Brilliant to Buffoon in 10 Seconds Flat

Recently I took my son on a three-day adventure for school to Deep Portage Learning Center.

For the most part, the trip went as well as one could expect, chaperoning a cadre of exuberant fifth graders on outdoor adventures.

The problems started the first night and it wasn’t with a student. It was with a parent. The fellow chaperone sharing our room snored so bad that I did not sleep at all the first night (making me wish I would have taken my computer because I would have had lots of time to work on things). But I didn’t because I was being the “good father” who left his work behind. Being up all night with nothing to do when I had so much to do was quite the source of frustration.

I was so bored that I did the crossword puzzle in an old newspaper that was sitting in the break room. For anyone who knows me well, you know I was in agony.

By midway through the second day I was having so much fun that I actually forgot about the misery of the first night. But it all came back to me about 10 minutes after “lights out” and the snoring erupted. Honestly! Is it possible for someone to make that much noise and not wake themselves up? That is a medical mystery that needs research!

I could not take it anymore. I got out of bed and I went on a quest to find earplugs. Surely this was not the first time something like this had happened and the staff would be prepared. But the staff were all in bed and I was to fend for myself.

Snooping around in the break room I found… mini marshmallows. Brilliant! They looked to be about the size of ear plugs. I pulled one out of the bag and depressed it between my thumb and forefinger. It was soft and pliable. I tried one in my ear for fit. It was perfect. I had found my solution. I felt like Edison must have felt after discovering the telephone.

I stuffed one in each ear and off to bed I went. They worked splendidly. I could still hear a faint sound that had snoring features, but it was dulled enough that I could sleep. And off to dreamland I went.

I awoke sometime during the night, realizing I needing to use the restroom. I got up and walked to the bathroom and while I was in there I realized my earplugs were working so well that I could hardly hear my stream hitting the water in the toilet. Again, I marveled at my brilliance.

As I walked back to bed I thought it’d be wise to check the positioning of my earplugs before I bedded down again because they were working so well I surely didn’t want one to fall out. As I reached into my right ear with the tip of my finger I realized, immediately, that I had a BIG problem. The marshmallow had melted.

The reason my earplugs were working so well is that they had formed an airtight seal of goo in my ear. What a buffoon! Why didn’t I realize they would melt? What do I do now? If I go back to bed and they continue to melt and ooze back to my eardrum I’m going to have a really big problem on my hands.

Fortunately, my survival skills kicked in as I remembered that I had brought Q-Tips along. I took one Q-Tip and gently rolled it in a circular motion at the entrance to my right ear and, even to my amazement, it worked. The marshmallow clung to the cotton and I was able to extract the entire blob out. A second Q-tip had equal success in the left ear and I was once again elevated to brilliant status.

And then… it was back to purgatory as I had to listen to the other dad snore the rest of the night. As I lay there, I contemplated the possibility of stuffing mini marshmallows up his nose. Not that I thought it would stop his snoring, but at least he'd have a big mess to clean up when he awoke refreshed. And I'd start my day off feeling vindication for my "near deaf" experience.

Fire Chief (ret.) Richard B. Gasaway, PhD, EFO, CFO, MICP
www.RichGasaway.com

How to enjoy a baseball game...

I went to the Minnesota Twins game yesterday with my three sons. We had a great time. However, if there's one thing I don't like about attending professional sporting events it's the cost of food and beverages. Cha-Ching!

So I asked the kids to eat at home before we went. This way we would not have to eat expensive (not to mention not-so-healthy) ballpark food. Everyone had a full meal and off to the game we went. It seemed like a sensible plan.

As we entered the Metrodome I could smell the sweet aroma of Dome Dogs and popcorn in the air. For those who may not know, the Metrodome is an indoor facility. Some would say because of that it's not a 'real' baseball stadium. I agree, but that's a topic for another day. An indoor stadium is great when the weather is bad. On the downside, those aromatic fragrances of ballpark culinary delights are mercilessly distributed throughout the entire building through the air handling system. It's cruel I tell you... just cruel.

I am proud to report all four of us resisted caving in to the sweet smelling assault-which is saying a lot. My stomach was growling like a rabid wolverine eyeing up fresh road kill.

Once we got to our seats... out into the area of the park that is open and expansive... the smells diminished and our senses were now consumed by all the things going on around us. The players warming up on the field... the mascot (TC) doing antics on a four-wheeler... the JumboTron TV showing baseball bloopers... an educational promo for ALS research (the disease that killed Lou Gehrig and now bears his name)... the ceremonial first pitch... the National Anthem... and "PLAY BALL!" Game on. We had been successfully distracted.

Then... WHAM! without any warning at all...

"Beer here! Get your beer here! Ice cold beer here!"

"Peanuts, popcorn, cracker jacks! They're a baseball tradition."

"Snow cones! Get your kids an tasty snow cone."

"Dome Dogs! Can't enjoy a baseball game without a Dome Dog!"

My mind started to play tricks on me. I wondered... was the beer REALLY that cold? Cracker Jacks. I remember having cracker jacks at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh when I was a kid. I bet my kids would enjoy a tasty snow cone and I would become an instant hero for buying them one. It is true... a Dome Dog would make watching the baseball game more enjoyable.

WAIT!!!!

What was I thinking? A Dome Dog would make the game more enjoyable? They are ground pig lips and knuckles-and other things we do not speak of-pressed into a sausage casing and packed with so many preservatives that you can, quite literally, eat them right out of the package with no concern for consequences.

