Rambling Josh

The dishes are done, the floors are washed, the laundry is done and put away, the carpets are vacuumed, the toilets are scrubbed, the sinks have been descummed, the kids have showered, and I shaved.

Did I mention my wife is coming home for the weekend? Have you ever been watching a major league baseball game when the manager calls down to the bullpen to get a new pitcher ready to come into the game? The pitcher on the mound is struggling a little, and you see the manager pick up the phone in the dugout and tell the yahoos in the bullpen to get warmed up and ready to come in and pitch. As soon as the manager hangs up the phone in the dugout, you’ll see a flurry of activity in the bullpen, or as close to a flurry as you can get from overpaid and overrated athletes.

Well, the same sort of scenario happens when my wife, the manager, calls from her dugout, Vermillion, and tells me, the yahoo, that she’s coming home for the weekend. Goodbyes, final salutations, and such are cordially exchanged, the phone is hung up, and the flurry begins. A bonafide caffeine induced, wild eyed, flurry. The dust flutters off of various cleaning products as they are wrestled from their hiding place behind the stack of “recycle, when I get around to it” stuff. In the time it takes to chug a cup of coffee, ooohh that burns, the scent of bleach fills the air.

Since I have been deprived of the sense of smell since birth, I deduce the scent of bleach is in the air by the burning sensation in my eyes, nose and throat. Fortunately for me, when I passed out from the fumes my head hit the refrigerator hard enough to open the door. The crisp, cool draft wafting from the fridge was quite refreshing. As I lay basking in the soft glow of the fridge light, snacking on a carrot I was able to retrieve from the crisper, I thought to myself, “Aren’t carrots supposed to break when you bend them?” I’ll clean the fridge while I’m here.

I made my way to the bathroom, nasty toilet scrubber in one hand and a machete in the other. Judging by what I found in there we have a family of Yeti frequenting our bathroom while we’re out. I was able to knit some nice sweaters and a couple tea cozies for Christmas gifts out of the hair that was collected.

We’re all set for the inspection, I mean arrival. We look forward to the weekends Dawn gets to come home, and I don’t mind inhaling a little bleach so she can relax and enjoy her time with her family without worrying about cleaning when she’s home.

So, for a few days I can greet people into our place and say, “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” and not really mean it.

Enjoy the tea cozies.

Halloween is here and gone, nothing left but candy wrappers, belly aches, and costume rash. Hope yours was a good one.

Did your windows get waxed or were you the waxer? Did your garbage cans and picnic table turn into a roadblock or were you the blocker? Did you get any rotten produce, or eggs hurled your way or were you the hurler? Either way it’s all part of the experience and I would be sadly disappointed if none of the above happened in Halloween friendly Burke County. Anyone who doesn’t take advantage of a day that is specifically designated for petty vandalism is going to have problems later in life.

Problems with what I don’t really know, but I’m sure there would have to be some ill effects. Nobody I ever associated with abstained from enjoying the full extent of the trick in trick or treat. So, I can’t rightly say what happens to the poor souls that merrily go about getting sugary treats in their special little outfits.

Parents, here’s a little tip. When junior heads out the door for Halloween dressed like Rambo, complete with face paint, the dangers of sugar ruining his teeth should be the least of your worries. The only candy he’s going to get is when he snags a tootsie roll from Spongebob just before he pushes him into the hedges.

Another thing you’ll notice is his bag will be full when he leaves the house and empty when he gets back, or when you go pick him up at the police station. Which if that’s the case he obviously didn’t have enough training and should dig his Buzz Light Year costume out again until he’s ready for the rigors of rambling.

In all my years in the Halloween business I never once saw a cutesy little costume kid commit trickery. For one thing it would be impossible to be sneaky or run away in a half-frozen plastic costume with ill-fitting eye holes. It would be interesting, and somewhat disturbing, to come out and find Dora The Explorer and Bob The Builder dragging your picnic table out into the road.

Maybe it’s because you take on the mindset of the costume you are wearing. I know when I dress like a woman I, well, that’s not a good example. You ever tried running in stiletto heels and a heavily padded brassier? Heels aren’t designed for speed, so you better have a quick sashay.

