Resident Evil: Raccoon City

Many people think raccoons are so sweet and cuddly. They think they might be little mischievous, but harmless. Let me tell you about a little run-in I had with a raccoon a little while ago and it might change your mind... or it might change your opinion of me. Either way, something's gonna change.

Several months ago I was relaxing with my family on a Saturday morning. We were watching cartoons and eating some cereal and enjoying our weekend. All of a sudden I hear my dogs barking outside. Not the normal bark that signifies playing. This was "I need to wrap my jaws around that thing" kind of bark. I open our front door and I see my dogs attacking the fence in my side yard which wrapped around to the front of my house. My dogs are big enough that I actually thought they might break my chain link fence down. I glanced over my front railing to see what they were barking at and I saw a very large raccoon. It looked really scared and was cowering in the corner between my concrete foundation and concrete front steps. I quickly went to the back door and brought my dogs inside. I gave them a quick "once-over" to make sure they hadn't tangled with the raccoon. There were no obvious injuries so I closed the back door and went back around to the front to see if the raccoon had decided to continue in his mischievous adventures. He hadn't. He was still standing there breathing really heavily. He was also bleeding, but I couldn't tell where he was bleeding from.

I went back into my house and grabbed half of my cinnamon raisin bagel that I prepared with the perfect amount of cream cheese. I wasn't excited about sharing, but figured the raccoon could eat my bagel and then be on his way once he had his energy back. My boys were both begging me to let them go outside to play with the raccoon. I gritted my teeth and tossed the portion of bagel onto the ground approximately 6 inches in front of Mr. Raccoon. He didn't immediately jump for it so I thought maybe he was still trying to catch his breath. I closed the front door and started trying to figure out how he had been injured. We lived on a fairly busy road so it was possible he had been hit by a car and managed to mischievously find his way to my front porch, tipping over garbage cans on his way. It was also possible that a different neighborhood dog had gotten a hold of him. We shared a property line with several other large lots with dogs roaming on them.

After about 20 minutes I opened the door and noticed my bagel was still untouched and the raccoon hadn't budged. I had to lean over my railing to see the raccoon and he never once looked up to see who was making all of the commotion above him. On top of all this, my kids were still wanting to go out and play. I didn't feel comfortable with my kids playing so close to a mischievously injured and unpredictable, bloody raccoon.

I called Animal Control to let them know about our situation. Animal Control informed me that they do not respond to calls involving raccoons. They said something about how they weren't domesticated animals and therefore weren't equipped to deal with them... whatever the crud that means. They DID give me the phone number to the Division of Wildlife something or other. So I called them... but got their answering machine. Apparently they think that all miscellaneous wildlife residing in Utah hibernate every weekend, all year long and so they don't find it necessary to work on the Sabbath or the special day before when we all get ready for Sunday.

So at this point I start wondering what my options were. I have a gun, but I live within city limits and it would be illegal to discharge my firearm. Plus the raccoon was really close to my house and I wasn't excited about shooting toward my own home. I remembered that I had a large dog kennel, but was trying to picture myself attempting to coax a large, evil, wild raccoon into the medium-sized enclosure. It wasn't gonna happen.

I walked back into the front yard to see if maybe I could scare it away... without getting too close, of course. I got to the bottom of my steps and turned to look at the raccoon. For the first time the raccoon looked up at me and made eye contact. I had closed my front door behind me, but I heard it open as I was staring at this raccoon. I noticed it was bleeding from one of it's ears. It bared it's teeth at me and made a really odd gurgling sound. It looked like it might actually jump or at least try to jump toward me. I looked up and saw my boys standing in the doorway beginning to walk toward the railing to see the adorable mischievous raccoon. I instructed them rather harshly to get their skinny butts back inside and watch The Wiggles. They begrudgingly complied and I shifted my attention back to Mr. Raccoon who was still baring his teeth, but was swaying from side-to-side and slightly counter-clockwise like he'd had a few too many to drink. This creeped me out more than raccoon blood oozing out of his ears. I decided I needed to do something.

I went back in the house and told Betsy to take our kids into the back bedroom to finish watching the Wiggles and the pit stains that grow slowly during every song. She asked me what I was going to do and I told her I was going to kill the raccoon before it hurt anyone or any neighborhood dog.


