Midnight Run

A friend of mind recently had his first child and was lamenting the sleepless nights, endless diapers, and general travails of being a new parent.  Puh-leeze.  I have little to no sympathy for that.  Give me a call when you have had your fourth child, and are so deep in the parenting tunnel that there is no light, and the chance for it grows slimmer by the day.

But, this friend is also rather funny and is a great writer, and told the story of his drive to the hospital with his laboring wife.  It reminded me of one of my trips to the hospital that I thought was worthy of a brief story.

After our first child, the LW and I thought we were pros, and that the second delivery would be a cinch.  We had already been through it once, knew what to expect, and figured there would be no surprises.  So, when the LW started to feel the first contractions, we kept a level head and did not panic.  It was about 11 at night, because our children do not want to enter the world in the full light of day.  They preferred to sneak in under the cloak of darkness so they can rob me of one more night’s rest if at all possible.  A day-time delivery would have been too easy. 

The LW said, “You know, I think I would like to sit in the bath tub and enjoy the solitude while I can.  I know it is going to be a little crazy, but I don’t want to rush to the hospital.  Let’s hang out for a little while before we head over there.”

Although I should not have been, I was a little surprised.  I didn’t roll my eyes or anything, but I am the kind of person who likes to get to the airport with ample time to get to the plane.  You never know how long the lines are going to be, and who knows, you might want to grab a beer or something before you jump onto the crazy flying machine.  The LW prefers to get there as they are closing the doors causing as much stress as possible.

But, not being one to argue with an extremely pregnant woman, I said that would be fine.  So we talked and laughed and had a grand time.  Or, at least we did until the heavy labor set in. 

All of a sudden the LW decided she had had enough.  It was time to go.  Then the panic set in. 

LW- “Oh no.  We’ve waited too long!  We’re not going to make it!  I am going to have this baby now!”

Me- “First of all, I told you so (the first thing you never say to a woman in labor).  Secondly, it’s going to be fine.  I can get us there in plenty of time.  I’m an expert driver, remember?”

LW- “Be quiet.  Do not argue with me.  Grab our stuff and take me to the hospital.  Now.”

I did.  We took my car, for a multitude of reasons.  For one thing, it is awesome.  1997 Toyota Four-runner.  It had the distinction of taking every one of my babies home from the hospital, had a four wheel drive system that could take it literally anywhere (which it did, and incidentally, is very helpful in the city of Atlanta), and had a roof rack so it looked cool.  The only thing it lacked was a winch, which I am working on. 

We pulled up to the hospital with the brakes smoking and tires squealing.  I had to pull into the emergency parking where they keep the ambulances because the LW was convinced the child was already half way out.  I plopped her in a wheel chair and started running down the hall.

The security guard saw us rapidly approaching and got up to see what he could do.  I threw him my keys, told him not to park it next to a car that was in worse shape than mine (“All those dents happened the last time I was here.  Hehehe.”), and hoped he would find me later.  He did, and was extremely nice about it.  I don’t think that is the first time he has had to do that.

Then, about 20 minutes later, we had a new baby girl.  Remember what I said about getting to the plane as the doors are closing?  It turns out that translates into the rest of her life as well.

A Night with Papa

My father in law is one of the most unusual people I know.  He is probably the most generous person I know, loves his children and his grandchildren, all of whom think he hung the moon.  He is a kid in a candy store, and probably enjoys Disney World more than I do.  He also has absolutely no concept of time, has never sent an email, and has no idea how to use his cell phone.  When we are with him, he is generally the 5^th child in the room.

When Strib was young, he would take him out to the barn, planning on returning around 5:30 or 6:00 for dinner.  Our experience with our children is that if they eat later than 6:00 in the evening, they turn into gremlins and are starving.  You better hide the dog and keep the kids from knawing on the furniture.  But, when Strib was with Papa, they would get lost in the woods for hours, return around 10:00 happy and healthy and without a care in the world.  

Now Win is coming along, and is having some similar experiences with his Papa.  Win recently went to Chattanooga to have some special time with his grandparents. Sometimes Win wakes up in the middle of the night and has a hard time returning to sleep.  It doesn't happen around us too often simply because he knows we will just send him back to bed until he falls back to sleep.  Not Papa.

Win went into their bedroom about 2:00 in the morning and told Papa he was hungry.  Apparently the medium sized pizza he ate was not enough to slake his appetite and get him through the night.  Papa, always being one who can squeeze in a little more food, was game.  The two of them went downstairs, opened up the freezer, and pulled out a half gallon of ice cream.  They then proceeded to make milk shakes, because nothing says "going back to bed" like 18 ounces of chocolate milkshake.  

They managed to make enough noise that they woke up Yaya who came downstairs a little befuddled, and not terribly amused.  She then immediately rolled her eyes, which women in her family tend to do in situations where they are not invited or ultimately wanted, and went back to bed.  I am pretty sure she locked her door so she would not woken up again.  Papa a Win then finished their deep conversations over their milkshakes, and Win went back to bed, satisfied, tired, and full.  Papa, on the other hand, found himself wide awake, and not welcome in his own bedroom.  Yaya came downstairs at a normal time of 7 am and found him asleep in his favorite chair with Foxnews on and the remote next to an empty bowl of popcorn.  

White Collar Hunters

I do a hunting trip with some of the dads from my children's school each year.  It is a gas.  Generally four to six guys attend, and it is a different group each year.  It is a great relationship builder, and when I say it is fun, I cannot over emphasize it.

