Ultimate Battles

"Who would win in a fight? An orange or an avocado?" So the 13-year old began the discussion.

16-year old: Avocado, definitely. Has a pit in the middle--so if they pulverized each other that would be all that was left.
Me: And the orange is just not a' peeling.

Batman or Ironman? >> Ironman.

OK, Jackie Chan or Jet Li? >>> Here an argument ensued. Jackie Chan won out.

Kobe or Michael Jordan? >>> Kobe. But Doctor J would destroy them both.

Urlacher or Shockey? >>> Another toughie, slight edge Urlacher.

Whitney or Beyonce? >>> Whitney definitely tougher, she's a crackhead.

Lupe or Kanye? Definitely Kanye--unless Lupe kicked and pushed. Lupe or Pharrell? Lupe, since he is from Chicago.

Bush vs. Gore? Nod to Gore unless Bush cheated, there is a precedent. Chris Tucker vs. Michael Jackson? MJ for the moonwalk. Superman vs. Flash? Thing vs. Hulk? Godzilla vs. Charizard? Jason Bourne vs. James (Daniel Craig) Bond? Only Bourne could beat Bond. Nobody can beat Bourne. Billy or Mandy?

Special Guest 16-year-old: Naked Brother Band or the Jonas Brothers? >>> ??? critical stop. Where did this one come from?

Everyone laughed.

The Officials

The 13-year-old finished his football season on a game that was absolutely crazy on officiating. We always tell the kids that they just need to play, and not to worry about the referees, and not to dwell on calls, but that last game was tough.

Anyway, I need to get some football thinking off my chest. I thought, though, that I would start with the officials.



Now THAT'S a call. "Giving him the business." And, repeat the down.

1st Gear

Maybe this is one where you really had to be there. I thought it was hysterical. The 15-year-old was a bit concerned, though.

We were driving back from football practice--me and the 15-year old in the Subaru, about 1/2 mile from home. A very bright yellow car passed us on the left. There was something about the rumble that made me look up and see the Ferrari horse rearing on the back of the car. Like this, only yellow.

I met my foe at the light and quickly assessed the competition. The passenger, some short 30-something guy. Bad hair cut. The driver was much better put together. I could see his cufflinks glint against the steering wheel. MUCH better haircut. A weasel-ly moustache, though.

The light turned and I gunned the Subaru through her paces. That Ferrari ate my 4 cylinder dust. I cackled maniacally. The yellow car met me at the next light.

"So, you think that was funny?"

The 15-year-old raised his eyebrows in warning to me.

"Hey, let's face it," said I. "It WAS funny." The 15-year-old coughed his concern. "I'm from Detroit," I continued. "We used to race from the lights all the time." The guy was pissed. I was crying, My laughing was out of control.

The 15-year-old was flashing yellow. I revved the engine. My foe did so, too. About 6 octaves lower than mine. I revved back. The light changed, and I immediately lost my place on the gears. The canary car was long down Michigan Avenue.

Me, still in hysterics, fumbled my way to second (or third?) gear. The smell of burning clutch was everywhere.

But I did beat the Ferrari. At least once.

Time Free Zone

The 11-year old: Can I please play RTC on the computer?
Me: No.
Him: Would it help if I said please?
Me: (lying) No.
Him: Please?
Me: Well I don't want you in front of that computer all night. You can play until 6:15.
Him: Great!
Me: Now you need to be able to tell time. To time yourself. I don't want to have to come in there at like, seven and tell you to get off. Understand?
Him: No problem.
Me: (at 7 p.m.) Get off!

Happens every time. Like clockwork. Well at least something has to do with time.

Yelp!

You know how it is when you are away from home, sleeping in unfamiliar quarters. Like how many steps to the bathroom in the pitch-black rural landscape?

I was in such a state when I was prodded to get out of bed to quiet the light-noise of my high powered cell phone. The bed was way higher than the bed at home and I misstepped. Below me was the dog.

I slid into one of those super slo-mo moments in which you have entire conversations with yourself (while the dog was seeing his life pass in front of his eyes--eat, walk, crap, sleep, happy, happy) in the time that it takes to fall on your butt. On top of the dog.

Now, this was something that I wanted--no, that I needed--to avoid. Coming down, buttocks first on the fleshy part of the dog could cause him to have extreme internal injuries. And I did not want to kill the dog. I also didn't want to have to tell the story of HOW I killed the dog, if indeed I did so.

I was falling, the dog was underneath me, and not moving. But stirring. I decided to flap my arms. Okay, maybe decided is an exaggeration, but nonetheless, I began to flap my arms. Maybe I would get some "lift" and fly a bit and avoid squishing the dog.

"Rip."

It was the muscle in my arm. Ow. Bad word, bad word. Ow.

The dog moved. I didn't kill him. But jeez, does my arm hurt. Like that joke, "I just flew in from Miami, and boy, are my arms tired."

Charcoal Cake

Here is what we learned this evening. First, the chocolate cake from the Giant gets dried out after a while. Some people are willing to eat it past perfection.

Second, after a few hot and humid days, there is a danger that the chocolate cake might be a bit moldy. Some people are willing to investigate it closely before deciding on a course of action.

Third, when somebody says to put the cake in the microwave to soften it up, it might be a good idea to request information on timing. Some people are very optimistic about the benefits of microwaving and think that if 2-3 seconds on "HIGH" is good, 30 seconds would be even better.

Fourth, there is something in the Giant chocolate cake slice that interacts with a microwave oven on "HIGH" for 30 seconds similar to a marshmallow being dropped into white hot coals. It smells the same. Some people thought that it might be salvageable, though.

Fifth, if your Dad takes a bite out of said chocolate cake that has been irradiated on "HIGH" for thirty seconds and caused more than a little smoke to emit from said microwave, and is blackened in the middle and hard as a biscotti, you might think about whether or not you want to share said experience. Some people are willing to take the risk. (This is especially interesting since the Dad was the one who suggested the microwave in the first place.)

Sixth, if somebody gives you bad advice once, they may give you bad advice a second time.

Last, you should always have a back-up dessert.