You ever sashay? Okay everyone up, let’s sashay a little, come on, don’t be shy. All right, all right, knock it off, someone’s going to get hurt.

As for my family, Sierra dressed as “The Scream,” Jackson was a Ninja and me, well I chose a timeless classic, “Mullet Man.” My wife is still successfully masquerading around as a college student and wondering how she ever got mixed up with Mullet Man. I think it was the sashay that reeled her in, no woman can resist a manly sashay.

So, if you didn’t get chased, yelled at, or threatened this year, there’s always next year. Until then may the egg break “after” you throw it and the spirit of Halloween be with you always.

Something is going on around here. This weekend I awoke to the clatter of my kids bringing me breakfast in bed, both Saturday and Sunday morning. I can barely drag them out of bed for school but somehow they muster the strength on the weekends to get up early and feed their father.

Saturday morning they prepared my favorite, Frosted Mini-Wheats. Nothing kick starts the intestines like a bowlful of sugar-coated fiber. Top that off with some coffee and you’re as regular as Old Faithful, minus the tourists, Park Rangers, and gift shop. Sunday morning they brought me a plate full of the monkey bread I had made for them the night before and a glass of chocolate milk.

Jackson informed me the chocolate milk was homemade by his sister. If you don’t know what monkey bread is, it’s a bunch of little pieces of dough thrown in a bunt pan, topped with caramel, and baked for approximately 25 minutes at 375 degrees.

You would know why they call it monkey bread if you saw me in the kitchen tearing little pieces off and poking them in my mouth as quickly as the hot caramel will allow. You use the bunt pan so you can eat a section and slide it together and nobody will know. Well, enough cooking tips from Billy Crocker. We had French toast and chicken noodle soup for supper so don’t contact me for any culinary advice.

The French toast was made from bread I made in the bread machine. It was supposed to be “light” wheat bread, but light is not the word that would come to mind when you hefted it up for a bite. The bread reminded me of a squirrel that made an attempt on my life last year. I came out of our apartment and as I was walking under a branch, I noticed a squirrel poised on it holding what appeared to be a rock.

I thought, “Oh no, it’s starting.” They’ll start by using primitive weaponry like rocks but soon enough they’ll be pillaging the neighborhood on dogback with hubcap shields, tin can helmets, and yard dart spears. Before the terror completely gripped me, I noticed the rock was actually the heal from the loaf of bread I had thrown out the day before. Honest mistake, the bread’s DNA was closer to granite than Sweatheart.

As I watched the squirrel drag it to his home, I hoped his buddies new about the Heimlich maneuver or there would be one less squirrel to carry out their plan to overthrow the neighborhood.

Maybe my children are softening me up for an overthrow. Keep feeding the old man so in a few years they’ll have to come and tear down a wall to get him out of bed. If they switch my Frosted Mini-Wheats to bacon wrapped sausages dipped in butter I’ll start to worry and accuse them of being in cahoots with the squirrels.

Until then I’ll just be thankful for being blessed with thoughtful, loving children.

Did you know October 6 is “National Slam Your Bedroom Door Day?” It is also “Scream At Your Rotten Brothers Day,” “Punch Your Rotten Brothers Day,” “Kick Your Rotten Brothers Day,” and “Don’t Ever Listen To Your Rotten Brothers Day.”

It also happens to be my sister, Amanda’s birthday. She began laying down the groundwork for the establishment of these days back in 1978 when Mom and Dad brought her home from the hospital to begin the painful process of growing up with two Neanderthal older brothers.

About six years later Mom and Dad helped crank it up another notch with the introduction of a little Neanderthal in training. The “League of Sisters with Brothers” caught wind of the developing situation and tried to intervene on Amanda’s behalf but were unsuccessful.

The three stooges thwarted their plan by moving in swiftly to administer snuggies to the concerned sisters. They were last seen pedaling their “My Little Pony” bikes south towards the hills, defeated, the tassels on their handlebars fluttering in the breeze and the waistband of their underwear rumpled at about shoulder height.

