Life really is a lot like a cartoon. We have all seen the little red devil squatting on one shoulder while a white angel hovers over the other. It is the classic struggle between good and evil that lives within each of us.
As a child we usually give in to the devil without even glancing at the angel. As we age, more thought goes in to the decsion-making process and we learn new ways of coping with the devil on our shoulder, and given even more time, we learn to actually focus on the angel. Unfortunately, that does not mean the devil doesn’t still try to make an appearance now and then.
For the last several months, my wife and I have been dealing with one stressful situation after another and, as a result, have gotten lazy about cooking. Quite often, the simple solution has been to grab some kind of take-out dinner or to head out to a restaurant. Unfortunately, this type of lifestyle can’t continue indefinitely as the cost tends to add up.
Yesterday had been a busy day of cleaning up the post-Christmas mess that was consuming our house. The tree was taken down and all the pine needles vacuumed up. The lights were removed from the front of the house and all the decoration were returned to their boxes. In addition to all of that, four hungry children was fed. Four dirty children were bathed and the countless messes they all made throughout the day were tidied up. As the last of the boxes was being closed up, the little devil found a perch on my wife’s shoulder and the ugly urge to head out to dinner struck.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I replied as I continued taking care of the task at hand. Thinking the discussion was over, I assumed she would fix something, but ten minutes later, the question returned.
“You never told me what you wanted,” she said.
“That’s because I don’t really have a preference,” I replied.
“If you were making dinner, what would you make?” she persisted.
“What do we have in the refrigerator?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“It sounds to me like you are trying to get me to take care of dinner. And you know that when daddy cooks we just end up going out,” I told her.
“I know. It’s a bad decision. That’s why I want you to make it,” she replied. And there it was, the little devil hopped right off of her shoulder and onto mine.
“Let me finish putting this stuff away,” I said, “then we will decide.” Now the little devil was on hold, living in limbo. He was still there, but he had no control for the moment. I busied myself taking care of the last of the Christmas decor and pondered the dinner options. I knew my wife was right, going out was a bad idea. I also knew that, as a minor neat freak, the last thing I wanted after a day of cleaning was a messy kitchen. Maybe we could just get something cheap. I could even drink water. After all, it’s the soda where all the profit is anyway.
The debate raged in my head as I packed. A few minutes later, I re-emerged to find my decide-aphobic wife on the phone. “Who is that,” I mouthed to her quietly.
“My mom,” she replied. I quickly realized what she was up to. “Oh, just trying to decide what to do for dinner,” she said to the phone. After a short pause, she again spoke to the phone. “I guess we could do that if you really want us to.”
“You are so conniving,” I whispered to her.
“So we’ll be there in about a half hour,” she said before hanging up.
And thus the devil that had been bouncing from shoulder to shoulder fell off and landed on the floor. I think one of the kids stepped on him as we all marched out to the car to go to grandma’s house for dinner, but I am sure that he will be back someday soon.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Toys and Tools
Oh, to be young again. Can you recall those carefree days of your youth when a toy was anything you put your hands on? As a child your imagination ran wild. Toilet paper tubes were made into binoculars. As you got older, you graduated to the paper towel tube and made it into a telescope. Later yet, you discovered the wrapping paper tube and sword fights ensued. Blankets and chairs were tents and hideouts, and cardboard boxes were a free-for-all.
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)