Boys and Their Tools

I have a theory, untested but highly probable, that men create projects just to get a new tool.  I am writing from experience in this area.  My garage is a virtual Home Depot East.  Back when I bought my first home, it was simple projects that required reasonable tools.  The occasional screw that needed tightening definitely required a power drill and bits.  The ceiling fan….a volt meter and stripping tool.  You can see where this is going.  Next thing you know, I needed to build a deck.  Two more power drills, just in case I had a helper and a power saw.  My tool collection was building, saw horses, wrenches, wood clamps (not sure when I needed those) and the list grew.  But these were penny ante tools.  I was beginning to lust for the big stuff.

Soon things took a shift.  Up to this point the project had created the tool but if I needed bigger toys, I mean tools…… then I would need to create projects that fit the tool I wanted.  Time to build a cabinet, well actually a play cupboard for my daughter.  This clearly required a miter saw and why just stop there when a Shopsmith provided so much more.  My wife was starting to resist but I wore her down.  The Shopsmith now took up a large portion of our then basement.  But that too would change as new tools required more creative projects.

I think the next step was the need to go cordless.  It was a simple argument to convince my wife how dangerous and inefficient all those cords were.  It started with the drills, worked its way through the power saw and then into the jigsaw and recipricol saw.  Did I mention I found a need for a recipricol saw?  No good toolman should be without that handy gadget.  Eventually my lawn trimmer and my leaf blower (who doesn’t need that when sweeping seems sooooo slow) were soon freed of their cords.

By this time the process was so well oiled, that the minute my wife asked for something fixed or built, she would follow up the request with “and what new tool will this require?”  My daughters, now grown and in their own homes, knew the routine as well.  They would tell me what they needed built and in the same breath tell me they had done the research and I would clearly need this fancy new tool.  This got so bad that at one point, upon going out to pick up yet another unique drill bit, I convinced myself it was time for a REAL tool box.  My twelve drawer chest of wonderment now occupies a proud corner of the garage.  Did I mention that we ran out of room in the basement for my tools?

My latest project involved a bench for my daughter and son-in-law’s new patio.  She knew just how to get me to build it.  She first mentioned how much she loved me (that always works) and then followed up with “Remember that Kreg Jig you wanted?  Well guess what this bench requires, hidden screws.”  I could barely contain my pride and my excitement.  New project and a really cool, new tool.

Patio Bench

So my point.  Boys love their tools.  Given a complicated tool, they will not only figure out what to use it on, they will even try to master its use.  And beware, tools are the primary target of “bigger is better”.  Tim the Toolman Taylor knew that and every week we were reminded of the grace and beauty of power tools.  “Arruuhhhhhhhh”

So I am working of my next tool, I mean project, and I am pretty sure there will be some required transportation of the finished project.  And so, I currently have my eye on a nice one ton, eighteen foot cargo van.  And it doesn’t even need a cord.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

I was recently visiting the Cave of the Mounds in Blue Mounds, Wisconsin when I passed a young father toting his child in a tag along behind his bike.  The memory from my own attempt so long ago came flooding back to me.

It had been decided that my wife needed a quiet weekend all to herself.  She would catch up on reading and tending her flower gardens while I would wisk the children off for an adventure.  Quiet time is not generally a standard for the parents of two small children.  I had had my boy’s weekend and now it was her turn.

I decided that I would load the tent and sleeping bags unto my bike and tag along, get Bailey, my ten year old, settled on her bike and Kathryn, my three year old, strapped into the tag along.  The weather forcast for the weekend was sunny and reasonably warm and there was a well groomed trail that wound its way from Verona to Blue Mounds State Park where a campsight would be waiting.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

We all kissed mom goodbye as she dropped us at the trail head and began our ride of some sixteen miles.  I had often easily covered this distance riding the trails in Madison.  In my mind, this should be an easy ride and a wonderful adventure to be shared with my daughters.  And so, we were off.

We had gone about six miles when we passed Riley’s Tavern.  First sign of trouble ahead, both girls needed a potty break.  The looks I received as we entered the tavern should have been my warning.  Oh there was no threat from the patrons, the women of the crowd were actually supportive, cooing and fawning over my daughters.  On the other hand, the men in attendance offered more of the “what are you thinking” variety of looks.  After a potty break and a couple of sodas, we were back on our way.  Well sort of.  Less than a hundred yards down the trail, Bailey took what would be the first of her many career Riley’s Tavern wipeouts.  Before I knew it, she was down on her knees in the gravel, tears flowing in competition with the blood from the scrap on her knee.

