Hillary’s 13 dirty words

2014-06-11t155415z1813105711gm1ea6b1uc101rtrmadp3usa-politics-clintonA group called the HRC Super Volunteers has launched a war on the 13 most sexist words in HillaryWorld.  To lend assistance to this very important mono-partisan message, I provide a sample of the kind of context these sexist words can cut and sting.

Hillary Clinton is a polarizing, over-confident, and insincere candidate. (OK … Soon to be.) She is extremely ambitious. Clinton is secretive, calculating, and disingenuous with the voting public. Her entitled air is only magnified by the thought that she will do anything to win. Hillary considers herself inevitable, but she is out-of-touch and represents the past.

I have two questions …

Question #1. Now, besides the point that I crammed all these words into one poorly constructed paragraph, tell me … What is sexist about those words?

I really want to learn!

Question #2. Who are these people?!?  Their Twitter page is hysterical!

Breaking up is hard to do

Mashed-heartDear Chuck,

I know this will come as a shock to you, but it’s over!

Breaking up is always hard to do.  And I’m certain you will be surprised at this unfortunate turn of events.  But you have to ask yourself how you missed all the changes.

You should have noticed that I wasn’t coming around as much.  You should have noticed that I rarely ever called.  You should have noticed how quiet and unsettled I was around you.

To be honest … it’s not you, it’s me.

Every other month simply does not a relationship make.  And yes, I’m sorry.  I have been cheating on you!

It didn’t start out that way.  At first, I was just being lazy … not wanting to put in the time or effort for our usual thing.  I was desperate once and needed a quickie.

From there it progressed so rapidly, I was – I think – caught off guard.  It was too simple, too easy, too addictive.  And once I started, it seemed impossible to return to you.

Ours has been a healthy and productive relationship.  We have been through so many life events, personal problems … Good times and bad.

You were always there to tell me I looked nice.  And I was always happy to give you my advice, although frankly, I suspect you very rarely took it.

I heard you on the phone one time after I pleaded with you to follow your heart.  I heard you on the phone with that other guy … in the other room … whispering so I wouldn’t hear.  That time it hurt, but it convinced me that all I was to you was a means to an end.

Well, let’s not rip the scabs off old wounds.

Fact is, I really don’t need you anymore.  I really don’t need anybody!  I can do all this myself.

norelco_kitWhen you offered me the Low Volume Hair Discount, I knew it was over!  So I jumped into a relationship with a damn fine Norelco …

And the next time you need a tip on a football bet, go ask that idiot who told you to take the Cowboys and the points!

I hope we can still be friends …


Harper Jeanine!

The following story is True.  The names and events have NOT been changed in an attempt to protect the “Innocent”!

Me and my infant delinquent granddaughter, Harper Jeanine

Me and my infant-delinquent granddaughter, Harper Jeanine

I’m not sure how she did it.  But I must have a long heart-to-heart talk with my granddaughter, Harper Jeanine!

She was here this week to celebrate Thanksgiving with her mom, Janelle and dad, my eldest son Michael.  It was a great time, and fun was had by all (aside from the attempts to wean certain family members from Electronic Dependency Disease).

We all kept an eye on Harper, because the house is still relatively new to her.  But obviously, all the adults failed.  The kid – apparently a truant in the making – was slinking around the house in full Special Ops mode when no one was looking.

Not sure how she did that during the day … with six other adults around … so she must have been conducting her special brand of mischief under the cover of night.  No doubt in full black ninja footie pajamas, second-story burglary equipment, and mischievous intent.

You may think I’m crazy.  The little trouble-maker is only 9 10 1/2 (Thanks, honey) months old.  What possibly could she have done to warrant this accusatory post?

The evidence however is irrefutable!

The evidence

The evidence

As I labored – as is my habit – in the days following the Thanksgiving holiday to decorate the outside of the house in Christmas lights, I stumbled upon a puzzling discovery while installing lights on the back deck.  Lodged in the rain gutter over the kitchen windows was a 14-inch horsehair brush.

Now I have never owned a 14-inch horsehair brush.  Have never seen this brush, and have no idea how it became lodged in the rear rain gutter.

I dug the offending blockage from the gutter, puzzling all the while how it could have gotten into the gutter and more so, who did it belong to?

