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. 

Poor Dining

We are slowly moving down the road of growing a family instead of adding to it.  We know this because of  the milestones we pass along the way.  As the LW and I, mostly the LW, have been knee deep in pregnancy, nursing, diapers, and various starts and stops throughout the last 10 years, milestones are a big deal in our house.  Potentially the biggest for us at this stage of our development is moving away from diapers.

Our 4th and final child is a handsome young lad who usually responds to the monicker of Win.  He is a blond 2 year old who is into more mischief and trouble than the other three children combined.  He played a large role in us deciding we did not want to add any more faces around the dinner table.  We love him dearly but he is a handful.  He is loud, challenging, chases his siblings around with various weapons, and makes his older sisters cry on a regular basis.  But, he is also loved, and probably the favorite among the three other kids.  They cannot get enough of him.

We are in a season of potty training with Win, and it is more than a little difficult.  He just doesn't seem to want to get it.  Case in point:

The Stribling Clan loaded up all of our beach equipment in, on, and around the family truckster and headed to the beach for a long weekend.  About halfway down I-16 we pulled off at a Zaxby's for dinner.  All kids like chicken, so we thought this would be an easy stop.  And they did.  Each child ate more than their fair share of nuggets, chicken strips and fries all dipped in the special sauce.  The trouble started when the three older children, and one friend's child who was riding with us, began screaming hysterically.  Win, smiling ear to ear, is standing in the middle of the aisle, in a pile of poop.

Imagine the LW's shock and dismay to witness this scene in a public forum.  Win is not satisfied with merely pooping in a restaurant, he wants to track it all over the restaurant, too.  He is not interested in just soiling one section.  He wants to have the place condemned and force it to be shutdown due to his personal health code violations.   A kid a couple of tables down from us turned green and just about passed out in his plate of chilli cheese fries.  I felt bad for him, until I realized what my job was about to be.  We then begged/ threatened the kids to calm down, scooped up Win in such a way that we would not get contaminated, and scooped up the poop before the restaurant knew it needed haz-mat suits for uniforms.  It was terrible.  Not only did the stress level skyrocket instantaneously, but we also just did not feel like we could clean our hands enough to return to the dinner table.  There is just not enough hand-san in a bottle to give you the comfort level you need to move forward at certain times in life.  The whole thing just left us feeling sick, and completely unsatisfied.

So, all that to say, that was a top 3 worst dining experiences to date.

The Big House

When I was a young lad in high school, I found myself on the wrong side of the law.  Now, the reasons for this arrest are trivial at this point, and there is no use in reliving them in this forum, but suffice it say that my youthful exuberance and indiscretion landed me in jail for a night.  This was not jail like you see on The Andy Griffith Show where you walk in under your own recognizances, let yourself in and out of your cell, move the doilies around and hang out with Barney.  No sir.  This was big boy jail.  Downtown Atlanta.  At night.

Imagine a young man, at the age of 18, on the cusp on manhood, having been arrested after a formal dance.  He is in a full coat and tie (none of which fits as it is all hand me downs), barely shaves at this point in his young life, and has no idea what he has just gotten himself into.  The only thing he really knows is that A- he is in a heap of trouble, B- man are his parents going to be mad, and C- holy catfish are they really throwing me into the back of this van, cuffing me to this enormous black man, and expecting me to get out of this van in one piece?  I have seen the movies.  I know what happens to preppy boys in jail.  It ain't pretty.  It is like a really bad version of the Crying Games, which was a really bad version to begin with.

After going through the finger printing process, the picture taking, and waiting, I was put in a holding cell that was approximately 40 x 50.  There were probably 100 men in there, one of whom was white.  He was large, in a shirt that was too small, and passed out under the urinal in the corner, which apparently no one used.  I think all my fellow inmates just peed on him, or wherever they happened to be sitting at the time.  I have cleaned a lot of diapers and wet beds, but I have never smelled such an overpowering stench of urine in my life. To this day, I have a hard time smelling my kids pee without retching.  It was like a wall of urine smell that was so bad I preferred to hold my bladder than relieve myself in there.  Plus, I couldn't reach the urinal with the big white dude on the floor, and I did not want to take the chance of peeing on him and making him mad or being the object of someone's wrath in a place I did not feel I belonged.

