October 2008 - Posts

• Halloween is Scary, But For All The Wrong Reasons

  I could fill three blogs with the reasons I’m glad I’m not a parent of a small child these days. And that’s without considering the prospects of a President Obama or President McCain. But with Halloween upon us and all the media reports designed to scare the candy corn out of you, this is the time of year I most enjoy having full-grown children. I was going to say ‘adult’, but the jury’s still out on our oldest son. Anyway, according to a U.S. Census Bureau report, fewer children are trick-or-treating because the “demographic for it is declining.” If by ‘demographic’ they mean the parents who are too afraid to let their kids trudge through the neighborhood, then I say we’ve found at least one government report that was accurate. From perverse distributors of unsafe candy to roaming packs of often-violent bullies and even the frighteningly high number of pedophiles, Halloween has become a sad commentary on the state of our society This year, the state of Maryland has even gone so far as to mail bright orange cardboard jack-o-lanterns to 1,200 individuals who are on the state’s sex offender’s list. These state-issued decorations come with the warning that there’s “No Candy at This Residence,” and requires the offender to prominently display the sign in their front window. As a parent, I’d prefer a sign that simply says a sex offender lives here the other 364 days a year, too, but that’s just me. Yes, we can argue the civil liberties aspect of this Spooktacular Scarlet Letter, but the point is to make the parent aware that this might not be the best place to leave your children unsupervised. The shunning of this door-to-door panhandling has been increasing each year; families are now more apt to don costumes and parade around churches, schools and community centers. No longer are little ones allowed to fan out across the ‘hood like an invading army and pillage their way to sugar nausea and rotting teeth. I was in the waning years of trick-or-treating age (probably about 12) when a family friend – Wade Poole was his name – would accompany our pre-teen gaggle from house to house. Mr. Poole would spend most of October searching for a pumpkin big enough in which to literally stick his head. Once found, Mr. Wade would gut the giant gourd, carve out the eyes and mouth, and lop enough off the bottom so that it would slide on his head like some mutated space helmet. He’d complete the ensemble with a bright white sheet, and this Great Pumpkin would be our escort for the evening. Yes – we would still go through our candy piece by piece – even in the early 70s there were twisted people who put pins in candy bars and razor blades in apples. But at least we had an adult – an authority figure - with us to keep us safe from weirdoes, hoodlums and the scary old witch that would holler at us for cutting through her yard. Still, nearly seven billion dollars is spent on Halloween, making it the second most commercialized day on the calendar. And now the green movement is getting in on the act. I won’t dignify them with identification, but I recently stumbled upon a website that features suggestions for having a green Halloween. In addition to the expected tips on homemade costumes and recycling candy wrappers, they offered this little nugget as a viable candy alternative: teabags. I’d rather get a rock. And not just any old black pekoe (although, the blogger admits to handing out a variety of herbals), but peppermint tea, because it goes best with Halloween treats (that is, if the rest of the neighborhood doesn’t substitute Folger’s Singles for chocolate bars). If ever a house deserved an egging it’s the one who hands out herbal teas instead of sugary heaven. Just foolin’, kiddies, ol’ Poo-paw does not condone vandalism. Eggs are bad for both the paintjob and your cholesterol. And the shells take forever to biodegrade. This year, the gremlin will be a bumblebee or a Transformer – if his mother (or Kim Jong-ma as she’s known to my grandson) can get him to wear the headpiece. He’ll be visiting the enemy grand-camp and the homes of other friends and relatives, and then stopping here at The Palace for a few sweet treats and I’m guessing a diaper change. So keep your loved ones close this All Hallows Eve – there aren’t a lot of Great Pumpkins out there keeping an eye on them. And you can still celebrate the fun of the holiday (and the minty goodness of tea) without venturing into the madness. Besides, with all the recent home foreclosures, finding a haunted house whose ghosts haven’t been evicted is practically impossible. By J. Doug Gill  Posted Oct 31 2008, 09:34 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting, halloween [Edit Tags]

