AWARD DEPARTMENT.
P O Box 1010,L70 1NL Liverpool,
UNITED KINGDOM(Customer Services)
Ref: FER/4690/6103/24Batch:245-379-482
Winning No:701/RMD123

NOTIFICATION  Attn:WINNER

We happily announce to you the draw of the Bono Lottery International Program held on the 17th of August 2008. Your name “email address” was attached to ticket number; 12324277 serial number 6663817262 This batch draws the lucky numbers as follows 2-9-22-23-24-30 bonus number5,

which

Note: I didn’t chop off the end of the message. I also didn’t eliminate my email address from the section that reads ‘Your name “email address”.’

I used to think that no matter how pitiful my life had become, I could at least find solace in the fact that my life had more meaning than the poor souls who find themselves in the live audience of “American Gladiator.” (That’s probably less true now that Hulk Hogan is hosting the show, because there’s something charming about a man that powerful hiding his male pattern baldness and skullet hair with a bandana.)

Now, I find solace in knowing that no matter how poorly I perform at work, I’m performing better than the people who can’t figure out how to compose a coherent spam message. My God have mercy on their slimy souls, but not much, as I’d be perfectly happy if I discovered that God changed the rules to deny grace to them all.

Fortunately, I noticed that this shirt normally has a pocket on the other side.

Some time back, a friend of mine compared me to a court jester. I think he was trying to give me a compliment. Court jesters of the Middle Ages, according to Wikipedia, were “thought of as special cases whom God had touched with a childlike madness—a gift, or perhaps a curse.” When I read that, my immediate reaction was “but of course!”

However, that paragraph continues with, “Mentally handicapped people sometimes found employment by capering and behaving in an amusing way.”

This could explain a number of things…

I also own a dog. There are days that I would like to cause the dog physical harm. This is one of those days.

I should probably explain.

The Blizzard
It all begins with snow. Not just a little snow, but a lot of snow. As of this writing, it’s approximately 8″ of snow. [Note: As of 11:30AM EST, it was up to 13" of snow.]

I live in Kentucky. In early March, we generally do not get a lot of snow.

The Dog
I also own a dog. Hmm… Perhaps I should rephrase.

There is a dog that lives here, that I have somehow managed to not send to that “Great Kennel in the Sky ™.” The fact that he lives to this day is an indication of the ability of children to guilt their parents into not harming small animals.

The dog, with amazing regularity, wants to go outside at approximately 6:45. This morning was no exception.

The Shoes
Knowing that there was a significant amount of snow on the ground, my second task (the first being finding something warm to put on my body that was not too complex to figure out in the daze of the early morning) was to find something for my feet. I found these.

Now, I should state clearly that these are not shoes that I have purchased, or would have even asked for as a gift. These are some that I inherited from my father. He didn’t exactly hand them down to me, but he was no longer alive, I needed some house shoes, I wasn’t willing to spend money on shoes that I would never wear in public and… well… you get the idea. I now have a pair of house shoes.

I am well aware that they look ridiculous. I tell my sons that this simply adds to the “Tim mystique.” For some reason, that causes them to convulse in hysterics.

The Leash
Typically, we put the dog out on an extended contraption that is commonly called a “run.” (I suppose it’s called this because it allows the dog to run, but I haven’t done any significant research into the etymology of the term. Yes, I’m well aware of how annoying parenthetical phrases can be. [And I'm even more aware of how annoying it can be to nest them.] Get over it.) The “run” consists of a 75′ cord, affixed to two in-ground stakes, with a 15′ tie-out attached in such manner to allow the dog approximately 105′ of elliptically shaped fun in the back yard. (Please don’t ask more questions about the dog run Billy, it’s not that pertinent to the story.)

So now you’ll recall, if you’re following the story closely, that I am not thinking clearly, but am dressed and house-shoe equipped, and am about to take said dog out for his morning business. Somehow, in the process, I completely forgot that the dog’s run would be impossible to find, having been buried in several inches of snow. Now, a thinking person might say, “Tim, why not keep the end of the tie-out at the same general place all the time, so you can be sure to find it.”

