I hope you suffered no damage during Flo Mo’s hairy storm back a week and a half ago. We were fortunate the only damage around our Ponderosa was a blown over bbq along with some frayed nerves. Oh, and one other development; we’ll get to that presently.

One of our dogs has this thing about storms. Put it this way; when a cloud passes in front of the sun, Harley updates his living will. Dixie, the older, wiser Jack Russell, patiently waits out any disaster and at the key moment makes her, “Well, datgum, if we’re all gonna die, break out some treats. Heck,” face. They both played their roles as written while the low pressure and high pressure squared off.

I think the lay of the land’s changed around here because these things used roll through Weatherford, skip down I-30 through Sundance and the West End and be off to torment the poor folks in Corsicana. Every time. Now they seem to frequent our burb with alarming regularity.

All this rolled up into the Phillips’ finding themselves in the kid’s old bathroom on that stormy Wednesday and that, people, was the first time we’ve ever made the tornado move to an interior room. A mixture of skeered and skittery, we spent half an hour doing something like this:

Note: Brother (our middle kid) was at leaving his house, headed to the gf’s, oblivious to it all.

Me: Okay, since the world is going to end, I think it’s truth or dare time! 

Missus (not totally on board with the end of the world scenario): What?

Lil Sis (Lil Sis, who was visiting that evening): What?

Big Sis (Big Sis is still living with us while her Air Force husband is away): Yes!!!

(Guess which daughter takes after which parent?)

Big Sis: Truth, Daddah!

Me: Okay…um…okay! I got one! We are actually from Ireland. Me and mom came to America to get away from a small, unknown communist section of Ireland in 1989 and after a year sent money to smuggle you guys over here. My real name is “Dún do Bheal,” which in English is pronounced, “You-made-me Snort-again.” Mom’s name is Power O’Tools.

Missus: What?

Me: Think about it, my o’daughters; Mom’s name in English, my name…all our names. Don’t they all sound Irish? Éirinn go Brách, comrades.  

Lil Sis: Ha. Whatever.

Big Sis: Dad…I thought you were going to say “from small section of Uranus.” Ha-ha-ha.

Me: No, only Mom is from Uranus.

Missus: What?

You know how a dog just stares at you? Well, what they’re doing is trying to hypnotize you. Dixie does it like it’s her j-o-b. On this night, she stares at Lil Sis in hopes of getting her to zombie down to the kitchen for a beef bone before the house sails away.

Me: More truth! We had y’all’s kid’s bedrooms built with Chinese drywall! Lawdy Lord help us but we did.

Missus sniffs a couple times and I think she’s feeling nostalgic…but: Pee-you, these dogs need a bath….hey….look this shower grout is messed up. I thought I went back over this when I did the shower. (She reaches into her unmentionables, pulls out a small package of grout – puts in back in because it’s brown - pulls out another small package of the right color, then a small trowel, some paper towel and an old, empty yogurt container, mixes the grout with some water and starts filling in the gaps.)

Me: More Truth! Okay, okay…when you were babies, we used to bump y’all’s head in the kitchen sink during your bath. More than once. And we’d whisper sheepishly to each other, “Holy smokes, it sounded like a church bell when I smacked Brother’s head into the faucet. I saw the neighbor adjust his watch; he thought he was running three minutes slow.”

A gust of wind heaves against the house, and the power poofs out. A collective “Woah!” echoes in the room. Harley smiles a nervous smile and passes gas.

Me: Fine! I admit I ate the last oatmeal cookie on May 3, 1990 when we lived in Florida. Sufferin’ succotash, but it’s been on my mind this whole time. *whimper* I am so sorry but now I’m FREE of the guilt and…

Missus: I remember that. Thought it was you, but you said it was Brother. You sold out a three-year-old, sweet little boy? Lil Sis, is that fire extinguisher still under the kitchen sink?

Lil Sis: I don’t know, I don’t live here anymore!

Missus: Play along now.

Lil Sis: Oh, uh, yeah I think it is, why?

Missus: We’ll need it for Dad.

Me, Lil and Big: What?

Missus: “Cause he’s a liar, liar and them pants are on fire. Ha-ha-ha!

The girls laugh, I frown. Dixie says to Harley, “I’m tellin’ you they had you fixed…like three years ago. Look down there, bud; you’re missing equipment.”.

Me to the missus: Why you always gotta steal my stuff? Write your own jokes, Howell. Just try and stay out of my way. Just try! I'll get you, my pretty and your little dog too!

There’s a pause as I look expectantly at the ladies.

Me: Get it? Get it? Wizard of Oz?

Mike and I take a break and visit the vending machine at work and discover it’s out of all the good stuff and…hold on, hold on! I know that is as lame a sentence as there is to kick a blog post off, but stay with me here, okay?

Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Well, let me back up for half a second; when we visit our snack machine, we normally we get either the 100% whole wheat crackers or the tofu trail mix, and…

*clears his throat*

Okay, okay…we jones for the puffy cheese things or chocolate.

Anyway, on this day the machine is as empty as a hockey player’s interview between periods. (He doesn't know it yet, but one of Robert Tracy’s upcoming posts will cover that very thing; the most clichéd filled sport in the world - ice hockey. We can’t wait Robert!)

Certainly the content of any office snack machine ebbs and flows, but just as you begin to think, "Man, our machine is getting low on good stuff," the Vendor Knight swoops in on his magical snack truck and all is well in Carb Land. Thing is, even on the last day of ebb, there’s usually something in there. However on this day...

Only things left are some kind of licorice thing and these sweet and spicy tortilla chips. Me and Mike look at the machine, look at each other and then he utters a profound axiom that I'll share with you in a second.

