In case you don’t know me very well I have a tendency to embellish while I rant. 

The truth is the family and I had a great time in Canada.  And  even though it was expensive (what vacation spot isn’t) and the potential for getting drenched is significant I would still recommend making the trek.  After all, every kid should see the “Falls” at least once before they become old, bitter and cheap- and no, I am not referring to myself.

If asked what the high light of the trip was for me however, it wouldn’t be the Falls.  The high light for me was spending some time with a group of friends that we met on  our cruise last winter.  They live in Canada and when they got word that we were crossing the border into their backyard they packed up the family and came down to hang with us. 

You guys made the trip.   Connie, the boys and I are really looking forward to meeting up with you soon- we have so much to catch up on and talk “aboot”.

C-ya soon- S

The family and I recently traveled to Niagra Falls (the Canadian side) for an end of summer “get-away”.  Connie informed me that I couldn’t call it a vacation because we only went for a few days, all of us walked away still wanting to be related and my American Express card didn’t burst into flames from excessive use- it smoked and sparked but stopped short of full on “torch mode”.  Had I purchased one more authentic native American arrow head (stamped made in Taiwan)  or “Niagra Falls” themed snow globe my whole wallet would likely be in ashes, but luckily we escaped before the boys located anymore “must have” items.

I hope I don’t sound cheap, because I’m not (reference Cayden’s 426 “Silly Bands”)- but for the amount of money I spent on (1) “Canadian” bottle of water I could have purchased (3) large sodas at our local IMAX or (2) hot dogs and a set of mouse ears at Walt Disney World.  What does that tell you?  It should tell you that for the price of riding the “Maid of the Mist” I could have paid off my house ten years ahead of time or given enough change to UNICEF to allow them to give away an IPOD touch with every bowl of rice.  I’m not bitter, how could I be?  For the small fee of $190 I got the once in a life time experience of riding an open bow boat with three-hundred of my closest non-hygienic European friends.  But wait that wasn’t even the best part- get this, we did the whole thing while “Mother Nature” blasted ice cold water into our smiling, unsuspecting faces with the ferocity of a friggin fire hydrant.  Who wouldn’t pay top dollar for that experience?  Friggin “Maid of the Mist” my ass- there is nothing maidenly about that hag.   At some level I understand that getting wet while visiting the Falls should seem intuitive because… well, because it’s a big friggin water fall.  But I’m an American, I want to view the falls in a comfortable manner fitting of the natural splendor which is “NIAGRA”- i.e  ice cold adult beverage in one hand, hot wing in the other (maybe there is a Niagra Falls cable channel which enables you to experience the whole thing from the comfort of a local Micro-Brewery (hmmm, potential money maker- any backers?).

But did that occur?  Why no it didn’t- thank you for asking.  Instead, I was wrapped in a blue garbage bag and pushed out into the elements to suffer with the rest of the multi-national crowd that made up the crew of the “S.S. THIS-SUCKS-ASS”.  I think I’m going to sue Canada for PTSD triggered by excessive dampness and a horrendous case of cold water shrinkage that won’t seem to go away no matter how friction I apply to it.  I think next time I feel inclined to experience the Falls I’ll save the money and just head to Abu Ghraib and ask a couple of CIA henchmen to water board me- same experience, less expense.

Don’t get me wrong we did a lot of other things while visiting Niagra Falls- here is a quick list:

1. ” Journey behind the falls”- got friggin drenched

2.  “Niagra-Fury”- got drenched and once we were wet it no-kidding snowed on us- no shit!  WTF, where in the world does it snow in 100 degree summer heat?  Why in Niagra Falls of course-and it only cost us about $150 to experience it.

3.  Swam in the hotel pool- we were all ready wet so we didn’t even bother to put on swimsuits.

I’ve got to sign off an get some sleep, but I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I think Canada sucks- because it doesn’t.  Canada is a great time- especially if your an independently wealthy former resident of Atlantis.

The Groah family went fishing this afternoon off of Connie’s boat.  Fishing expeditions afloat rarely result in anything (i.e we don’t catch shit) so when Connie hooked into a friggin “Godzilla” fish I was a bit surprised. 