A couple of years ago, I had a new attendee we will call Chad to protect his identity.  He has a little experience with hunting, but he is what I like to refer to as a "White Collar Hunter".  White Collar Hunters look great in the field.  They generally have a nice gun and can often use it well.  They are often fun to spend time with and generally add to the revelry of the weekend.  However, they are lacking in one fundamental area- the cleaning of the prey.  Most White Collar Hunters frequent plantations and farms where there is usually someone on the premises who will clean your game for you.  It is great.  All you do is shoot it, bring it to the cleaner-of-the-game, go have a couple of beers, and then collect your meat.  It is packaged, iced, and ready to go lickity-split.  It must be how the lords do it in the Scottish highlands.  

On this particular hunt, Chad was the big winner.  He killed a couple of ducks, fell out of a canoe, claims to have missed a "10 pointer", and killed a wild boar.  I highlight the 10 pointer because it might as well be a mythical animal, not unlike a unicorn or a goblin.  He blamed it on the torrential rain, which I can vouch for, but I still doubt that deer exists.  However, he did kill a nice pig.

We dragged that nasty thing out of the swamp, threw it in the back of the truck, and dragged it back in to clean it.  I strung it up, handed Chris a nice sharp knife, and said, "Here you go."

He looked at me like a third eyeball suddenly appear on my forehead. 

Chad- "What's that for?"

Me- In my most diplomatic tone, I said "Well, to clean it with.  Now that you have killed something nice and big, you have to clean it.  It wouldn't be right to just shoot it and leave it.  Kind of wasteful"

Chad- "Who?...  Me?...  No, no, no.  You don't understand.  I killed it.  My job is done here.  It is time for me to go and bask in the glory of the hunt."

Me-  "No, no, no, Your job  just started.  Part of the glory of the hunt is getting covered in something really gross.  Bask in that," I said pointing the dead pig.

Chris-  "Um, I don't think you understand.  I did not sign up for this.  I am used to hunting at places like Tom Cousins.  You know.  You kill it.  They clean it.  It is very pleasant."

Me-  "I'm sure it is.  However, this ain't Tom Cousins place.  This is your Cousin Tom's place.  At your Cousin Tom's place, you clean your own game.  You didn't pay enough money for me to do it.  Plus, I don't work for you.  So, get busy."

Chris-  "Seriously?!  I don't know if I can do that!"

And yes, he was serious.  I told him I would get it started and help him out along the way.  Everytime it was time for him to get involved, he would have an automatic gag reflex, turn white as a sheet, and start sweating profusely.  Talk about gross.

I finally did most of the dirty work, leaving the dirtiest and grossest part for him.  I did that mostly out of spite and meanness.  I just wanted to see him throwup.  He handled it about like you would expect- poorly.  He finally went inside, grabbed some ziplock bags, stuffed his hands in them, and started shovelling out the guts of this thing.

Now, before you mock my friend Chad, I have to tell you that pig insides are grosser than just about anything else out there.  I am not entirely sure what they eat, but it can't be pleasant.  Tie that in with all the creepy things crawling around on their skin and the fat dripping off your elbows, it is not something you want to do on a daily basis.

Well, I heard some terrible noises coming from Chad that morning as he braced himself and started pulling out pig muck.  I am confident he threw up in his mouth at least twice.  He had to have choked it down while the rest of us were chortling at his misery. It was a beautiful thing.

Well Groomed Gentleman

I have a friend named Dennis I have known for several years now.  Dennis is a great guy.  Our sons are the same age and he and I have coached a couple of soccer teams together.  The thing about Dennis that is so great, is that he is always well put together.  He dresses nicely, even when he is casual, and always looks like he came out of a Brooks Brothers magazine.

I have a hard time standing next to him, as my wrinkled khakis, rolled up sleeves, and "outdoor aesthetic" looks frumpy and shabby next to the well coiffed and immaculately tailored Dennis.

A couple of years ago I did a hunting trip for our school that Dennis attended.  By the end of the weekend, we all looked dirty.  Nobody had shaved.  Our hunting clothes all smelled like a fire, cigars, and fragrant men, and they looked like we had slept in them.  There were no women around to impress, and no children around that needed a positive male role model, so to say we looked shabby is an understatement. 

Sunday morning we all headed into the swamp for one last hunt.  As we are piling out of the truck donning our camoflage waders and guns, there is simply something that does not fit.  Dennis looks like he just had a shower, was wearing clean clothes, and might have even shaved at some point during the festivities.  He was well coiffed and manicured.  He looked like he had attended a spa weekend with his wife rather than a hunting weekend with a bunch of rednecks.

The rest of us watched him genteely walk into the swamp, because he had genuinly caught our eye.  We all sat in rapt silence, our mouths slightly opened.  We looked at him, looked at each other, and then looked back at him.  Then Trent, another dad on the trip, said, "You know.  Dennis is a well groomed gentleman."

The next time I go hunting with him I am going to dress in tweeds and talk with a British accent- country side, not cockneyed- as I step out of my old school Land Rover.  If I want to play the part of a wealthy land owner, I need to look it, even if I don't have any land. 

Words to Live By

My son Win is an unusual child, and easily the most entertaining member of the family.  He comes up with random comments on a regular basis and is constantly into something.  He reminds us of Arlis, the little brother in Old Yeller who is always pulling lizards and snakes out of his pockets and grabbing baby bears by the foot.  Great kid, but causes a commotion.  

