I am totally amazed. I really had no idea of the almost supernatural healing power of Band-Aids…at least to a four year old. Mason has discovered this little known bit of information and uses it every chance he gets. I totally see needing a Band-Aid after tripping in the middle of the living room and falling onto nice soft carpet. Of course, it can get a little difficult to pin point the exact location of the alleged injury when there is absolutely no mark, and one cannot remember which shoulder actually hit the ground. But I digress.
Personally, I don't even wear Band-Aids after accidentally running an angle grinder over a couple knuckles. I figure if my skin comes off that easily, then I didn't really need it in the first place. Am I right? Well, Mason on the other hand needs a Band-Aid for ANYTHING and is in excruciating pain until one gets applied. Sometimes I think I am sitting at a Broadway show with some of the performances I have seen from him. I don't know how many times I've heard Laura ask him where he needs it since there is no obvious sign of trauma. Even then, one is never enough.
I get home from work and Mason excitedly meets me at the back door. Was he excited because he had not seen me all day? Nope! He wanted to show me all of his new Band-Aids he had amassed during the day. I start counting as he points them out, 1…2…3…4…5. I asked him a simple question: "Have a rough day?" to which he replied simply: "Yep" and walked back in the house leaving me standing on the back step pondering whether I should start investing in Band-Aid stock.
Of course, it is the middle of summer with temperatures in the upper 90's and just thinking about going outside will open sweat glands. Since I seem to be a glutton for punishment, I decide to work outside for a while and try to get more of the corn crib down. Mason was right there with me. After about 30 minutes, Mason and I are both drenched and I noticed that some of his Band-Aids are starting to peel off. Not wanting to start an incident, I choose not to bring this fact to his attention and instead suggest we go inside, get a drink and cool off. Air conditioning is great by the way!
After we both got cooled off, Mason and I started wrestling in the living room, floppy Band-Aids and all. Every once in a while, one of Mason's Band-Aids would fall off. With the palm of his hand stuffed in my face and him shouting "wait, wait, wait…" I would watch him try to stick this mangled piece of cloth back on his foot. Sweat, carpet fuzz and other contaminants make it difficult to retain enough stick to adequately stay where intended.
Being that I am seven and a quarter times older than he is, and comfortable knowing that number shrinks with every passing day (think about it), I decided to admit defeat and go sit in my easy chair. I guess Mason was not done tumbling around on the floor, running from room to room and quite frankly creating a ruckus. I noticed on one of his inbound trips from the kitchen, he had lost the Band-Aid on his foot. I did not see it anywhere on the living room floor and certainly wasn't going to point it out. He rolled around on the floor again for a while before charging back to the kitchen.
There it was…yup…stuck to the back of his head. That's right…head! Somehow, that Band-Aid managed to migrate from his foot and get stuck firmly in his hair. Apparently, sweat, carpet fuzz and other contaminates only prevent the glue from sticking to skin because it sure held tight to his hair. One quick tug…well, two quick tugs (having not anticipated the veracity of the 'contaminated' glue) freed the Band-Aid. Of course, this ultimately lead to the worlds second best magical cure, the ice pack. I guess Mason did not appreciate the complexities of proper Band-Aid removal techniques.
To the best of my knowledge, I have never been attacked by a small yellow duck. However, I can no longer say that this is true for Mason.
It was another hot day in the Midwest. Just standing outside for five minutes was enough to get drenched in sweat. I had been working in the garage when Mason came in with his new soccer ball. Picking it out of the middle of my work bench after he threw it there, I decided it would be a good idea to perhaps teach him how to kick his ball around…outside. I figured I was already soaked with sweat anyway, why not kick the ball around for a while?
Mason and I ran all over the yard chasing each other. I would kick the ball and both of us would run after it. As this went on, Mason got more aggressive about trying to beat me to the ball. He even went as far as to play dirty. I’m guessing he learned that from his mother…shhh, don’t tell her I said that! Anyway, I would run just ahead of him and kick the ball again. Apparently, Mason decided that it would be a good idea to push the back of my knee effectively knocking me to the ground. “I WIN” is what I heard when he reached the ball. Thought it was about time to teach about fair play.
The next time I kicked the ball, I was ready for the knee attack. I brilliantly orchestrated a flawless and very convincing fall. Arms flailing, I “accidentally” tripped Mason. Wow, did the world stop turning at that point! Time for a crying fit and a sprint back to the house to tell Mom that “Dad hit me”. Conveniently, he left out the part about tripping Dad first. Of course Laura scolded me about hitting Mason. I had to explain what really happened in order to get excused from the bare bulb, good cop-bad cop, upset mother interrogation.
