Difference between guys and girls #1

Kelly and I live within a few minutes walk of the shores of the Potomac. There is a great overlook that has got to have a good 60-80 foot dropoff.

So, now imagine Kelly and I standing atop this cliff on the Potomac and looking out over this majestic view... I just know what she's thinking.

She's reveling in the glory of what God has created. She taking in all the sights. The sound of the rushing water. The colors of the sky. The lush forest that surrounds us. She'll probably spot some of the wildlife....perhaps a squirrel jumping from tree to tree, a deer looking for berries or an eagle gliding effortlessly across the sky. In her silence, I know she is just absorbing the majesty of the situation.

I, on the other hand, I'm consumed by a desire to spit off the cliff. Guys... YOU know what I'm talking about. I simply cannot enjoy the situation until I've either spit or thrown a rock off the cliff into the water to make a really big splash. Once I've got that out of my system... then -- and only then can I start to enjoy my surroundings. That is how guys are hardwired by the Almighty.

So, today, my son had to go the bathroom really bad. Unfortunately, all bathrooms at the in-laws were occupied. I figured we would just wait at first, but then he went into an all out pee pee dance, so I asked him if he wanted to go in the "grass" potty (knowing full well he wanted to -- because, let's be honest....few things are more compelling to a boy than the "grass" potty).

Of course, being a guy, he immediately said yes.

So, I rush him out the backdoor onto the deck to let him pee in the grass. But, then, as I'm taking him out there, my natural tendencies take over and I think ... "wouldn't it be cool to pee off the top rail of the deck?"

So, I ask Luke "Do you want to go on the grass potty from the top of the deck?"

Of course, once again, being a guy, he is physically incapable of saying no to such an opportunity (For in a man's life, you just inherently know that the opportunity to pee off the top of the deck may, perhaps, never present itself again... and, you know... carpe diem).

So, I hold him up on the highest point of the deck and he lets it fly.

And you know what? He loved it. He giggled while he was doing it.

And I was cracking up, too.

So, I ask everyone the following questions given this situation. You are standing atop a cliff, overlooking the Potomac. No one is around.

(1) First, state your gender

(2) Looking out over the cliff, do you:
a) Just take it all in and enjoy

b) spit
c) immediately look around for a rock to throw and throw it
d) look for the biggest rock and throw it as high as you can to "make a really big splash"
e) none of the above

if you select "none of the above"... please elaborate.

Got Change for a Dollar?

Odd question, I know... I'll get to that in a minute. For now, rewind to a month ago. Luke was napping and woke up screaming. I ran up to his room and he was holding his eye saying "get it out...get it out." Needless to say, I was worried and he was, indeed, in some real pain.

So, we took him to the emergency room (since it was after the Dr. was closed on a Saturday). And, while at the doctor, he improved enough to tell us what happened. Basically, he was sleeping with this toy camel that friends of ours brought back from Egypt for him. Somehow, he scratched his eye with it. Thankfully, though, he did not scratch his cornea or anything and they sent him home and he was fine.

Since that time, he has referred to the camel as "that stinkin' camel" (Kelly's preferred adjective for anything she doesn't like is 'stinkin' and he, obviously, has picked up on that).

Now with one trip to the emergency room under this belt, Luke apparently wanted to take trip #2 last night. Here's the story:

I was brushing Luke's teeth and noticed he was holding a nickel. I didn't really think much of it. He was excited to put it in his piggy bank. I forgot about the nickel. Until, that is, I put him on the ground to put his clothes on for bed. At that point, he made kind of a gagging noise.

I thought it might have been a hair or something caught in his mouth... but, anyway, it wasn't a good sound, so I picked him up really quick and then he had this confused look on his face and said, "My penny! Where did my penny go?" (He has yet to learn the difference between a penny and a nickel -- or a chuck e. cheese token for that matter). And he was reaching in his mouth and grabbing at his tongue.

Then the lightbulb went off...I think he swallowed the nickel. Obviously, I'm concerned -- but I know it'll probably just "pass"....Kelly wanted to call 911...Luke just wanted his frickin' nickel back. So we all compromise and decide to call his doctor in the morning to see what they say.

"Go straight to the emergency room," they say, "to make sure it's not stuck in his esophagus." So, we trek down to Lansdowne hospital (between his last visit, my near-miss vasectomy, and this time -- we've seen entirely too much of Lansdowne Hospitial) and get the x-ray.

Luke tells anyone that will listen that the nickel is in his tummy and he wants it back. So, we go to the X-ray room. Luke says "cheese" when the nurse tells him she's just going to take a picture -- very cute. The X-Ray confirms our diagnosis. Nickel in the tummy. Dr's assure us there are no problems and that it will just pass in a couple of days.

