tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19501408085740647612024-03-18T20:10:04.433-07:00Family Men Don't Wear Name Brandsmichael picarella's family humor columnMichael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.comBlogger215125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-91431758893042545352018-02-02T10:39:00.001-08:002018-02-02T10:39:38.549-08:00Horrible dads attract horrible stuff<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5raRr9EAhUL8iodyZ0aufO5_uE4u0DrkfXIL2whWlJpfh6npLz4bRwFL6hMwEub0PSfprS7ZM_AAU70Mj2SsRn6A1Li0RMyXpIz7Li6VEK_kNPDqfV6lZjid0PdXjI0M_MVNQHqP3xJE/s1600/Bad+Stuff+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1242" data-original-width="1600" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5raRr9EAhUL8iodyZ0aufO5_uE4u0DrkfXIL2whWlJpfh6npLz4bRwFL6hMwEub0PSfprS7ZM_AAU70Mj2SsRn6A1Li0RMyXpIz7Li6VEK_kNPDqfV6lZjid0PdXjI0M_MVNQHqP3xJE/s320/Bad+Stuff+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Aaaah-choo!</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I knew right then I had the flu, even though, days later, I was
fine, not another sneeze or other symptom to be found. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But horrible stuff happens all the time, so I wasn’t being
ridiculous with my assumptions. Still, I wondered if my negativity was
attracting the horrible stuff. There I go being negative again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Eeeee-uck!</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My 11-year-old son’s breath was a sign he wasn’t brushing and a
sign that the dentist would surely have to perform several surgical extractions
very, very soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And there I was, going from zero to 300 again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You have to brush your teeth better,” I told the kid while he was
getting ready for bed one night. “And did you use soap in the shower? I can’t
smell it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Later I checked the kid’s soap bottle—empty. I didn’t say a word.
I waited for him to tell me there was no more soap. Two weeks later I had to let
him know. He thought water was all he needed to get clean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What if he gets staph infections?” I said to my wife afterward. “Or
lupus?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You can’t get lupus from not using soap,” she told me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe not, but the kid wasn’t going to get ahead in life by taking
short cuts. I had to hold him accountable for his poor workmanship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I bought soap and told him that if I didn’t smell it on him, I’d
do the worst thing he could possibly imagine and make him take another shower.
Same with his teeth brushing—if I didn’t find his work satisfactory, he’d have
to brush them again and again until it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I had an image in my head of one horrible dad. I was looking just
like him, not teaching my son how to do things right, just criticizing him for
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’d send him back to the sink and the shower at least three times
a night. The kid was miserable, so much so I could use showering and teeth
brushing as punishment for bad behavior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why were you fooling around in class? Go brush your teeth. Keep
it up and you’re gonna take a shower.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Seeing this horrible image of me made me realize I had to make
some changes. But then, one day, my son got all the plaque off his teeth. And
he smelled new after every shower. Maybe I wasn’t such a horrible dad after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But horrible dads are like killers in slasher films—you can stab
‘em, shoot them, burn ‘em, tie ‘em to tactical ballistic missiles and fire ‘em into
minefields, and they’ll keep popping up to get you. That horrible dad in me
stopped checking my son’s work and, eventually, he was back to being on the
brink of losing teeth and getting lupus. Horrible, horrible dad!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Why, at 11 years old, wasn’t my son self-sufficient? I was a
horrible dad, and there was nothing I could do about it except embrace the
horrible dad in me. Where was my dirty tee? And my beer? And, “Hand me that
remote, I’ll be in front of the TV for two weeks straight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As days passed, the horrible dad in me kept telling me that I was
doing all I could do. This imaginary character in my mind said the problem
wasn’t me—it was my son. He said my boy was going to have to learn the hard
way. He said the kid would learn soon enough. The horrible dad in me tried to
make me feel better, but it wasn’t working.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s when I realized the horrible dad in me wasn’t so horrible. He
cared about me and had ideas of my son doing better, which meant he had
feelings after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The problem: My negativity was attracting the horrible stuff. What
I needed was a positive attitude in order to attract the good stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So I became optimistic about my horrible dadliness. If I was going
to be horrible, then I was going to be amazingly horrible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“If you don’t want to take a shower the right way,” I told my boy,
“then I’ll wash you like when you were a baby, and then we’ll achieve
cleanliness.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The thought of me seeing him naked made him wash well. He even did
a good job when I wasn’t checking his work. I knew this because I’d do the
smell test on him when he was asleep. He began doing quality work in all areas
of his life for fear I’d treat him like a 2-year-old. I let the good stuff
roll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Aaaah-choo!</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My wife announced that she had the flu, even though it was just a
sneeze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why do you go from zero to 300 like that?” I asked her. “You
gotta be more positive like me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You used to care when I got sick.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I had an image in my head of one horrible husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b>-February 2015</b></i></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-14262326855218514682018-01-12T10:01:00.001-08:002018-01-12T10:09:11.557-08:00Winter brrr-becue for the brrr-ds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCw6mt9ODliIiijVMSfO6feLv7q8I8dYJ5XmVsI75VYXyInkNjLfuW-CSHOmxZoDWcUg_m5ewdbF7734bq9LI_Ch8rVJIeuG0mC0X77eWo0PF9mVh_LCx8RDUjNaB6VtetobwLXIF-zvk/s1600/Winter+Barbecue+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCw6mt9ODliIiijVMSfO6feLv7q8I8dYJ5XmVsI75VYXyInkNjLfuW-CSHOmxZoDWcUg_m5ewdbF7734bq9LI_Ch8rVJIeuG0mC0X77eWo0PF9mVh_LCx8RDUjNaB6VtetobwLXIF-zvk/s320/Winter+Barbecue+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It was January. And what a perfect time to be outside in the
sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife, our 11-year-old boy and I went on a morning hike.
In Southern California, you can do that. Still, my wife had our kid bundled up
for an Indiana blizzard.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He hated that. Even if his lips were blue and his fingers
were icicles, he was “fine.” He insists that he’s “all grown up” and “a man,” though
we have to nag him every night to take a shower like he was still 10. What do
boys have against showering anyway?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
On the way back home from the hike, our son proposed a
barbecue for dinner. He knew what was coming, and he was all set to fire back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s winter,” my wife said on cue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s burning,” the kid shot back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s gonna be cold by dinnertime.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s gonna be fine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It was all settled -- no barbecue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then Grandpa called. “Wanna barbecue?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Our son promised he’d tell us if he got cold at any time
during the meal. He loves eating outdoors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Others on the block had the same idea -- that sweet aroma of
smoking briquettes was floating through the neighborhood the same way I wished
the smell of our trash wasn’t. Who throws out leftovers the day after trash
pickup? (That’s another story.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“How about a game of bocce ball or some ice cream?” our son
suggested to get into the barbecue mood. “Or how about we go swimming?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We can’t do any of that right now,” I told him. “Grandpa
and I have to barbecue.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’ll be helping, too, Dad,” the kid replied. “All three of
us men will be barbecuing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We three “men” were living it up, talking about manly things
like the oppression of the modern husband, and cooking up all kinds of meat -- steak,
chicken, hot links (not mild).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Men don’t ‘cook’,” my son corrected me when I said it. “We
work with slabs of meat and fire.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The steak was taking too long. We should’ve gotten thinner
meat. The cold was coming in, and we needed at least another hour for even
medium-rare. Winter was definitely amongst us -- I had to put on a sweatshirt
(Welcome to Southern California!). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
In no time, my wife was suggesting we eat inside where we
wouldn’t be so cold.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Who’s this ‘we’ stuff?” our son said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’ll be cold out here,” she told him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you’ll</i> be
cold,” he replied, “but we men will be fine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I agreed that we’d be fine. My wife bundled up and brought
out a few hundred layers of clothing for our kid. When it came time to eat, Grandpa
rolled the barbecue close to my wife and his grandson so the flame would keep
them warm. Great idea!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Our son thought it was a bad idea. He saw Grandpa and me in
the cold and was jealous. He wanted to be cold, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m burning,” he announced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Fine,” my wife and I gave in. “Take off your jacket, freeze
to death if you want.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He took off his jacket and put on a big smile. He wasn’t
shivering at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I could see what was going on in his mind: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The scene took place in Alaska or the North Pole, and we
were all lost in a snowdrift. My wife and I were frozen. Our son gave his only
jacket to his mother. “You’re such a man,” she told her strong boy. Then he cut
a hole in the ice with his bare hands, dove into the icy-cold lake below and
came up with some fish in his teeth for us to eat. He was grinning. He was in
deathly-cold water and he was grinning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
And then I could see a bunch of girls in provocative winter
wear blowing kisses to our son for his manliness. Wives know what we’re
thinking. She kicked me under the table and I lost the telepathic transmission.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We made it through the dinner. Our son did great in the
cold. He was still wearing that smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After cleaning up, the boy actually volunteered to take a shower.
He ran into the bathroom and didn’t even take an hour to undress like usual.
And the showering took longer than his normal two minutes.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Three hours later, when he turned off the water, he was
completely thawed out.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b>-January 2015</b></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-38124191442821220352017-12-01T13:17:00.001-08:002017-12-01T13:17:11.773-08:00Rest Assure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJld68xg3V1du2jLqKqn31XsvGNK8bvLLUyQU9ZD7vy0Hx6luld19XhBTixjfc95VEwuiGd9xnL2UJ-KdcseqKd1M3_CUK2QArmpRRjGmX237E6lqoLI6vp0iBm3HEAjVPVuKff491Yb4/s1600/Rest+Assure+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJld68xg3V1du2jLqKqn31XsvGNK8bvLLUyQU9ZD7vy0Hx6luld19XhBTixjfc95VEwuiGd9xnL2UJ-KdcseqKd1M3_CUK2QArmpRRjGmX237E6lqoLI6vp0iBm3HEAjVPVuKff491Yb4/s320/Rest+Assure+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
I was sick. Real sick.<br />
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’d worked eight days in a row and had only one upcoming day
off before Christmas. I needed that day off to rest. But I’d already designated
the time to Christmas shopping and helping my wife get ready for our big Christmas
Eve party.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The problem with wives is they have our best interests at
heart. Aside from wanting to buy the more expensive dryer because it had 10
more features (10 features I knew we’d never use), my wife is always looking
out for me. Even that duvet cover for the bed was <i>really</i> for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t you know you’ll be happy if your wife is happy?” she
said. “Happy wife, happy life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Now my wife was proposing something else that was good for
me -- rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“How do you expect to get better if you don’t let your body recuperate?”
she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
She didn’t have to tell me. I’m a huge fan of rest. Some
people look at sleep as something you do to relax. I look at it as an art form.
Beautiful things come out of sleep and relaxation -- great ideas, more energy, fantastic
trains of thought and an immune system with the troops and firepower capable of
fighting off a flu that, in my body, was currently looking like the attack on
Pearl Harbor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“OK, I’ll rest,” I promised my wife when my day off finally arrived.
But, like I said, she didn’t have to force me to sleep. Sleeping is my true
passion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That morning she woke
and announced her plans to take our 11-year-old son out for a full day of
Christmas shopping and errands, giving me all the peace I needed to rest and
recuperate. My wife is so thoughtful. Except she left me with myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Once she was up, I was up, and I was thinking about all the Christmas
shopping <i>I</i> had to finish. I was also thinking
of the nativity set I never got a chance to put up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i>That nativity is a
centerpiece for Christmas in our house,</i> I thought. <i>I can put that up real quick -- no problem. Then I’ll get back in bed and get
to that resting I know I need.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I waited for my wife and kid to depart and then I shot out
of bed and, without even changing my clothes, went to the garage for the
nativity set. It took me less than two hours to set up the scene of the birth
of Christ. All I needed was an extension cord to power the Christmas star in
the sky, and then I’d rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
One quick thing always leads to another real quick thing. My
plan was to run down to the store real quick and get an extension cord. How can
you not have a Christmas star in a nativity scene?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Once I’m up and on the move, I have a hard time getting back
to sleep. And once I’m at the store for an extension cord for the nativity, I
have to knock down some Christmas shopping. I’d be quick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I saw the video game my son wanted, only it was for the
wrong video game system. I’d have to go elsewhere to get the one we needed. I
could do that -- the video game store was only across town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
While I was on my way to another store to get another gift
real quick, my wife called. I couldn’t let her know I was out of bed. I
answered like I’d been sleeping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Um, he-llo,” I said in a groggy voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“How are you feeling?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Good. I was just sleeping. Rest is definitely what I
needed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m calling you from home where you’re not sleeping, not from
my cell,” my wife informed me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Well,” I said with a few coughs I couldn’t control, “I got my
Christmas shopping done (cough), and I put up the nativity, although I still
have to plug in the Christmas star (cough, cough), which I can do real quick when
I get home with the extension cord I just got (ha-chew!).”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“But now the day is over, you haven’t rested, and you sound
worse than before.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
She was right. I had to get home, eat dinner real quick (I’d
light up the Christmas star without her knowing), and get to bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Before I knew it, morning arrived and my alarm was screaming
in my ear. One quick snooze leads to another real quick snooze. And once I’m
down and that sick, I have a hard time getting back up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I snoozed my alarm way too many times. I barely made it to
work on time. By the time Christmas showed up, I felt fine and totally capable
of helping my son play with the toys he got. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The real problem is that wives have our best interests at
heart. My wife was going to make me get that rest I knew I still needed. So on
New Year’s Day, my next day off, I made plans to sleep all day. First, I’ll take
down the Christmas decorations. I’ll be real quick.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b>-December 2014</b></i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-5902787256034295142017-12-01T12:34:00.001-08:002017-12-01T12:50:14.275-08:00Road Trip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZ4seR061Mn8U_aEU0_oljxDqQXcDsoUqmt5FKymPsFN5NC8NQckMUkRPc1jFTcpnEJA71SU5sFj0Yr5xoMfteb4UIgW75NqsdYT4zxHo9GIbAiuTpGfV7zeBzS42gbAXZ0SR1-IKF1E/s1600/Road+Trip+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZ4seR061Mn8U_aEU0_oljxDqQXcDsoUqmt5FKymPsFN5NC8NQckMUkRPc1jFTcpnEJA71SU5sFj0Yr5xoMfteb4UIgW75NqsdYT4zxHo9GIbAiuTpGfV7zeBzS42gbAXZ0SR1-IKF1E/s320/Road+Trip+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was going well -- too
well. So three vicious dogs ruined it by charging my 11-year-old son from
behind a fence and practically eating him and his bicycle whole. I knew there’d
be trouble along the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I want you to be able
to take care of yourself. I just wanna help,” I told my son before the trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This is my boy’s last year
as an elementary school student. Next year he’s off to junior high.</span> And while
he rides his bike to and from the elementary school, the junior high campus is
a lot farther from home and the route seems a bit sketchy.</div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I think we’re gonna
have to drive you next year,” I told the kid when the discussion came up. “I’ve
driven to the junior high before, and some portions of the way don’t even have
sidewalks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daaaaad</i>,” my son said in that tone of voice that let me know he was
almost a teen. “I already know there’s a bike trail to the junior high. My
friends told me it was back near the wash.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Great</span></i><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">! I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
bike trail! Near the wash, though? Great. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
I was about to call off
any consideration for riding when my wife, coincidently, broke in with a story
about some friends who wouldn’t let their 20-something-year-old kids fly alone
for the holidays.</div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I flew by myself when I
was 13,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Come to think of it,
when I was my son’s age, I rode my bike longer distances and in worse areas
than this alleged bike trail near the wash to the junior high.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So it was set -- my son
and I would ride this trail beforehand and check it out. Over the weekend, we got
the bikes in tip-top shape, packed some sandwiches and a couple bottles of electrolyte-enhanced
water, cued up the GPS on my smart phone, and set out on our odyssey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Right away my son wanted
me to know he was old enough to lead the mission.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m steering this ship,”
I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“But, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daaaaad</i>,” he said in that tone of voice again.
