Alert reader MKPierce mentioned the real culprit behind the Boss’ recent battle with a kidney stone – GLOBAL WARMING!  That’s right.  Global warming!  And since we all know that George Bush is solely responsible for global warming, my wife’s kidney stone was THE PRESIDENT’S FAULT!

 

The dirty rotten scoundrel. 

 

A simple Google search confirmed MK’s observation.  The 103rd Annual Scientific Meeting of the American Urological Association (and don’t ya’ just wanna run right out and join THAT group) announced last May that global warming will account for an increase in incidences of kidney stones in the United States.  The southern US is already known as “the stone belt.”  This is not to be confused with “the stoner belt,” which is actually a chain of liberal colleges stretching up and down the east coast.  Rising global temperatures could increase the size of the stone belt so much that 50% of our population could live in it by the year 2050.  We must do something about global warming because we must SAVE OUR KIDNEYS!  

 

I think that I read somewhere that the president is heavily invested in a company that makes artificial kidneys, and the hope is that by causing a world-wide increase in temperatures there will be so many incidences of kidney stones that there will be a corresponding increase in kidney failure, causing a world-wide need for artificial kidneys.  The evil-doer in the oval office stands to make millions.   We should contact members of congress and see that we get a windfall profits tax slapped on BIG KIDNEY.  I think you should copy this into an e-mail and send it to all of your friends to warn them as soon as possible. 

 

I’ve also read that drinking a lot of water can not only help in passing a kidney stone (the first thing they did in the hospital was give the Boss an IV to jack up her fluid level) but can also help prevent the formation of kidney stones.  It goes to figure that the ED-in-the-OO is also heavily invested in BIG WATER.  So, I guess it doesn’t matter whether you get ‘em or prevent ‘em.  He’s getting rich either way.

 

The crook. 

 

While there are many different causes of kidney stones, it appears that diet has a large effect on their creation, but we cannot allow something as astoundingly common-sensical as PERSONAL BEHAVIOR to enter into the great GLOBAL WARMING DEBATE.   Foods high in sodium, too much calcium, dehydration, and oxalates can lead to the development of those tiny buggers that create such intense pain in spouses that they feel the need to breath heavily, thrash and moan, and generally make such a disturbance that they wake their sleeping partners.   Rhubarb, spinach, strawberries, chocolate, wheat bran, nuts, beets, tea, and OKRA are high in oxalates, and should be avoided. 

 

Oh.  Darn.  I need to stay away from OKRA.  Shoot.  What’s a guy to do?  Well, if I must avoid deep fried flavorless green shoots filled with mucus, I guess I’ll make that sacrifice.  And please, SOUTHERN CONTINGENT, save your comments about how I must not have ever had okra made properly like the way your grandmother made it.  It’s a vegetable filled with snot.  Deep fry it, dip it in cheese, bathe it in Hollandaise sauce  – it doesn’t matter.  Snot is snot.             

 

Remember this the next time you go to the polls and vote for the person who will look out for your best interests.   Research to find out if they take donations from BIG KIDNEY or BIG WATER PACs.   Ask candidates whether or not they will do anything to save your kidneys.  Then go home and eat a slice of rhubarb pie topped with chocolate covered strawberries and wash it down with a glass of tea.  And when you’re thrashing in bed next to your spouse later in the evening, remember...

 

 

This too shall pass. 

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Back when the Boss and I were dating she made an offhand remark that turned out to be quite prophetic.  “Come with me, and I promise you an adventure!”  I was thirty, single, had just finished a year of substitute teaching, had no contract for the next school year and probably wouldn’t make the next month’s rent, so I said, “Ah, what the hell!”  I moved to Kansas City.

 

Fast forward 13 years.

 

We had thirty-six hours before the Boss left for CRC at Fort Benning in Georgia.  It was one a.m.  She came to bed huffing and puffing, and I honestly thought that she was angry about something.  My first thoughts upon waking were, “I didn’t do it!  It can’t be me.  I haven’t done anything stupid in weeks.  Not even remotely stupid.”   After half an hour of thrashing and moaning (and we were both thinking the same thing by this point) we decided to get her dressed and drive her to St. John’s hospital where she passed a 2mm kidney stone.  Woo Hoo!  Scratch that one off the list of things to do before deploying.  We weren’t certain whether or not we could fit that one in! 

 

They didn’t believe her when she walked into the ER and announced that she had a kidney stone.  They offered a few alternatives.  Maybe it was a UTI.  Maybe it was a tumor.  Maybe it was a...but the CT scan confirmed the Boss’s self-diagnosis. She is, after all, THE Boss.   A couple of hours later the pain vanished, and shortly thereafter the offending culprit washed from her body.

 

We’re having it stuffed and mounted while she’s away. 

