So, the crew and I recently went down to Hilton Head Island for a little beach getaway, and something occurred to me approximately seven minutes into our 8-hour drive.
It sucked.
I wrote about it over at my BabbleVoices blog. Click HERE to check it out.
Caroline and I put together a little Valentine’s Day video that I first posted on my BabbleVoices blog. If you watched the video, I’m sure you remember that part of our playful debate centered around her driving abilities, or lack thereof.
You see, I contended that Caroline has limited ability when it comes to driving while she countered with the contention that she’s actually quite adept behind the wheel. So we took our conflicting opinions to a third party arbitrator who was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to rule on the matter.
And the following 30-second video proves that I was right. (Shocker.) Check it out.
At least sort of. Many of you may have already seen this over at my Babble Voices blog, but just in case you didn’t, I think you’ll find the following video reasonably amusing — especially if you’re married and you’re into playful banter, and, perhaps even, gender-based stereotypes. Happy Thursday to all.
The following post is sponsored by Clorox, which, coincidentally, may as well sponsor our stain-ridden lives as much as we’ve come to depend on them.
Okay, quick disclaimer here. I’m far from an expert when it comes to keeping things all neat and tidy. That’s my wife’s deal. She’s got this entire system that she effortlessly employs. Okay, that’s a lie. Her system requires preposterous amounts of effort. She only makes it look effortless. But still, it’s a system, alright. One which keeps our entire household as clean as a whistle, though, presumably not one of the nasty, saliva-encrusted plastic whistles the triplets constantly have lodged in their germ-ridden mouths.
Regardless, Caroline is a clutter-eliminating, filth-eradicating life saver. But you know what else she is?
If you and your spouse were flying somewhere without your kids, would you book separate flights? Or would you roll the dice, if you will, and fly together< I know a lot of couples, both from our generation and the one before it, who insist on flying separately. You know, so, just in case the flight went down, at least one of them would be alive to raise the children. And, I know others who would fly together without giving the matter a second thought.
Predictably, I have an opinion on the matter. To read it, come visit me at Babble Voices by clicking HERE. And, if you’re so inclined, please chime in with your take in the comments section.
Just last week I treated myself to a Friday hike with two guys that work in my office, one of whom isn’t exactly your outdoorsy type. In fact, this was his first hike, ever. So I decided to both take it easy on him and bust his chops all at once by taking him on the famous Chimney Tops Trail. I took it easy on him because it’s only a two mile trek to the top. I busted his chops, though, because it’s a tough little climb, for in that two miles, you gain 1,700 feet.
Anyone who’s reading in the Knoxville area is likely familiar with the Chimneys. Many of you have probably hiked it. Of the countless trails which wind through the Great Smokey Mountains National Park, it’s perhaps the most popular of them all.
It’s raining outside, just as it has been for much of the month. Only this night, it’s really dumping, angry hurtful pellets slapping against my sweat-soaked flesh as I dash ungracefully from the gym to my car. Once behind the wheel, the steam from my body counteracts whatever modest progress the defrost is making, a humid mess I am, not only affected by the high pressure system outside, but also, apparently, by the one from within.
Cal pulled up to the trailhead and was surprised to see no other cars. Not that it mattered. There were several campsites off the main trail as well as the other two which intersected it, and Cal knew every single one of them. So finding a private spot wouldn’t be a problem.
Still, it was always better when your private spot was the entire side of a mountain.
A few Friday’s ago, my wife and I were channel surfing when we stumbled upon a rare treat. Grease is the word, my friends. And it’s also a classic, one that I first saw at a very young age.
Which is how I started watching the movie. With the wide-eyed wonder of the ten-year-old whose tummy felt all funny inside the first time he saw Sandy, her fair complexion, cardigan sweater, full-length skirt and prudent yet playful ponytail.
But by the end of the movie, my perspective had changed to that of a 42-year old parent.
So, wow. I thought that Beyonce’s pregnancy got a lot of press, but it certainly pales in comparison to the press that the birth of Blue Ivy Carter has received. Lots to talk about, apparently. Like did Beyonce fake her pregnancy and farm out the dirty work to a surrogate? Or did Beyonce carry the child herself?
And what about the security measures taken by the couple? Some parents are claiming that such measures prohibited them from visiting their own children in the NICU. If true, that’s clearly disconcerting.
But of all the disconcerting elements which have surrounded the arrival of Blue Ivy Carter, none are more troubling to me than the song Jay-Z wrote in celebration of her birth.
