Day 8/365: Little J on the slip 'n slide

Summer has officially started! School is out, and so is the sun. There was no stopping Little J from breaking out the slip 'n slide and splashing across the front lawn.

Day 7/365: Mark's Graduation

I never thought I would be old enough to have a child graduate from high school, but it finally happened. The ceremony was held at 9 AM in the Marriott Center.

Mark saluting his future.

The outfit Matt originally wanted to wear to the ceremony.

All the kids.

Mark picking up his diploma.

Mark with his best friend, Kyler Ludwig.

Congratulations, Mark!

Day 6/365: Steverino becomes department chair

Day 5/365: Little J and Josh at Carl's Jr

A few weeks ago, I promised Little J that I would take her to Carl's Jr. for lunch if she would be a good sport and agree to go to dinner with the family at Los Hermanos. The boys accused me of favoritism, because I would have never made a deal like that with them when they were young. The difference is, though, that when they were young, we went to the places that they liked, so there was no need to make a deal with them. Of course, they don't see it that way. They just see it as Little J getting to go out to eat twice. Josh is still young enough, and more importantly, short enough, to enjoy the playground at Carl's Jr., so we brought him along, too.

Josh making the Carl's Jr. face from inside a tube.

Little J climbing up the slide.

Day 3/365: Memorial Day activities

Mark finally talked me to going into Saver's today, a second-hand thrift shop. He had high hopes of being able to find all of his summer clothes there, but no such luck. In fact, the only thing that he found was a Whimpey campaign shirt. But for all of us, that made the trip. We tried to find one for his best friend, Ky, too, but no such luck. For more on why we were so excited about this T-shirt, see the following three blog entries that I wrote for the old blog.


We barbecued tonight at my mom's house. Here is Matt demonstrating his grilling skills.

Old Moosebutt: Whimpey and the seven dwarves

[Originally written August 20, 2007] With the local elections approaching, campaign signs are popping up all over town like hairs on a brute's toes. My personal favorite is the one below:


This sign just makes me laugh. How does someone get elected with the name Whimpey? Isn't this a fairly substantial handicap for a politician? Consider the following phrases that might show up in news reports: Whimpey Campaign, Whimpey Agenda, Whimpey Debate, Whimpey Politician. True, many elected officials are indeed wimpy. And while this may be a desirable trait to be exploited by special interest groups, it is not a characteristic that brings in votes. Voters want politicians with good hygiene, catchy soundbites, and a dogged determination to appear as if they are addressing local concerns. Names like Linda Steele, Luther Standout, and Bob Hatchet convey these desirable characteristics. Mike Whimpey, with or without the J, doesn't.

When I think of the name Whimpey, I think of wilted lettuce, soggy french fries, and people who refuse to pick up their doggie's doo-doo in public places. Whimpey is a better name for a dwarf than for a civic leader. You know, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy, Sneezy, Happy, Dopey, Bashful...and Whimpey. He would be the dwarf that that never went into the mine because he was too scared. Every morning, the other dwarfs would make fun of him by dancing around him in a circle and singing, "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go!" until he wet himself. Then they would go off to dig for gems while Whimpey stayed home to wash his pants and knit oven mitts.

Certainly Michael Whimpey has done his best to distance himself from any of these images. After all, he promises to be a "strong voice." He also borrows one of Eisenhower's successful campaign tricks with the slogan "I like Mike." Still, a name like Whimpey is just too easy for opponents to make fun of:

Opponent: "I don't think the people of Orem deserve a Whimpey city councilman."
Whimpey, in a whiny voice: "But I'm a strong voice for the people."
Opponent: (Singing) "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go."
Whimpey: (Runs for the restroom)
[Everyone laughs, even Whimpey's wife and dog.]

Mike, have you ever considered a name change?

Old Moosebutt: Whimpey and the seven dwarves, take 2

[Originally written August 21, 2007] Comments to the last blog entry really cut me deeply. I never realized that I didn't have a tagline until it was pointed out to me. The closest I come to a tagline is "dessert before dinner," but that's more of a principle to live by then an actual tagline. I had also forgotten that my name brings to mind the image of a hairy bazootie. I hang my head in shame.

I also didn't recognize my hypocrisy until it was pointed out to me by Anonymous and Oats. I personally know the pain that comes from having your last name made fun of. When my best friend Tinkersot Baboonloogies and I were in third grade, a nasty girl named Nancy Jones made fun of our names. She used to come up to me and say, "Were you named after your facial features or your personality traits?" Bratty Bobby Smith used to shout, "Your mother wears moose antlers to bed," every time I came up to bat. I spent most of the evenings of my childhood crying myself to sleep.