Most of my initial surprise can be attributed to the fact that one of us actually caught something by means of rod, reel and bait.  Like I eluded to earlier we’ve never caught anything from Connie’s boat.  I was pretty sure the thing was bottom painted with fish repellent, but apparently it only repels good looking edible fish.  Slimy, prehistoric looking creatures with multiple rows of razor sharp teeth on the other hand flock to it like fat kids to a Twinkie display- friggin lovely.  Who wants to swim off the back of the boat kids? 

My initial surprise was quickly replaced by disgust when I got a look at what Connie had hauled aboard. Her fish, or fish-like creature, was the nastiest example of aquatic life that I have ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes on.  If Satan has a fish tank in Hell it is probably teaming with these things.

What the hell is that?

The thing looked like flem with gills- “F”ing Gross.  Connie was quite proud- after all, how many people can say that they landed the missing link of the fish world.  What I was feeling was far from pride.  What I felt was dread because I knew I would be the one that had to retrieve the hook from the beast’s gaping suck-hole.  I’m sure some of you are thinking “what’s the big deal, sure he’s ugly but come on Shane be a man…”

He's not smiling; he's trying to eat my face

Okay so now that you know what I had to face how many of you are standing in line to reach in and pull out the hook?  That’s what I thought- so quit hating on me for being a wuss. 

Good God!  If “farts” had eyes and teeth I imagine they would look exactly like this.  Connie wasn’t the least bit concerned because the length of her fishing pole kept this abomination out of striking distance- the fact that her husband was there to take care of business probably didn’t hurt either.  It’s easy to act tough when you’re not the one doing the dirty work.

Connie snapped a couple of photos and the boys got a close look at her catch and then they started to nag me about setting it free.  Set it free?  Is that the wisest choice?   I wasn’t convinced that releasing it back to the depths of our favorite body of water was the best idea.  Who knows how big this thing had the potential of becoming?  It would be a real kick in the pants if six months from now this thing was 800 pounds with a ravenous appetite for our friends and neighbors who frolicked in the bay oblivious to its existence.  But who am I to question my lovely wife’s judgement so I grasped his gelatinous, most likely poisonous, form and started to yank the hook from his pie-hole.

That’s when I discovered yet another of its defense mechanisms.  As if teeth, poison and outrageously disgusting looks weren’t enough the thing happened to be chalk full of fish shit which he apparently had the ability to release at will.  I managed to keep my composure as he purged the contents of his bowels all over my hands however, and I’m happy to report that the creature was safely returned to the Severn River where it will likely continue to eat unsuspecting water fowl and small dogs who venture to closely to the waters edge.

Enjoy the rest of your summer folks- but don’t say you weren’t warned.

In case you’re unaware Mack just obtained his fourth degree black belt last week.  This may sound incredible (unbelievable) considering most folks don’t obtain such a prestigious level in the Martial Arts world until much later in life- but I assure you, Mack has a fourth degree black belt.

Here is how he did it:

Day 1- Grandma took Mack and Cayden to see “Karate Kid” (2010)- all great/dangerous ideas seem to stem from the film industry.

Day 2- Mack executes a “Google” search for inexpensive, yet authentic, karate belts and then purchases the highest ranking belt he can afford.

Day 2-5- (while the belt ships from the manufacturer) Mack performs karate/ professional wrestling type moves in our basement frequently using his younger sibling as a training aid.  His training was exhausting and extremely thorough- which it had to be considering he was not simply learning a form of martial arts but creating one that the world has never seen.

Day 6- The belt arrives, training immediately ceases and Mack is now a fourth degree black belt in “Mack-Fu”.

There you have it folks- Mack’s fool proof formula for becoming the next UFC Heavy Weight Champion.  What could possibly go wrong?  Probably nothing but possibly the following:

Mack is telling everyone he meets that he’s a black belt- which he genuinely believes because he HAS a “Black Belt”.  I fear that eventually he will have the inclination to explain his martial arts status to the play ground bully who will then pummel him mercilessly for making such an outrageous claim.  Though Mack-Fu is entertaining to watch I have doubts as to it’s effectiveness in an actual physical confrontation.