• The Final Countdown

  I know you’ve interacted with this mother (or father): “Stop that. Put that down. Don’t do that. Don’t make me count to THREE… one… TWO…” Yep, and then comes three. Anyone who attended public school has known that little tidbit since at least the fifth grade. It’s been quite a while since we threatened our four ingrates…umm, children… with the Final Countdown. We usually stopped at one, as in: “Number one, buy your own damn alcohol.” But everywhere I go (a massive list that includes the grocer, the big box retailer and the big box home improvement retailer), I run into a parent who inevitably will threaten their little Lucifer with the dreaded countdown. Moms at the grocery store are the most fun. It was once said that if you’re single, the grocery store is one of the best places to pick up women. Well, I’ve been doing the grocery shopping for this household for about a decade now and I can’t confidently say that the originator of that expression is, well, a liar. Unless I’m shopping at the wrong stores, the only women I encounter are dragging around their preschoolers and counting down because of candy-, juice- or cereal-aisle infractions. And then there are the ones who pack four kids into the SUV-size kiddie grocery cart and commit the kind of traffic violations that – on real roads – would result in license revocation. But we’ll save that little nugget for another day and another blog. These ladies are anything but available – save for the role of surrogate starter pistols at the track meet. Or at NASA’s Mission Control (Houston, I’m not telling you again to launch that shuttle…one…TWO). Hmmm… perhaps the proper verbiage would be count up, but then my title that references an album release by the horrible Swedish ‘80s band, Europe, would be rendered moot.  Anyway, I even crossed paths recently with my daughter’s sister-in-law, who happens to be married to a Hispanic gentleman, and she had their three offspring in tow. Five minutes into the meeting, you guessed it: uno… DOS. Ay carumba! This past Sunday, when the children and our little grand gnome came home to roost (roosting to an empty nest parent, by the way, means they visit for no more than five hours – six if I’m drinking), I met yet another counter in our family room: the mother of the grand gremlin. My daughter – or Ayatollah Kho-mommy as she’s known to my grandson – has become one of those who are implementing numerical nomenclature into disciplinary tactics. ‘Justin, put your toys in the toybox. Justin, toybox, please. Justin… one…TWO.’ ‘Justin, put on your shoes. Justin, the shoes. Justin, one…TWO.’ ‘Justin, don’t make me count. Justin, you don’t want me to count. Justin, one…TWO.’ I want to scream THREE THREE THREE, for god’s sake THREE, just so someone will get a spanking or a flogging or a darn good thrashing! Or, at the very least, an extended time out. Of course, as my daughter is showing off her mathematical prowess, my grandson is flapping his arms like they’re on fire, bursting into the kind of tears that normally accompany crying with no sound, and running around in circles like the other two stooges are chasing him with mallets. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, indeed. Just as little Justin reaches the point that will soon bring dictatorial arrest and incarceration, he performs the desired task and goes about the business of being smack in the middle of his terrible twos. I never did understand the counting premise - maybe because my father never bothered to count. At the point of infraction, my dad would simply grab my arm with all the force of, I don’t know, a vice grip and lean in for a soft whisper into my ear. “Douglas, unless you want to spend the next hour crying and unable to sit down I recommend you do what I told you to do.” Yeah, dad was never a big fan of one or two, but he sure was a huge proponent of three. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Oct 23 2008, 08:03 AM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandchild, grandparents, grandfather, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• Toddlers and Telephones

  These days, there’s a brand new ritual when I call my daughter’s house. Whether I’m talking to my son-in-law about the sorry state of our favorite professional football team or exchanging general niceties with our eldest girl-child, my grandson will inevitably want to join me for a little phone conversation. I’ll admit that it’s cute – sort-of – but only after our gabfest is complete. Going from point ‘a’ to point ‘b’ is not so delightful, and we do not go gently into that transition. More often than not, I’ll hear little Justin whoopin’ and hollering in the background, and then, much like a tiger on an unsuspecting villager, he pounces on the in-use communication device. “My turn.” Once I hear the child utter these two words I know the beast that guards hell has been unleashed. Yesterday, as my daughter and I discussed plans for the weekend and one of my most recent appearances on a local radio station, I could hear the cry of ‘my turn’ building to a fevered crescendo. My son-in-law is quick to hand over the phone. Having lived with my daughter for quite a few years now, he obviously understands the white flag concept. My daughter – or Pol Pot as she’s known to my grandson – however, turns on that mom gene that blocks out all the noise the boy can muster. I don’t think she understands that I possess no such genetic material, and the perpetual harping of myturnmyturnmyturnmyturn drives me batty. But not as loopy as, I don’t know, my daughter screaming in my ear that it’s NOT YOUR TURN, IT’S MOMMY’S TURN. ‘Honey,’ I say, ‘go ahead and put Justin on the phone.’ ‘Yeah, I will,’ she replies, turning on the former teenage gene that blocks out everything the old man says. “JUSTIN, it is mommy’s turn, when it’s your turn I’ll let you know. IT’S MOMMY’S TURN.” I keep waiting for her to bark at the boy that it’s time to clean the latrines. Justin could care less if it were the Queen of England’s turn; he feels he is next in line for the phone throne. Once my daughter thrusts the phone into his breadbasket (I’m just guessing here), she chastises him for phone-related infractions. “Put it up to your ear.” “Talk into it the right way.” “Don’t PUSH any buttons.” If I were the kid I’d throw it away like a live hand grenade and go screaming into the street. Just a side note of useless knowledge for you: Did you know the very first telephone operators were boys? True story. Young males had done such a great job of working in telegraph offices that the very first phone companies thought they would be a natural for the operator position. As boys are wont to do, however, they started wrestling around the switchboard, crank calling folks, and even hurling curse words at callers. Women were hired not long after; upper management’s reasoning was that they were better behaved than males, and could be had for half the wages. Really. Pinky swear. Google it if you doubt the Poo-Paw. Where was I? Oh yeah, running screaming into the street. But rather than flee for his young life, my grandson gathers himself and says, “Hi Poo-pa.” He doesn’t quite have the ‘w’ sound down yet. For the next couple of minutes I ask him what he’s doing (‘play cars’ being the standard answer) what he had for breakfast (‘eggs-n-cheese’ are always the menu item of choice), and if he was being a good boy (‘yes’ is the stock reply). With Pol Pot for a mother, would you admit to unruly behavior? The next few minutes are spent trying to unscramble garbled sentences recognizable only to fellow toddlers and those who are in the Satan-possessed phase of speaking in tongues. And then, as I wait for him to return the phone to the Supreme Leader (and question my sanity for calling in the first place), the sweet little gnome utters, “Bye, Poopa. Wuv you.” I think I’ll be calling everyday from here on out. By J. Doug Gill Posted Oct 15 2008, 05:04 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• Fun With Words