I was not going to let this stop us.  A minor setback, I thought, as we returned to the tavern for some first aid.  Our friendly female bartender cleaned the cut, bandaged her up and encouraged her with a popsicle to continue on.  Meanwhile, the men of the bar, looked on with that “told you so” look.  Now for better or worse, this was pre-cellphone era, so mom was none the wiser for our mishap, not that I believed for a minute she wasn’t going to find out.  But I could face that later.  Our planned early afternoon arrival at the camp site was now looking more like mid afternoon, but we were back on the trail.

We had been enjoying a fairly flat to almost downhill trail to this point.  Anything that goes up must eventually go down or in our case, just the opposite.  Shortly after our luxury rest stop, it did.  As the trail continued up, doubt began creeping into my mind.  Bailey’s progress had slowed considerably and with it mine and Kathryn’s.  We started a process that would become Bailey’s biking tradition.  Just as she would begin to ask the inevitable “how much farther?”, we would begin to sing her favorite song, “Denise Denise”.  I find it ironic, that all these years later, her daycare provider is…..you guessed it, Denise.  We were well into the thousandth repeatition of the song, when finally, the trail turned downhill and we coasted into Mt Horeb.

It was at this point the biking gods turned on me.  Not only did Bailey think this was our destination and wanted to be done, Kathryn, who had been sleeping for the last hour, woke up.  She was having nothing to do with continuing this trek and wanted out of the tag along.  To make matters worse, the trail now started to rise again.  In that moment, it dawned on me that you can’t call it a mound if it isn’t higher than pretty much everything around you.  So close, and yet seemingly so far.

I somehow managed to get Bailey going and asked her to not encourage her sisters complaining screams emanating from the tag along, but to actually try to ignore them.  We would be there soon I said, knowing full well that I was now destroying my daughter’s ability to ever estimate distances with any degree of accuracy.  What was a dad suppossed to do?  We entered the desperation phase of our adventure.  Just as I was beginning to feel the weight of the tag along pulling backward as I was struggling up and onward, I needed to start pushing Bailey along with my hand on her back.  I was now riding for three.

Somehow, we managed to continue on.  Kathryn was still crying but she was losing volume.  Meanwhile, Bailey was picking up where Kathryn was leaving off.  She had given up believing my “were almost there” pleas and was now beginning to doubt everything I had ever taught her.  And then suddenly, the sign appears.  It promisingly provides salvation, “Blue Mounds State Park Entrance”.  We made it……….. I’m just kidding.  The park entrance is at the bottom of the mound.  The road meanders up forever and we have been defeated.

After what seems like an eternity, we have managed to walk to the campground office, Bailey walking and me pushing my bike, the tag along and in the only hand left, Bailey’s bike.  Early afternoon long ago became mid afternoon which gave way to late afternoon only to become early evening.  We may have set a record for the slowest bicycle trek. They will compare our speed record to failed attempts for years to come.

I am exhausted, starving and humbled.  I have just enough strength left to pitch the tent and ample fear for what will I do all day tomorrow, assuming we live through the night.  I need a miracle and it happens.  It arrives in the form of the park ranger, a middle aged women who upon checking us in at the office takes much needed pity on me.  Expecting to be admonished for my misadventure, she instead lauds my courage and offers to help.  As I am pitching our tent, she shows up with an arm full of wood for a campfire and the most delicious, life saving frozen pizza ever.  After lighting the fire and inhaling the pizza, I am actually thinking we may survive.

I’m just kidding, what always happens when I try to camp happens…..rain, accompanied by thunder and lightening of course.  Why not?  Morning dawns bright and promising.  What is to be day two of our three day adventure is unanimously voted our last.  We throw everything into the tag along, strap Kathryn in, mount our bikes and make our hasty retreat.  What was our gruelling uphill yesterday is now wonderfully downhill to Mt Horeb and we thank the bike gods for that.  We stop at the first establishment serving breakfast, call mom and capitulate.  PLEASE, come get us, I was an idiot.  But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

What Makes an Adventure

Each year for the past forty years, I have attended the Indy 500.  Over the past twenty years my daughters have come with me.  Now in consideration for my friends’ questioning of my sanity, what sane person watches cars circling a track for three hours, it’s not just about the cars, even though 230 miles per hour is something you can only experience sitting 100 feet away, it’s so much more.   It’s the adventure.

