ROFLOL-BMH

    Three of my nieces recently added me as a friend on Facebook. This move posed little risk for my college-age nieces because I am old and my posts are soft and mushy - like my bones. Most of my status updates, for instance, involve napping. Also, I only know how to do two things: updates and clicking the little thumbs up button to show approval. There are no sharp edges to my Facebook updates. 

    The real risk is for people like me - elderly people in their early forties. Navigating Facebook for us is akin walking across the field during a rugby game. There's going to be injuries. Hips will be broken. But now that I've run across that metaphorical field for a few months, I do have some advice for newly-elderly people who want to befriend young people on Facebook.

    First, do not read young people posts. They like to describe what they're doing in college. You, as a relative who cares for them, their education and their safety, do not want to know what they're doing in college. For instance, one of my nieces might hypothetically post something like the following:

    "Skipping class today. I lost the car last night and need to find it quick before someone opens the trunk. Hope my parents don't find out."

    See? There's nothing constructive that you can do after reading something like that. It's best that you never read it in the first place. Embracing your impending senility is a lot easier without being confronted with painful questions on Facebook.

    Which brings me to my second tip. If you must read young people posts on Facebook, don't reply to them. Don't comment on them. You might think that you will fit in - that no one will know how old you are because the Internet gives you a measure of anonymity. 

    You would be wrong.

     I wish I had a dime for every time I've popped out a witty bon mot on one of my niece's pages only to have three of her friends comment:

    "Dude, your post smells like my grandmother's house."

    That's right. On Facebook, old people posts literally smell like mothballs.

    Sometimes, I can barely type ROFLOL through the tears. And that only intensifies the pain and irony - because I'm way too old to physically roll on the floor and laugh out loud like the youngsters do. Not without busting my hip. You know, ROFLOL-BMH.

    Finally, never use the phrase "bon mot" on Facebook. Or in a blog post. You'll just look like a tool.

Because I'm Enjoying It...

To new parents and prospective parents, I offer this bit of hard-earned advice about kids:

Don't teach them to talk. There's no upside to letting children communicate. Oh sure, all the experts drone on and on about the importance of talking children, but the experts leave out some important points. For instance, did you know what the first thing kids do after learning to talk?

They talk back.

And they parse your words. They challenge everything you say, no matter how innocuous. Living with talking kids is like hiring lawyers to come live with you and sue you every second of the day.

The other morning at the kitchen table, my sons had just started their daily harassment of their little sister. I wanted to shut this down quickly for a few reasons. First, I don't want my sons to grow up thinking it's okay to bully girls. But also, little Riley was starting to get mad - you could tell by the way she clenched her five year-old jaw. And her tiny fist. If this kept up, one or both of my sons was going to take a ride on Riley's Choo Choo Train of Pain.

"Stop messing with Riley," I said clearly and simply.

Six year-old Julian looked me squarely in the face, nodded in the affirmative to let me know that he definitely understood my instructions and then plucked his sister in the ear.

So, I elaborated. "If you don't stop bullying your little sister, I will take away everything that you enjoy. Every video game. Every toy. Every single activity that you enjoy will be taken away for a week."

All of the kids stopped for a moment and considered this. Riley was smiling in rich anticipation of her brothers' potential suffering, which I expected. She was, after all, on my side in this. But Julian was smiling, too, which I had not expected. And then he let me have it.

"I enjoy going poop," he said matter-of-factly. "Are you gonna stop me from going poop?"

And just like that - I had been rhetorically bested by a six year-old.

"You know what I mean," I snapped back. I jabbed my finger for emphasis.

This was some pretty weak sauce, as retorts go, and even Riley seemed embarrassed for me - so embarrassed, in fact, that she switched sides right in front of me. She started laughing along with the boys who had been tormenting her moments before.

But that's okay. Julian can think he's won for now. He's gotta use the bathroom sooner or later. And then I'll knock on the door.

"Julian?" I'll say quietly.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he'll answer.
"Julian?" I'll say again.

"I said I'm going to the bathroom, Dad."

"Julian?"

"What?"

"Julian?"

"Dad! Stop It!" Julian will yell. "I'm trying to go to the bathroom!"

"Julian?"

"What!" he'll yell.

And then I'll let him have it.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Pencils Down!

The new school year is here and parents KNOW what that means.

Paperwork. And lots of it.

This year is no exception. The teachers have again lobbed homework at the parents - giving us permission slips to sign, legal releases to initial and new rules to remember. And Bridget and I have three kids, which is like...cross out the two, carry the one...double the work.

I wouldn't mind except that Bridget expects me to help.