And now it is clear that I have caused similar pain for others. Never mind that the regular readers of my blog know better than to take anything I say seriously. Joking words can be deadly, too. Thus, I have decided to revise my story of Whimpey and the Seven Dwarves to assuage the pain of my gentle readers.

Whimpey was not a cowardly, yellow-bellied, whiny dwarf. He was adventurous, stockily built, with a strong voice for the people. Instead of being afraid of the mine, he was the first one in the cave every morning and the last to leave, spreading echoing choruses of "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go." His coworkers wished that he would do more mining and less voicing, but they overlooked his faults. Then one day, his strong voice caused a cave in that nearly killed Grumpy. Having taken all the voicing he could stand, Grumpy strangled poor Whimpey. Then as not to be wasteful, the seven dwarfs ate him for dinner. That is when they came to the unanimous conclusion that they liked Mike, I mean, Whimpey.

And so we see that the name Whimpey is an honorable surname, one that brings forth friendly images of echoes and barbecues. Thank you, Anonymous and Oats, for the opportunity to rectify my previous indiscretion.

Old Moosebutt: Whimpey defeated by not-so-Whimpey opponents

[Originally written November 7, 2007] The election results are in, and it is clear that the people of Orem do not want "a strong voice for the people." Michael J. Whimpey, the man who dared to ask others to "like Mike," was soundly defeated in local elections yesterday by Black, Seastrand, and Hernandez III (sort of like Rocky III except without the mohawk-sporting, bejeweled Mr. T). Analysts point to the loss as strong evidence that even a well chosen slogan cannot overcome a disastrously discrediting surname.

"I really thought that in the end it wouldn't make that much difference," said Whimpey in response to the suggestion that his last name might have been an insurmountable obstacle to winning a seat on the Orem City Council. "I did everything else correctly. I had a slogan. I handed out buttons. I used power yellow as a background color on all of my signs. I strongly refuted all assertions that I was the eighth dwarf. I don't see what I could have done differently."

"He could have changed his last name," stated Margaret Black. "Not that that would have changed the election results," she clarified. Black wooed voters with her searing, acrid criticism of the other candidates. "I wanted voters to perceive me as the anti-Whimpey," she confided.

Seastrand and Hernandez declined to comment on Whimpey's surname, although they both chuckled when questioned. Sumner, on the other hand, expressed relief that Whimpey had not won. "If Mike had beat me, I would have felt like a real loser. After all, in this city, only a corpse would have lost to an opponent whose last name reminds the voters of the democratic party. And even then, the election would have been close."

"I'm not a democrat," squealed Whimpey in response. "I am a republican. I drive a Hummer. I voted for school vouchers. I dressed up as the Governator for Halloween. You can't get any more republican than that."

"Whimpey doesn't even know how pathetic he really is," responded acid-spewing Councilwoman Black. "The wimp wouldn't last a week in the pressure cooker we refer to as the city council. The first accusation of accepting a bribe or misappropriating funds would have him wetting his pants." That brought on another round of chuckles from Seastrand and Hernandez. Then the three turned and walked off toward city hall, whistling 'Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work I go' as they left.

Day 1/365: Open Season

Today was the official first day of the season for garage sales. In our family, the season lasts until Labor Day weekend. My garage sale finds for today were some education books and a Voice Male CD. Little J and I are looking forward to a good season.

Clothes shopping with teenage boys

Today's tidbit of wisdom: Good looks and thinness are wasted on the young.

I took the boys to Old Navy last night. I usually enjoy taking the boys clothes shopping, because they always look good in whatever they try on. Shopping for myself, however, is depressing, because no matter what I try on, I still look fat and old. I had high hopes for this trip, too. Last year we were able to buy all the summer clothes for the boys in just one trip to Old Navy. I figured that with a little luck, we could do the same thing this year.

The boys were not cooperating this year, though. Mark decided that he wasn't buying anything until he had a chance to shop at Saver's, the local second hand clothing store. I tried to convince him that it was OK to buy a couple of things new, but he was having none of it. I suggested some particularly fashionable selections, and all he did was complain about the prices. Wake up, kid! That's MY job. You're the one who is supposed to be begging me to spend money on you. Matt finally talked Mark into buying something from the deep discount rack by promising Mark that he would wear it occasionally, too. Oh, and Mark did pick out two pairs of flip-flops (2 pairs for $5) to wear for lifeguarding.

