I’ve been collecting some funny anecdotes over the past couple years with the intention of sending them to Reader’s Digest. They pay a couple hundred bucks for such, but the process is so black box that it’s not satisfying. You basically just fill out an online form with the anecdote, then click the Submit button. Unless they use the anecdote, you’ll never get feedback about them. And even if they do use them, it may be many months before you hear about it. Hell, if I wanted to post something and never know if someone even read it, I can post to my own blog.

So, here’s the true anecdotes:

* * *

I was needing some meds for a backache after a day of yard work. Looking at the bottles in the medicine cabinet, I asked my wife which I should take: ibuprofen or acetaminophen.

“Ibuprofen is an anti-inflamatory and for pain,” she explained. “Acetaminophen is for fever and pain.”

“So, they’re both for pain?” I asked.

“Yes, but different kinds of pain,” she answered.

“How many different kinds of pain are there,” I asked with just a bit too much attitude.

She paused only a moment, and said, “Come here, I’ll show you.”

* * *

My wife was putting lotion on her leg, and I asked, “You’re putting lotion there?”

“I’ve got a spot of dry skin,” she answered.

Seeing an opportunity to flirt, I said, “You want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Without even looking up at me, she said, “That would just make it more dry.”

* * *

I decided to shave off my mustache and leave my goatee, just to see how it looked. I liked it. My wife did not.

“You look like a character from Star Trek,” she said.

“Cool,” I said.

She shook her head and walked away, mumbling, “I should have known better than to say that to you.”

* * *

I was having difficulty reading an old comic book I’d found in a storage box. I asked my wife to look at the pages.

“I can read it fine,” she said.

“I thought maybe it looked blurry because it was old and getting faded,” I said.

Handing the comic back to me, she said, “It is getting old and faded. But it’s not the book.”

* * *

As we were walking out of a home improvement superstore, my then 4 year old son mentioned the signs on the glass doors. He couldn’t read yet, but he said, “I know what those signs say.”

“What do they say?” I asked without looking back at the doors.

“No bare feet, no animals, and no silverware,” he said.

* * *

I still don’t know how he came up with “no silverware.”

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

Two kids are more than twice the effort of one kid. Much more. I dropped off the 6 year old at his friend’s house at 3:00 today, and he didn’t get home again until almost 8:00. So I had the 2 year old for about five hours—just him and me.

The difference between taking care of two brothers versus just one boy is amazing. (Saying “taking care of” sounds like baby-sitting, but a father does not “baby-sit” his own children.) The littlest and I had a really enjoyable afternoon. We went to Subway and got me a sub sandwich (I had missed lunch) and him some potato chips. We went to Cold Stone Creamery and got us both some ice cream. We sat outside the restaurant and watched little birds come around our patio table looking for dropped scraps of food—this thrilled him. We went for a walk around our neighborhood. We played with his building blocks. I pushed him in his swing in the backyard. We generally just had a nice, calm, and almost totally happy afternoon and evening.

There’s no such thing as a “nice, calm, and totally happy” hour with both boys at the same time. Someone takes something from the other. Someone pushes. Someone hits. Someone cries. Someone doesn’t want to play like the other one wants him to play. This one wants your attention right now, and that one wants your attention right now. You tell one to stop doing something, and the other immediately does that same thing. One wants to play outside, and the other wants to play in his bedroom.

This is not so say either of the boys are little hellions; they’re not. They’re just normal, very young boys. And girls at this age are very similar. We have two sets of friends who have two girls around our boys’ ages, and they tell about the same situations. It’s the age, and sibling rivalry.

But anyway, the preschooler and I had a very nice time together. This is not the first time I’ve been alone with him, but usually when I have him alone we’re doing something specific: going to the doctor, going grocery shopping, etc. It’s rare that we can just be together, with no agenda. When it’s just the two of us, he actually listens and follows directions. He laughs more than he cries. He can actually play quietly, alone, for more than 30 seconds. And I don’t have to be a referee, and break up a quarrel every five minutes.