For us the weekend starts on Friday with our trek down to Lafayette, Indiana.  It morphs into a golf tournament Saturday morning and then follows up with the annual reunion of the group of attendees, now numbering 30 plus, some who have traveled from as far away as Florida to the south and just below Canada to the north.  Sunday morning, race day, finds us assembling our caravan in preparation for our drive to the track in Indianapolis.  There we will tailgate with 350,000 other spectators for the greatest spectacle in sports.  You see it’s not just the race, it’s everything that goes with it. If you are a people watcher, the sheer size of the crowd will hold you in amazement.  If it’s the rush of speed, well there’s plenty of that and it’s not just the race cars driving fast but all the would be racers driving the highways into Indianapolis that Sunday morning.   It’s the hoopla, the track, the parade.  It’s the celebrities and the cameras.  It’s the spectacle.

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For me there is one more element that draws me back each year.  This is my chance, at least once a year, to spend time with my two, now adult, daughters.  When I was approached by my then 14-year-old daughter, asking to go with me for my annual “boys” weekend, I was taken aback.  I explained the logistics of spending a long weekend with twenty some guys bent on talking about race cars and well…… being guys.  I was only mildly surprised, after all she was already pretty headstrong, when she told me she was fully prepared to hold her own.  When she explained in detail the workings of the cars and her knowledge of the drivers, I realized that this was to be our next logical adventure.  Five years later, my younger daughter literally tricked her way into attendance and there were now two women fully integrated into the Wisconsin Indy crowd.  Some twenty years later, they still hold sway each year and command respect from the guys and actually represent the “elder” version of the second generation.  They make me proud each and every year as I listen to the reminiscing and the conversations they so comfortably center themselves into.

Indy second generation

I have never regretted for a moment having two daughters as my only children.  I was careful to give them every chance to be the beautiful women they are while letting them experience all the adventures a father would share with his son.  The Indy 500 is just one of those adventures.  Each year we plan and prepare for our trip, excitement growing through the entire month of May.  It is seventy-two hours of conversations about life and goals and achievements, uninterrupted by other family members, apologies to my wife.  It is a chance to bond and to share an experience with two people I love and respect.

Indy daughters

It’s not just the race, it’s everything that surrounds it, but more than anything else, it is the adventure shared.  Just a heads up, if you choose to argue the merits of this race with my daughters, you best do your homework.

The Four Words

My office is finished and I finally have my space back (see “Stuff…or How I Won the War”).  In honor of, or maybe in obligation to, I decided I better write on my blog since I used that excuse to get my wife’s permission to remodel my office…okay man cave.

I have of recently, been involved in several events that caused me to reflect on a list of words that help define my attitudes.  These four words can harm or heal depending on how they are used and in that lies the danger of their misuse.  Whenever working with a new staff member, I would make sure they understood how I viewed those words, and to this day, the ones I remain closest to can recite them back.  It is just that they were and are that important to me.

The first word is a limiting word when misused.  The word is “just”.  Now when something is just, that is a desirable thing.  But, when one describes what they did as “just” something, it limits them in both their stature as well as their own perspective and self expectation.  I all too often hear someone say “I’m just a support staff worker.”  This would be to say that as a team member, their position is somehow unimportant.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  Without that “support staff member” how does the rest of the team accomplish their share of responsibility to the team and its mission.  Take as an example a surgeon.  Now that doctor could emerge from surgery patting him or her self on the back for the life that they single handily saved, but what about all the others involved.  What about the anesthesiologist who kept the patient both calm and sedated so the doctor could operate?  And what about each and every nurse involved in the process leading up to, during and following the surgery.  Without their care and assistance, where would the doctor or the patient be?  And for that matter, what about the sanitation worker who picked up and disposed of the doctor’s garbage cans that morning?  I doubt I would have wanted the doctor worrying about that while he or she performed my surgery.  No one should ever be a “just”.  Remember that the next time someone asks you what you do.  I’m not just a retiree, I am an expert in the art of time use and efficiency while juggling the demanding schedule of a person with the remainder of their life to spend well.

