My Dilema With Garbage

Every Sunday night for the past seven years I have been tormented by a choice - to take the garbage cans to the curb or wait till morning and try and beat the garbage truck who hits our house about 6:50am Monday morning.

And every Sunday I am forced to make the same choice - wait till morning.

The garbage man has become so familiar with my mad dashes in the morning that he has even honked a few times when he sees my cans are missing. Giving me enough time to drag a weeks worth of waste to the other side of the street as he goes around our culdesac.

It's my neighbors who have driven me to throw caution to the wind. They start putting their trash out Sunday morning. By the evening I am the only one without my trash carefully organized in front of my house.

For a guy who likes order and routine it's odd that I have chosen this to rebel against, but rebel I do. I snicker to myself late Sunday evenings, imagining someone on the street is peeking out their window, worried and stressed out that there is no sign of my trash. Take that you fastidious neighbors!!

And another thing. What's with my neighbor across the street? He continually throws a wrench into trash day.

You see every other week you put out a special trash can for recyclables. Except he can never remember which week is which.

So at least once a month, early on Sunday morning he sets out his garbage AND his recyclables and all hell breaks loose.

It's clearly the wrong week, but since he is the first one out he throws everyone into a tizzy. All day long they pass by his house and wonder "Is it recyclables day"?

By the end of the day about 2/3 of our neighborhood has lost their confidence, and put their recyclables out, exposing to the world their inability to keep track of every other week.

I may fumble out of bed and dash to the curb with my trash, but by golly I can remember what happened last week.

My neighbors lonely can of recyclables NOT picked up

That's My Kid

When that first baby comes along as young parents you are swept up in the excitement and make all kinds of crazy goals and foolhardy declarations. Of course your offspring is going to be the perfect kid, the one that doesn't bite, shares toys, reads early and all those other things that allow you to look down on other parents.

By the time the second or third comes along your just happy if they don't draw blood when they bite.

By the fourth you are rolling your eyes at the new parents hovering over their one child as you sit oblivious to the mayhem you own kids are creating.

In this state of chaos the years pass quickly and before you know it your progeny are hitting major milestones that expose to others how you are doing as a parent.

Kate (8) just hit such a milestone, her baptismal interview.

As we dropped her off at the Bishop's office I asked Mindy if she had a chance to talk to her beforehand.

"Not really", she said. We both laughed nervously - hoping for the best.

So it was with some trepidation that I approached the Bishop later that day to ask how his interview with Kate went.

He started laughing....

"Well" he said. "We had a nice talk and then I asked her if she had any questions."

The Bishop said that Kate paused, then thoughtfully looked him in the eye and asked:

"I have noticed that when some of the kids are baptized that they have to hold their breath for a long time. How long do I have to hold it?"

Cue the Bishop laughing again!

The good news is despite the neglect over the years Kate squeaked through the interview.

The bad news is she thinks I'm going to try and drown her.

My Kind of Medicine

When we first moved to San Diego we found a nice general practitioner that Mindy and I could see on those rare occasions when we were sick.

He was easy to get into since he was older and had decided to stop taking new patients shortly after we found him. He and his wife, who worked the front desk, talked often of retiring.

But every time we call he is still there.

After Mindy's first visit she came home convinced that he was a former Hippie.

I never got that same vibe. With me he talked about his wife, grandkids and practicing medicine for 30 years. Not quite the Dead Head type of lifestyle. He looked like a classic grandfather.

Still she insisted there was more to this man than met the eye. She joked that she could get him to prescribe medical marijuana if she just asked.

Well....

Mindy was sick this week so off she went to see the doc.

At the front desk she noticed his wife wasn't there. So when she saw the doctor she commented that it looked like his wife had decided to retire.

He politely explained that his wife had passed away last year.

When Mindy pulled her foot back out of her mouth, she offered her condolences. He thanked her and told her of his struggles after she had died. He missed being able to talk with her.

But he quickly perked up and said now all is OK because he realized that he could still communicate with her. He went on to say that he communed with her several times a day.

As he expounded on karma and transcendentalism Mindy decided to see if he wouldn't mind sharing some some drugs to help a girl out.

She couldn't muster the nerve to ask for marijuana (to test her theory), but she asked for the next best thing: Vicodin.

Sure he said. Everyone needs a good supply of Vicodin.

