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You seldom use the word awesome anymore- it has been replaced by “lovely” or “pleasant”.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Your dream of one day owning a sports car has been replaced by one day owning an RV with comfortable captain’s chairs.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.

I don’t enjoy air travel.

Right now I’m on an airplane.  The fasten seat belt sign is on and the flight attendants are strapped to their jump seats with expressions plastered to their faces that suggest they know something that I don’t.  I’m not okay with that.  Why do they call them jump seats anyway?  Why aren’t they called “go down with the ship seats”?  Isn’t their some type of airline “code of honor” which demands that the crew will abandon ship only after the last remaining passenger has safely reached the ground?  If not there should be.  I’ll tell you what, give me your jump seat and in return I’ll give you my air sickness bag, my seven dollar bottle of “Stutter Homes” merlot and a copy of last month’s edition of “Sky Mall”.  That sounds more than equitable to me.

And the answer is no- I do not want to purchase the peanuts that only a year ago you were tossing to me for free.  WTF happened there?  My ticket cost almost seven hundred dollars- are you suggesting that a bag of peanuts isn’t included in that sum?  What did my $700 pay for anyway?  Did it purchase the silk ascot with paisley print that my overly attentive male flight attendant is wearing?  Did it pay for the excessive blue eye shadow that the lead flight attendant has smeared across her brow? Or did it simply get thrown into a huge vat of money earmarked for purchasing obnoxious, condescending attitudes which were then liberally distributed amongst your flight crew?

Why is the Captain walking past my seat- who the hell is flying the frigging airplane?  If it’s “Mr. Ascot” I want a jump seat and my damn money back.

The guy sitting next to me is sound asleep.  His mouth is open and he just made a spit bubble bigger than my head.  I want to shield myself with an airline blanket like an audience member at a “Gallagher” concert but I was just informed blankets now cost $11.

While inquiring about blankets, the flight attendant told me that they no longer provide pillows either.  It seems corporate headquarters is attempting to lighten aircraft loads to conserve fuel.  You’re friggin kidding right?  It’s a PILLOW you twit.  How much fuel could possibly be conserved by removing 7 ounces of foam from the interior of the aircraft?  If your serious about lightening aircraft loads tell the lady in front of me that the definition of “one personal item” does not include a tuba case- even if it is equipped with a purse strap.

The guy sitting next to me just woke up- he asked me two things:

Q- Are we there yet?

A- No Einstein we are not- thus the reason we are still 22,000 feet above the earth traveling at 700 mph.

Q- Why am I wet?

A- The lady sitting next to you has been licking you ever since we left Dallas she thinks you taste like an orange “Starburst”.

What are the flight attendants whispering to the first class passenger that makes them look back at coach and laugh?  If they keep it up I’m going straight to the first class crapper and dropping a deuce.

Speaking of the crapper, why does that thing have more torque than the Challenger space shuttle?  I flushed the toilet and it sucked the paper towel dispenser off the bulkhead.  Thank God I wasn’t sitting on it when I pressed the lever it would have pulled me inside out.

How come the minute the aircraft touches ground everyone immediately stands up and begins to mill about smartly even though it is impossible to make forward progress?  I try to remain seated but the fact is if you do you’re likely to get some ones ass or crotch thrust into your face as they reach for their overhead baggage- which likely shifted in flight and is on a collision course straight for the top of your dome.

The final straw was the insincere thanks the lead flight attendant gave me as I exited the aircraft.  Judging by her expression she would have been more thankful had I burst into flames and been instantly reduced to a charcoal sized briquette.  I could be wrong though, maybe it’s just the way she caked on the war paint that gives one the impression that she would rather be popping the heads off kittens than well wishing tired airline passengers.

Like I said, I don’t enjoy air travel.

Connie suggested that we make Sea Bass Annapolitan the other evening and I foolishly agreed.

