MenGetPregnantToo

There's Another Term for Squeaky Wheels: Crazy People.

"Squeaky wheels get the grease."

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There's a reason for that. That constant, relentless, merciless, high-pitched squeaking will bring a person to their knees. With the right wheel, with enough accumulated rust and a little bit of friction, you can annoy a moose into knitting a scarf. A wheel's squeak can be just that bad.
As can people.

Anyone who works in an office deals with at least one of these people daily. The person who - for instance - doesn't realize that around the time desktop personal computers were invented, so were headphone jacks. This little hole accepts the male end of standard headphones, muting the sound for everyone except the person wearing them.
Why would someone in a busy office not use them?
They're crazy, that's why.
Why wouldn't someone bothered by their office neighbor's ambient noise ask them to use headphones?
Crazy people can do crazy things, that's why. Offence would be taken, grudges would be held, friendships would end.
Round and round goes the squeaky wheel.

Photo: Wheel Circle by Brenda Anderson via flikr

They roll around everywhere, these crazy squeaky wheel people: their stereos blasting from their cars at 2am; their shoulders wedging their way into line while they pretend they don't see the people patiently waiting.
Some of my favorite squeaks are after the wheel next to me comments on a phone call which was none of their business:
Me on the phone: "Ok, honey; I'll pick up some pork chops on the way home to throw on the barbecue. Anything else? 'K; love you, too."
Hang up.
Mrs. S. Wheel: "Mmmmm....pork chops!"
Who invented these Wheel people?
Why did I not just turn to Mrs. Wheel and politely say: "Please, I'd like my conversations to at least preserve the illusion privacy."
Because Mrs. Wheel is crazy.
Because individuals who routinely disturb others lack the logic to realize they share the planet to begin with; therefore, they take offence at the notion someone may not appreciate them all the time.

There are Mr. Wheels, too. Like the guy on the beach last month burying his cigarette butts in the sand. On that occasion, my friend actually spoke up. She could afford to do that, since women are rarely punched in the nose by strangers. Mr. Wheel laughed at her, and then shared some secret funny joke with his wife, Mrs. Wheel.

According to online sources, the wheel was invented in Mesopotamia five-thousand years ago. The first squeak (yes, wood squeaks) was heard about 4,999 years, 364 days ago. Since then, Squeaky Wheels have been known to:

• Block driveways
• Yell on their cell phones
• Not bring their barking dogs into the house
• Whistle in enclosed public spaces
• Tap on their desks with pencils
• Let their cats foul your garden
• Pretend they're asleep on the bus while someone worthy of a seat develops varicose veins
• Sneeze really loudly (like, exaggeratingly so)
• Search for a new ringtone in an enclosed space
• Have children

The problem with Wheels having kids is: their kids become Training Wheels; little annoying adults in waiting. You'll recognize them when you see them: they’re the ones kicking shins and ramming the Costco shopping cart (the one with the squeaky wheels) into your calves from behind.
* important note: somtimes my kids do that thing with the shopping cart, but that's diffferent.
 
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Maybe I'm just becoming an old, crotchety person: more sensitive to noise, more protective of my privacy. By the way, I'm not blind to the irony of complaining of invasions of my privacy while regurgitating my thoughts onto a blog.
What can I say; I find this process very soothing and therapeutic. It keeps me on an even keel.

I have to go, someone just complained about the loudness of my typing.
What a nut job.

 

 

Relationship Rule: Be the Gardener, Not the Plumber. (Trust Me.)

My wife is the gardener in family. It's a hobby I never understood; until yesterday.
Whenever we manage to coordinate a couple of simultaneous days off together (which is about as often as the Yankees have a losing season), she suggests "getting house stuff done." This is her riff on the "Honey-Do" list.
House stuff is usually divided between the two of us: during the winter months I might do some form of physically demanding renovation (replacing a toilet, for instance), she will clean the place top to bottom - dusting included. This suits me; I hate dusting.
Once summer rolls around, tasks change.
House stuff then becomes: me doing some form of physically demanding renovation (replacing a toilet, for instance); she will garden.

