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Glass shelter
Do I have faults? Do I do and say stupid things? Does a newborn baby cry in the middle of the night? Do I have funny looking toes?
As Beth and her peer group might say, “Duh?”
One of the most rewarding means of compensating for our faults is pointing them out in others. In that vein, let me tell you about Cheryl, and the great egg debate. As it turns out, Cheryl fancies herself the household egg expert. Because I can be a wee bit competitive, this is a source of friction. Combine this with a husband’s natural proclivity to avoid “women’s work” and you’ll find yourself right in the thick of Sunday’s Kauffman Family Smackdown. You see, Cheryl once accused me of never making our daughter eggs when she asks for them. Never? Why them is fighting words! You see, Cheryl once told me that Beth hated eggs prepared in the microwave. Yar, that be a challenge me boy!
So Sunday Beth asks me to make her some eggs. Unbeknownst to everyone, I mixed up a couple of eggs and nuked them up good. Like every college student worth his or her weight in salt knows, the best meals are those eaten in the container they were prepared in. So I stirred up the bowl of gelatinous cooked egg goo that came out of the microwave, and served Beth a reasonable facsimile of scrambled eggs. Cheryl was standing there next to me as I gave the bowl to Beth. I whispered in her ear, “I just gave Beth microwave eggs. I want you to watch this, but if you say anything to Beth you’ll be sorry.” (That’s husband speak for “I have no real power over you, but I like to pretend I do.”)
Beth took the first bite.
“Beth, how do you like MY eggs?”
“They’re hot.”“Yes, but how do they taste?”
“They’re hot.”“Yes Beth, so I gathered; but if they weren’t too hot do you think they would taste good?”
“Yeah.”“BOO YAA, HA HA HAAAA!” I said to Cheryl, in a manner as mature as I could muster in my moment of triumph.
It was one of those moments where your life feels like a Rocky movie. You know, where you take an inhuman beating for an hour forty-five, and then somehow score the improbable knockout in the last ninety seconds. The only thing missing was Survivor playing in the background as I mixed up the eggs.
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Telling signs
An excellent indicator that Boston is in the World Series is my inability to adjust the time on my Seiko. Due to a nervous, disturbingly cannibalistic habit, I have an insufficient collection of rigid tissue at the end of my fingers to pry out that wicked small knob on the side of my watch. Not having “mother nature’s screwdriver” handy at a moment’s notice is terribly inconvenient.
Now I just have to remember to wash my hands before the game tonight and I’ll be all set.
As it turns out, it may be a good thing the hockey season doesn’t go off this year. I’m not sure I could handle the stress.
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Grammar school politics
In the south…
I have it on good authority that if John Kerry is elected president, kids will have to go to school on Saturdays and Sundays, and they will only have brussel sprouts and cabbage for lunch in the cafeteria.
George Bush, on the other hand, has the courage to take on the liberal school boards. He has the backbone to take on the vegan lobby. He has the strength of character to stay the course on the traditional school week. He is the only candidate that wants to take the choice away from lunch ladies, and put it into the hands of the hard working school children of America.
Well, that’s what Beth’s friends say anyway.