A favorite game amongst us three goons was to see who could get our sister to storm off to her bedroom and scream “I HATE YOU” as her bedroom door crashed to a close. Jarvis was undoubtedly the master of this little slice of fun with an unbelievable success rate.

Amanda was well aware that Gabe and myself were easily distracted and would forget what we were doing relatively quickly, but Jarvis was focused. He was relentless. He wrote the book on, “Effective Little Sister Button Pushing.” Well actually he didn’t write it, he posed for the majority of the illustrations and provided the bulk of the statistics.

But then something horrible happened one day. Amanda started to fight back, and she didn’t fight the same way we did. We relied purely on aggravation techniques like name calling, disfiguring Barbie dolls, and just basic pestering.

She went right to the heart of the matter, actually a little lower, and relied on a series of well-placed kicks. When your sister discovers the debilitating power of place kicking you suddenly become much more cordial when in close range.

You know when someone’s sister has made this discovery because all name calling by the brother is suddenly only performed while passing quickly atop their bicycle. She has won and smiles smugly as you peddle for all your worth glancing nervously over your shoulder.

You soon learn she won’t chase. No, girls don’t do that. They just wait, and they never forget. Scary isn’t it. Gives me the willies just thinking about it.

I don’t get to see my sister much. For some reason she refuses to reside in the same state as her brothers, not sure why. If she did live here her neighbors would question why a grown man pedals his bike quickly by her house everyday calling her names. She would smile smugly as she laced up her steal toed boots, and say, “Oh that’s my brother, inviting me over for my birthday.”

This is gonna hurt.

Someone, I don’t know who, once said bad things always happen in three’s (or fours). I shared that little law of the universe with my daughter Thursday morning to put her at ease about the previous days' events.

Monday morning after I dropped the kids off at school I came back home and noticed Sierra’s bike wasn’t where I parked it the night before. Not only was it not where I parked it, either it had rendered itself invisible or it had been stolen.

Later that day my cell phone rang while I was on my noon hour bike ride. It was the school nurse. Sierra had decided to stop a monkey ring from swinging by blocking it with her head, which left her with a sizeable bump and a mild concussion.

On the bright side, I thought maybe with the haze of the concussion clouding her memory I could convince her she was a wee 60 year old lady named Mavis and never had a bicycle. I think it would have worked but her meddling little brother kept calling her by her real name.

Tuesday Mavis had an eye exam and found out she needed glasses, which explained why she didn’t see the metal ring swinging towards her melon the day before.

Wednesday the phone rang at work and the school nurse was once again on the other end. Mavis, reeling from her poor vision, stolen bike, and monkey ring mishap, tripped over someone’s foot on the playground and landed on her wrist. My professional opinion was that there could possibly be a fracture; my fatherly opinion was x-rays, doctor visits, eyeglasses, and a new bike are making for an expensive week.

Listening to my professional advice I opted for x-rays, which thankfully revealed a fracture free little hand. We left the doctor’s office and went in search of a bubble store. Mavis was concerned kids might stare if she showed up to school in a bubble and that it wouldn’t fit through the doors. Taking her concerns into consideration, I compromised and opted for bubble wrap, a helmet, and protective goggles (prescription of course).

The rest of the week was incident free, and she is gradually getting used to me calling her “four eyes.” Just kidding, don’t get yourself in a huff. I’m not sure if she completely bought into the concept that we need bad days to appreciate the good ones.

She did have some good news in the middle of her mess of a week. Out of the 300 students at her school Sierra was one of the 28 chosen by the teachers to be a student ambassador. Student ambassadors are designated students selected to work with the new students. They are selected because of their positive attitude, friendliness, kindness to others, and willingness to help others. Insert picture of proud bragging father here.

This past week was a testament to those attributes. Through all the bumps and tumbles Sierra remained positive and never once let it get the best of her. For that, I am proud of her.

Off to the bike shop.

