So what if my wardrobe is straight out of Caddyshack?

It's Monday. Busy day at work today, but no school this week, so my evenings are free to spend with the Mrs. Here's what's going on:

I wore a pair of madras pants to church yesterday. While there, I fielded my fair share of smart comments from my fellow parishioners.

But I kept my head held high, secure in the knowledge that madras is "in" this summer. And I was proud that I had beaten this madras and seersucker fad by a full two years, since I bought these pants and a seersucker suit in 2005.

Which should tell you that I am a keen trend-spotter. Or that I have looked like an idiot for the last two years.

Anyhow, Wife and Son took off to the grocery store after church and followed me to my closet to get changed. As I opened my closet door, Daughter pointed to my pants and asked:

"Daddy, are those your pajamas?"

I've found another song to which I can not stop listening. It's weird how many times I've listened to this since I downloaded it on Saturday.

It's called "Stolen" by Dashboard Confessional. It's got a lot of brooding, teen-angst appeal to it and, like I said, I can't make myself stop playing it.

I've been given a Thinking Blogger Award by Toni at In the Midst of This Season. I'm very grateful to Toni for the nod and will likely get my nominations up in the next day or so.

And on the seventh day he cut his grass

I can. I just choose not to.

That’s what I tell myself.

On Thursdays, when I roll past the freshly cut and beautifully striped lawns in our neighborhood, I tell myself I can. I just choose not to.

On Saturdays, when every grill in the neighborhood is blazing and our neighbors have guests parking in front of our house, I tell myself I can. I just choose not to.

On Sundays, when the sorry condition of my yard is shaving 10-20% off property values in my neighborhood, I tell myself I can. I just choose not to.

As I schlep back and forth and around trees in the summer sun, I tell myself I can. I just choose not to.

I can hire a lawn service. I just choose not to.

That’s what I get for having a Dad that kept his own yard up. My entire life, I’ve believed that unless you’re physically unable or extremely busy (i.e. orthopedic surgeon who lives across the street) you cut your own grass, pull your own weeds, trim your own hedges and spread your own mulch.

I’m not saying I’m right. I’m just saying that’s what I grew up thinking.

I have gained some wisdom in recent years and now I leave the mulching and hedge trimming to the pros. But the grass and weeds are my responsibility.

Last year, because of a mix-up with the guy who mulches and trims hedges for me, he cut my grass for the last six weeks of mowing season. Every Thursday, just like all the neighbors, my yard looked like a fairway.

And it was good.

He made me an offer to do it all this year. It was pricey but not out of the question. I declined.

Even though I’m the bum with the shaggy yard on our street until I can get around to mowing each Sunday, I cut my own grass. And every few weeks I pull some weeds.

My yard looks better to my eye when I take care of it myself, because I know the work and effort that goes into it. And I believe there’s tremendous value in having my kids see me work.

I learned that from my Dad, who would forsake his chair or a ballgame or a good book every Saturday to keep up his yard. His only hiatus came during my teenage years, when I was finally old enough and strong enough to cut our grass.

He still cuts his own grass to this day, even though his body has been ravaged by age and his mind is nearly gone.

I’m just kidding. He’s just 62 and is in better shape than I am. I just wanted to see if he was reading.

But he does still do his own yard, and we check each other’s yards out when we get together.

In a few years, Son will be old enough to get out there with me and learn the art of yard work. Then – and only then – will I hand over my yard to someone else.

At that point, I’ll say, “I can mow my own lawn. I just choose not to.”

It's not a mess, it's a Tea Party

Yesterday Clare's Dad posed an interesting question: How do you reason with the child who wants every single toy out at once?

The photo below is proof that I don't know.


This is what Daughter called a "Tea Party" at the time she was doing it. She did this while we were cooking dinner one night last fall.

The first time I saw what she was doing, when she simply had a handful of toys piled up, it was cute.

The next time I checked on her, big swatches of rug were starting to disappear, and it was still kinda cute. Plus, it was keeping her busy while we cooked.