“I already know how to get there. My friends told me. We have to go <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s good you’ve got
confidence,” I said, “but I’ve got GPS. We go <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At one point, he insisted
I was taking the wrong path. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Fine, you want the
reigns?” I said. “Lead away. But when you get lost, don’t come crying to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It wasn’t long before he
knew he’d made a mistake. He simply turned around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Why isn’t he freaking out?</span></i><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> I wondered. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When you’re lost, it’s natural to flip your
lid.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Do you want me to
retake the lead?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“No, we’re almost
there,” he said with even more confidence than before. That’s when the three
vicious dogs attacked from behind that fence. Maybe they were only pugs, but
they were snarling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My son got a whiff of
death as he hit his brakes, swerved into some trashcans and smacked a tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He stripped off his
helmet and searched for blood. “I hope I don’t have a concussion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You barely even tapped
your head,” I said. “And you were wearing a helmet. Where do you come up with
these gross exaggerations?” I asked, trying to shoo off the “hounds from Hell.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Clearly I needed to lead
our exploration again. Cleary I’d be driving him to school next year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I knew there’d be
trouble along the way,” I said, constantly checking on my boy behind me as we
rode on. “You don’t just have to know where you’re going. You also have to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">look</i> where you’re going. </span>You never know
when dogs will jump out like that or a car will come flying out of a driveway--”</div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Dad, watch out for that
light post!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The crash reminded me of
the Light Post Incident of ’88. I was my son’s age, constantly checking on my
younger brother riding his bike behind me on our way home from school one day, when
I clipped a light post, spraining my right wrist. I rode home left-handed. I
survived. But I remember hiding the sprain from my parents for fear they
wouldn’t let me ride to school anymore. I could handle it. My son could, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“OK,” I told my boy.
“Lead us home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He took the role
seriously and led with great ability. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The wash wasn’t so bad
either. It looked like an enchanted lagoon next to the washes I remember as a
kid, but my boy was on alert for any danger that might’ve been lurking within. I
couldn’t help but miss the baby my boy used to be, always in need of my help.</span><br />
<br />
As we turned down our
street, we passed a lady with a stroller, struggling to calm her really loud, bawling
kid. I couldn’t help but be glad my kid was growing up.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b><br /></b></i>
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b>-December 2014</b></i></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-67993504555663301702017-12-01T11:34:00.004-08:002017-12-01T11:34:52.051-08:00Feast of Burden
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEdmYBVlpAaFjfoQ6753njf2RTeiVVHemRr3HPNDy_hWOl-f1m9TiZ4RumA74ynr_Z0eb5s6-uXmvHCdrBWLDmZ0-pWlvzAN_XNFy99E61LoxMH_f4DvWbi4hlcvs7L2O8ebuDceo_TBo/s1600/Feast+of+Burden+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1235" data-original-width="1600" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEdmYBVlpAaFjfoQ6753njf2RTeiVVHemRr3HPNDy_hWOl-f1m9TiZ4RumA74ynr_Z0eb5s6-uXmvHCdrBWLDmZ0-pWlvzAN_XNFy99E61LoxMH_f4DvWbi4hlcvs7L2O8ebuDceo_TBo/s320/Feast+of+Burden+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Overeating makes no sense to me. Unless there’s competition
involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My younger brother and I used to try to <span style="color: red;"><u><a href="http://www.michaelpicarellacolumn.com/2008/03/lets-eat.html">out-eat</a></u></span> one another
at buffets and Thanksgiving feasts, and we’d eat so much we’d make ourselves
sick for days to follow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But it’s been years since we’ve been to a buffet or spent a
Thanksgiving together due to the more than 1,000 miles between us, so now I
simply enjoy my meals -- I don’t stuff myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, you can Skype Uncle Tom on Thanksgiving and then we
can finally see who eats the most,” my 11-year-old son said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’d told my boy about past food fights between my brother
and me. He wanted to see, firsthand, one of these showdowns -- to the death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Can you imagine Skyping a Thanksgiving meal? No civilized,
decent human being would consider it. And then God created brothers.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My brother was definitely up for Skyping a feast-off. He
never got over being younger than me. I certainly couldn’t back down or I’d be
undoing all the “older brother” work I’d put in over the years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
And so began the final engagement of war between my brother
and me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My stomach had other thoughts. It was used to consuming
human-sized portions. Going back to oversized helpings just for Thanksgiving
would be like running the L.A. Marathon with no training. My stomach was so out
of shape it couldn’t even handle double-decker burgers anymore.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
To test the waters, I went to <span style="color: red;"><u><a href="http://www.michaelpicarellacolumn.com/2016/04/taking-stand.html">Fatburger</a></u></span> and ordered their
famous XXXL burger. I couldn’t even pick that thing up. It was magnificent. A
crowd gathered to watch it eat <i>me</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
By this point my brother was most likely eating entire
hamburger stands. He was younger, had more stamina. I thought about starving
myself like I’d done in past campaigns to see if an uncontrollable hunger would
turn me into a beast. I tried to turn down a meatball sandwich from my favorite
Italian deli.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It’s amazing what man can do if he puts his mind to it. I
just couldn’t put my mind to it. I couldn’t look that beautiful sandwich in the
roll with all that provolone cheese and say no. That fortress of
marinara-covered meatballs seemed more rewarding than beating my younger brother
in a battle of appetites -- <i>again</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So I ate the sandwich. It was so good I had another. I thought
I’d never get full, and like a ferocious beast I kept devouring more food. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then something magical happened -- I got so full, and so
sick that I wanted more. It’s like at the gym when the pain is a sign of gain. I
was taking in so much food I don’t think I was taking in any air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I can’t talk, I’m not breathing, hand me another pizza,” I
told the guy at the deli. When I ran out of money to buy more food, I went home
and stuffed my face with anything we had in the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i>A whole loaf of bread?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The thought of it hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i>You call that pain? Two
loaves, please.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I ate my wife’s wheat bread, which I usually hate next to my
sourdough. Together, though, it wasn’t so bad. The last few slices didn’t even
have taste. I just shoveled everything and then anything in. By Thanksgiving I
was going to be a legitimate dumpsite for anything that’d fit in my mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The local media would break the story of my victory, and
when I made national headlines, my brother would still be looking for a knife
to carve the turkey. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Unfortunately, the
ferocious beast in me scurried off and left me in so much agony I couldn’t even
cry. I knew then I’d done permanent damage to my digestive system. The medical
community would have to invent a new doctor to surgically remove the food I’d
swallowed, and I’d be the spokesperson for a new disorder that makes the act of
eating impossible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I had to call my brother and call off the feast-off. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I couldn’t get to the phone. I was <i>that</i> weighed down. My son brought me the cordless and before I could
dial, it rang. It was my brother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He was also marooned to the floor, his daughter holding his
cell to his own food-stuffed face so he could talk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m calling off the Thanksgiving Day battle,” he said. “I
won’t eat again till Christmas.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I agreed, but I said in my older-brotherly way, “Guess you
lose in a forfeit, then, huh?”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b>-November 2014</b></i></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-3962081501118259382017-07-26T11:28:00.001-07:002017-07-26T11:33:04.284-07:00Houston, We Have a Piece of Candy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lnB70DJnwyGD4WRfMKR4uNnIWdygWazBP0zhJ8bBzUR8m2UkK31paCeY_1kV362EbpDx90mTRfv9WqNvpb925iWaJ4D1wRuTNCpgQOZAOHtHLDtIxqXDiQ3YwhMS3s5S3K_fuui0MjI/s1600/Houston+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lnB70DJnwyGD4WRfMKR4uNnIWdygWazBP0zhJ8bBzUR8m2UkK31paCeY_1kV362EbpDx90mTRfv9WqNvpb925iWaJ4D1wRuTNCpgQOZAOHtHLDtIxqXDiQ3YwhMS3s5S3K_fuui0MjI/s320/Houston+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">Candy! Glorious, magnificent Halloween candy!</span></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My 11-year-old son and I were polishing off the last of Halloween’s
rewards in the kitchen when a small Sweet Tart dropped out of my hand, bounced
off the counter, hit the floor, spun in a few circles and then rolled under the
dishwasher.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Stupid, ridiculous candy!</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, you’re not gonna go all crazy, are you?” my son asked. “It’s
only a tiny piece of candy.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I didn’t want him to think his dad was crazy. I was willing to
leave it alone.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s nothing,” my wife said. “You know how many things I’ve
dropped under there?”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Houston,” I said, “we have a piece of candy and other stuff under
the dishwasher.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I was on the kitchen floor with a metal coat hanger, trying to hook
the Sweet Tart and anything else under there. The dishwasher, unlike the stove,
has very little room to maneuver underneath. And while the refrigerator can be
moved easily, the dishwasher is securely mounted with lots of hardware.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife couldn’t bear to take on my stress. She was already
worried about whether or not she’d receive her National Board Certification,
which is an advanced teaching credential that involved quite a lengthy process
to complete. She was to learn about her fate in that matter the following
morning.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Well? Can you feel anything under there?” she asked.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife is quite talented and was about to take on my anxieties as
well as her own. I couldn’t allow it. I pretended to find a few things underneath
and we all went to sleep.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re kidding me,” my wife heard me say in the middle of the
night. But I wasn’t talking in my sleep. I was in the kitchen, under the
dishwasher, talking to the machinery. I <i>had</i>
to get that Sweet Tart.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Take a break,” my wife yelled from our bedroom.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“If that piece of candy under there doesn’t get a break,” I
hollered back. “I don’t get a break.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife was up and so stressed she was actually pacing. Even our
son, who could sleep through a series of mortar blasts in his bedroom, was
awake and making a fuss about the noise.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
How could I be so insensitive? I mean, my wife had no control of
her dilemma -- her work for that certification had long been turned in, so
there was nothing she could do. But my dilemma was so petty.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“OK, quiet down, let’s stay cool, people,” I told my family with
my coat hanger still protruding from under the dishwasher. “Let’s work the
problem. Let’s not make things worse by guessing.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re serious?” my wife said, annoyed. “You’re gonna quote ‘Apollo
13’ here?”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
She stormed off.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, Mom is worried about her National Boards,” my son told me.
