Mrs. walks by my laptop and says: You have to look up your own recipes on your website?

Yeah, that’s why I put them there.

This came home as homework for the summer. There are no instructions. Not sure if we’re to write it, correct it, rearrange the words or make sense of if. Maybe it’s so my kids can understand Rachel Jeantel if they’re ever on a jury.

Update: answer in comments

Junior: I want you to teach me how to fight!

Me: OK. Put up your dukes!

Junior: *puts up dukes*

Me: Can you run away?

Junior: Yes.

Me: Then run. First rule of fighting is not to get in one.

Junior: That’s not what I meant!

Me: But you learned the first rule.

Junior: Fine, I’ll runaway.

Me: Next we’ll work on what you do if you can’t run away.

Junior: *rolls eyes*

Spent all day with my son and wife at Splash Country, doing the water park thing. On the way back, I stopped by The Local Butcher Shop and Market to refresh my supply of duck eggs (which, by the way, are awesome), grab some grass fed ribeyes for dinner, and picked up other assorted knickknacks (namely, the fresh from the farm bacon). After being home a bit, I see that I am tagged on a Facebook and it didn’t register because it wasn’t my wife tagging me in 87 pictures from Splash Country, none of which I was in. The Local Butcher Shop left me a message telling me that my son had left his toys there and to call the store to come pick them up.

Now, that’s service, right there.

Not sure the last time I bought a hat. Being a gunblogger of some renown, I just always seem to get them. Each time I go to some shindig, I manage to leave with a whole lot of hats.

Now, I’ve managed to get non gun hats. I get most of my supplies for the business from 84 lumber. One day, while at Lowe’s where I pick up stuff that I have to have right now, they gave me a free hat. One day, I was wearing my hat when my 84 Lumber rep showed up and shook his head. He grabbed an 84 Lumber hat from his truck and said here you go. And, today, I was at Home Depot, who is the only place on earth that sells one particular thing I always need, I was wearing my Lowe’s hat. As I checked out, the contractor salesperson reached under the counter and handed me a Home Depot hat.

Hats attract other hats.

My daughter is heading to camp next week. She’ll have the coolest flashlight there.

Once every three years or so, I spend a couple of weekends pressure washing our fence. Knocks the crud and patina off and makes it look brand new. I was doing that yesterday. There was a rather sizable wasps’ nest between one of the posts and the pickets that I didn’t see. And I nailed it with the pressure washer unleashing a hoard of angry wasps. I know, my fault. I wasn’t sure of my target and what was behind it. The wasps, basically, came at me full force. Or, rather, came toward the pressure washer blast. And I laid down suppressive fire at the angry swarm. It worked. I didn’t get stung. Wet wasps are very sad wasps, by the way.

Also, it was difficult to finish the job because for every few minutes of pressure washing, I had to stop and play with the dog:

Who knew you could pressure wash Boston Terriers?

And sorry about the quality. It was my smart phone camera.

Hey, I know that girl.

My recently turned 7 year old son:

Of course, it’s fun!. I was proud.

So, my son is taking these standardized tests at school and these are, apparently, a big deal. We’ve been encouraging him, talking him up and helping with the studying. He gets up on the first day of the test and my wife was talking him up and says: Do you feel smart today? You sure look smart today.

He says that yes, he does feel smart today.

Then, he gets a curious look on his face and feels his pants. He puts his hand in his pants and says “aw, man, I forgot to take my pajamas off”

I still laugh about that.

On Saturday, I took the kids to an Easter egg hunt at the wife’s church. We approached the battle arena and Junior took off like a shot. She was grabbing eggs high, low, in bushes, and every where else. I had to prompt my son at least three times to, you know, go find some candy filled eggs. He lollygagged, meandered and, generally, farted around. When it was done, Junior had a basket full of eggs. The Second had five. He said that his sister should share with him and I said no. I explained that she worked harder, put forth more effort and tried. While he walked around, not paying attention and didn’t make an effort. If she chose to share she could but I would not make her. She did choose to share some but it was the candy she didn’t like.

The next day, my parents had an Easter egg hunt for my kids and their cousins. Only these eggs had money in them! The eldest cousin worked hard and got more eggs. When it was said and done, my sister said to her child “well, you need to share. It’s not fair that you got more than the others.” My dad piped up and said “This is not the Obama Easter egg hunt. You get what you got and that’s that” to my sister.

Good parenting, it goes on even when your kids are into their 30s.

We should just stick with Daylight Savings Time. Of course, it’s probably easier for us eastern time people.

Also, DST is a very confusing concept for an eight year old:

So, everyone just changed their clocks at the same time? And it’s really six o’clock now?

But yesterday, this would be 6.