Matt refused to buy any shorts because they all flared out a little at the knee. There was no way he was going to be caught wearing shorts that didn't fit tightly and go straight down his legs. He also refused to buy any shirts that weren't at least a size too small for him. After all, what's the point of working out if you can't wear shirts that display every muscle in your shoulders, chest and back? Josh and I started making fun of his need to show off his boobs, but even that didn't cause him to change his mind. And even more frustrating was that he wouldn't even try on some cool shorts with fish skeletons on them, despite his frequent admissions that I pick out the coolest clothes for him. If I was young and skinny, I would have bought a pair for myself.

Then there was dear ol' Josh, the kid who couldn't even tell me what color of T-shirt he liked. And when I asked him what kind of shorts he was interested in, he told me that he wanted some that were "just like" the pair of painter jeans (long pants, not shorts) he was wearing. When I began showing him the various styles of shorts he could choose from, however, he quickly ruled out any type of jean shorts, cargo shorts, or canvas painter shorts, despite the fact that these were the closest styles to what he was wearing. It became very apparent that "just like" didn't mean the same thing to him as it did to me. I gave up trying to interpret his teenage-ese and just grabbed one of everything in his size. He decided that he wanted the cargo shorts that didn't fit him and that would likely slide right off his butt if he put so much as a dime in one pocket. He wouldn't consider wearing a belt, so I vetoed that pair. Then he vetoed the one pair that fit. I guess we'll call it a draw.

I tried to look at the bright side as we left the store. I had saved a lot of money. I had the flip-flop situation for my oldest under control. My weight lifter would be able to model his sculpted bosom. And my youngest child wouldn't have to wear shorts that fit him. It may be the closest thing I get to a victory this summer.

The Mutha of Band Concerts

Before I begin this entry, let me first assure you that I love music, that I'm grateful my child is playing oboe and enjoying it, and that I think school band programs are generally a good idea. Of course, it is always possible to turn something good into an instrument of mass torture, which is what my child's band director did last night. Here's what happened.

We arrived 20 minutes early so that the boy could be there to warm up and get settled. Never mind that he wasn't going to play for an hour. He still had to be there early. While the boy slunk off to the band room, my two other kids and I tried to get into the auditorium, but it was locked. I should have realized that the locked door was an attempt by God to protect me from what was soon to happen. Unfortunately, I didn't recognize that the locked doors were a form of divine intervention. Instead, I wandered over to the band room, entered the auditorium through an open side door, and then went to the back of the auditorium and let the crowds in. Not only did this seal my own fate, but also the fates of all the other innocent parents of band members. We were like lambs being led unknowingly to the slaughter.

The first hour of the concert passed relatively painlessly, because I had brought a novel and read it during the beginning bands. My kids had been less wise, and they were wriggling and texting in their seats. And then my oboe player came on stage with the orchestra, and I had to put my novel away to maintain my "good father" status. The orchestra director, however, recognized that it had already been a long evening, and he kept his part of the program moving quickly. The orchestra finished in less than a half hour, and then the symphonic band came on the stage.

I was feeling hopeful at this point in the concert, because there were only four pieces left on the program. I thought that perhaps the concert might finish in less than 2 hours and 15 minutes, the previous record for the shortest band concert. No such luck. Not only were each of the pieces long, but in between each piece, the director talked and passed out awards. Unlike the orchestra director, the band director seemed to have no sense of the amount of time he was wasting and the growing restlessness in the audience. My two children were beginning to mutter threats and complaints after each song or presentation. But the band director droned on. To make matters even worse, all four of the pieces he selected were contemporary pieces—you know, the kind of pieces that are so dissonant that you can't tell if the musicians are playing the notes correctly. We spent nearly the whole time squirming in our seats. The only thing that kept my head from exploding was an occasional oboe solo. I seriously don't know how the kids survived.

Perhaps even more annoying than all of that, though, was the screaming that went on when certain people received band awards. The worst was the lustful screaming for Brayden Santos. The girls behind us seriously screamed his name for two minutes, repeating over and over again how hot he was. I nearly stood up, turned around and screamed back, "Brayden's mine, you whore!"

The concert finally ended at 9:40. We had been there for 3 hours. I thought Wendy's frosties and frosty floats were in order. When I got home, my wife, who has not attended a single high school band concert all year long, asked me why I was so cranky. I told her that she would soon find out because next year was her turn to go to the band concerts. Then, out of pity for her future suffering, I let her have some of my frosty.

