Parents' Revenge

A couple of months ago, eldest son and his wife dropped by after work to visit. It just so happened that my parents, my younger brother, and youngest son were there too.
Anyway, son and daughter-in-law arrived, carrying a small, round, tall chocolate cake. As they handed it to me, they mentioned the cake was left over from a party at daughter-in-law’s place of employment.

“Wow!” I thought, “a cake all for me,” and then I noticed the writing on the top of the cake. I read it out loud, “[daughter-in-law’s name] is pregnant.” That’s right; I’m going to be a grandpa for the first time, and oh have I been waiting for this day to arrive.

You see, eldest son will soon be walking in my shoes, the shoes of a parent. He’ll get to experience the wide range, the highs and lows, of emotions that children put their parents through, while I'll get to sit back, watch and grin. In a way, you might say that grandchildren are a parent’s revenge.

With this in mind, I now share with my son, and with all parents of the world, the tongue-in-cheek lyrics to the song, Should’ve Had Dogs, by Roger Whittaker.

Should’ve Had Dogs

If I’d known about an angry wife with a two-by-four
If I’d only listened when you told me ‘bout a mother-in-law
If I’d known how much things change when you say ‘I do’
Well I wouldn’t have done what I did I’m telling you

I would’ve had dogs
I would’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

I was led by the nose like a bull from the very start
And I must say I really enjoyed the beginning part
You know your favorite food and the bed and the lights down low
But then the kids come along and romance has to go

Well I should’ve had dogs
Oh I should’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

Suddenly they seem to arrive in two’s and three’s
Any ordinary man would be brought down to his knees
She says daddy can I have that dress and I want that hat
How can any daddy tell her no when she asks like that?

Oh I should’ve had dogs
Oh I should’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

Now my eldest son has survived to seventeen
And I’m the stupidest man that the world has ever seen
I’m wrong about everything in his young life
And the endless things I’m wrong about lead to strife

Oh I should’ve had dogs
Oh I should’ve had dogs
If I’d known then what I know now
Well I would’ve had dogs

It’s said that trial and tribulation ends
And they all grow up and you all get to be friends
I can’t wait for the day I know will come to pass
When they have kids of their own and I can laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha

Oh you should’ve had dogs
Oh you should’ve had dogs
If you’d know then what I know now
Well you would’ve had dogs

Oh you should’ve had dogs
Oh you should’ve had dogs
If they put you what you put me through
Well you’d wish you’d had dogs

The Gods of Oral Hygiene Must Be Crazy

I don’t know what my family did in a previous life to tick off the gods of oral hygiene, but it must have been something appalling, for we’ve been plagued with a curse ever since. What’s the curse? I’m glad you asked.

The best way to explain the curse is by sharing examples of it with you. One of the most recent incidents happened to me while at work.

You see, because I don’t want my toothbrush to literally become a tooth brush I bring one to work, along with toothpaste and dental floss, for use at the end of my lunch break.

Recently, while chatting on my cell phone with a friend during lunch, I realized time was fleeting and I’d better take care of my teeth before my break was over. Accordingly, I blindly reached into my lunch bag and grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste.

Paying more attention to the conversation with my friend than to what I was doing (which is one of the ways the curse works; it strikes when you’re not paying close attention to the brushing of your teeth), I absentmindedly squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles of my brush. I then moistened both brush and paste with tap water and began brushing my teeth . . . but not for very long.

As soon as that repugnant, most gosh awful taste entered my mouth I began profusely and loudly gagging, coughing, spitting, and sputtering, while performing what looked like some kind of ancient war dance.

Laughing, my friend kept asking me what the heck was happening. All I could blurt out was that I couldn’t believe what I’d just done.

You see, among the sundry items I carry in my lunch bag are two tubes, one being toothpaste the other, um, Preparation H. Since what hit my taste buds obviously was not toothpaste, well, I think you get the idea.

Now, it was bad enough that the tube of Preparation H was fairly used, if you get my drift. But as I felt a numbing sensation spread around my mouth a scary thought came to mind. What if the hemorrhoid cream did its job and my gums, lips, cheeks, and tongue all began to shrink? Gees, I could end up with a perpetual smile, like those women who’ve had a few too many face lifts. Luckily, the effects of the cream weren't perminant.

I’m also reminded of the time the curse struck my younger brother. Younger brother and his wife were living in Daytona Beach, Florida, with their two dogs, a Rottweiler and a small mutt. The mutt was an indoor dog, the Rottie outdoor--except during rainstorms, which during the rainy season in Florida is nearly every day.