  So, what have you guys been doing for the last few days? Me? I’ve been watching the stock market and keeping an eye on my retirement package. When the closing bell rang today I was down to a tube of Polident and a half-can of Metamuscil. I’ve actually been trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid media coverage of the financial mess. There isn’t enough 12-year-old Cragganmore Scotch in my neighborhood package goods to sufficiently numb one’s exposure to the bleak ramblings of one’s preferred talking head. Looks like we all picked a bad week to stop sniffing glue. As the regular readers of this Poo-Paw space may already know, the wife is an AARP member. Yours truly is – as I love pointing out at every opportunity – not quite old enough to qualify for membership. But I do take full advantage of the benefits of grandma’s membership, and have found myself to be quite a fan of the old folks’ publications. When the AARP Bulletin arrived the other day, I snagged it from the mail pile and headed off to the bath… er… reading room. After skimming through the requisite stories aimed at seniors, I came across a snappy little read entitled ‘50 Words Kids Think You Don’t Know.’ However, before I address the general snotty tone of the piece, I did want to mention – in a nod to the financial reference in my opening – that this issue featured a story that, well, scared the bejeezes right out of me. The article opened with the following scenario: “Behind a security gate in the desolate parking lot of a California church, the 55 year-old grandmother settles in for the night in the backseat of her Jeep Cherokee.” Yep, she is homeless. And, even though she works a full-time job and has been in the workforce her entire life, this grandmother is just one of 4,000 people (most of them over 62) in the Santa Barbara area who can’t afford to keep a roof over their heads. It’s gotten so bad that retail stores are opening their parking lots during non-shopping hours so these car-dwellers have a safe neighborhood in which to sleep. Anyway, to escape this brutal glimpse at reality, I turned to the inside back page and read a list of slang expressions that apparently our children think are just too damn hip for us to understand. Among them? Google, webisode, bling, the bomb, fo’shizzle and badonkadonk. Puh-leeze. One, the frenemies using this verbiage must be trapped in the 90s, yo, cause, like, terminology like fo’shizzle is so old it be wack. And two, much like the non-English speaking person who can understand just enough of the language to know you’re speaking ill of them, us seasoned citizens like to pretend we know less than we really do. It keeps us from being saddled with activities in which we really don’t want to participate. Sort of like when the wife asks me to fix something plumbing-, electrical- or carpentry-related. I’m probably more in ‘the loop’ than your average Poo-Paw. After all, I make my living as a freelance writer, and more often than not am called upon for commentary and observation of current pop culture. That will certainly help when my little grand gnome starts tossing out terms like TMI, BFF, crackberry and wikidemia. “That’s tight, little dude,” I will utter, and he will find that grandpa is indeed one of his peeps and most certainly rocks. But in the interest of fair time, I thought about a partial list of just a few words that this generation of youngsters seemingly doesn’t understand. Manners – not the yes ma’am, no sir kinda stuff (although that would be nice), but the hold the door open, get off your cell phone, stop saying ‘huh’ brand of social conduct that, if they had thumbs, any species of chimp could muster. Respect – and not just for your fellow man, but for yourself, your property and for those who love you. And if you don’t respect yourself, never expect any one else to respect you. Earn – work for something. Set some goals, show some initiative and stop blaming everyone else for things that go awry. And don’t expect a new BMW on your 16th birthday. Mollycoddled – what you’ve been since birth, and now that you’ve reached an age where your parents should no longer be doing things for you, you’re as lost as the aforementioned thumb-less chimp. Listen – see manners, respect, earn and mollycoddled above. Perhaps then we can eliminate three words that have been applied all-too-often to this generation of youth: disillusioned, bored and uneducated. And if I sound grouchy, I am. Stories of homeless grandparents will do that to you. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Oct 10 2008, 04:30 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Hooked on Disney