 

She told the doctor that she didn’t have time for a kidney stone.  She had things to do.  She was deploying.  He asked her where she was going, and then asked her whether or not she wanted to go.  He pulled out a pad of paper and offered, “I could write something and get you out of this.”   It was a kind offer but she declined. I drove back to the ER to find a happy, smiling, and somewhat tired Boss ready to go home. 

 

We fit in some last minute shopping yesterday, a lot of laundry, a “Good-bye and Good Luck,” LOST-themed lunch/picnic from her co-workers, and a date at Applebee’s for Buffalo wings, beer and cribbage, the latter being one of our favorite things to do since we started dating.   

 

As I write, she is sleeping.  It is Friday morning, and in a few minutes I have to wake her.  We are going to load the car, drive to Target to purchase a digital camera for her trip, and then go to the airport to drop her off.  She flies to Georgia for a week’s worth of training and then she’s off to the sand box. 

 

Our next adventure begins today!

 

P.S.  For those of you following the adventures of the last few days, the proper attire is underwear.  He was a former welder with big, strong hands, and he wasn't cute.

 

Works for me. 

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So, the Boss looked at me across the dinner table tonight, and casually mentioned, “I have to call my sister.”

 

“Which one?” I asked.

 

“I have to ask her what is appropriate to wear the first time a strange man sees me naked.”

 

Like I needed this bomb dropped in my lap only two nights before she deploys for five months.  I don’t think the two most important girls in my life have any idea of the stress they create for me with their casual conversation.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“My massage tomorrow,” she explained, laughing at me. One of her sisters is a masseuse in Florida.  “The masseur is a guy.”

 

 

 

Where’s the bourbon?

 

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Last night, Captain Chaos uttered five words that are guaranteed to strike fear in the heart of any father of a daughter. 

 

“Hey, boys!” she exclaimed, waving across the table at her brothers.  “Look at me!” 

 

“I can only hope,” I observed to the Boss, wincing.  “That she grows out of that statement by the time she turns fourteen!” 

 

The Boss laughed, looking at her four-year-old twin. “She won’t.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I was a bit boy crazy at fourteen.”

 

Hmmm....

 

 

 

It’s time to clean the shotgun. 

 

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Recently, I was sent an e-mail from Captain Chaos’ Occupational Therapist at Children’s Mercy Hospital inquiring of her status since the great casting experiment of last May.  The Captain wore a cast on her right hand to immobilize it for one month, forcing her to use her left hand to take care of her basic needs.  This was the first time that one of the Captain’s therapists contacted us for a follow-up on her condition.  There have been so many changes since May that I’m not certain where I should begin.

 

I guess the first big change is that Major Havoc no longer comes to us crying because Captain Chaos hit him with her “glove.”   Water no longer makes mom and dad jumpy.  Now our only concern when the girl is playing in the front yard is preventing her from planting her face in the bird bath and drinking.   She smells a lot better, too, since she once again takes regular baths.  I know that I have written about these things.

 

Captain Chaos discovered that if she starts talking as soon as her eyes open in the morning and keeps talking until her eye lids collapse in the evening she never ever runs out of things to say.  Never.  She chatters so much you’d think we brushed her teeth with gun powder each morning and dried them with a lit match.   “Look, dad! I found stinky piggies underneath the blankets!” she recently exclaimed at two a.m., kicking the covers off of all three of us and pointing to her toes.   This does not win brownie points with the Boss, who finds the Captain’s nightly excursions to our bedroom when her room gets too lonely quite annoying. 

 

Music is quickly becoming a big part of this little girl’s life.  She loves to drum.  Sometimes she even uses a drum.   Usually, she drums on the Major’s head.  It’s quite amazing to watch, really.  Her coordination is excellent.  She’s developed a good, fast, two-handed rhythm that she can maintain for 10-15 seconds, and when she uses open flat palms instead of closed fists he tolerates it fairly well.  If anyone has a set of drums they’d like to donate to Ringo’s therapy regimen, let me know.  She’ll play bongos or with sticks.

 

The Captain is also singing and dancing daily.  I'm seriously considering teaching her Groucho's trademark song as a tribute to the children's favorite babysitter, Lydia.  We’ve been given a large keyboard that she likes to play with, doing her best impersonation of Jeff Wiggle.  One of her favorite activities is watching a Wiggles DVD and playing the keyboard at the same time.   I see piano lessons in her future (only if she wants them), an activity that can only help her left hand. 

 

The best part of her developmental burst is her use of both hands.  She keeps her left hand open more than she keeps it in a fist.  While she does tend to keep her arm at half mast, she will lower it to her side when we remind her.   She will sit at dinner and eat with both hands.  She will hold a spoon and a fork in each hand and try to use them together.  She is throwing and catching balls better than before.  The Captain will even change hands and use “lefty” to complete a task when we tell her too.  We are quite pleased. 