We’ve got to do this more often. I’ve spent time like this with the 6 year old, several times over the years, and he’s great to hang out with too. The 6 year old can carry on a conversation with me, and the toys are more interesting for me (Legos and action figures!). Play with the 2 year old is more basic, but he’s more excited about simple things. The 6 year old was like this too, at 2 years old. How easy I forget, though, how the previous age was.

I wish I could bottle afternoons like today, and open it back up when being referee for the tenth time in an hour has me at my wits end.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

Edit 12/7/09: To those many, many folks coming to this post through blogcatalog: I apologize for not having pictures of this subject. If I had known that one link in that one discussion thread would lead to so many hits, here, I would have made this post much more interesting.

* * *

OK, I’ve got to ask this, somewhere: Are thongs uncomfortable?

You never see panty lines anymore. It’s fashionable for women’s clothing to be tight, smooth, and sometimes very thin. The thongs are obvious by the lack of panty lines. You don’t even have to be intentionally looking to notice it. And sometimes you can see the thong, either through light-colored pants, or above the top of their belt line. Ten years ago, having someone see your underwear would have been an embarrassment. Now it’s a fashion statement.

I noticed a waitress’s pants in a restaurant. She was slightly bent over, serving the table directly across from me, so I had full view of her bottom, though I really wasn’t trying to look. (Honest.) She must have been wearing a thong. I considered this thought: such workers are constantly walking around; doesn’t having something. . . between there. . . bother/chap/scratch/you-know after a few quick trips back and forth to the kitchen?

I know this post could easily get me into trouble. But I provided full disclosure to my wife at the time of the witness and thought, so hopefully I’m safe.

Having normal underwear slide somewhere they aren’t supposed to be is uncomfortable. Most people immediately start looking for a private corner to stand in so they can make an adjustment. But thongs are always there. How can that be comfortable, especially all day long, walking around constantly?

Bullgrit

My oldest son (age 6) has just started tee-ball practice. (That’s baseball for kids who aren’t old enough to pitch or hit off a pitch.) We’ve been to two practices, and games will start in a couple weeks. There’s 15 kids on his team, 3 of them girls. I expected more girls. He played soccer a couple years ago (at age 4) and his team was 5 boys and 5 girls.

I’ve never been a baseball fan. It’s really a boring sport to me. Two hours of game for excitement that can be shown in a two-minute highlight film. But I played little league, and I threw a ball around with my dad when I was young.

Anyway, when we signed him up for this league, at his request, it got me interested in my old ball and glove. I contacted my dad and asked him to find my old stuff from my little league days. He found the ball and glove, and I got them the next time I was in my hometown.

My son quickly took a liking to my old glove. It’s dark, well worn, and very loose in the fold. He likes it better than the glove we specifically bought for him, and he wants to use it in his practice and games. This is a wonderfully sweet thing, and it’s a terribly frightening thing. I love that he wants to use my old glove — I mean, that’s a made-for-TV-movie scenario, right there. But I fear it will fall apart, get lost, or something. It’s very sentimental to me; it’s a treasured item from my youth.

But I’m slowly massaging my sentimental attachment to allow for more memories to be added to it. My son can add his own memories to my 30+ year-old glove. Already, a couple of other tee-ball dads have commented on the old glove, in a good way. All the other kids have brand new gloves, bright and stiff.

Today I got out a pen to write my son’s name in the glove. I can still see my own name written in two spots, and I can even, just barely, make out my old address, too. The writing is faded, and in my mom’s handwriting. I wrote my son’s name on a new spot on the glove, in permanent marker. That makes it official.

It actually feels pretty cool. Although I still have a bit of an anxious knot in my stomach at the thought of something happening to it. I think I could handle it tearing or falling apart, but I so strongly hope he doesn’t put it down somewhere and forget it. It would break my heart to loose it. But I should just suck it up and get over it. With writing his name in it, I’m passing it on now. It’s not mine anymore, it’s his. With any luck, 30-some years from now, he’ll call me on the phone and ask me to find his old ball glove. And he’ll pick it up the next time he visits.

Bullgrit