The other day, Junior lost her phone. I was in her room helping her look for it. I opened up a small box she had squirreled away and in the box was a wad of cash. I counted it and it was a few hundred dollars. I asked her where she got the money and she told me she’d just saved her birthday, Christmas and other holiday money she gets from the grandparents. I told her that keeping it in a small box in her room probably wasn’t the best idea and we should get an envelope, write her name on it and put it in my safe. She says “you have a safe?” I say “yes. It’s in a safe place.” She laughed. And I put it in the safe.

So, I got curious and went into my son’s room and I said “Son, do you have a bunch of money in your room too?” He tells me that, oh yes, he has a ton of money in his room. I asked where it was and he went into his drawer and pulled out a jar of money. About three $1 bills and a few miscellaneous coins. And that was it. A bunch of money, by volume or weight.

I’m guessing Junior is better at convincing mom to buy her stuff and my son will just spend his own.

The gall of that bladder!

This is my liver, even though it looks like I’m playing Asteroids:

My GI issues returned in January, after having subsided. Having scoped me twice (once on each end), they moved onto alternate tests. The doc said it could be my gall bladder but I’d had an ultrasound so they kicked it up a notch. To get a good look at my liver, they had to pump me full of some radioactive stuff. Seems the Hepatobiliary system is a bit camera shy and has to be coaxed into making an appearance, the tech told me. So, they fill you full of nukes so that the system can be seen. The tech tells me the above pic is of my liver full of nukes and also probably Bourbon, I told him. After filling you full of nukular stuff (and, sadly, no Bourbon), they put you under this big machine called the liver looker at-er (well, that’s what I called it because that’s what it did. Of course, I also called the technician Neal) and it takes pictures of your liver for about an hour. They verify that the nuclear stuff passes from your liver to your gall bladder. Then, the fun begins.

After your liver does it’s business, they give you a shot over the course of several minutes. This shot makes your gall bladder empty into, I suppose, space. I didn’t really ask where it went after that. As far as I know, it immediately becomes poo. But I know that’s not right because I paid some attention in anatomy. This shot gives you one of the worst stomach aches ever. But as soon as the shot is done, the stomach pain and cramps go away immediately. At this point, they take pictures of your gall bladder to determine that it’s draining properly. This process looks like this:

Well, mine isn’t draining properly and this is causing all sorts of unpleasant time in the bathroom. My doc says it’s “chronically inflamed and not draining properly”. And it will have to come out. I have an appointment in the morning with the specialist who will tell me if it needs to come out or if there is something else they can do.

They’ll also biopsy it to see if it’s something major, which I’m told is routine but is still unnerving.

And that’s why no gun blog for you. I’m going to pace and mumble to myself for the night.

Also, the technician, whose name is not Neal but I don’t remember his name, was one of the nicest and most professional people in the medical field I’ve ever had to deal with. I wish I knew his name, I’d call Parkwest and let them know he was awesome.

Me: I’m selling my favorite thing today.
Father in law: Your kids?
Me: No, my car.

I no longer need Tactical Car, which I love. The objective realization that it took up garage space I needed, I paid insurance for a car I drove twice a week, and a few other factors led me to decide to sell it. And so, I will turn over the keys to the new owner tomorrow. Here it is with the vehicle I now mostly drive reflecting off of its awesome blackness:

Suck exhaust note, hippie.

I’ll miss zero to sixty in five seconds, how awesome everything from This Darkened Heart to Jessie’s Girl sounds through the Bose sound system, the way it accelerated like you were on a horse that just got slapped hard in the ass, and taking turns at high speed.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, we need some high speed moments alone.

Guess the context:

If I don’t get to ride in the clown car, I’m not paying to upgrade it.

Last summer, we took the kids to a pool party. We stayed later than we should have (my fault) and the kids were grumpy and tired from a long day’s swimming and running around. So, on the way back home, the kids were doing what they do in a car when they’re tired and grumpy. Repeatedly saying things like:

Stop touching me!
You’re on my side!
Mom, he’s bothering me!
Dad, are we there yet!

And on and on. I countered with:

Knock it off.
Be quiet.
Don’t make me stop the car.

None of that worked so I told them no more talking. And told them if they said another word, they’d regret it. That lasted about 30 seconds before the next bout of “keep your hands on your side!”. So, I reached down to the kick ass stereo system in the wife’s Ford Earthfucker and cranked it to top volume. And this song was playing:

To make matters worse for the kids and hysterical for me and the wife was that she and I started singing to the top of our lungs. For the rest of the drive, which was only a couple of minutes.

Now, whenever that song comes on anywhere, both kids stick their fingers in their ears and start yelling “LALALALALA”.

Still cracks me up.

No, not that Junior.