Well, he recently started coming up with mottos.  I am not sure how he came up with them, or why they have become such a staple of conversation, but they are.  He recently told the first three to the neighbors who immediately said, "If you can live by those mottos, you are going to be just fine."  He has since been adding to his list, and every time he tells them to someone, they try to imprint another on his brain.  This is what he has thus far.  

1.     Hakuna Matata (from the Lion King)

2.     Let me at ‘em.

3.     The tough get going.  The tough get going.

4.     I’m outta here.

5.     Check me out.

6.     To be the man, you gotta beat the man.

7.     Only trouble trouble when trouble troubles you.

8.     Dead men tell no tales (from Pirates of the Caribean)

9.     Toodles (which is how he ends every conversation with an adult)

Pretty funny kid.

The First Mile is the Hardest

We recently experienced all the magic that Disney has to offer.  We were down there for 6 well planned days and had a blast.  Speaking only for myself, I was ready to go, but it was fun and the kids had a ball.  The LW meticulously planned every minute detail of the trip, and did a great job with it.  So much so that the only line we waited in for more than 10 minutes was the bus line so we could get to the park in the morning.  What she did not account for was the first mile of our road trip.

From Atlanta, it is about a 400 mile journey to Orlando, give or take a little.  We had a pile of Disney movies the kids were going to watch on the way, and the LW had gone to the painstaking effort to make sure that each child had their own "goodie bag" in the car to keep them entertained, happy, and busy the entire trip.  And, I have to admit as a non-planner, that she did a great job.  She really knocked it out of the park, with one exception.

We had no sooner pulled out of the driveway and driven more than a mile before Strib had devoured his full sized Three Musketeers Bar from his goodie bag.  He loves them and would eat them with every meal if given the opportunity.  He then reached for his water to wash it down.  The next thing I knew, he was spitting and spewing like a llama in the backseat and cannot get the window down fast enough.  

I, being the calm one of the family, looked in the backseat, assessed the situation as normal, and continued driving.  The LW, not being the calm one, looked in the backseat, assessed the situation, and told me to pull over.  What she knew, and what I did not know, is that the water bottle Strib was drinking out of was actually detergent cleverly disguised as a water bottle.  It has been placed right next to Strib's goodie bag to tempt him.  He got a big swig of that thing, and started making a scene.

Once I finally stopped, and Strib was out of the car spitting in some unsuspecting person's yard, and we got the car cleaned up to the degree we could, we realized there are some things you just can't plan on.  The LW had been working on this trip since November, and had everything dialed in, even the amount of detergent she was expecting to use.  Turns out we came up a little short on detergent, and there is now a big patch of brown grass on the side of the road.  

Next time, I would be willing to bet she puts the detergent in a different bottle, marks it with a skull and crossbones, and stores it under the bags in the back of the car. Personally, I am just glad he didn't get his hands on the other cleverly disguised bottle that was full of what we like to refer to as "Mommy's Little Helper".  That would have made for a long trip. 

Varmints

I realize that this post will likely be politically incorrect, but I am going to post it anyway.  My neighbors and I have an open season on squirrels, chipmunks, and similar type varmints due to their destructive nature in regards to our Victory Gardens.  But we are patriots, and will not stand for their shenanigans.  I have also had a problem with larger varmints trying to kill my chickens in the past.  Our gardens are producing like crazy, as are my chickens, and we want to keep it that way.  Gentlemen Farmers have been dealing with varmints since the dawn of cultivation, and this gentlemen farmer is not immune to it.  So, my son has been "hired" to kill all varmints that could potentially harm our gardens or chickens.  Yesterday he killed two squirrels with a high powered, and scoped, pellet gun.  It is awesome.  1220 feet per second muzzle velocity.  When zeroed in at 30 yards and in the proper hands, it can pick off squirrels across the street.  But I digress.

I came home to find two squirrels hanging on the fence as a sort of scarecrow, warning the varmints not to come around.  But that does not stop raccoons, opossums or coyotes.  It probably attracts them.  Most recently, something has been trying to dig into the coop and get a free meal.  That is something this gentleman farmer simply will not tolerate.  So, using farmer logic, we baited a trap in the backyard next to the coop with one of the dead squirrels.  Sure enough, we got up this morning to find it held one live and really mad raccoon, and a squirrel tail.  But, before it made its way into the trap, it managed to reach in and kill one of our chickens.  She was sick and not doing well as it was, so it was not a hard kill.  And it was not terribly gruesome.  There were a few feathers laying around, but it had not gotten around to doing anything dastardly yet.  I think it caught a wiff of the dead squirrel, left the chicken alone, and let curiosity get the better of itself.

But, this is where it gets hard.  Once you have a trapped raccoon, what are you supposed to do with it?  You can't let it go.  It is ticked and might come after you.  And, it might have rabies or some evil disease so you can't take any chances.  I can’t throw the trap in the car and take it for a drive.  I don’t want to make it someone else’s problem.  And, even if I did do that, I have to deal with releasing a mad raccoon.  No thanks.  So, I will spare you the details, but needless to say, this particular raccoon will no longer be digging into my chicken coop looking for free food. 

Davis Mitchell

I grew up with Lee Mitchell and Ward Wight.  I have known them both since we were little, and today our children attend school together, and play on many of the same sports teams.  All of our LW’s have become the best of friends.  I have a great deal of fun with both of these men and their families.  Ward and I share a lot of the same interests with hunting and fishing and the outdoors.   But, this story is not about Lee or Ward.  It is about Lee’s wife Davis.  