  I’ve never harbored any ill will toward Disney. Not the theme parks, nor the characters or even horrible films like “Snow Dogs”, “Haunted Mansion” or any sequel to any movie they ever made. If it’s a Disney film with a “2” next to it your choices are few: either run screaming in the other direction or bravely attempt to kill it with fire. When I was a wee chap back in the early ‘60s, animated films such as “101 Dalmatians” and live action stuff like “Mary Poppins” defined the Disney experience. And every Sunday night meant it was time to turn one of our three TV channels (four if you count the snowy UHF reception) to “The Wonderful World of Disney”. I was also quite captivated by Mouseketeer Annette Funicello - she was the only 12 year-old girl I’d ever seen who needed a c-cup training bra. Hey, I was a kid - so that’s not as sick as it sounds. I’m not sure when the magical world ceased being ‘cool’, but I do know that wearing anything Mickey or Donald or Pluto to school after 3rd grade usually resulted in being beaten… well… goofy (sorry, couldn’t resist). Today, however, it’s easy to pinpoint my distaste for the giant mouse and his pals - Hannah Montana being one reason, the Jonas Brothers being another. And let’s not even talk about their ‘gift’ of the Spears family. And since I’m a huge fan of “Monday Night Football”, I blame Disney (who owns ESPN) for ruining my pleasurable pigskin viewing by hiring the most annoying man ever to breathe, Tony Kornheiser. But Tony the Terrible is not my main reason for ranting on the Disney bunch. No, my anti-Disney stance stems from the recent remodeling of my grandson’s bedroom. As you may recall, we recently dined in the house of gnome and were treated to a tour of his newly renovated living space. When my daughter shared with me – by phone – that they had gone with the Disney/Pixar Cars theme for the imp’s room, I had no idea what that entailed. A bedspread was a given, as were curtains and pillows and other such linen accoutrements. Stuffed versions of the film’s characters were also a necessity. My wife even participated in the branding, having returned from a recent meeting in Orlando with a mini-pillow Lightning McQueen. What I wasn’t prepared for was the seemingly endless roster of all things “Cars.” Let’s start with the bathroom. There are Cars the Movie towels, soap dispensers, shower curtains, shower hooks, tumblers, soap dishes, toothbrushes and wastebaskets. For the bedroom we have Cars the Movie wall hooks, wall borders, wall murals and even toddler beds. You’ve got your desktop pencil sharpener, notepad, stapler and tape dispenser. Hmmm… maybe those last few are for your Cars-themed office space. For the kitchen there are Cars the Movie Tupperware bowls (with lids), sandwich containers (with E-Z freeze lid), a 12-piece sculptured flatware set and something called a clamshell three-piece mealtime set. Tired of your expensive Ethan Allan ensemble? Replace it with a Cars the Movie work desk (with storage) or the three piece table and chair set. And please don’t overlook the flip open foam slumber sofa or the outdoor patio set with umbrella. Other sundry items include clothing, backpacks, fabric, costumes, key chains, lunchboxes, party supplies, school supplies, room décor, books, calendars, puzzles, posters, stand-ups and of course, toys. Look at how far we’ve come from a pair of stupid ears. I’m not sure this is what Walt Disney had in mind when he began building his empire. The folks who run the corporate kingdom these days care more about profits and branding than they do about the wonderment of children. Anyway, I’m apparently not the only one who feels this way. A Google of the term ‘Disney sucks’ brought back more than 3.5 million hits. And while you won’t end up with some creepy animated Chip and Dale porno, you will find more than a few of the top returns lobbing the magical f-bomb at Cinderella’s Castle. And nearly all of them point to the way the company markets to kids. Oh, and by the way: if you don’t run right out and buy all the Cars stuff mentioned in this blog you may be sorry. Next week, it all goes back in the Disney vault – never again to be seen (unless they need to up the revenue haul just in time for the holidays). By J. Doug Gill   Posted Oct 04 2008, 01:38 PM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw, grandparenting, disney [Edit Tags]