I walked out to my garage and grabbed the only thing I thought would do the trick quickly and effectively. Our garden shovel. I walked back into the front yard and stood about 10 feet in front of the raccoon for several minutes trying to decide if I had it in me. The only animal I've ever purposely killed in my life up until then was bees, worms, ants, and other random insects. I was moving pretty quickly it seemed. I mean, there was no natural progression from insects to hamsters to frogs to kittens to rabbits, THEN to dog-sized raccoons.

I also studied the shovel quite a bit. I decided to use the back of the shovel and hit the raccoon as hard as I possibly could on the top of his head. I felt like one hit should do it if I could hit him just right. I don't have the best depth perception so I actually started thinking, "What if I swing too long and the shovel skips off the house or stairs? That would slow my swing down enough where it might just piss this thing off." Then I thought, "What if I swing too short and end up breaking the raccoons nose off? Then he'll really want to scratch me up with those razor sharp mischievous claws."


Meanwhile this raccoon is staring at me, gurgling, showing me his bloody sharp teeth and swaying all over the place. I decided if I was going to do it, I needed to do it right then. So I whipped the shovel around my back, brought it above my head, and swung it down as hard as I possibly could.

I was a perfect hit. If I played baseball, it would have totally been a home run. And the raccoon didn't even seem to see it coming. He was too distracted bleeding and thinking about what other mischievous acts he could get up to in the afterlife, he didn't even notice my shovel.

The sound it made was slightly higher pitched than I would have imagined. It was the sound of steel hitting furred skull that I couldn't get out of my head for about 3 days (that's how I know I could never be serial killer). After I hit him, he dropped just like I expected him to, but I swear he looked like he was trying to get up and kill me. I swung the shovel about 5 more times in a panic, thinking he was going to find his way up my pant leg like a squirrel and reek havoc in my crotch. After the 5th swing, he was still convulsing and a thought popped into my head. It was "Flip the shovel around and lop off his head like they do in all those zombie movies." So that's what I tried to do. It seems, however, that eating garbage gives raccoons unnaturally tough skin and fur. It was either that, or maybe that 130 pounds behind a shovel just doesn't cut it (pun intended).

So finally, the raccoon stopped moving, but he wasn't fooling anybody. It took me a really long time to build up the courage to shovel this raccoon into a garbage bag and put him in the can. I kept thinking maybe he wasn't dead and was gonna jerk his head up, bare his bloody teeth at me and gargle the words, "That hurt, what you did to me with that shovel".

He didn't though. He was dead. I'm sure he's still dead unless someone buried him in that Pet Semetary.

Saturday Morning Post

Remember a couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I would not be putting much energy into my weekend posts since not very many people care to peruse my blog on the weekend. I know this because of the extreme lack of comments left on my blog on Saturday and Sunday. Plus, my best friend John just posted one of my favorite posts since he started writing his blog about 6 months ago.

Side Note: I was actually reading John's blog a while back and noticed a grammatical error that was very very horrendous... even by John's standards. I called him to point it out so he could change it before all of his friends read this particular post. John told me that he was driving to a meeting and wouldn't be by a computer for about 10 hours so he'd be unable to change it. I volunteered to make the correction for him (since we both have the same password for everything [long story]). So I logged into his blog, made the change, and then looked at his lists of posts to see if he had any "in the works". Sure enough, I saw a post called "The Truth Is...". I read the post and was instantly jealous that he'd thought of the idea first. It was such a great idea and the nuggets of John Trivia he was revealing were fascinating gems (all of which I knew, but were entertaining nonetheless).

My point is that more than half of my "blog buddies" I actually stole from John. I guess we're technically sharing them, but now that John has a sweet post for everyone to read... I'm afraid my blog will just be an afterthought... which gives me even more of a reason to make this weekend post brief and simple. This plan has already kind of backfired since I've rambled on for longer than I intended.

Aaaaaannnnnyway... most people think when they get to college their technique for doing homework assignments needs to change. They make an extra effort to sound mature in their writing styles and focus on trying to give the professors exactly what they ask for. I have a hard time with that. Especially when professors start off the semester by telling the class they need to keep a "journal". Then they proceed to give you a topic for each "journal" entry. AND they tell you to write one-single-spaced page! Criminy. A whole page? Single spaced? Seriously?