My second word can be just (yes I used it but properly) as limiting.  “Fine” has always been a word that when used as the response to “how is” something, leaves me worried that is was anything but fine.  Again, I will admit that the word when used properly has good connotations.  Fine art comes to mind unless you really meant it was just so so.  When the word “fine” is used in any situation, the inflection it is spoken with is critical.  The word is all too often used sarcastically or at least dismissively.  You ask your wife how she liked the flowers you bought her and her response is “they’re fine”, believe me, the fight you thought you were using the flowers to apologize for is anything but over.  There is certainly a counter attack brewing and in all likely hood, you’ll never see it coming.  I warned people I worked with that if they asked me how I was doing or how my day was going and I responded “it’s fine”, walk away and live to see another day that might in fact be at least better.  At the very least, don’t offer to fix it and certainly, not me.

My next word is in the vain of a descriptor.  It can advocate for change or it can inflict guilt or shame.  The word is “disappoint”.  I have always believed that to tell someone they are a disappointment is close to the worst thing you could say.  You have taken them to the lowest emotional level and undoubtedly given them little help in how to correct it.  Had you explained that what they “did” was the disappointment, well then there is hope.  I can always be careful to not do that again or possibly redo what was so disappointing.  Things can be disappointing, people shouldn’t be.  The taste of a particular food or the outcome of an event can be disappointing, but that can either be avoided as in the case of food, or hopefully will come out better next time.  If a person is a disappointment, the message is that the person is now to be avoided.  I will admit that even I have let the word slip and that some of my readers may feel I am being a bit dramatic, but as long as you know how I will take it, this particular blog might be disappointing, but hopefully you didn’t mean I was.

The last of my four words is “never”.  Don’t use the word to describe a promise that might not be attainable as in “I’ll never do that again”, because odds are you just might.  Avoid using it as a sense of finality as in “that’s never going to happen”.  You very likely won’t be around long enough to ever know if it didn’t.  “Never” implies that there is no chance for change as in “you are never going to get me to eat that”.  Change is inevitable and most of those things I told my parents I would never eat, well I have, and in some cases, raw oysters as an example, have become a delicacy.  The finality of the word is “just” too much to promise and might turn out to be a “disappointment”.  Here’s where you get to say, “okay fine.”

I know I advertised only four words, and I do reserve the right to add others, but there is one more piece of speech that generally leaves me agitated.  It’s actually an acronym for a phrase, FYI.   I always wish the speaker would have found a different way to tell me they were sharing information.  The FYI statement seems to feel condescending at best.  It sort of speaks for itself in saying, if this was really important, I would have found a very personal way of sharing it with you.  It all too often comes off as a power statement from the person uttering the FYI.  How about “for the sake of clarity” or maybe “because this might be helpful” instead of the “just FYI because I guess YOU missed it.”  If I want to get information to you, I want it to feel like a gift or maybe even a secret piece of information I wanted to share with only you.

In concluding this little diatribe of mine, I will share a story about a similar experience with my oldest daughter, Bailey.  She was about 3 or 4 years old at the time.  We were headed to the grocery store the day after Easter.  I remember it was Easter because the whole issue started with her big plastic Easter egg full of goodies.  Upon opening the car door in a crowded parking lot, mostly refined gentile ears, her egg dropped to the pavement and cracked open.  Nonplussed, Bailey all too loudly declared, “s**t, I dropped my damn egg.”  Needless to say, I was mortified, well at least embarrassed, and promptly explained that those were “bad” words and shouldn’t be used.  Bailey quickly reminded me “but daddy, you say them too” and now I am really embarrassed.  Once back home, Bailey immediately got to work.  In no time at all, she had formed a list of words we could no longer use.  Topping her list were three words, “but”, “crap” and “junk”.  Now I knew she meant “butt”, but (no pun intended) she didn’t differentiate.   For quite sometime, I found my colorful description of things severely curtailed, and I had to find a new way of defending my point without the use of the word “but”.

Words are powerful tools.  They can hurt or heal.  They can advocate change or leave us hopeless.  They can convey a message or imply a demand.  I am a writer at heart and I can only hope that today I have chosen my words carefully.

Thanks for reading.

Stuff… or how I won the war.

It’s strange how stuff can take over our lives.  If you’re not careful, one day your office turns into the family storage bin.  I had run a business out of my home for twelve years, offering my clients a professional and comfortable place to meet with me and benefit from my services.  At least I’m pretty sure they benefited or why did they keep coming back.  About twenty years ago I merged my practice with a local firm and my office was soon sitting vacant.  Oh I still tried to keep it as an office, but I was losing the battle.

