Global Warming and The Art of Home Improvement

A few months ago both of our sons moved back into our house after several years of roaming the countryside and terrorizing unsuspecting colleges. This visitation was a temporary arrangement made necessary by the fact that they had no money and nowhere else to go where they wouldn't be asked for money. So, being dutiful parents, we said they could come back for a while but only until they could find yet one more unsuspecting school. We reasoned, "this occupation shouldn't be that tough. After all, it's not like they were strangers. They had been under our roof at least 18 years of their lives and we hadn't been forced to kill and/or dismembered them during that entire period. Their little visit would hardly have an impact."

Just to be safe, we extracted the usual promises; I, _________(fill in the prodigal), promise on the head of my parents(probably a poor choice), that I won't leave wet towels, dirty dishes, dirty/clean laundry, spare body parts, unclaimed young women or used Q-tips anywhere but in their assigned and designated areas during my brief, very temporary visit to MY PARENT'S HOUSE.

It seemed like we had covered all the bases until we received our first electric bill. Our normally ridiculous bill of $200ish(that's $100ish per person, for those of you that are a product of the Indiana public school system) had been totally eclipsed for a new record total of $552. This for May, a full month before the temperature setting on the Central Florida sun goes from just hot to humid blast furnace. Now, let me say that I would like it to appear that I was doing something noble like helping to reduce the alleged global warming or trying to save one more tree from being hugged to death but no, I was motivated strictly by greed and the fact that I was going to have to listen to my wife as we paid the bills because somehow, after all, it would be my fault. I quickly reasoned that I better do something fast and appear to be a "husband of action" and that, for the sake of self preservation, it should also involve blaming the kids. I quickly surveyed the house and realized that, on this bright, sunny morning, aside from our two house cats, I was the only one home. Yet a nuclear glow and stereophonic sound seemed to come from under the each of the kid's closed bedroom doors. I slowly opened my oldest son's door, aka, CSI: Jared's Room and began to survey the carnage. Aside from the 7 wet towels and assorted plates filling every inch of horizontal surface, every light,...every electrically powered appliance, in their portion of the house seemed to be on. In fact, every appliance that they had ever actually touched, even in our previous houses, was now on and we were being billed for it. I called each of them on their respective cell phones in full attack mode and recited a litany of their sins but I quickly sensed the Homer Simpson, blank stare at the other end of the line. Never the less, I hung up determined to look like I was doing something or die trying.

On my last visit to Men's Mecca, IE, Home Depot, I remembered seeing an entire section of items dedicated to energy savings, so off I marched. I spotted the answer to my prayers, Motion Activated Lighting(MAL). That's it! No matter what the kids said or did, the lights would go out when they did. The directions seemed simple enough, even for me, so I bought a unit and headed home.

The directions did seem to place lot of emphasis on safety issues like turning off the power prior to placing bare wires in ones mouth, which I now know how not to do in 3 languages. OK now, truth time, how many of you guys have made a recent purchase of an item whose packaging contained those evil words "some assembly required" and found yourself at least half way through the first page of instructions before you realized you weren't reading the English version, if English is your language of choice, that is? Either we are all just looking at the pictures or we picked up a foreign language like French or Tagalog in our sleep, but I digress.

Now, with most safety precautions followed and the MAL control module installed, I just needed to test it. I had made the strategic decision that the guest bathroom, the one shared by both sons, seemed like the place to test out my cost control experiment. This decision was made in part because I don't think that these lights had actually been off, ever. I walked out of the room- then back in. A distinct BUZZ, followed by a constant HUMM and the lights flickered on...and stayed. Hey not bad! I did it and didn't even get hurt, like I usually do. I celebrated by using the toilet, standing up. After about 15 seconds, just enough time to find then adjust my aim, BUZZ and the lights were out. That's OK, I distinctly remember seeing a section on "time settings" clearly written in Tagalog on the instruction sheet. I'll just make a small adjustment.....but wait, as I prepared to move away from the toilet to the sink, BUZZ-HUMM lights on. As I slowly washed my hands, BUZZ-silence, darkness. The thought flashed through my mind of guests having to do a rousing rendition of "Y M C A" just so they could see what they were doing.