I had successfully talked myself off the ledge. After all, we had just eaten a complete meal before we came. No one, including me, was hungry. And then came the most dreaded words a parent can hear: "Dad, can I have..." In this case, it was cotton candy.

"How much?" I asked. I don't really know why I asked the question. Reflex I guess, because I had every intention of buying it. I guess I just needed to know if a $5 bill was going to cover it or if I would have to part with a $10 bill. "Four dollars" came the response.

For a fleeting moment I thought to myself. "Four dollar! That's an outrage. You can't be looking at any more than $.25 worth of product and another $.03 for the plastic bag it's wrapped in. It doesn't even come on a paper stick for goodness sakes!" I didn't say a word. I just passed the $5 bill down the row to the vendor and back came one bag of blue spun sugar and a wrinkled dollar bill. The kids were quick to hand me the dollar... but not so quick to do the same with the spun sugar. I had to actually ASK to have some.

Ok, we've got that out of our system. Let's watch some baseball.

Quickly I came to learn that buying the cotton candy would be a HUGE mistake. It revealed my vulnerable under belly-the side of me that my kids are so perceptively able to see and exploit. Dad was willing to open up his wallet and let go of a few of his musty bills.

I swear the vendors must have some sort of secret hand gestures they use, like the ones third base coaches use when they are trying to tell the batter how to hit the ball. Only in this case, the vendor signals to let the other vendors know there is a vulnerable dad in the crowd. There had to be signals. Every one of those vendors were barking their sales pitches directly to my kids, making eye contact and smiling. It was a disgusting display of salesmanship. I thought to myself, "I bet all of you sell used cars when you're not at the ballpark."

Next up... sunflower seeds. "How much?" Just $3 for a bag. Not bad. I like sunflower seeds and these were 'Jumbo' sunflower seeds-definitely a bargain. This one was not a hard sale. Down the aisle went more of my hard-earned money and back came the bag of seeds. The seeds may have been Jumbo, but the bag sure wasn't. We each got a couple of handfuls.

Ok, we got that out of our system... Let's watch some baseball.

As the sunflower seed vendor walked away, my suspicions were confirmed. I watched him run his right hand down his left sleeve. He pulled on his right ear. Then he put his left hand on the top of his head and finally he reached down and scratched his right knee. To the untrained eye, someone might have thought he was swatting a fly or he had an itch. I knew better. It was a signal. It was definitely a signal!

When the dust settled on the afternoon, we had bought cotton candy, sunflower seeds, soda pop (several times), ice cream, snow cones, and Cracker Jacks. We even bought preserved lips and knuckles pressed into sausage casings. Oh, excuse me... Dome Dogs.

But I resisted paying $6.25 for a beer. That was an outrageous price and I refused to pay it. I now regret that decision. When I got home and did the inventory of my treasury notes, I realized I had parted with over 40 of them so the youngins would not starve at the ballpark. And I denied myself perhaps the greatest ballpark experience of all-washing down my lips and knuckles with an 'Ice Cold Beer Here.'

The Twins won, 4-3 and amongst all the eating that was going on we managed to watch some if it happen.

What is that word?

There must be a word in the English language for phrases you read that can have double meanings. It's kind of funny how my mind works because I often find myself amused by the signs I read in different places that can mean something completely different than what was intended. Take, for example, the sign I saw recently at a water park.

"Severe Weather Shut Off Button"

This sign made me think to myself... how ingenious is that? If the water park is full of people and severe weather approaches, all an alert employee needs to do is run over and depress this button... and off goes the severe weather. Think about how many potential applications there are for such a button in parks, sports arenas, golf courses... virtually any outdoor gathering place. I hope the person who invented that button got a patent for it and is living a comfortable retirement in a place so serene as to not require their invention.

Understanding the irrational behavior of teenage boys

Now there's a posting title that ought to get your attention! Parents of teenage boys (I have two) know that trying to get your little cherubs to look at things in rational ways and to make good decisions can be... let's say, a "______ challenge!" (and I'll let you fill in the blank with the adjective of your choice.)

Chances are you find yourself frustrated and wondering why they do certain things or don't do other things. It seems to sometimes defy logic. There's a good explanation for this.

The section of their brain known as the prefrontal cortex controls the process of rational, logical thinking. Unfortunately, research has show that the prefrontal cortex does not fully develop in teenage boys until around the age of twenty one. So when you're struggling to understand how your teenager sometimes acts like they have half a brain... in some respects... they do.

The good news is, most of them will develop a healthy, mature prefrontal cortex by their early twenties and start acting mature and making rational, logical decisions. However, as you can attest, there are some people who seem to suffer through life with an abnormally underdeveloped prefrontal cortex and suffer a long, painful existence of immaturity and poor decision making. Most of them probably carry the label "ex-husband."

We've gone over the edge

Recently I had the opportunity to attend field day at my son's school. Lots of fun and frolicking in the sun by fifty third grade kids while parents root them on from the side lines. Fifty yard dash... hurdles... tennis ball toss... kick ball... sack races... good stuff. We have been attending field days for almost ten years and every year the festivities concludes with a Tug O'War between the classes.

But not this year. The physical education teacher announced that this year the event was going to be called Tug O'Fun... "We're not using the word 'war' anymore" he explained. Oh... My... God... I thought to myself. Political correctness has gone over the edge. We are no longer allowed to use the word war? Good thing this political correctness stuff wasn't around at the turn of the century or that famous race horse Man O'War might have been renamed Man O'Fun... which would have taken on a whole new meaning and spawned countless jokes, no doubt.

There is a place for some political correctness in our lives, for sure. Replace "Firemen" with "Firefighters" but leave Tug O'War alone.
'