This is when I would strike the thinking person soundly about the face for several minutes. I am not normally violent, but clear-thinking individuals should not be allowed to open their mouths around someone who is Not a Morning Person ™. I digress. (I should point out that in looking over my shoulder, my oldest son said, “This sounds like the Iditarod, only with a small black dog instead of a pack of white dogs, and there’s no real race, but just a number one and maybe a number two.” My son is a morning person. The fact that he still lives is a testament to the fact that his football conditioning has been quite effective, and I am a forgiving person.)

Regardless of where the dog’s tie-out should be located, it was now buried beneath a ridiculously heavy snowfall, and my left hand was almost frozen in a vain attempt to find the spot where my youngest son left it the last time he put the dog out. The dog did not appear to be too pleased with this turn of events either, as his legs are not particularly long.

I think you can figure out enough of the anatomy of our dog to understand his reluctance. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice this because of the extreme pain in the frozen hand. I returned to the house to find the dog’s leash.

The dog’s leash is a fairly normal one, approximately 3′ long. Unfortunately, the dog has (in the past) always enjoyed playing in the snow, so I wasn’t fond of the idea of bounding through drifts of snow with the dog, possibly slipping, falling, and landing in previously deposited reminders of dog ownership. I determined, in my half-awake state, to construct an extended leash.

At this point, I am still only marginally functional in terms of clear thinking, and am frantically searching through the garage for something I can use to extend the dog’s leash. By an even more unfortunate coincidence, all of the extension cords are in the back of our vehicle, which is at the top of the driveway. (There are rare moments of lucidity when I think ahead, and parking at the top of the drive was one of those times. Yes, my wife suggested this.)

What I finally found was a 50′ coil of 3-conductor, 12 gauge house wiring that had been sitting in the garage for several months, and was even less flexible than normal because of the temperature in the garage. This might work.

The Garbage Can
With great effort, I was able to tie a double knot in the electrical wire, fixing the dog’s leash firmly in place. (This is important because, in spite of a torn ACL, the dog has a history of finding unusual ways of getting loose and running away.) Proud of my short-term engineering, I ventured back out with approximately 53′ of bounding-in-the-snow slack in the leash.

The dog stopped at the garbage can, less than 10′ from the back door. He finished number one in the Idiot-rod (my oldest son’s description of this story), and promptly went right back inside.

I am Not a Morning Person ™.

…I’m the last of the big time spenders
And I’ve been spendin’ time on you,

An eternal truth that’s too easy to forget is that money is distributed unevenly, but time is doled out in equal amounts. None of us get more than 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day, or 365 days in a year.

Recently, a very good friend remembered my love of “Hook,” the Robin Williams & Dustin Hoffman version of the Peter Pan story, and bought the DVD for me for my birthday. The most significant reason I love this movie? It’s a constant reminder to spend time with my sons, and more important, how I should spend that time.

Buddy, Can You Spare Some Time?
You have 24 hours to spend today. How are you going to spend it? How have you spent it so far?

If you woke up at 6:00 AM (like I did), you’re now down to 18 hours. Going to bed before midnight? Subtract a few more. What’s left? (I’m still at 18 )Are you working an 8-hour day? (Yes, with about 90 minutes of commute time.) What’s left now? (About 8.5 hours.) How much of that will involve your children?

My youngest son gets up at 7:00 AM. Yesterday, I noticed that there were a bunch of things (showering, gathering up gym clothes, getting dressed) that I have been doing between 7:00 and 7:30 (when I leave for work) that I could do before 7:00. I restructured my schedule, and now make sure I’ve done those things before he’s awake, so he and I can spend that time eating breakfast, watching ESPN, talking football, or whatever he takes a notion to do.

