a week or so.  I told her I have a passport and disguises.  No one’s taking my son from me!

We took him to an amusement park today.  He delighted in riding the coasters.  I think we shall also take him to an open pit barbecue.  He’d like that.  During the past week I started my new job.  I took Sylvester with me to the mall to get a few things.  He went to the Nike store.  And he pronounced it just like it looks.  I bought a sports coat from a respectable men’s clothier.  The next day I wore my jacket to work.  After work Sylvester came up to me and told me that I had looked very “elegant” in my jacket.  I don’t know what English vocab program they’re using but I like it.

Last week we took him to mass on Sunday.  Trying to immerse him constantly into our family life and Americana we figured we’d subject him to the stylings of Dan Schutte and Marty Haugen.  Fortunately for him the Kenyan choir was singing.  This must seem like such a strange place for him.

Oh, watching my boy grow up has been so exciting.  Before I know it the paperwork will be official and we can rest assured that no one will ever take our Sylvester away from us.

Perhaps tomorrow he wants to try Taco Bell.

I’m so proud.

Thanks be to God for hearing my prayer!

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Econ 102

A tip? OK. Don’t swim in shark infested waters. Dad humor 1 – Confused daughter 0

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Econ 101

Today’s lesson: the fungibility of money.

Typical Saturday Morning

My precious 7 year-old daughter just came stumbling into my bedroom.  It’s Saturday morning shortly before 8.  I am awake but not terribly so.  She has questions for me.

  • “Daddy, what can I do?”
  • “Daddy, why are you awake?”
  • “Daddy, what is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

I answer her.

  • “You may watch a little TV this morning since no one else is awake.”
  • “I have to drive some nuns to the airport.”
  • “What do you mean?  An African or a European swallow?”

I’ve been showing them clips from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  I consider it my duty as a dad to enlighten them and help form their senses of humor at the same time.

It’s called Nun-math and it’s awesome.

mother teresa

Could she get any cuter?

Oh, the flying nuns…  Right…  Much love and thanks to my mother-in-law for volunteering me as a driver.  I mean that.  She knows I’m a sucker for the Missionaries of Charity.  For those who do not know; the Missionaries are the nuns founded by Mother Teresa.  They are the most adorable creatures on the planet.  Due to the sanctity of their founder (who IS a saint) the sisters receive an additional grace from God upon final vows.  That is, whatever they ask, people will not be able to say no.  As it turns out, one of the sisters is flying somewhere this morning.  However, they are required per their own rules to travel in groups of two or more.  And so taking one nun to the airport means taking three nuns.  It’s called Nun-math and it’s awesome.  Lest anyone think I’m complaining in a backhanded way, I really do love these women and will do whatever I can to help.

Perhaps I’ll chat them up about the Sally Field series The Flying Nun on the car ride.  They’ve always seemed to enjoy our conversations before.  Wish me luck!