Davis is a wonderful person whom I thoroughly enjoy.  Davis did not grow up in the “great outdoors” per se, and did not have an older brother to harass her with various dead animals that he brought in from the field to provide for the family.  Lee is more of the sporting type, knowing anything and everything about all things sports related.  He is a veritable encyclopedia.  Ward and I consider ourselves to be outdoor enthusiasts and are therefore a bit of an anomaly to her.  She generally looks at us through a quizzical stare, thinking we are a little on the unusual side.  She is probably not that far off.  We get along well, because she likes to keep us at an arms length, and kindly tolerates a great deal of our shinanigans.  

Unfortunately, it has reached a crescendo with her of late, and I fear that we can no longer go on family vacations together.  Actually, that is not entirely true.  I am pretty sure she and her family will still travel for long weekend excursions with our tribe, and with the Wight family.  But, she will no longer travel with the Striblings AND the Wights together.  It turns out that Ward and I as a team are too much for her delicate constitution.  

The worst part of it is that I don’t know where it is all coming from.  I am a delightful person, easily liked and quite funny if I do say so myself.  I can probably point to a few instances that could potentially give one pause, but outside of that, I think her hesitation is completely unfounded.

The first thing that comes to mind occurred right after the best duck hunt ever in the great state of Georgia.  It was awesome.  We killed five mallards, one wood duck, and one goose.  I had taken the day off work, and was close enough to town that when we got done hunting, I could actually make it back to school in time to pick up the kids when they got out.  It was the perfect storm.  

I got to school in all my hunting regalia, guns in the back, and a cooler full of dead animals.  AND, I managed to pull in and park right behind Davis.  She had her son Bo in the car, who I think was the tender age of two.  What two year old boy would not want to see a cooler full of freshly killed waterfowl?  I jumped out of the car, very excited, to show the lad the spoils of the hunt.  I will admit that I had a little blood on me, but nothing terrible.  I grabbed Bo out of Davis’s reluctant grasp and brought him around the back of my vehicle.  He was excited and enjoyed looking at the variety of animals in the cooler.  I know what you are thinking, what a great opportunity for young Bo.  It was.  I got to show him the beauty of some of God’s creatures and how creative He is with the animals He made.

Davis played along, but was ready to swoop Bo up before I had the chance to show him any of the weapons I had in the back.  Apparently, that was plenty. 

The second instance occurred at the Mitchell family beach house.  They have a lovely home on Sea Island, which incidentally, is one of my favorite places to visit.  They have great fishing, and I spent a great deal of time fishing on the beach.  In fact, I spent so much time fishing on the beach that the other parents in attendance, whom I did not know, wound up giving me their kids so that I could “watch” them while I was on the beach.  By myself.  With no other adults.  That was the first in a string of bad ideas as I generally need another adult around to watch me.  The second bad idea was continuing to fish after I caught the first stingray.  The third bad idea was continuing to fish after the 20th stingray.  It was the last one that got me.   It turned around and zapped me in the hand, and all I can tell you is that it was the most physically painful thing I have ever experienced.  The LW roles her eyes when I say that because she gave birth to four children.  Puh-leeze.  I would rather you break each of my fingers one at a time before I go through that again.  

I had to get myself, about six screaming and terrified children, and all of our gear back to the house while my hand bled profusely, and I was trying not to pass out.  I came tearing into the house a few minutes later asking anyone who had the capacity to pee on my hand as I had heard that helps with this kind of thing.  It doesn’t.  The only person who stepped up to the plate was my faithful, eldest son Strib, but he could only go for so long, and it didn’t help.  Turns out you have to put the part of you that has been stung in the hottest water possible for an hour and a half for the pain to become manageable.  Otherwise, there is not much you can do.  

After the pain began to subside and I no longer felt like I would throw up, I managed to look up and see Davis look at me with that look that only comes from women who are not used to this type of situation and prefer not to be in it again.  That, incidentally, is the last time we went to their beach house.  They like to tell me it is because of some sort of rental policy down there, but I think it is personal, and because of me.

The third, and final, thing that happened actually occurred after a long weekend together.  All three families managed to go to Lake Rabun for Memorial Day.  It was great.  There were no issues.  All the kids got along well.  Ward and I managed to stay out of harm’s way the entire time, and all of the men managed to take enough of the load off the LW’s that they enjoyed the weekend and did not feel like they were working too hard.  It was what happened the following weekend that has the fences back up for Davis.

We had no sooner gotten to the lake house and unloaded the car than Strib managed to actually break his toe while playing tag in the house.  Then, the following day, the kids were on the dock fishing together when Josie managed to get a hook firmly embedded in her ear.  It actually went in deep enough for the barb to get her, and I had to perform minor surgery to get it out.  Fortunately, I had a father who managed to catch himself in the back of the ear more often than not so it was not unfamiliar territory for me.  Then, that night, the coup de grace happened.  We caught a snake in the kid’s bunkroom.  They had been asking all weekend, “Is there a snake under my bed?”  

Me- “Of course not.  Don’t be ridiculous.  Go to bed.”

Josie- “Are you sure Daddy?”

Me- “Would I lie to you Josie?  Don’t worry about it.  Just go to sleep.”

The LW- “Uh.  What the hang is that coming out from under her bed?”