Not for Mature Audiences
What do we do on mornings like this? Sometimes, we just enjoy some good, old-fashioned, juvenile humor. Sometimes we don’t say much of anything, and sometimes we talk in-depth about any number of subjects. The point isn’t that we talk about meaningful or important things… the point is that we have time to talk, and that my son gets to determine (to a large degree) how we spend it.

In addition to “Hook” reminding me to spend time with my sons, it reminds to stop being a grown-up all the time. Think about how you typically respond to a tiny baby. Do you use baby talk, play simple (age-appropriate) games like peek-a-boo? Are you gentle and tender? If so, you’re modifying your own behavior to mesh with the child and establish communication.

Why do we stop doing this when our kids become toddlers?

Why is it that I’m frequently criticized for “acting like a kid” with my sons? On a regular basis, people will comment (generally to my wife) about the three of us roughhousing in some public place, laughing too loud, or otherwise causing commotion. Why is it that so many are unable to see the value in being “in the moment” with your child, even if that means acting completely goofy or doing something seriously immature?

Walking the Fine Line
To be sure, there are times that you must be the parent, not be a child, and must consider the lessons that your children are learning from your behavior. Without question they should be able to look at you, and develop a sense of appropriate adult behavior.

Unfortunately, it takes very little time to demonstrate these things, and a reasonably intelligent child can learn those lessons with just a little bit of “adult” behavior every day. How much time do you spend in “adult mode” around your children, as opposed to getting down on the floor and playing with them (or tackling them, or laughing/tickling them, or… you get the idea)?

What are You Investing in?
So if I ask you what your investment in your children is, do you immediately think of how much is in their education fund, how much you’ll spend on their car, or what it costs to raise/feed/clothe a typical child in today’s world? Or, do you immediately think of countless hours you’ve spent at the ball field, laughing around the dinner table, working on school projects, or just silly stuff with your kids? Do you take more pride in the dollars you invest in your child, or the hours?

I’ll make a deal with you. Take one week, and look for 30 minutes each day when you can just hang out with your kids. When they flip over to “South Park” (or whatever show they watch that you’d rather not), put down your book and see what they respond to. Do they laugh at “Mind of Mencia?” Do you know why they’re laughing? Are you wanting to laugh, but worried that you need to put your “I’m mature” hat on instead?

Come on. Step across that line and spend 30 minutes a day. I dare you. I double-dog dare you to cross that fine line, and be a kid again. I bet ya my next week’s allowance that you won’t regret it.

At my house? At my house, you get the gift that keeps on giving: embarrassment.

The Sunday Afternoon (not Saturday Night) Special
On Sunday, as is our family custom, we went to a local Mexican restaurant for lunch. It’s a casual place, with good food at very reasonable prices.

Just outside of the restaurant is the parking area in front, adjacent to some outdoor seating under a canopy. We considered dining outside, but when we walked in, there was nobody there, so we assumed it might be closed.

After dinner, I was paying the check and talking to my youngest son. My wife and oldest son went out to the van. As I was signing the credit card slip, my youngest son went out to join them, and a moment later, I was on my way out.

Mother’s Day was a Gas
When I got to the sidewalk, I noticed that all three of them were hiding behind the van. They weren’t hiding well enough for me to not see them, but were just crouched down on the far side, away from the outdoor seating area. As I puzzled over this, I noticed that there were now several tables full of people sitting outside.

I reach the van, unlock the doors, and the three of them rush into their seats. “What’s going on? Why were you hiding?”

My oldest replied, “Well, as Mom and I were walking out, I didn’t realize that there were people at these tables, and way too loudly said ‘I know when I get to work today, I’m going to have to poop. It happens every day.’ And no, I didn’t notice all those people sitting there, so Mom ran around to hide behind the van, and I came over here with her.”

I looked at my youngest to see what his story was.

“Well,” he began, “when I came out, they were already hiding, but I didn’t know why. So I snuck around to get the story. When they told me, I started laughing so hard I farted, and I think the people at the tables heard that too.”

We all laughed, and then got quiet as I pulled out of the parking lot. I finally broke the silence.