 

In June, we told the Captain’s cardiologist about the immobilization therapy at her annual check-up.  He laughed, observing that it sounds quite barbaric but that the results of such an exercise are fantastic.  He was correct.   We are thrilled with her progress. 

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Growing up, I loved to watch old movies.  I watched Abbott & Costello, Laurel & Hardy, Buster Keaton, the Keystone Cops, Charlie Chaplin,  and my all-time favorites, the Marx Brothers.  I watched their movies and waited to see Chico play the piano and Harpo play his harp.  But my favorite Marx Brothers clip is...

 

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Buckling from the pressure of two small children pleading to let the chickens out of their chicken run, I opened the gate this morning and allowed the Foultastic Four to roam the great unexplored recesses of our backyard.   It did not take long for the herd of hens to venture forth into the great unknown and discover the Big Fuzzy Rock.

 

The Big Fuzzy Rock lives in our backyard.   Occasionally, he makes an appearance at our door for food and water, but generally we only confirm respiration by noticing that the Big Fuzzy Rock has moved from one section of the yard to another.   Prior to this morning, BFR had no interest in our birds.  He was more chicken than they were.   He wouldn’t go near them in their cage.  That changed today when the birds noticed him sleeping in the yard.  They ran straight towards him.   In an uncharacteristic move, BFR stood up, stretched, and walked towards the brood of hens.   This movement greatly changed the landscape from the bird’s perspective.  What at one time looked like nothing more than a large furry roost to adorn with both chickens and chicken afterthoughts, suddenly became a rather large, moving, drooling beast to be avoided at all costs.  They bolted for the other side of the yard.

 

BFR ignored them, meandering over to my chair to have his back scratched.  It was while I was administering to that magic spot just above his tail, the one that makes slobber cascade from the other end, I noticed that there were three chickens in the corner of our yard instead of four.   Upon closer inspection I discovered that Clumsy had walked underneath our gate and was heading for the front yard.  This confirmed a suspicion that the Boss and I shared a few weeks ago.  Our late great pit bull Gypsy was reincarnated.  Now she’s a chicken.  Actually, she’s four chickens. 

 

Don’t worry.  Our chickens don’t have sharp teeth.  They don’t latch onto small children with jaws of steel and tear them to shreds.  Besides, Gypsy never did that.  What Gypsy did do was explore.  She was, at heart, a nomad, a characteristic that I wrote about last October.  She was also the most active (and destructive) dog that I’ve ever seen before she blew out her knees and resigned herself to using her body to prevent our couch cushions from floating off into the atmosphere.   I noticed the similarities between Gypsy and Trouble when the latter ran pell-mell across the lid to our chicken cage when I was trying to take her picture.  A short-lived bid for freedom resulted in an unplanned tour of the garage highlighted by Captain Chaos screaming when confronted with an un-caged bird.  Other people have calm birds that leisurely stroll through their yards, or perch nicely on their shoulders.  We have four hummingbirds on acid. 

 

Gypsy was great at playing fetch, too, an activity that just today I discovered my chickens have no interest in.   

 

I was able to coax BFR to follow me out the front door of our house and around to the gate where we blocked Clumsy’s path to freedom.  The sight of BFR caused great consternation in our poltroon pullet.  She made several unsuccessful attempts to run through the gate back into our yard.  BFR had no idea why I brought him along, and while I snagged Clumsy and returned her to the yard, he explored the flower bed in a desperate bid to locate an inch of dirt that he hasn’t marked.  I was able to save both fowl and flowers, and discovered that BFR does in fact have a useful purpose.  He’s an effective, albeit oblivious, chicken herder. 

 

It’s just amazing what you can learn each day. 

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I’d like to invite you to head over to Junosmom’s blog at

http://lifetimelearning.blogspot.com/ and check out a new blogger I’ve recently met.  Not now!  Wait until you’ve finished reading.  I’m using this opportunity of introducing you to Junosmom (if you haven’t already met her) to both apologize to her for my being a complete idiot as well as to publicly acknowledge that I am a doofus.

 

Many of you have been following the progress of our family adventures in chicken farming.  Since the little fowl ones hatched, you’ve seen pictures of Trouble, Clumsy, Yoshi, and “Newbie,” and the construction of the chicken house of The Best Little Chicken House in Kansas where OhPumpkinshellz observed that you could see a “peep” show.  “Newbie” officially has her own name thanks to the Boss’ co-worker Sharon, who sent us the following picture:

 

Our fourth chicken is now officially Phyllis Diller.   After posting the tale of the painting of our chicken house I received a comment from Junosmom.  It was an innocent comment.  She wrote, “Any plans for that coop? We're about to build another.”  I read that and thought to myself, “Ah...yeah!  Of course we have plans for the chicken coop.  We plan on putting our chickens in it!”  There was an underlying thought of, “Duh!”  What were we supposed to do, send the coop to her?  And then I shrugged and moved on.  Apparently, so did Junosmom.  She hasn’t been back since.