Point two, Mack is looking for investors to bank roll his own Do-Jo.  Considering Mack is bringing limited collateral to the bargaining table (unless of course you’re in the market for some extremely “Rare” silly bands) it is likely that Connie or I will have to co-sign the loan.  I’m sure our finances will eventually recover from the multiple law suits we’ll likely endure due to Mack being a complete and utter fraud- but who are we to stand in the way of his dreams?

Final point, If one can purchase a belt and become a Kung-Fu Master what else can one achieve with a $20.00 balance in their checking account?  For instance can I purchase a stethoscope and then start practicing medicine?  What would happen if I bought a red cape and stood in front of a speeding locomotive or asked my spouse to shoot me in the chest with a large caliber hand gun?  I think the lesson here is even if I can afford a kitchen apron I won’t transform into  Emeril Lagasse just because I wrapped  it around my torso. 

I tried to explain to Mack that it isn’t the uniform or accessories that give someone a special talent or skill- the skill or talent is the result of years of hard work and sacrifice.  I almost told him that ”You aren’t a Kung-Fu master just because you dress like one”- but then I caught myself.

Who am I to tell him what he is or isn’t?  What he can or can’t be?  The fact is he probably is a Mack-Fu master and as long as I keep my cynical grown-up attitude to myself he’ll likely be a Mack-Fu master for the rest of his life.

In case you’re unaware, the average American doesn’t carry a large enough balance in their savings account to bankroll their own funeral.  A recent discussion with a dear friend (DH) who just lost her father helped me reach the aforementioned conclusion.  Lucky for my friend her father was a forward thinker and purchased a “soup to nuts” burial package back in the 60’s for about a thousand dollars.   Where does one go to shop for such a thing?  Maybe in the 60’s they were sold door to door or were conveniently located near the grocery store cash register in between the smut rags, toe nail clippers and disposable “Bic” lighters?  Regardless of where or how he found it you’ve got to admire the guy’s initiative- he saved his family a ton of money, time and effort.  What a considerate gift- you’ve got to respect a dude that gets more done in death than most people will accomplish in the average work week.  The idea of a burial package intrigued me so I queried my friend further as to what all was included.

The thousand dollar investment included the plot (that’s the hole you get thrown into), coffin, embalming, fees for the service (apparently priest cost $), limousine, etcetera- this thing was “no-kidding” comprehensive.  The best part (according to our DF) was that her family didn’t have to worry about a thing- they just sat back, celebrated her Dad’s life and let the professionals worry about the details.

Good shit right? 

Probably the best thousand dollars the guy ever spent.  But these days it isn’t a thousand dollars.  These days a cemetery burial will cost you more like $10,000; and that dosen’t include all of the extras that our friend’s dad got- I’m pretty sure the limousine is more like a “same day return” U-Haul box trailer; so make sure the bereaved has a trailer hitch. 

My opinion is simply this- “bullshit”.  It’s likely I won’t be worth $10k alive so why the hell would I spend that much to primp and bury the “meat package” that I was lugging around with me for so many years?  Not trying to sound trite, but by the time I get “called home” I don’t plan on having a lot left to bring with me.  I plan on getting every penny out of this carcass and whatever is left can be incinerated and spread to the winds.  That’s right folks I’m signing up for the whole cremation thing- after all how much could it possibly cost to slide my butt in and fire up the kiln? After some limited research turns out to be about a $1,000.00.

Why?

Cremation should be the economical send off- what’s the $1,000 fee for?  It’s not like I’m asking for a gigantic granite head stone or a titanium coffin- all that I’ll need is a couple gallons of propellent and a dustpan to scoop up the dust.  If it’s gonna save a few dollars tell the “pyro-technician” that normally presses the “burn to a crisp button” to take the day off and I’ll have that unbalanced third cousin on my father’s side flip the switch- the guy absolutely loves fire and this would be a once in a life time thrill for him.  If it’s more cost effective, pair me up with a skinny dude and divide up the remains proportionately.  And by the way, don’t try to sell my wife a decorative urn- pa-lease, all I need is a Tupperware container with a lid.  Forget it, none of the current Tupperware in our inventory has a matching lid so just put my ashes in a gallon size freezer bag and call it good- obviously I’m not real picky.