Then he stormed off after her.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We just lost the moon,” I said to my coat hanger.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I went for my wife. I comforted her, told her she'd pass her certification -- I wove a tapestry of proofs so believable and so beautiful that she forgot about my obsession with the candy. What I think really did trick was her going online to see if her National Boards scores were posted early. They were. She passed!</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We all celebrated late into the late, late night. When everyone
was back, snug in their beds, with visions of sugar-plums and National Board
Certifications dancing in their heads, I sprang from my bed and out to the
garage for my tools.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My tools! My top quality, major brand tools! I’d long wanted to
repair something -- anything -- with those tools. Now I was going to use those
babies to remove my dishwasher and retrieve that candy.<br />
<br />
<i>Where's all that water coming from? </i>I wondered as I worked.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I was headed toward the worst home improvement disaster of my
career as homeowner. Then I repeated aloud a line Ed Harris’ character spoke in
“Apollo 13.”<br />
<br />
“With all due respect, I believe this is going to be our finest hour.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My tools -- my glorious,
magnificent tools -- came through. I pulled the dishwasher, fixed the water
hose I’d knocked loose, rescued the candy and other assorted items that had
rolled under, and had everything back in order by daylight. My wife and I both
had successes that night.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
As I was grabbing the last screw for the reinstallation, it
dropped out of my hand, bounced off the counter, hit the floor, spun in a few
circles and then rolled under the dishwasher. Then it rolled back out. <i>Whew!</i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I went for the screw but bumped it deep under the appliance where
it remained.<br />
<br />
Once again, I called Mission Control aloud: <span style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: 16px;">“</span>Houston, I don<span style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: 16px;">’</span>t care anymore.<span style="font-family: 'times new roman'; font-size: 16px;">”</span> And I went to bed.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b>-November 2014</b></i>Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-61981915372509644292017-07-21T10:43:00.001-07:002017-07-21T10:44:26.657-07:00Halloween Magic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5STRfJNS7yfB31LyfGYOwWKBZ6WWWAA8HDhJt4kOxHvMIVAscw6nGjZZBvtQ-cdSJ0gm9LtsTvNNoV6eNjQ3z2q_v84iBs7PVmZlbGL8-2i6wZPRC_JeiJn-zXTk-zYpPBzRJ_l8Ags0/s1600/Halloween+Magic+FINAL+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1218" data-original-width="1600" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5STRfJNS7yfB31LyfGYOwWKBZ6WWWAA8HDhJt4kOxHvMIVAscw6nGjZZBvtQ-cdSJ0gm9LtsTvNNoV6eNjQ3z2q_v84iBs7PVmZlbGL8-2i6wZPRC_JeiJn-zXTk-zYpPBzRJ_l8Ags0/s320/Halloween+Magic+FINAL+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My 11-year-old son recently got over being scared to death,
and he can finally endure scary movies. He tells me his nightmares are even
fun.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So I can really lay it on this Halloween.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The magic of Halloween is the frights, the mystery, the
unknown. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“There’s a house,” I told him. “I don’t even like to walk
past it. The yard is overgrown and the house is dark even in the daylight. On
Halloween night, there’s finally a sign of life there -- a lone jack-o’-lantern
in the window. Its frown is haunting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“One Halloween,” I continued, “many years ago, that
jack-o’-lantern wasn’t frowning. It was grinning. Only it didn’t start the
night that way. When most everyone else had retuned to their homes for the night,
the last trick-or-treaters of the night crept up to the door. A sweet old lady
answered. No, she didn’t turn them into toads. She offered them a table of
Halloween treats -- cakes and candies, cookies and desserts.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“The trick-or-treaters loaded up their sacks, wished the old
lady a happy Halloween, and were on their way. They didn’t even notice the
change in the jack-o’-lantern’s now mischievous face as they stepped off the
porch. But that’s not all that changed -- the treats in the kids’ bags turned
into bugs and lizards. And the treats they’d already eaten . . . Well, you can
guess what happened.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
There was no debate with my son about this house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We hafta go!” my son announced with great excitement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That’s all he and his friends talked about for days. My wife
said our son’s friends were making fun of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“He’s too old to believe in haunted houses and witches and
Halloween magic,” she told me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I didn’t tell his friends the story,” I replied. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He</i> told them. And they’re not making fun
of him. They’re making fun of <i>me</i>.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Regardless, there was nothing we could do at that point. The
gauntlet had been thrown down, the damage done, the magic in their minds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Does your dad really believe that story?” my son’s friends
asked him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No, he just likes to have fun,” he told them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah, “ I interrupted to save my son from humiliation.
“It’s all for fun. But, just so you know, there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a frowning jack-o’-lantern in the front window, and nobody <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> goes up to that house. Those parts <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> true.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The kids laughed. I was bummed, defeated -- my son was too
old to believe in Halloween magic, not old enough to appreciate the true
meaning of Halloween. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> the true
meaning of Halloween?” my wife asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Candy!” I said with new realization. Halloween could still
be fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So I challenged my son and his friends to beat an old record
of filling two pillowcases with candy. I’d never even filled one, but had heard
of a kid who actually came home with two, even after snacking on treats
throughout his travels in the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That house I was telling you about,” I said, “I really wasn’t
lying -- nobody goes there. Ever. That’s why you’ll score big. The old lady
there will be so happy to see you she’ll empty all her treats into your bags.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The kids were brimming with anticipation, salivating for the
full-size candy bars I promised the old lady would give.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Yet I wondered -- when darkness sets in on Halloween night,
would my previous tale have more impact? It’s one thing to make fun of such a
story in the daylight in the comfort of friendly company. It’s another thing to
walk down a dark path on Halloween night toward a big, lurking house, the cold
air creeping up the back of your spine, the shadows from the trees obscuring
any crouching creatures, and with the thought of potential horrors up ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
What would my son and his friends do? Did they have the guts
to go up to that house? Or would they run?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
As I’d told my wife previously, the gauntlet had been thrown
down, the damage done, the magic in their minds. On the way to school earlier
this week, my son and his friends stopped by that dark house and knocked on the
door. The old lady answered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“My dad says you’re a witch.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’ll tell you this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i>
don’t have the guts to go up to that house now.<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><br /></b></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b>-October 2014</b></i></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-50348205468613274122017-07-20T11:11:00.003-07:002017-07-20T11:12:25.329-07:00Scareless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8nBuTG6SvdoWuIgxBI1L32c-w3NQpCV02-08QpIkHVKLqBVQyEwTN5czlifuLfcVHXa9-Ac8W9xaBkMxXS61Dn5PvxoIg0LIcONPttHzQyDHiyxCW5Y0OPTWGX5P-5A9dkmcu0QSal50/s1600/Scareless+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8nBuTG6SvdoWuIgxBI1L32c-w3NQpCV02-08QpIkHVKLqBVQyEwTN5czlifuLfcVHXa9-Ac8W9xaBkMxXS61Dn5PvxoIg0LIcONPttHzQyDHiyxCW5Y0OPTWGX5P-5A9dkmcu0QSal50/s320/Scareless+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son, now 11 years old, used to be fearless. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then I took him into a haunted house one Halloween. I
carelessly brought my wife along. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The kid was doing gloriously with all the scares. When my
wife screamed and grabbed onto me for protection, our son decided he needed to
get out of there no matter who or what he needed to run over. He’s been afraid
of anything frightening ever since.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I think it’s time to not be afraid anymore,” I told my son this
Halloween season. “I think it’s time we watch a scary movie. And Mom’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> invited this time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, is this movie rated R?” the kid asked as I put in the
DVD.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah, so?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“So then it’s not appropriate for me,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I was watching this stuff when I was in third grade,” I
told him. “Aside from all the blood, a guy getting his eyes pushed into his
head, and bugs eating a kid alive, it’s totally fine. It’s Halloween time -- it’s
fun!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Right away I could see the kid was really getting into it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Why aren’t you watching?” I asked. “This part is great!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This part is gross, Dad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re gonna miss it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Tell me when I have.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Seriously, how can you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
enjoy these movies?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This is dumb, Dad, why doesn’t he run? That thing’s gonna
get him if he just sits there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s the fun of it all,” I told him. “Doesn’t it get you
all worked up?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That thing’s gonna pop out any time now -- AHHHHHHH!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Open your eyes, here comes the pushing-in-his-eyes part.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The kid wasn’t getting it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Wait,” he said, “so the Halloween mask itself is evil and
will kill people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Now you’re catching on. Isn’t it great?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What are you guys watching?” my wife asked when she unexpectedly
appeared into the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s a scary movie, Mom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This isn’t appropriate for an 11-year-old,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I saw this movie when I was 8,” I told her to calm her
down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
At the scene where the bugs devour the kid like he was a
fun-size candy bar, my son allowed himself the pleasure of watching.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Eeeeew, is that real?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What do you think?” I said. “Of course it’s real!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No it’s not,” my wife assured our son. “Wait, don’t go in
there. She’s gonna get -- AHHHHH!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife went for the remote control to turn the movie off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No, not yet, Mom,” my son shouted. “They’re kissing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I turned it off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Why is death OK, but kissing is not?” the boy asked. “It’s
just love. Killing is a sin.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“OK, the killing is fake,” I admitted. “But that love stuff
is serious.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Maybe we needed to wait a little longer before introducing
the kid to scary movies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That night, my wife woke me up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Did you hear that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This is your fault -- you made me watch that dumb scary
movie and now I’m hearing things.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After investigation, I discovered my son in the living room
watching the rest of the scary movie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I couldn’t sleep, Dad. This movie gave me nightmares.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Then why are you watching the end of it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I turned it off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Wait, it’s almost over,” the kid stopped me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“But you said you were having nightmares.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah,” he said, “isn’t it great?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Mission accomplished. Yes! My son’s ready for Halloween
haunted houses again.<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><br /></b></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b>-October 2014</b></i></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-38922748765755783422016-06-03T09:37:00.001-07:002017-07-20T11:12:58.209-07:00Italian-Amer-enting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4WbekRK2HDl57fTy9rNlED5lVBUu_mjObWPv9cVAQR000FXjMI9a83n0vVTeofd2VHf39-1D4uiU6n177SreLH5CnI5McDCf1RJChh92tCHq6JpLolB_4X4hxr5vBXwV050FxjhZA9g/s1600/Italian-Amer-enting+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4WbekRK2HDl57fTy9rNlED5lVBUu_mjObWPv9cVAQR000FXjMI9a83n0vVTeofd2VHf39-1D4uiU6n177SreLH5CnI5McDCf1RJChh92tCHq6JpLolB_4X4hxr5vBXwV050FxjhZA9g/s320/Italian-Amer-enting+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I have Italian-American parents, and they have a unique way
of parenting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My book, “Everything Ever After (Confessions of a Family
Man),” is a collection of stories from this column. My parents were more than
thrilled about it, and I was more than thrilled that they were so thrilled.
It’s not that they’re not supportive; on the contrary, they’re very
encouraging. But there’s an Italian way of handling children.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What’s the publisher doing to get your book out there?” my
mom asked. She decided it wasn’t enough and asked me to send her 300 copies of
the book so she could do better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My dad gave me praise . . . And then he told me how I
could’ve done more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You should’ve written about being Italian-American,” he
said. “We got the best food, the best painters, Frank Sinatra, ‘The Godfather.’
A.P. Giannini of Bank of America financially rebuilt San Francisco after the
1906 quake when no other bank would loan money. He helped Disney fund the
completion of “Snow White” and was instrumental in Hollywood and in
California’s wine business.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, I write a family humor column,” I said. “How do I put
that kind of thing in there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re</i> the
writer,” he told me. “I’m just giving you ideas.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
A couple weeks ago, my 11-year-old son came home excited about
a science test he took. His grade was barely proficient.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Aren’t you proud of me?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yes,” I answered. Then the Italian parent came out in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>. “But you only barely made
proficient.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why can’t anything be
good enough?</i> I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why do I always
want more? Why do I feel that everything can always be better? I’m gonna have
to do better about that.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
From then on I tried to look at everything through new,
everything-is-good-enough eyes. And it worked. Nothing could be better than
what I had. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But something was missing. It’s hard to not want more. You
know, some people think a good case of greed is healthy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Greed, for lack of a better word, is good,” says Michael
Douglas’s character in the movie “Wall Street.” “Greed is right. Greed works.
Greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit.
Greed, in all of its forms -- greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge --
has marked the upward surge of mankind.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So why is it bad to want more out of life? I couldn’t stop
wanting more for my son, for my family, for my life. Saying I wouldn’t want
more was like saying I wouldn’t bleed if I got cut.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No one’s complaining about you being greedy,” my wife said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> was
complaining. I guess that’s the Italian in me, and it had a chokehold on me -- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Am I doing enough for my family, am I living
up to my expectations in life, can I do better? </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My stress went to my lower back. I couldn’t even walk.
That’s when complaining comes in handy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You gotta get it off your chest,” my wife often tells me
when I get back pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But that’d reinforce the “never good enough” attitude I so wanted
to avoid. I wanted to be happy with what I had.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We also got Robert De Niro,” I recalled my dad saying
earlier. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
De Niro was great in “Godfather II.” Thinking of him in that
movie made me realize something we Sicilians possess that pushes us to overcome
adversity, to do better, to succeed: Revenge! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
In the final scenes with De Niro in “The Godfather Part II,”
his character goes back to Sicily to avenge the death of his parents and older
brother, and become the Godfather. I needed a revenge plot like that. Call me
greedy, but I just wanted more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So I got even with my mom -- I sent her those 300 books so
she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to promote it. And I got back
at my dad -- I put that Italian stuff in my writing after all (see the
beginning of this story, Dad). My mom and dad’s “more” turned out to be more
for me in the end -- more books sales, my dad off my back. And I helped them
feel better, too, so I could feel better about my greed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I still had one last confrontation -- one with my son. I’d
make him pay for barely getting proficient on that science test. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Is it worth it?” I could hear my wife say. “I mean, you’ve
won. You wanna wipe everybody out?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I don’t feel I have to wipe everybody out,” I could reply.