 

I was reading through some blog comments a couple of days ago and I stumbled upon Junosmom’s comment.  That’s when it hit me.  That’s when I realized I was a boob.  She didn’t want to know what we had planned for our chicken coop.  What she meant was that she was going to build another chicken coop, and did we have plans, i.e. designs (blueprints), for our chicken coop?  It is moments like this that I think I should demand a full tuition refund from my alma mater. 

 

Junosmom, the belated answer to your question is, “No, we do not have plans for our chicken coop.”  What we had was a pile of lumber from an eight foot long picnic table that I dismantled last year and stacked in my garage.  We used the long pieces to cut the frame of the coop and attached them together using left-over lag bolts from the loft project.  They were cut so that each side is 48” wide, the width of a piece of plywood.  Some of the pieces of the frame are longer than the others to accommodate this design.  If you’d really like a plan I can measure the coop and send you dimensions.  We cut into the walls a large door for cleaning, a small door for the birds to get in and out, and a door to access eggs.   Everything was sort of jury-rigged.  We looked at the coop and decided, “We need a shelf here.”  Then we cut one to fit.  If the pictures make our coop look like something you’d want for your chickens, I can assure you that it is only by pure dumb luck.  I am, after all, a city boy.  I never saw a chicken up close until one hatched on my kitchen counter a few weeks ago. 

 

I apologize for my misreading of your comment, as well as my failure to respond in a timely manner.   I’d love to have a witty comment to explain away my blunder, but the only thing that comes to mind is,

 

 

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It’s time for something new at Arby’s Archives.  It’s time for something different.  It’s time for Monday Music Mania!

I was sitting in front of the computer late one Friday night, bored, not ready for bed, when I stumbled across some Youtube.com clips and Projectplayer.com songs that transported me back to my child hood.   I rediscovered the music that influenced me in my youth.  Music has always been a big part of my life.    I was grateful to have the time alone to locate and enjoy songs that I haven’t seen and heard in decades, and I did it without any interruptions.  Captain Chaos was in bed and the rest of the army was, as the Major is fond of saying, in Wiscongsin. 

 

I come from a musical family.  Dad played trombone in high school and in a Chicago youth symphony.   Mom was a singer and a French horn player (although not at the same time), as was my older brother, who also played coronet, trumpet, baritone horn, and learned the double-belled euphonium for marching band.  Currently, my mom sings in an opera company in Chicago and my older brother splits his time between his music studio in Park Ridge, Illinois, and singing tenor with the Chicago Symphony Chorus.  They are quite the musical group.  

 

Dredging through songs of yesteryear gave me a wonderful idea.  I thought that I would start a new tradition at Arby’s Archives.  Each Monday I would host Musical Monday.  Instead of the usual drivel that I share with the world, I thought I’d share some of the music that influenced me in my youth.  Tonight, as I prepared to write my first entry, I realized that Musical Monday just didn’t do justice to the brief glimpse into my mind that I am about to share with you.  Monday Music Mania fits the bill.  Through Monday Music Mania I will share with you a video clip or a song from my childhood that helped make me the Arby I am today.  Plus, it has the added benefit of getting me out of writing an original entry one day each week. As a public service, you always know where you can come when you need a laugh.   

 

Without further explanation...

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So, the Boss has decided that my recent success in winning contests (two in one year) means that I should enter more of them.  I went to Lavender Fields and entered their bedroom make-over contest.  It’s a small contest, really, not one that you’d be interested in.  I mean, you really don’t want to win a $3000.00 bedroom make-over, complete with a Pine Cone Hill bed set, decorative pillows, lighting, a Dash and Albert rug, wall art and accessories, or the paint selection assistance and general room layout assistance from Lavender Fields designers. First, you’d have to be willing to post two pictures of your bedroom on-line (here) and admit publicly that your bedroom is actually in the condition that it appears in the pictures.  Secondly, you’d have to fess up to your real name and the location of your home.  Most of us use pseudonyms here, so that’s another discouragement.  Then you’d have to go through the tedious prospect of culling through family and friends for votes.  Who wants that hassle? Besides, the designers who help you design your new room will not help you actually remodel your room.  If you win, you’ll have to do all that work yourself!

Rather than bothering with all of that, the easiest thing for you to do is to click this LINK, scroll down to the picture of my bedroom (Richard B., Lansing, Kansas), read a mildly entertaining paragraph about why you should vote for me NOW!, and click on “Vote for Richard B.”  Cast your votes for me NOW!   Remembering that since it is always better to give than to receive, you should give me your vote NOW!, since I gave you the information about how to give me your vote NOW!  Your kindness will be repaid with eternal gratitude and warm thoughts when I lay my head down on new pillows and peacefully drift off to sleep.