When I checked on her the last time, right before this picture was taken, it was hilarious what a mess she had made. And I knew what a nightmare it was going to be to try to explain to her that she would need to clean it all up.

She was so proud of her "Tea Party."

We let her bask in her accomplishment for a while before we unleashed the wailing and gnashing of teeth known as clean-up time.

I will consult for your business 20 years ago

You'll be happy to know that I survived the final session of my economics class last night. I finished the paper around 10 a.m. yesterday.

I think I did a decent job with the paper, but apparently it's not about what I think. There's this old dude who teaches the class that thinks he has some say in the whole thing.

Bottom line is, I'm pretty confident about how I did in the class.

And when I get my time machine running (and I think I'm close!) I'm going to make a fortune by going back and fixing a bunch of companies 20 years ago.

I may use the money to trick my blog out a little. We'll see.

The highlight of the class, though, was what happened before class even started.

This is the South, so the idea that Everything Is Better If You Bring Food is in our DNA. So about 20 minutes before class, people start rolling in carrying casserole dishes, crock pots and what not. To give you an idea of the almost unspeakable goodness, someone brought in a crockpot filled with:

• Cocktail weenies, wrapped in bacon and cooked in brown sugar

Anytime you wrap an animal in another animal and eat it, I'm in!

The most glorious moment came when I woman walked in carrying what I believe to be one of mankind's greatest contributions to civilization:

• The Chick-Fil-A nugget party tray

It was heavenly.

For those of you who live in the desolate, far-off, almost third-world corners of the U.S. where Chick-Fil-A does not operate:

• I am deeply sorry you haven't experienced what I'm talking about
• Get in your car today and don't stop driving until you see the big red C

I took down a big ol' plate of food and sat through the remainder of the class in a chicken and weenies-wrapped-in-bacon induced haze.

I'll email you 15 pages of my econ paper if you like

Every spare moment of this week has been spent working on a big paper that's due in my graduate economics class tonight, so once again I'm left to do a quick list of what's going on:

The phone call I received while playing golf on Monday was from my old boss at the Big Anonymous National Korporation where I used to work. And by "used to" I mean three months ago.

He wants me back. So we talked a little bit about what he needed and had a good conversation. But that's all it's going to be - conversation. I'm not the most socially or professionally aware person, but I know you don't leave a great job at a new place to go back to a different role at an old place.

It's only when you're dating somebody that other people will ask you out!

How lucky are we as a society? Last week Sanjaya got booted from American Idol and now there's word that Rosie is leaving The View.

Apparently there are some things that are right with this world.

That's it. I've got to scoot.

Tuesday round-up

Here's what's going on in our neck of the woods.

I mentioned yesterday that I would be spending the day doing my part for humanity my playing in a charity golf tournament. If anyone from the Nobel committee is reading, please email me directly and I'll send you my bank instructions.

The event was a success. When all is said and done we should net about $10,000 to help provide free basic dental care to individuals living below Federal poverty guidelines. How about that?

The team I played with shot a 5-under par 67, which I thought was respectable. Especially considering that the last time I touched a golf club was Halloween. Seriously, Halloween.

None of the parenting books tell you about how horribly having kids will ravage your golf game.

During the golf tournament, I received an interesting phone call. That's all I can say about it right now, but I'll update you tomorrow if you behave yourselves.

How's that for mystery?

Wife and I drank ourselves silly on Sunday afternoon.

Okay, so that's a bold-faced lie. (Seriously. See how it's in bold face?)

But we did go to a cool wine and food tasting event to benefit a local children's charity. We had tiny sips of a few different types of wine and sampled some grilled beef tenderloin, shrimp and grits, and ribs.

A silent auction was set up along one wall of the venue, and one of the items up for sale was a portrait session with the photographer who did our wedding and our kids' portraits. The display included samples of his work, and after quick scan through, I spotted a picture of Son.

Like any good father would do, I moved Son's picture to the top of the stack. I'm proud like that.

Thanks for stopping by

Thanks to a much-appreciated shout-out from BooMama, there are a lot of new faces stopping by. So, welcome to My Best Investments!

Here are a few posts you might enjoy:

Read about my trip to Daughter's preschool here.

Read about the male-bonding weekend Son and I recently enjoyed here and here.

And read about how Son is turning into a superhuman man-beast here.

A very sincere THANK YOU for stopping by. I'd stay and visit, but I have to go do my part for humanity by playing in a charity golf tournament today.

Come back and see us!

In case there's an ostrich stampede...

...we'll be protected. What about you?

In a flash of absurdly uncharacteristic spontaneity, Wife and I decided yesterday morning to load the kiddos up for a trip to the zoo.

Here's how our pre-zoo checklist went:

Sunscreen? Check.
Kids' snacks? Check.
Kids' drinks? Check.
Camera? Check.
Plenty of cash? Check.

As we walked up the sidewalk from the parking lot, we walked behind a guy in his 50s whose list must have gone like this:

Ball cap? Check.
Cigarettes? Check.
(The zoo is smoke free)
Tight jeans? Check.
Extra cigarettes? Check.
Handgun and belt hoster? Check.

In case you missed it, let me hit that last part again:

HANDGUN AND BELT HOLSTER FOR THE TRIP TO THE ZOO WHERE THERE WILL BE LOTS OF KIDS AND FAMILIES AND OTHER PEOPLE THAT ARE STILL SHELLSHOCKED BY THE NATION'S DEADLIEST MASS SHOOTING WHICH TOOK PLACE A FEW HOURS UP THE ROAD? Check.

Now, I am not here to weigh in on the pros and cons of gun ownership. This blog is simply not a forum for serious topics. If you want to go a few rounds about Huggies vs. Pampers, then let's get it on. But I'm taking Pampers and there's no way you can win if you pick Huggies.

Which brings us back to Handgun at the Zoo Dude. I'm just curious what the guy's thought process was when he was getting dressed for his trip to the zoo.

Was he:

• afraid the petting zoo might get a little rough?
• going to be a hero if some violent incident erupted?
• going to make sure no one fed the animals?
• going to fight for our freedom if the chimps staged an uprising?

I don't know. Only he knows. After we got through the admission gate (which he sailed through, with no one even noticing he was packin') we went separate ways.

I have to assume, since there was no ostrich stampede, that it's a good thing that man brought his gun to the zoo. The gun did its job. And I won't feel as bad when I take my crossbow Christmas shopping this year.

A Boston butt is part of a pig

At 6:55 every Thursday morning, I take a big Boston butt to the face.

How's that for an opening line?

For four years now, I've met with a group of guys on Thursday mornings to drink a cup of coffee and pray with/for each other. We meet at a friend's restaurant, and when we get there just before 7 a.m., the smokehouse has been workin' a room full of pork all night long.

The smell in the air outside the restaurant is simply UNBELIEVABLE. It truly is like a slap to the face. It makes me want pork drippings in my coffee.

I usually don't get an appetite until around 10 a.m., but when I smell that stuff on Thursdays, I'm instantly hungry. And what I want is a big, fat sliced pork sandwich with slaw on top and beans on the side.

At 7 a.m.

I don't think my cardiologist would approve.

But all this talk of pork and smoke and whatnot raises an interesting question:

What, to you, is barbecue? And where's the best place to get it?

To me, barbecue is smoked pork served either pulled or sliced. If it's a sandwich you put slaw on the sandwich and you eat beans on the side. If it's just a big platter of meat, you cover it with sauce and go to town.

My favorite barbecue is from my friend's place. It's the real deal. Featured in Southern Living. It has both a loyal in-town crowd and draws folks from out of town.

My runner-up place may not still exist, but when I was in high school there was a place named "Mrs. Campbell's Alabama Bar-B-Q."

Mrs. Campbell worked behind the counter, along with about 600 of her kids and grandkids. On Sundays, the restaurant was closed and they had church there.

You know you're eating good barbecue when they close on Sunday and have church in the restaurant. You can taste the love.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've drooled all over myself writing this. Time to see what's in the fridge.

Expanding the family vocabulary

One of the joys of having a child in the house that is 1) a preschooler, and 2) a girl, is that there is no shortage of conversation. She's mastered speaking in full sentences and is, overall, a great communicator.

There are a few words she's still working on, though, so here's Daughter's Dictionary. My Girl's Glossary. The Little Lady's Lexicon. You get the idea.

Crooky - uneasy stomach; ready for poo-poo time.
Example: "Daddy, I'm feeling crooky!"

Tamborine - something you jump on; her best shot at saying "trampoline"
Example: "Daddy, want to jump on the tamborine?"

Uniform - a machine we put in her room when she's sick; her best attempt at "humidifier"
Example: "Daddy, will you turn on the uniform so I don't cough in the night?"

Pointed - being poked or jabbed by something
Example: "Daddy, brother pointed me!"

My favorite of these is "crooky." It's a word we've adopted into the family vocabulary. Chinese food, for instance, has a tendency to make us a little crooky. Daddy also gets crooky when he is stressed or anxious. Daddy also talks about himself in the third person.

Jump in with a comment and share a story about how your family's vocabulary has been expanded by a preschooler!

That's reassurance, I guess

I confessed to Wife while scooping ice cream tonight that I almost crossed a personal privacy line with my American Idol post last night.

I was going to spill the beans that she has a big crush on Blake.

Me: "I almost outted you on my blog last night."

Wife: "What do you mean?"

Me: "I was going to write that you're eBaying all my clothes so you have money to call in and vote for Blake."

Wife: "That wouldn't bother me."

Me: "I was also going to tell everyone that you would drop me in a heartbeat and run
away with Blake if you had the chance."

Wife: "I wouldn't leave you to run away with Blake. But maybe you could learn to beatbox..."

Bloggin' to the Idols

Bandwagon, this is My Best Investments. My Best Investments, this is the bandwagon. Nice to meet you.

American Idol is on at our house, and I thought I'd combine two guilty pleasures by blogging during Idol tonight. If I could figure out some way to shovel ice cream in my face with one hand while all this is going on, I'd be set.

Martina McBride - I don't know a whole lot about Martina McBride, except that Sean Hannity used the "Let Freedom Ring" song as his intro music on his radio show for a while. He may still. I don't know. Anyhow, that was in the immediate post-911 days, and the song had a little but more resonance for me then.

Phil Stacy - The guy from Midnight Oil is on Idol? Isn't there an age limit? Or is that Howie Mandel?

Jordin Sparks - Isn't she due back for her shift at Seattle Grace? How does a fictional TV surgical resident get this much time off? Isn't George wondering where she's been all these weeks?

She owned this song and this audience tonight. Very good.

Ryan Secrest - How tiny is this guy? He looks like a little cardboard cutout next to Jordin.

I'm not making a judgment. I don't exactly get mistaken for Shaquille O'Neal on the streets. But he looks tiny next to everyone. I bet he wishes they would have recruited a few more 3-foot-nothin' Paris Bennetts for this season.

Sanjaya Malakar - It hurts. It hurts so much. Isn't this the reason we have the Geneva Convention?

Wife just made a great point: How lethal is it to the self-esteem of the poor girls in the band to be singing backup to Sanjaya?

Lakesha Jones - I don't know how to spell Lakesha. She's singing "Jesus Take The Wheel" and it is not good. Not good at all.

You know how they knock the little blond girls when they try singing big, soulful songs? Apparently that street runs both ways. Big, soulful girls shouldn't sing little blond girl songs.

Based on my comment about Ryan, how short is Lakesha? He's a full head taller than her.

Chris Richardson - Not your song, dude. There's a reason your boy JT sings pop. Kudos for rockin' the white Members Only jacket though.

Melinda Doolittle - She's actually pulling this off. She can sing just about anything.

Blake Lewis - Singing "When the Stars Go Blue" which is a great song. Adding a little Pet Shop Boys/Duran Duran/eurotrash flair to it.

I'm actually a Blake fan, so I like this.

In conclusion, some highs and some lows. The bottom three will be Chris Richardson, Lakesha Jones and Phil Stacy. Chris Richardson will go home.

Alright, that's it. I'm out. There's a carton of Brown Mule ice cream in the freezer that needs a little lovin'.

Civilization returns to our neighborhood

About five years ago, on a night like any other, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed a familiar number. Within seconds of the call going through, I knew my life was going to be irreparably changed.

Our favorite Chinese food place had just reopened from a renovation and had...

(I still get a little emotional.)

...changed their menu.

Our neighborhood source for beef lo mein, wonton soup and pork fried rice had morphed into a trendy new place for Asian fusion stuff.

In the years since, we have been forced to get our Chinese food from a hibachi-style Japanese place down the street that keeps a few Chinese dishes on the menu just for kicks. The Chinese from the hibachi-style place was good, but I eventually grew tired of the gastrointestinal rot that ensued every time we ate it.

All of which explains why I take such great joy in announcing that: We have a new neighborhood dumb-guy Chinese place.

No pan-seared anything. No wasabi aioli. No edamame. No sushi.

Just meat and vegetables covered in your choice of brown or light brown sauce, with awesome fried rice and big fat egg rolls on the side. And a 15% grand opening discount to boot!

The scan of the menu above should give you an idea of the type of place I'm talking about. It's a place so raw you order by number, or if that takes too much effort, you can just point at a picture of what you want.

China Garden, you've got two new customers for life.

P.S. In the ultimate act of forgiveness, Wife and I eventually tried out the Asian fusion place after it pulled the switcheroo on us years ago. It's now one of our favorite places for a nice night out, with top-notch miso soup and the best sushi in town. But some nights, especially after the weekend we had, you just want to call in some take-out and eat in your own pajamas at your own kitchen table.

I'll be saying an extra prayer tonight

If you haven't already, it's time to get yourself right with God. Because the end is near.

How else can you explain two consecutive weekends of snow in our little corner of the South? (Mr. Gore, you shut your pie hole! I'm not in the mood for an "I told you so!")

Here's a shot out the front door.



And check out this shot of the side yard, where my pear trees battled to shield my precious lawn from the snow.


So as we fall alseep tonight, we get to wonder if the clippety-clop sounds we hear are just the clumps of snow falling from the roof, or the hoofbeats of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

I'm ready for my show on Bravo

One of the things I was able to do on the trip to Richmond was stop in a few places and get a few items of clothing.

The place I stayed was a hop, skip and jump from Short Pump Town Center, which I thought was a strange name for a mall, but then again, it's not like I'm getting asked to name a lot of malls. So kudos to the dude who named that mall.

Here's what I found. This Vineyard Vines polo shirt. I've worn a polo shirt or two over the years and am always searching for brands that fit my rockin' physique. It's hard to top a good ol' Ralph Lauren polo, but at almost $90 a pop these days, my eyes are open for alternatives.

I tried on a few polos at J. Crew but the sleeves were cropped about an inch off the shoulder, which was not a good look on my wiry, pale arms.



I did find these yellow pants at J. Crew, and they were pretty reasonably priced.


I also found the tan pants below at J. Crew. The girl ringing this stuff up was telling me how much she liked all the seersucker stuff they're carrying this spring. I didn't have the heart to tell her that these are merely corded cotton, not seersucker. There is a difference.

And yes, I do realize that recognizing a difference between corded cotton and seersucker makes me sound like I should be hosting a makeover show. For that matter, the entire content of this post sounds that way.

So I've got a couple more things to work into the wardrobe lineup this summer. If this summer ever comes. Maybe I should have bought the "summer weight" cashmere sweater the J. Crew guy was trying to sell me.

You probably didn't even know I was gone

In the wise words of Pearl Jam, I'm still alive.

It's been a very busy week, so I have not had time to devote to the truly important things in life, which are:

1. Updating the beacon of wit and wisdom that is My Best Investments
2. Reading other blogs

What's been consuming so much time, you ask?

A business trip to Richmond was the big culprit. I cruised out of here on Monday afternoon for meetings there Tuesday and Wednesday, and then had to be back here for meetings on Thursday.

All of that left Wife at home for a few marathon days with the animals (read: my dear, sweet children). She survived very well, and actually didn't run out the door the moment I got home.

This goes to show, once again, that she is the Tiger Woods of parenting, while I am more of a Happy Gilmore. She does her thing with confidence and intelligence. I flail and yell and fall on my face.

My saving grace is that I, like Happy Gilmore, have a little Mexican guy that follows me around and shouts, "You can doo eet!"

Anyhow, that's it for now. I'm home. More blogging to come.

Our true selves revealed

Last year for Wife's birthday, I hit a game-winning, bottom-of-the-ninth, grand slam homerun. The only way I think I could top it this year would be if I could somehow arrange for her to have a pedicure with Oprah at a J. Crew.

I gave the gift of Tivo.

And Tivo has been our friend. But lately I've come to a harsh realization:

Tivo thinks we're rednecks.

From time to time, we'll go through the folder of stuff Tivo goes out and records for us based on our other viewing habits. The results are a shameful reflection of who we really are.

I'd think the folder would be filled with stuff like Nightline or PBS documentaries. Granted, I've never watched Nightline, but Imaginary Me is a guy who watches stuff like that.

I want Tivo to grab Jeopardy for me. I want it to grab 60 Minutes (just not the ones with Katie Couric).

Instead, it grabs Wheel of Fortune. And, based on its understanding of me, it grabs Access Hollywood.

According to Tivo, Wife and I are not the erudite sophisticates we think we are.

That, my friends, is a bitter pill to swallow.

The point we knew we had hit rock-bottom in our TV viewing was when we checked the Tivo recommendations folder to find an episode of Roseanne in there.

My theory is that there's a show that Wife Tivos which sets up this despicable downspiral of recording by proxy. But I could be guilty as well. I'm sure the Season Pass for Saturday Night Live that I've established isn't a staple of most Mensa households.

Even though Tivo is a sickening mirror from which to view oneself, I think it's a keeper. Without it, I wouldn't be able to pause So You Think You Can Dance to go to the kitchen and scoop ice cream. And that would be a problem.

Tuesday round-up

I've got a raging case of ADHD at the moment (or for the last few days), so here's an assortment of stuff to ponder:

My beloved Florida Gators won another national championship last night. Despite what I'm told in this part of the country, I am not evil for liking Florida. And all these other people are not evil for liking (insert school name here). It's just preference. Like food and music. Totally personal. Anyhow, I'm proud of 'em.

The premier event in all of sports, in my opinion, begins Thursday when The Masters begins at Augusta National. There are many great golf tournaments, but The Masters is the best. For all intents and purposes (that's intensive purposes to some of you), I will be stuck to the TV nearly all weekend.

Wife understands the Masters addiction and is generally supportive, even biting her tongue as I missed my Daughter's first Easter a few years ago when I was invited to attend the tournament with a friend.

I will rot in hell forever for missing Daughter's first Easter.

Driving home from dinner with my parents the other night, we pulled up next to a beat-up old Aerostar van with these bumper stickers:

• This car stops for all garage sales
• If you don't like my smoking...DON'T BREATHE

Why not condense this down into one bumper sticker that just says:

• I love crap and cigarettes

One of the problems with freedom of speech is that people confusing free speech with speaking freely. Free speech = good. Speaking freely = not always necessary.

One of the maxims that guides my life is this: just because you can doesn't mean you should.

And yes, I realize that I just made myself a big fat walking hypocrite by saying all that, because I have a blog from which I blather on about nothing at all.