In the course of a day, I wonder how many times distractions, buzzing about like bumble bees on HGH, keep golden nuggets of wisdom from pollinating our brain? Just how often might two or three short sentences - so charged with common sense they would stun us like a Star Trek Phaser if we really listened - hit our ears and we don’t even know it?

I’m in such a hurry, brothers and sisters, that I know darn well I miss much good stuff. Got no time to read, no time to watch sunsets (one of my most favorite things), I give the finer, subtle things in life no quarter in my speed of light life…except this one time. Let me share Mike's wisdom with you.

“Don’t get the chips,” he says. “They’re in a purple bag. Nothing good comes in a purple bag.”

I take half a step back.

“What?”

“I’m telling you,” he says, “purple is to 2009 as green was to the 90’s.”

I’ve known Mike for about 12 years and let me tell you, he does not have that kinda range on his mental jumper. Or maybe I’ve just never let him shoot. I was blown away.

Well, I had to buy the purple packaged chips because the only way I was getting the licorice thing was if I found myself alone in the prison yard and I had to eat them or feel the shiv. Get shivved. (What IS the correct perfect progressive verb form of a penitentiary stabbing?) Homey don’t do licorice.

You know what? Mike was right. The chips were terrible.

I went to Wally World later that night, looked at all the packaging and 94.67% of the time, purple wrapper meant no bueno. Other than a slice and bake chocolate chip cookie, that is.

But don’t take my word; check it out for yourself.

From the first trip to the grand parent’s house, it was obvious my kids were going to be great adventurers and wonderful traveling companions. We drove across the country in our minivan for nearly ten years, completely enjoying the journey each time.

We’d bring a 13 inch TV/VCR, a plug in power supply, and let them play movies as we drove. It kept them entertained and we’d all break out in song once the soundtrack kicked in. After a few trips we knew movie lines word for word. Fun. As they grew, so did our movie collection.

On of the last trips before their headphones took over, the missus surprised us with three movies (now DVD’s played in someone’s computer) we’d rented a hundred times - movies we loved, laughed at and knew by heart.

What we forgot was that it’d been quite some time – nearly twenty years in some cases – since we’d seen the actually, original cut, meaning most viewings over those twenty years were on the tele. Since we choose food and clothing over paying for premium channels, those viewings were on basic cable. I’m thinking you might know where this is going…unlike we did in our van.

Not sure what the movie was, but the familiar lines flowed from the speakers until one word spilled out. There was about a three count between the word and the missus and I turning to look at each other. I turned back towards the road and said, “I didn’t hear what I thought I just…” but it shot out again and I finished my thought, saying, “but I guess I did.” It was, as Ralphie said in the Christmas story, “THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words.”

I tried to concentrate on the road and the missus turned around in her seat intent on saying, “Hey, guys, need to turn that off and pick another movie,” but as she did, she saw something on the screen we also didn’t remember from the original movie. Something that caused the kids eyes to grow wide. What was it? Does it matter? (Ok, fine! The first Vacation movie; did NOT remember that scene!) We listened to music the rest of the trip.

The other day a guy was telling me about renting and playing Back to the Future for his kids (aged 12 and under) and running into the same problem.

“We’re watching,” he said, “and then these words I didn’t remember shouted out from the TV speakers. How did I forget about it?”

How indeed. Raised in a network TV and basic cable world, our kiddies had some protection from the harsh realities of first run movies, but in the process I think we parents lulled ourselves to censored movie sleep.

Either that or we’re just (in my best dubbed voice) SLIMY parents.

Years ago, we’d drive from our Florida home up to Tennessee to visit the grandparents. One particular trip - I think Big Sis was five or six, Brother would have been nearly three, and Lil Sis one – was typical of that time.

We stopped at our favorite road trip diner and as we sat down, the missus said, “Kids, you can either have chocolate milk or dessert, but not both.”

The three Musketeers discussed the matter quietly, ordered up and we ate with smiles and quiet conversation. A picture perfect young family of five.

That was a typical restaurant visit for us in those days; our kids just didn’t fuss and really enjoyed the moment. As we walked towards the door, an older couple nodded to us and the woman lightly touched my wife on the arm and said, “You must be a good mom; you have wonderful, well-behaved kids.”

We smiled and headed to the van, a little spring in our step.

Same trip, two years later….

Big Sis, who absolutely refused to let anyone comb her hair for the past two months but insisted on wearing “pretty dresses” all the time, announced she wanted chocolate milk and baby cereal because she missed it from when she was a baby. Furthermore, that’s all she was going to eat, thank you.

Brother played with his Ninja Turtle and we could have ordered him rusty nails with a side of broken bottles - any old thing as long as he could continue to fight evil with Donatello. Lil Sis was tired and not about to give in to that overdue nap.

Fifteen minutes after the food arrived, Brother was actually under the table making cat sounds because as he quietly and confidently told me, “Dad, no one really knows what the #@$& a turtle sounds like.”

“W-what?” I stuttered. Apparently someone learned a new word at the neighbor’s house that week.

Big Sis tried to reach across the table to get the extra fork and decided it’d be easier if she crawled across. And so she did. Lil Sis fell asleep in her macaroni and cheese. Just plopped her big head down in it.

I caught an older couple shaking their heads as they saw me and the missus laughing, seemingly oblivious to the terrible children we were raising. 

What they couldn’t know was that I’d looked at my wife and said, “Guess we shouldn’t count on the parents of the year money this year, eh?”

I was reminded today of those marvelous people who take a look at your kids or your parenting skills, click their tongues and say to themselves, “Lookit those kids!” or “Lookit those parents!”

So to you who battle each day with a passel of kids in tow, I know you’re doing your best. When you’re out with your kids and you hear the click of a tongue, know what? Think of some new words you’d like to share with them and everything will be fine. But don’t say them out loud; the neighbor’s kids might be around.