Scarlet Billows Start To Spread

A little music to get me in the mood. Bake-Off time is here - gotta get butchering.

Sunday School

As my comrades in blog are the first to acknowledge, this time of year is fraught with religious symbolism and significance. Imagine my disappointment, then, that my own mother continues her personal War on God.

During this week's visit from Grandma, the topic turned to religion, prompted, I think, by my youngest's complaints that he's the only kid in school who doesn't get presents at this time of year. Neither part of that statement is true; our kids do get presents (just not from us) and there are kids at school who don't get any. My son's not one to let facts get in the way of blame, however, which will be helpful if he ever runs for office.

"Thanks, Dad," he sneered. "Way to ruin my life."

"Tell you what," I said. "Get up every week and go to church or temple and we'll talk about it. In the meantime, my gift to you is skepticism."

My mother attempted to change the subject by turning to my oldest son and asking, "What religion do you put down when you have to fill out forms at school?"

"He's a Scientologist," I interjected. "Or a Presbyterian. I can never remember. It's one of those new ones."

This earned a glare from my Lovely Bride, while my mother and child simply ignored me.

"I don't know," said my son. "I've never had to fill out that kind of form."

"I hope the school asks him that," I said. "I'll be able to retire."

"It's interesting," said my mother, still pretending I wasn't there. "Some religions are as much about culture as belief. I still refer to myself by my childhood religion even though I haven't practiced or believed in years."

"I wouldn't do that on the next trip you've got planned," I said. "Many people in that part of the world aren't particularly interested in the distinction you're making. You're going to end up as a hostage, aren't you?"

My mother turned to my wife. "What do you consider yourself?"

"I'm not sure," said my wife. "If I had to say which organized system holds the most attraction for me, I suppose it would be Unitarian Universalism."

"Commie," I muttered.

My youngest looked up excitedly. "I'm a Unitarian too!"

I patted him on the head. "Buddy, you're not a unicorn. We'll get that horn removed as soon as we can afford it."

My mother finally acknowledged me. "He said he's a Unitarian."

"I know. He stutters."

The youngest looked at my Lovely Bride. "Mom, can I be a Unitarian?"

"If you want to," she said.

He whooped and high-fived her before turning to me. "In your face, old man!" he yelled. "Now you have to buy me presents."

The motivation for his spiritual journey finally surfaces.

"You still don't get presents," I said.

"That's not fair!" he said.

"No it's not," I said.

Which is enough spiritual education for any day.

Deal Or No Deal

I took some time off yesterday, a rare vacation day without the kids. It was great. A friend of mine came over, we drank some coffee, shampooed the carpets. I even cleaned the downstairs refrigerator, which had suffered the explosion of a can of diet Coke long enough ago I'm ashamed to admit it.

After we finished cleaning, we set about to bothering other people. The high point of that part of the day was the email to another friend who happens to be a city official, warning him about the rat infestation taking place in local recycling bins. It generated several panicked emails in response, along with a promise to look into it. At some point we may tell him we made it up. Or we may not.

About 4 p.m., my youngest got home from school. My friend's kid had walked home with my son and they both immediately started yammering at us. Quiet time was over.

We shooed them upstairs to do their homework, which bought us ten or twenty minutes. Then my friend's kid came back downstairs.

"Want to see me do a back flip?" he asked.

"No. You'll kill yourself," I said.

"How much insurance do you have?" his father asked me.

"We've got a $2 million umbrella policy," I answered.

"That'll work. We'll split it seventy/thirty."

His son looked up, puzzled. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"How we're going to divide the money when you die," his father said.

"What?!" the boy yowled.

"Fifty/fifty," I said. "I'm the one who'll have to shampoo the carpet again."

"Sixty/forty, and I'll shampoo it for you," said my friend.

"They're going to kill me!" yelled his kid.

"No, you're going to kill yourself when you do the back flip. Fifty-five/forty-five and I'll pay for the funeral," I said.

"NO!!" shrieked the boy.

"Deal," said his dad.

"Done," I said.

We shook hands as his son ran upstairs to hide.

It was a good day all around.

Hanukkah Sameach!

"Dad?

"Yes, son?"

"Do you know what a menorah is?"

"Of course. Why?"

"My teacher was talking about it at school today."

"What did she say?"

"She told us how it has candles for every day of Hanukkah."

"What? That's crazy."

"Really, that's what she said."

"Nonsense. That's not a menorah."