Well, no matter how hard I tried I could never make the whole page sound intelligent, so eventually I stopped trying. I got to a point where I would start out answering the question, but then I'd throw in a story that I might actually write in a REAL LIFE journal (if I kept one). Then I struggled to tie my story into the topic the professor asked me to write about. I found an example that I'll share for this weekends Lazy Post. Here you go:

Journal 2 August 29 Cameron Daley English 3210

Looking at language and structure, how does the tone and focus shift as she moves between spring and summer?

I think this book would have fun to write. As I read it, I notice that Hubbell seems to be just typing at random, jotting down her thoughts with little regard to content. If something interesting happened, then she writes about it. If she has a question, she asks it. If she happens to discover something new about her environment or herself, she writes that down, as well. Sometimes her answers are her own. Hubbell earned the answer so why should she just give the answer away to anyone who might wonder the same thing she has? It could just as easily be her selfishness at not wanting to share as it could be her refusal to spell everything out for her audience. She may just want us to work a little bit in order to retrieve the answers that she's worked so hard to attain.

I don't know much about the tone in regard to transitioning from spring to summer, but I've noticed that it seems like Hubbell is enjoying herself a bit more. She isn't as melancholy. She appears to be branching out and experiencing more of her surroundings. I'm not sure why it seems like that since she's stated obviously that she's very familiar with her estate and keeping bees, but regardless, Hubbell is having fun. She likes to tell stories.

About two weeks ago I woke up in the middle of the night because the ring finger on my left hand was itching like crazy. I was scratching it like mad and I was surprised I wasn't bleeding. That's how hard I was scratching. But it was three in the morning and I couldn't be bothered to find out what was causing the infernal itch. I went back to sleep and awoke four hours later with a gargantuan fat lip. It was the creepiest feeling when the realization sunk in that I'd been bit by something twice during the night. Even creepier was the thought that I woke up in between bites. My wife is pregnant and almost threw up when she realized a spider or house centipede had been crawling on my face at some point in the evening. But it doesn't take much to tip my wife over the edge of expulsion lately.

This is a true story that has not been exaggerated in the least, and it's a fun story to tell. I understand why Hubbell has decided to write like this. The only problem must be her inability to witness the reactions the readers have to her anecdotes.

First Photo's

Betsy asked me to put some of these photo's on my blog. She didn't specify which ones to put on and I have my favorites so that's what I'm posting. Betsy isn't happy with any photo's she's in... ever... so no matter what I do, if she's in it, I shouldn't have posted it.

There's a girl in our ward who takes these pictures in a studio in her basement. I know that everyone knows someone nowadays who does photography, but this girl is pretty freakin' good at what she does. Anyway... here's the first professional photo's of Season. We have about 80 of them and I think these are a few of the best:

KSL

I'm totally addicted to KSL.com. I'm usually more interested in the comments than in the actual stories. I go through spurts when I can't get enough of the comment boards. I'll make a comment on 3 or 4 stories in about 10 minutes and then spend the next 7 hours bouncing from comment to comment to see if my comments are being voted "funny" (it's amazing how much satisfaction I get from strangers voting my comments as "funny"). Sometimes someone will reply to my comment and I'll start a dialogue with them that takes place bit by bit over the course of several hours or as long as several days.

Occasionally I'll find opportunity to make a comment that I KNOW is funny, but is also bordering on inappropriate. I almost always take my chances just to see how it plays out. At least monthly, someone will get so extremely offended at a comment I've made that they'll reply to me and let me have it. At that point I'll begin a banter (see below) that ends up getting other people riled up against me... sometime to a point where I fear for my life... but then I do it all again the next day.

I go by the alias "Hobbes" on KSL, but I also have a different alter ego named "Western Family." Western Family will occasionally jump in and come to Hobbes' rescue if he's getting beat up too badly. Don't tell anyone, though. I don't want people knowing that I agree with myself when nobody else does.

The comments below are from a story about how a noise ordinance law is on the table that would (in part) force motorcycles to quiet their loud pipes so they don't irritate the crud out of everyone around them.

Have a great day.