What a busy week, school started, Gabe is turning 21 and Dad turned a few years older than 21. Sierra kicked off her fourth grade year and Jackson began his academic career with the start of kindergarten. I have fond memories of kindergarten, best two years of my life.

That isn’t a joke. It seems my kindergarten teacher made some sort of unfounded claim that I wasn’t mature enough for first grade. How mature do you have to be for first grade? I mean I wasn’t shaving yet if that’s what she meant. The teacher in question told my parents that all I did all day in class was talk about baseball.

To me a kindergarten kid who can recite Ted Williams philosophy on hitting is much more mature than the ones playing Bert and Ernie on the playground. Anyway for whatever reason it was recommended I attend kindergarten twice.

My second year it was me and 13 girls. Great if you’re on spring break in Cancun, not so great when you’re at the age that you would rather have the stuffing ripped out of your favorite teddy bear than touch a girl. A side note: My favorite teddy bear was named CBS, it was one of two channels we had in Lignite.

So anyway, those thirteen girls are responsible for teaching me the joys of running….fast. My recesses all involved two things, them chasing me, me running from them. One day I thought, “you know they’re just a bunch of little girls. How much harm can they do?” So I stopped running.

I must have passed out from the pain because when I came to the playground was empty, and I was covered with hundreds of little girly finger pinch marks. From that point on I made sure I was limbered up and ready to zig and zag my way around playground equipment for the duration of the recess.

Enough about the abuse I was forced to endure because of a baseball hating kindergarten teacher. I mentioned that my little brother, Gabe is turning 21, and I will tell him the same thing Uncle Buck told me on my 21st birthday. “It’s all down hill from here, you don’t have anything else to look forward to from here on out.” That’ll put a tear in your beer.

Dad has turned 21 a couple of times now and to commemorate this year’s birthday I would like to submit his “70-0 Timeout” to Parenting Magazine.

Growing up we had a 1978 Ford Econoline van that weighed approximately 18,000 pounds. Car manufacturers are always bragging about their cars going 0 to 60 in 3.4 seconds. Well this behemoth could go from 70 to 0 in 2.8 seconds, depending on road conditions and anger level of the driver.

This was a very effective way to put an abrupt halt to a disagreement between two punks in the back seat who are out of arm’s reach. It’s hard to land a good solid punch on your brother while you’re hurtling towards the unpadded side of the seat in front of you.

In those brief seconds before impact I had to make a choice, should I close my eyes and brace myself or briefly enjoy the sight of my brother’s face sliding across the vinyl making that distinctive “vrrrrup” noise. Nothing like a low grade concussion to make a trip go by a little faster.

Here’s to happy birthdays, happy schooling, and fresh brake pads.

Trees are a living organism, and the ones that were cut down to be a part of my log cabin seem to harbor a little resentment. Maybe they all don’t get along and don’t care to be saddle notched together providing warmth and protection to the vary person that chainsawed them into submission.

Or possibly since they are South Dakota trees they aren’t comfortable being placed in a Montana forest. I don’t know, but whatever it is they are a disgruntled bunch of timber. I guess you could say they have a chip on their shoulder, please forgive the lameness of that statement.

How do I know this? They are relentless in their quest to maim or injure all that come in contact with them. This past weekend my brother Gabe unwittingly put himself in harms way by agreeing to come to Montana and help myself and my good friend Paul put our cabin together.

Thankfully nobody sustained any serious injuries although there were NUMEROUS close calls. You know the kind of close calls that make your eyes wide and voice high followed by hysterical laughter. The laughter only antagonized the logs to be more creative in their attempts to render one of us unconscious.

I’m not sure why close encounters with the grim reaper made Gabe, Paul and myself laugh like idiots. Other than the fact that after three days without shaving, showering, or changing clothes we resembled three carnies training for some sort of midway log rolling game. Step right up folks, plenty of thrills, spills and stench.

I apologize to any carnie folk that I may have offended with that last statement. I’m sure your jobs aren’t all the glitz and glamour that we believe them to be and in no way do I believe myself to be qualified for the rigors of your profession. I tried living the dream but I never made it past the first round of interviews, it seems that my full set of teeth were a major disqualifier.