That is when bedlam erupted and 7 very tired children were now up for an extra 2 hours.  I caught the offending snake, who it turns out cannot slither very well over a tile floor.  It did try to bite me, but I learned my lesson from the stingray and managed to stay away from it's offending parts.  We caught it, put it in a container so we could identify it later, and moved on.  

The LW is convinced that is was poisonous.  I am fairly confident it is just a regular snake.  Either way, we let it go on the other side of the lake so it wouldn’t come back over.  

All of that would have been fine if the kids had abided by the rule "what happens to the Striblings stays with the Striblings".  They started blabbing at swim team the next day in ear shot of Davis, whose antennae immediately went up, and she coerced the entire story out of our children one Skiddle at a time.  

And so, we find ourselves back in familiar territory with Davis.  Her fences have been refortified, and she is prowling her perimeter making sure that we cannot break back in.  But we will.  Oh yes.  We will. 

Peter Rabbit

We have three rabbits that reside with the chickens in our coop in the backyard.  They all eat the same food, drink the same water, and generally get along very well.  Two of the rabbits are of that rather large variety that looks like they weigh about 35 pounds, and as far as I know, probably do.  Fortunately, they are both male, so have not had any babies.  They can fight like crazy from time to time, but generally get along fine.   The third rabbit is much smaller in stature, and at this point I am thinking is a male as well.  We don’t have any baby rabbits yet, and they have all been living together since Easter.  If rabbit reproduction is true, then my expectations were either way too high, or they don’t live up to the hype.

From time to time they escape the confines of the coop when the kids go in to feed and water “the ladies”.  Once they are out, they are generally out for a while.  They are hard to catch and fast as lightening. 

I generally don’t mind if they are out at a time of year when there are no working gardens.  In fact, the longer they are out the better if you ask me.  I spend less money on food, and since rabbits don’t add much to the Stribling household, I am waiting on a fortunate coyote to come by and have a free meal.  It would be even more exciting if we were all around to watch nature take its course. 

Peter, the big black rabbit, likes to hang out a few doors down the street in Janet Chapman’s backyard.  She feeds him on a regular basis, and Peter seems to have become a part of their family.  I like that as it is one less animal for me to take care of.  But, when spring gardens have been planted, any loose pets that are vegetarian by nature all of a sudden become Public Enemy #1.  Peter is no exception.

He got out the other day when I entered the coop to bury Spotty.  He slid right past my foot so fast I couldn’t turn around and get him.  I instantly knew I was in trouble.  His favorite place to go is our garden.  We like our fresh vegetables, and we have a bounty on squirrels to protect them, so I was not pleased that Peter had made it through the gauntlet.

Three days later, I arrived home after a long day in the office only to see that not only was Peter sitting in the midst of my garden like he owned it, but he had also eaten two brussel sprouts and topped all of my pepper plants.  I was mad, and knew instinctively that something must be done.  Farmers have been dealing with varmints since the dawn of cultivation, and the solution has always the same- eradicate the varmint.  As I am a gentleman farmer, I had eradication in mind.

The first thing I did was tell my neighbor my issue.  Said neighbor, who will go unnamed at this point, took me seriously.  And please, keep in mind that I was pretty hot at the time.  Peter had just had his way with my garden, and I was none too pleased.

Me- “If you see Peter running around anywhere, shoot him in the butt.  Then throw him in a crock pot and eat him for all I care.  That thing was in my garden, and I need to catch him.”

Neighbor- “No problem.  If I see him, I will let you know.”

This neighbor has a great garden, and a strong desire to eat organic and eat whatever he can get his hands on.  He unwittingly adheres to the Paleo-diet where if you can grow it, catch it, or kill it, you can eat it.  I just did not know he was going to take my tongue and cheek comment so seriously.  I guess I was serious, I just didn’t think he would take me up on it.

Two days later, we got a call from across the street thanking us for dinner.

Neighbor- “Hey dude.  I just wanted to thank you for probably the most delicious dinner we have ever had.  I saw Peter, killed him, and threw in the crock-pot all day.  There is not a drop left.”

Me- Silence.

Neighbor- “You there?  That was okay wasn’t it?  I mean, you did tell me to shoot it right?”

Me- “Uh, ya.  I guess so.  Do you really eat it?

Neighbor- “Ya!  It was awesome.  My son was literally licking the bowl.  Thanks man!”

That was it.  He did tell me that Peter was no frier.  He was a big rabbit, and easily fed a family of five.

I have to tell you I was a little peeved.  If anyone should have eaten Peter, it should have been me and my family!  I have been feeding that damn thing for two years now and have nothing to show for it but a fatter neighbor.  Now, I don’t know if the LW would have eaten it, as she has a rather refined constitution.  But the kids would have and I would have been a member of the Clean Plate Club.   

I gave the LW a brief rundown of the conversation after the kids left the room and had grown tired of asking my why I was so pale and quiet.  We agreed not to tell the kids that story until they have children of their own. 

That kind of thing does not generally happen in our neck of the woods.  I have had a hard time looking our neighbor in the eye ever since.

Moral of the story- be careful what kind of freedom you give your crunchy neighbors with your pets.  You never know how seriously they will take you. 

A Death in the Family

The Stribling family recently suffered the loss of a beloved family pet.  As most families can attest, this is a sad occasion.  It is often associated with a large production of some sort of burial, mingled with copious amounts of children’s tears.  I remember when one of my dog’s died when I was a child.  We dug a hole in the ground about 4 feet deep and laid poor Captain to rest in his favorite blanket.  It was a sad day for all.

