Regular Life

The boy calls himself an astronaut when he wears his space helmet. Er, drum. Pic by Mommy.

Eyes of the Haggler

My lovely and profoundly nearsighted nearsighted and profoundly lovely wife went to her mother’s house Tuesday. Said mother showed her a piece of junkmail advertising a local Lasik vision correction surgeon. It proclaimed prices starting at $700 per eye.

“You might as well give it a go, what?” said her mother. She’s British. No, she isn’t really, and those are not her exact words, but it’s fun to imagine her saying that in a British accent.

In her natural Irish accent, my wife said, “Shut yer hole, ya stupid article. It’s classic bait and switch.”
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“Just on hold on Lucy…” Shannon sang as .38 Special played on the radio.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Is that not right?”

“It’s ‘Hold on loosely.’”

Some of our favorite moments as a couple occur when one of us sings a misheard lyric. This happens mostly during songs written before our shared lives began. What’s funnier than hearing your wife belt out a wrong lyric at the top of her lungs, only to be corrected lovingly (or sometimes not so much) by you? You swear you can see a light bulb above her head as she realizes, “Oh, that makes much more sense.”

Of course, this also applies to husbands who flub the lyrics and get laughed at by their wives, including me. I just hate writing “his or her” all the time, so I try to pick a gender and run with it. Kind of like running with scissors.
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Regular readers no doubt read my post called Bob and Betty, back on January 31. I wrote a letter to them on February 8, and finally mailed it about a month later.

My wife and I both felt horrible for the way we left things with Bob and Betty. I said as much in the letter, and hoped that it would spark a long-distance reunion of sorts. We would send pictures of Ben; Bob and Betty would send back that he’s “growing so fast.”

In the back of my mind I dreaded one very real possibility — that my effort would be too late. Bob and Betty both had health problems.
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I left town Thursday morning. Ben could not count to 10. He tried. “One, two, three, four… one, two, three. Six, seven, eight, nine.” That was about as good as it got.

When I returned Sunday night, Shannon said, “Count for Daddy.”
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C hits one from the bunker on number 10. The ball ended up about six feet from the hole, if I remember right.

If you have not read my post from late Friday night, then this one will not mean much to you, and will contain spoilers.
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“Dude, I am not leaving here until that’s fixed.”

That was my brother, C, right after he finished his shower in Granddad’s bathroom. He marveled at how hard it was to rinse himself. Stay with me on this. It makes total sense, really.

There’s a scene in Pulp Fiction called “The Bonnie Situation.” Remember that? Here at Granddad’s house, we have the Showerhead Situation.

It’s been a known problem since about 15 years ago, during the only heated argument my Granddad and I ever had.
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Just posting a quick pic of the week. I drew the sun and wrote the words. Ben drew the “picture” to the right.

I have adventures to tell already, and we haven’t gone to a game yet. Granddad’s baking pork chops for supper and then we’ll go see two games. Showerhead situation to follow.

Thursday morning I leave for Kansas.

Every year (well, this is the second year), my brother and I go see our only living grandparent at his home, which we all use as a home base for the final two days and nights of the National Junior College Basketball Tournament.

Granddad and my brother are golf nuts, so we try to hit the links, weather permitting. His home course, Prairie Dunes, is a beauty to behold, even if you don’t know a three-iron from a lob wedge. It is the site of the 2006 US Senior Open, and the 2002 US Women’s Open. Regardless, Granddad gives out after nine holes.

He’s 93.
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“Ben, what kind of dinosaur can fly?”

“A pterodactyl.”

I’m proud that he nailed that one, but I’m pretty sure he has no idea there’s a silent “p” at the beginning. Oh well. Baby steps.

“That’s right, Ben. What sound does a pterodactyl make?”
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He spent 18 years in a Texas state prison for a crime he did not commit.

Back in 1989, the prosecution said he broke into a woman’s home and sexually assaulted her, and a jury of his peers agreed, but now the DNA tells another story.

On March 20 of this year, hear the judge set Greg Wallis free.
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