After getting the story straight, it was time for Mason’s bath. All that running around made for one sweaty four year old kid and he needed one. It just wouldn’t be a bath if there weren’t at least a hundred toys in the water. Two of those toys happen to be small, yellow rubber duckies that squeak when squeezed. I guess that Mason was a little thirsty from running around outside ‘cause he decided to take a drink. Just for a mental note, it is not recommended to fill a rubber ducky with soapy bath water, put the hole to your mouth and squeeze. It happens to be a great way to choke.
After Mason gets done coughing and gagging on the presumably terrible tasting soapy bath water, he looks the duck squarely in the beak and shouts “BAD DUCK! NO CHOKE MASON”. Laura and I both looked at each other and bursted out laughing.
Word to the wise, keep an eye on those pesky ducks, they can turn on you without notice.
Mason has actually surpassed me in a skill that I never thought he would have at the age of three. Generally speaking, most people would not think of a toddler as a sharp shooter. However, Mason has become just that. Let me give you a little of the back story before explaining how Mason has earned the title of Marksman.
Before Laura and I had Mason, it was always fun to give Christmas and birthday presents that were horribly annoying to the children of family members. Hilarious at the time, but boy are we paying for that now. A few years ago, I picked out a toy called “The Stink Blaster” for a nephew. The name really speaks for itself. It literally blasted a skunky smell about twenty feet. All you had to do was put in a small cartridge, pump the gun up and BAM, put the guy across the room into a gagging fit. Of course the kids loved it ‘cause they could terrorize the parents with that horrendous smell. The best part was at the end of the day, “The Stink Blaster” went home with someone else. Something like that unfortunately is not soon forgotten by the recipients.
Years later, Laura and I had Mason. That is when the payback started. Annoying toys coming in at every birthday party, Christmas and the occasional visit to Grandma’s. We even had threats of getting him a drum set.
This year for Christmas, Mason got a Nerf gun that shoots foam rubber darts with a little suction cup on the end. Seems harmless enough, right? Well, Mason has become very adept at shooting it. Unfortunately for him, he is not quite strong enough to pull the bolt back to charge the gun. A puff of air is all that is needed to launch the dart, but it takes quite a bit to get armed. That means either Laura or I have to load the dart, arm it then hand it back to Mason. He then runs off and shoots something, usually one of the dogs. Hyde doesn’t really care, he just gets a disgruntled look on his face then goes back to sleep. Tootsie on the other hand does NOT like being shot. After getting hit, she will charge across the room, teeth bared doing her best Cujo impression and nip at Mason. This must be quite fun because guess which dog Mason likes to torture the most? A hint: it’s not the one that goes back to sleep.
After a few encounters with Tootsie, Mason decides that he needs to shoot at other things in the house. For example, there are lots of little suction cup prints on the TV screen, and the windows, and any other surface smooth enough for the dart to stick to. One evening, after perfecting his aim all day while I was at work, he took his Nerf gun into the kitchen. Shortly after, he comes back into the living room with it. I was sitting in my easy chair watching TV and didn’t really pay much attention. Pretty soon I was struck right above my right eye with a dart! Talk about a shock. Mason went screaming with laughter back into the kitchen to have Laura arm the weapon again. By this time I was out of my chair ready to take the gun away from him. He ran back in with the gun aimed at me again. I was a little more prepared this time and turned my head. The dart struck right on my ear. One would think that a dart make out of foam would not be that much of a threat, but the gun does launch the dart with quite a force. At least enough to sting when it hits your ear.
So why have I dubbed Mason a Marksman? Well, the other day, he was playing with the Nerf gun, ran into the living room, threw himself on the floor and took aim. His dart flew out of the living room into the dining room and stuck smack in the middle of the window. Very proudly, he stood up, pointed at his dart and said “dark now, shot sun”! I’m not sure I know anyone that has ever shot the sun.
I work for a company that does business internationally. A couple times a year, I get the opportunity to travel to Germany and sometimes Slovakia. I very recently traveled to Germany and my travels this time are not one I will forget soon. I have a few things to say to those that I encountered along the way: This is Part II of my story…
To The Dude Sitting Next To Me:
Where do I start with you? Perhaps if you are going to take your shoes off to be more comfortable; at least keep them under your seat. I need all the room I can get, and having your shoes in my way only increases the number of times my knees get rammed with the drink cart. May I also suggest odor eaters? I think I could actually see the green cartoon stink lines rising from your feet. Don’t worry, I wasn’t crying, my eyes were just watering from the burning sensation caused by your stench. Peppi La Pu would have been proud.
