Friday, October 14, 2005
Three Rules Men Live By
Men are interesting creatures. From an early age, boys are subjected to unrealistic expectations that shape them into something that could only be described as “a mess.” Were an artist employed to capture the essence of men, undoubtedly the only qualified painter would be Picasso.
Boys are brought up to believe a number of things that warp their sense of what’s acceptable for men to think and do and what’s not. As a boy, I learned a lot from the men in my life. The three rules men live by are 1) men don’t ask for directions; 2) men don’t read instructions; and 3) men, although they may nod when their wives are speaking, really don’t listen to their advice. I would learn, however, that this list is not comprehensive.
As a boy, new to the ranks of manhood, I sometimes wondered the reasons behind these steadfast rules, but every time I asked why, men would look at me with the same look I had seen them give the women in their lives. In time, I came to know the standard answers by heart: 1) I know how to get there, 2) instructions are for idiots, and 3) women don’t know what they’re talking about.
Thus, instructed in the basics, I began my journey into adulthood and into becoming a full-fledged member of the tribe called man. I was a master student. On my first paper route, unfamiliar with the neighborhood, I rode my bike five extra miles just figuring out the side streets and nuances of the route. I delivered my last paper three hours late and came home exhausted, but at least I didn’t have to ask for directions. Oh, I was so proud to be taking my first step into manhood.
My next step came as a news paper carrier also. Being too young to drive, I needed to make sure my bike remained in good working order. Wanting to become a fine man, I faithfully repeated the male mantra, “Instructions are for idiots,” each time I disassembled and then pieced together the greasy components of my bicycle. I have yet to figure out why bicycle manufacturers include so many extra, non-essential parts in the gears of bikes, but what business is it of mine if they want to waste their money? Once finished with the initial repairs, the bike did make an awful grinding noise but it stopped as soon as I quit pedaling. Besides, after I fixed the brakes I couldn’t hear the grinding over the untraceable squeal the bike managed to acquire.
More than a decade later, thoroughly entrenched in manhood, I decided to drive my family to a week-long church camp meeting. We packed the pickup and headed off on our 120 mile trek. 40 miles in, the truck’s engine began running hot. A nice man stopped by and helped us get water and suggested that, having gone through this same type of thing before, I just needed to get a new thermostat. My wife, the automotive novice she is, had a different suggestion. She thought it would be a good idea to turn back. I listened, nodding as I had seen so many other husbands do. But of course, I knew things would be fine and proceeded to the next town another 30 miles ahead while my wife’s eyes never left the truck's temperature gauge. She was quite helpful, letting me know every few minutes that the engine was still running hot. I smiled and assured her that that’s what trucks do when their thermostats are broken.
After repairs, my wife again suggested turning back. This time I used logic to persuade her, pointing out that we were closer to our destination than to home. Besides, we had a new thermostat. She saw the wisdom in my argument and soon, we were on our way again.
We traveled another 30 miles when, out of the blue, the radiator blew. At that point I heard the same words that have been spoken to men throughout the ages albeit with differing degrees of intensity depending on the gravity of the situation: “Why didn’t you listen to me?” It was a that very moment that I learned something I wish I’d been taught in man class: never say to a woman, especially your wife, “Because women don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Boys are brought up to believe a number of things that warp their sense of what’s acceptable for men to think and do and what’s not. As a boy, I learned a lot from the men in my life. The three rules men live by are 1) men don’t ask for directions; 2) men don’t read instructions; and 3) men, although they may nod when their wives are speaking, really don’t listen to their advice. I would learn, however, that this list is not comprehensive.
As a boy, new to the ranks of manhood, I sometimes wondered the reasons behind these steadfast rules, but every time I asked why, men would look at me with the same look I had seen them give the women in their lives. In time, I came to know the standard answers by heart: 1) I know how to get there, 2) instructions are for idiots, and 3) women don’t know what they’re talking about.
Thus, instructed in the basics, I began my journey into adulthood and into becoming a full-fledged member of the tribe called man. I was a master student. On my first paper route, unfamiliar with the neighborhood, I rode my bike five extra miles just figuring out the side streets and nuances of the route. I delivered my last paper three hours late and came home exhausted, but at least I didn’t have to ask for directions. Oh, I was so proud to be taking my first step into manhood.