Totally Inappropriate

For some reason, I was the only one of my siblings who had a blog until recently (my older brother Ryan just started one a couple of weeks ago). I'm surprised my other two brothers and my sister don't have one. They're all hilarious and I'd love to read their humorous takes on their respective Life Events.

So I was looking through some of the photo's I have saved on my thumb drive and I found some family photos I'd like to share... one of which is PG-13, so if you're not 13 years of age, then make sure your parents aren't in the room when you scroll to the photo.

Last Halloween Ryan dressed up as a priest and my younger brother dressed up as a boyscout. You can see from the photo that the boyscout shirt was an extra small, but that's all the D.I. had available. So near the end of the party we all start making off color jokes about how Ryan keeps on checking Kyle out and kind of eyeing Kyle's protruding stomach. Before we know what's going on, Ryan and Kyle start posing for as many crude, yet strangely humorous, photos that we can come up with. This one was my idea. Yup. The priest is gagging the boyscout with his own Neckerchief while pinching his nipple.

Rule #1

I know that I've had several posts lately that make some sort of mention of fecal matter, and I apologize if you are offended at the topic... but I can't help myself. I'm at work right now and I just came from the employee bathroom. There are only two stalls available for employees and I was in the preferred, king size, handicapped stall, minding my own business, doing my printable Sudoku puzzle.

I heard someone fumbling around outside the bathroom door, obviously trying to get their key in the lock as fast as possible. Whoever it was finally made it into the bathroom and immediately jumped into the stall next to mine. Luckily, the worst of my episode was over so I was pretty much just doing my puzzle. I listened to this guy breathing really heavily while trying to position the toilet seat cover. I could hear the really thin paper being unfolded and pulled back and forth for about 20 seconds. Then this guy sits down and I hear the messiest release that I may have ever heard. I hear him groaning and sighing for a few seconds and I take this opportunity to glance under the stall to see what kind of shoes this guy is wearing. I think most of us do this for some reason. I don't really know why I do it. Maybe because I think that messy episodes (like this guy ) should belong to sneakers with lawnmowing grass stains or something as opposed to polished penny loafers.

Sure enough I see a pair of beat up white sneakers and denim jeans. Yup. That's typical of the soundtrack I'd just heard. But then I heard something interesting. I heard the distinct sound of air freshener being sprayed. Now I know this type of thing is not unusual for women's bathrooms. From what I've heard, it is fairly common for girls stalls to have cans of air freshener. But not the boys room. I've never seen a can of air freshener in a stall in a boys bathroom before. Never. But I started glancing around my handicapped kingdom to see if I had a can of air freshener, as well. I didn't see one. Then this guy broke "bathroom code" Rule #1. He spoke to me. "You know it's bad when you have to bring your own can of air freshener in order to survive." I gave him an audible chuckle and immediately began wrapping up my own visit. I really didn't want to have a verbal exchange with this guy... especially in this environment.

I also wanted to hurry so we weren't washing our hands at the same time. Then there'd be some sort of obligation to speak to him. It wouldn't exist normally, but he'd already broken the verbal barrier by speaking to me so now I'd at least have to acknowledge him if we were standing next to each other at the sinks.

As I was quickly washing my hands, I couldn't help but wonder how this guy was able to sneak an entire can of air freshener into the bathroom. I say "sneak" because I can't imagine he'd walk casually through the building toward the bathroom with a can of air freshener tucked under his arm. It's the same reason I don't carry a newspaper in there with me. I don't want people seeing me and thinking "Well, he's gonna be in there for a while." I just want them to think I'm going number one.

That's why girls are so lucky. Even when you see feet under the stall wall, you can still think they might only be going pee. If you see a guy's feet under the stall door... you KNOW what they're doing.

PS I just created a "Twitter" account cause I thought it looked cool, but I don't know anyone else who has one and I'm not exactly sure how they work. Any advice?

Rulen Brandt Daley

My dad is celebrating his 58th birthday on Monday and Father's Day is next Sunday. I'm broke so I've been trying to figure out what I could get him. I decided to dedicate this post to him and detail some things I've learned from the second best dad in the world (I'm the first best dad in the world and I have a t-shirt to prove it).