Not to say that the dish wasn’t delicious, because it was- but no one told me that the recipe called for “Chilean” sea bass which guessing by the price must be made from the filleted wings of angels.  When the guy behind the seafood counter told me the cost I nearly shit my pants.  At $20 (+) per pound why the hell did the pioneers rush west to pan for gold?  It would have been more financially rewarding to hunt the ever elusive “Chilean” sea bass and then peddle it to sappy middle-class idiots like me.  I did the math- it would have been more cost effective to have the butcher carve up a unicorn than slap two pounds of cold dead fish in my hand.  Yes I said a Unicorn- I know they’re mythical creatures, but the way I see it anything that cost over $20 per pound must be equally as rare.

When he placed the fish in my hand I mentally calculated the financial burden that I would incur if I followed through with the purchase.  After significant deliberation I decided “yes” the fish is worth it- even if it does mean that the boys will have to attend community college in lieu of an accredited university.

That was before I priced the Maryland Lump Blue Crab meat that gets ever so delicately drizzled over the top of the Chilean Sea Bass- $36 per pound- GOOD GOD, are you friggin kidding me!  I almost threw up.  I actually had to use my home equity line of credit to get out of the fish market.

But I followed through.  I made the purchase and Connie and I cooked the friggin fish.  I was almost past the nausea which routinely accompanies a poor financial decision when Cayden provided this profound observation ”fish sticks taste better”.

I hate when he’s right?

Cruise continued-

Cruises are all about gluttony, and nothing says gluttony like a continuously replenished buffet line the length of a football field.  But be warned, cruise ship buffet lines are not without hazards.  For those of you who have never been on cruise let me provide some words of wisdom and a few bits of advice

1.  On a cruise you can visit the buffet line as many times as you please- there is no such thing as a one plate limit.

I know this seems intuitive, but I witnessed several passengers who must have missed the memo.  For instance, I observed one passenger roughly the size of a small disenfranchised nation wobbling away from the buffet line balancing (2) hot dogs, (2) double cheeseburgers, (3) pieces of pizza, a massive pile of french fries and a piece of key lime pie.  Always mindful of his cardio vascular health he covered the entire mess with approximately 16oz of chili.   It’s common knowledge that I’m a sarcastic wiseass who has a tendency to take some creative liberties with my writing- but this is a “no-shit” accurate inventory of the items on this guy’s plate- absolutely zero embellishment.  Good God, the guy was one “Tic-Tac” away from exploding before my very eyes.

2.  Don’t allow young children to stagnate near the buffet line- there is a high probability that they’ll be mistaken for a consumable item and engulfed in the mêlée.

3.  Never attempt to get between a senior citizen and the last remaining chicken wing.  They may appear frail but when faced with the possibility that the buffet line may run out of a particular food item they become extremely aggressive.

4.  The only physical exercise many passengers will have to participate in is the 10 meter walk to the desert table.  Luckily veteran cruise goers come equipped with motorized scooters to avoid this nasty calorie burning endeavor. 

5.  They don’t serve alcohol on the buffet line; but they do have a bartender and a barrel full of booze off to the side- even at breakfast.

6.  Old people that slather their bodies in Coppertone and bask in the sun for 12-hours a day end up resembling baked potatoes- but, regardless of how much sour cream and chives you put on them they won’t taste like one.

7. The farther you get away from the buffet line the skinnier the people become.  I personally believe this is because the serious eaters want to remain close to the “Mother Ship”.

8.  Even though it’s a buffet line it is still inappropriate to pocket all of the salt, pepper and sugar packets before you push away from the table.  I only say this because my cruise was densely populated with senior citizens who couldn’t curb their kleptomaniac tendencies.  

9.  I overheard several passengers complaining that the breakfast buffet served the same items every morning.  I’ve got news for you.  The reason they serve the same thing every morning is because they are serving you every breakfast dish known to man.  There is no way to vary the menu when the menu has everything on it.