“Just my enemies, that’s all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I helped my son study for that next science test until his
brains came to a slow boil. He aced the test. </div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
See? Greed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> good. I felt much better. Even my back pain had gone away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The next weekend, my son called me to the backyard. He
showed me how he could hide the dog’s bone anywhere and the dog could find it
by smell every time. I was amazed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son barked at the dog to find it faster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Take it easy on him,” I said. “Where’s all this aggression
coming from?”<br />
<br />
Evidently, that Italian parent is in my son, too.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-October 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-22253457195928783922016-05-17T14:09:00.001-07:002017-07-20T11:14:19.260-07:00Flea and Tick Killer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDB7gnydQFdiUBhRtLAzuepGJ8qdQ9zgqWpkKIoftOWMeLFO7mZn04ruGRskt48IMdKIjspOMQKBaYN08phZw8mwMGnGhe16UYHqjl_YUvj2_57PThKre4MI96As41NKFqByE17AKKDlk/s1600/Flea+and+Tick+Killer+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDB7gnydQFdiUBhRtLAzuepGJ8qdQ9zgqWpkKIoftOWMeLFO7mZn04ruGRskt48IMdKIjspOMQKBaYN08phZw8mwMGnGhe16UYHqjl_YUvj2_57PThKre4MI96As41NKFqByE17AKKDlk/s320/Flea+and+Tick+Killer+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I'm afraid to talk back to Siri, the iPhone’s intelligent
personal assistant, for fear she’ll give my phone a virus. I play it safe,
follow the rules, never putting weird things like pineapple on my pizza.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So the other afternoon before going to work, I applied that
monthly flea and tick treatment to my pet beagle. I followed the rules
vigilantly, step by step, because, after all, that stuff’s intended to go into
the dog’s bloodstream and I didn’t need it accidentally going into mine. (If
you use a flea and tick treatment on your animal, don’t be alarmed when I write
that it goes into the bloodstream. It doesn’t. Only I didn’t know it at the
time.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The cap exploded in my hand. Flea and tick treatment all
over my skin. Into my pores. Very little on the dog. And I knew for a fact it
had entered my bloodstream.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I panicked, dropped the tube of treatment on the ground and
reached for the package to read the first aid part. I stopped my dog before he
could lick any of the treatment off the garage floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Persons applying this
product must wear household latex gloves.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Now where was that step in the steps? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If on skin or
clothing: Take off contaminated clothing. </i>(I interpreted that as a
direction to burn my clothes.)<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Wash skin
immediately with plenty of water for 20 minutes.</i> (Twenty minutes!) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Call poison control or doctor for treatment
advice.</i> (Biohazard containment?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Not knowing what else to do, I worried. I considered my
40-minute commute to work -- I had 41 minutes until I needed to be on the
clock. I worried more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Five minutes of hand washing with plenty of hot water (the
faucet at full power) felt like two hours. Have you ever washed your hands for
five <i>real</i> minutes? My son turned 11
years old in less time.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My fingers tingled. I knew then the contagion was in my
veins and on its way to my heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“If this is a medical emergency, please hang up and dial
911.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I thought about it, but an intense woman from Poison Control
answered and ordered me to give her my name, age, weight -- she practically
conducted a physical over the phone. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cough!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Excuse me, not to interrupt,” I interrupted, “but I’m gonna
be six minutes late for work, which is actually a big deal, and I just need to
know if I’m blowing this thing out of proportion.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This is a very serious matter, sir,” the lady shot back.
“We haven’t seen this treatment on people, so we don’t know what to expect. You
know, you’re supposed to wear gloves when using this stuff.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
By the time I hung up the phone with No-Help-At-All, I was
on my way to being 15 minutes late to work and I’d only accomplished half of
the 20-minute hand washing I was supposed to be doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I got back to scrubbing my fingerprints clean off anyway. I
had my boss on speakerphone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Of all days, this is the worst day to be late,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Twenty minutes tops,” I promised, even though I really
needed 40 to do the hand washing right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Ten.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Ten minutes wasn’t going to work at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Perfect,” I said. “See you then.” And I continued melting
my hands down to glue.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son got home from school, wondered why I was still there.
I told him the story. He asked how long I’d been washing my hands. I told him
18 minutes straight. He said I wouldn’t be able to keep my promise to my boss
about only being 10 minutes late. So, after 19 minutes of washing my hands, I
stopped. My son feared that the skipped minute could be the difference between
life or death. He’s such a worrier.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s see, death or
being late to work? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’d just have to die later. I couldn’t waste another minute
washing -- I had to get to work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
While on the road, I called my wife and told her my hands
fell off in the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Your hands didn’t fall off,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Not yet, but they better before I get to work so I can have
a decent excuse for being so late.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My hands never fell off. I showed up 51 minutes after my
shift began and my boss was fine with it. But my fingers were still tingling, so
at lunch I researched the treatment to see what might be going on. I discovered
that it doesn’t go into the bloodstream. It goes into the sweat glands.
Magically my fingers stopped tingling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Even after rubbing shoulders with death, I’m still the same nervous
guy I was in the beginning. I’ve never had fleas or ticks before, but I’ll be
applying that treatment to my body again in a month’s time. Just to play it
safe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-October 2014</i></b></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i>WARNING: Please do not apply animal flea-and-tick treatment to your own human skin. The final statement of this story was the author's shameful attempt at humor.</i></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-49572133662015323172016-05-17T13:07:00.001-07:002016-05-17T13:11:54.918-07:00Tooth for a Tooth, Eye for School Supplies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOfHTqwAWUJYkm7MB2TycpHkVYyxV679YUpZXpTD_OKksidmhXocDoFBBPEHeA3zqPbK23uBEcXxA3OJIiJxMwLVFLTadA1QDJP1fI44_XGd9lPWluj-LL4TGTUlJRnEAjwIU9dPbyk4/s1600/Eye+for+School+Supplies+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOfHTqwAWUJYkm7MB2TycpHkVYyxV679YUpZXpTD_OKksidmhXocDoFBBPEHeA3zqPbK23uBEcXxA3OJIiJxMwLVFLTadA1QDJP1fI44_XGd9lPWluj-LL4TGTUlJRnEAjwIU9dPbyk4/s320/Eye+for+School+Supplies+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
I don’t remember my elementary school sending home a list of
supplies to buy when I was a kid. From what I recall, my parents bought what
they thought I’d need.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I like to help out. My wife, I know, is very good-natured.
She’s an eighth-grade teacher, which says a lot right there. We’ve spent good
money on school supplies for her classroom. But why are we expected to buy
those same supplies for our son’s classroom when he’s not even the teacher?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’m referring to the reams of paper on the list we got from
school. And the boxes of tissue. And the bottles of hand sanitizer. None of
that stuff goes in my son’s pencil box. I was totally against it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We have to get it,” I told my wife and son. “It’s on the
list.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We can’t afford to buy that stuff for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> classroom, let alone for his,” my wife said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son added, “Guys, I think this list is just a suggestion.
My school can easily afford it. They just bought new handballs for the
playground last year.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I could see it all now: We don’t buy all the supplies on the
list, I drop my son off at school for his first day, and on my way back to my
car to drive home, I get stopped by the administration.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I wanna talk to you,” says one of the large men in the
group now surrounding me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I haven’t got time,” I respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Make time, Mr. Picarella.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
A black sedan with blacked-out windows pulls up, the back
door flies open in front of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What are you worried about?” Large Man 1 says to me, as I
fear what’s to come next. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. Get
in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The car takes me to the district building across town. Two
of the large men who stopped me at the school pull me into some sort of holding
chamber. Brick walls, no windows. One bright white light overhead. The large
men push me down into a chair at a table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
A powerful man enters, sits down with me. He doesn’t speak,
just stares at me. He motions to Large Man 2, who quickly produces a piece of
paper from his jacket pocket, hands it to Powerful Man.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It looks like the school supplies list, everything checked off
but the reams of paper, boxes of tissue and bottles of hand sanitizer I didn’t
pack with my son when I dropped him off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Powerful Man stares at the list, taps his fingers on the
table, every now and then looking up at me, examining my every expression. More
looking at the list. More tapping. More examining.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Your kid like recess?” he finally asks. Before I can
answer, he says, “That’s gone. He like field trips? More like trips to the
field to pick up trash now. How ‘bout his teacher -- the kid like her? From
this point on he reports to the janitor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I take the school supplies list. “I can run down to the
store and get the other things on this list.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You think so?” he says. “You think you can just pick and
choose what to buy on the list, insult us by not getting it all, make us feel
like the bad guys for asking for it, make us bring you down here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He turns to the large men, “Nicky, Joey, you think I wanted
to bring this guy down here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The large men nod.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Back to me, he says, “You think I went through changing your
son’s status from student to janitor’s assistant just to let you off the hook
that easily? Nah. You’re gonna pay. I not only want the supplies on that list
that you owe the classroom, but how does Room Dad sound? We also got a book
fair coming up, volunteers needed. And the Fall Dance needs chaperones. Wear
somethin’ nice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
This guy clearly doesn’t know me. Behind my friendly
exterior is a very, very—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No problem,” I say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
At the store, in front of all the school supplies on sale, I
stopped imaging what might happen if I didn’t buy everything on the list. I
wasn’t going to be the only parent in the school who didn’t buy reams of paper,
boxes of tissue and bottles of hand sanitizer for the classroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
On the first day, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wasn’t</i>
the only one. Everyone else skipped those items, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I dropped off my son, went back to my car, got in, drove
home. And that was that. No black sedan with blacked-out windows, no large men,
no threats.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t keep looking over my shoulder. I had the supplies
to the classroom before recess.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-September 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-13304177938517348572016-05-03T13:11:00.001-07:002016-05-03T13:17:58.643-07:00Alo-huh?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcMPoEKi8XCQ2A6smchB68s8PQl-KHdsEDKCF6XBiQ7jwAOAy2l3lbzIXxBjSeMeTGY9CIWBV8kxxBD8QKDCJDXtUfJ9DUT3_hC_NeEOldvs4ZxPejsuq2hpzCA16UOfh-rr5KmWZZcY/s1600/Alo-huh%253F+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcMPoEKi8XCQ2A6smchB68s8PQl-KHdsEDKCF6XBiQ7jwAOAy2l3lbzIXxBjSeMeTGY9CIWBV8kxxBD8QKDCJDXtUfJ9DUT3_hC_NeEOldvs4ZxPejsuq2hpzCA16UOfh-rr5KmWZZcY/s320/Alo-huh%253F+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
My family and I tried snorkeling in Hawaii like all of you highly
recommended. Thank you for the suggestion!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Normally I get seasick on small boats out at sea. But it was
my wife who was stressed out that she might get sick, so nervous and so anxious
that she couldn’t enjoy any of our time on vacation in Hawaii.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“There’s really nothing for you to worry about,” I told her.
“You didn’t get sick on the boat ride out to the USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor.
The boat ride out to the snorkeling spot is the exact same thing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I practically dragged her from our hotel to the dock. Once
we were aboard, she realized quite quickly that it was the exact same thing as
the boat ride at Pearl Harbor. Only it wasn’t the exact same thing for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wait, what? I’m sick?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My stomach turned for shore as soon as my lead foot hit the
deck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Maybe you were right,” my wife said. “Maybe there’s really
nothing for me to worry about.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Meanwhile I was freaking out. I thought of all the ways I
could jump off the boat without spoiling the experience for my wife and
11-year-old son.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This is gonna be fun,” I said as the boat pulled away. So
much for getting off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I had three hours ahead of me at sea -- one hour for
snorkeling and two more for a follow-up lunch on the ocean. My stomach would
make me pay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Meet the antagonist of the story -- the catamaran. The
catamaran is a multi-hulled vessel that has two parallel hulls of equal size.
Experts say that the dual hulls allow for faster speeds and a more comfortable
ride with less heeling (when a boat leans over to one side) than a boat with a
single hull.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Sounds great, right? But even Goldfinger, arguably the most
sinister villain in the James Bond movie franchise, initially appeared ever so
kind and loving as he coddled his pet cat on his lap. How cute. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Catamarans, as we’ll soon find out, can exhibit (in other
words, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> exhibit) a slightly
unsettling (in other words, alarmingly inhumane) hobbyhorse motion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Up, down. Up, down. I dubbed the boat Goldfinger, as it
slowly tried to break me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Do you expect me to throw up?” I asked Goldfinger.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No, Mr. Bond,” the boat answered (it really did). “I expect
you to die.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My plan: Get off that horrible bobbing craft and into that
beautiful, calm water before anyone else. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You forgot your snorkeling gear,” my wife yelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh yeah</i>, I
thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">snorkeling. That’s why we’re
here.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The snorkeling was amazing. Even my wife and son, who were
initially alarmed by the idea of the masks blocking their nasal passages, soon
began to enjoy the experience. There were hundreds of fish and huge sea turtles
to see. All of you who highly recommended it were so right about it being a
must-try activity. But were any of you going to mention the part about drinking
seawater? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I swallowed a fish-tank-sized gulp of the Pacific Ocean. Not
amazing. And not an elixir for my seasickness. The water was still moving, too.
My body was going up and down in that hobbyhorse motion, and I don’t even have
hulls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My plan: Get back onto Goldfinger, at all costs. I
practically held my wife and kid underwater as I used them as anchors to push
myself back onboard. Then I told the captain I needed a boat to pick me up and
bring me to shore immediately. He told me that wasn’t an option even though I
told him I needed it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No ejector seat to shore?” I said under my breath as I
turned away. “You’re joking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I could almost hear him respond like Q in those Bond movies,
“I never joke about my work, 007.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Once everyone was back on the boat and lunch was served, my
wife asked if she could get me anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dramamine,” I said. “Shaken, not stirred.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then I left the party for the vacant bow of Goldfinger. I
had a boat to destroy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
No Dramamine, and two hours later I destroyed nothing. There’s
no climax to this story -- no exciting James Bond action set pieces or witty
Bond one-liners. I suffered, plain and simple. I overcame nothing. I was
miserable. It’s been a week and I still feel that dreadful hobbyhorse motion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So I highly recommend snorkeling to anyone who hasn't tried it. There's really nothing for <i>you</i> to worry about.</div>
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-August 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-48848564036058276252016-05-03T12:10:00.001-07:002016-05-20T11:48:23.094-07:00To Make a Long Story Sport<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQl5JjwP00B17ccWo3t2tv9vzNY6kbtFkMd5_WOLXJBxQNfGj4GHKazI4Ca75U4p0jwBVnEpEdEgZJE04OmjwgeyXVCq0NO6MmwhHzCdg-BMXR4hFb5JFvSpuVDc06YDCCQS1osK3VIA/s1600/To+Make+a+Long+Story+Sport+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQl5JjwP00B17ccWo3t2tv9vzNY6kbtFkMd5_WOLXJBxQNfGj4GHKazI4Ca75U4p0jwBVnEpEdEgZJE04OmjwgeyXVCq0NO6MmwhHzCdg-BMXR4hFb5JFvSpuVDc06YDCCQS1osK3VIA/s320/To+Make+a+Long+Story+Sport+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Sports -- my 11-year-old son never really got into any of
them. Until this year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
When he was younger, he played soccer and tried karate, and he would've been good at both if it wasn't for the whole athleticism part of it all. Then, a couple months
ago, he asked his mom and me if he could play basketball.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Are we doing our son a disservice by putting him in a sport
now, when most kids his age have already been playing since kindergarten? My
wife and I don’t want to see him fail miserably. We don’t want the other kids
knocking him down. We don’t want him riding the bench every game.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I really wanna play,” he told us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You know it costs money, right?” we asked. “Are you sure
you wouldn’t rather go to Disneyland or get a trunk full of video games? How
about a new car? We’ll go down to the DMV and see if we can get your driver’s
license early.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I really wanna play,” he repeated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We signed him up for a basketball clinic. It was more about
the fundamentals than competition. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The kids at the clinic were so much better than our son.
