Posts Tagged ‘art’


Habitual liars suffer from smokers cough.

April 28, 2013

liar liar

We have a little indoor/outdoor home weather station that sits on our kitchen counter.  It tells us all kinds of neat information like temperature and humidity with great accuracy.

It even provides a forecast for the next few hours.  We have found this to be somewhat less accurate.

If it predicts sun, we watch for rain.  If rain is in the forecast, it’s safe to plan a picnic.  Recently it showed partly sunny/partly cloudy/and rain all at the same time.  Instead, a snowstorm dropped over a foot of snow on us.

These errors may be a result of the fact that the station in still in its 14-day learning mode (as it warns us in large lettering under the weather prediction).

Then again, the 14-day learning mode is well into its fourth year.

At this point we’re not sure if the weather station is a really slow learner or just a dirty rotten liar.


The centaur for disease control.

April 4, 2013

centaur of disease control

Our youngest recently had his second round of immunizations.  He was very brave.

With each of our daughters, these early check-ups were terrible.  They would cry from the minute we walked into the offices until the moment we left.  From 1-2 months onward they feared the doctor, the nurse, and even the receptionist despite the two month intervals between visits.  They recognized the faces and remembered that they were connected to painful shots.

This is amazing when you consider that babies this young are startled to discover they have feet.

Several times each day.


Bashful storm clouds never forget their…

March 12, 2013


Only someone with daughters can understand the sheer volume of clothes said daughters accumulate.  Our house is filled with dresses, shirts, skirts, skorts, blouses, tights, leggings, socks, nightgowns, pajamas, sweatshirts, sweaters, shoes, sandals, boots, clogs, etc, etc, etc…

Clothes are picked for school, they are handed down by family/friends, they are given as gifts, and sometimes new outfits seem to just apperate into the laundry baskets.

With the nearly infinite options available, you may wonder how long it takes the girls to decide on what to wear.  Actually, it takes no time at all.

They just run around in their underwear.


Penguins don’t do casual Fridays.

February 23, 2013

penguins dont do casual

Two nights ago while brushing our teeth, I was asking our daughter Emma what sounds different animals make.  We started with the easy pet types (cats, dogs, and birds) before moving on to barnyard livestock (cows, roosters, pigs, horses).  Like every other two-year-old in the world, she was a pro at mimicking each of these creatures.

It wasn’t until we came to some of the more exotic members of the wild kingdom that things started to get interesting.

          Me: What does an elephant sound like?

          Emma: Achoooooooo!

          Me: Achoooooooo?

          Emma: Yeah.  Their big noses…  achoooooooo!

          Me: Okay.  How about a Penguin?

         Emma: /high-pitched, squeaky voice/ Penguin, penguin, penguin.

         Me: That’s what they say?

          Emma: Baby penguins.  Mama penguins say – PENGUIN, PENGUIN, PENGUIN!

          Me: Wow.  Well, what noise do monkeys make?

          Emma: I like pink bananas!

She delivered each of these answers with no hesitation and complete confidence.  At the moment, we’re not sure if she’s a little bit brilliant or just completely batty.

Either way, she’s awfully entertaining.


Mother inferiors are often overlooked.

February 12, 2013

mother inferiors

When I was quite young our family moved from Kansas to Alaska.  One of the most immediate differences that our family noticed was the way that people dressed for church on Sundays.

In Kansas, men wore suits (or at least a shirt and tie) and women generally wore dresses.  At the age of four, I already owned a goodwill suit and clip-on tie.  It was the norm.  In Alaska, things were very different.  Men and women both wore sweaters, turtlenecks, t-shirts, jeans (gasp!), and even jackets emblazoned with the name of local bars.

Although we adapted to the more relaxed style over time, to a strict Catholic family from the midwest it looked less like Sunday Mass and more like laundry day.


Always insist on cultured pearls.

February 3, 2013

cultured pearls (fixed)

This little fellow is dressed up for a special occasion!  Last Friday marked the third anniversary of this blog.  Wow.  I’ve been posting for three years (with a few extended breaks) here at wordpress.  In honor of this modest milestone, here are a few blog stats:

  • total number of posts = 284
  • total number of comments = 986
  • total number of followers = 2,898
  • total number of visitors on busiest day = 3,252
  • total number of countries visitors came from = 148
  • total number of new babies in my household = 2
  • total number of comics published in national magazine = 1
  • total number of drawings that feature a stylish mustache = 26
  • total number of drawings that feature an unstylish mustache = doesn’t exist


Cool cool cool.


The old roll didn’t have the heart to warn the new one.

January 28, 2013

old and new rolls

When my wife and I were newly married, we rented an apartment containing two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and an absolutely minuscule bathroom.  The bathroom was so tiny that it was nearly impossible for two people to stand back to back between the tub and the sink.

One day I was shaving at the sink while my wife was standing at the bathroom door talking.  During a short lull in the conversation I felt a gentle scuffing on my heel.  The mirror was fogged over from the steam, but I assumed that my wife was trying to slip behind me so I scooted forward as much as possible to give her room.  I continued shaving until I felt the small scratching sensation again.  As I attempted to squeeze even further against the sink, I saw someone out of the corner of my eye.

It was my wife – still in the doorway.

In fact, she wasn’t moving at all.  She was frozen in place.  Then, her eyes (which had been focused on the floor behind me) slowly moved up and met mine.

Before I could ask what was wrong, I felt yet another bump on my heel.  I turned quickly and saw a small brown mouse nuzzling against the back of my bare foot.

After a series of impressive jumps, kicks, and manly pirouettes, I was finally able to catch my breath and ask my wife why she didn’t tell me about the mouse caressing my foot.  Or, better yet, why she watched it do so three separate times?!

She couldn’t give me a good reason.

In fact, it’s been nine years and she still hasn’t.