Anyway, back to the timbers of terror. Paul and myself have been working on this cabin for about 2 years and it is finally nearing completion. I’ve wanted a log cabin ever since I watched my first episode of “Grizzly Adams” about 25 years ago. The dream is slowly becoming reality now I just have to grow a beard, befriend a bear, and find a skunk named Joshua. Feel free to insert your own smart comment here.

I’m sure my parents are pleased that I chose to pursue the Grizzly Adams childhood dream over the Evil Kenievil option. Gabe seems to have pursued that one, either that or he mistook his snowmobile for a row boat.

His daredevil help was greatly appreciated by his not as young brother. Thankfully all we have to show for the trip to Montana is some sore muscles and a cabin. Oh yeah and lots of stories of harrowing deeds ending in hilarity.

On that note, when you ask Gabe about what happened in Montana please keep in mind that he will exaggerate anything that pokes fun at me. For instance, I do not scream like a girl when a log threatens my life.

We moved my wife to Vermillion South Dakota this past weekend. She finally pushed me too far so I told her to gather her things and get out. A man can only take so much, I mean I’ve been taking out the garbage since I was 8 years old.

Do you have any idea how many bags of garbage that is? Neither do I, I was hoping you could tell me. I’m sure it’s a lot. Why me? Is it because I have no sense of smell? Yeah that’s what I thought, pick on the handicap guy.

For those of you that may not know I was born with no sense of smell. It seems that my mother was exposed to the fumes emitted from a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner while she was pregnant with me. Plymouth has since addressed the problem and to my knowledge no other child has had to suffer as I have.

Back to me putting my foot down with my wife. Actually if I were to put my foot down she would more than likely put hers up.

Dawn recently got accepted into the Doctorate of Physical Therapy Program at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion. It is a 3 year program, the first two years are classes at Vermillion and then a year of clinicals which she can do in Rapid City.

Those of you with knowledge of South Dakota geography or access to a Rand McNally can see that Rapid City and Vermillion are not in close proximity to each other. About 400 miles separates them.

Now how many of you are thinking that you would like to send your spouse to live 400 miles away for a few years? Not me that’s for sure. I like to have my wife close all the time so I can hear her scoff and giggle every time I mess up. Have her right there so she can slap my hand when I’m trying to write a check for a life sized statue of Jimmy Buffet that plays Margarittiville when you pull his finger.

For all concerned parties we’re going to see how it goes with her being there and me being in Rapid City, raising the kids. That’s right, I will be solely responsible for the upbringing of two young impressionable little people. Don’t breathe a word of this to Oprah or Dr. Phil.

What could go wrong? I like them, they appear to like me, we’ll have a little competition to see who grows up first. The smart money is on Sierra. I’m not an oaf like the sitcom dad’s, I am perfectly capable of handling this. Actually Sierra once told me after watching an episode of the ‘Simpson’s’ that I was a much better dad than Homer.

“A much better dad than Homer.” Do you need a better vote of confidence than that? Other than crying herself to sleep at night while muttering prayers for our children Dawn seems okay with it too.

I’m very proud of my wife and I know she’ll make an exceptional physical therapist. I also know that this is going to be a challenge for all of us, but I’m confident that with the love and support of our family and friends we’ll get through just fine.

The countdown can start over again. My son, Jackson, celebrated his sixth birthday on Saturday, Spiderman was the theme. Everyday for the past few months he has informed us of the number of days until his birthday. Now that it’s past Dawn and myself have to find another upcoming special day to threaten to take away when he misbehaves.

His father, that would be me, also is said to have had a birthday this Sunday, but that may just be a viscous rumor. It is neat that Jackson’s birthday is the day before mine and I really like that it makes my birthday more of an afterthought. “Oh it’s Jackson’s birthday, isn’t yours tomorrow?” To which I reply, “Umm..yeah..want some more Spiderman cake.”

For some reason ever since I left my twenties behind my birthday kind of bothers me a little, a little more than I care to admit. Not that I want to stop revolving around to that day every year, no I like it here amongst the living, I just don’t like that escalating number attached to me.