My next step came as a news paper carrier also. Being too young to drive, I needed to make sure my bike remained in good working order. Wanting to become a fine man, I faithfully repeated the male mantra, “Instructions are for idiots,” each time I disassembled and then pieced together the greasy components of my bicycle. I have yet to figure out why bicycle manufacturers include so many extra, non-essential parts in the gears of bikes, but what business is it of mine if they want to waste their money? Once finished with the initial repairs, the bike did make an awful grinding noise but it stopped as soon as I quit pedaling. Besides, after I fixed the brakes I couldn’t hear the grinding over the untraceable squeal the bike managed to acquire.
More than a decade later, thoroughly entrenched in manhood, I decided to drive my family to a week-long church camp meeting. We packed the pickup and headed off on our 120 mile trek. 40 miles in, the truck’s engine began running hot. A nice man stopped by and helped us get water and suggested that, having gone through this same type of thing before, I just needed to get a new thermostat. My wife, the automotive novice she is, had a different suggestion. She thought it would be a good idea to turn back. I listened, nodding as I had seen so many other husbands do. But of course, I knew things would be fine and proceeded to the next town another 30 miles ahead while my wife’s eyes never left the truck's temperature gauge. She was quite helpful, letting me know every few minutes that the engine was still running hot. I smiled and assured her that that’s what trucks do when their thermostats are broken.
After repairs, my wife again suggested turning back. This time I used logic to persuade her, pointing out that we were closer to our destination than to home. Besides, we had a new thermostat. She saw the wisdom in my argument and soon, we were on our way again.
We traveled another 30 miles when, out of the blue, the radiator blew. At that point I heard the same words that have been spoken to men throughout the ages albeit with differing degrees of intensity depending on the gravity of the situation: “Why didn’t you listen to me?” It was a that very moment that I learned something I wish I’d been taught in man class: never say to a woman, especially your wife, “Because women don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Labels: directions, instructions, men, repair, rules, rules men live by
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Bittersweet Experience of Camping Out
I am a very level-headed person. Rarely do I make up my mind about something without experiencing it a couple of times. I do this so I can be certain that a first-time experience wasn’t atypical. Of course, this policy doesn’t apply to sampling certain vegetables or to getting together with the in-laws, but most often I am an open-minded fellow. Thus, I took my family camping twice this year. Based on my experiences I have come to two conclusions: 1) it takes a special type of person to enjoy camping and 2) I’m not that type of person.
For me, probably the most problematic aspect of camping is packing before and after the camping trip. Since we don’t have a trailer or a motor home (are camping in those really camping?), this chore necessitates a great deal of planning. I am not a planner. When loading the cars for camping, I’m of the mind set that if I can get everything in the vehicles and close the doors and trunks, I’m doing well. If something doesn’t fit, it’s probably not that important and doesn’t need to come any way. This reasoning isn’t always foolproof, though. On our first camping trip, my wife made me go back for the food, the second trip, for our kids.
I’ll admit that this system of packing isn’t foolproof. A sound planner would make sure the tents, which have to go up first at the campsite, are loaded into the car last. This would ensure that when the blankets, pillows, and clothes are unloaded they have a clean place to sit. When my wife pointed this out, I simply stated that camping isn’t about cleanliness. Of course this argument is easier to stand by when you don’t have pine needles in your sleeping bag.
Reloading the car at the completion of a camping trip seems like it would be an easier endeavor since the order of unloading at home wouldn’t matter. One would think so, but one would be mistaken. Even after disposing of three bags of garbage, two broken chairs, a rusted-through propane grill, and a disintegrating sleeping bag; eating enough food to stock a small convenience store; and using up three quarters of a cord of wood, the camping gear won’t fit back into the same space it came from. My theory is that the laws of physics cease to exist at campgrounds. They must need a vacation, too. As a result, on campouts, cars shrink and supplies grow. I know this sounds odd, but how else can one explain how tents and air mattresses that were expertly folded so they fit in these convenient carrying cases and boxes no longer fit after camping? And why won’t everything (minus all the garbage and used up items) fit into the same vehicles they were transported to the camp grounds in? If you have a better theory, I’m willing to listen; after all, I am a level-headed person.
Another aspect of camping that I failed to master on either trip is sleeping. For some reason, I cannot get a good night’s sleep in a tent. We have a couple of nighttime household noises which I have gotten used to, but evidently camping noises are a different story. The nights of our first campout of the year were marred by neighboring campers who like to stay up late, curious raccoons in search of food (or fighting over it), and a snoring mother-in-law two campsites away that almost drowned out the other nocturnal interruptions.
