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.

I once believed that I could run away from home by digging a hole to China with nothing more than a common tablespoon.  My plan, learn Mandarin and live amongst the indigenous population known only as the “Round Eye who bloomed from the earth”.

I also believed new sneakers made me run faster- and not just a little bit either.  We’re talking flames shooting from my ass, hair blown back, time traveler- Fast.  If you were lucky enough to own a pair of KEDS you could actually run fast enough to achieve invisibility.

Big foot and the Lochness Monster were life partners and lived on Fantasy Island.  As an aside, I can’t figure out if “Tattoo” was an elf of Pacific Islander descent or a very tan ventriloquist dummy- you pick, it could go either way.

Just a few other quick things I once held as undeniable truths:

The Vulcan “death-grip” worked- if you don’t believe me try it on an unsuspecting sibling.

“Fruit Loops”, “Fruity Pebbles” and “Trix” were made from real fruit and contained the daily suggested dosages of every vitamin a child needs to develop into a well adjusted young adult.

A single serving size of “Tic-Tac’s” is the entire container.

Mikey, the Life cereal kid, didn’t die from ingesting “Pop-Rocks” and “Coca-Cola”.  He’s actually alive and well and resides on an island in the Caribbean where the government exiles sassy child stars.

The Bionic Man made that “dun-na-na-na-na” sound when ever he physically exerted himself because they didn’t bolt him together correctly in the Cape Canaveral Space-Man Lab.

These are some of the things I believed when I was a kid.  Of course I’m an adult now armed with the knowledge and wisdom of my years so I’ve been able to disprove almost half of them. 

If you’re wondering why I’m revisiting my misguided childhood thought processes it’s because of a conversation that I overheard between Mack and one of his good buddies.  I was driving them home from school the other day and this is what I heard.

Mack- “Hey what are you doing after school today”?

Buddy- “Not much, I thought I would sling the end of a ratchet strap into a tree, wrap the other end around my waist and then pull myself up to the top”.

Mack- “Cool”.

Buddy- “Yeah, should be okay, I’m pretty sure I can get at least 300 feet off the ground before I run out of strap”.

Mack- “Probably”

Buddy- “What about you, what are you doing after school?”

Mack- “I have a couple of Bungee cords hooked into a tree in my back yard.  I plan on hooking the loose ends into my belt loops.  Then I’m going to run as fast as I can away from the tree.  I figure when the Bungee cords get tight enough they’ll pull me back, shooting me straight to the top of the tree”.

Buddy- “Wow, I never thought of that, I wonder if my Dad has some Bungee cords”?

Three things:

1. I now know who took my damn Bungee Cords

2. My afternoon entertainment has just been scheduled.

And

3. Something’s never change- little boys have the greatest ideas.

Now you’ll have to excuse me- I’ve got to go call Mack’s Buddy’s parents so they don’t miss the show.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone,

It’s that time of year again so without further adieu the annual “Groah Family” update. 

Disclaimer: If your one of Connie’s 5-zillion “Facebook” friends you probably all ready know everything I’m about to write so disregard this letter and refer to her status updates for “real-time” Groah family information.

Shane-  I’m no longer a Marine.  I retired after 21-years and to celebrate I took a 10-week break from employment.  I would have remained retired too, but I ran out of Harlequin romance novels and the Lifetime channel replaced “Matlock” with “Murder She Wrote” (I just couldn’t get into the story line).  Those two catastrophic events were enough to propel me back into the work force.  I’m currently employed by Homeland Security Solutions Inc. in Alexandria, Virginia.  Great company- most of the people I work with are retired Marines or police officers so the transition into civilian life was fairly transparent.  Not to say it’s been easy- there have been a few hiccups along the way.  For instance I can’t decide what facial hair configuration I should adorn (beard, goatee, clean shaven), I can’t figure out how to tie a Full-Windsor knot and I’m just now learning what casual attire means.  For those of you who are unsure yourself, casual attire is not synonymous with gym apparel.  If I can just master hair and wardrobe I’ll have this whole civilian thing licked.

Cayden- The Nugget is doing great.  He’s in first grade and proving to be an academic phenom.  Some of Cayden’s favorite pastimes are spelling and adding.  It’s really refreshing to witness first hand the success of our American educational system- unless of course you’re trapped inside a minivan with Mr. “Hooked on Phonics”.  Several hours of random academia can make you mildly homicidal.  I’d like to tell you that Cayden has put some meat on his frame but that wouldn’t be truthful.  He’s getting taller, that’s undeniable, but he’s still sporting “bone-muscles” and his vertebras are still visible from head to tail.  However, he has managed to pack some muscle onto his forearms with the aid of WII bowling.   For Christmas Cayden would like a punching bag- apparently the one he’s currently using has a tendency to tattle on him.