I know it’s just a number, but me and numbers have never had a good relationship. We have a long painful history that I would rather not go into at this time. There’s two things that always make me cry, math and the Waltons. I don’t think there is an episode of the Waltons that doesn’t make me tear up like low carb dieters at a Little Debbie festival.

“It’s just a number…it’s just a number…” That’s my mantra for about a week after my birthday. Like Satchel Paige once said, “If you didn’t know how old you were how old would you be?” That’s a good question there Satch.

Let’s see, physically I still feel about 20, mentally I still act about 13. So with the tearful aid of math, that puts me at my prescribed number for this year, 33. Thirty-three, my daughter really helped me in the acceptance by asking if that makes me to old. When I asked her, “To old for what?” she ignored me and walked away. I tried to catch her but kids walk so fast nowadays.

She didn’t stop there though; while we were swimming she was nice enough to point out that I have a bald spot and a lot of grey hair. I tried dunking her but the lifeguard blew her whistle at me and said, “Aren’t you to old for that?”

Maybe I need to stop trying to ignore the birthday turd that floats through my river of life every year and embrace it with as much vigor as my children. A yearly theme party just like the kiddies. I want a Waltons cake, and everyone come dressed as there favorite Waltons character. I’ll be John Boy, since I don’t have the legs to be Mary Ellen or enough hair to be Zeb.

To old … not this year. Goodnight Jim Bob.

I hope the 4th of July celebrations left all of your digits intact, no eye patches, no roman candle flesh wounds. When I think back it amazes me that fireworks never left me with any permanent reminders of my hazardous behavior. Bottle rocket wars inparticular.

Disclaimer: The following information is strictly for entertainment purposes and should only be attempted by trained professionals or complete idiots.

We used to put a lot of effort into making an accurate bottle rocket launcher. Striving for one that would make your buddies cringe and put an extra coat on in anticipation of your precise fury of gunpowder charged Chinese newspaper on a stick.

The most popular material to construct a handheld bottle rocket launcher out of was 1 inch PVC pipe. Other diameters will due in a pinch, but experience has shown me that 1 inch will deliver your rocket accurately to its target at much higher success rate. A not so good choice is copper tubing or any type of metal pipe, unless of course you’re wearing a pair of oven mitts.

As for musical instruments a trumpet works pretty good, bugles are to short, harmonicas are excruciating, and the flute, well, it had better be your sisters. One major design flaw that I’ve seen reduce many kids arm hair to stubble is not closing off one end of the tube. Seems logical, but you can’t expect much from kids that shoot explosives at each other.

The truth is people rarely get hit in bottle rocket wars. Unless you’re my brother Jarvis. I remember it like it was yesterday; he had another kid in his sights and apparently has very poor peripheral vision, because he didn’t notice me frantically loading a bottle rocket 20 feet to his left.

The peripheral vision problem could be associated with the baseball that ‘someone’ hit him with or the hockey stick that ‘someone’ accidentally whacked him with. That ‘someone’ shall remain nameless pending further investigation into the ‘alleged’ events.

So there he was, I could hardly light the fuse I was so excited, but somehow I managed. Fuse is lit, bottle rocket slides down tube, bottle rocket comes out of tube, hits brother right in the face. Not only did it hit him, it exploded at the exact time it made contact with his cheek. What a shot! Hey where’s he going? I do believe he’s running home clutching his cheek to tell mom ‘someone’ shot him with a bottle rocket.

Concerned for his wellbeing I decide to test his hearing and reflexes by yelling and shooting another bottle rocket at him as he ran away. Both work fine as he avoids a second hit. If he would quit holding his cheek it would be easier to make out the pleasantries he’s yelling my way. Wait till mom finds out what I think he called me.

I’m not sure where we learned this behavior, but there is a gentleman and his lovely wife that celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary on July 3rd that might have something to do with it. The gentleman, not the lovely wife, she’s innocent, he’s not.

Happy anniversary Grandpa and Grandma.