On our second camping trip, a month later, I slept no better. This trip was for a church campout. Considering the purpose for the event, one would think that I would’ve been calm and that the night would’ve been relaxing. Wrong! As I lay awake in the dead of night, shivering, I could clearly hear the furnace of the trailer in the next campsite switching on and off at regular intervals. In this state, all I could think was how hard it is to follow Jesus’ directive to love your neighbor when the lucky bum next door has a heater and I don’t. That and how hard would it be to turn off his propane in the dark without him noticing it until his body temperature approximated my own.
Of course the furnace wasn’t the only nocturnal noise that inhibited by sleep. At about one in the morning, the campground was subjected to the mournful moans of some miserable creature in distress that threatened to wake up everyone within a quarter mile. My wife finally told me to quit moaning. She said that I knew all along that it was going to get down to 40 degrees at night and that I should take it like a man. I discovered that one o’clock in the morning is not the best time to explain an amendment to my theory about the suspension of the laws of physics and the effects of this suspension on the male of the species. So much for a supportive spouse.
But my whining wasn’t the only whining that night. The people in the next campsite, the ones with the warm trailer, had a dog that slept outside. He had a problem with knowing where it was appropriate to use the restroom and where it wasn’t. Evidently their teenage son had a similar problem, because he, too, had to sleep outside. So, the two shared a tent. Sometime in the early morning hours, I began to hear a whining from next door–the type of whining that comes from a dog in desperate need of a tree. Based on the loving interaction I had witnessed between the boy and his dog earlier that day, I expected to hear the sound of a couple of zippers–one for the boy’s sleeping bag and one for the tent door–being undone and to see the shadows of two figures passing our tent. But I heard no zippers and saw no shadows. What I did hear, however, was a half an hour of the boy consoling his dog with these words: “Shut up, Stupid.”
At the conclusion of this second camping experience, I have decided that I would like to attempt camping again next year. Evidently, I remain under the influence of the aforementioned effects of the suspension of the laws of physics in campgrounds. Maybe the effects will wear off before next year.
For me, probably the most problematic aspect of camping is packing before and after the camping trip. Since we don’t have a trailer or a motor home (are camping in those really camping?), this chore necessitates a great deal of planning. I am not a planner. When loading the cars for camping, I’m of the mind set that if I can get everything in the vehicles and close the doors and trunks, I’m doing well. If something doesn’t fit, it’s probably not that important and doesn’t need to come any way. This reasoning isn’t always foolproof, though. On our first camping trip, my wife made me go back for the food, the second trip, for our kids.
I’ll admit that this system of packing isn’t foolproof. A sound planner would make sure the tents, which have to go up first at the campsite, are loaded into the car last. This would ensure that when the blankets, pillows, and clothes are unloaded they have a clean place to sit. When my wife pointed this out, I simply stated that camping isn’t about cleanliness. Of course this argument is easier to stand by when you don’t have pine needles in your sleeping bag.
Reloading the car at the completion of a camping trip seems like it would be an easier endeavor since the order of unloading at home wouldn’t matter. One would think so, but one would be mistaken. Even after disposing of three bags of garbage, two broken chairs, a rusted-through propane grill, and a disintegrating sleeping bag; eating enough food to stock a small convenience store; and using up three quarters of a cord of wood, the camping gear won’t fit back into the same space it came from. My theory is that the laws of physics cease to exist at campgrounds. They must need a vacation, too. As a result, on campouts, cars shrink and supplies grow. I know this sounds odd, but how else can one explain how tents and air mattresses that were expertly folded so they fit in these convenient carrying cases and boxes no longer fit after camping? And why won’t everything (minus all the garbage and used up items) fit into the same vehicles they were transported to the camp grounds in? If you have a better theory, I’m willing to listen; after all, I am a level-headed person.
Another aspect of camping that I failed to master on either trip is sleeping. For some reason, I cannot get a good night’s sleep in a tent. We have a couple of nighttime household noises which I have gotten used to, but evidently camping noises are a different story. The nights of our first campout of the year were marred by neighboring campers who like to stay up late, curious raccoons in search of food (or fighting over it), and a snoring mother-in-law two campsites away that almost drowned out the other nocturnal interruptions.
On our second camping trip, a month later, I slept no better. This trip was for a church campout. Considering the purpose for the event, one would think that I would’ve been calm and that the night would’ve been relaxing. Wrong! As I lay awake in the dead of night, shivering, I could clearly hear the furnace of the trailer in the next campsite switching on and off at regular intervals. In this state, all I could think was how hard it is to follow Jesus’ directive to love your neighbor when the lucky bum next door has a heater and I don’t. That and how hard would it be to turn off his propane in the dark without him noticing it until his body temperature approximated my own.
