" Dad, I have never seen Maris this angry. I swear, her eye was twitching like a frog in a science experiment." - Niles, Frasier

 

”Dude, that’s my skull.” – Jeff Spicolli I don’t know about you, but I thought that the inside of an alligator wasn’t so bony. Perhaps I thought they were made of Jolly Rancher© candy instead. Probably green apple.

The Mrs. says I don’t rest well. I tend to want to fiddle, fix, and fret when I have a few down moments. This weekend I sought to prove The Mrs. wrong.

It started on Saturday. On Saturday I got up (unwillingly and with complaint, as usual) with The Boy and Pugsley. The Boy, fresh off some new transgression at school, was banninated from television. We shared a hearty breakfast of Pop Tarts©.

Upon consuming the delicious chemicals meant to mimic strawberries, I assumed a prone position on the couch and proceeded to watch a special on the socioeconomic effects of the Little Ice Age (in 1732, Alburtus Gorus warned us all that newfangled sailing ships were “stealing the wind” and making the earth cold). As exciting as that was, I still fell straight asleep, but the “parent” kind of asleep, where whenever anything is too noisy or too quiet, you wake up and yell.

On one of those yells, I heard Pugsley rustling around in the kitchen.

“PUGSLEY, GET IN HERE NOW,” I yelled.

“He’s in here with me, Father of the Year,” responded The Mrs.

Oh, good. The Mrs. is up. Now I can really sleep.

The Mrs. walks by. “What is this show? I walked by once and they were talking about the Spanish Armada. Now they’re talking about beer.”

“Little Ice Age,” I muttered.

“Huh. I’m going back to sleep.”

Eventually (two hours later) all the Wilders were ready to head out. By head out, I mean that we had exactly three destinations in mind – Starbucks©, The Scout Shop, and Toys ‘r’ Us™. At Starbucks© The Mrs. and I discovered that the primary cause of our extraordinary malaise that morning was an utter lack of caffeine in our blood. At The Scout Shop, The Boy had to bring his Scout Stamps in to pick out a prize for selling Scout Fair coupons. He picked out an orange-colored doo-dad that had a compass, flashlight, thermometer, whistle, and secret Cub Scout compartment.

Then, to Toys ‘r’ Us® for Pugsley’s birthday presents. Since Toys ‘r’ Us© were all out of One Rings (oooh, my precious) The Mrs. picked out something for Pugsley while he and The Boy and I went back to the car.

I was in the car with the air conditioning and the radio on.

The Boy: “Dad, would you turn off the air conditioning? I want to see how hot the car gets without it on.”

Me: “Sure.” I’m not one to avoid an experiment on myself even if it results in my blood pressure going up forty points, nearly enough that would have sweat blood, due to a massive ingestion of salt (yes, this really happened, and no, I’m not going to discuss it). The Mrs. chastised me soundly for this, indicating that there was a reason that doctors went to medical school . . .

Five sweaty minutes later The Mrs. bangs on the trunk, I press the button that opens it, and she puts in Pugsley’s birthday loot.

The Mrs. opens her car door and gets into the car.

“Jesus, John, are you trying to kill the kids?” The Mrs. asks as she gets into the oppressively hot car.

“The Boy wanted to run an experiment . . .”

From the backseat, The Boy announces, “Hey, cool, it got to 105°F. That’s like 500 kilometers!”

I could see the emotions warring on The Mrs.’ face. Finally it settled on defeat.

“Okay. There are two of you idiots. At least there’s still hope for Pugsley.”

Next:
Swimming
Solar Power
Pugsley Turns Three