"Hypothetically speaking," Bridget said, "You're fifty percent of the parents in this house - not twenty-five percent of the kids."

"What that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

"You're one of the parents..." she started.

I stopped her. "No, I meant "hypothetically". What does that mean?"

I was going to continue watching "Cheaters", but then I spied the questions on one of the colored papers we had to fill out for Riley's kindergarten teacher. It was one of those questionnaires where you describe your kid to her new teacher.

"What," it asked, "is one of your child's favorite things to do?"

I grabbed a pencil.

"Riley enjoys installing NOX in her Power Wheels Barbie Jeep, heading down to Daytona for the weekend and racing for pinks. I guess you could say that she lives life a quarter mile at a time."

I was starting to enjoy myself now.

"What is one of your child's least favorite things to do?"

Hmmm. "Power washing the house. She always cries about how the power washer is too big and it hurts her arms but I think when she looks at the clean house and driveway at the end of those eight hours, she probably feels the same pride I do."

Bridget took my pencil.

Pee On It!

    I've been on vacation for the last couple of weeks. I live in Florida, so I don't actually have to fly anywhere to visit a tropical paradise filled with exotic locales, strange plants and fascinating animals. Basically, I just walk out my door and - bam! - I'm standing in a friggin' paradise.

    In turns out, ironically, that the only inconvenient thing about living and vacationing in Florida is the exotic locales, strange plants and fascinating animals.

    On my second day of vacation, for example, I stepped on a Sea Urchin while climbing onto the stern ladder of my father-in-law's boat. I don't recommend it. It really hurts. It kinda feels like stepping on 20 needles and then breaking them off in your foot. Mostly because that's actually what you're doing.

    I did learn something interesting about the Internet, though, as I sat on the boat wincing in pain. While my wife and mother-in-law used tweezers to pull urchin spines out of the sole of my foot, I used my phone to surf the Internet and pull up information about treating urchin spine impalements. And that's when I learned this:

    The cure for everything on the Internet involves peeing on it.

    Punctured by urchin spines? Pee on it. Sunburn? Pee on it. Jellyfish sting? Pee on it. Shark bite? Pee on it. Cancer? Pee on it.

    Because I'm one of those deluded fools who worships science at the cost of ignoring the homeopathic bounty that nature provides, I chose to go with antibiotics instead.

    My children are like-minded. The other day our lilliputian Boston Terrier bit into a toads in our yard. This started a mini-panic in our house because Florida is home to Bufo toads whose skin secretes a venom that deadly to small dogs. And our dog loves to chomp some amphibians.

    Nine year-old Gabriel examined our dog and pronounced everything okay. As he cradled the dog, he cooed to her.

    "You know what cures Bufo venom, Marnie?"

    The dog looked uncomfortable. I stifled the urge to yell out, "Pee on it!"

    "Love," Gabriel answered. "Love and lots and lots of drugs."

    

    

...And That's a Fascist Belt

The current political conversation summed up:

Obama: Thousands of people die every year because our current insurance system is inadequate. In addition, tens of thousands of families go bankrupt even if they have insurance. Both Republicans and Democrats agree that we need to discuss how to fix this before it breaks America socially and financially. What do you think?

Crazy People: That is a very, very important issue but your zipper is down.

Obama: Oh, thanks...no, wait, my zipper is up.

Crazy People: No, your zipper is down.

Obama: I just checked it. My zipper is up.

Crazy People: You've never shown proof that your zipper is up.

Obama:You and I are standing three feet apart and both of us can see that my zipper is clearly up.

Crazy People: (Pause) Those are socialist pants.

Burning Ring of Truth

Regular readers may remember that I recently mocked my eldest son because he wanted to learn how to play the recorder. Chiefly, I judged the wind instrument to be a less-than-manly instrument much unsuited to rocking out. Because I wanted Gabriel to lose interest in the recorder quickly - I did what any smart parent would do in order to force his kid to drop something like a hot potato - or in this case, a hot cross bun.

I fully supported him.

I bought him a new recorder. I forced him to play for me. I forced him to play for other people. And once my son sensed my enthusiasm, he walked away from his plastic recorder like it was radioactive.

Mission accomplished. And yet, a month later, my nine year-old would have his revenge when I came across a Julia Nunes ukulele-version of Weezer's "Keep Fishin' on YouTube.

To begin with, Julia Nunes clearly rocked the song. I liked it even better than the original Weezer version. But I was also dumbstruck by how much her little ukulele rocked. And more than that, the tingy melodies reminded me of the mandolin my grandmother used to play before she passed away. And that's apparently the recipe that gets me hooked - two parts rocking and one part dearly-missed grandmother.