They could dribble, shoot; they knew plays already. And then there were the
kids in our son’s group -- my wife and I called them the Bad News Bears, and
they were truly awful. We couldn’t be more thrilled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Warm-up on the court before practice was one thing. Working
on individual skills with the coaches was probably the worst thing I could’ve
watched for my self-esteem as a parent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Can you please stick two sharpened No. 2 pencils through my
eyeballs?” I asked my wife, who took the easier way out and simply covered her
eyes with the palms of her hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Even the kids who looked bad played like members from the
USA Dream Team next to our son. I knew then their mothers had swallowed
basketballs during their pregnancies to get their kids started early.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife and I were right there with our son as he struggled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I want a left-right,” the coach yelled, “shot fake, jab
right, jab left, shot fake again, then penetrate the open lane for the basket.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
While all the other kids were laying up their shots, our son
was still in the backcourt trying to figure out the left-right step -- he kept
doing a left, right-left hop. The coach explained the move again. My wife and I
knew our kid wasn’t getting any of it. We were sidelined and totally helpless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t step in,” my wife whispered to me. “Don’t be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> parent.” Then she saw our boy do
another right-left step instead of left-right. “Left-right,” she shouted, “not
right-left!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Our fears, our anxieties and our nervousness were all
encapsulated in our son. My wife and I saw him suffer all the problems we’d
passed down to him through the genetic process. The three of us were being put through
an exercise of patience -- we needed instant results, and we had two chances of
getting them -- slim and none, as Laker announcer Chick Hearn used to say, and
slim just left the building.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This thing’s in the refrigerator,” I told my wife. “The
door’s closed, the lights are out and the Jell-O’s jigglin’. We’re doing our
kid a disservice. We put him in basketball too late in life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
A reputable source later told me that Lakers star basketball
player Kobe Bryant started playing when he was 12 years old, a hope that
starting our kid late in a sport wasn’t hopeless after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What reputable source?” my wife asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“One of the kids on the team.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“One of the kids on the Bad News Bears?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
According to a real source, Kobe actually started playing
when he was 3.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We’re doomed,” I said. “It’s time we end this. We gave it a
shot and he’s clearly given up. If he really loved the sport, he’d stick to it.
His heart wouldn’t let him quit.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s only been one day of practice,” our son told us in the
car. “I really wanna play.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So we let him play. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The first game -- nervous time. We watched our son work
really hard. He played solid defense. He got an assist, knocked down a free
throw and almost hit a jumper at the buzzer. By “almost” I mean he got the ball
off, but it was an airmail special.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Today our boy is better than when he started and progressing nicely. And while he's still behind on his skills, I no longer think we're doing a disservice. In fact, I think we're providing a service. My wife and I have offered up our child as a confidence booster to the other players every time they run him over.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-August 2014</i></b>Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-18394537031970875982016-04-19T13:54:00.001-07:002016-04-19T13:55:19.237-07:00Fetching Torpedoes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKsy_dWkYeyHW-DxQZXOl1WvSuV8OKau_CH_KTTx8wgB26MDjA9Cy3fLneUFN3Sd0DNf6Ye38p6TD3efEFEsMws7TozMDZIpmWdzk6hLBt81aKJUMumBAym7bPbKt8xbaK5wxJyB-dh8/s1600/Fetching+Torpedoes+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKsy_dWkYeyHW-DxQZXOl1WvSuV8OKau_CH_KTTx8wgB26MDjA9Cy3fLneUFN3Sd0DNf6Ye38p6TD3efEFEsMws7TozMDZIpmWdzk6hLBt81aKJUMumBAym7bPbKt8xbaK5wxJyB-dh8/s320/Fetching+Torpedoes+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It’s summertime and my 11-year-old son wants to do nothing
but three things -- swim, swim and after that swim some more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He’s part human. I think his love for swimming, however,
comes from the fish in him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I used to be just like him when I was his age. Living in
Southern California, I spent entire years in the pool. I definitely get it. But I have to draw the
line at midnight. Hey, you’ve gotta rest. And so does everyone else in the neighborhood who can hear him swimming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, can we go swimming?” he asked one summer night way past
11 p.m.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s too late,” I told him. “In other words, no loud
splashing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It was a glorious time, morning, noon and night. And then
the torpedoes hit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son’s friend tossed a dozen missile-shaped dive toys into
the pool for a game of fetch. The underwater dummy warheads plummeted deep into
the deep, deep end. Eight and a half long feet down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son can swim. He just can’t dive. He’s touched the bottom
of the pool once. With his foot. At least one of his toes brushed the floor of
the pool, though it might’ve been more like the wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After failing miserably to reach one torpedo, my son
retreated from the pool to his room where he’d never come out as long as he
lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You can’t just give up,” my wife told him, like that’d
change his mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“OK, can you teach me, then?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Back at the pool, my wife tossed a few torpedoes into the
pool and told my son to fetch. He dove in. He came right back up, sans
torpedoes.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I can’t get them,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We’re not leaving until you do,” my wife replied, going for
tough love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
They weren’t leaving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
This is where I entered. Picture Mr. Miyagi from “The Karate
Kid.” Time for a little “wax on, wax off” and “paint the fence,” but with
swimming. I sent the wife inside while the boy and I got to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You can’t just jump in and chase torpedoes,” I said. “Swim
over to the shallow end and go under for as long as you can hold your breath.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He wasn’t under long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I think I’m ready!” he announced when he came up for more
air than he could catch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He wasn’t close to ready. I ordered him to go underwater
again and to stay under until he was completely and absolutely out of air. Each
subsequent time he had to beat his previous time. I was conditioning him to be
comfortable while submerged, not panicked like I know he was when he was going
after the torpedoes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then we moved further and further out toward the deep end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Halfway out, my son announced that he had dreams of dying in
the water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“There’s more at stake here than mere life,” I said. “I told
Mommy that I’d have you fetching torpedoes within the hour. You’ll stay alive
until then.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I wasn’t worried. The kid was progressing nicely, gradually becoming
more comfortable with going underwater. Remember in “The Karate Kid” when
Daniel-san discovers he can defend himself by demonstrating “wax on, wax off”
and “paint the fence”? That’s where we were in the training.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I think I’m ready <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>!”
my son announced after being under water for 20 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He wasn’t close to ready. We kept working. He stayed under
water longer each time. He went deeper and deeper in the pool. When he finally
stopped saying he was ready, I told him he was ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Let’s go get some torpedoes,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The kid took a quick rest on a lounger at poolside. Then it
got real. He stepped into the water at the shallow end and swam out, way out to
the deep, deep end, slowly to save energy and air. He took some serious breaths
-- I’ve seen large air mattresses that could’ve been filled with just half of
those breaths. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then he just did it. He went down and came up with three
torpedoes, no problem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It was like the final finale in ‘The Karate Kid,’” I
bragged to my wife when we returned. “You know, where Daniel-san does the crane
kick? Aren’t you glad our son is in my dojo?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I should’ve known -- now
my wife thinks that, since I have the “winning formula,” I can do all the
teaching from here on out. No rest for me. Ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I presented her with this column. I told her that now she,
too, has the “winning formula.” </div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I shrugged. I'll take that rest after all.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-July 2014</i></b></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-19772683803546339402016-04-19T13:04:00.001-07:002016-11-11T07:55:08.650-08:00Gymdependence Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3SrtVTS08-YbBNHHD49JmXZHM1-4gGz-ClaaDbmjHNMEOM94cEzLnqoupw0pVOiboojz0l_8ZLiqOiQdCzGVDxFvX82lq-ozrWSZX4x3DlRs4Qwy7hmADxLgO_q_T4CD_7YQw_d13KM/s1600/Gymdependence+Day+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3SrtVTS08-YbBNHHD49JmXZHM1-4gGz-ClaaDbmjHNMEOM94cEzLnqoupw0pVOiboojz0l_8ZLiqOiQdCzGVDxFvX82lq-ozrWSZX4x3DlRs4Qwy7hmADxLgO_q_T4CD_7YQw_d13KM/s320/Gymdependence+Day+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It seemed like I was eating garbage lately. I felt
unhealthy, sluggish and grumpy all the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But there she was in the grocery store, so beautiful,
staring at me through the plastic window in the top of the cardboard box. They
called her the “All-American Pie” -- half apple, half cherry, and right in time
for the Fourth of July.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We gotta get her for the Fourth,” I declared to my wife and
10-year-old son. The boy was all for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“OK, Mr. I’m-Gonna-Eat-Healthier,” my wife replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I stopped her. “I merely made an
observation about my recent eating habits. I wasn’t establishing a mantra to
eat better.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But my loving wife, who’d noticed my junk food intake, was
genuinely concerned for my health. She told me I was getting older, that I
wasn’t exercising, and that I had the diet of a 10-year-old. I’d heard a speech
like that before, in October 1985, when my mom caught me finishing all my
Halloween candy in one night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“If you want company at the gym,” I said, “why don’t you
just ask?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
She loved the idea. She was calling my bluff. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
You see, in late ‘90s during our dating stage, I thought I’d
be charming and go with her to the gym. I tried to break some crazy mileage
record on the treadmill and I broke the treadmill instead. My soon-to-be wife
was so embarrassed she never asked me to go with her again, and I hoped she
never would.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s a great idea!” she said. “You should come with me to
the gym. I have a guest pass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s a horrible idea,” I fired back. “Do you remember the
treadmill incident of ’99? Everyone staring at us, gym personnel calling for
back-up and lots of tools over the loudspeaker?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The only way I’d win the argument was to give in. And make
her regret the decision. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Still, I fought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I exercise all the time,” I told her as we entered the
place. “I just did 10 push-ups last year.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
At the front counter, my wife asked how the guest pass worked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“So I can bring him whenever I want?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Notice she said whenever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i>
wants?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The lady behind the counter took my name. I waited for her
to find my gym rap sheet. She was sure to boot me out after reading about my
run-in with previous exercise equipment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Alright, you’re all set. Have a great workout.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
To the treadmills I went. My wife followed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I wasn’t breaking any mileage records. And I wasn’t breaking
any machines either. I was breaking a serious sweat, and I found it hard to do
what I’d been doing since I was born -- I lost the ability to breathe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I told you you’re out of shape,” my wife said. “And the way
you eat doesn’t help.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I was too complicated to be pried open like that. One thing
was certain -- I could kiss that All-American Pie good bye. I was in no
position to eat more junk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We did exercise after exercise. And just when I thought it
was time to go, we did more exercise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You know,” I said to my wife, “there’s more to life than
health and energy and feeling good.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
At my lowest, my wife was at her highest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s so hard to get to the gym,” My wife said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good</i>, I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe we won’t go again.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Having you here makes it easier for me to go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just my luck.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re such a good husband.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, I can’t wait to—</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Whoa, whoa, whoa, what was this? When I thought about it, I
realized I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> a good husband. After I
got over myself, I found my purpose at the gym. From then on, I wanted to go. I
wanted to help my wife. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We worked hard together. (Insert Rocky Balboa-like exercise
montage here. Picture a loving couple running up the 72 stone steps of the
Philadelphia Museum of Modern Art, which I did in my mind on the stair-stepper.
Can you hear that “You’re the Best Around” song from “The Karate Kid”?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I was eating well, too. I felt healthy, energetic and in good
spirits. All the time.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So now there's really no reason I can't take a little break and enjoy that All-American Pie this Fourth of July.<br />
<br /></div>
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-July 2014</i></b>Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-56340167329174667762016-04-19T12:29:00.001-07:002016-04-19T12:29:42.933-07:00Beware of the Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uHcRZlj2084Khvcwehpa20DggEiDHvciCngvm78FwXJgQx_kkJOWeFIi0IubdUYDjU0K1CDnuWHjbjWuo4cfkJcrTXWvRWS1Ar1JIaNDxMVx9pGE98z1E4BuYzx03hm92o4LEym6yTs/s1600/Beware+of+the+Moon+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uHcRZlj2084Khvcwehpa20DggEiDHvciCngvm78FwXJgQx_kkJOWeFIi0IubdUYDjU0K1CDnuWHjbjWuo4cfkJcrTXWvRWS1Ar1JIaNDxMVx9pGE98z1E4BuYzx03hm92o4LEym6yTs/s320/Beware+of+the+Moon+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son just finished fifth grade. He says he’s a
sixth-grader now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
No he’s not! I’ve still got the rest of the summer to call
him my little boy. He was born only 10 years ago. I guess he’ll be 11 next
month, though. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I had an idea: If I could just stop time, he wouldn’t have
to grow up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It was Friday the 13th. And a full moon. I read somewhere
that a full moon on a Friday the 13th won’t happen again until the year 2049.