Prom Pictures 2008

My two oldest boys went to prom this year. I've learned that being the father of the boys means I don't get to take any pictures of the boys with their dates. Here is a picture of my two boys in black along with their friend Kyler from next door, taken just before church started on the following day. Kyler refused to wear his rented tux to church, so he wore his grandfather's tux instead. Also, he wouldn't give me a normal smile.

Okay, Ky, you can't produce a normal smile, but you feel comfortable doing this? You're going to need a really, really good campaign manager if you're ever going to be president of the US.

Here's a picture of Matt with his good friend Samantha. I told him that when he marries her, we will put this picture up at the wedding and pretend that she was his prom date. Samantha's mom thought I was hilarious. Matt thought I was so funny that he was ready to walk home.

Yep, they're good lookin' guys. No way to help that.

"Ain't a just irresistible?"

"I'm waaaaay cool in a tux."

"I'm too sexy for my vest, too sexy for my vest, too sexy -- no jest!"

"Cut! And that's a wrap!"

"Just practicing for my next Bond film. Hope Samantha's the Bond girl."

Mothers and yellow jackets

I have many thoughts about mothers today, but one memory in particular stands out. During one summer in my mid-teens, I went with my family to Silver Creek Falls, a state park in Oregon with miles of trails to several beautiful water falls. As we hiked along the trails, we took a small path through fallen trees and bushes down to the creek to see if we could find any crawdads. On the way back to the trail, my brother, sister, and I inadvertently stepped on a rotten log as we walked along the path. By the time my mother, little sister, and father came along, there was a cloud of insects swarming over the log. They thought the insects were mosquitoes. As they walked through the swarm, they discovered that the insects were actually yellow jackets who had come out of their nest in the log to defend their home.

The yellow jackets immediately attacked, stinging all three people. My father let out a loud whoop, yanked out his white hanky, and swatted yellow jackets as he ran at top speed up the trail to get away from bees. My mom, on the other hand, grabbed my little sister and carried her away from the nest as fast as she could. Along the way, she flicked bees off my sisters body with no regard for the bees that were crawling under her own clothes and stinging her. As soon as they got away from the nest, my mother stripped my sister to her underwear so that she could get at the bees that were still stinging my sister. She used her bare hands to comb the bees out of my sister's hair. It wasn't until after she had rid my sister completely free of yellow jackets that she realized there were yellow jackets in her own clothes and hair, too. And still, as she killed the yellow jackets that were stinging her, she took breaks to comfort and calm my screaming little sister.

For years us kids would laugh about the spectacle of seeing my father yelping, jumping, and waving a white hanky as he ran up the trail. It wasn't until many years later, though, that I came to fully appreciate the other half of the story, the way my mother determinedly fought and killed the yellow jackets that were tormenting her child without any regard for her own pain and wellbeing. On this mother's day, I honor all mothers for their courage and devotion to their offspring, and particularly my mother and her sacrifices for me and my siblings.

More valuable than I thought

I was checking out the CNN website this morning when I learned that dinosaur poop from the Jurassic period recently sold for $960 at an auction. What an inspiring story! I thought that poop was generally pretty worthless. For example, just the other day I bought a 20 lb bag of steer manure for $1.29 at Lowe's. That means that I could buy 744 bags of steer manure (close to 7 1/2 tons of cow pies) for the same price as the dinosaur poop. That just goes to show how much poop appreciates over time.

That got me thinking about investments. Let's say I sunk $960 into steer manure and then held onto it for another 130 million years. Assuming a relatively conservative inflation rate of just 2% compounded annually, I used the following formula to find the net worth of this poop in the year 130,002,007:

When I tried to use a TI-89 to compute the value, it immediately kicked out the symbol for infinity. Being a math teacher, I knew that couldn't be right. Sure, it might be a big number, but there's no way that it could be infinitely large. So I went into work, booted up Mathematica, a high-powered mathematics application, and reentered the formula. I got the following answer:

Basically, my poop investment would be worth $20,479,554,970,775 followed by an additional 1,118,012 zeros. Talk about leaving a legacy for your posterity. And the beauty of the whole plan is that the crap I collect doesn't necessarily have to be cow manure. Let's say that I decided to stockpile all the dog droppings from the backyard. Or maybe I can save up all the poop from baby diapers in our neighborhood. Whatever. I just need a lot of crap and a place to store it. Then wait 130,000,000 years, and Eureka! (No pun intended.) I'm rolling in the dough.

My new mantra: When life gives you crap, make fossilized crap! And then sell it!