Panda Fun Time

Aside from the fact that they could crush you within an inch of your life, there’s no mistaking the cuddly attraction of pandas. Granted, if you ever came face to face with one, the inclination to wrap your arms around it’s fluffy black and white fur would soon be thwarted by the onslaught of 200+ lbs of muscle, teeth and claws returning the favor.

But, let’s not allow facts to get in the way here. I mean, just look at the panda. Something this adorable couldn’t harm a fly, let alone a crazed adult male running at it with his arms outstretched in a salutary embrace, screaming, “Panda wanna huggie?!?!?”

Some may proclaim there’s a safety risk and that I’m not looking at the bigger picture, but that’s not so. A panda’s natural diet consists mostly of bamboo, which is nothing like meat, almost guaranteeing safe passage. Also worth noting, they are solitary creatures. Solitary equals lonely. And lonely could use a little company. So, really, how could this possibly be dangerous?

Okay, maybe it’s just a teensy-weensy bit dangerous. However, there’s an alternative option that does not require heavy medication and hours of endless therapy, not to mention critical medical care. It’s called Panda Fun Time.

You may be asking yourself, what exactly is “Panda Fun Time” and how does one participate in it. Seriously, I’m almost positive you are asking yourself this question.

Well, quite frankly, it’s a state of mind.

First, you must be like the panda. Imagine yourself cradled in a woolly mass of soft fur, your eyes masked with patches of black, your sharp teeth gnawing on a bamboo shoot.

In the zone, yet? Good. Now, imagine yourself, as the panda, sitting in a bumper car at the fair. As you collide with your fellow drivers, you growl and swipe your hands in their direction. Roar in triumph every time you knock someone off their intended trajectory. Revel in witnessing the abject fear in everyone’s eyes at the sight of a rogue panda terrorizing the fair.

Yeah, it sounds like fun, huh? What’s that, you ask, what medication am I on? Hmmph, I don’t think you’re buying into this. Not one bit.

Happy Birthday, Jen!!

Although I'm not at liberty to share the actual amount of years ago that marked my wife's introduction into this fine world, I can share the fact that her birthday is today.

Seeing as how I'm also a February baby, this will mark the 16th year I've had the pleasure of sharing a birthday month with her. And a sweet 16 years it has been.

I really couldn't ask for a better partner. She tolerates me quite well, especially when I've got the annoyance-meter cranked to 11, which seems to be at least 80% of the time. She's smart, beautiful, funny, and very supportive.

Did I mention she has an inordinate fear of clowns, too? That makes me love her even more, since I'm not much a clown fan myself. And she loves donkeys. Hence, the picture. And also quite possibly why she agreed to marry me.

Yep, she's a keeper and I'm a very lucky guy.

So, I just wanted to share with everyone what a special day today is and send this little message to my wife…

Happy Birthday, sweetheart! I promise I won't embarrass you when we go out to dinner to celebrate. Seriously. Okay, well, maybe just a little. Love, Luis.

Spare Some Change?

If technology would ever get to the point where a human could have robotic features added on, then I would choose to be a coin converter machine. Depending on where you live, you might have some familiarity with this concept. Otherwise, you’re probably wondering what else is wrong with me.

Coinstar machines litter the supermarkets here in Hendersonville, and their main purpose is to allow people to convert coin into paper currency. It’s a pretty smart concept. Customers pour their loose change in, the machine adds it up, and a voucher ticket prints out. You then use the ticket towards your purchase or just redeem it for cash at a register. Retailers that feature this self-service kiosk benefit from increased foot traffic.

So, you’re probably asking, what would possess me to choose coin conversion as a robotic ability? My 9-year-old daughter, that’s why.

I’m fairly certain everyone went through a phase during their childhood (or even adulthood) when scouring for loose coin was akin to treasure hunting on the open seas. Without the lack of bathing. At least for most of us, I would hope. For my daughter, it’s not only a job, it’s a way of life.

Every month, she approaches us with a hefty load of loose coin, often averaging about $5 to $10. God only knows where she finds the change. I’m sure every room in the house is fair game. Since we generally exchange it for her right there and then, I’m suspecting the term “vicious cycle” could weasel it’s way into the final equation.

That’s where the coin converter technology comes in. Surgically implant me with one of these things, and I’m not only simplifying the coin-counting process, but I’m also storing it in a safe place.

At least I think I am. I hadn’t thought of an exit strategy up until now. Maybe I should reconsider this.

One Flu Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Flu season…such a wonderful time of year. The other day, we received this notice from the school district informing us that flu season has started later than anticipated and it could be active through May. Oh joy. Can I blame Punxsutawney Phil for this, too?

This means getting a flu shot, which I don’t usually do, primarily because the last two times I received flu shots, I became flu-ridden. Call it coincidence, call it superstition, call it stupidity…whatever the case, I’m not getting a flu shot. I’m cursed, I just know it. There’s no use in trying to reason with me.

Of course, this same logic does not apply to my daughter. Granted, she’s never contracted the flu during those seasons when she received the shot, so the curse is not hereditary.

Frankly, I think it’s due to the banshee-like reaction she has to needles. Last year’s shot proved to be a rather traumatic experience for both of us. The nurse and I did everything from bargain to threaten to trick her into willingly getting poked by the needle, but to no avail. I’m certain that the blood-curdling screams of terror she bellowed must have petrified all the other height-challenged patients in the pediatrician’s office.