I know less about gardening than most other things I'm surrounded with. Every plant I see I call a begonia, simply because I like the word 'begonia'. Not only that, but I say it with a burst on the 'b' and a bit of a sing-song on the 'onia'. It can be really annoying. Someone will point at a flower in my wife's garden (notice, I claim no ownership of the shrubbery on my property) and ask her what type of plant it is. I will immediately deadpan: "Begonia". She will explain it is a black-eyed susan, and that her husband has maturity issues.

Yellow Begonia - Wikipedia

Watching my wife tend to the garden year after year, I have the impression this activity consists of nothing more than pulling up what was planted last season, and relocating it for the upcoming season. Next year, she will either find a new spot for it, or maybe even move is back to where it was last year. It's all very strange to me. 

She'll try to include me: "What do you think if I line the walkway with hastas?"
"What about begonias?" I suggest.
"Seriously."
"Sure," I contribute more maturely "should I run to the nursery (strange name for a plant store: 'nursery') and pick some up?"
"No, no. I was going to pull up the ones from the backyard and move them in front."
"What will we put in the back, then?"
"I don't know." She thinks a minute "Maybe some of the black-eyed susans I planted out front last year. 
I would leave her to it, and go replace a toilet.

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I don’t mind plumbing work - anything, as long as it's not painting, I don’t mind home renovations in general, but plumbing especially has a certain warrior quality to it: pulling up the old, gross toilet; cleaning out the squishy brown wax originally installed in 1955; getting dirty, and grunting and sweating as you haul in the new unit; making a big show of being upset at having to run to the hardware store since the *%#@ toilet company didn't include all the parts with the new toilet (when, in reality, a quiet drive alone in the car with a cold soda and the kids at home is pure heaven); hefting the shiny new bowl into place; and watching with success as everyone defecates into brand new porcelain thanks to your hard work.
THAT'S labor! THAT'S satisfaction.

Until things don't go so well.
Until water starts to pour from under the bowl all over the floor. Until, despite removing the toilet, cleaning it all over again, replacing the tiles you ripped up with the original toilet, and reinstalling the new one, your basement bathroom floods anyway. Until the guy in the plumbing department tells you: "It's a crack in the porcelain. Need a new toilet."
Then, there's no satisfaction whatsoever.
Then, a toilet ceases to be something to be proud of, and reveals its true nature: a bowl to catch shit.

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That was two weeks ago.
Yesterday, I weeded our vegetable garden for three hours (I was a little behind in my weeding this year...and last year...and the year before that).
I was filthy, and sweaty. My nails were black. Sweat from my chest has dripped so consistently onto my thighs in my hunched position, my shorts were wet too. My neighbour rang the doorbell and was honestly startled at my appearance.
Funny thing, though: I didn't want to stop. 
I have never worked so physically hard at something I didn't want to end.
Holy crap! It was true what they said about gardening! All that mumbo jumbo about 'getting back to the earth', and 'communing with Mother Nature' -  it's actually true!
Why would anyone NOT want to garden?
Given the choice of cleaning human waste out of a toilet, or composted natural waste out of an outdoor box, why would anyone choose the former?!

It was an epiphany.
I understood why my wife became the gardener, and I became the plumber: she's smarter than I am.
It won't last, though.
I was trying to pull more weeds from between paving stone today. Instead of gardening tools, I used my plumber's blow torch. I destroyed a wasp’s nest with it, too.
Tomorrow, I may try using a plunger to pull carrots from the garden.
The day after that, I'm showing my wife how to connect a water supply to a bidet; I've figured you out, my dear. Begonias, here I come! 

How to Install a Toilet - www.freediyhomeimprovement.com

 

 

Can the True Blood Gang Glamour my Kids?

Sure, they're the blood-sucking undead; but do they babysit?

