So today I had to meet the “boyfriend”. My 8th grade daughter was being escorted to the mall by a young man, driven by his mother. It was my job to meet, observe and decide if it was cool to allow this tryst to proceed. This was my paternal duty; a duty that I take very seriously, much to my daughters chagrin.
The doorbell rang and I answered the door dressed in casual slacks, loafers and a golf shirt. The young admirer was wearing, cowboy boots, jeans, old t-shirt and a beat up camo ball cap. To accent his very country appearance I noticed the classic teenage half stash above his upper lip. My mind said, “Hmmm” but still I reserved judgment. He looked me in the eye and shook my hand. This was a plus. His mother seems very pleasant and was a genuinely nice person from what I could gather.
I asked what “the plan” was and he responded that they were going to the mall to “check everything out.” I joked back, “Well I hope you don’t check out everything.” We all laughed. He laughed a little more nervously than the adults, as was my intention. He seemed like a good kid.
I called my daughter down and after the logistics were all cleared and I knew her arrival time and method, I saw them out the door with, “Have fun, I’ll be here cleaning my guns until you get back.” Again, there was nervous laughter from those under driving age and genuine laughter from those above it.
I closed the door and thought that everything had gone well. I decided that he passed muster.
I turned to slip my shoes off to return upstairs to my office and noticed that my fly was down. The irony washed over me like a shocking bucket of ice water in the sweltering summer heat. Believe me, whatever you have been thinking as you read the above, went through my head in a split second. Oh the humility of it all.
There is a 70% chance that they didn’t notice, but I still don’t like those odds.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Papa Bear
Yesterday I was working in my office when I heard our nanny yell my name. I could tell this was far more important than, “we are out of milk.” It was.
My 5th grade son Aiden was sick and stayed home. So when my Kindergartener and 4th grader went to get off the bus the driver told Mack that he couldn’t let Mary off with him since he wasn’t in 5th grade. I had listed Mack as the alternate and it’s never been a problem before. Apparently… hell I don’t know what got into this guy.
Mack sprinted home to get Kelly the nanny, but the bus driver wouldn't let Mary go with her either, because she didn’t have the pink 8 ½ x 11 sheet with Mary’s name written on it. After the mad dash to get me, I ran down the stairs and out the front door without shoes to, “handle this.”
“I’m her father, thanks.”
“Where is your pink sheet?”
“Well one is in Charlotte in an airplane parking garage and the other is in Fountain Inn Body shop. Both our cars are gone today. I have my driver’s license…” Before I could finish he waved me off with his hands, shut his window and drove off.
“Like fun you will!” (Not exactly what I said, it was more like “THE F&#$ YOU WILL!”)I jumped into our van and backed out of the driveway and down the street backwards. I made it to the end of the circle first and block him in. It was all very Starsky and Hutch. I got out of the van in the rain, in my socks and approached the bus.
Now this could have gone one of two ways. One, I could start yelling and screaming, pulled this miserable excuse for a human out his window by his beard to stomp his head like a watermelon and frightened all the kids . That is what I felt like doing, but more than that I didn’t feel like getting myself arrested. So that wasn’t going to happen. Two, I could smile big, make nice and close the sale. Picking the second option I tapped on the glass with a wink to my daughter in the second row and he actually opened up his window (not that he had much choice).
“Now we’re rational adults here, I’m sure we can come to mutually beneficial arrangement.” He was dialing his cell phone when he said, “The rules are I can’t let them off the bus without their 5th grade rider or the pink certificate.”
“But I can prove I’m her father. If I was a pedophile with a pink piece of paper with her name on it, you’d give her to me?” I could see the wheels start to turn slowly.
“They will fire me.” And there was the heart of the problem.
“Listen, I understand how inflexible the school system can be. Let’s do this. You finish that call to your supervisor and tell them the situation. Let’s ask for permission so you can cover your rear.” I smiled and he made the call. I could tell he was concentrating on what he was being told because I could see wisps of smoke coming out of his ears.
“Do you have an ID?” I tried not to look too frustrated as it was already in the hand I was holding up. But hey, I had to consider the source. If he was that sharp, he would at least be a greeter at Wal-Mart by now.
“They want me to write down all your information.”
“Awesome!”
Seconds later the door opens and my daughter floated out of the bus and ran giggling to my still running van. I could hear the kids cheering and was struck by how surreal the whole thing was.
But here is the important part. I know she’s six and I only have so much time left to still be the jolly green giant in her eyes. Events like this in a child’s life are what stick in their mind forever. Someday when I’m dancing with her at her wedding, she’ll at least have this fond memory of her papa bear.