My dad has taught me integrity. I remember when I was about 7, we went to Disneyland as a family. I saw a sign outside the front gate that said Children 4 and Under are Free. It was Nick's 5th birthday that day. I told my dad that he could save $35 if he just told them Nick's birthday was tomorrow. I mean, really... it's only one day. My dad said that would be dishonest and he refused to lie. I've remembered that experience after all these years. I'd like to think I never had to be retaught that lesson, except... when I was 17 my dad noticed I had stolen some towels from a hotel I'd stayed at while appling for the Marine Corps. My dad didn't say much of anything, but I found out later he had taken the towels back to the hotel and apologized for my behavior. How embarrassing (that I stole when I was 17... not that he returned them).

My dad has taught me respect. When I was in Young Men's (about 12) in church our leader Loron Marler divided us into teams and told us to come up with a team name for an activity. My best friend J.B. Hinrichs and I decided on the genius name of Sretab-Rutsam. Loron asked repeatedly what it meant and we made something up about a band we listened to or something.
We thought it was hilarious until the next Sunday when we saw our team names printed in the Sacrament Program with the team members names under them. My dad figured it out pretty quickly and then escorted me to Loron after church so I could apologize.

My dad taught me fairness. When I was five I accompanied my parents to a Ward Softball game at the park. There was a playground that I spent all my time on. I thought it was entertaining to stand next to the Merry-Go-Round and throw handfuls of sand up in the air so it landed in the face and hair of everyone enjoying the nausea of spinning in circles for hours on end. A seven year old jumped off the Merry-Go-Round and threw a handful of sand right into my mouth and eyes. I ran to my dad who then carried me back to the playground so I could point out the kid who did it. I pointed to him and my dad ripped him a new hole. After my dad had finished screaming, the kid stuttered, "But he was throwing it as us first." My dad looked at me and I smiled and shrugged my shoulders or something. My dad apologized to the kid and told me I was lucky to only have grainy eyeballs for two days.

My dad always made me feel better for some reason. When I was 11 I broke my right arm from jumping out of a swing set doing the whole "One for the money" routine. My dad met us at the doctors office right as the doctor explained he'd have to "set" my arm. Well I had broken my left arm 3 years earlier and I was still having nightmares about having the arm "set". While I was laying there with my mom on one side and my dad on the other, I asked him if he would put his hand over my mouth when my arm was set so the patients in the waiting room wouldn't hear me screaming. I remember seeing tears in my dads eyes as he put his hand as tight as he could over my mouth while the doctor pulled on my arm to align the bones. My dad did as I had asked, but I could tell how much he was hurting inside knowing his favorite son was suffering.

My dad showed me that even really old guys could still have fun. He had low inhibitions when it came to playing with his kids. I borrowed my friends video camera when I was about 13. The only cool trick I knew how to do was to make people "disappear"... you know, shut off the camera and hold really really still while they run out of the frame, then turn the camera back on. What? Where did they go? My dad "disappeared" so many times I can't even count... including the time he "disappeared" in mid-air while jumping on the trampoline.

My dad taught me that it's okay to laugh at someone, as long as you don't take it too far. We lived in Arizona until I was five. We pretty much always ran around without our shirts on. A lot of nights, my dad would go outside and catch one of those big, black, ugly crickets and sneak them inside. Once he was inside the house, he'd shake them up for a while in his hand until they were good and dazed. Then he'd let them go on our stomachs. We would try to cry, but we'd be so scared we couldn't move. My dad would sit back and laugh his head off along with my mom and any of the siblings who weren't directly involved in the torture.

My dad taught me how to control my anger by having pets. Even though my parents have two dogs currently, my dad hated having pets while I was growing up. He was constantly complaining about something they had done. We tried to have a dog a couple of times, but it only lasted about a month each time. My dad was able to tolerate cats, for the most part, but I remember two specific instances when my dad would have literally killed our cat with his bare hands if they weren't so effing agile. The first time is when my dad was barbecuing in the back yard. He had a few patties already cooked and sitting on a plate on the patio table. Our cat, Lester, jumped on the table, snaked a patty and took off running. My dad gave chase and caught up to Lester right as they were getting to our Lilac bush. Just as Lester disappeared under the bush, my dad kicked as hard as he possibly could, hoping to catch Lester in butt. Unfortunately, my dad didn't know there was a cinder block just under the bush... and my dad was barefoot. I remember him rolling on the grass holding his foot for about 5 minutes, but I never heard a swear word come out of his mouth. I'm sure he was saying them, but he was saying them quiet enough that we didn't hear anything.