Next to the Boss.  

Who will undoubtedly poke me in the ribs and tell me to roll over because I’m snoring.  

Thanks for help!  

P.S.  Please consider voting for me, NOW!

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So, "I was looking for bedroom furniture and found great selection of Mission style oak and wood beds for my home at Barn Furniture Mart.”  Well, not really.  That’s what I am supposed to say in order to participate in a contest over at the Barn Furniture Mart. 

 

Let me repeat that.

 

Barn Furniture Mart!

 

 

You can find them over at www.barnfurnituremart.com.  

 

It’s not just any furniture that you can find at

 

Barn Furniture Mart.

 

You can find Amish Furniture at

 

Barn Furniture Mart,

 

as well as Dining Furniture at

 

Barn Furniture Mart.

 

 

Now that I have introduced you to the

 

Barn Furniture Mart,

 

 

you should head on over to www.barnfurnituremart.com, give a cursory look at their product lines, and then blog to enter the contest that brought about this inspired post.   Please remember that if you win the contest instead of me after learning about the contest from me you should really consider sharing the prize with me.  So, if you win the oak hope chest you might wish to give me the lid, or if you win the book shelves, I could use one shelf in my living room.

 

Just a thought.

 

Thanks, Twisted Sister, for sharing this contest on your blog!

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I’m not one to scare easily, unless you jump out from behind a door and yell, “Boo!”  Oh, I do have a healthy case of Ballistophobia.  If a bullet is heading my way, I usually duck.  Whenever someone points a bazooka at me I tend to scramble for cover.    Like most people, I am a bit Bolshephobic.  I have a fear of Bolsheviks.   I will also admit here and now that I have one darned good case of Politicophobia.  This probably comes from living in Chicago where you learn early in life that if a politician pats you on the back with their left hand you can be certain that their right hand is reaching for your wallet.   My fear of politicians only increased this morning when the Boss sent me a link to a news article about our cousins across the pond.  The UK’s Telegraph, “Britain’s #1 Quality Newspaper Website,” is reporting that the Tunbridge Wells Borough Council in Kent has banned the term “brainstorming” from use by borough staff.  The preferred terms are “thought showers” or “blue-sky thinking.”  In an excellent use of taxpayer’s pounds, the council already put staff through formal training to remove the offending verbiage from their lexicon.

 

I like the term “brainstorming.”  I use it in my writing instruction all of the time.  I used it in my classroom regularly.  Never once did I have a problem resulting from using the term “brainstorming.”   Maybe the problem was that I didn’t have any epileptics or mentally ill people in my classroom to complain that the use of the term “brainstorming” was offensive to them.  Apparently, the Tunbridge Wells Borough Council in Kent has had such complaints.  But, I take umbrage at the substitute terms suggested by the borough in Kent.  On behalf of Ombrophobes, Lilapsophobes, and Cyanophobes the world over, I protest!  The new terms are insensitive to people with genuine fears. 

 

How can we justifiably ask someone with a fear of being rained on to engage in “thought showers?”   That is horrendously insensitive to people who suffer from Ombrophobia.  They might drown in a pool of their own thoughts.   Equally appalling is asking a Cyanophobe, some one who is afraid of the color blue, to engage in “blue-sky thinking.”   It would be like asking Chicken Little to look up!  If we are to abolish anything, we must abolish the entire concept of generating ideas, as Lilapsophobes, people who fear tornadoes and hurricanes, might not be capable of brainstorming, an idea that the esteemed Tunbridge Wells Borough Council never developed in their extended original thinking sessions.

 

I’m sure that by now many of you are thinking, “Hey, Arby, You are being unfair.  You’re obviously a moronophobe.”  I may be guilty as charged, but I see insanity spreading in this world.  It’s a communicable disease that is well on its way to becoming a pandemic.  That makes me an Agateophobe. 

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Steph over at My Crazy Life: True Stories of a Home School Mom has a contest.  Head over to her blog and read about how you can win the new The Schoolhouse Planner from The Old Schoolhouse.   She ahs a lot of good things to say about this planner.  Thanks for the contest, Steph!

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Well, she did it.  She finally did it. She left me.  I must admit that I saw signs that this was coming, but I didn’t pay close attention.  Sometimes, we only see what we want to see.  Wednesday morning she packed a bag, put the boys in the car, and left.  For someone who leans so far to the right, this was a big move.  She left me and drove to her parent’s Wisconsin summer house. 

 

On vacation. 