That is reason number 19 why the Stribling Clan of the new millennium does not have a dog.  I will let you know the other reasons on a need to know basis only.  I like dogs more than just about anyone you know, but for the time being, four kids are enough for me, thank you very much.  The last thing I need is another member of the family to worry about or feed.  I know there are great benefits to owning a dog at our stage of life.  It can scare off varmints, get the paper and my slippers, and clean up under the table after dinner.  Our kids spill enough food to feed an entire Vietnamese village, so I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of money on dog food.  But I digress.  That is a discussion for another day.

The pet, in this circumstance, was a chicken named Spotty.  This is yet another reason why a chicken is a superior pet to most animals on the pet market.  They are low commitment, require little maintenance, give back (unlike most pets), provide compost for a rocking garden, you can eat them if times get tough and not feel guilty, AND, if they die- big deal.  It’s a chicken.  So please, don’t cry for my loss.  I have already moved on.

But, let me tell you how the day unfolded.  I got home from work one day to find Strib and Win running around the backyard playing soccer.  Very fun.  We had a brief interchange before I walked into the house to talk to the LW.

Strib- “Hey Dad.”

Me- “Hey buddy.  How’s it going?”

Strib- “Pretty good.  Spotty died.”

Win- (In a very excited and loud voice) “Ya Dad!  Spotty died!”   (Win did not seem the least bit sad.)

Me- “Huh?”

Strib- “Ya, she died.  Go look at her.  She is laying right inside the door of the coop there.”

Win- (Still in his outdoor voice) “Ya Dad!  Let me show you!”

Win then excitedly runs me to the coop, throws open the door, and points to the dead chicken on the floor.  Sure enough, Spotty is dead as a hammer. 

I then, under the cloak of darkness, scooped up her lifeless body and gave her a rather unceremonious burial before the kids could ask for a big to-do.  I know it sounds terrible, but we had miles to go before we slept, it a chicken burial just did not fit into the plan.

Despite the picture of a cold and heartless family that I have painted, don’t you go calling all your left wing democrat friends and send PETA over to investigate the death of our chicken.  We loved Spotty as much as one can love a chicken that is not fried.  She was the last of the four original chickens we got more than 5 years ago.  I have no idea if she was still producing eggs or not, but she had been around for a long time, and frankly had earned her keep.  She had survived more than one raccoon attack (The raccoons did not.  Hehehe), survived a hawk attack right in front of me (awesome, by the way), and survived an attack by the neighbor’s labrador.  She was a tough old bird, and seemingly had 9 lives. 

And, she was also a fun pet to have around.  I took her to school more than once to teach nature studies to my kid’s classes.  It generally worked out great until I couldn’t get her back into the cage one time and she started walking around the classroom like she owned it.  Then, much to the children’s delight, and my chagrin, she hopped up on their desks and started walking around.  That’s when it went south real quick.   She took a huge poop on Liam’s notebook.  Poor kid.  I would have felt bad if the whole class hadn’t been laughing so hard, including Liam.   

Yes, poor Spotty will be missed, and I am confident that she is in a huge pearl encased coop in a far better place right now.  I can see her already, hopping around with Fire, Stripey, and Cloudy (the other original chickens, and yes, all named by my children) as she digs up the juiciest worms she has ever enjoyed.  Good-bye old girl.  You will be missed.

Cold War Driving

Driving in Atlanta is not for the timid.  If you are not an offensive driver, you will be.  Buckle up and change your attitude.  Growing up in Atlanta, the son of two very offensive drivers, I have learned a thing or two, and though I know I am much too far to the right on the aggressive spectrum, I am still far left of my mom.  She is like a more refined version of Smokey and the Bandit.  I have therefore come up with some helpful tips on how to be a better driver in our fair city.  The LW will probably disagree with me on almost all of my points, but that is what makes me a better driver and why I don’t like to ride with her.  It bugs me when she lets everyone in front of her. 

In my mind, it is a little like that scene from the Tom Cruise movie, Days of Thunder, when Tom’s character Cole Trickle and his buddy have to go and meet with the racing commissioner.  They refuse to ride together, and neither of them will let the other drive.  Their solution- rent an identical car and race each other to lunch.  They beat the tar out of those cars, broke every traffic law on the books, and still managed to get to lunch.  It was awesome.

The first, and potentially most important thing to remember, is to not back down.  This works better if you have a larger car that already has a few dents in it.  If you are not worried about it and your vehicle is larger than the one next to you, then you have an edge.   You will win every time, and they will always back down.   There is always some pansy in a BMW who will sheepishly look away because he doesn't want to get his precious little German car scratched.  They can't even look me in the eye.  Geeks.  Me, I like the scratches and dents.  Makes me a better driver.  

This works well until you either meet someone with a larger car, or they have a car in cosmetically worse condition than your car.  In that case, politely give them the right of way and smile when they try to give you the stare down. 

The second big thing to remember, and my personal favorite, is to never use your blinkers.  My father used to consider it giving information away to the enemy.  It really fed into his whole Cold War Conspiracy Theory- every other driver on the road was out to get him, and he was forced to do what he could to nullify the enemy and beat them to the rallying point.  We can’t let those Commie bastards win!