10.  The word “gluttony” was created by our forefathers to describe the way the pilgrims reacted to the “Mayflowers” first buffet line.  Cruise ships have been carrying on the tradition ever sense.

11.  People eat like they do on cruise ships because for the six weeks leading up to the cruise they starved themselves in order to look good in a two-piece.   Makes no sense to me- but then again I’m strictly a one-piece kind of guy.

Day 5 of the great blizzard of 2010.  My thoughts have become even more random than normal.  I haven’t showered in two days out of fear of freezing to death in our own home.  Connie thinks this is ridiculous because our thermostat says 70 degrees- but I argue that taking a shower during a blizzard is just plain stupid regardless of whether you’re inside or not.

I saw a guy riding a dog sled down our street the other night while I was shoveling our driveway or maybe I was drinking beer while holding a snow shovel- I can’t remember it all blurs together.  Regardless, the dude had a “no-shit” dog sled and a team of huskies to pull it.  Who does that?  How long did he have to wait for that investment to pay off?  I bet as soon as the snow hit he shackled all four dogs to the sled and visited every neighbor who ever snickered behind his back for making such an illogical purchase.  I also bet he encouraged all four dogs to shit on their lawns while he sang the NA, NA, NA, Boo, Boo song with both of his social fingers defiantly pointed in the direction of his judgmental neighbors.

The blizzard may have sucked- but for one lone dude with a $3,000.00 dog sled it was a validation of his superior foresight.  Good for you “Mr. Nanook of the Chesapeake Bay area”.  Tomorrow may bring sunshine and thawing temperatures completely zeroing out all of your “cool points” but today, my eccentric friend, you are a hero.

Told you my thoughts were becoming increasingly random.  I’ve resorted to filming our fight for survival so that when our bodies are recovered in the spring the authorities will know that the “Groahs” did not go down without a fight.  I figure these films along with the crayon cave drawings that I’m encouraging our kids to draw on the interior walls of our home will tell our story.  A brave and inspiring story of one family’s unwillingness to submit to the angry tantrums of that merciless Hag- Mother Nature.

And yes I called you a Hag- what cha gonna do about it?  Give us your best shot- we still have two six packs of ale and a full jug of Carlo in reserve.

and part II

Okay, for the most part being stuck in the middle of a potentially life threatening blizzard sucks.  I got that- you lose power, your core temperature drops to like 20 degrees, you turn a sickly shade of blue and then you expire with a stupid surprised look on your face.  That part truly does blow.

But if you’re a glass half full guy, like yours truly, you can always find a bright spot or two- for instance:

Being stuck in a blizzard is like boating i.e. it’s never to early to start drinking. 

For those of you new to “Blizzarding” (sort of like partying but only colder and deadlier) here are a couple of rules you should be aware of:

1.  You shouldn’t pass judgement on your neighbors if they’re beer bonging PBR’s while shoveling their driveway at 9am.  Instead you should join them.

2.  Jello shooters freeze quickly in blizzard conditions.  If serving to fellow shovelers keep them in your arm pit or skivvy drawers until ready to consume.  The warmth will keep them soft, pliable and delicious.

3.  Body shots work best when served off exposed skin- trouble is no one will want to expose any skin when it’s below 20 degrees and snowing- except maybe that creepy neighbor three doors down who wears “Daisy Dukes” year round and dresses up his cat like an Ann Getty photo subject.

4.  Police officers will ticket you for driving an automobile during a blizzard- unless you’re going to the liquor store for more booze.  Keep an empty tequila  bottle in the passenger seat to prove to them that “Yes, I was unprepared and need to replenish my dooms-day supplies”.  They’re very understanding.

5.  Along with all the booze consumption you can also eat whatever you want during a blizzard.  The logic being that if you don’t have ample stores of fat you’re likely to freeze at a quicker rate.  If you don’t believe me simply turn on the Animal channel and watch how seals, sea-lions and walruses survive sub-arctic temperatures.

I’ve got to go defrost my children for the ninth time this morning.