 

Yep, the Boss headed through the rain soaked Midwest to spend a few days with her parents before deploying.  The boys are spending their time swimming in the lake behind the in-laws’ home.  When the boys are not swimming they are swimming.  Before bed, as a treat, they usually go swimming. 

 

I’m here at home with Captain Chaos, which is both peaceful and difficult.  She misses her brothers, and asks for Major Havoc. They briefly spoke on the phone yesterday.  It was fun to watch.  The Captain and the Major are 18 months apart in age.  They get along very well.  She wants me to fill his vacancy as play mate of choice (not to be confused with Playmate of choice, which is an entirely different subject!).  Two people living in this house is much quieter than five people living in this house, but I wouldn’t want it to be this way for very long.

 

Our family will be reunited tomorrow night, but not before I smoke a few pounds of (you know, I should leave that sentence hanging just to make you wonder) pork ribs for dinner tonight.  I caught a sale at our local grocery store, and I didn't have to play charades to get my pork. 

 

I hope you have a good weekend. 

 

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I decided yesterday that chickens are the rodents of the avian community.  I decided this while cleaning their cage.  Cleaning their cage gave me the opportunity to take some pictures.  Let me introduce

Clumsy

 

Newbie

 

Yoshi

 

And Trouble!

The first three birds sat peacefully for their photos.  Trouble ran around the top of the cage like a mad hen, chirping and flapping until she flew off into the recesses of the garage.  This made Captain Chaos quite agitated. 

And on a completely different note, General Mayhem's loft.  Nope, we don't require him to clean it.  It's his.  And no, Kellieann, there is no Va-Va-Voom in this room!

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A few years ago we decided to build a loft for the General in the room that he shares with the Major.  It was a project that the Boss had wanted to accomplish for a long time, and moving into a three bedroom house with five people gave her the perfect reason to build it.  The loft gave the oldest a place of his own, and effectively doubled the living space of the boys’ bedroom.   It was off-limits to the Major and the Captain unless they were specifically invited up by their older brother.

 

At that time, Major Havoc slept on a Little Tikes fire truck bed.  We decided to make the loft a fire station designed after the Waveland Avenue fire station  that stands on the north side of Waveland Avenue directly across from the left field bleachers at Wrigley Field in Chicago.  If you’ve ever watched a Cub pitcher serve up the long ball to an opponent and sat in awe of the majesty of a towering blast that sailed down the left field line, you’ve watched it bounce off of that fire station.  I know I have.  Too many times.   We were going to make a brick facade with open double doors and windows.  The Boss even thought of painting the wall opposite the fire station loft to look like the back side of Wrigley Field, complete with the giant green score board. To make it even more fun, we searched for a brass fire pole to install in the room.  We thought General Mayhem would have the best loft ever made if he had a real ladder to climb up to his loft and a fire pole to slide down. 

 

Ever try to buy a fire pole? 

 

We brainstormed ways to build a fire pole.  We could have installed galvanized pipe painted gold.  We could have tried a thick PVC pipe.  Neither looked like a good option.  I searched on-line and found manufacturers of genuine brass fire poles, but the prices were horrendously high.  Most manufacturers would not sell to a private citizen.  One guy told me that he was required to sell me the safety equipment, including the safety door for the floor of fire house, if he sold me the pole.   It was too much money and effort for a drop of four feet. 

 

Then Vita stepped into the picture. 

 

Vita was a co-worker at Midwest Airlines.  Vita’s dad, it turned out, managed an establishment that utilized genuine brass poles as stationary dance partners for the ladies who danced for their dollars.   She did not own one herself, but she was more than willing to provide me with catalogues from manufacturers who made and sold the brass poles.  Apparently, there is quite the industry selling brass poles to couples who install them in their bedroom. 

 

Who knew? 

 

I have to be entirely honest and say right here and now that it did not matter that the brass pole would have been used solely as a fire pole for a ten-year-old boy’s fire station loft.  I had a young daughter.  I would not have the adult entertainment industry’s equivalent of the merry-go-round’s brass ring in my house.   I just couldn’t do it. 

 

This all came to mind today when Captain Chaos came prancing into the room after having gone to the bathroom.  For months we’ve battled the young nudist on remaining dressed while she potties herself.  She’s in that phase where bathroom obligations can only be performed sans clothing.  Combine that necessity with a bladder the size of a snap pea and we find that every time we turn around there’s a little girl standing in front of us pointing at herself and saying, “Look!  Me, nakee girl!”  It has only been in the last few days that she decided to pick up her pants and carry them to us for our assistance in getting redressed.  When she streaks up to us, underwear in hand, she’s frequently twirling them in the air on one finger.  She did this just yesterday, running up to me with her size four Hanes spinning around an index finger, delightfully and uninhibitedly naked.  

 

“Look!  It’s me!  Nakee girl!” she shouted with glee. 