My 5th grade son Aiden was sick and stayed home. So when my Kindergartener and 4th grader went to get off the bus the driver told Mack that he couldn’t let Mary off with him since he wasn’t in 5th grade. I had listed Mack as the alternate and it’s never been a problem before. Apparently… hell I don’t know what got into this guy.
Mack sprinted home to get Kelly the nanny, but the bus driver wouldn't let Mary go with her either, because she didn’t have the pink 8 ½ x 11 sheet with Mary’s name written on it. After the mad dash to get me, I ran down the stairs and out the front door without shoes to, “handle this.”
“I’m her father, thanks.”
“Where is your pink sheet?”
“Well one is in Charlotte in an airplane parking garage and the other is in Fountain Inn Body shop. Both our cars are gone today. I have my driver’s license…” Before I could finish he waved me off with his hands, shut his window and drove off.
“Like fun you will!” (Not exactly what I said, it was more like “THE F&#$ YOU WILL!”)I jumped into our van and backed out of the driveway and down the street backwards. I made it to the end of the circle first and block him in. It was all very Starsky and Hutch. I got out of the van in the rain, in my socks and approached the bus.
Now this could have gone one of two ways. One, I could start yelling and screaming, pulled this miserable excuse for a human out his window by his beard to stomp his head like a watermelon and frightened all the kids . That is what I felt like doing, but more than that I didn’t feel like getting myself arrested. So that wasn’t going to happen. Two, I could smile big, make nice and close the sale. Picking the second option I tapped on the glass with a wink to my daughter in the second row and he actually opened up his window (not that he had much choice).
“Now we’re rational adults here, I’m sure we can come to mutually beneficial arrangement.” He was dialing his cell phone when he said, “The rules are I can’t let them off the bus without their 5th grade rider or the pink certificate.”
“But I can prove I’m her father. If I was a pedophile with a pink piece of paper with her name on it, you’d give her to me?” I could see the wheels start to turn slowly.
“They will fire me.” And there was the heart of the problem.
“Listen, I understand how inflexible the school system can be. Let’s do this. You finish that call to your supervisor and tell them the situation. Let’s ask for permission so you can cover your rear.” I smiled and he made the call. I could tell he was concentrating on what he was being told because I could see wisps of smoke coming out of his ears.
“Do you have an ID?” I tried not to look too frustrated as it was already in the hand I was holding up. But hey, I had to consider the source. If he was that sharp, he would at least be a greeter at Wal-Mart by now.
“They want me to write down all your information.”
“Awesome!”
Seconds later the door opens and my daughter floated out of the bus and ran giggling to my still running van. I could hear the kids cheering and was struck by how surreal the whole thing was.
But here is the important part. I know she’s six and I only have so much time left to still be the jolly green giant in her eyes. Events like this in a child’s life are what stick in their mind forever. Someday when I’m dancing with her at her wedding, she’ll at least have this fond memory of her papa bear.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Perspective
I flew from Greenville to Omaha via Detroit (don’t ask) last week and incurred a few problems. By a few I mean the first leg of the travel was a disaster from the start. I should have known better when I walked into the gate and saw that my flight was delayed over an hour and a half due to late flight crew. This means that connecting flights are either over sold or under booked and will be canceled so they don’t want this plane to make it. Is that my paranoia? Maybe, but listen to the rest of the story and tell me if I’m wrong.
Being a conscientious traveler I checked with the gate agent and just wanted to make sure I would either make my connection or they would hold it. I was told, “Mr. Luby, you will have plenty of time to make your connection.” Perhaps I might have, had our plane not sat on the tarmac for 25 after landing, “waiting for a ramp up crew.” I exited the plane with little hope but was buoyed by the gate agent that said my plane had not taken off and was at gate D11. Off I ran from C3, only to find out that she was wrong. My plane left on time and was the last flight to Omaha. Off to gate C2 (yes C2 the one right next to where I started) to see if they could put me on another airline. Of course by the time I ran all the way to D11 and then back, there were no flights out of Detroit to Omaha. I was given hotel and meal vouchers and told I had a confirmed seat on the 8:30 flight. “If it’s confirmed why don’t I have a seat number?” I knew I was on standby and so did she, but I would have been disappointed if she had been the only person who didn’t lie to me that day.