More to follow

My kids have zero common sense.  They didn’t wake up with the same sense of dread that I did this morning. 

They didn’t look out the window at the rapidly accumulating snow and want to throw up. 

They aren’t concerned that I will likely shovel myself into a massive cardiac arrest, fall to my knees and freeze to death 20 feet from my home.

Nope- none of that.  First words out of their mouths- “Dad, when can we go outside?”

Yep,  that’s my boys- all courage and testicular bravado- no common sense.

They are stoked- the only thing that could possibly improve their day would be if we no shit fell into a second ice age- something that I believe is possible and will most likely be reported on Fox News within the hour.

Well I’m going to go hug my generator and whisper sweet nothings to it in the hopes that it will spring to life when we inevitably lose power.

I also plan on trying out which facial expression to put on my face when I freeze to death.  I don’t want my body recovered this spring with a stupid look on my face- that would be humiliating.

I’ve neglected my blogging duties lately due to a much needed family vacation.  We took a ten day cruise through the Islands to escape the Maryland winter weather.  Over the course of our travels I uncovered a wealth of topics to cover in the pages of my blog.  In fact, the cruise proved to be such a target rich environment that I’ll have to cover the trip in installments over an extended period of time.  Here’s my first installment- I call it the warrior.

One of the most colorful passengers on our cruise was a gentleman who referred to himself as the “Warrior”.  I know this because that’s how he asked to be announced prior to the ship’s “Belly Flop” contest.  All of the other contestants had names like Paul, Harry and Josh.  But not this guy, he had an ultra-cool tough guy moniker that he likely gave himself after a rousing game of Dungeons and Dragons. 

Good thinking.  You never know when a nickname like that will come in handy- possibly during a poolside belly flop contest attended by a rowdy crowd of intoxicated senior citizens.  I’m sure that given their advanced age they found comfort in knowing all that separated them from a 300 pound disgruntled “Belly Flop” competitor named the “Warrior” were four flimsy stateroom walls.  Sleep tight folks.

And he was angry.  Prior to “Flopping” he beat his heaving man-bosom and roared to the heavens for “Oden” to grant him the strength to crush all who would oppose him (I kind of made that part up, but he did fondle his man-boobs and stare at a passing jet liner with a menacing look on his face).  His bizarre display of aggressive behavior immediately silenced the crowd sending them into a moment of quiet reflection.  My guess is they were reflecting on the safest place to run if “old-boy” decided to “cook off”.  He jumped in. 

When he emerged from the pool the crowd parted, rather quickly I might add, and the “Warrior” exited the area without further incident.  You could actually hear the collective sigh of relief as the spectators relaxed.  Of note, several of the older passengers (of which there were many) turned up their oxygen regulator valves so they too could sigh in unison with the rest of the crowd. Nothing builds cohesion like bearing witness to a half naked lunatic on the brink of blowing a gasket.

That was my first glimpse of the “Warrior” but fortunately it wasn’t the last.  I got to see him several times a day over the course of our time at sea.  Come to find out the “Warrior” was a few sandwiches short of a picnic- no shit right?  Okay, I’m a bit slow on the uptake, but in my defense he seemed pretty high functioning when he wasn’t wearing his “ax murderer” face or licking the salt water off shiny inanimate objects. 

Watching him “Hustle” during a group line dancing lesson confirmed my suspicions that the “Warrior” was operating with some damaged grey matter.  I’ve never seen a person attempt the “Hustle” with such violent intensity.  Apparently however, his desire to disco was slightly greater than his desire to intimidate all the other passengers so he gave it a shot.  Friggin scary.

I’ve downloaded some “Warrior” footage from our cruise.  See if you can pick him out of the crowd.

Hint- he’s not wearing a polka dot bikini that gives the illusion of two exposed giant nipples.  Nor is he the little boy dancing around like a crack addicted organ grinder’s monkey- that would be my youngest son.