I know you’re thinking, “So what do his brother’s dogs have to do with the toothbrush curse?” I’m glad you asked.

Sometimes when the dogs were indoors they’d have to do their business but wouldn’t go out into the rainstorm. Consequently, if the rainstorm lasted very long they’d dodo on the vinyl floor of the TV room. Naturally, my brother or his wife would clean the mess with the proper utensils. But just to be sure the entire residue of poo was cleaned up they’d scrub the area with a soap and a toothbrush, a toothbrush identical to younger brother’s, a poo-scrubbing toothbrush kept on the same toothbrush holder as younger brother’s toothbrush.

One morning younger brother went into the bathroom to brush breakfast out of his teeth. Standing over the bathroom sink, he turned the faucet on with his left hand and with his right hand blindly reached down and opened the cabinet door under the sink. He then grabbed his toothbrush from the multi toothbrush holder attached to the inside of the door.


It was only after he began brushing his teeth that he realized something wasn’t right. The brush didn’t quite feel the same against his gums and the toothpaste had an odd taste to it.

In a panic, younger brother re-opened the cabinet and there, hanging in the toothbrush holder, was his toothbrush. He spit, sputtered, gagged, screamed, and bounced around that tiny bathroom like a man…well, like a man who’d just brushed his teeth with dog feces.

He finally grabbed a bottle of mouthwash that proclaimed to kill 99.9% of all germs and gargled with it, hoping that whatever microbes he’d just inflicted into his mouth weren’t among that 10th of a percent the mouthwash didn’t kill.


And so goes the curse of the gods of oral hygiene upon my family. Luckily, it doesn’t appear the curse is passed down from generation to generation--though the other day youngest son did clean his teeth with the grout cleaning toothbrush. But that’s a whole other story.

Perfectionist + Beard + Beard Trimmer...Not Good

A few years ago, I shaved my beard down to a mustache. It wasn’t long until I tired of shaving every day and decided to grow back my beard.

The following December someone suggested that I put a beard trimmer on my Christmas list. Heck, with one of those little gadgets I wouldn’t have to pay a professional. I could trim the beard myself, riiiiight.

Unfortunately for me, Santa was kind that year (actually, I think he just has a warped sense of humor), and Christmas morning found me unwrapping, among other things, a beard trimmer.

Now, I must interject something here. It’s said the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys, and if the toy happens to be electronic, well, you can throw out any ideas of having a stimulating conversation with the man. All he’ll be thinking about is playing with that electronic gadget.
Such was my state of mind, and the sun hadn’t set on Christmas day before the temptation to try out my new toy over powered me. The day went down hill from there.

You see, at times I can be somewhat of a perfectionist and the equation of perfectionist plus beard plus beard trimmer always equals debacle.

True to my nature, I trimmed…and trimmed…and trimmed; yet, my beard had more holes in it than a moth-eaten shirt. Thinking that perhaps a better angle at which to see my beard would help, I twisted and turned in front of the bathroom mirror until I looked like a contortionist at a carnival freak show.

And just when my beard seemed to be evenly trimmed, BOING! A hair that had somehow been missed during the trimming sprang straight out into the air. No problem. I turned the trimmer back on and shazaam, problem solved. Then BOING! Another missed hair. I trimmed it and BOING, well, you get the picture. Before I knew it I'd cropped so many stray hairs my beard resembled something akin to waves breaking on a hairy ocean.

Screaming like a lunatic, I attacked my beard with the trimmer over and over again, trying once and for all to get it even. Time went on, my beard got thinner and thinner, and still it was uneven.


Before long, I noticed the trimmer’s rechargeable battery was weakening. Finally, it died. There was no choice now but to plug the thing into the wall socket and wait for the battery to recharge.

Panic set in. Now what was I going to do? The job couldn’t be left undone. That meant only one alternative--I would have to get out the dreaded scissors to finish trimming my beard.

Back then, as is still the case, scissors and I didn’t have a good track record. Whether cutting paper, cloth, or hair, we always end up making a mess of things. That day would prove to be no exception.

I grabbed the scissors and gave it my best effort. Well, as they say, to make a long story short, thirty frustrating minutes later my former beard was now nothing but stubble, and though I felt it still wasn’t even, I decided to take the advice of former Mrs. Bagley and, “let the dang thing alone!”

Weeks later the thing was getting a bit ragged looking, and though I was tempted to break out the trimmer, I’d decided that paying a professional to trim my beard would be money well spent.


Of course, ex-wife’s threat to put me in a straight-jacket until the urge to trim my own beard subsided might have influenced my decision, just a little.