The second time was when my dad was walking around the house one morning complaining about how our house smelled like cat crap. He was looking behind all the furniture knowing he'd find a big pile of cat poo somewhere. Eventually he made it to my room that I shared with my older brother, Ryan. We had dark blue, deeeeeeep shag carpet in our room (which was totally cool back in the early 80's). The shag was so deep the vacuum was unable to pick up most of the filth on the ground. Sure enough, my dad found a huge pile of cat crap right in the smack dab center of the room. It was a pretty runny poo and it was obvious the crap had seeped deep into the shag. My dad mumbled something and then disappeared out the downstairs door. Ryan and I were trying to decide if we should try to clean it up, when my dad reappeared with a box cutter he'd retrieved from the garage. He got on all fours and proceeded to cut about a 10" square hole out of the carpet with the cat poo being in the center. I remember we could see the concrete floor for about 3 years until we replaced the carpet in that room... and whenever I'd see the hole, I'd always smile at the thought of my dad and his frustration.

My dad taught me about the birds and the bees. My mom and dad told me the basics when I was about 11. However, the students at Degrassi Junior High didn't know how little I knew so they had all sorts of conversations in front of me about things I wasn't sure about. I remember my mom was making bread in the kitchen one afternoon and I asked her what a condom was. She asked where I'd heard about a condom. I told her that they were talking about it on Degrassi Jr. High. She motioned to the backyard and said, "You should go ask your dad about that one." So I walked outside while my dad was doing something to the sprinklers. I asked him what a condom was and he explained what they were and what they were used for in very clear terms. He never paused what he was doing with the sprinklers, which really helped with the comfort level. The conversation would have been a lot more awkward if he had stopped working, taken me into the bedroom, sat me on my bed and explained everything while making eye contact. He explained it casually and invited me to ask any follow up questions... which I did. It was a very informative conversation that I'll never forget.

My dad also taught me about the value of work and the importance of providing for your family. My dad worked quite a bit while we were growing up and my mom stayed at home for most of my upbringing. With five kids it was obvious my family struggled financially, though I didn't know it at the time. Most of our dinners consisted of some sort of potato dish. Either homemade hash browns with ketchup, fried potato chunks, or baked potato slices with butter on top. My mom would usually boil a dozen eggs every morning for us to eat for breakfast or we'd have a bowl of "raw oatmeal" which is surprisingly delicious. Whenever my dad was in charge, he'd break out the Ralston. My dad couldn't get enough of the Ralston. I might have liked it if it was called something besides Ralston. The name "Ralston" still makes me shiver. I'm pretty sure it was kinda like Cream of Wheat... only made out of corn, but I'm not positive. I remember waking up one Saturday morning all excited to watch Smurfs and I noticed my dad was sitting by the back door surrounded by piles of newspapers. He was folding them. I asked what on earth he was doing and he told me he had started doing a paper route for some extra money. I don't know how long he had secretly been doing it, but I've always looked back on that moment with great admiration for my dad. He was probably trying to get some extra money for Christmas or something. What a great guy.

My dad taught me to be creative. With seven people in our family, Family Home Evening was usually an adventure. Almost every Monday night for several years we'd have a lesson and then play Hide and Go Seek In the Dark. Most people have played some sort of variation of this game. Our version was one person would hide in a pitch black house while everyone else counted. Then we'd all split up to look for whoever was hiding. When you found the person who was hiding, you had to silently join them and hide until everyone had found them. Well, whenever my dad was "it" we were always excited. He could make the game dangerous and boring at the same time. The first thing he'd do while we were counting to 100 is rearrange as much of the furniture as he could without making any noise. When he heard us get to about 90, he'd tiptoe upstairs to his bedroom, lay on his bed and go to sleep. We'd all eventually find him, but we were always upset that he'd taken a nap like an old man instead of playing the game for real. But then, he'd get us back by finding someplace ridiculously hard to hide. One time it was on top of the fridge. Another time it was on top of a towel closet in my parents bathroom (there's a photo somewhere on this page of him climbing down when nobody could find him and we all gave up). To top it all off, you'll notice in the photo that my dad is wearing all black. He changed while we were counting so it made it even harder to find him. Thanks Dad. I can't wait to play this with my family.