I hate to sound cheap- but if I’m lucky enough to have $10k left at the end of this fantastic run I would rather divide that sum up among my surviving relatives so they can finance that much needed brake job on the family Prius or pay their current utility bill- that is some “good lovin” from the grave right there. 

I shared my all of these thoughts with my friend (who I love dearly I might add) and she didn’t think I was an insensitive ass at all, in fact we laughed- and it was a good laugh.

I think we came away with a few really solid “take aways”.

1. Her father was a smart and loving man who took care of his family even after he was gone.

2. Your body is a thing- not really who YOU are but simply a vessel used to house your spirit.

finally

3.  Shane is such a tight-wad you couldn’t pound a needle up his ass with a jackhammer.

I think all three are pretty legit

We love you Donna- s & c

I’ve been really bad about keeping up with my blog lately and I feel horrible about it.  Sometimes I forget that it’s not all about me and that I have a readership (of about 11 people) who are depending on me to consistently deliver witty and insightful parenting dialogue.  But the truth is I’m tired, it’s baseball season, I’ve got a new job, it’s Connie’s birthday month, I’m tired, I just turned forty, salmon takes 9 minutes to defrost in the microwave, a gallon of Carlo Rossi is now more expensive than a gallon of regular gas (who saw that shit coming?), the health care bill passed (sort of), Iran, China blah, blah, blah the excuses are endless and I claim each as a reason for not blogging on a more regular basis.

But truth be told, I’m just tired and there dosen’t seem to be enough time in the day to do everything that I would like to do.  For example, helping Cayden develop his baseball skills (or more appropriately “lack of”).  The poor guy is getting “sympathy applause” from the parental peanut gallery and I would be remiss if I didn’t claim at least partial responsibility for his inability to put ball to bat.  That my friends is a tenant of fatherhood that is as old as the pyramids which I am failing miserably.

Lost it for a minute.  So I’m tired- so much so that tonight when I found a piece of macaroni and cheese laying on our hard wood floor I swept it into a corner instead of bending over and picking it up.  Have you ever swept a wet piece of macaroni and cheese across a hardwood floor?  It’s like pushing a snail.  You can try to hasten the snail along.  You can try to make it go faster.  But a snail is not designed to go fast and regardless of how hard you push, it simply can’t- much like the piece of macaroni I was attempting to sweep across our floor.   But like I said I’m tired and hard headed and that is a dangerous combination of attributes.  So I swept, vigorously I  might add, and what should have been a seconds worth of work became an exercise in futility that resulted in a four foot trail of macaroni guts across our Brazilian cherry hardwood floor.  The fact that I’ve masterfully created an analogy about fatigue which includes snails and macaroni and cheese should be a clear indication that I’m working on reduced mental capacity most likely due to lack of REM state sleep.

The simple solution would be to cut a few things out of my life to create more time for rest- but the fact is when you’re a parent everything that involves your kids seems important so where do you economize?

What do we do as parents that can be stricken from our daily agendas in the name of saving time?  As far as I can tell everything that I do with the guys is essential- from making their meals to pulling down their blankets.  So where is the fluff between the morning Eggo and the evening brush, spit, and rinse? The answer is “there is no fluff” everything you do is important and if you don’t do it the chances of your children  growing up to be reality television celebrities increases significantly- do you really want that weighing on your conscience?

So we “knuckle-up” and we “suck it up” and we drive on because everything we do with our children is an investment in the future.  That’s our (parents) legacy- not the job you hold, not the friends you keep or the home that shelters you in a storm.  Your legacy is the person that your son or daughter will one day become.