My son will be 46 years old. There’s no denying it -- the kid is getting older.
And I wasn’t against that. I just wasn’t for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Full moon tonight,” I said. “Werewolves out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No they’re not,” he said, clearly too old to believe in all
that. And then he twisted the dagger in my side. “I know werewolves aren’t real,
(here it comes) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That’s right, he called me “Dad.” I’m no longer “Daddy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Whoa, what is happening?” I said. “Werewolves are real.
Have you ever seen a werewolf?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Exactly my point, Dad.” There was that “Dad” stuff again.
“I’ve never seen a werewolf.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Exactly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
point,” I responded. “Believing is seeing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I talked to my wife. “He doesn’t believe in monsters
anymore.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t tell him about monsters,” she said. “He’ll have
nightmares.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s what I'm trying to say,” I told her. “He’s growing
out of nightmares.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
She heard what I was saying. Even if she was on the phone,
she could still hear me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After dinner, we were finishing up our root beers, playing a
game of darts, and my wife told our son, “No bike ride tonight, werewolves
out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife’s dart hit the bull’s eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good girl</i>, I
thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We can stop this growing up</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Wait, what? No bike ride? Ah, come on.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That was me sulking. But our boy was right behind me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah, come on,” he cried. “What if we just stay on the bike
trail?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah, stay on the trail, keep clear of the moors,” I said,
giving my own rendition of a line from “An American Werewolf in London.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah, Mommy, we’ll keep clear of the moors. What are
moors?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I missed the dartboard completely. I’ve never missed the
board.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Is this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
happening?” I asked. “Why does she get ‘Mommy’ and I get ‘Dad’?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After creaming us both in darts, the kid took me aside and
said he still called his mother “Mommy” because she was more sensitive, and I
was a man.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Yup, this was really happening. The kid was getting older.
But he was right -- I was a man. I mean, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i>
a man.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m sensitive, too,” I told him. “So can you still call me
‘Daddy’?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Before he could answer, he got a call from a friend and
couldn’t talk anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
happening,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife and I had to come to grips with this whole growing-up
thing. That night, while our son talked on the phone, we discussed our new
reality. I hated talking so bluntly to my wife because she was so sensitive
about our son not being her baby anymore. I made a comparison to soften the
blow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s like the man living with the werewolf’s curse under
the full moon,” I said. “Our son is changing, transforming before our eyes,
except he’ll never be a little boy anymore. He’s gonna change into a werewolf
and then call it a day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s life,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Why are you OK with this?” I fired back. “Why aren’t you
comforting me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
When our boy got off the phone, I confronted him. “Son,
you’re right, you’re probably too old to believe in werewolves anymore.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
He said he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> too
old. Then he asked if he could go over to his friend’s house to play board
games with her and her family. Key word: “her.” A girl made my son grow up.
What was next, cologne?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife and I let our over-scented boy go. And we decided to
take that bike ride after all. As we parted ways with our son, he humored us with, “Mom,
Dad . . . Beware of the moon.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-June 2014</i></b></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-56710727721552172132016-04-19T11:59:00.001-07:002016-04-19T12:01:10.965-07:00Taking a Stand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyL_cu8_kp9rOjzQnZHE2KrwLEFdD6ZEUe1uOQDHv-wcV50O7xSSQ61Yrk_ZtVea2Dw-FBwCwjYyz83wp7JcMYBMiQlHn_jT2vxzQD1pVDAWudxGTvyCadbhyhASZYHVDExtakhrxWhG8/s1600/Taking+a+Stand+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyL_cu8_kp9rOjzQnZHE2KrwLEFdD6ZEUe1uOQDHv-wcV50O7xSSQ61Yrk_ZtVea2Dw-FBwCwjYyz83wp7JcMYBMiQlHn_jT2vxzQD1pVDAWudxGTvyCadbhyhASZYHVDExtakhrxWhG8/s320/Taking+a+Stand+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I try not to speak my views about certain topics in public
forums like this or in social media, whether my ideas are left, right or in
between, because some people are so passionate about these things that wars
could result. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But this one time I had to go against my wife’s wishes to
remain silent -- and put it all out there -- to settle a years-long debate in
determining which hamburger stand is better, In-N-Out or Fatburger?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
To choose a burger stand or not choose a burger stand? That
was the question. My wife asked me to leave it alone. I had to speak up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
At first, I couldn’t decide for myself which place <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> better. Different days and different
appetites had me flip-flopping, adopting one stand and then the other like so
many other bandwagoneers. My wife and our 10-year-old son weren’t any help. I’d
pressure them to choose a winner for me, but they couldn’t make up their minds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
And then the application of one variable in my equation
helped make my choice clear. It was so obvious and so simple, yet it took years
to find. That is, when choosing a burger stand, you’ve gotta ask yourself one
question: Would Dirty Harry eat there?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So while my wife was suggesting I not start what would
surely end in my death on Facebook, I was submitting the following post to my timeline:
“After years of study and calculation with facts and figures, many tasty
hamburgers and a look under a magnifying glass into the art and taste of
excellent burger cuisine, and after careful thought, consideration and
deliberation with other serious burger eaters, I finally came to my robust
conclusion: Fatburger has a better burger than In-N-Out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I hate to type it, because now it’ll be on the record, but
my wife was right. War was waged. An unofficial In-N-Out source issued the
following statement: “I declare war in the name of the In-N-Out Kingdom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
What was to follow would later be known as the first Burger
World War because other nations joined in the fight. We had unofficial
representatives of the Five Guys hamburger stand, The Habit and a slew of
others. One person had the nerve to bring up a $20 hamburger from some French
joint with a name I can’t even pronounce. Come on!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
No one was changing my mind. My wife asked me to leave it
alone. Meanwhile, I was posting the following comment to my wall: “Burger
warriors, this was not some fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants decision, where I just
punched into Facebook what was flashing through my ADHD mind at the moment. This
was a final analysis made from mouthfuls of data I collected.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I wasn’t changing any minds either. The war raged on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We, the In-N-Out Kingdom of the world, shall march to your
door, break down any and all barriers, and force-serve you delicious, freshly made
In-N-Out burgers and animal-style fries until you surrender.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The various countries of the burger world submitted studies
confirming their leadership in the burgerverse, in effect leaving no burger
stand on its feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I also felt defeated. I went to my wife for solace. She
delivered what was perhaps the most eloquent “I told you so” speech I’d ever
heard. I agreed with her on all points and admitted my mistakes. Then I
realized what I could post on Facebook next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It all ends here. The Original Double-Deck Cheeseburger at
Bob’s Big Boy rules. Long live the king!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Crickets. Burger Nation was silent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
How could that be? How could no one respond? It was as if I
wanted retaliation. While sitting at Bob’s wolfing down my Double-Deck, I
realized the opposition was the fun in it all. I even made new friends on
Facebook during some pretty nasty exchanges of derogatory remarks toward the
other guy’s burger stand of choice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m glad you had fun,” my wife said. “But now it’s done.
Just don’t be starting any wars between New York pizza and Chicago pizza.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“New York pizza, end of story,” I said. “Good idea. After
that, I think I’ll do one on hot dogs, too. To Dodger Stadium we go to begin
research.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
What are <i>your</i> favorites here? Come on, take a stand.<br />
<br /></div>
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-June 2014</i></b>Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-68291346844291409632016-04-08T12:57:00.001-07:002016-04-08T12:57:06.843-07:00What Are We Watching?
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6cmWHXUT4UsupPuFNTvjhtnL49_3MhFQZQDOr2zg1kXW1oGElrHp69crNRkhpBBFCQ9Ax8t2PqEjaB3EiaIzzizCOA9j_1XLe5wAvBxkVtFSAP4hOMFwZPwY-sQzja9TakURVMg22gQ/s1600/What+Are+We+Watching%253F+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6cmWHXUT4UsupPuFNTvjhtnL49_3MhFQZQDOr2zg1kXW1oGElrHp69crNRkhpBBFCQ9Ax8t2PqEjaB3EiaIzzizCOA9j_1XLe5wAvBxkVtFSAP4hOMFwZPwY-sQzja9TakURVMg22gQ/s320/What+Are+We+Watching%253F+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’m always baffled when Americans speak out against our
American way of life. Ours is a country built on freedom, faith, spirit and
sacrifice. It’s the greatest country in the world!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So I was more than shocked to hear my own wife and
10-year-old son reject it all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We are <i>not</i> gonna
watch war movies all Memorial Day weekend,” they told me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That’s right, the Turner Classic Movies network is doing a
72-hour classic war movie marathon this weekend to celebrate and honor those
who fought to protect our way of life, and I want to see it. But my family
wants nothing to do with it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
They said things like “No!” and “Are you kidding me?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then it got real -- “Those movies are lame,” my wife said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My kid added, “They’re ancient.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Of course you know,” I said, “this means war.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
How can my wife criticize what <i>I</i> watch?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Lame?” I asked her. “Let’s take a look at what <i>you</i> watch -- your reality TV and those
housewives. Half the time I don’t even know what they’re screaming. Between the
yelling over each other, the <i>bleeps</i>
on top of all the profanity and the lack of any sort of point to the program,
you’d get more meaning out of a preschool production of interpretive dance.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Then I turned my attention to my son. “And you call my
movies ancient? Having fun is gonna be an ancient activity for you if you don’t
start taking my side from now on.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I was winning nicely. But I had to bring it home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Now, if you look at a war classic like ‘The Great Escape,’
you’ll benefit from all the major American ideals that film presents. You’ve
got the escape, which represents hope. You’ve got all those men who gave their
lives so others could get out, which represents sacrifice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“The James Garner character risked his life to help the
blind Donald Pleasance, showing goodwill toward man. Steve McQueen never said
die, showing perseverance and spirit. And then there was Charles Bronson and
his claustrophobia -- he dug that tunnel anyway. That’s American courage in the
face of true adversity.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife interrupted my monologue -- I had more. “The true
story wasn’t even about Americans,” she said. “It was about the British.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Who told you that?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You did,” she said. “Last Memorial Day after you watched
the whole movie, and then all the commentary, and then all those special
features.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Well, forget real life,” I snapped back. “We’re talking
about the movie here. And the movie is American for sure.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife’s rebuttal: “Well, <i>I’m</i> sure not watching war films all weekend.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Which meant I wasn’t either. So there’d be no “Dirty Dozen,’
no “Steel Helmet,” no “Sergeant York” or “Kelly’s Heroes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Well, I’ll tell you what else is for sure,” I said to my
wife. “There will be no reality TV either. None. In fact, for Memorial Day
weekend, we’re going outside.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
In a slight change of events, my wife and son happily agreed
with my plans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“But,” I said, “we’re gonna do something to celebrate and
honor American heroes who gave their lives in the line of duty. That’s what
Memorial Day is all about. So we’re going to a mortuary.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Ah, Dad,” my son griped. “Last year you brought us there
and said there’d be an air squadron fly-by, and the only thing going on was
some guy’s funeral.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife didn’t even have to speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Alright then,” I said. “We’re going to the pool.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yay,” my son said. “And when we get back, we can watch the
Disney Channel.”<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-May 2014</i></b></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-75231782906661201872016-04-08T12:19:00.000-07:002016-04-08T12:46:30.804-07:00Relaxed Axed<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdTzOPCa_hS-b8BDqpzBbkK_kY2XyJiFjzr0DGaNYcP0Un6NJY8DQAv74DlWO0H9VRuvsydPHH8-KaJctQL8ER79YtytCKSI_uUE5dUcJVIyLnu8F4DD-8wacyNqnjIrftUpuSLpVTFHw/s1600/Relaxed+Axed+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdTzOPCa_hS-b8BDqpzBbkK_kY2XyJiFjzr0DGaNYcP0Un6NJY8DQAv74DlWO0H9VRuvsydPHH8-KaJctQL8ER79YtytCKSI_uUE5dUcJVIyLnu8F4DD-8wacyNqnjIrftUpuSLpVTFHw/s320/Relaxed+Axed+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Our house is loud. Conversations bounce all over the place,
usually a few at a time. There’s little focus. So I completely understand when
outsiders feel the need to escape.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Which is why I wanted to send my wife for a Mother’s Day
massage. She’d appreciate the break.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“People don’t try to escape us,” my 10-year-old son said to
me. “That’s so rude, Dad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s not rude if you’re talking about yourself,” I told
him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I think we should give Mom a party for Mother’s Day,” the
kid suggested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s the exact opposite of my point. The point is a break
from the chaos.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Parties are fun,” my son insisted. “Let’s make it a
surprise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Parties are chaos,” I said. “Especially when it’s a
surprise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After a debate about whether our Mother’s Day plans should
be news to Mom or not . . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Can you guys quiet down about your plans?” Mom said from
the other room. “I’m trying to nap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That settled the element of secrecy in the matter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Wouldn’t you want a party for Mother’s Day?” the kid
shouted out to Mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t you think a massage is more needed?” I yelled just as
loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m trying to nap, guys!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“See,” I pointed out. “She wants relaxation.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“They both sound great, Mike,” she said from the other room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“See, she likes the party more,” said the kid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“How’s that more?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Because she has to agree with you. You’re married.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After a debate about whether our Mother’s Day plans should
be a massage or a party . . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Can you guys decide to do both and save the argument?” Mom
said. “I’m trying to nap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It was settled -- we’d have a Mother’s Day party, and then
send her for a massage. Perfect!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Should it be a massage?” I asked. “Or maybe a pedicure or a
manicure? Or both? Or all three?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Who should we invite?” the boy asked. “And should we bring
in all the grandpas and grandmas?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I have an idea,” the wife yelled back at us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“All of them?” I shouted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah,” the kid said, “all the grandparents?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Not all the grandparents,” I said. “All the massage,
pedicure and manicure is what I meant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“<i>Not</i> all the
grandparents? Dad, you can’t invite one grandpa and grandma and not the other.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Those weren’t any of the ideas I was thinking about,” Mom
interrupted. “My idea was for you guys to go somewhere else and discuss this so
I can nap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son and I went to the back room of the house to talk. But
as anyone who’s been to our house can attest, there’s no place inside that’ll
afford you the break you need from the chaos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
After our separate debates, which took place simultaneously
. . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Can you guys decide to do everything and invite anyone?”