I know this post has been pretty long, but I assure you, I have a list of other experiences to write about but I don't have time. Maybe I'll save them for next year. Like when my dad came with me to buy my first crappy car. Or when he sent me a ziplock bag with 60 vitamins in it when I had 2 months left on my mission. He called it my Vitamin Countdown. Or when my mom told me to wake my dad up when I got home from a date instead of her... but he'd never remember in the morning that I'd woken him up and had a 5 minute conversation about my date. Or the best one ever was on Halloween when my dad stripped down and put on his long winter coat that went to his knees and a Beetleguise mask. He went out the back door and knocked on the front door when there weren't any trick or treaters around. When my mom came to the door, my dad flashed her. My mom was so shocked, she didn't recognize the coat or mask or... well, you know.

I love my dad so much. He never missed an opportunity to tell me he loved me or that he was proud of me. He always made me feel like I could do better and never like I wasn't doing good enough. I can tell he's proud of me today because he can see that I'm enjoying being a father as much as he did when he was raising me. I can still call my dad with questions about my car, my yard, how to barbecue, or even the birds and the bees... and he always has the answer I'm looking for. I'm sure he always will.

Happy Birthday and Father's Day, Brandt. You're the awesomest!

Poo

I don't know what it is about poo that my family finds so funny. Usually it's talking about it that we find hilarious. Remember when you were little and you'd replace as many word in sentence with "poo" and "pee" just to get your siblings to laugh (or to get your parents to tell you to stop)? Don't even try to act like you didn't do it... you at least had a brother that did it and I know you laughed.

I can't believe how often Tyton can get Boston to laugh just by saying poo 15 times in a 17 word sentence. Not just a chuckle, either. I'm talking full blown can't-get-a-breath type of laughter.

I don't know if you are familiar with the children's program Caillou (pronounced "ky-you"), but there's a verse in the opening song that goes like this:

So many things to do.
Each day is something new.
I'll share them with you,
I'm Caillou.

Well whenever it's on, this is how my boys sing it between fits of hysterical laughter (and notice how the frequency of the word "poo" increases as the verse goes on):

So many things to poo.
Each poo is something poo.
I'll poo them poo poo.
Poo poooooooo pooo.

Maybe you'll recognize this one:

Well every poo is so glory poo
And every poo is so wonder poo
There's more to ex-poo
When you open your poo
Like curious, like curious, like Curious Poo!

Betsy and I try not to get after them poo often. Sometimes (if Betsy's not around) I'll make up some lyrics with them... only I'll mix it up so the lyrics are really poopy, but they also make sense.

By the way, I've also included a couple of poopy photos I thought you might enjoy. The first one is when Betsy was changing Bostons diaper and he decided to spray diarrhea all up Betsy's pants and shirt. If you blow the photo up, you may even see a chunk on her face.

The bottom photo is at Lagoon-a-Beach. Tyton was playing in the Volleyball Court sand and then I noticed he had something in his hands that he was pulling apart like it was Play-Doh. He said, "What's this, Dad?" with a look of curiosity on his face. I said, "It looks like cat poo. Smell it." He did smell it. It was cat poo. Then I took this photo.

My Fridge

You know how you can tell a lot about someone based on what's in their closet... or maybe in their medicine cabinet? Well I looked in my fridge this morning, saw my son's trains, and then glanced around at the rest of the items in my fridge. I thought, "I wonder what conclusions could be drawn about me and my station in life based solely on the contents of my refrigerator."

I decided to snap a photo of the main part and then took a separate photo of the door of the fridge. I think our choice of what goes in the door could say a lot about us by itself. I didn't move anything around or clean anything up prior to taking these pictures. This is exactly how our fridge looked as of nine o' clock this morning.

You don't have to be mean, either. You could say something like, "The English Muffins signify a quiet, subtle, sophistication." I think that's pretty accurate, by the way.