Some times I have to remind myself of that- and the funny thing is when I do I suddenly don’t feel so tired

Its a man’s weekend.  Mom’s traveling for work and the boys are left to fend for themselves.  Normally I’m pretty  responsible.  I usually make wise choices and exercise exceptional judgement.  But not this weekend.  This weekend the boys and I went a little crazy.  We decided that nothing would commemorate our “Man” weekend like a little semi-permanent inkage.  Cayden got the ball rolling with a little homage to his #1 Homie- Mack.

As you can see by the photo Cayden decided that the best place for a tattoo was the palm of his hand.  I’m guessing that he chose this spot for two reasons. One, he wanted to make sure that every thing he touched from that point forward would bear the mark of “Mack-dom” i.e. the drapes, the bed spread, the fancy monogrammed hand towels etcetera.  It’s probably apparent that I wasn’t around when Cayden inked his first piece of art.  Had I been there I would have put that shit on the back of his neck- probably the only place on his body that he wouldn’t be able to apply to every linen surface in our home.  The second reason, which is only a theory based on how much the boys fought today, is that Cayden wanted to be able to slap the shit out of “Mack” and then blame it on “Mack”.  It’s not a perfect alibi, but it would have caused a moment of confusion, possibly long enough for Cayden to escape, had I not known that he had drawn Mack’s portrait on the palm of his hand.  In case you’ve never seen a picture of my oldest he doesn’t really look like “Ronald McDonald” but it’s not a bad likeness when your drawing it on your own body with a crayola, fat-tipped, washable marker.

Cayden put up a hell of a fight when I made him wash it off- which took a great amount of effort to include dawn dish soap applied with an SOS pad.  To calm him down I told him that I would give him a new tattoo- and so the fun began.

Here’s my first attempt at tribal art work.  Yes, I realize it looks like a fat, orange bird- but it’s all in how you sell it.  I had Cayden believing that it was absolutely the toughest looking fat, orange bird on the planet.  Just look at the kid’s face- he’s feeling legit.  I’m going to run out tomorrow and buy him an orange jumpsuit so he can represent his cell block in the appropriate manner.  If that wasn’t scary enough for good measure I drew a large snake eating his nipple- that shit would make Betty White look BAD-ASS.  I really worked Cayden into a frenzy with all of the tough talk as evidenced by the posturing he did in the photo below.

Some of you may think that the photo looks distorted because my boy’s head appears disproportionate to his body- but it’s not, Cayden is just that damn skinny.  However, the ink has obviously taken effect and he is now unaware that he weighs a meager 21lbs.  If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times the quickest way to go from “wimp” to “pimp” is to add a little “ink”.  Okay, I’ve never said that and I’ll probably burn in hell for referring to my son as a pimp- but damn, he’s got that whole intimidation thing down doesn’t he?  He was so happy with the result that he decided to return the favor and adorn his old man with some similarly tough looking graphics.

Okay, the green and red thing on the left is a venomous snake.  Yes, I realize it looks like the preschool inch worm that you dragged around by a string when you were a toddler- but trust me to a 7-year old little boy it’s a friggin deadly viper.  The red blob on the right is a heart pierced by an arrow.  I drew the arrow so that it was a little more obvious what the red blob was.  Funny, I didn’t feel any more “BAD-ASS” when Cayden was done- not really sure why, but it could have had something to do with my lack of imagination. 

BTW, washable markers only work on little kid skin.  When your forty (+) years old that shit sticks to you like glue.  I scrubbed like there was no tomorrow and that stuff isn’t budging.  Oh well, should make for some interesting conversations in the gym locker room tomorrow…

I’ve been told that turning 40 is a significant accomplishment but for the life of me can’t figure out why.  The majority of men live well into their 70’s so what’s so special about the 40 year mark?  Turning 18 was a big deal- that was the year I left for the Marine Corps.  And when I turned 21 I was finally able to legally drink alcohol.  But 40- nothing to remarkable.  I imagine the next big happy milestone will be when I start collecting social security- if it’s still a viable program 20 (+) years from now. 

So I’ve done some soul searching over the past couple of weeks to see if I could identify anything that would distinguish turning forty from all of the other non-eventful birthdays.  What I’ve determined is that even though I’ve received no monetary or privilege based incentives for successfully reaching the fourth decade I have developed an unbelievable degree of supreme wisdom.