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I, like most people, have at some point imagined possessing super powers. My wife and I even came up with my superhero name: Shadow Cube. Shadow Cube has the ability to read people's thoughts, much like The Shadow ("Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!") Shadow Cube can also produce ice cubes (cubes only; no ice highways, or flying icicles, or ice storms) which would be handy for chilling my wife's Margarita's during the summer season.
Since becoming a parent, however, I realize any power I have should make life easier and not add 'saving the world' to my already long list of responsibilities towards my offspring.
This is where HBO's True Blood provided inspiration.

The series exists in a world where vampires, werewolves, fairies, shapshifters and firemonsters all own property on this earth, shop at Costco, and presumably line up at the tax office alongside humans. Each being possesses certain powers. Among the vamps' many supernatural abilities is their capacity to "glamour" humans. Glamouring involves staring deeply into the victim's eyes and brainwashing them into believing absolutely anything. The stare is accompanied by synthesizer effects not heard since Van Halen's "1984".

 

I want to glamour my kids. I want to stare longingly into their eyes, and  - after I tell them how much I love them, how they are the most beautiful boy and girl in the world, and how luck I am to be there father - I want to command them: "Now, clean your room. Every day. Forever. For free. And, when you're done that, sit facing the dining room table, don't spill anything, use your utensils, and eat your broccoli." I might eventually work my way up to: "Tell me you will only watch a movie if  I let you get your pyjamas on  and brush your teeth first. Also, sleep-in on the weekend for the love of Pete!" I may have to wait until they reach physical maturity before I ask them to redo the main floor bathroom and update the entrance way. For that, I would probably also have to glamour them into watching every episode of "Holmes on Homes", starting immediately. Yeah, I know you're only 5, but this is really useful information for when I ask you to transform the attic into a games room.

Then again, having this hypnotic ability would mean putting aside time to glamour my kids. As it is, we barely find time for a bedtime story; how the heck am I supposed to work in brainwashing?? As tired as I am at the end of the day I'd end up misfiring and instead convince my wife Alcide Herveaux is waiting in the south of France to start a new life with her.

Or, worse, I'd end up putting myself to sleep and miss my PVR'd sixty minutes of escapism into the world of vamps and fairies.

Maybe I can convince one of the vampires to babysit. There is a faction of vamps in True Blood who are dedicated to "mainstreaming" - the peaceful coexistence of humans and vampires. As part of attaining this goal, they've given up feeding on humans, and instead nourish themselves with True Blood - a synthetic blood substitute. Surely if they can train themselves to drink laboratory manufactured hemoglobin, they can convince my kids to give up sweets; and flush the toilet when they poo; and wash their hands after they forget to flush the toilet; and wipe their hands on a towel and not my pantleg when they do remember to wash their hands. 

Of course, there is a downside to being a vampire. Do I really want to live forever?? I mean, even if I did convince my kids to complete all the necessary home renos, wouldn't I be the only one still around when everything needed more updating two centuries from now? Imagine the price of roofing tiles in 2312! A solution might be to glamour my grandkids...

Plenty of Bears, No Washing Machine - Camping at its Best.

FatherDaddy is now a weekly contributor to "The Good Men Project". Every Wednesday I will have an article published on their site. There will be an even rotation between original content, and essays previously published on FatherDaddy.

Enjoy this week's original submission:

Plenty of Bears, No Washing Machine - Camping at its Best.

Thanks for reading,

KB

 

 

Aggressive Sports Parents: Dealing With Them and Saving Kids' Self-Esteem

After sitting in the stands during my kids' first foray into organized sports, I was astounded by the level of aggression displayed by the parents in the stands, as well as certain coaches on the field.
I noticed similar behavior while observing other children's competitions.
These little 5-7-year-old are playing for popsicles, while the adults are demanding rule clarifications, yelling at little kids for not running fast enough, or for dreaming while waiting for fly balls in centre field.
Many of these little athletes leave the field in tears while their parent shake their heads in disappointment.

What's going on?
I turned to Family Therapist Vikki Stark for answers.
This post, on The Good Men Project is the result of our conversation:

Aggressive Sports Parents: Dealing With Them and Saving Kids' Self-Esteem

Enjoy, and I'll return with new posts on July 15th.

Photo—Baseball kids team from Shutterstock