The answer was baffling and more than a bit unnerving once I cleaned off the offending object for further inspection.  The timing – just a day after their departure – was the proverbial finger of Conviction on the Scale of Justice.

the big Aha!

the big Aha!

Harper Jeanine is in big, big trouble!

Despite her obvious lawlessness, you can vote for Harper Jeanine in Gerber’s “Growing up Gerber Be our Baby Photo Search 2014“.  I just wouldn’t let her into your house unsupervised …

My troubles with the IRS

IRS-telephone-scamWell, it’s finally happened.  I have run afoul of the IRS!

After decades of diligently paying taxes and filing returns so simple I choose to do them myself, I must have done something very, very, very wrong!  ‘Cause now I have The Man pounding on my door (phone) demanding that I respond to their verbal warnings and threats of imminent “legal proceedings”.  Yet I don’t recall getting any official notices and threatening letters from the Internal Revenue Service, filled with mind-numbing bureaucratese, enumerating my heartless transgressions against the People of America that surely should have proceeded my run-in with the IRS’s latest crop of bird-dogging bounty hunters!

It’s a bit of a puzzle.

Most confusing is the IRS’s reliance on a bunch of poorly spoken “English majors” apparently based in either West Africa or the Indian sub-continent.  It’s kinda hard to decipher their dialects.  The first call was from the latter, the latest from the former.  Don’t these hunter-killer IRS units speak to each other?!?

The second Special Agent, who called himself “Don” with an Anglo-Saxon last name spoke in a heavy Punjabi or Urdu accent (I can never tell the two apart.), was much more pleasant than the previous Special Agent, who sounded much more African (if I can be so bold as to characterize his geographical-cultural orientation).

phone-scam“West Africa” didn’t leave a name, but he was very forceful and full of implied threats.  He made sure – in no uncertain terms – that we knew the serious of our crimes against America, Apple Pie, and Motherhood.  He demanded immediate redress from our answering machine!  (The greatest invention since the brewery!) Aggressive legal action was dangling by a single hair – like the Sword of Damocles – above our heads.  I was almost convinced a S.W.A.T. team was sitting out on our back deck awaiting the word to breach the doors and drag us all off to Debtor’s Prison.

OK … So it’s a scam.  A scam of the worst kind, intended to prey on the elderly, the disconnected, the easily spooked in nothing more than any of the other usual methods of stealing from the weak.

A coworker, who also received the dreaded Tax Man Cometh scam, had the opportunity to answer the phone before he realized the call was a baited fish-hook.  Once the gig was up, he simply asked the “agent” his name, identification code, and location so he could call back after reviewing his tax return.  He heard a rustling of paper in the background, undoubtedly as the “agent” checked for this unexpected turn in the prepared script.  Then the line went dead …

But you really do have to laugh at the desperation, the obvious inattention to detail, the amateurish attempts to portray Big Bad government agent, and the huge clues they drop that are almost as good as being caught with an exploding dye pack in the getaway car while still sitting in the bank parking lot!

For me, I had to laugh at Don of The Sub-Continent when he ended his call of dire warning and imminent legal and financial ruin with the following salutation:

“Good night and God bless”

Imagine that … An IRS attack dog that signs off saying, “God bless”!?!

Game, set, match …

Little red-headed Girl

208babc8bed09fe3b5b9e6ed7b733c92One a recent trip down memory lane  …

Those trips you enjoy with your children once they have grown.

… found us recalling an episode in Parenting of which I am not particularly proud.  Fact is, the story – told and retold numerous times over – has provided us more than a few good laughs over the years.

It was Spring, and though I forget the year, I put it around 1996.  Spring brought us Little League baseball at the Liberty Bell fields in the Far Northeast section of Philadelphia.

As was my fate this evening, I was coaching a team on which my eldest son was playing.  Yet I had additional company in the form of our precocious middle child, Brian James; all of six years old and quite popular with those in his first-grade class at St. Martha’s Roman Catholic School on Academy Road.

Having Brian around always seemed to add an unexpected twist to the day’s activities.

It was not unusual for me to have an extra child around since we had three boys to ride herd on divided by two parental units.  How I ended up with the family’s mischievous character as a “plus one” (Mistake #1) escapes my memory.  With the distractions of coaching however, it’s not hard to figure out the direction in which this story is heading.