2 minutes of light per usage, that should be enough, I calculated and if it wasn't, then Dance Baby! As I made the adjustment, I got slightly careless with the tiny, fragile, little lever. Snap! It appeared that the little lever was broken and stuck at about 1/8 the maximum time setting, which I figured to be about 30 seconds. Uh oh, better hurry up there Slim or or get them dancin' shoes on. Not wanting to pay the $12 dollars for a new MAL switch, I told my sons, "that was how these things come and you better learn to hurry up. After all you guys are the reason I installed this anyway." Now, unless it is in the brightest part of the day, my wife just avoids that bathroom totally.

The boys, on the other hand did adapt, in fact we have even developed our own bathroom speak. If you have to go standing up, you usually have just enough time to get half way through before you have to "Stevie Wonder." This means that without using your hands(for obvious reasons), you have to rock from side to side until the sensor picks up your movement and BUZZ-HUMM. If you are sitting, it is a "Ray Charles" using much of the same motion but sitting, BUZZ-HUMM. By some initial reports, mostly from short female visitors, they occasionally had to break out a sitting "Y M C A" while executing a "Ray Charles". Reports of guests being forced to attempt this very technical maneuver seems to have highly agitated my wife. I have now discovered how to lower the sensing of the sensor which seemed to alleviate that problem but does seem to have created a new one.

Ragsie, one of our aforementioned cats, seems to have developed no social conscience whatsoever, in any of his nine lives but has discovered a fascination with his new power. All day and much of the night you can hear a BUZZ-HUMM as, for whatever cat reason, he marches in then out of the bathroom. I have, however, yet to catch him doing the "Y M C A".

Our new power bill arrived...$564.

Anatomically Correct?

My wife and I are not what you would call natural parents. Neither of us would spend our off time hanging around a maternity ward ooing and cooing over the newborns. In fact, 25 odd(very) years later, we would probably still be talking about whether to have a child were it not for an accident(which we later named Jared). Once the rabbit died, or in this case, the strip turned pink, however, we were committed to our fate and determined to be the best parents we could be. One of our early parenting decisions was not to use baby talk to describe body parts or functions. No pee pee, ca ca, poo poo, boom boom, fanny or bo bo for our child, it would be strictly urine, bowel movement, rectum and penis, etc.

Now, fast forward about 4 years. It was a Saturday morning and as usual my wife was out of town. As was our habit, my son Jared( now 3 ) and I would take care of the grocery shopping in her absence. Saturday morning in any grocery store in the U.S. is barely controlled pandemonium and this Midwestern debacle was no different. After about an hour and a half of dodging people and carts, including a young woman that had no less than three kids hanging off the sides of her cart, as if it were a float in a parade and a handicapable couple piloting electric scooters which they insisted on motoring down each isle 2 abreast, kids and adults screaming, me throwing things into the cart and then putting things back on the shelf that Jared had thrown in, while I wasn't looking, and I was done. One final glance at the meticulous grocery list prepared by my o.c. symptomatic wife to make sure each item had been crossed through and I was more than ready to check out. On my initial approach, each one of the 10 or so check out lanes was packed with customers and their carts lined up four deep(which severely impacted the plans of the handicapables to double buzz the produce counter). We were 4th in line at our register when the young cashier from the next lane left her position and approached us. She was from express and for whatever reason, at this particular fateful moment, her lane was empty.

"Sir, nobody is in express so you can bring your cart over and I'll check you out," she said.

In the blink of blue light we were at her station unloading a cart full of groceries. As usual, I tried to keep Jared occupied by having him put the things that we were actually buying on the conveyor. This was no small fete because from his little command seat at the opposite end of the shopping cart, he was easily within reach of the 2 mini flashlights, 2 pocket combs and 2 National Enquirers that were rung up before I saw them, on the previous Saturday.

As soon as I started to unload, a steady stream of people without carts and an armload of items(did they all have to have ice cream?) walked up to the express lane. In reality or in my paranoia, I could sense them all boring holes in me with their eyes."Hey, he's got more than 10 items. What's he doing here? We don't want your kind here!" They all pressed closer, each of them seemed intent on my every movement, as I stood directly under the sign that said 10 ITEMS OR LESS-NO CHECKS-CASH ONLY, while a bagger packed up our mounds of stuff and I wrote a check to cover our purchases. As I filled out the check, the cute high school age cashier engaged Jared in conversation. This was not difficult because he was verbal, precocious and a flirt, even then. After her initial question, the one all of us have to ask tikes, "How old are you?", went by uneventfully, whatever they said after that went right past me as I focused on my task at hand. That is, until I heard Jared say with a clarion-like voice, "I know....you're a girl."
"You're right", Miss Perky responded
"You don't have a penis", he added knowingly.
Now scarlet faced, even the chatty teenager was struck silent. This awkward moment was followed by one of those times that it seems the whole world just went still...except for Jared's voice.
"My Daddy has a VERY BIG PENIS."