Speaking of Mack, the kid’s still rocking.  After only 12 short months of private guitar lessons he’s mastered the opening rift from “Highway to Hell”.  Maybe it’s not the most age appropriate song for a nine-year old- but since when have Connie and I been concerned about age appropriateness?  Academically we’ve seen a huge improvement over last year- all B’s this past semester.  Apparently Mack has recovered his scholastic confidence so we expect even better grades next marking period.  If asked to provide one word to define Mack’s past year it would be “SK8” (I’m down with it aren’t I?).  His dream of becoming a “Rock Star” has been replaced by becoming a pro skater and owning his own skateboard production company.  He’s all ready picked a name “Red and Black Skate Company”.  I’ve seen the kid in the shower and I think that “Black and Blue” would be more fitting- he has crashed and burned so many times he looks like he fell into a hay baler.

Connie is alive and well and thankfully so is her business.  Not even the dreaded recession could stop Barefoot Photography’s meteoric rise to national acclaim.  She’s also rediscovered the joys of physical fitness.  Both of us belong to the same gym but it’s unlikely we’ll ever run into each other while we’re exercising.  I hang out in the weight room and Connie hangs out in what I’ll refer to as the “Dance Studio”.  She’s really into this thing called “Zoomba” which I believe evolved from Richard Simmon’s “Sweating to the Oldies”.  The only difference I can determine is that the foundation of every “Zoomba” routine is the “Booty Shake”.  I’ve never been extended an invitation to participate- which I’m thankful for.  Quite frankly, if I shook my ass as hard as Connie tells me they do it would likely fall off and my center of balance would be forever compromised.

Well that’s it- you’re all caught up.  So as President Obama would say “have a festive holiday season”.  Or as Shane would say- have a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!

The surprise gift of the season was a $3 “Magic 8-Ball”.  When Connie brought a pair of them home I laughed openly.  No way were my boys going to be even remotely interested in this retro, Siegfried and Roy, quasi-mystical trinket.  Hell, if I would have known we were going to try to revive the 70’s this Christmas I would have purchased a bucket of “Sea Monkeys” and a herd of “Chia Pets”. 

But instead I opted for the good stuff.  Like an Airsoft gun that shoots 400 rubber pellets per minute and a wheeled plank of wood capable of propelling a 9-year old kid straight to the emergency room- that’s the kind of stuff little boys want for Christmas.  Leave the “Cabbage Patch Dolls”, “Slinkys” and “Furbys” in the past where they belong!  Boy’s want Christmas gifts capable of inflicting irrevocable harm- women know nothing of the wants and desires of men…

At least that’s what I thought.  This is the part where once again I eat a big honking pile of Crow. 

Mack isn’t stoked about his “Magic 8-Ball”.  He considers it an instrument of learning and best reserved for the classroom on exam day.  I’m not going to argue with him, the “Magic 8-Ball” may be slightly more precise than his current test taking strategies.

But Cayden, on the other hand, is enamored with it and considers the “Magic 8-Ball” is favorite Christmas gift.

He enjoys asking it insightful questions such as:

Does Dad’s butt smell worse than Mom’s? (magical reply “Yes, in due time”)

Can I punch Mack’s lips off? (magical reply “My sources say no”)

What is 2,000 + 8,000, 342? (magical reply “Looks good to me”)

Are flatulent cows responsible for melting the polar ice caps? (magical reply- “Give me back to the kid old man”)  Creepy- I haven’t touched it since.

Other replies which can be found on the icosahedron inside an 8-Ball include:

“Definitely not”

“Yes”

“You will have to wait”

“I have my doubts”

“Outlook so, so”

“Looks good to me”

“Who knows?”

“Looking good”

“We’re all doomed” (nice- nothing like a little seasonal panic to spice up the holidays)

I plan on writing Mattel and suggesting a couple of additional responses for the next generation of “Magic 8-Balls”.  I jotted a few them down:

“Clean your room or your head will fall off”

“Yes, if you brush your teeth this very minute”

“The refrigerator is not designed to cool the whole house, so close the damn door”

“Did you turn off the television when you walked out of the living room?”

“I wouldn’t do that your Father is standing behind you”

“Gold Fish crackers are no an appropriate substitute for a well rounded dinner”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, you’re going to get caught”

Maybe my suggestions aren’t ambiguous enough to feign supernatural insight- but you have to admit they’re a lot more practical…