At some point during my harried coaching activities, I may – or may not – have granted permission for Mr. Mischievous to set off for the playground, bored as he most certainly was with watching his older brother playing baseball.  This was not a huge problem – normally – since the playground was located within easy viewing distance (Mistake #2).

SuperStock_500-135222Did I mention I was coaching 9-10 year-olds in the basics of baseball with wooden bats and rock-hard baseballs?

Needless to say, one’s focus and attention to detail, like a spare non-playing child cavorting on a pleasant Spring evening, tends to suffer under such conditions.

Now none of this was humorous in the moment.  We have been able to laugh in hindsight, and only because it obviously turned out well and the climax of the incident was … well, priceless.  You see, Brian was a character then … truly an unpredictable element in both the family and school environments, which made him very popular at school though somewhat less so within the realm of Parenting.  He was all free spirit and little in the way of cautious or with any genuine concern for the roles and responsibility of being a Parent.

Shocker, I know …

Needless to say, when it came time to pack away the bats, balls, and gloves; Brian is nowhere to be found.  I sent my eldest son, Mike – the baseball player – to the playground to find our little pride and joy.  “He’s not there.”, Mike announced when he returned.

A distracted “What … ?” was all I said … until the consequences of this all too predictable development hit me.

imagesPanic was the first emotion.  Quickly followed by Dread … dreading, that is, the phone call home to Mama Bear.  (Trust me … You NEVER want to have to make that call!)  Let’s just say the conversation was mostly one-sided and not suitable for audiences with tiny ears.

After placing a reluctant call to Philadelphia’s finest, I got our first and only lead … an older girl who saw our pint-sized MIA accompanying a trio of like-sized females towards a nearby neighborhood.  And I set out on a widening arc of street searches by car.  Michael watching one side as I scanned the other.

These neighborhoods – for those not familiar with the streets of Northeast Philly – were a tightly packed collection of row homes and duplex apartments for block after block after block.

Trying to maintain calm in my panicked state of mind, I was certain our wayward wanderer was somewhere in the area.  Then I saw the weirdest, most welcoming sight a parent in such dire circumstances would want to see.

As we rounded a street corner I spied a familiar silhouette!

Hitchcock's famous profile

Hitchcock’s famous profile

Seriously … It was just a silhouette!

Think Alfred Hitchcock‘s famous back-lit outline that graced the telly at the beginning of each episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents.  Just a shadow, but an amazingly well-lit shadow in a row home’s front window.  The silhouette so remarkably sharp and clear, that he was instantly recognizable.

The scene was so odd that at first it didn’t quite click.  I turned to Michael and asked him, “Doesn’t that look like Brian?!?”

What really floored me was that the silhouette was obviously singing, maybe performing would be the better term, and with a hand-held microphone at that!

That has to be him, I thought.  Who else could it be?!?

As I knocked on the door of the house to retrieve my wandering troubadour, I found him singing in front of a small female audience, spot-lighted via a strategically aimed lamp, held by one of his female accomplices, that provided the super sharp silhouette.  He was singing some popular song from the day to a rather fascinated group of fans.

51E8gRiIMKL._SL1500_It took a few seconds to shake off my fascination, even admiration for such a bold performance before Parent Mode kicked in and the fire and brimstone came raining down.  (OK … Admittedly, I was never very good at that.  Mama Bear on the other hand …)

As I dragged the thoroughly embarrassed, admonished, and totally puzzled crooner from the house, and I ask him what he was thinking; how could he do that to me; why would he simply wander off without telling anyone???

His answer was simple, “Dad, I really like that little red-headed girl!”

Sigh …

It’s always a little red-headed girl …

9 Circles of Ikea


Something to do on a Sunday afternoon … Rain in the forecast … Remodeling projects in various stages of completion …

Perfect setting for the four words every red blooded male longs to hear, “Let’s go to Ikea!”, dear Carol exclaims.

It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.

Ikea was founded by a 17-year-old (which explains a lot) in 1943, and is renown for it’s architectural designs of furniture and appliances and an eco-friendly approach to interior design.

This was the First Time for me, although Carol insists I had been there once before.  But no, I would have remembered this experience had I lived through it.