Supreme wisdom may sound boastful but bear witness to a few nuggets of truth that have come to me in just the past two weeks:

40 year old hair migrates south- meaning it leaves the top of your head for warmer climates- i.e. your armpits, back and shoulders.  I liken this migration to senior citizens moving to Florida.

A late night is defined by remaining conscious through the entire 11 o’clock news broadcast.

Music really is too loud- regardless of how low the volume knob is turned down or how badly your hearing has deteriorated.

Rap music is just a bunch of folks talking to music.

Anyone under the age of 30 is a kid who has “shit for brains”.

You shouldn’t shop in the young men’s department at any clothing store- men over forty shop at Sears where they can purchase a sporty cardigan and a set of box wrenches at the same time.

Give up your quest for “six pack” abs and settle for a “six pack” of cheap domestic beer.

“Old Spice” is a powerful middle aged pheromone which signals your spouse that you’re contemplating several passionate minutes of “Lovin”.

You’re more interested in reading all 1,990 pages of the Health Care Reform Bill than applying “Old Spice” in the hopes of getting some “Lovin”.

Liver and Onions taste awesome.

You seldom use the word awesome anymore- it has been replaced by “lovely” or “pleasant”.

 “Yanni” rocks you like a hurricane and you’re completely confused as to why Michael Bolton would be compelled to cut off his sassy locks.

Your dream of one day owning a sports car has been replaced by one day owning an RV with comfortable captain’s chairs.

Forty is NOT the new 20- if it was there would be a lot more 100 year old people tooling around.  There aren’t, so it isn’t.

You’re suddenly aware that a lot of the shit you routinely did in your 20’s had the potential to kill you- these thoughts cause increased heart palpitations and your arthritis to flare.

Tying your shoes takes effort.

That cute waitress that just smiled at you did so because you remind her of her father.

Black socks and sandals compliment every summer outfit- how’d I miss that for so many years?

You can party with all of your 40(+) year old friends all night long and it’s so lame that no one will bother to call the police on you.

You can survive without an iPhone.  WTF is an iPhone anyway?

I’m not wearing an earring- that’s hair sprouting from my lobes.

The lushness of my front lawn is suddenly more important to me than wearing pants.

Everything my father told me when I was a kid suddenly makes sense.

I’m sure there are more truths left to be discovered- and I am looking forward to further enlightenment as I gracefully approach the next decade.

5:15 dinner’s on the table

5:17 boy’s are running through the house wearing nothing but baseball cleats and tiny child-sized jock straps.

5:17:01 SHIT!, we’ve got baseball practice in 45 minutes

5:20 For the most part the boys are clothed (-) underpants, the only way anyone will know is if the boys get in a car accident and they’re way to young to drive anyway- so Commando is the way to go!

5:20-5:57 “Cayden take a bite” (repeat this phrase every 10 seconds for a period of 27 minutes and you’ll have an idea of what it’s like to eat in a hurry at the Groah household)

5:58 Grab bat bag, bottled water, camp chair, bike, scooter, helmet, book, (3) seperate snack items and the first aid kit (the unsavory task of lugging this stuff to the truck has presented itself so as usual the boys have magically evaporated).

5:59 Holy shit there’s an outside chance that we won’t be noticeably late (I’m a compulsive guy- tardiness is an unacceptable state of mind when your Shane)

5:59:02 Truck departs

5:59:30 Truck returns to retrieve baseball hat- which is an essential item for baseball (PRACTICE)- or so I’m told by the 9-year old Cal Ripkin riding shotgun.

6:01 Arrive at field drop Mack off.

6:02 Play catch with Cayden while Mack practices.

6:03 Cayden catches a “heater” with his adam’s apple and refuses to rub dirt on it like his old man suggest.

6:03:01-6:10:02 Console youngest son while being glared at by other parents.