Mom said. “I’m still trying to nap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It was settled -- we’d send Mom to a massage, pedicure and
manicure, and we’d have a big party. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Where’s that place I sent you for your birthday?” I shouted
out to my wife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Mom, should we invite people by mail or by phone?” our boy
asked just as loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Ask <i>me</i>, not Mom,”
I said to my son. “She’s trying to nap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Well <i>you</i> asked
her something,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“<i>You</i> can’t answer
my thing,” I told him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“And <i>you</i> can’t
answer mine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yes I can,” I said. “You do it by phone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Do it by invitation,” my wife yelled back. “By phone is
tacky.” Then, “I’ll be back in an hour.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Where are you going?” I asked as I ran to the entryway and
caught her on her way out the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“To get the name of the place you’re looking for . . . and a
break from the noise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
See what I mean? Our house is loud. Conversations bounce all
over the place, usually a few at a time. There’s little focus. I understood why
my wife felt the need to escape. <i>I</i>
was even exhausted.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Can I go with you?” I asked.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Our son chimed in. "Me, too?"</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div>
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-May 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-85998171356368752042016-03-24T10:41:00.000-07:002016-03-24T10:44:27.444-07:00Wife Puts Foot Down<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBHAavm2Ubqbet69sQLc80NQs1ntVGlpC_NxatT3xnE3n2rWn1OfZSazCrrm_shilyTDFAAoNZVn6-aR2LX_WYERCsGFqhzBnZVU9WsLSdvhiTbxT_opMh6g6yfFqNLf7AtUjPqo0OnM/s1600/Wife+Puts+Foot+Down+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBHAavm2Ubqbet69sQLc80NQs1ntVGlpC_NxatT3xnE3n2rWn1OfZSazCrrm_shilyTDFAAoNZVn6-aR2LX_WYERCsGFqhzBnZVU9WsLSdvhiTbxT_opMh6g6yfFqNLf7AtUjPqo0OnM/s320/Wife+Puts+Foot+Down+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife put her foot down. Her bare foot. Right into my
foot. I was wearing shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Mrrraaahhh!” she screamed as she hit the floor in pain.
After heavy examination of her toe, she got up and actually punched me in the
arm. Then she flipped me off with dual fingers and no remorse, blaming <i>me</i> for what <i>she</i> did -- this, during the season of Lent, when some of us are
repenting for our sins.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My father-in-law warned me before marrying his daughter that
when a woman is not in the forest, the man there is still wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I guess I better be more careful about where I <i>don’t </i>move from now on,” I told my wife
as she accused me of “permanently injuring” her foot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Why were you just standing in the hall?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Because you were coming the other way,” I answered. “I
stopped so you could pass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Who stops in the middle of a hallway?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I moved to the side. You charged right into me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Didn’t you see I was in a hurry?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Yeah,” I said, “which is why I moved to the side and
stopped for you to go by.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Aren’t you gonna say sorry?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Sorry for what? For you crashing into me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“My foot hurts,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Let me see it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Not until you say sorry,” she demanded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
There was no way I was going to say sorry. It was a matter
of principle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
So my wife invited her dad to dinner -- a possible threat to
make me say sorry to his first-born.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You brought him home,” he told her, “he’s <i>your</i> problem.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You let him marry me,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I warned him when he asked for my blessing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s not what happened.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I jumped in. “If I may . . .”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My father-in-law gave me the floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“There were only two of us there that day,” I said. “And the
two of us are in total agreement about what happened when I asked for the
blessing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This whole thing,” my wife complained, “is not going the
way it’s supposed to go. My foot is hurt right now because of my husband, and
he’s not apologizing like he should.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Might I remind you,” I said to my wife, “that this is the
season of Lent. As part of my penance, I’m going to offer an unwarranted act of
goodwill to you by forgiving you for blaming me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife was not going to let me win that easily. She was
determined to make me say sorry for what she did or she’d make me sorry for
what my parents did 38 years ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You didn’t make enough dinner for me?” I asked. That came
first. Next it was, “Why am I excluded from Easter plans?” Then, “Now you’re
sleeping on the couch? Oh, <i>I’m</i>
sleeping on the couch.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
All this because I wouldn’t say sorry? Because I wouldn’t
take the blame for my wife ramming into a planted object in the hallway?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
You’re darned right I wasn’t going to apologize. I didn’t do
anything. If I was going to say sorry, I was going to have to do something to
say sorry for.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Let me see your toe,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It wasn’t sprained. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t even red or
swollen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“<i>This</i> is the toe
that hurts?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Careful,” she said. “It hurts.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I yanked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Mrrraaahhh!” she screamed. She punched me in the arm again.
And she flipped me off with dual fingers and no remorse again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Finally I was OK saying it -- “I’m sorry. And you’re
welcome. Your toe’s fixed. It was jammed.”<br />
<br />
Yet, as some commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus Christ as they do this time of year, my wife took it upon herself to crucify me through Easter and beyond.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-April 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-22626962601182603852016-03-22T15:39:00.000-07:002016-03-22T15:55:55.829-07:00Spring-a-ding . . . Dang!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBkakxudhvcUY186h3Z9R60siMecTDCcIAsjHNgD23ogVaP5tOSPP1WOk1vSbVZICNCKXIkr9B6008LnW2K_aK5QyCh8RboanDA6zbdWFqntOqQlXBscrjf4_ua3ckX1L8bEasrtf3PI/s1600/Spring-a-ding+.+.+.+Dang%2521+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBkakxudhvcUY186h3Z9R60siMecTDCcIAsjHNgD23ogVaP5tOSPP1WOk1vSbVZICNCKXIkr9B6008LnW2K_aK5QyCh8RboanDA6zbdWFqntOqQlXBscrjf4_ua3ckX1L8bEasrtf3PI/s320/Spring-a-ding+.+.+.+Dang%2521+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife has this lavender-scented candle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t you love it?” she said as I tried to figure out why
my nostrils went from burning to charcoal so fast. Her candle is so potent that
the headaches in my head pound on my eyeballs to get out. The candle doesn’t
smell good either. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
But if I wanted my wife to get rid of the candle, she’d get
rid of it. I just allow her burn it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“He thinks he gives me permission,” she once told a friend.
“I just allow him believe that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
As veterans of marriage, this is the game we play. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Spring is here -- time to plant. I’ve long wanted to put in
Italian cypress trees, like the ones my family had in the backyard of my
childhood home. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe they’re just great trees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t you love ‘em?” I said to my wife, at which point she
tried to come up with a follow-up joke to mine. But I was serious. My love for
those trees is real.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
We discussed the aesthetics of trees until one of us (I’m
not saying who) actually said that the trees that change most with the seasons
bring the most joy. Anyone who says that has obviously never had to go through
a box of Hefty trash bags to pick up all the leaves those “joy-bringing” trees drop
in the fall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m simply not gonna let you put cypress trees in the
backyard,” my wife finally announced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let</i>?” I barked.
“You think John Wayne had anyone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">let</i> or
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not let </i>him do what he wanted to do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You think John Wayne ever wanted to plant cypress trees?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Well, pilgrim, out here in suburbia a man settles his own
problems. And that’s just what I was gonna do. As soon as my wife left the
house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
She had a day of shopping planned, and when her car turned
the corner, I grabbed my 10-year-old son and we flew to the Home Depot to buy
some cypress trees. That way my son could shoulder some of the blame if it came
down to that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Planting the trees was invigorating. I’d never done it
before and I must say I was enjoying the process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Why’s this taking so long?” my son whined.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You can’t rush the creation of life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Mommy’s home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Hurry, throw the dirt into the holes,” I shouted to the kid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
When my wife found us out back, the trees were a done deal.
And I was ready for the attack. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Like John Wayne in “Rio Bravo,” I said, “You want that gun,
pick it up. I wish ya would.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
There was no gun. She wasn’t going to pick a fight, anyway.
That’s when the guilt hit me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I figured you wouldn’t mind my getting just three trees,” I
said. I don’t think I sounded weak. “I never say a word when you burn that
lavender candle. That thing really causes me pain.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“While you’re back here,” she said, ignoring everything I
said, “you should fix the cement blocks in the planter box -- the ones leaning
over. And the fence -- some of those boards are loose.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
How would John Wayne respond to that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“OK,” I answered, and I started fixing up the planter box
and fence. Hey, John Wayne’s been dead over 30 years, and I have at least 30
more years with my wife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I had my work cut out. But I got into it. I even added other
projects. I got some yard lights and some accent rocks, strung up some clear
globe lights over the back patio. The place was turning into my own little
backyard oasis, a Shangri-Yard. My wife was going to hate it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I love it,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
No doubt this was a con. As veterans of marriage, this is the game we play.<br />
<br />
When I couldn’t figure out her
angle, I asked. She said she wasn’t up to anything, that she really liked what
I did, and that the cypress trees were growing on her.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re a good liar,” I said. “So what’d you get at the
store today?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Let me show you. I got some new clothes and some hand
lotion. And another one of those lavender candles for when our other one is
finished.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s one headache after another,” I warned a friend who
asked me for marital wisdom after he proposed to his girlfriend. “But like John
Wayne said in ‘Stagecoach,’ ‘There are some things a man just can’t run away
from.’”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Fire up that candle,” I told my wife. “I’ll be in the
backyard.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-April 2014</i></b></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-32202443718586690662016-03-22T14:43:00.001-07:002016-03-22T14:45:15.163-07:00This Story is Serious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoBOELmaEO5-raYQTA03MHWGjPu6kybqpa9BuTEzaj84x0SvJ_9Oss_a6o10iw_Iid7EUKUQ3jCrFbowLchsZfCKjM0BjHKSd2K6zix4Qx-tizcC1i3yXjGWDz_599ac4hDkLgGEteH0/s1600/This+Story+is+Serious+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoBOELmaEO5-raYQTA03MHWGjPu6kybqpa9BuTEzaj84x0SvJ_9Oss_a6o10iw_Iid7EUKUQ3jCrFbowLchsZfCKjM0BjHKSd2K6zix4Qx-tizcC1i3yXjGWDz_599ac4hDkLgGEteH0/s320/This+Story+is+Serious+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I have to check with my 10-year-old son about each school
day. I must know what’s going on. Otherwise, how can I be Super Dad and protect
him from the lions and tigers and bears of the world?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Of course, there aren’t many wild animals on the prowl in
suburbia these days, but I do replace the furnace filters in the house and
protect my family from deadly germs trying to get inside. Still, I inquire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“How was your day?” I asked my boy when he got home from
school earlier this week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Good,” he said. “I got an ‘A’ on my English test. And we
started learning about the Constitution. Oh, I got a death threat today.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What? Are you serious?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“There was a note on my desk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What’d it say?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It said, ‘You’re dead.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What’d you do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I gave it to my teacher.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What’d she do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I don’t know,” my boy told me. “She’ll probably forget
about it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You need to follow up,” I demanded. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’ll check in a few days.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No, check first thing tomorrow. Do you know who wrote the
note?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, do we have to talk about this right now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Why was this not a big deal to him like when a video game
doesn’t work? I took the matter to the highest level -- I called my wife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Why did this have to be a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">huge</i> deal? She wanted me to call the police.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“This is serious,” she said to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“He’s in fifth grade,” I reminded her. “Do you really think
we need to involve the police?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m a teacher,” she replied. “I know what’s serious on a
school campus and what’s not serious. This is serious.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You teach eighth grade. There’s a big difference between
eighth grade and fifth grade. Fifth-graders just duke it out at the bike racks.
And maybe this whole thing is best resolved at the bike racks.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t you follow the news?” my wife asked. “There was an
incident a few months ago where a third-grader brought a loaded gun to school
with him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It was a toy gun,” I told her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Did you see the report?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It was a real gun with real bullets.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That got me serious. I utilized my secret detective skills
and uncovered my son’s teacher’s phone number. I found it in the phone book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The teacher said our son found the so-called “death threat”
on the floor, not on his desk. And it said, “You suck,” not “You’re dead.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“That’s right, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i>
what it said,” my boy recalled. “And maybe it wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i> my desk, but it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">near</i>
it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The teacher assured me this was not a serious matter. Next
time I’d look deeper into these things before freaking out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The following day, I asked my son about school because I
have to know what’s going on. He showed me a report from his teacher.
Apparently the kid used inappropriate language and harassed a student. This was
serious, so I let myself freak out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“What did you do, what, tell me?” I asked. “You’re in big
trouble.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I told my friend it looked like he was making out with the
water fountain when he got a drink.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Now tell me the serious part where you used inappropriate
language and harassed him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> the
serious part. I said ‘making out.’ My friend thought it was funny and laughed, but
the girl behind us got offended and told the yard duty on me.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Evidently, I needed to let my wife deal with this "serious" issue -- she knows serious. And I replaced another furnace filter in the house -- I know deadly germs try to get inside.<br />
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i><br /></i></b>
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-March 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-11546205480868016452016-03-15T17:30:00.001-07:002016-03-15T17:32:33.880-07:00Escape from the Backyard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rbZrNL7slUCLdH8Nm8wjRk6mXI6y5Bv0pb18r4QB-PhPSvOxErkJyP9AxEXXsxr4BVIZvx9TN4xpGi5OiZMc1JO5OoLFzCVhj341qGFtwZWDlshEWNRJ-Rg0Ok6vVau2dpQjUGpQ8zI/s1600/Escape+from+the+Backyard+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rbZrNL7slUCLdH8Nm8wjRk6mXI6y5Bv0pb18r4QB-PhPSvOxErkJyP9AxEXXsxr4BVIZvx9TN4xpGi5OiZMc1JO5OoLFzCVhj341qGFtwZWDlshEWNRJ-Rg0Ok6vVau2dpQjUGpQ8zI/s320/Escape+from+the+Backyard+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I’m protective of my wife. I’m extremely protective of our
10-year-old son. But I’m most protective of our pet beagle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
It’s not that the dog is more important than my wife and our
child. It’s just that the dog is a wanderer and more at risk. So I worry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re gonna worry yourself to death,” my mom always says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The other day while at work I received a voicemail from a
guy who apparently lives a few blocks from me, saying he had my dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I think the dog is gone,” I told my wife who was at home.