 

I looked down at her and thought to myself, “Thank God we didn’t buy the stripper pole!” 

 

So, we have a loft for the General.  Artistically, it isn’t anything special.  It’s a big hunk of plain wood held together by screws and lag bolts.  It holds a twin sized mattress, a book shelf, a bean bag chair and a reading light, and has room for a guest to sleep on a small mattress.  There is enough room for all of General Mayhem’s treasures.  It’s sibling proof.  And he loves it. 

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I was recently posed an interesting question by a fellow blogger.  She asked, “Where do you get your ideas for your Homeschool projects?”  The answer to that question comes from the answer to another question.

 

“We have aboslutely nothing to do this weekend.  We don’t have to be anywhere or do anything.  What would you like to do?” I asked the Boss last Friday.

 

“I want to sit back and watch you make progress on building our chicken coop,” she answered. 

 

That answers the original question.   Most of my ideas aren’t mine at all.  If truth be told, I’m fairly boring.  The Boss has all of the creative ideas, like hatching and KEEPING chickens.  

 

I built the chicken coop, not that I have a clue how to design or build a chicken coop, and sent the Boss to the store to pick a paint color and purchase a can of paint. 

 

“Barn Red is too brown,” she told me when she returned home.  “I picked another red.” 

 

I looked at the label on the can of paint.  “Va-Va-Voom?” 

 

The Boss looked at me sheepishly.  “The guy put the clear tape over the color spot before it dried, so it looks pink.  It’s really red.”

 

“Va-Va-Voom?”  I asked.  “You picked the color Va-Va-Voom?”  Who, in their right mind, would make an exterior house color named Va-VaVoom?  I would wonder who in their right mind would buy an exterior house color by that name, but the answer was standing in front of me. 

 

“It’s red,” she explained.  Then she added, “It’s really, really red.” 

 

After carefully painting the frame of the chicken coop, I prepared to apply a coat of “Va-Va-Voom.”  That was when Major Havoc and General Mayhem began petitioning me to allow them to paint.

 

“Canwepaintthechickenhouse, dad, pleeeeeeeease.  Huh? Dad? Canwepaintthe chickenhouse, dad, puh-leeeeeeeease.  Huh? Dad? Canwepaintthechickenhouse, dad, puh-leeeeeeeease.  Huh? Dad?”

 

Now I faced a parenting dilemma.  My children wanted to take part in the painting process, a job that I planned on doing myself.  I knew that if I painted, the chicken coop would look neat and clean.   I also knew that I had to allow them to assist me in this project.  So, I did what any fool dad should do, I gave my sons each a paint brush and a small jar of Va-Va-Voom.  I explained where they were to paint, where to stop, and then turned them loose.  I knew better than to stand over them and give directions watch.  That would have lead to frustration for all of us.  It would have killed their fun.  So, I went inside and added a double shot to my coffee, just to deaden the coming pain.

 

They had fun.

 

You can’t tell from these pictures, but not only did they paint below the line where I wanted them to stop, slopping Va-Va-Voom over my previously painted frame, but they painted willy-nilly over the hardware.  All the hinges are red, as well as a new gate latch securing the large door on one side.  It sticks.  It should.   There’s about an inch of paint on that sucker, compliments of an enthusiastic five-year-old Major Havoc.  And you wonder where their names come from. 

 

Ever wonder what a Va-Va-Voom chicken coop looks like?  It looks like...

 

“We have a chicken bordello in our back yard,” I told the Boss after the kids finished painting.   “It’s a house of chicken ill repute.  The Chicken Bordello: Where the Roosters Come to Crow!”

 

She winced.  “It’s a bit red, isn’t it?”

 

“Ya think?” 

 

“Okay, go get the barn red.” 

 

I purchased a can of barn red and repainted.  Now The Best Little Chicken House in Kansas looks like this: 

 

The hardware remains as is.  I haven’t decided whether or not to repaint the frame.  I’d hate to cover the kid’s endeavors.   The chickens get their new home next week. 

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I recently found a January 2008 article by Jane Gross in the New York Times that called for more regulation of home schoolers, another knee-jerk reaction from the crowd that really wants to deny Americans the freedom to teach their own children.  The article was a result of the Bonita Jacks case.  Ms. Jacks killed her four children last year after removing them from their public schools and claiming to be home schooling them.  I’d bet good money she’s never heard of A Beka, Bob Jones, Charlotte Mason, or Love and Logic.  The children’s bodies were discovered by US Marshals serving an eviction notice.  The bodies had been decomposing for two weeks prior to their discovery, and Ms. Jacks was still living there!  Apparently, she didn’t entertain very often. 