Whether you think it or not, I have absolutely no interest in talking to you. Shut up!! Me turning away and pretending to sleep is not a signal for you to poke me and start a conversation. I really don’t care that you got a really good deal on blue jeans and bought six pair. No really, shut the f#$^ up! Why don’t you turn the other way and talk to your wife!! Perhaps she already knows that you have nothing interesting to say…
Electronics are kind of funny; hitting them really does nothing to make them work better. I realize your audio and video were cutting in and out during your movie, so was mine, but hitting the screen does only one thing…piss off the person sitting in the seat ahead of you. Yeah, she turned around and gave you a dirty look every time didn’t she? That’s because it’s annoying. While it did nothing for your movie, I’m positive you made yet another friend on that flight.
I would like to point out that my rib cage is not an appropriate place for your elbow. The arm rest between our seats would be a better spot for it. I lost track of the number of times that you jammed me in he ribs with your elbow. If you are going to look at your cell phone every five minutes then put it in your shirt pocket. It should have been obvious to you that reaching into your pants pocket to grab your phone resulted in elbow to rib contact. Get a clue man!
It would be greatly appreciated that if you eat the airline food, you also have the after dinner breath mint that comes complementary with your meal. Wow, what monster breath. Gargling with water then spitting it back out into a clear plastic cup is just nasty and in no way helps the problem. No one wants to see the little chunks of food that used to be stuck in your teeth floating around in your water cup! When the flight attendant gags when taking it from you, that should be an indication you should have just swallowed it rather than putting it on display.
Most people try to sleep on a long flight…myself included. Next time you decide to sleep after dinner, don’t turn you head toward your neighbor. I don’t know if you are aware of your particular sleeping style but let me fill you in. After falling asleep, your mouth drops open and you breathe deeply. A smell that would gag a maggot emanates from the gaping hole in your face and fills the cabin area around you. Holy moly! ‘Passenger to flight attendant, emergency in section 2! Need gas mask badly…’ If that weren’t bad enough, the drool running down your chin was dripping onto your shirt. GAG!! Oh, how disgusting. If I had actually eaten dinner, I would have certainly lost it. It would have been really nice had you not wiped the river off your face with the sleeve that was constantly bumping into me when grabbing your cell phone. Ugg.
Finally, my head is not a staging area for every item you decide to take out of the overhead bin. I swear, after we landed, you hit my head with everything you removed. Your coat, your wife’s coat, your backpack, your briefcase, your wife’s roller bag… You even hit me with a brief case that wasn’t even yours. How do I know it wasn’t yours? ‘Cause you cracked me in the back of the head when you put it back! My head did not jerk forward because I had a sudden interest in my shoes!
To The Baggage Handlers:
I know that handling baggage at an airport is a thankless job. However, baggage handling is not an Olympic event. From looking at the contents of my suitcase after arriving at the hotel, I can just imagine how the games went. It starts out with the hand off. I give my bag to the very nice lady at the ticket counter. Her role is to fill me with a false sense of security by shooting me a big smile as she puts the tracking tag on and sends my suitcase down the conveyor belt to the next stage.
The next event is randomization. They prefer to call it a security check, but in reality, the purpose is to first irradiate everything with x-rays then scramble all the contents. They start with the x-rays to kill anything that might be contagious. Next, they open each bag and completely unpack it, then stuff everything back in as random an order as possible. The player that has the most wrinkled dress shirts and the most randomized assortment of shirts, pants and underwear when finished wins. I think my bag usually finishes in the top three in this event.
After passing the “security check” event, it moves on to loading. This event is also known as the strongman contest. The player that throws the baggage the farthest wins. Of course, the baggage is normalized by weight and volume to make it fairer for everyone. Heavier bags are worth more points per foot thrown than the light bags. Denting and mis-shaping anything earns bonus points.
After arriving at the final destination, the last event is played out. This is commonly known as compaction. The goal of this event is to see just how compact the players can get the contents of the luggage. By dropping each piece of luggage out of the plane and making it land flat on one side, they are able to super compact any item. The player with the densest bag wins.
Only after opening my bag at the hotel do I get a feeling of how successful they have been. They did an extraordinary well job this time with each event. I'm positive my luggage will never be the same.
As always, thank you for taking the time to listen to my suggestions and taking appropriate action to make everyone’s travel experiences better in the future.
Yours Truely,
Slightly Dissatisfied Airline Passanger
Tags: Travel