It seemed the stuff of life was running out of space in the rest of our house and just like that it began its relentless take over.  It must have happened late in the evening when we had retired to our bedroom and then, in the darkness of night, the stuff would creep downstairs and take up position in my office.  On the occasions when I would stop into my office, I would sense it getting smaller but I couldn’t quite identify the invaders.  For awhile they hid in the closet and under the desk and this alone might explain why in my complacency, I hadn’t noticed them.  They are sneaky, that stuff of life, and I think they breed.  No other explanation could adequately explain how suddenly they were under the bed too.  Wait, the bed?  When did an entire bed sneak in here?  I couldn’t even find a room in the house from which it might have escaped.  And yet it had clearly taken up residency and now the stuff was hiding under there.

As the years passed, the office was overrun.  There was no corner that the invading army hadn’t claimed.  If only there had been a United Nations of Offices to come to my rescue,  I would still have an office and the insidious Army of Stuff could have been held within its borders and my office would still be a free nation.  But of course, I was too late to the war and my office was gone.

But wait, there is a happy ending.  Retirement left me without an office and my old office would need to be reclaimed.  I rolled up my sleeves, and yes, opened my wallet, and the war of reclamation was begun.  It has taken several hard fought months but the invading horde has been soundly defeated and sent packing.  Off to Goodwill and Restore and any other Nation of Stuff that would take them in.  Oh there were casualties, as there will always be in these type battles, but in the end my office has been restored and is thriving.

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As testament to its existence, I decided to write this piece.  My office, once the work place of a multitude of IRS forms and then the land of unrelenting stuff, is now my writing office and yes, semi man cave.  Tomorrow I will build a moat at its entrance and employ some stout guards to patrol the perimeter.  Stuff, TAKE NOTICE.  If you try a counter attack, YOU WILL BE REPELLED.  This office is mine.  Long live the King.

I never met a Chicken I didn’t like….stuffed and baked.

The first telling of this story dates back to a Thanksgiving almost 40 years ago.  I was bringing my then girlfriend, now wife home to meet my family.   We were all seated around the feast deliciously prepared by my mother and as the bird was being destroyed, the story telling began.  My family consists of story tellers all somehow trained in the art by my father.  To entertain or perhaps warn my new girlfriend to the perils of our family, we were reliving, colorfully, stories of our growing up past.  I was, due to the occasion, being particularly roasted a bit harder than the others.  When I was finally able to find a slot, I decided to tell the story of “the rooster from hell”.

I need to take you back to the scene of the crime.  I was likely nine or ten years old at the time and growing up on our family farm.  One of my daily chores was to tend to the chickens.  For my readers not familiar with a chicken other than one roasted, baked or fried, they are a dirty animal to begin with.  They are equipped with tough thorn bejeweled chicken legs that they expertly use to scratch the ground, and anything else for that matter, into a mottled mess.  This is likely the reason they have those deliciously developed drumsticks.  When you throw roosters into the mix, well it only gets worse.  Roosters, by their very nature, are built to fight.  The year before, my parents had decided to add a batch, or should I say, a gang of roosters to their usual order of some fifty hatch lings.  The hatch lings had all grown, along with the now street smart gang of roosters, into a producing flock.

Each morning, I would head out to the chicken coop to collect the eggs.  Without fail, those roosters would be waiting for me, thorns drawn sporting for a fight.  They would be poised there on the roost and as I went around the coop collecting the eggs, they would one at a time come down and corner me, pecking at my legs and threatening me with their thorns.  I was a little scrawny kid, I’m just laying out my eventual defense here, and was soon not looking forward to that daily chore.

After several weeks of this relentless harassment, I had decided it was time to arm myself.  It was on this particular morning that I secreted a baseball bat into the coop concealed behind my back.  As the first rooster dropped down from the perch, I prepared to defend myself.  With the rooster coming at a full clip, I took my best swing.  My aim was good and the rooster, needless to say, went down, unfortunately for the full count.  The crime of the century had been committed and I was now a felon on the run.  Or perhaps “fowlon” on the run.  The good news was that the remaining gang took due notice of their felled chieftain and had retreated to the roost.  It turns out, chickens have memories and none of them ever bothered me again.  I had new found respect but a dead rooster to get rid of.  No way were my parents to ever find out.