As a result of all this pandemonium, we resorted to very drastic measures to get the shot into her arm. I bear-hugged my thrashing child while the nurse stabbed her arm with the vaccine needle. The first thing that came to mind was that infamous adrenaline shot scene in Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction film, but in reverse. She let out a few whimpering sobs, repeatedly shouted, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” and finally relented to a peaceful calm.

Fortunately for me, my wife has taken it upon herself to accompany Madison to the doctor’s next week for this annual adventure. Yeah, I’m a chicken…what of it?

Happy Valentine's Day

Yes, indeed, Eeyore the Donkey rules.

I was half-tempted to post one of those cutesy-looking kitten pictures you find all over the infernalnet, but when my daughter presented this Valentine-themed, free-hand sketch of Eeyore this morning, I felt compelled to share.

While recovering from a nasty cough yesterday, she propped her Eeyore stuffies on her bed and went to town sketching this likeness. Something about the simplicity of this picture just grabbed me, because she usually likes to throw a lot of background imagery into her drawings. Eeyore is all about the simple things in life. He doesn't bother with too much detail and pageantry and flamboyance. I think she did a pretty good job capturing that essence.

At age 9, she's already developed a keen eye for basic shading principles, perspective and freehand expression. Surely, there's a level of frustration she experiences when she puts pencil to paper, as most budding young artists tend to struggle with their perfectionist tendencies. One thing is for certain, she's far and away ahead of the curve than I was at her age. It wasn't until I was 11 that I started to produce the kind of output she currently does. I never really pursued it seriously, so I didn't hone any of my artistic skills, but I think
Maddie can benefit from my experiences, or lack thereof. As long as she has the inclination to improve her skill-set, we'll happily foster the interest. Future blog posts will feature some of the work she's produced...we're really excited to share her artwork with everyone.

As for the remainder of this blog entry, I won't delve into a schmaltzy, treacly Valentine's soliloquy about love conquering all, blah, blah, blah. It's just not me. And if I break out in song today, it won't be a straight up rendition of classics like Nat King Cole's "L-O-V-E," Cole Porter's "True Love," Luther Vandross' "Always and Forever" or Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon." Don't get me wrong, I love those songs, but I can't sing them straight up without adding a Lounge Lizard element to the interpretation...I just don't have the pipes to do them justice. I'm more apt to belt out Lionel Ritchie or El DeBarge (because I'm annoying like that).

I will say this, though: My wife is perfect for me. And my daughter is a blessing, too. A dork like me shouldn't be so lucky to have Valentine sweethearts like them.

The Many Faces of Mr. Jingles

A little over 7 years ago, we brought home a 1 year old male cat from the Palm Beach County animal shelter. To be a bit more specific, Santa Claus had made the arrangements, so any and all responsibility for this should fall squarely on his shoulders. Maddie named him Mr. Jingles, due in part to his arrival being intrinsically linked to Christmas.

You'd think with a name like Mr. Jingles, he'd be a jolly fellow. But, alas, no.

To the casual observer, he appears gentle, sweet and affectionate. It's all a facade, since what lies beneath the surface is a bubbling cauldron of rage, despair and pathos.

Ignore him, and he'll yowl as if he is being dragged by his tail into the very depths of hell. Play with him, and he'll reply in such an indignant manner, you'll develop an inferiority complex that will require several rounds of therapy. Put him in a room with the other pets, and you'll see a response akin to asking a snooty restaurant critic if he's tried any of the new Fiesta Platters at Taco Bell.

Pickles, our kitten, loves to torment him relentlessly. It's not uncommon to hear Jingles growl or hiss while scurrying frantically from room to room trying to avoid his feline foil. At the very least, it's an entertaining spectacle to witness.

Don't get me wrong, though, we love this little guy. I mean, look at those pictures of him...how could anyone resist a lovable face like that?

This Place Is For The Dogs

For those you unfamiliar with the 4-legged canine denizens of our household, I present to you Mulder & Eliza, otherwise known as Frick-n-Frack.

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Mulder is a black & white male Border Collie-Beagle-Bovine mix. For 12 long years, he's haunted, er, I mean, graced our lives with his presence. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Really. He's a good dog. Can't you tell my wife reads this blog, too?

Did I forget to mention he has the demeanor of an unfed badger? It's not uncommon to find him in a mad rage of snarling teeth, thunderous bark and menacing growl. For over a decade, I've been subjected to his nasty disposition...day or night, in good times and bad. However, one fateful day, ingenuity took hold of me. I taught him how to talk. Here's proof:




We added Eliza to the fold about 4 years ago. We know for certain she's part-German Shepherd, but can only fathom an educated guess as to what the other half consists of. Her brindle coat, sloping neck and timid nature hint at a Greyhound lineage.

In any case, she clearly did not inherit a brain from either breed. She's run into walls, furniture and sliding glass doors with the ease of a blind person being chased by rabid squirrels in a Pella window and door showroom. She's even afraid of her water bowl. Did I mention she's over 80 lbs? Peculiar is what she is.

Together, this dynamic duo serves as the protective force that patrols the hallowed halls of our domicile. Sounds better than it looks, though. Seriously, I mean, Mulder hacks half a lung out after every couple barks, so he isn't nearly as imposing as he used to be. And Eliza, well, she's all brawn, and no brain.

I think it's time to teach the cats how to kickbox.