Now at this point, my brain is first in denial, next in total overload, as nonsensical responses flooded in.
How many people heard him?...Was he really speaking directly into the loud speaker?"Wet clean up in aisle 6 and my Daddy has a real big penis"...... It's not really that big it's just his perspective folks, you can ask my wife....Where was this kid when I was single and a nonChristian?....Did I remember the peanut butter and did I cross it off the list? How far apart was he holding his little hands when he said VERY BIG? ...Is this check out girl legal and am I libel for some type of sexual harassment?...Is anyone from our church in here?

I probably looked like an amateur forger as I oh so carefully completed my check, so as not to screw up something complex like my signature, causing me to have to rewrite the whole thing again. I felt people's eyes on me as sweat started to run down my temples. I prayed silently that I had remembered my check cashing card so as not to prolong this agony one extra second. After awkwardly concluding the transaction, we headed for the door. I was in full metal flop sweat as Jared happily waved bye bye to all.

As we walked in the front door of our house, my wife happened to be calling on the phone. I opened the conversation with "Here's one for you to cross off your list. I will never go to that grocery store again...without a disguise!"

I Should Have Just Prayed For The Cubs

John 5:14
And we can be confident that he will listen to us whenever we ask him for anything in line with his will.

It was September, approximately 18 months after the birth of our youngest child. I was stationed on the couch, in my usual spot in front of our TV. I watched, horror-struck, in a position well known only to lifelong Cub fans; alone, eyes fixed and dialated with the first signs of rigor mortise, as yet another "wait until next year" went down the crapper. As the pain transported me in and out of consciousness, I could hear our two young sons in another room quietly destroying something. Seemingly out of nowhere, my wife appeared. She was standing between me and the TV, wearing a short white robe cinched at the waist. I broke my trance and looked at her as she opened the robe to reveal extreme nakedness.

"See this" she inquired, holding the robe wide open?

In a miraculous, Lazarus-like return from the dead, I responded, "Why yes, yes I do."

"Well, take a good look. I made an appointment for you to have a vasectomy next week. If you're a no show, it will be a long time before you see this again."

As quickly as she had appeared, she was gone and I was left to ponder whether it had been real or my mind playing tricks to save me from the Cub carnage on TV.

Now, we had discussed this medieval medical procedure a number of times since our youngest had gotten past crib death age but I had always managed to procrastinate and play dodge the scalpel a while longer. My wife even resorted to asking me about it during our most intimate moments, hoping I would give in. I always did but then would feign (ABD) afterglow brain disorder when we were through. After all, the thought having my crotch filleted and then getting to experience several days of basketball sized testicles was not something I was longing for. Unfortunately, the stakes had been raised and it appeared this time she was serious.

Years before this "flash" of a moment, I had become a genuine bible believing, if not thumping Christian http://www.campuscrusade.com/fourlawsflash.htm

After an initial few years of a honeymoon period, during which I had a very steep learning curve, I read and absorbed as much as I could,(as I tend to do) before my relationship with God become stale. Lately, however, aside from attending perfunctory Sunday church services, I had begun attending a Wednesday morning Bible study for men from our church, Willow Creek. The study met at a local Denny's(and really, who can turn down a "Grand Slam Breakfast" for Jesus?). Most of the group of eight or so, 30 something guys, seemed to share issues with me. Sandwiched between our discussion about how bad the Cubs were and how bad the Bears would soon be, we actually talked about growing and continually renewing our relationship with God. One of the other attendees apparently had the same relationship issues that I had except he actually cared enough to actually mention it to God.

"Lord, let this morning not be a waste of time, renew our spirit and the desire to share the relationship we have with you with others who don't yet know you. Lord, open doors and let us see and hear them open", he prayed. In a moment of weakness, I added quietly, "Yes, Jesus." The moment and my comment were quickly forgotten....by me.