Of course the furnace wasn’t the only nocturnal noise that inhibited by sleep. At about one in the morning, the campground was subjected to the mournful moans of some miserable creature in distress that threatened to wake up everyone within a quarter mile. My wife finally told me to quit moaning. She said that I knew all along that it was going to get down to 40 degrees at night and that I should take it like a man. I discovered that one o’clock in the morning is not the best time to explain an amendment to my theory about the suspension of the laws of physics and the effects of this suspension on the male of the species. So much for a supportive spouse.
But my whining wasn’t the only whining that night. The people in the next campsite, the ones with the warm trailer, had a dog that slept outside. He had a problem with knowing where it was appropriate to use the restroom and where it wasn’t. Evidently their teenage son had a similar problem, because he, too, had to sleep outside. So, the two shared a tent. Sometime in the early morning hours, I began to hear a whining from next door–the type of whining that comes from a dog in desperate need of a tree. Based on the loving interaction I had witnessed between the boy and his dog earlier that day, I expected to hear the sound of a couple of zippers–one for the boy’s sleeping bag and one for the tent door–being undone and to see the shadows of two figures passing our tent. But I heard no zippers and saw no shadows. What I did hear, however, was a half an hour of the boy consoling his dog with these words: “Shut up, Stupid.”
At the conclusion of this second camping experience, I have decided that I would like to attempt camping again next year. Evidently, I remain under the influence of the aforementioned effects of the suspension of the laws of physics in campgrounds. Maybe the effects will wear off before next year.
Labels: bittersweet, camping, campout
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
A Fairy Tale for My Wife
Yesterday, my wife and I took down our water bed and replaced it with a regular one. Based on a comment my wife made this morning, I decided to write a fairy tale just for her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once upon a time there was a happily married man. This man had been married for 17 years to a wonderful woman who took care of, encouraged, and loved him. The man lived for his wife and did everything in his power to please her. Their lives were, in a word, perfect. Until the day the man's wife said, "Honey, let's take down the water bed and put up a regular bed instead."
Being a good husband who wanted nothing more than his wife's happiness and comfort, the man agreed. After toiling at work for hours, the man came home and slaved on his wife's project, sweating, straining, and panting. He drained the water bed, packed it in the driving rain to the shed in his back yard, rearranged more than half of the bedroom, hauled the regular bed she wanted from across town, and set it up exactly where she wanted it, barely finishing his labor of love in time for bed. But the man was happy because his work pleased his wife.
Because he wasn't used to the new bed, the man didn't sleep well that night. He tossed and turned and awoke every hour until it was time to get up and ready for work. As he was dressing, his wife asked him, "Did you sleep alright?"
"It was kind of rough, but I'll get used to it." The man bent over and kissed her softly on the forehead. "Anything for you, Dear."
"Oh, you are the sweetest man," she replied caressing his hand. "But..."
"But what?"
"I think I want the water bed back."
The police report listed "agrivated assault" as the reason for the arrest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once upon a time there was a happily married man. This man had been married for 17 years to a wonderful woman who took care of, encouraged, and loved him. The man lived for his wife and did everything in his power to please her. Their lives were, in a word, perfect. Until the day the man's wife said, "Honey, let's take down the water bed and put up a regular bed instead."
Being a good husband who wanted nothing more than his wife's happiness and comfort, the man agreed. After toiling at work for hours, the man came home and slaved on his wife's project, sweating, straining, and panting. He drained the water bed, packed it in the driving rain to the shed in his back yard, rearranged more than half of the bedroom, hauled the regular bed she wanted from across town, and set it up exactly where she wanted it, barely finishing his labor of love in time for bed. But the man was happy because his work pleased his wife.
Because he wasn't used to the new bed, the man didn't sleep well that night. He tossed and turned and awoke every hour until it was time to get up and ready for work. As he was dressing, his wife asked him, "Did you sleep alright?"
"It was kind of rough, but I'll get used to it." The man bent over and kissed her softly on the forehead. "Anything for you, Dear."
"Oh, you are the sweetest man," she replied caressing his hand. "But..."
"But what?"
"I think I want the water bed back."
The police report listed "agrivated assault" as the reason for the arrest.