So Mindy came home with antibiotics for her sore throat, and a little something extra.

Makes you wonder how he is communing with his wife each day?

Also reminds me I need to make an appointment!!

Sticky Fingers

Yesterday I returned from my first Father's and Son's camp out as a father.

The two women who know me best were giddy at the thought of me camping with two young boys.

My Mom recalls the day I received my Eagle Scout award and promptly announced I would never go camping again. And with few exceptions I haven't.

You see I'm a little OCD about the dirt, lack of showers and especially the smell of campfires permeating everything right down to my hair. Since receiving my Eagle my nights ensconced in 600 thread count sheets at the Ritz Carlton and Four Seasons hotels outnumber the restless nights lying in a tent 10 to 1.

Mindy had multiple reasons to savor my first foray back into the world of camping. Not only did she take delight in the torment I would endure trying to keep clean with two small boys, but she couldn't wait to control the remote for an entire evening.

So...

We arrived early and set-up camp without any problems. I must confess that given our location, right on the beach, I shouldn't have had much to complain about.

This is a view out of our tent.

My only responsibility for the weekend was to provide the Smores for our ward. As it got dark we headed to the fire pits and I began assembling and helping kids create their gooey creations. Garrett (4) and Ryan (3) began circling the fires like moths. They became oblivious to anything other than poking the fire, throwing whatever they could find into the fire, or catching a marshmallow on fire and running around trying to smear the scalding confection onto any fool who ventured in their path.

Initially I kept my Smore making station under control. But by the end the hordes of kids high on sugar had overtaken me. In particular, having touched so many melted marshmallows, my fingers were coated with the sticky residue of burnt marshmallows.

At that exact moment Garrett rushed up to me and loudly announced he had to go to the bathroom. I responded as any good camper would:

Go find a bush.

But he responded, with rising anxiety in his voice:

No. I have to go poo.

Now the stakes were raised. I knew that look. I had seconds to get Garrett to an appropriate place.

We rushed off to a nearby porta-potty. I grabbed some toilet paper in an attempt to clean things off a bit but I had forgotten about my sticky fingers.

So there I sat in the john, holding a flashlight between my arm, toilet paper stuck to my fingers, and Garrett desperate to get started.

Ahh. The memories of my camping days flooded back to me.

Nevertheless. I shall return. Because that's what Dads do.

Get Out Of My Way

My latest obsession is Mountain Biking.

After not having a bike for 10 years I am making up for lost time by biking every spare moment I can get.

And with each ride my endurance and confidence grows. Which is not necessarily a good thing since I don't lack self esteem.

My hubris got me into a sticky situation the other day.

Typically I go deep into the canyons behind our home and avoid the novice bikers that crowd the wide, fire roads.

But on this particular day I was short of time, so I took the road more traveled. I encountered numerous riders but as I motored past them I realized that instead of being annoyed I was enjoying the crowd to witness my new skills.

Soon I came to a section I knew well. I was going to drop down a hill, round a corner, then head up another long hill. If I went racing down the hill I could carry my momentum into the next climb.

As I came screaming down the hill there was a family leisurely riding along, as I weaved through them and continued around the corner I could tell they were intently watching me.

I beamed with pride.

I turned the corner to begin my climb and there was one rider, a woman in her late 50's, moving slowly ahead of me, drifting from one side of the road to the other. She was heading left, so I went right. But then she came right, so I went left...

We ran into each other in the middle of the road.

Luckily I had slowed down so we got tangled in each other but neither of us fell down.

It was at this moment I noticed two things:

1. As I looked down I saw this woman's right leg was a prosthetic leg
2. And from around the corner I could hear people yelling: Mom! Grandma!!

As they say, go big or go home.

A Child's Prayer

Kneeling in prayer with my children at night provides a brief glimpse into their inner thoughts and events of the day.

Often times I hear gratitude for Ice Cream or sincere pleadings for a play date.

Ryan (3) recently reminded me that Mindy and I have been trying to decrease the contention in our home.

This was his prayer tonight:

Heavenly Father
Help me to not say stupid
Help me to not say I hate you
Help me to not hit Garrett
Help me to not hit Kate
Help me to not hit Paige
Help me to not hit Mommy
Amen

I think he's getting the message.

Now if he just had the faith for such miracles.

After much badgering...

Our life is too full of good stories, I will regret not writing them down.

So once more into the breech!!