Logically, it makes me wonder if Luke will start calling the nickel "that stinkin' nickel" -- because, let's be honest -- that nickel is going to truly be stinkin'....

Anyway, to answer the question, Got change for a dollar?

The answer is No... but maybe Luke will in about 2 to 3 days. Well, he'll have to go to his piggy bank for the rest, but he'll be on the right track. So, until then, you are just going to have to be patient.

Cigars, Champagne and Shakespeare

William Shakespeare once wrote: “If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me.”

I love this quote. Somehow, I think it gives me validation to talk and/or write off the cuff. As long as I’m not being crude, I feel I have pretty good license to talk a bit “wild” at times.

So, this brings me to today. Today is the 20th Anniversary of the company that I work for. This is a big accomplishment and something to celebrate for sure. So, I wanted to get my boss a little something to (1) show my appreciation and (2) help him celebrate a bit.

So, this begs the question… what did I get him? Well, my general philosophy on man-gifts can be summed up in three words:

Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms

Now, I realize that many of you may think of this as merely a Federal Agency. Well, that’s where you selling yourself short. Think of alcohol, tobacco and firearms anytime you need to find the aforementioned man-gift. So, what I do is start running through my options:

(1) Alcohol: a good wine or decent bottle of champagne? Or possibly a decent microbrew or import?
(2) Tobacco: is the recipient a cigar smoker? Pipe smoker? A box of good cigars is always a great gift
(3) Firearms: not a drinker or smoker? Well, how about a shotgun or semi-automatic?

I’ve found most guys would be appreciative of any gifts falling into these 3 categories. So, ripping a page from this playbook, I decide to pick up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Champagne and a box of Nat Sherman cigars. I really wanted to get him a muzzle loader rifle, but feared I might be surrounded by a Swat Team if I took that to work. So, needless to say, the champagne and cigars were (in my view) a solid choice.

Now, to the card… the “note of congratulations” as it were… I’ve got a good relationship with him and he “gets” my sense of humor. So, I had no worries about being all fake and phony. So, as Shakespeare would say, I had chance to “talk wild” and here’s what I wrote:

Dear Richard,
Congratulations on 20 years of successful business. This is an accomplishment for which you should take great pride. It takes a massive set of brass balls to not only start a business, but to make it successful and thriving over the years. So, please enjoy this box of cigars and the champagne. Not to help you celebrate 20 years, but to celebrate your massive set of brass balls. I can assure you this is the only note you will EVER receive extolling the virtues of balls – specifically… yours. So, congratulations again!
Scott

Umm… I’m not kidding.

My Addiction

You know those "just say no" classes they make you take in 6th grade. Ya, the ones where they teach you how to do all kinds of drugs you would have never thought about doing. I mean, you're 12 and they are teaching you about snorting coke and sniffing glue. Let me assure you, at that early age, I never considered the possibilities... but thanks to those classes, I now knew.

Well, I didn't learn much... other than that bong resin will cloud your synapses and make you dumber -- and possibly have the munchies. What I do remember is the "Signs and symptoms of Addiction".... I remember them so well, that I am ready to confess to you today that I have all the classics signs of addiction. My addiction, you ask? The Washington Redskins.

Like a crack addict, I was an addict early on when the highs were good. I was a rabid fan at the age of 6. I couldn't sleep the night of Super Bowl XVII (1983) when we (notice I say "we" -- I am part of the team) beat the Dolphins. I cried -- yes cried -- when we got dominated by Marcus Allen and the Raiders. To this day, I know Marcus Allen cheated. There is simply no other way he could run all over my Redskins like that. And I rejoiced when we enjoyed winning season after winning season throughout the 80's and early 90's (winning 2 more Super Bowl's).

Then, like a crack addict...the highs didn't last long enough. The other shoe dropped and now I am in misery year after freaking year as my Redskins are in a quagmire of losing, losing, losing. And like the addict...by the time I discovered the low's were much more severe than the high's, I was already hooked. An addict. A junkie. Desperately in need of rehab.

So, how do I know I'm hooked? Using my 6th grade knowledge, I submit to you today, the classic signs (Kelly can verify each and every one):

• Expressing feeling of exhaustion, depression, and hopelessness: Umm...after the Redskins lose, I am distraught. I'm depressed. In truth, I want to cry. I really do. I get a lump in my throat... I'm agitated. I am in the depths of despair.