For example, dad would be at a light with his blinker on, behind someone who did not have their blinker on.  If the person in front of him wound up turning the same direction dad was planning on turning, he came to the immediate conclusion that they turned that way because his blinker was on and their mission was to be in his way and slow him down.  If he was in traffic and was changing lanes with his blinker on and someone beat him to his spot in the neighboring lane, it was because they saw his blinker on, knew he wanted to get in that spot, and beat him there, again, to slow him down and get in his way.  Dad got around this by not using his blinkers anymore.  Of course it did not work.  But it did feed the inner spy part of his personality where the KGB was lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce on him, and apparently, prevent him from arriving at his destination in a timely manner.  Dad was nothing if not punctual, and he liked Ronald Reagan.

The great thing about this is that I seem to have inherited this trait from my misdirected father.  I only use my blinkers when I have an extra couple of minutes on my hands, knowing that by using them I am inviting lesser drivers to get in my way and slow me down.  Otherwise, I have a large car with a few miles on it, and I am not afraid to hang it out there in traffic and beat my opponent who is unknowingly in a race he is going to lose. 

I only use my blinkers if I am at least 2/3's of the way into the neighboring lane when I am on the highway.  I don’t mind if people honk at me.  In fact, it makes me smile.  I do find the bird rather offensive, and frankly hurtful, at times.  Just makes me want to ram them.  And, you cannot be afraid to cut people off from time to time.  I try not to overdo it, but it happens nonetheless.  That is just part of traffic.   Now, I do tend to give old timers the right of way, and I rarely give people the evil eye, even if they are doing something stupid, which is often the case. 

Not all driving needs to be offensive.  But, sometimes it is what is required, and it is best to be prepared to be a strong driver, rather than one who is run over by strong drivers.  There is a reason we won the Cold War- we are better drivers.

My Favorite Shirt

Several years ago, the LW gave me an outfit for Christmas.  Technically, it is not really an outfit, because that makes me sound like a pansy.  It is more of a quasi outfit, which doesn’t sound much better, but makes me feel better about myself.  It consists of is a sweater and a shirt that were purchased simultaneously, making it an outfit.  They can be worn independently, but as a whole they complete each other, and I daresay, complete me as well. 

There are really no bells and whistles.  Just a brown sweater with a cross-hatch design going across the chest with a short zipper and collar and a long sleeved red cotton shirt underneath.  Quite the ensemble, I know.  But, I love the shirt.  At this point, it is not as bright as it once was, and the sleeves have shrunk a little, which really does not matter since it is worn under the sweater.  I think at one point I even cut the tag out because it was itching my neck.

I like this shirt not for normal reasons.  Sure, it is a good shirt and looks nice.  I like the color red, especially if it is on my fictitious Ferrari, but that is not why I like this shirt. 

The reason I like this shirt so much is because when I take if off at the end of the day, without fail, I can look down and find a large ball of red lint in my belly button.  It is awesome!  I have other clothes that do that sort of thing, but none of them are red.  You can spot that ball of lint from across the room!  Other balls of lint can easily get lost in the shadows.  Not this one.  I have even taken a picture of it and sent it to my brother in law simply because I knew he would appreciate it.

The first time I wore it and took it off, exposing the lint ball, was shocking.  The Law of Diminishing Returns plays a role in that- where each time it happens it loses a little of its luster and shock value.  Plus, that very first time, the shirt was fresh and unwashed and had literally gobs of excess, bright red cotton.   The LW saw it and just about passed out after she threw up in her mouth.  That is what I like the most- the reaction I get from the LW.  The only thing that would gross her out more would be if I could shave her name in my back hair.  This is a close second, and it gives me great joy to know how powerful something so small can be. 

Squash

In my youth, I have been accused of being a pretentious, preppy country club snob.  At the time, my accusers were probably correct in the broad, sweeping statements they were making in my general direction.   Sometimes the truth can be a painful thing.  At the time, it wasn’t.  That is how pretentious I was. 

Part of country club life, especially up North, is squash.  Those Yankees are holed up in doors for so long in the winter that they have to come up with some sort of entertainment and exercise.  One of the games they invented was squash.  It is not unlike racket ball, only faster, more fun, and superior in ever way.   I enjoy it tremendously, but find that I am getting older and have less margin to play.  So, I rarely find myself on the squash courts hamming it up on a Tuesday night.  I would rather hang out with the LW and the kids.  But, in my youth, as a strapping single man out on the prowl, I would darken the courts from time to time, and more often than not, win.

I was also confident enough with my racket skills and abilities, that I could beat most people I played, especially girls.  I mean, what are they going to do, beat me?!  Puh-leeze.  They are girls, for crying out loud!  I am bigger, faster, and stronger, not to mention extremely good looking and smooth.  Just ask me.  The Country Club Strib would tell you. 

So, imagine my disdain when I was at a party and a girl there challenged me to a squash match.  She was a died-in-the-wool Yankee, which is just about the worst kind of Yankee.  That should have been my first warning.  But, I was cocky and arrogant in my misspent youth, and thought this would be a great way to get some exercise, beat a girl and feed my ego all at the same time.

I started to realize I was in trouble when she showed up with multiple rackets.  Here I am, seemingly fresh off the pickle boat, with one racket, socks of different heights that clearly do not match, and I am not in my “whites” (because apparently true country club snobs where only white when they play squash.)  My opponent shows up with three rackets, her court whites, and her college championship jacket.  How was I supposed to know that she played for her stupid Yankee college team?

It was awful, and what some would call a drubbing.  I think I got three points off her the first game.  After she got warmed up, if I got one point I was pleased and she was ticked.  I think we played five or six games that day, and I did not come close to winning a single one of them. 