"What's a menorah then?"

"It's a sculpture. Made out of ham."

"Shut up."

"Menorah is Hebrew for Hanukkah ham."

"Shut up."

"You know how observant Jews keep kosher, right? The Hanukkah ham is a reminder of that ancient tradition."

"Shut up."

"Ask your teacher about it tomorrow."

"Shut up."

"Or I could come to school and talk to her. Maybe give a presentation to the class."

"Don't. Please."

"This is all because the Supreme Court kicked God out of our schools."

"Shut up."

"It's getting late. You better get to bed."

"Good night, dad."

"Good night, buddy."

Let It Snow

What a lovely weekend it was in this winter goddamned wonderland. It started when my alter ego, TechnoSnag, deleted all of the comments left by the loyal Friends of Befouled. Thanks to Jennifer and fish, that little SNAFU's been rectified.

From there, it was an easy transition to Saturday's Death Storm '07. Based on the weather forecasts I was expecting it to start snowing lava and poisonous snakes. It wasn't quite that bad, and in fact would have been quite nice to watch from the comfort of my home. Needless to say, I was not in the comfort of my home. I was at a basketball tournament with my two youngest boys, across town in a neighborhood that can be charitably described as struggling.

Which prompted two lectures before we left.

"First, do not start talking about how you're 'gangstas.' You're not. You're a couple kids from the suburbs."

"Hey pops, I am a gangsta," said my middle son.

"We gonna do some street ballin' today," said my youngest son.

"Don't be morons," I said. "Just go play basketball and be respectful."

They rolled their eyes but I wasn't too worried. They're pretty good at acting human in public.

I continued. "Second, the drive is going to suck. A lot. It's going to be slow and irritating and I'll be insane the whole time. If you nag or whine I'll just get madder."

Again they rolled their eyes. This one worried me.

With good reason, it turned out. Six minutes into the drive, the middle one started.

"How come you're going so slow?"

"So I don't end up in the ditch like that fool," I answered, pointing at the fool in question.

"But you're a fool," said my son. "You'd like it in a ditch."

"We should have four-wheel drive," the youngest interjected. "Why weren't you smart enough to buy a car like that?"

"Duh. Because he's a fool, stupid," said the middle one.

"Don't call me 'stupid,' you idiot," said the youngest.

They commenced to punching each other while I tried to drive, scream, and cry all at once.

The tournament was fine. The games were great and all, but more important, I got to sneak out between games to a taqueria down the block where I had, not surprisingly, tacos, which were, also not surprisingly, very good.

Sunday was even better than tacos. With my Lovely Bride at class, the middle and youngest sons went to a friend's house for the day, while the friend's dad, E., came over to watch football on the new TV. My oldest son was still around, but he's a teenager and doesn't make much noise beyond the occasional sneer. The three of us watched the game, had a few laughs, and generally marveled at the solitude.

"See dad," said my kid. "If you didn't have my brothers it would always be like this."

"Yes, but I love them," I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. "Parenthood fulfills me."

"Whatever," he answered, not believing me any more than I did.

"You know what we should do?" said E. "Get an apartment. You, me, a couple other dads. We wouldn't live in it but on weekends we could go there to watch football. Or just stare at the wall and think how quiet it is."

"Can I come?" asked my son.

"No," said E.

"I can't wait until I'm a grown-up," said the boy.

It's funny the lessons we learn.

I'd Like To Teach The World To Punch

A Snag family tradition is to spend some time in meditation during the holiday season. It is a chance to reflect upon who we are and what we have. A chance to contemplate how to make this a better world. With that, I give you my list of those who need a good punching.

1. Director of Comments, Blogger Division. I don't know why you hosed me, but you did. Bastard.

2. Not the Woman in the Cadillac Commercial, the one who says, "When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?" I don't want my sons to hear me encourage violence against women. That's why I wish the person in this commercial was a man, so I could express myself.

2a. Everyone Else Connected to Cadillac Commercials, Going Back At Least to the Weasel Who First Used Led Zeppelin to Sell These Rolling Crapboxes. Including the guy who says, "And you can believe in the philosophy that the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. Or you can be the hammer." Or you can be the dumbass. Give him two punches.

3. The Unnamed Clown in the Black Suburban. Why did you cut me off in an ice storm? If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you are punched, am I not happy?

4. Hank Steinbrenner. Bite me.

5. You know who you are.

'Tis The Season