The store was inviting; painted in bold Blue and Yellow – the national colors of Sweden, the visuals reminding me of a favorite U.S. icon, the Blue Angels.  What could possibly be more inviting?

systembolagetYet something was gnawing at the pit of my stomach like a yellow worm with teeth (Ween).  What is wrong here?  What about this makes sense? Didn’t the Swedes also create Systembolaget, a government-controlled alcohol monopoly?

Danger, Will Robinson …

We walk into a bright but spartan lobby that invites you to ride the escalator to the retail floor.  This was an oddity in the Land of Good and Plenty.  Nothing to sell while rendering first impressions?  No impulse-buying enticements?  Primary retail space on the second floor?  Not even one store greeter … no Nordic blondes playing Abba music on nyckelharpas?

But they do have plenty of these over-sized eco-harmonizing shopping bags.  And they’re large enough to fit a Volvo

My shopping psyche is a strange amalgam of wonderment and an anxiety of what lies beyond … I was in Limbo.

And violà!  We arrive on the retail floor!

Immediately you realize the Swedes ain’t no dummies!

We are immediately driven to Lust for the quirky, practical designs of Äpplarö, Falster, Arholma.  This is going to be an epic quest to furnish that unique space in our home.

Did I mention, I’m not a big fan of Quests?

And just then I see the store map …

Rule of Thumb:  Any store that requires a map for you to figure out where you are and to find what you want, can use the same device to make sure you can never leave!

Can you get to the cheese?

Can you get to the cheese?

I’m struck by the resemblance the Ikea store map has to those primitive maze tests used to measure the learning habits of lesser species.  This causes one to wonder, who exactly is the “lesser species” in this Nordic inspired ecosystem?

We push on with our journey, moving right into Gluttony as we peruse the quirky, imaginative shapes and functions of the Artichoke Pendant Lamp, Befintlig candles, Smörboll bedding, and Ödmjuk coffe cups.  Hours seem to have passed in minutes, I am aware of a foggy, detached feeling like a balloon floating through the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, barely tethered to the Earth.

When I am able to roust myself from this peculiar state, Carol is nowhere to be seen and the cart I am pushing is overflowing with abstract Swedish home appointments.  I must find her before we descend any further into the bowels of Scandinavian home furnishings Hades.

And then I see her!  Not Carol exactly, but that head looks familiar …

Tallemaja - seductive Scandinavian forest creature

Tallemaja – seductive Scandinavian forest creature

She appears from out of the flimsy veil of the Åderblad window treatments.  She appears to be unclothed with what looks like the tail of a cow.  When I ask her name, she replies in a foggy voice that sounds so very far away, “Tallemaja”.  She beckons me to follow.

An overwhelming sense of pressure and heaviness … When I look down I am holding three of those enormous Ikea saddle bags crammed full of sheets with artsy patterns and ingenuously designed table lamps.  I absently reach for my wallet …

The Circle of Greed!

I fight the urge and set out once again to find Carol.  Tallemaja is not a happy nymph!  I find Carol sorting through a clutch of Gräddig wall decorations, semi-catatonic and mumbling incoherently.  I warn her not to fall for the charms of Tallemaja.

She looks at me, her head cocked to one side.  “Who the hell’s Tallemaja?!?  I was talking to some guy named Nykkjen.  I don’t think he’s an Ikea employee; but he seemed to know a lot about this place!”

Cue the spooky music …

I urge Carol to dump her load of Riktig Ögla and Malma mirrors so we can make a hasty retreat.  I glance nervously over my shoulder half expecting her to morph into a pissed off naked forest nymph.

We need to get out of here … Now!

Heresy!”, she shouts in Anger.  I look around embarrassingly at the shoppers nearby, all mumbling and displaying those same blank stares, speaking gibberish …

No one here can hear you scream …


Zlatan Ibrahimovic: Swedish futboler, shape shifting nicker

But finding an Exit in this place would be as likely as stumbling upon Zlatan Ibrahimović picking through a collection of Bild posters.

Desperate to escape this madness, I prod Carol along.  We manage to move but a few steps when Carol calls over her shoulder to a figure bent in appreciative study, “Hey, Nykkjen, let’s go!  We’re outta here.”

So of course Zlatan Ibrahimović – Carol’s tricked out psyche version of Nykkjen – unfolds slowly to his feet triumphantly holding his latest acquisition … a Bild poster!  