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

(No, I have no idea why the turkey in the picture is wearing a monocle, and looks a bit like Colonel Klink.)

I swear that the following is true, to the best of my recollection. As Mr. Carlson (from WKRP in Cincinnati) once said, “With God as my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.”

The Drive Begins
So my friends and I are driving back to regular school from vocational school. Andy is riding with me, on the second day of owning a 1 year-old Mustang (OK, it was a Mustang II, but that’s only relevant to the story for purists), and Dean is riding with another Tim, on the second day of him owning a brand new Triumph TR7.

We aren’t really racing, as the TR7 would have left me in a smoking pile of rubble, but we are definitely moving along at extra-legal speeds. We turn onto a windy road named Simcoe Lane, famous for beautiful farm land vistas, sharp curves, and roller-coaster peaks & valleys. As Tim (the other one) disappears around a curve and over a rise in the road, I gunned it to keep up. When I crested the hill, there was Tim’s TR7, stopped dead in front of me.

The Excitement Builds
One of the important parts of this story is realizing that Tim (the other one) was driving a legitimate sports car, and I was driving a… well… shall we say “pretender.” The Mustang II looked nice enough, but it was hardly geared toward performance (especially if all you could afford was the 4-cylinder, 2.3 liter version).

Not coincidentally, the suspension and brakes on the Mustang II were no match for those of the TR7. Complicating matters further, Tim’s (the other one) car was also being slowed down by the mass of several dozen turkeys.

Yes, you read that correctly: Turkeys.

The Farmer Forgets
Remember the beautiful farm land vistas? Well, the owner of one such parcel raised (in part) turkeys for Thanksgiving (which was one week away), and somehow managed to leave his gate unlocked. The turkeys, doing what they have a tendency to do, managed to push through the unlocked gate, and headed en masse down the driveway and onto the street.

The turkeys, blissfully unaware of the absence of a “Turkey Crossing” sign on Simcoe Lane, moved onto the road in an almost solid mass of feathers, light/dark meat, and Stovetop Stuffing repositories. Unfortunately, their timing was poor, since two teenage drivers were on a mid-day joy ride, fast approaching their location.

Close Encounters of the Giblet Kind
As soon as I saw Tim’s (the other one) brake lights, I slammed on mine. However, since his brakes, tires, and suspension were all working (along with the mass of turkey flesh) to dramatically reduce his speed, my brakes were unable to provide enough stopping power to prevent a collision.

Accordingly (or accordionly), my car hit Tim’s (the other one), which hit even more turkeys than he had already hit. After several moments (that seemed to last minutes), we came to rest, amidst a cloud of feathers, the smell of burnt rubber, and the shock of seeing the back end of a TR7 folded up into the grill of my car.

We got out of the car, shook off the cobwebs, and assessed the situation. All of us were uninjured, but the cars… were simply not drivable. (One notable curiosity: Although we were driving with the windows rolled up, we were unable to find the cigarette that Andy was smoking. I suspect he may have swallowed it in the excitement.)

The Aftermath
When the police arrived, he noted that none of us were injured. This prompted him to ask, “Were any of you wearing seatbelts?”

Dean, ever the comedian replied, “Heck no… seatbelts are for accidents!”

I don’t think the policeman was amused, but he seemed convinced that we weren’t drunk, and he couldn’t prove we were speeding (though he clearly suspected it). I’m guessing maybe the dead turkeys complicated the skid calculation.

In the final analysis, the cost of replacing the TR7 (which was totaled), and repairing my Mustang ($1500) was split between mine and Tim’s (the other one) insurance company, and the insurance company for the turkey farmer. For several years afterward, every time I went to the office of my insurance agent, I would be greeted with, “Hey… you’re the turkey guy!”

Little did they know how right they were.

Yes, this includes the time that I chickened out of the lead role Christmas play, where I had only two lines, and forced an African-American buddy to stand-in for me at the last minute. Much to my sister’s dismay, she had bragged to all of her friends that her brother had the lead role. Needless to say, they were very surprised to see “her brother” on stage.