This is a 45-minute slice of an average evening in the Groah household during baseball season.  It’s currently 9:12- the boys are asleep and I’m at my computer writing this down so that I won’t forget.  But for the record, I’m not writing this down for birth control purposes.  I’m writing it down because these are the things I’ll miss when my boys no longer need me to pack their bat bag, remember their water bottles or to rub dirt on their injuries.  I want to remember them because right now I’m needed, I hold a special place in my son’s hearts, I’m Dad and for now that’s all the thanks that I need.

I recently turned forty and most of you didn’t even bother to send me a greeting card.  Luckily I think greeting cards are a waste of time and resources so I won’t hold a grudge against anyone.  Of course this doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the cards I did receive- but, maybe it does- it’s just that $5 is a lot to spend on someone else’s written sentiment that will likely be shit canned ten seconds after being opened.  Does that make sense?  Or did I just piss off a bunch of friends and relatives who took several hours searching for the card that was “made” just for me? 

If you must send cards I suggest you consider taking my fathers approach.  He’s sent me the same card for the past ten years.  Amazingly Hallmark continues to maintain ”my” card in its inventory- or maybe, more realistically, when my father went card shopping he purchased the whole stack because what’s the liklihood of me remembering, year to year, that I’ve received the same one?  I’m not upset, personally I think he’s a wise consumer- I’m thinking when he made the initial investment cards were a lot cheaper than they are now.  I love you Dad, keep them coming- I’m surprised every time. 

The other part of receiving cards is what to do with them after once they’ve been read?  Connie keeps them in a pile on our counter for at least a month.  Periodically I’ll ask her if it’s okay to toss them and I always get the same answer “Not yet, I’m not done with them”.  Not done with them?”- what’s to be done with a card once you’ve all ready read it?  Eventually I’ll throw them away when she’s not looking.  She’s never asked me where they’ve went.  That leads me to believe that she wants to maintain plausable deniability should a visiting relative request to see the greeting card they sent her 15 years ago.  Should this scenario unfold Connie could simply explain to them that her insensitive husband who lacks an appreciation for the personalized poetic gesture of the modern greeting card threw them away when she was off tending to orphaned children in a war torn region of Batswana.  Having the physical appearance of one barely on the first rung of the evolutionary ladder her relatives would consider this a plausible explanation and likely sympathize with her predicament and forget all about the “Holly Hobby” Birthday card they blew $2 on in the early 80’s.  That’s what Connie does with greeting cards- I simply tear them open, shake them for cash and then throw them away.  The funny thing is the cash stopped flowing when I was 12 years old but some habits are hard to break- especially ones which used to result in financial gain. 

It’s likely that many  of you are appalled that I still shake cards for cash so I might as well go ahead and offend you further.  I think E-cards are a slap in the face.  The message which accompanies every E-Card is simple, it tells the recipient one of two things:

1.  Holy Shit I forgot your birthday and this crappy e-card is a place holder for the “way to” expensive gift that I felt guilted into purchasing.

(or)

2.  I like you enough to remember the day you were born, but not enough to stand in line at Walgreens to purchase you a “real” birthday card.

Either way E-cards send the wrong message.  Besides I’m just one step above world wide web illiteracy and if you send me a link to an E-card I’ll likely screw it up and be unable to view the Birthday wishes that you spent all of 10 seconds finding for me.  BTW the same applies for sending me a drink through “Facebook”.  I’ve received at least 50 Tequila Sunrises from people over the past 12-months, but have yet to learn how to send one back.  I’m not an ungrateful drinker and I realize it’s my time to buy a round- but the fact is “Facebook” is smarter than I am.

What else?  Greetings cards with that annoying music playing computer chip make me want to go on a shooting rampage and so do cards featuring half naked cowboys and butt floss wearing beach babes- so don’t send me those either.  I like the three stooges- but not enough to have them grace the front of a greeting card- and I don’t understand Dilbert so that shit doesn’t work for me either.  And never, ever, ever send me a religious card- it will just remind me that I haven’t been to church since I got married and I’m one year closer to spending eternity in a very hot place for sleeping in on Sundays when I should have been singing Amazing Grace with the rest of my God fearing community.

Bottom line- if you like me enough to remember my birthday give me a call- or better yet send me the $5 you were gonna spend on the card- I’d like that too.