Stunned momentarily I stumble in confusion, the Home Furnishings Department spinning dizzyingly.  I reach out and steady myself against the Norwegian soccer nicker’s shoulder, and he – true to his Euro fùtbol tradition – collapses like a gunshot victim, grabbing at his ankle in fairy tale agony …         

 Wonderful …

Fraud and Violence in the blink of a referee’s eye … And stand perilously close to the boundary of the 9th – and final – Circle de Dantè!

I convince Carol that we should concentrate on the table and cabinets she wants for her craft room and leave this Den of Temptation before it’s too late.  She agrees and we race through the remainder of the retail floor, heading downstairs to the furniture warehouse.

By now I’m a nervous wreck, with my wallet shoved down the front of my pants and a terrified look on my face.  Carol – always quick to pick up on this sort of thing – asks me what’s wrong.  And I tell her we were oh-so-close to joining the lost souls in Hades, crossing 8 circles out of Dante’s 9.

Treachery – I tell her – was all that remained.

She rolls her eyes and glances around almost seekingly.  I swear she’s really searching for Zlatan that hunky Nykkjen.  “Well then, let’s get out of here, Mr. Treachery.”, she says, “You know you have to put all this crap together when we get home.”

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo  ……


Cranky Man’s Lawn Diary ’14 – Beetlejuiced

Not those Beatles ...

Not those Beatles …

The Fourth of July is behind us, and if you haven’t seen them yet, you haven’t been paying attention.  The beetles are back!

Japanese beetles live very short life spans in which to fit their two favorite – and only – activities: Eating holes in your lawn and Making hundreds of little baby beetles, a.k.a. grubs.  The grubs do the lawn eating until they’re big enough to move on to lawn orgies and maintaining the eat and spawn cycle.

Life as a summer beetle ain’t all that complicated.

Neither is the solution for your lawn.

Don’t be like me last year.  At some point I decided not to do anything about the annually anticipated Dance of the Beetles.  I hadn’t noticed much beetle “dancing” is the two previous seasons, so I thought, “What the heck? What’s the worst that can happen?”  Then I decided to complicate the problem by not reacting when we observed larger-than-normal beetles frolicking in what was certainly a form of promiscuous insect shenanigans right on the front lawn!

Well, they didn’t look like your run-of-the-mill Japanese beetles.

Yes, sometimes I need to be roused with a hard swat about the head with heavy bag of You’re-Such-An-Idiot!

That hard swat came in the form of serious dead spots and chunks of lawn you could rollup like a dead body in your aunt’s heirloom Persian rug.  It was not a good September, lawn-wise or for the body.

Is it Frolic Time already???

They said, “Try the milky spore. You’ll love it!”

After a lot of work to fix what beetles had wrought, I decided to go all microbiological warfare, consisting of a tedious application of the dreaded milky spore!  Dreaded by humans for it’s pain-in-the-nether-regions application process.  Dreaded by the beetles because … well, it’s not a nice way to depart the lawn-eating, baby-beetle-making circle-of-life.

You can read about it in the linked post; but trust me I wouldn’t want to be the beetle larvae that eats from the wrong grass root.  But effective it supposedly is, offering up to ten years of grub protection as the spore grows and multiplies.  No worries to you, the kids, your dog, or that body in auntie’s Persian rug.  The milky spore is harmless to all other species!

At this point however, I’m playing a coy waiting game.  I should have years of protection, but the milky spore needs to grow and multiply through the – ahem – judicious use of fresh and living beetle larvae.  (The icky body in the Persian rug part.)

Anyways, I figure a year or two before I’m home free and no longer in need of expensive grub treatments, often the most expensive lawn treatment for which you will normally pay.  My plan was to apply the usual grub treatment, that is until struck with the thought that I need healthy grub “hosts” to make the milky spore effective.

Such a conundrum!  Forego the recommended grub treatment to allow healthy grubs to feast on my lawn so to initiate their untimely and horrific death.

Now where did I put that carpet …???

For those of you not opting for the hideous milky spore solution to control your bug issues, make sure you purchase and apply your grub treatment this weekend. Once you see beetles cavorting on your lawn, it’s probably too late.

As for my lawn beetles …

You can run; but you can’t hide!