I was at the gate at 6:30 the next morning knowing damn well that this would be over sold and wanted to be first in line. I was right, and as more people showed up closer to the flight and the agents were asking for volunteers, I was getting pretty anxious. I saw a woman ditch her husband and two teenage daughters to get on the flight. They would get home in the afternoon. I saw the agent telling people they were on standby without telling they were on standby. I could feel the collective blood pressure rising.
After all the seated passengers boarded they began to call names. Mine was second. As number one and I approached the scanner, the woman next to me announced over my shoulder to the gate agent, “I have to be on this flight! I was supposed to be there last night and my father is dying!” I looked at her face and it erased my first thought which was, “she’s good.” She was either Meryl Streep or in sincere agony. She wasn’t acting.
I looked at my ticket. I had already lost 12 hours of my vacation. Was I ready to give up a day or day and a half? My dad was old too. I made the mistake of looking at her face again. It gave me undeniable perspective. Damn it!
“Um ma’am, if this is the last seat, she can have mine.” Did I just say that? The gate agent looked up from her computer and stared at me. The woman behind me stared at me then her. The gate agent leaned forward and whispered, “No, there are more seats and you’re next.”
I’m thinking, “Whew, that was close,” and the woman thanks me anyway. I wanted to say how much I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to tell her I’m sorry her father was dying. I wanted to punch the CEO of the airline in the mouth. All I said was, “I didn’t really do anything,” and walked away with a better sense of perspective.
Being a conscientious traveler I checked with the gate agent and just wanted to make sure I would either make my connection or they would hold it. I was told, “Mr. Luby, you will have plenty of time to make your connection.” Perhaps I might have, had our plane not sat on the tarmac for 25 after landing, “waiting for a ramp up crew.” I exited the plane with little hope but was buoyed by the gate agent that said my plane had not taken off and was at gate D11. Off I ran from C3, only to find out that she was wrong. My plane left on time and was the last flight to Omaha. Off to gate C2 (yes C2 the one right next to where I started) to see if they could put me on another airline. Of course by the time I ran all the way to D11 and then back, there were no flights out of Detroit to Omaha. I was given hotel and meal vouchers and told I had a confirmed seat on the 8:30 flight. “If it’s confirmed why don’t I have a seat number?” I knew I was on standby and so did she, but I would have been disappointed if she had been the only person who didn’t lie to me that day.
I was at the gate at 6:30 the next morning knowing damn well that this would be over sold and wanted to be first in line. I was right, and as more people showed up closer to the flight and the agents were asking for volunteers, I was getting pretty anxious. I saw a woman ditch her husband and two teenage daughters to get on the flight. They would get home in the afternoon. I saw the agent telling people they were on standby without telling they were on standby. I could feel the collective blood pressure rising.
After all the seated passengers boarded they began to call names. Mine was second. As number one and I approached the scanner, the woman next to me announced over my shoulder to the gate agent, “I have to be on this flight! I was supposed to be there last night and my father is dying!” I looked at her face and it erased my first thought which was, “she’s good.” She was either Meryl Streep or in sincere agony. She wasn’t acting.
I looked at my ticket. I had already lost 12 hours of my vacation. Was I ready to give up a day or day and a half? My dad was old too. I made the mistake of looking at her face again. It gave me undeniable perspective. Damn it!
“Um ma’am, if this is the last seat, she can have mine.” Did I just say that? The gate agent looked up from her computer and stared at me. The woman behind me stared at me then her. The gate agent leaned forward and whispered, “No, there are more seats and you’re next.”
I’m thinking, “Whew, that was close,” and the woman thanks me anyway. I wanted to say how much I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to tell her I’m sorry her father was dying. I wanted to punch the CEO of the airline in the mouth. All I said was, “I didn’t really do anything,” and walked away with a better sense of perspective.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Wasps Must Die II or Demolition Man
Maybe I'll put a drink rail in :)
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Wasps Must Die!
No I’m not talking about all my Baptist neighbors. I’m talking about those flying gangsters of the insect world. They fly around with their little fedoras and their even littler gold chains. “OK pal, we’re gonna take over your deck and in return for you leaving us alone and giving us use of the premises, we won’t sting the ever lovin’ crap out of you. Capisce?” I swear I saw one smoking a tiny cigarette with a wife beater t-shirt on.
Last week a group on of 10 biker wasps ran my wife off the deck and that was it. I channeled my inner Bruce Willis and started to arm myself. I went to Wal-Mart and picked up a set of six guns in the form of Raid Wasp Killer. I put on a poncho and with Sergio Leon music blaring I let them have it. I sprayed under the deck, in the benches and even dropped a couple out of mid air! I was an insecticidal maniac.