Labels: Fairy tale, once upon a time, water bed
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Grounded
Throughout my childhood, I spent a great deal of time in my room--involuntarily. I grew up in a home with parents who, of all things, wanted my sisters and I to grow up respectful, responsible, and capable. In other words, they wanted to raise us to be boring. To this end, my mother and my step dad developed a huge set of rules and corresponding punishments. My parents had rules for bed times on school nights, rules dictating which shows I was allowed to watch (or, more accurately, which ones I was not allowed to watch), and rules that governed the myriad chores my sisters and I were assigned. There was always a "don't" and I was constantly being told to finish my homework and to eat all my veggies (although I rarely had to obey both orders simultaneously).
In our home, the most used punishment for disobeying the rules was grounding, and, contrary to what one might assume from the amount of my childhood spent confined to my room, I did not like being grounded. A brighter kid might have figured out that it was better to obey or at least how to keep from getting caught and grounded, but I was not a very bright kid.
At my house, grounding was a miserable experience, unlike at my rich friend Tony's house. Tony was my next door neighbor, the son of ultra-liberal parents. Tony would have to do something major to get grounded--like shooting someone without warning them first. Me? I could get in trouble for not asking to be excused after belching our national anthem (isn't it proper ettiquite to wait for the applause to die down before addressing the audience again?).
On the rare occasion Tony did get grounded, he was forced to spend time in his room or in his yard. Being rich, though, he had a lot of cool stuff in his room and a really big yard. His room contained an Atari game system (yes, I am that old), a color TV, a VCR, a stereo, a phone, remote control cars, etc. His yard had a tree house, a basketball court, and a target range and all the equipment necessary to enjoy these amenaties. Sure he couldn't go anywhere, but why in the world would he want to?
At my house, things were different. Like Tony, I couldn't leave the house, but unlike him, I couldn't play in my yard and I didn't have any cool stuff in my room. And even if I did, I wasn't allowed to use it. In my house, being grounded meant no phone, no TV, no leaving the house, no friends over--nothing. I even had to ask permission to breathe. So it goes without saying, I was violently opposed to groundings. But as a 12-year-old, my desire for freedom superceded my distain for being grounded.
I wanted to be free to go wherever I wanted to go, to eat anything I pleased, and to spend time with friends of my own choosing. When I discussed this (rationally) with my mother, suggesting that these things would be possible if she would relax the rules, fix all the meals herself, do all the chores, and provide me with a steady and sizable source of income, she assured me that she would comply just as soon as she won the lottery. Funny, I never saw her buy a ticket.
Among the rules I hated with a passion were the after-school rules. My older sister, MeLynda, and I were "latch key" kids. Every day we came home to an empty house and our after-school rules. The first rule dealt with watching our younger sister Angie. The second and third dealt with homework and chores. Before we goofed off, we had to get our chores and homework done. I had a difficult time with these two rules because I was a 12 year old boy. If you should come across a 12 year old boy who happens to like these things (or even one of the two), please get him psychological help right away. The fourth and fifth after-school rules ensured that, even if we did get our other stuff done, we'd spend the rest of our afternoons bored out of our skulls until our mother got home. These rules restricted us from leaving the house and from having friends over unsupervised.
Well, one particular afternoon, a couple of friends came to our door and asked us if we wanted to learn to walk on stilts with them. Of course we wanted to (see, they had caught on--they didn't ask if we were allowed to, but if we wanted to). So, ignoring the rules, my sisters and I left the house and went around the corner to our friends' house. As we were practicing falling off the stilts (I have to admit, humbly, I was the best at the impromptu dismount with my patented face-stop maneuver) a photographer from the local news paper strode over to us with a camera. He said was looking for interesting pictures for the next day's paper and asked if we'd like to be in it. Now, as I indicated earlier, I was not very smart. The possibility of getting caught never entered my mind. Why would it? Common sense dictated that the best stilt-walker would get his or her picture in the paper. That would be MeLynda's friend, Laurie. The man took lots of pictures of all of us and our varying stages of success, wrote down our names, thanked us, and left.
The next day, we received our paper, and who do you think was on the front cover? Laurie with her perfect balance? Of course not. It was me! There I was in glorious black and white falling off the stilts while MeLynda laughed in the background. Now, remember, I was not too bright. Instead of hiding the paper or spilling paint on the front cover like a smart kid would've, I ran right up to my mother and said, "Hey Mom, look who's on the front cover of the news paper!" as I thrust it into her hands.