So I bought a soprano ukulele, the smallest you can get, about a week later and tried to hide my new obsession from everyone including my family. I retreated to the tiny, dark re-purposed closet that is my office, shut the door and started practicing ukulele chords, some of which require only one finger to play.

Occasionally, my wife would knock on the door.

"Uh, Richard? What's that noise?" she would ask.

I would look at my beautiful 20 inch uke and back toward the door. I considered shoving aside my masculinity and admitting my fondness for the tiny four-stringed powerhouse in my hands - maybe even busting out some Cashian "Ring of Fire" to make my wife understand. And then I said:

"I'm looking at pornography on the computer! Could I have some privacy, please!"

The best lies have the ring of truth.

Later, when I finally sat down and discussed my ukulele problem with Bridget, she did something I didn't expect her to do.

She fully supported me.

Clever, clever woman.

Editor's Note : For those of you who want to see Julia Nunes' great cover of Weezer's "Keep Fishin""

Eye Rolling

    There is a huge population of retired people in Florida. I am, of course, being politically correct when I say "retired people". I'm actually mean that Florida has a huge population of old, wrinkly people who will sometimes forget that they're driving - even though they're in the middle of of an intersection and have just run over a Guatemalan guy on a bicycle.

    But here's the advantage to this skewed surplus of wrinkly people in Florida: being 40 years-old in Florida is like being 20 anywhere else. And we middle-aged people take full advantage of that down here. We drive around listening to Ting Tings songs way too loud. We drink like college freshmen and we curse the old people who just don't "get us."

    The only thing that spoils the illusion is when we run into actual young people in Florida. A few weeks ago,for instance, I was driving through the supermarket parking lot when I locked eyes with a young woman with tan skin.

    Because I'm married to an easily-riled woman with a formidable right hook, I am unusually good at not noticing women. When I'm with my wife, in fact, I could walk past a naked Monica Bellucci and never move my gaze from the floor.

    But my natural instincts were overcome at the supermarket for a few reasons. First, this particular woman sported what car enthusiasts might refer to as "aftermarket parts". If I make take the euphemism further, someone had mistakenly ordered truck parts for the young woman's sub-compact chassis.

    Further, thieves had clearly stolen this woman's clothes and replaced them with tiny, midget versions that did not properly cover the delicate, tasteful tattoo that graced the small of her back. Also, I was looking for a parking space, so my guard was down.

    In any case, I locked eyes with the twenty-something woman. A little embarrassed, I smiled, which was intended to say, "Excuse me for staring. My eyes are just passing through". Or something to effect.

    I expected her to smile back and shrug. Instead, she gave me an eye roll. This, in turn, gave me an unwanted epiphany which caused me to hit the brakes.

    "Oh, just freakin' terrific," I said. "I'm a creepy old guy."

    My wife off-handedly confirmed this a few days ago, while my family munched on donuts at a table outside of a Dunkin' Donuts.

    "Did you notice," I said as I sipped decaf coffee, "that our cashier looked exactly like Phoebe Cates? The resemblance was amazing. I almost asked her if anyone else had mentioned that before."

    "You mean Phoebe Cates, the actress from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High?," my said wife answered. "Yeah, I wouldn't do that."

    "Why?" I asked. "She might find it flattering."

    "Hmmm. She might find it flattering that she reminds you, a guy twenty-five years her senior, of an actress whose most famous scene involves playing an underage high school student who walks in on an older guy masturbating to the image of her in a bathing suit?"

    "You make an excellent point," I conceded.

    "She's probably never heard of Phoebe Cates. That would be like a senior citizen coming up to me and saying that I remind him of Bette Davis or Lana Turner. It's just creepy."

    "Enough," I said. "You can stop making sense anytime now."

    And yet, the reminders of my newly-discovered creepiness keep coming.

    Yesterday, I sat in my car at a stoplight. I looked out the passenger window, lost in thought, when a car rolled up next me and stopped exactly in my sight line. The blonde driver turned to her left, saw me staring in her direction and quickly eye-rolled me.

    I lost it.

    "Hey," I called. "I'm not looking at you. I was thinking about lunch. I thought I saw a french fry on our dashboard left over from a trip to McDonald's."
    She didn't turn around.

    "In fact," I yelled," I'm totally gay and completely uninterested in you. Seriously. I was checking out the hot guy on the other side of you. You're in the way of my...hot...guy..checking...stuff."

    The blonde did not look around. But my wife did turn around to face my kids in the backseat.

    "You know Dad's just joking right?"