“Can you check?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife told me my mom was right about me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You’re gonna worry yourself to death,” she said while
humoring me and checking for the dog. “You’re not gonna believe this! The dog is
gone!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I rushed home from work, checked for myself. My wife wasn’t
lying -- I discovered a break in the gate that previously kept the dog from
escaping the backyard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I went back into my voicemail and retrieved the message I’d
heard earlier. The guy who found my dog tried giving me directions to his house
so I could come by and collect what was rightfully mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’m right off of . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good
boy. Here ya go</i> . . . You know where the hospital is? . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re such a cute boy, aren’t you? Have a
biscuit</i> . . . If you pass the hospital, you’ve gone too . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good boy, sit</i> . . .”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Is that my dog you’re talking to?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’ll put him on the phone,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I raced over to the house to save my pet from any further
damage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Kids’ toys and bikes covered the lawn and the walkway to the
front door. Two automobile projects, old shelving and several sheets of plywood
looked like they’d been in the driveway since Bush was president (Bush Sr.). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Even with signs of children around, the place felt creepy,
dangerous. Maybe it was the silence, the stillness that was unsettling, like
the kids had all been turned into lampshades. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There I go worrying
about nothing again</i>, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I knocked on the door. The guy who answered seemed very
nice. Too nice? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Dog toys littered the entryway. I spotted a dog bed and dog
bowls just past the front room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“You have a dog, too?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“No, we bought those for your dog while he’s with us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Where is he?” I asked, wondering if the guy planned to keep
my pet for the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“He’s at the park with my wife and kids. You want something
to drink?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, I want my dog</i>
is what I wanted to say. “Sure, whaddaya got?” is what I actually said. I
eventually got around to asking where I could find this park so I could get my
dog and go home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“I’ll call up the wife,” the guy said, “have her bring the
pup home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Perfect! Except the guy’s wife wasn’t picking up her cell. I
was two seconds from slamming the guy into the wall and demanding he get me my
dog before I ripped the spectacles off his face and jammed them down his
throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Instead I said, “Well, I’ll just head home. Can you give me
a call when they all get in?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
What the heck was I doing? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I explained to my wife that there was nothing to worry
about, that the dog would be home shortly, but I was worrying myself to death.
Where was our pup, what was happening to him, was he even still alive? Maybe
the guy didn’t even have a wife and kids. I needed my wife to calm me down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s been hours, I’m worried, where is he?” she said in a
panic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My son was a wreck, too. I couldn’t have that. So I went
back over to that guy’s house, this time prepared to get my dog no matter what.
I was ready for a showdown if that’s what was facing me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
On the road, the guy called to say he was coming over with
the dog. His whole family came in tow. They were very loving people and so
happy to see the pooch back in his own home.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My mom was right about me -- I’m going to worry myself to
death. I had to make a change for my own sanity.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I changed the gate from one gate to two. And I double locked
them both. At least I’m not worried about another escape.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-February 2014</i></b></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-88779460806699121842016-03-15T17:00:00.001-07:002016-03-15T17:33:27.415-07:00The Call<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWxyhxqQoPdCUlJj7kHzOGL2E2dd4CshlIe8TyrDw2WxfmGZBANPyDyXcixf0YHTkQEV53jH6xfv0RXDy2pQOBdjv540DwAkiRWv9F2lxDX18w-SiJYFAZJEdEG6DTp69XEX-KXPF-c4/s1600/The+Call+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWxyhxqQoPdCUlJj7kHzOGL2E2dd4CshlIe8TyrDw2WxfmGZBANPyDyXcixf0YHTkQEV53jH6xfv0RXDy2pQOBdjv540DwAkiRWv9F2lxDX18w-SiJYFAZJEdEG6DTp69XEX-KXPF-c4/s320/The+Call+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My 10-year-old son got his first real crush on a girl at
school, right in time for Valentine’s Day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Ah, that first crush -- I remember mine. I was probably the
same age. I never told a soul about it. The girl certainly never found out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My second crush was easier. My best friend got me the girl’s
number. It was all downhill from there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I had absolutely no reason <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to call her, so the plan was to call after dinner. And then I
changed the plan. I decided I’d call after I finished my homework. And then I
changed that plan, too, and by then it was too late in the evening to call, so
I planned to put it off until the weekend. On Saturday morning I also had no
reasons to not call. I still didn’t call.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad, there’s this girl at school -- can I call her?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
That’s my son. He was playing the “ask and leave it up to
the parents” card. It was 8:42 p.m. on a school night and too close to bedtime.
The kid had absolutely no reason <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
to call her, but he could make the “My parents won’t let me” reason work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s kinda late,” my wife said. “Her parents probably
wouldn’t appreciate such a late phone call.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Lucky kid. He was off the hook. My parents always encouraged
me to call, and I could only blame myself for not following through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“It’s not a phone call,” our boy told us. “We’re gonna video
chat on the computer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife and I ducked into our bedroom and, behind closed
doors, debriefed. Did we need to make sure the girl’s parents were OK with the
video chatting? By checking with the parents would we sabotage the whole
relationship before it even got started? Were we just nervous for nothing?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Don’t worry,” I told my wife. “He won’t even have the
courage to make the call. I know about that all too well.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
With our permission, our boy went into his room, got on his
computer and rang up the girl without hesitation. The two began talking with no
problem. She seemed very nice. My wife and I gave them their privacy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Do you wanna play truth-or-dare?” the girl asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I posted up just outside his room to hear more of the
conversation. My wife was in the living room and couldn’t hear so well. She
muted the TV.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We can just talk,” our son told the girl. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Smart boy. He knew when too far was too far. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Have you ever kissed someone you liked before?” he asked
the girl. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My wife flew off the couch and joined me outside the room.
Without making an appearance in the video chat, she got our boy’s attention and
shot him “the look.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The girl said she hadn’t kissed someone she liked before,
but she wondered what it was like. Our son, taking the cue from his mother,
masterfully changed the subject.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said. He had no
problem conversing. She did fine, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“So, are you, like, my secret admirer?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
When I was my son’s age, I’d planned run-ins with girls, but
I couldn’t even say “Hey” to the target. The fearlessness of these kids today
makes me worry that they’ll be married before they get lockers.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
At 9 p.m., my wife and I made our son wrap up the chat. The
two kids set up a time and place to meet at the school Valentine’s Day dance,
and then they said their good-byes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Clearly, we needed to set boundaries. These kids were too
comfortable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Thank you for making me end the chat,” our boy said. “I was
so nervous.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Really?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The paper in my wife’s hand had the contact information for
all the students in our son’s class. She emailed the girl’s parents about the
video chat. She wanted to make sure they knew what was going on and felt it was
her duty to assure them our boy would be a gentleman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I sat our son down. “You two are clearly not shy,” I said. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i>, especially, have to be careful with
what you say and what you do because you’re the boy. That girl’s parents would
freak out if they knew you were playing truth-or-dare.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Dad,” the kid said, “you heard how I responded to that
inquiry. I shut it down.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“And I’m very proud of you for doing that,” I said. “Just
promise you’ll be extra careful. Girls’ parents are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way</i> more sensitive and protective than boys’ parents.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
DING. The response email from the girl’s parents arrived. The
girl’s mom wrote that she and the girl’s father usually don’t allow their daughter
to use the computer during the week, only on weekends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“See?” I said to my boy. “I told you girls’ parents are way
more sensitive and protective than boys’ parents.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“But if she was just video chatting,” the email went on, “it’s
no biggie. A little flirting or playing truth-or-dare never hurt anyone. Imagine
how we would’ve been if we had that technology when we were their age.”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
I turned to my son and said, “Just keep Valentine’s Day to
cards and candy, all right?”</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-February 2014</i></b></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1950140808574064761.post-47810799774916598982016-03-15T12:07:00.000-07:002016-03-15T12:07:43.126-07:00Renting 'Rambo'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDRwLmAeHtKLFYc4jXqEYgYI1HIxJgVfUBYodImHnBmhXu0DrxCsyKdY4eI9I5lLQgScYWtGINZIhxgkTK6Bcz_3mIZArB8qeKh0HiHNNPsvOj1GF4HavJ7-jA-3OYFbqOAVmfKov_AA/s1600/Renting+%2527Rambo%2527+-+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDRwLmAeHtKLFYc4jXqEYgYI1HIxJgVfUBYodImHnBmhXu0DrxCsyKdY4eI9I5lLQgScYWtGINZIhxgkTK6Bcz_3mIZArB8qeKh0HiHNNPsvOj1GF4HavJ7-jA-3OYFbqOAVmfKov_AA/s320/Renting+%2527Rambo%2527+-+Art.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My friends in fourth grade had seen “Rambo” and it’d been
out on VHS for only a few days. Explosions, helicopters, automatic weapons and
rocket launchers -- I couldn’t see the movie soon enough.</div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
My parents had recently divorced, and being the oldest boy
in the family, I was tasked to take over the “man things” in the house like
open the pickle jar for my mom when the cap was on too tight, kill predator
bugs when they got past our front door and keep our VCR from blinking 12:00
after power outages. “Rambo” was necessary viewing if I wanted to battle bigger
problems facing our suburban household.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Bad guys were everywhere in the mid-‘80s. Just ask my mom --
she made us come inside when it got dark because of the dangers in the night. I
bet Rambo never had to worry about coming in early.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Around this time, the VCR was still fairly new to my family,
and Friday nights were for renting videos. When my mom got home from work,
she’d take my sister, my brother and me to the video store to pick out a few
“fun” movies for the weekend. I didn’t want fun. I wanted “Rambo.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The shelves had endless possibilities: “Willy Wonka and the
Chocolate Factory,” “The Parent Trap,” “Freaky Friday” . . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Look at this one, Mom,” I said showing her the video box
for “Rambo.” The cover showed it all -- Rambo with scars all over his huge
muscles (not unlike the scratches on my own pythons), massive artillery in
Rambo’s hands and a fireball filling the entire background. Rambo wore a really
cool headband. I could cut up that shirt Mom made me wear on Easter Sunday (I’d
never wear it again) and turn it into a headband of my own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Words like “fire storms,” “explosive” and “warheads”
immediately caught my attention. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Look, Mom, P.O.W.s,” I said pulling a word from the synopsis
on the back of the box.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Do you know what that means?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Yeah. They’re like special ops in a battle. Or something
like that. Can we get it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was too late. Every copy of the film had already been
rented. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Determined to get the movie, I asked the video store clerk to
get one from the video return box. I was sure someone had just dumped a copy in
there as we sat there and talked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
There were no “Rambo” videos on the premises, the guy said,
and all copies had been reserved through the next week anyway. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“We do have ‘First Blood,’” he told me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“What’s that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“That’s the first Rambo movie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He took me to the video on the shelf. The name Rambo was
nowhere on the cover. There was no fireball, just a simple white background. On
the real “Rambo” box, the title character was holding a rocket-propelled
grenade launcher. Here in this lame movie he was holding a mere machine gun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“How about ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?’” my mom asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I guess I’ll take ‘First Blood.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The clerk took our video membership card, tried to rent us a
VCR in hopes we didn’t have one at home yet, rang up the two films and reminded
us to please be kind and rewind. I reserved the real “Rambo” for the following
weekend, then we got some dinner next door at Tony’s New York Pizza and we went
home to watch “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I sort of didn’t care which movie we watched first. The
movie I really wanted to see was in someone else’s VCR. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” everyone was ready for bed.
I wasn’t tired. I put in “First Blood” and gave it a shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
The movie started exactly as I imagined -- no action at all.
A melancholy song plays and some guy plods over a hillside. He finds out a
friend he was looking for is dead, so he walks some more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then gradually this guy (Rambo) starts blowing my mind. He slowly
reveals himself as a fighting machine. A whole army can’t stop him. Guns, guts,
explosions . . . war! It was everything a fourth-grade boy wanted to see. Well,
almost everything, anyway. I figured I’d <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really
</i>get what I wanted in the second film.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
“Rambo: First Blood Part 2” delivered. It was packed full of
all the action and battle I knew I needed to protect my family. I watched it
over and over again until I had to return it two days later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As time passed, however, I would forget Part 2. I haven’t
even seen it again since childhood. The first film, on the other hand, has stayed
with me. The way Rambo slowly reveals his super powers in that movie and then the
turn at the end is what really made it one of my favorite films of all time,
one I still watch again and again to this day. I sometimes wonder if I ever
would’ve rented it had the second film been available that Friday night at the
video store. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookStyle">
Fast-forward to the other day. My 10-year-old son asked to
see a movie his friends had already seen. Butt jokes, silly action, pranks and
a singing goat -- he couldn’t see the movie soon enough.<br />
<br />
We streamed it instantly on Netflix.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>-January 2014</i></b></div>
Michael Picarellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08454241342252341911noreply@blogger.com0