And, of course, you know what that got me, don't you? Yep, grounded--again. In my defense, I must say that, if my parents hadn't made so many rules, I wouldn't have gotten in to nearly as much trouble as a child. Oh well. It's almost all in the past now. They said I was grounded 'til I turned 40. That means I've only got 4 more years to go!
In our home, the most used punishment for disobeying the rules was grounding, and, contrary to what one might assume from the amount of my childhood spent confined to my room, I did not like being grounded. A brighter kid might have figured out that it was better to obey or at least how to keep from getting caught and grounded, but I was not a very bright kid.
At my house, grounding was a miserable experience, unlike at my rich friend Tony's house. Tony was my next door neighbor, the son of ultra-liberal parents. Tony would have to do something major to get grounded--like shooting someone without warning them first. Me? I could get in trouble for not asking to be excused after belching our national anthem (isn't it proper ettiquite to wait for the applause to die down before addressing the audience again?).
On the rare occasion Tony did get grounded, he was forced to spend time in his room or in his yard. Being rich, though, he had a lot of cool stuff in his room and a really big yard. His room contained an Atari game system (yes, I am that old), a color TV, a VCR, a stereo, a phone, remote control cars, etc. His yard had a tree house, a basketball court, and a target range and all the equipment necessary to enjoy these amenaties. Sure he couldn't go anywhere, but why in the world would he want to?
At my house, things were different. Like Tony, I couldn't leave the house, but unlike him, I couldn't play in my yard and I didn't have any cool stuff in my room. And even if I did, I wasn't allowed to use it. In my house, being grounded meant no phone, no TV, no leaving the house, no friends over--nothing. I even had to ask permission to breathe. So it goes without saying, I was violently opposed to groundings. But as a 12-year-old, my desire for freedom superceded my distain for being grounded.
I wanted to be free to go wherever I wanted to go, to eat anything I pleased, and to spend time with friends of my own choosing. When I discussed this (rationally) with my mother, suggesting that these things would be possible if she would relax the rules, fix all the meals herself, do all the chores, and provide me with a steady and sizable source of income, she assured me that she would comply just as soon as she won the lottery. Funny, I never saw her buy a ticket.
Among the rules I hated with a passion were the after-school rules. My older sister, MeLynda, and I were "latch key" kids. Every day we came home to an empty house and our after-school rules. The first rule dealt with watching our younger sister Angie. The second and third dealt with homework and chores. Before we goofed off, we had to get our chores and homework done. I had a difficult time with these two rules because I was a 12 year old boy. If you should come across a 12 year old boy who happens to like these things (or even one of the two), please get him psychological help right away. The fourth and fifth after-school rules ensured that, even if we did get our other stuff done, we'd spend the rest of our afternoons bored out of our skulls until our mother got home. These rules restricted us from leaving the house and from having friends over unsupervised.
Well, one particular afternoon, a couple of friends came to our door and asked us if we wanted to learn to walk on stilts with them. Of course we wanted to (see, they had caught on--they didn't ask if we were allowed to, but if we wanted to). So, ignoring the rules, my sisters and I left the house and went around the corner to our friends' house. As we were practicing falling off the stilts (I have to admit, humbly, I was the best at the impromptu dismount with my patented face-stop maneuver) a photographer from the local news paper strode over to us with a camera. He said was looking for interesting pictures for the next day's paper and asked if we'd like to be in it. Now, as I indicated earlier, I was not very smart. The possibility of getting caught never entered my mind. Why would it? Common sense dictated that the best stilt-walker would get his or her picture in the paper. That would be MeLynda's friend, Laurie. The man took lots of pictures of all of us and our varying stages of success, wrote down our names, thanked us, and left.
The next day, we received our paper, and who do you think was on the front cover? Laurie with her perfect balance? Of course not. It was me! There I was in glorious black and white falling off the stilts while MeLynda laughed in the background. Now, remember, I was not too bright. Instead of hiding the paper or spilling paint on the front cover like a smart kid would've, I ran right up to my mother and said, "Hey Mom, look who's on the front cover of the news paper!" as I thrust it into her hands.
And, of course, you know what that got me, don't you? Yep, grounded--again. In my defense, I must say that, if my parents hadn't made so many rules, I wouldn't have gotten in to nearly as much trouble as a child. Oh well. It's almost all in the past now. They said I was grounded 'til I turned 40. That means I've only got 4 more years to go!
Labels: grounded, in trouble, stilts