We walked off the courts an hour later.  I was drenched in sweat and could hardly move.  I was dehydrated, broken, and covered in shame.  I might have even been bleeding.  I’m not sure.  I tried to block it out.  She, on the other hand, looked like she was ready to go for a jog.  She was lightly perspiring (because we all know women don’t sweat), and was ready to get back out there.  Fortunately, and unfortunately, there were a couple of dudes who were waiting on the court, so we had to stop playing.  I say fortunately because we were forced to quit playing.  And I say unfortunately because I had an audience watching me get beat so bad I could not show myself around the club for the next few weeks without being made fun of.  Those guys couldn’t even look me in the eye as we passed.  It was terrible. 

The lesson I learned is that you never accept a challenge from a girl, especially if she is a Yankee.  You have nothing to gain.  If you win, great.  You beat a girl, and a yankee girl at that.  Most of them don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain.  But, if you lose, watch out.  She is going to tell all of her friends, who are going to tell all of your friends, that you just got beat like a drum by a girl from up north somewhere who barely broke a sweat. 

Panic Room

The LW thinks I am a history nerd.  I like to think I am more of a history buff, but at this stage of my life it is splitting hairs, and I can live with being a nerd.  One of my favorite topics to read about is World War II.  I enjoy reading everything about it, and find it all interesting.  A great author from that era is Corrie Ten Boom, as she recounts her time during the war in occupied Holland.  They had a secret room in their house that they used to hide Jews trying to escape the Holocaust.  
 

The Striblings have a similar room in our house, only we call it The Panic Room.  And though I know I probably should not be divulging this information to the general public in case the Democrats allow the Nazi’s to come back to power, I have a hard time not writing about it.  It is a place I dread, yet could come in handy one day.

I don’t want to give away too much information, but it is called The Panic Room for a reason.  It is tight, dark, and scary, and only good for dust mites, the boogie-man, and bad children.  The entrance is just tight enough that I can squeeze my head through but my enormous pectoral muscles get hung up and prevent my diaphragm from expanding.  Then I can’t get a full breath and the panic sets in.  Hence, The Panic Room.  This is compounded with the fact that in order to gain access, I must be on my hands and knees on a very hard floor.  It is an extremely awkward angle- my back is flexed in a strange yogo pose and rotated to the point that if I sneeze (which is likely due to the dust mites in the immediate vicinity), I will blow something out and have to be hospitalized. 

I, sadly, have just enough claustrophobia to make me break into hives and freak out should I ever get my entire body in.  I would never make it in there, and the Nazi’s would discover us immediately.  Then, we would have to shoot our way out, and our only hope of survival would be superior
fire-power.   

But, every now and then, I have to get into the Panic Room, and I only do it as a last resort.  The kids can get into it easy enough, and think it is fun climbing around in there.  I send them in whenever possible so I don’t have to dip myself in chicken fat and squeeze in. 

But, every time the television is on the fritz or our stupid DVD player decides it needs to be rebooted, the LW sends me back there just to watch me sweat.  I hate and fear it, and am beginning to feel the same way about the stupid DVD player and the stupid company that built it.   It happened last night. 

The baby sitter did something to the DVD player and it was frozen.  Little Win’s favorite movie was in there (Train Crazy Kids).   All of the kids were already asleep and in bed so they were no help.  The LW wouldn’t let me wake them up to come and fix things for me.  So, I dove in. 

The first place I went was the flashlight/ battery drawer.  In it, we have about 25 flashlights, most of which do not work, and about 100 batteries of various shapes and sizes, that do work and are rapidly burned through. 

I grabbed the fourth flashlight I could find as the first three were dead.  That is part of the beauty of a family of four children who refuse to turn them off when they are done using them to ward off the monsters in their bedrooms.  As an aside, I think the batteries in my house growing up lasted for 12 years.  I used them judiciously and rarely had to replace any.  The fact that my children burn through them like match sticks both irks and confuses me.  But, that will have to be the subject of another story. 

I then girded my loins, stretched, and prepared to battle my inner demons. 

I was immediately struck by the number of cords I saw once I torqued my body through the narrow opening.  There was no way of knowing which cord was which, and I was in no mood to unplug every cord and plug them back in to experiment.  They were all plugged into a space bar with one easy switch.  No brainer!  All I had to do was hit the switch, turn it back on, and I was good to go.  But I had a decision to make.  We were recording The Bachelor at the time.  If I flipped the switch and gave into to my myriad issues, I could get out quickly and safely.  But, I would also have to deal with the wrath of the LW for messing up her program.  Or, I could wait patiently for the program to finish, and repeat steps one through four, and start over again. 

I went for Plan A.  Sometimes it is just better to ask for forgiveness than permission.  I would rather deal with Bachelor disappointment than freak out and wake up in the fetal position under the kitchen table.  I also knew she would get over it.  I mean, where is she going to go?  We have four kids for Pete’s sake!  She can sputter all she wants, but at the end of the day, though she is a beautiful woman, our children have brought her stock down a little.  My own stock is not that high, now that I think about it.

Plan A worked beautifully.  Though we find the Bachelor spellbinding like a wreck on the side of the highway and lie if people ask if we watch it, the LW’s evening viewing pleasure is not predicated on watching every moment of it.  She was fine, even if I was braced for a worst-case scenario.  I only had to gain access to the Panic Room once.  And, Win is now happily watching Train Crazy Kids for the 60^th time.  All things worked out for the best.