 

I find it difficult to understand the reaction to this case.  Bonita had been under the eagle eyes of the Department of Child Welfare Services, of Washington, D.C. District Public Schools, and of the city police department prior to this event taking place.  None of those agencies were able to prevent this heinous crime.  That didn’t stop the ever vigilant anti-home schooling writer from noting that, “The lack of supervision of the home-schooling process, some experts say, may have made it easier last year for Ms. Jacks to withdraw her children from school and the prying eyes of teachers, social workers and other professionals who otherwise might have detected signs of abuse and neglect of the girls.”  Do I really need to elaborate on the obvious here? 

 

Oh, let’s do it anyway. 

 

If the “prying eyes of teachers, social workers and other professionals” are so good, why did these children die?  If the “prying eyes of teachers, social workers and other professionals” are so good, why do thousands of public school children get abused every year?  What is it about forcing a child to plant his or her rear end on a public school chair that makes people think that the child will be safe or saved?  Are children only abused, tortured, and murdered while school is in session?   Don’t evil doers, perverts, and ne’er-do-wells ever practice their endeavors on a sunny July morning, or on Spring break?  And which kid is going to answer his “What did you do over summer vacation?” essay with, “Daddy tried to burn the lyrics to ‘Highway to Hell’ on my bum with cigarettes?” 

 

In 1991, the District of Columbia attempted to regulate home schoolers with rules that included unannounced home visits.  I’d like to know why no one is suggesting the same type of treatment for lesbians.  Just this month in Los Angeles, Starkeisha Brown and her partner Krystal Matthews were accused of torturing Ms. Brown’s 5-year-old son, including burning him all over his body with cigarettes (including his genitals), food depravation, and placing his flat open hands on a hot stove.  Currently, the boy is unable to open his hands.  Not once since this story broke in the news have I seen a New York Times article calling for the regulation of lesbians.  I haven’t heard one cry of the need for unannounced home visits of lesbian parents.  At age five, the young man might not have started kindergarten.  Maybe we need unannounced home visits of lesbian parents with children who are not yet in attendance at a public school, where “prying eyes of...social workers and other professionals” might prevent horrible acts of this nature from occurring.   In the words of Nebraska State Senator Schimek, who recently attempted to increase state regulation of home schoolers, we need these unannounced visits of lesbian parents because “we don’t know what is going on” and we need to “catch kids who fall through the cracks.”

 

You may be wondering if I’m hitting the ol’ coffee pot a bit too hard lately.  I’m not.  I just crave continuity of thought from our politicians and the people who report on them.  Instead, I find insanity.  And I’m not certain whose is worse, theirs or mine. 

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I’m certain that I’ve shared this before, but early in my marriage to the Boss I was a middle school teacher and she was an airline employee trying to become a supervisor.  We were very happy.  We figured that with our combined incomes, we would have a comfortable lifestyle.  She made $7.00 an hour loading airplanes and dispensing airline tickets and that was okay.  If you would have told me that 13 years later I would be waving to her as she left for work in the morning and then heading to the basement to clean popcorn out of the Lincoln Log bucket (Captain Chaos) I would have laughed.  I didn’t know what home schooling was.  I would be teaching for 30 years before retiring, and having a Captain Chaos didn’t appear on my radar screen. 

 

It was amusing to see the course of events unfold as they did, leading to my staying home with General Mayhem (he was an only child then) while the Boss went to work.  One of the first things that she discovered upon taking her job with the army was that they paid for 90% of a master’s degree through K State.  Go.  Wildcats.  Go.  Rah.  (Sometimes, I get so excited about college sports I just can’t control myself.)  The degree was an Operations Research degree, and it was expected that if you took the job you would work towards the degree.  It had the added benefit of being something that was done completely on company time.  There were no evening courses or long commutes to Manhattan, Kansas, for classes.  Everything was accomplished via video tape or video conferencing.  The Boss began her program. 

 

Graduate studies were difficult to complete.  Her coursework was interrupted by a Major Havoc and a Captain Chaos and the ensuing maternity leaves.  There was an 18 month gap in studies when the Captain became sick.    She restarted her degree studies and plugged on until November of 2006 when the Boss sat me down and told me that she absolutely despised her course of studies and did not want to finish.  I said, “Okay.”  She needed to get her Master’s degree, but she could get one in something that she enjoyed (like math).  If we put her through her undergraduate degree we could put her through an advanced degree.  So, I was more than a little surprised when I called her at work one afternoon in January of 2007 and was told by one of her office mates that she was in class.  She had changed her mind and resumed studies.  This was when I realized that my wife had a secret life at work that I was unaware of, and her co-workers knew more about that life than I did.    She’d go shopping on her lunch hour, go out to eat at a restaurant, or go bowling with co-workers, and I’d either find out from an office worker when I called and she wasn’t there or she’d casually mention it hours, days, weeks, or months later.  Honestly, she could have a nooner and I’d never know.