Yes, this includes the time that my best friend and I went camping at a site 3 miles down a trail in the Smoky Mountains, lugging an 8-man canvas tent, full-sized sleeping bags, a 60 quart Coleman cooler (with chips, dip, and 2-liters inside), along with a small propane grill that could have cooked up the Donner Party. We ditched the tent after about a mile, but had no choice but to lug the remaining gear the rest of the way, much to the amusement of the properly-equipped hikers who went zipping past us on the trail.

Yes, this includes the time (in the late 70′s) that I dressed up for a Steve Martin look-alike contest at the local mall, went to said mall dressed up in a ridiculous costume, walked around for 20 minutes, and then found out I was at the wrong mall! For some reason, people stare at you when you have an arrow through your head.

Yes, this includes the time that several buddies and I decided to go see “Revenge of the Nerds” at the local theater, in full nerd costume. Did you know that people throw stuff at nerds in public?

Yes, this includes the time that I was providing entertainment for a Deacons & Wives Banquet at a nearby Baptist church, and opened with a lip sync of Ray Stevens’ “Guitarzan,” only to finish the song to no applause of any kind… just blank stares. (I quickly discarded the 20 minutes of lip sync that I had prepared to do, and instead told 15 minutes of church jokes. I didn’t know that many church jokes, so I started converting every other joke I’d ever heard into a church joke. “A man walks into a church with a duck on his head…”)

Yes, this includes that time that my best friend and I were dissecting white rats in HS Biology, decapitated one of the dissection subjects, and positioned the head in my coat pocket, such that it appeared to be peeking out. You have never heard screaming like that of Romelle (one of my female buddies in English class) when she spotted the whiskers from across the room.

So today, on April 1st, relax in the knowledge that no matter how foolish you might feel at various times, there is always someone more foolish, more silly, and more goofy than you. That someone is me.

P.S. If you got here by following the “Rosie O’Donnell” tag, and are disappointed that I haven’t mentioned her, it’s because mentioning Rosie on April Fool’s Day seems redundant. There. I did it anyway.

As I lean down to grab the dog’s chain, I have the sudden realization that my feet are somehow airborne, and my butt is milliseconds from hitting the ground. BAM!

Look Away from the Stupid Human
This is when the dog, still next to me (by virtue of my hand holding his collar), looked away. I feel quite certain he was laughing at me.

After brushing off my embarrassment (and confirming that I hadn’t split my pants open on the pavement), I grabbed the chain. It’s frozen to the pavement, buried in a quarter inch of ice. With a bit of tugging on the chain (and more than a little cursing under my breath), it breaks free. Unfortunately, the clasp is (quite naturally) frozen shut.

So now I’m standing in the driveway, precariously balanced on a surface slippery enough to require a patent from DuPont, trying to figure out how to open the frozen clasp in 20 deg F weather, wearing a polo shirt and dockers. I determine that the best course of action is to squeeze the clasp in the palm of my hand, hopefully thawing out the spring mechanism with my body heat.

Cold, Stupid Brains are Still Stupid
It worked, or seemed to, in spite of the fact that the temperature of the palm of my hand was now quite a bit lower than normal human body temperature. However, it was not completely unstuck, as evidenced by the pain my hands experienced when I applied serious pressure with both hands on the slider, and it slipped and scraped the back of my right hand.

My butt is now throbbing, my right hand is bleeding, my left palm is frozen, and the rest of my body is headed in that direction. If I were to pass gas at this moment, the National Weather Service would have to figure out how to calculate a “Breaking Wind Chill.”

The dog is looking away again.

Finally, the clasp breaks loose, the dog’s collar is attached, and I was able to retire to the house, to finish getting ready for work. As I came back to the door and looked out, the dog was now slipping and sliding on the ice himself, albeit with the benefit of two additional legs. He looked so helpless and pitiful, confused by the complete lack of traction his paws were experiencing.

I didn’t look away.