On Thursday, my older brother showed up to deliver me to the doctor's office for "the appointment". It seems my wife had thought of everything(including the new jock strap, in a Sports Authority bag that I was instructed to bring). She reasoned that it would be hard to drive a post-operative Hyundai with manual transmission, while trying to balance the equivalent of two bowling balls in my lap. My normally light hearted brother, for his part, seemed to take on the countenance of a hearse driver and wouldn't make eye contact with me. He just kept glancing at my groin and then the ground until I told him to stop it.

Upon arriving at the doctor's office(my wife had already filled out the paper work), I was ushered into a small operating room and told to disrobe from the waist down. I then laid on the table using a small, short sheet they had provided me with, about the size of a washcloth, to cover as much of me as I could. Not that there is that much of me to cover, in that particular area, but they could have at least provided me with a hand towel, I thought. I had just finished rearranging my loin cloth when a doctor and nurse walked in. Dr. Samerod was of Middle Eastern origins and his nurse was an attractive blonde, which, considering the state of my "wash cloth" made me feel all the more inadequate.
Awkward introductions were made, then they guided my feet into the stirrups mounted on the end of the table. After what seemed oddly like a ceremonial groin washing and shaving, the doctor began to repeatedly stab me in the groinal region with an anesthesia needle. Earlier, I had explained to him that novacaine rarely worked on me and so he was attempting to make sure that I was really "numbed" before he started to do something painful. So for about 15 minutes we got into a pattern of him jabbing me with a needle, peeling my fingers and toes off the ceiling, putting me back in the stirrups and then waiting to see if the novacaine worked. After the 14th shot, I began to go numb. My crotch still hurt but my toes could no longer feel the texture of the ceiling as I grabbed it. This seemed to please the good doctor because I think he was running out of novacaine.

Somewhere between shots 12 and 13, as the doctor and nurse both leaned over and stared intently (and very unnervingly) at my groin, the doctor asked the nurse, "so what were you saying about Jesus, peace be upon him? You know, we believe that he was a prophet too."
"Yes," the nurse responded, "he was prophetic, He had that ability, as well but He was more...He was the Son of God and He died for our sins."
"Why do you say this? He was a very good man...."
"Well, I 'm kind of new at this myself. I just became a Christian about 3 weeks ago...so I don't have all the answers."
When their conversation first began, I had a "Grand Slam" flashback. I remembered my prayer and had to laugh. God does have a sense of humor. When the nurse was stumped, I thought, Oh crap, OK Lord, I'm on!
"We say it because Jesus Himself claimed He was God," I said between winces. Now, neither of them looked at me...at least at my face. On one hand, that made me feel good that they were concentrating on the work at hand, so to speak. On the other hand, it was unnerving to share the Gospel with someone and have them never look at your face, all the while continually piercing my crotch with sharp instruments. "Doctor, when you say that he was a good man, what do you mean," I continued?
Changing instruments of torture, he said, "He was a prophet. He lived a moral life. He was born to a virgin."
"All those things are true", I added, "but was He God?"
"No."
"But the bible, our holy scripture, says he claimed to be God," I continued.
Then in my best C.S. Lewis/Josh McDowel thievery, "If He claimed to be God, as the bible says but wasn't God, as you say, how could he be a prophet and have lived a moral life? Isn't that a little bit of inconsistent logic?"
"Explain. Number 2 sutures", he stitched
"Doctor, I tend to be a linear thinker and the only way I can personally make his claims of being a deity work are by believing that He was either the Lord, a liar or a lunatic. Just living a good moral life doesn't hold water and if He was a profit, how could He have been wrong about Himself. If you're consistent, either He was who He claimed to be, He was an evil liar who let people sacrifice their lives for His lie or He was a complete lunatic with a God complex.
The doctor stitched in silence for a moment. "You have given me much to think about. Now, I am done. The nurse will tell you how to take care of the surgical dressings. It was nice meeting you and I will see you in 6 weeks for a follow up. Any problems, call my office", and he was gone.
As the nurse continued her clean up work, she commented, "Thank you so much. Since I have become a Christian, I have had this burden to tell Dr. Samerod about who Jesus really is."
"I guess that is why I was here", I laughed. Now, feeling a little self conscious again, "Have you found a church home, yet?"
"Yes", she said, looking at my face for the first time. "My friend and I started going every Sunday to(Oh Lord, please don't let her say...) Willow Creek."

There is a post script to this story if you click on this link.

http://jobesnotjobs.blogspot.com/2007/01/post-script-to-i-should-have-just.html