There’s a fellow who worked for me for the last several months, in his 70s and missing an eye. He’s been around the block and the world. Often told me of when he ran businesses and how, now, he ran a backhoe or pressure washer for me but he ran his own shop way back when. He’d owned bars, married late after sowing his oats and generally had a good life. He’d also went down to New Orleans after Katrina and ran a successful sheetrock business. All this and he had a third grade education. He is also one of the nicest, most straight forward men you’d ever meet.

He lost his eye, he told me, when a bristle from a steel rotary brush broke off and hit him in the eye. He didn’t notice at first but over a few hours noticed his eye hurt. He looked in his truck’s mirror to see the piece of steel hanging out of his eye. He tugged on it and thought better of pulling it out and went to the doctor. This was decades ago and medicine then isn’t what it is now. They informed him he’d lose the eye.

He’s also about five feet, five inches and weighs 90 pounds soaking wet with his pockets full of quarters.

He always had a joke. And it was always naughty.

And one of me earliest conversations with the man went like this:

Junior: You got a wee borry?
Me: A what?
Junior: A wee borry!
Me: I don’t know. What is that?
Junior: Well, it’s a conveyance of sorts. It has a wheel in the front, two handles and a space for holding stuff in the front. Ideal for dirt, mulch and rock. Easily shoveled into. A damn wee borry.
Me: Oh, a wheelbarrow. Yes, I have one.
Junior: That’s what I said, a wee borry.
Me: I obviously misunderstood.

Anyway, I was saddened to learn that he was taken to the hospital with pneumonia and, from treating that, the docs have determined he may have terminal cancer.

He is a good man. An honest man. And a hardworking man. Things you don’t see much of these days.

Get well, Junior.

Been called the greatest
Hero movie of all time
I agree. Hulk smash

Also, my daughter decided to do a “book review” of it. I think she nailed it (spoilers ahead, stop now):

And, also, that scene where Hulk whips Loki’s ass is one of the greatest ass-whipping scenes in cinematic history.

Things to think about. Now that my kids don’t believe I actually have an orange monkey who only comes out at night because he doesn’t care for kids. After all, kids are loud and they tend to leak.

So, I spent a week at Disney and this is apparently the time of year when a whole lot of people from Where Great Britain Used To Be decide to come to America to eat over priced food and stand in lines waiting to get on a boat to look at robots. Yeah, they call it riding rides but a lot of rides at Disney consist of getting on a boat and looking at robots, while also playing annoying music. Where was I? Oh yeah. Brits!

Seems the Brits take this standing in line business seriously. So seriously, they’ve even come up with a verb form to indicate it as an activity other than standing around (yeah, they’re both verbs but one actually describes an action or activity). Now, sure, everyone hates when someone cuts line but the other stuff, most people don’t care about. If standing in a line in a roped off area, most people just sort of stand wherever and haphazardly meander forward whenever space opens up. But not the British. They are very focused on the line, where they are and where others should be. To your average American, it means fuck all to be standing, say, here or three feet in front of here. But this drives the Brits crazy. And, often, they’ll get a bit too close and in the personal space of someone used to carrying a gun, who’s not a fan. Oddly, they only ever seemed to yell at other Brits about it.

I guess they stand in lines a lot.

My son says: I need another water. The cat drank out of my cup.

The wife: You need another one?

My son: Yes.

The wife: Why?

My son: Because she licks her butt.

When I was a kid, my dad was stationed in Hawaii. On the weekends, we’d go to the beach. The beach we went to depended upon the time of year because of tides and waves. We spent a good portion of time at Bellows Beach at the military only section. From the beach, you could see Rabbit Island and, next to it, what everyone called Turtle Island.

Doing my blog rounds, I ran into this post about what’s on your desktop to see Rabbit Island staring me down. Brought back quite a few childhood memories, including the one where I got a nasty sting from a jellyfish and my dad had to chase me down to treat the injury because I was screaming and running.

As to what’s on my desktop, nothing too flashy:

It’s funny how they react to it. I mentioned before how they’d gone so long without ever seeing a commercial or a phone with a chord on it. They also didn’t have any idea how to roll down the windows in my F550, which actually has non-automatic windows, which I didn’t think they made anymore*.

But they discovered Google Earth and were checking out our house. Junior went outside to see if The Second could see her. I laughed a lot. Then explained to them that that was an older picture.

* We could have an entire conversation about things that you no longer see in or on cars.

So, I’m 40 for the better part of the year now. And this changes things when you go for the annual physical, which I had today. They want to scope your front and your rear. I told them I had that done already due to some GI issues blogged a bit back. So, no DP from me this year. Then, he was checking out the franks and beans. Satisfied my dudes weren’t hard as rocks (apparently, when dudes get cancer they become less sensitive and hard as rocks so the test is a squeeze to, I suppose, see if you say “ow! fuck!” or not), he then decided to play with frank with a full on fondle asking about abrasions, injuries and so forth. None I would admit to. While doing so, he looks me in the eye and says “any trouble getting erections?” and I say “No. Do you need to see?” Awkward. But funny and I’d so say it again.