• Engaging in secretive behaviors: You know how they say you're a drunk when you just want to do it by yourself in a closet somewhere? Well, that's just how I feel when watching the Redskins. I DON'T want to watch it with others. I prefer sitting in a room by myself with no distractions, focusing on the game...and only the game. No questions (it's taken my Mother-in-law years to learn this -- umm...well, actually she still hasn't learned this). Leave me alone. Let me watch. That way, if I have to throw my TV set through the window, I can do so without anyone seeing.

• Making inappropriate remarks: I don't swear. It's just not in my vocabulary. I never have the urge. Unless the Redskins are playing like a bunch of skirt-wearing girls and they make me swear! (well..my version... lot's of "frickin" "dagnabbits" "son of a biscuit" - you get the idea)

• Talking about your drug of choice and surrounding yourself with others that have the same habit: There are so few "real" Redskin fans.... and when I find one...I cling to them like a wet blanket.


• Angry outbursts, irratibility, manic behavior: When they are playing well or have just won, I'm on cloud 9... when they lose or are playing bad... I am rotten to be around.


• Uncharacteristically Violent: When I was 12 my brother walked in on the end of a game where the Eagles (who were not a good team at the time) had just beaten my team. He said "Holy Crap! The Redskins lost to the Eagles!" and he laughed. I punched him in the face. (and I'm sure I got my fair beating in return, I might add)

So, there you have it. I'm an addict. There's no turning back. I can't wait for the season to start -- even though I know it's going to give me some of my lowest low's of the year. But I also know it will give me some of the highest high's.

I know what you're thinking. You've acknowledged that you're an addict. You see the changes it makes in you. And you're a great father... So, surely, you are not going to introduce your children to this dreadful affliction.

WRONG! Went to training camp yesterday, pictures of kids with Chief Zee. Let the season begin!

HAIL TO THE REDSKINS!

Ode to Black Thunder

Today I said goodbye to Black Thunder. For those that don't know, Black Thunder was my 1998 Ford Escort. She was preceded by the Babe Wagon, a 1993 Ford Escort. For those that are counting, that is almost 15 years of Ford glory. Sold her on craigslist in less than an hour, my friends (on a tangent, I have a gift... A GIFT I say for craigslist'ing skeeelz. One of my listings even made lofty "best of" status..check it out here: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/wdc/256561491.html )

Many of you are familiar with Black Thunder's...umm... "features". Let me count them for you:

• The rear spoiler: Let me just say this...that spoiler was so incredibly necessary... because when I was flying down the road, maxing her out at 65 mph's... the shear power of all 4 cylinders kicking into gear could have possibly sent me spiraling out of control. But thanks to that spoiler, I was able to keep all 4 tires squarely planted on the pavement.


• The oddly tinted windows: When you've got a ride like Black Thunder, you've got to pimp her out. And that's just what the previous owner did (I bought BT for a mere $7500 in '99 with 13K miles). They spared no expense in tinting the windows. Well, not exactly... they must have run out of money and only tinted the back ones. That's right...it was just like a mullet -- "business in the front... party in the back"


• That sweet engine: About 3 years ago, Black Thunder started whining like a school girl. I mean, it was just this high pitched whine. It was no big deal when we were in the 'burg... I mean, we just fit in there. But then we moved to Northern Virginia -- one of the richest areas in the nation. And, then my wife would be embarassed of me when I would come home from work and she'd be able to know I was on my way a few streets ahead of time by hearing that gentle purr of Black Thunder. I suppose I could have gotten it fixed...but that leads me to my next feature


• It's amazing healing qualities: With most cars, if it develops an odd sound, you take it immediately to a mechanic. Not with Black Thunder. Over the years, Black Thunder developed an assortment of odd sounds. I found the best plan of action was to IGNORE the sound. The car never broke down and the sound would eventually go away... except for that whine.


• The exterior "sheen": The auto washing/waxing industry is just a scam -- and Black Thunder is (was) living proof of this. Nothing -- dare I say NOTHING -- can compare to a nice protective sheen of bug guts, dust and road grime. It provided a lasting, protective and eye appealing alternative to those expensive waxes and other cleaners.

I could go on and on. Black Thunder was legendary to those who knew her, just as The Babe Wagon was before it. To know her was to love her... well, to know her was to make fun of me for loving her. But, the bottom line is that it got from point A to point B quite capably over the years. It left me on the side of the road only once (and a special thanks to Justin Prather for pushing her into that rest stop on 81). I made a commitment when I bought her that I would "ride her until the wheels fell off" -- and, while I didn't keep that promise, I certainly got my money's worth.

So, (sniffle, sniffle)... Goodbye Black Thunder... know that your legacy will live on in the hearts of those that loved you (well, that would just be me... but, you get the idea)