Remember girls – Daddy’s lawn is not meant to be trampled. It is meant to be admired. Ideally, from the porch, the driveway, or the sidewalk.
Well girls, your “Uncle” Tom did it again. Every time he tries to brew beer at home he calls me with some questions. After answering them, I always tell him to let me know how it went. And every time he reports back that some sort of disaster rendered his 5 gallons of fermented goodness undrinkable – discouraging him for a few months until he again decides to try to create another batch of bathtub beer. And so the cycle repeats.
This time the thermometer cracked while taking the temperature of the brew. Spilled mercury right into the drink. He learned the hard way that not all thermometers are created equal. Turns out Uncle Tom used a thermometer designed for, well, HUMAN BEINGS rather than piping hot oatmeal stout. A thermometer that has no doubt seen its fair share of baby bottoms while being passed on from one generation of the Uncle Tom family to another. Well, heirloom gone, pale ale poisoned.
If it were up to me I would have pressed on. Look at it this way – is mercury any worse than alcohol? When was the last time you heard to someone getting smacked up on mercury and driving in the opposite direction on the Long Island Expressway?
Say Jerry, you heard about ol’ man Tuthill? Yup, at it again – had a couple of mercury tall boys and was shootin’ at Mrs. McGrath’s cat.
The takeaway: they sell beer in convenient bottles and cans. Already brewed, fermented, and in some cases even cold filtered for that genuine Rocky Mountain taste.
So girls, let’s raise a metaphoric beer (or in Daddy’s case an actual beer – in a bottle, from a store – “pre-assembled” if you will) to Uncle Tom – that 1920’s throwback, revenuer-dodging, basement brewing, rum running son-of-a-gun!
“The study of crime begins with the knowledge of oneself.”
– Henry Miller
No ballet class for you the other day Number One – it got cancelled. Well, I accidentally took your mother’s car keys to work – quickly putting you 60 miles from any chance of doing as much of a jette battu as a 2 year old can do.
So here’s how the stupid went down: I grabbed your mother’s keys off the counter to try to clear the ice off her car the other day before work (note good deed). In my rush to get to work, and my overwhelming 5am desire to fight crime, I jumped in my car before putting the keys back where they belong (or on the edge of the counter where your mother thinks they belong). Anyway, I apologize for your house arrest. Bright side? It was only a one day detention – no ankle monitoring bracelet required. With any luck you can get right back to your pirouettes piquee next week unencumbered by your father’s absent mindedness.
An error on top of a good deed = won’t hold it against me. I hope.
Girls, police work can be quite stressful. I do not want to minimize this fact, but those levels of stress pale in comparison to raising you girls.
We were talking about Disney cruises at work the other day. I’m not so sure about these cruises girls. How do they keep kids from falling overboard? It must happen all the time. No way, won’t do it. While we’re at it – don’t even think about playing sports either – you will be irreparably harmed. And NEVER ask to say over a friend’s house. It’s a well-known fact that serial killers live in houses. If I had my way everything on earth would be made of Nerf material – including soccer balls, field hockey sticks, and automobiles. Speaking of automobiles, you just wait until you’re old enough to drive. Your car is going to look like an experiment I did in junior high with an egg and a toy truck – picture springs, foam, rubber bands, duct tape, and packing peanuts.
Get ready girls.
…without the fake flowers.
On each anniversary of the death of a former coworker we prominently display a photo in the lobby. Now girls, I understand and respect the point – but please, PLEASE make sure that no one does this while your dear old man is lying comfortably six foot under. The last thing your father wants is to be remembered with an inkjet-printed photo and a jar full of polyester snapdragons. Now I suspect I will long outlive my coworkers, but if they must recall the day of my demise, they should do so over a pint of Sam Adams. In the workplace, coffee cake and a Box-O’-Joe would probably do the trick. And try to keep my former coworkers from doing this on the anniversary of the day I finally packed it in. Let’s be honest, it’s not likely to be my proudest day. Pick another date of significance – like the winter solstice or Canadian Boxing Day.
Ah, I can see it now…
Oooooo bagels and coffee? What’s the occasion?
Oh, our dad kicked it 17 years ago – milk is on the left, cream on the right.
I didn’t know he passed away on the 24th of March.
Oh my no – October in fact. But he always had a fondness for World Tuberculosis Awareness Day – anyway, make sure you jump on those chocolate glazed munchkins before they’re gone!
“The only accurate method of determining the time of death is to be there when it happens. Even then you will have a small margin of error.”
– SSA Lydia Pozzato, FBI