This holding cell had a bench that was bolted to the wall that went all the way around it, stopping only when it got to the vicinity of the urinal.  The wall where detainees over the years had leaned against was dirty, but more importantly, it was worn.  And by that I mean, the place on the wall where people leaned back and put their heads against it had all the paint worn off, all the way around the room.  It was like a dirty stripe of brown on a wall that was a dirty brown to begin with.

Sidenote- we have some friends who have children with cystic fibrosis.  They sanitize everything, and have a hand sanitizer squeegee in both cars, in their pockets, pocket books, and every room in their house.  I think if they were to see one of their kids in this cell, they would just cash in their chips and request a new child.  It would just be too hard to de-germ them.  Back to my story.

The only other thing of note in the room was a pay phone in the corner opposite the urinal.  Upon seeing it, I immediately saw my freedom, at least for a minute.

I looked around the room, scanning my fellow scofflaws and ne'erdowells, to make sure it was okay to use it.  I am not sure why I did that, other than to say that I was already in a boatload of trouble, I certainly did not want to get in any more.  I casually walked over to the phone, because as we all know, you never hurry in the slammer.  You never want to show vulnerability or weakness.  That only breeds violence, and that is one thing this preppy boy from Buckhead did not need.  So, in such a way as to draw as little attention as possible to my person, I shuffled my penny loafers in the general direction of the telephone, acting as nonchalant and cool as possible.

My plan was working great, until I finished dialing and was awaiting further instructions from the operator.  My eyes were downcast when they caught sight of a rather large pair of bright red, shiny, dress shoes.  They were connected to an extremely large man, dressed head to toe in a red satin tuxedo, complete with a hard red hat with a shallow brim trimmed in lace, that went all the way around his head.  He made me think of the Kool Aid guy, only this dude was a pimp, muscular as opposed to fat, black, scary, and tall.  He did not have to say much.  All he had to do was look at me like I was an idiot, tap one of his red shoes a time or two, and wait for me to hand him the phone.  Which I did in short order.  The phone, at that point, became his.  Apparently, he had a rather prosperous business at that time of night and needed to check on his employees. 

At that point, I pretty much thought it was hopeless.  I was never going to be able to call my parents, explain the wrongful situation in which I found myself, and be extricated from the premises.  But, that was not to be the case.  Apparently, there was a Good Samaritan incarcerated with me who took pity on my lowly station in life, and threw me a line.

What I did not know about this area is you could leave the cell, and go to another cell down the corridor if you so desired.  It is simply a block of identical cells and you are allowed to move about freely from one to another.  They are all gross, some just grosser than others.  I think everyone congregates in the least gross one as possible. 

This Good Samaritan took me across to the hall to an identical room.  It was significantly less crowded but smelled worse, if that was possible.  In fact, it was much worse, and hot, which is probably what made the smell worse.  That is why the previous room I was in was overcrowded.  But, it had a payphone that was not being used, so I snatched it up greedily.

This time, I did not shuffle my way to the phone.  I walked briskly to it, picked it up, and made a collect call home.

What you do not know about me is my parental situation as a youth.  My parents were married for 39 years before my father's passing, but they were an interesting pair.  In the case of an emergency, you absolutely did not want to get mom.  Especially if it was after 10:00 at night.  It didn't matter if you came into the house with an armload of orphans you just saved from a burning building, mom was not made for late night emergencies.  It would be significantly worse if you were in trouble.

Well, this evening I was able to make my phone call.  By having a pay phone in the cell, we could make as many collect calls as we wanted.  Hollywood, it turns out, did me a disservice by convincing me that I had one phone call and one only.  Who knows what else they erroneously taught me?  I dialed my parent’s number, and prayed for dad to pick up.  He didn't.  Mom answered, did not accept the charges, and promptly hung up the phone.

Imagine my surprise to finally get to a phone, have the ability to use it without the threat of being beaten with it, only to have my own mother hang up on me.  In jail!  It was and remains an all time low.  But, I was not one to be easily deterred, so I dialed again.  This time dad answered.  He automatically knew what the trouble was and soon had me out, post haste. 

Just because I was out of jail does not mean that the lesson was over.  I had a lot of "community service" hours ahead of me in the neighborhood.  But, thankfully, dad did not make me wait around in jail for a day or two to teach me the error of my ways.  The police did a decent job of scaring the hell out of me.  They saw me coming a mile away and knew they had easy pickings.  I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few who remember the incident and still laugh quietly to themselves from time to time.