The solution to my dilemma was the cow yard manure pile.  After artfully burying the victim deep within the pile, I felt I was safe.  No way would my parents have actually counted the number of chickens, let alone the roosters in their possession.  Since the manure pile would remain there until spring, my crime was out of sight and out of mind.

As winter came and went, I had completely forgotten about the body and my involvement in the heinous crime.  But then there we were, loading the manure spreader and slowly diminishing the pile, when what should suddenly appear?  As the fates were on my side, after all the victim deserved it, I was the first to spot the body.  Fortune further intervened when my father decided it was a full load and headed to the garage for some errand.  With a quick two step, I dug the corpse free and reburied it deftly within the spreader’s load.  In another hour, it would be a part of a soon to be plowed field and gone forever.  The crime of the century, buried and gone.

At this point, my story had garnered the desired effect among my siblings and as the laughter subsided, my mother turned to my father and said “I told you there were thirteen.”  I guess they HAD counted and un-be knownst to me, my parents had been waging this argument for the ensuing twenty years.  To this day, I want to believe that my dad had seen the corpse and been covering for his son all those years.

If there is a moral here, it might be that parents always know more than we think and that chicken, as far as I’m concerned, is best enjoyed stuffed and baked and then served with an ample covering of gravy.

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Happy Thanksgiving.

Hey, I’m a Guy

Let’s start out with reminding you I am a male.  I think like a male and that is my excuse for what follows.  But stay with me because I will hopefully make my point and erase what ever fears have crept into your mind about where this might be going.

Women and men just don’t think alike.  Women are rational.  There is never just one consequence of an action but rather an entire landslide of events eventually culminating in the inevitable conclusion.  Meanwhile, men see things more clearly.  At least that is the idea that we delude ourselves with and use to justify our snap decisions.  We think inside the box while women think outside of the box.  Either that or they are thinking in a much larger box with several floors and a multitude of rooms.

This leads me to the discussion I recently had with my overly rational wife that spurred this blog.  I felt that if I could write this down, I might actually be able to offer some advice to any male or female that would read this and maybe apply it to their collective partnerships.  It seems that when ever I come upon some tidbit of information, which I in turn wish to share with my wife, I come up short on details every time.  As an example, and I am betting every testosterone driven male can identify with, a friend’s wife has their baby.  Be honest here, have you ever been able to provide even half the information necessary to answer the barrage of questions your partner is about to ask.  I generally provide the following information, ‘They had their baby yesterday”.  What did I miss, apparently everything that mattered.  What time, really?, what was the weight, guessing about a bowling bowl here, what was the length, seriously, under three feet best guess.  Of course I skipped sex and name because here I must admit, I should have been on at least that much of my game.

On this particular occasion, a friend had been in the hospital for a surgery that had been called off midway through.  As my wife was waiting for news of how the recovery was going, I received a text from a second friend.  He stated simply that our friend had indicated he would now actually be eating food at the wedding.  Any guy thinking in the box would take this to mean his humor was intact and he was up for eating.  Enough said.  When I relayed this text as a quote to my wife, the inquisition began.  When did he say that?  Hmm, text says 2:45.  What had our friend asked that elicited this response?  What does this cryptic message really mean?  What else did he say?  A this point I have two choices.  One, start to make up stuff and hope she can’t fact check me, or two, confess to my complete and total ignorance.  I chose option two, sort of.

I explained to my wife, and here in lies the nugget of genius, men receive information in short bursts.  It is all we can handle on either end, and more importantly, when you ask us for the information, we don’t hold anything back.  If we tell you they had the baby, that’s it, they had the baby.  Please don’t believe that you can pry any additional information out of us.  Simple, concise, reasonably accurate and woefully short on detail.  If we were asked to recap a fight it would go something like he said something stupid and then the guy smacked him.  They don’t say “That’s it folks. The fights over” for nothing.  That’s just the sum total of what that poor guy is got to offer.  Fights over, moving on.

So now you have it.  Women, lower your expectations in this area.  What we got is all we got.  You are just going to get frustrated if you expect more.  Men, I guess we can always keep trying.  In the last baby birth debacle, I got almost everything but the sex.  My response to the question “sex?”, “there must have been, roughly nine months ago I’m guessing”.

Thanks for reading…but that’s it.