The next day it was far from over. They had gotten reinforcements and set up more nests. Back to Wal-Mart armory and back out to the deck. This time I had to tear the boards off to get to their "secret underground lairs" before they could fix tiny "lasers" to their foreheads. I was death from above, and with a lethal “judo chop” I crushed their evil plans baby.
Today, they have returned and I can see that serious carpentry is in order. The built in benches need to be torn out. They were never very comfortable anyway. No more hiding. I’ve posted their little head on toothpicks around the railing as a warning to the others. Steve Luby will not be intimidated by some arthropod sub species! I tried to make a necklace of stingers but my eyes aren’t what they used to be and it would be poky, so for now I’ll stick with the head thing.
It’s far from over, but I’m in this for the long haul. Sure it’s mainly for my family to be able to enjoy our yard in peace and safety. But it’s also for the manly assertion of human dominance over a hostile, savage insect takeover. This isn’t just the American way; it’s for the survival of all humanity! Or maybe I’ve been inhaling waaaay too much bug killer over the last couple of days. Whatever. It’s still on :)
Last week a group on of 10 biker wasps ran my wife off the deck and that was it. I channeled my inner Bruce Willis and started to arm myself. I went to Wal-Mart and picked up a set of six guns in the form of Raid Wasp Killer. I put on a poncho and with Sergio Leon music blaring I let them have it. I sprayed under the deck, in the benches and even dropped a couple out of mid air! I was an insecticidal maniac.
The next day it was far from over. They had gotten reinforcements and set up more nests. Back to Wal-Mart armory and back out to the deck. This time I had to tear the boards off to get to their "secret underground lairs" before they could fix tiny "lasers" to their foreheads. I was death from above, and with a lethal “judo chop” I crushed their evil plans baby.
Today, they have returned and I can see that serious carpentry is in order. The built in benches need to be torn out. They were never very comfortable anyway. No more hiding. I’ve posted their little head on toothpicks around the railing as a warning to the others. Steve Luby will not be intimidated by some arthropod sub species! I tried to make a necklace of stingers but my eyes aren’t what they used to be and it would be poky, so for now I’ll stick with the head thing.
It’s far from over, but I’m in this for the long haul. Sure it’s mainly for my family to be able to enjoy our yard in peace and safety. But it’s also for the manly assertion of human dominance over a hostile, savage insect takeover. This isn’t just the American way; it’s for the survival of all humanity! Or maybe I’ve been inhaling waaaay too much bug killer over the last couple of days. Whatever. It’s still on :)
Monday, March 21, 2011
If your kids aren’t doing chores, they’re missing out!
That’s right; you heard right, “They are missing out.” Now I’ll be the first to admit that having 6 kids doing house work (so we don’t have to) is awesome. It’s like finding money in the street. But Steve you have 7 kids, why aren’t they all working? Yes, I have 7 kids, but since our 7th is only 3, he requires different motivation. Being told he’s “not old enough” has caused him to want to help #6 who is coincidently only 6. I’m either a heartless bastard or super genius. Also, to be clear, this is slave labor, no allowance. They all get “three hots and a cot” as my dad would say. If they want spending cash they need to earn it on the side or by doing work over and above their required chores.
Every day, Monday through Thursday after school, they do their homework then a different chore each day. Every child had work that is age appropriate. It includes their rooms and the rest of the house. Now, I’m not talking about just picking up a few cloths. I’m talking about cleaning their bathrooms, vacuuming the house, cleaning the stovetop. There is no pop, TV, video games or frivolity of any kind, until they are done. When I first put this structured list up and told them what was going down, they didn’t think it would last. Four weeks later they understand that this is never going away.
Now not only is my house clean but it’s staying clean longer. Why? Because they know they have to do each chore every week and they want to make sure it’s easy when the time comes. They take pride in good work profusely praised by me and have been policing one another.
Still think I’m a heartless bastard? Let’s get to the title. Why would they be missing out? They are getting a real sense of accomplishment, a solid work ethic and an appreciation for what they have. I am really seeing it in them and I can’t believe how well it works. Many “adults” I know could use some chores. The only regret I have is that I should have done this, years ago. So excuse me if I quote my good friend Wile E. Coyote, “Gad, I’m such a genius!”
Every day, Monday through Thursday after school, they do their homework then a different chore each day. Every child had work that is age appropriate. It includes their rooms and the rest of the house. Now, I’m not talking about just picking up a few cloths. I’m talking about cleaning their bathrooms, vacuuming the house, cleaning the stovetop. There is no pop, TV, video games or frivolity of any kind, until they are done. When I first put this structured list up and told them what was going down, they didn’t think it would last. Four weeks later they understand that this is never going away.