Then the doc plays cave explorer in my pooper for a bit. They should at least leave the room after handing you the tissue to wipe the lube off your bum. Kind of odd doing that in front of someone. And, you know, the fact he’s chatting about things with his finger about 100,000 miles up the Hershey highway just before. But, what else are you supposed to do? Then again, what am I supposed to say that doesn’t sound like it came from a porn movie. Also, according to the doc, if all men lived forever, they’d eventually get prostate cancer. Seems producing ejaculate is not real healthy for you. Though, also according to the doc, getting rid of it regularly is.

And I need an eye appointment. Not to check vision but to check for eye cancer and other things.

Getting old is serious business.

The good news is I’m in good health.

The crew had dug a hole in the ground and, as per law, we needed to put some Caution tape around it. So, I grudgingly set forth and lamented I wasn’t doing the world any favors. I mean, if you fall in a hole in the ground because you’re not looking, you kind of have it coming. If a warning label saves you, Darwin didn’t get his. Warning labels: polluting the gene pool for decades.

Then, a bit later, unhooking a trailer and the trailer got away and was rolling downhill toward my money err house. I decided to stop it by grabbing it. This was extraordinarily stupid but you sometimes think correctly and sometimes don’t when things happen quickly. At the same time, my Bobcat operator was heading the trailer off with the Bobcat. He hit it from the right and I grabbed it from the left. Well, Bobcat beats skinny white boy and the trailer hitch swung right into my leg and knocked for a flip. I got up, dusted myself off, checked me out (hey, how you doin’?) and was content that I wasn’t bleeding. But it fucking hurt. Then, my foreman informs me that I have a hole in my ankle. I look down and say Wow, I can see the bone. There it was, white and eerily magnificent sort of like my vasa deferentia. But definitely bone. It wasn’t bleeding much. I got out a first aid kit, stuffed the hole with neosporin, plugged it with a bandage and drove myself to the walk in clinic. At the doc, it started bleeding like mad.

They cleaned it out, scolded me for stuffing it with neosporin since that also happens to keep bacteria in. I should have washed it first but no water on the site. Out of it, they pulled two pieces of metal. And into it, they sewed three stitches. The doc said I was pretty lucky for a guy who had been leg swept by a trailer hitch. Whatever hit me went right in and came straight out, no doubt due to the force disparity between a skinny white dude and an earth-mover. If it had gone in and moved around a bit, I could have been in a serious hurt.

As to what hit me, my foreman called me up later to inform me that he checked out the trailer and that on one of the bolts holding the trailer jack there sat my flesh. Kind of disgusting. He left it there for me to see in the morning. So, a 1/2 inch-ish head of a lag bolt entered my ankle, struck bone and came out.

It still hurts. Actually, it’s not my ankle that hurts. It’s my calf, which the doc said likely hurts because of the shock of lag bolt nailing the bone with the force of a 9,000+ pound vehicle moving at more than running speed.

Having this happen right after I was shaking my head at the state of things regarding Caution tape, I thought maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. But probably not since it doesn’t talk much.

I could have blogged, but I wrote this instead. See you tomorrow. I do rather wish I took a pic of the bone but I was trying to doctor myself.

Update: And when I got home, Junior made me a plate for dinner and a get well card. She’s awesome.

So, at one of the properties I’m working on, some miscreant came up to an exposed manhole and spray-painted a naked girl on the side of it. Of course, since the property is looking to be sold, that’s an eyesore that I’ll have to take care of. I’m leaving myself a reminder in my phone when the following conversation happens:

Me: Hmm, I wonder how bad it would be if my wife saw “take care of naked girl” on my calendar?

Other guy: Well, you could put “take care of manhole”.

Me: Manhole? Really, that’s better?

So, at the new gig, I managed to hurt myself and it requires a band-aid. As a father, all of the band-aids in the house are some sort of kid’s cartoon character. I get up the other morning and put on a pink band-aid. I head out to the job site and am relaying instructions and comparing notes with the foreman. After talk of the day’s plans, what needs done and all manner of detail, he looks at my wrist where the band-aid has come loose and is flapping in the wind and in his best alpha male voice says “Your Dora is falling off.”

I said “It’s a princess, asshole”.

Right now, I have a Phineas and Ferb band-aid.

Oleg visited this weekend. And Linoge made a guest appearance. Here’s a cute pic of Junior, who looks determined in whatever she’s doing. And a beverage on the porch.

And here’s me and the dog chatting: