The other day, I got home from work and was just about to get out of the car, when a couple of outlaws opened the back door with guns blazing. My car door was slightly open, but I was able to close it again, just as the bullets started hitting the car.

(Luckily, my car turned out to be impervious to the seemingly endless stream of bullets flying my way.)

One of the outlaws, a sharpshooter with a newly purchased, pump action rifle with “real” electronic sounds, kept me pinned down in my bullet-proof cocoon.

They approached menacingly, sneering and giggling the whole way.

I locked the door as they tried to open it and said through the closed window, “I’m not coming out until you put the guns way.”

“What?!” came the muffled reply.

“I said, I’m not coming out until you stop shooting! Stop shooting at me.”

Another giggle and a pause.

“But we’re desperados!”

“I know you’re desperados. Now put your guns down. I want to come inside.”

“Ok Daddy! How do you like my new rifle? Isn’t it neat?” One outlaw instantly turned into my youngest son, as he gave me a hug.

For some reason, my wife doesn’t like when the boys play with guns. But before they had actual guns, they used sticks, even their fingers, for the same “deadly” effect.

I don’t mind the guns…except when I’m ambushed by desperados.


What’s the D?

Every night when I put the kids to bed, my oldest asks: “What’s the date?” or like tonight he asked “What’s the ‘D’?”

I usually just go through the mental exercise to extract that piece of information out of my head (or look at my watch). This can be a pretty difficult task at that time of night, depending on my frame of mind.

After awhile, though, I finally asked him why he wants to know the date.

It turns out, on even days he flips his pillow on one side and on odd days he flips it on the other side. One side has a bulldozer and the other a front-end loader. I guess he is giving each an equal opportunity to be on top.

I’ve had to ask him more than once about this because I keep forgetting why he wants to know.


…for making homemade vanilla ice cream at my folks place this weekend. I have no objection to use an electric ice cream maker, but my dad insists on using the old fashioned kind. He claims that it tastes better. The rule is that everyone who wants to eat the ice cream has to turn the crank (except, of course, my mom, who actually makes the ice cream.)