Now not only is my house clean but it’s staying clean longer. Why? Because they know they have to do each chore every week and they want to make sure it’s easy when the time comes. They take pride in good work profusely praised by me and have been policing one another.
Still think I’m a heartless bastard? Let’s get to the title. Why would they be missing out? They are getting a real sense of accomplishment, a solid work ethic and an appreciation for what they have. I am really seeing it in them and I can’t believe how well it works. Many “adults” I know could use some chores. The only regret I have is that I should have done this, years ago. So excuse me if I quote my good friend Wile E. Coyote, “Gad, I’m such a genius!”
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Bitter Irish Rant ;)
Well tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s day and for us Irish it’s a bit of a mixed emotion. It’s a great party that ends up being the “Joes VS. Pros” of drinking. Now, while having hordes of amateur drinkers clad in green Dr. Seuss hats and oversized shamrock sunglasses trying to kiss me simply for my nationality is slightly annoying, the term “Luck of the Irish” bugs me even more. Really? You really want the luck of the Irish? Let’s think about that for a moment. What’s so damn lucky about being enslaved, starved, forced from home and treated like dirt everywhere you land? Lucky isn’t exactly the first adjective that pops to mind. In fact, that phrase was originally used to explain away the accomplishments of successful, business savvy “paddies”. They couldn’t have done it by their hard work or whit, it must have been luck.
Freud said, “The Irish as a race are impervious to psycho analysis.” While it’s true we’re that messed up (though not nearly as messed up as Freud), we are also that grounded in reality. We know there’s nothing to analyze, life sucks. Why do you think we drink so much? So while it may defy logic, the truth is; the balance cold reality with warm drunken blarney just works.
So what did we do as a race to deserve this treatment? Well, we single handedly kept western civilization from doing a complete hard reset and total loss of data. If it weren’t for the Irish “warrior monks” of the middle ages, there would be no monasteries all over Europe, no beer, no good wine and no classical literature of any kind. You would never have heard of Aristotle, Plato or Socrates. You’re welcome.
When Christianity came to Ireland they found the last bastion the wild Celtic civilization that once ruled all of northern Europe from Ireland to Turkey. (Here’s a Snapple fun fact - Paul’s letter to the Galatians is to a group of Turkish Celts who most likely joined up because the whole wine on Sundays beat the crap out of no pork and a veils for the women.) Ireland is the only place that was not Romanized by Christianity. The church didn’t know what to do with things like naked coed horse races on the beach, female chieftains as well as male or a people that could fight as well as they farmed. When you’re used to being attacked by Vikings on a regular basis, the church showing up was more like really entertaining Jehovah’s witnesses.
So who are the Irish today? We Irish prize strong drink and stronger women, working hard and playing harder and most of all; we’re just a bunch of sentimental psychopaths. So before you decide to become Irish for a day, remember to be careful what you wish for.
Freud said, “The Irish as a race are impervious to psycho analysis.” While it’s true we’re that messed up (though not nearly as messed up as Freud), we are also that grounded in reality. We know there’s nothing to analyze, life sucks. Why do you think we drink so much? So while it may defy logic, the truth is; the balance cold reality with warm drunken blarney just works.
So what did we do as a race to deserve this treatment? Well, we single handedly kept western civilization from doing a complete hard reset and total loss of data. If it weren’t for the Irish “warrior monks” of the middle ages, there would be no monasteries all over Europe, no beer, no good wine and no classical literature of any kind. You would never have heard of Aristotle, Plato or Socrates. You’re welcome.
When Christianity came to Ireland they found the last bastion the wild Celtic civilization that once ruled all of northern Europe from Ireland to Turkey. (Here’s a Snapple fun fact - Paul’s letter to the Galatians is to a group of Turkish Celts who most likely joined up because the whole wine on Sundays beat the crap out of no pork and a veils for the women.) Ireland is the only place that was not Romanized by Christianity. The church didn’t know what to do with things like naked coed horse races on the beach, female chieftains as well as male or a people that could fight as well as they farmed. When you’re used to being attacked by Vikings on a regular basis, the church showing up was more like really entertaining Jehovah’s witnesses.
So who are the Irish today? We Irish prize strong drink and stronger women, working hard and playing harder and most of all; we’re just a bunch of sentimental psychopaths. So before you decide to become Irish for a day, remember to be careful what you wish for.
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