tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54639520009371993782024-03-04T23:11:33.376-08:00HamannEggsRick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.comBlogger1269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-34186888608788370622024-01-02T12:04:00.000-08:002024-01-02T12:04:03.476-08:00Bandit Kerry and Blanco<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmCf5uMTYHJfnLJ05XxUeamW5Ea1yziIFH42DCWIzYWeV3VShuv9H5l3lfhSjcfxAhl_-M7Gkaryfjn0YWPurqzITk8DIhHFAQzfuHUeO5xBZkrrJCEpYfasWCvvJE5ybGNqZOI1lDwvamUziFEV7vUZHEsyfFWb5A7CA_dvAgFTYkY4ZgO4zfqsDip2i/s2532/IMG_9379.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2532" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmCf5uMTYHJfnLJ05XxUeamW5Ea1yziIFH42DCWIzYWeV3VShuv9H5l3lfhSjcfxAhl_-M7Gkaryfjn0YWPurqzITk8DIhHFAQzfuHUeO5xBZkrrJCEpYfasWCvvJE5ybGNqZOI1lDwvamUziFEV7vUZHEsyfFWb5A7CA_dvAgFTYkY4ZgO4zfqsDip2i/s320/IMG_9379.jpeg" width="148" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">One of the things we love about Sayulita is the preponderance of friendly stray dogs roaming the streets. They are all fat and happy, filled with dropped tacos and spilled margaritas. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">One such gang of dogs lived right down the street from our rental house. Luca and I would pass by them on our way to hit parked cars in the golf cart or pick up winded Europeans on their way up the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We called them Bandit, Kerry and Blanco. Kerry being the only official name, as found on his collar. They would chase us in the cart or bark friendly warning and occasionally cause us to swerve because they were sunbathing in the middle of the street. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">One day we missed them on our way down the hill to see my other favorite attraction: Miracle, the Buzzing Horse.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Miracle was a horse who lived near the Playa Los Muertos with his brother, old No Name. What made Miracle live up to his name was his hilarious ability to entertain himself by buzzing his giant horse tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">All day long Miracle blows raspberries at passersby. Buzz buzz buzz. This particular afternoon, Miracle and I spent a good ten minutes buzzing at each other, much to Luca’s embarrassment and my delight. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We made our way back to the rental house and I waded back into my John Irving book in bed. Suddenly, I was surrounded by animals. Namely, Bandit, Kerry and Blanco. They had made their way into the house and determined our bed was much more comfortable than the hard street.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Although they were all adorable, I decided it wasn’t a great idea to have three strays lay their genitals on Diana’s pillow. So I carried they out one by one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">However, it takes a lot of brains to survive on the mean streets of Sayulita. They figured out how to push open our front door and I spent the next half hour juggling three hilarious but naughty mutts.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I came very close to moving the family out and letting the dogs take over, but I worried we’d lose our deposit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">The dogs eventually tired of the game and moved on. I like to think they went to see Miracle to discuss what a great guy I am. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-8676649991529289372023-12-31T11:03:00.000-08:002024-01-01T11:05:26.280-08:00New Years Eve 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDs54yWTyWxy-oXr6PIJzHcoEavDyfEPf2DxHcb4bi1Z3u8Ej0htI1yhOvhtnyDXQHN1IPLmgre6QKCmwyPirt80i4__444TnIEpLtvac8dQAESmE9tdmVPIVceaUPcjP_hRPtHPOdya_7rIPziG6qip09Gw4Dz7IG-YFG08m6shkVq5AECjIuobEglWl/s5712/IMG_2272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4284" data-original-width="5712" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDs54yWTyWxy-oXr6PIJzHcoEavDyfEPf2DxHcb4bi1Z3u8Ej0htI1yhOvhtnyDXQHN1IPLmgre6QKCmwyPirt80i4__444TnIEpLtvac8dQAESmE9tdmVPIVceaUPcjP_hRPtHPOdya_7rIPziG6qip09Gw4Dz7IG-YFG08m6shkVq5AECjIuobEglWl/s320/IMG_2272.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;">Another glorious Sayulita New Year in the books.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I know I have been simply awful at keeping HamannEggs updated. I promise to be slightly better next year. I’ll run through my iphone photos to give you a quick 2023 highlight:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Diana went to Phish in Mexico, and was the only in attendance not on drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We went to Spain and Portugal and I stopped being a vegetarian immediately after trying a piece of Spanish ham.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Eli ruled his E-sports league. We spent all his college money in anticipation that he’ll get a full ride in Fortnight.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Luca dominated soccer, baseball, badminton, jai-alai, ostrich racing and toe wrestling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Jerry humped 400 people, just short of his 2023 goals.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">And now, it’s time for my yearly weepy messages.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Diana,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I love you, you amazing, wonderful, hilarious hot mom. You’ve managed to get cuter, funnier and more successful this year. You are an inspiration and I so proud of you. I can’t wait to chase you around the earth and give you kisses before you go to bed by 8:30pm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Elijah,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I love you, you hilarious, shaving, deep voiced man. You seem to have life figured out before the age of 17. I relish every chance to watch movies after midnight and sneak away for an occasional father son French dinner. I can’t wait to see all the marvelous dings you’ll put in my car in 2024.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Luca,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I love you, my kindred spirit. You have such a love of life and its many competitions. You are so silly and hilarious and despite your efforts to conceal it, you are the kindest person on the planet. I can’t wait to watch football with you and forcibly hug you against your will.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Jerry,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I love you but please give the humping a rest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-83425732118656776532023-12-28T15:17:00.000-08:002023-12-28T15:17:10.831-08:00Sayulita Roads<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDtpu9euWIYzpHhfLeUWrmVLuH9A-ButnGMYI2-KbEWpuSsH5-s20qyqgGaYnmWvMaS2G4SsWkh5JkaL4mspFi3EyKohcXo67RYULnR1OmXbGW3N2qiaNoyKiiFPX_xC9qRluJrUcS7-xFjy0IU6rfanyl6w9BGXo118WvHdg0y8jXLJNeTOjmSEc_0vU/s4032/IMG_8926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDtpu9euWIYzpHhfLeUWrmVLuH9A-ButnGMYI2-KbEWpuSsH5-s20qyqgGaYnmWvMaS2G4SsWkh5JkaL4mspFi3EyKohcXo67RYULnR1OmXbGW3N2qiaNoyKiiFPX_xC9qRluJrUcS7-xFjy0IU6rfanyl6w9BGXo118WvHdg0y8jXLJNeTOjmSEc_0vU/s320/IMG_8926.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We made it through the mad dash of Wine Goddess crowds, seas of Amazon boxes and a particularly drunken Santa visit on Christmas Eve and made it to our yearly trip to Mexico.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">After over a decade of trips, we acutely feel the old, beautiful town fight against the march of progress. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Every year we stay at a different place, each more charming than the last. It takes me a few days to adjust to screenless windows and the remote chance a lizard will crawl into my shoe, but in no time, I become a native. Well, as much of a native as a blindingly white man in Birkenstock sandals can be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">One of the great delights I have is renting and piloting a golf cart around town. It’s the only way to descend the rutted and washed out dirt roads that lead to most rental houses. These decrepit and squeaky machines hold barely enough charge to accelerate to 5mph, which I think it by design. It keeps the streets safe from the army of Dads four tequila shots in.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">My favorite part is giving Luca his yearly hand at the wheel. This morning, our neighbor Chris (the Murphy-Greens are now part of the tradition) and I took Luca out to the outskirts of town and I slid over. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Luca approaches golf cart driving with equal parts exhilaration and terror. He shrieks when he hits the gas. He shrieks when he gets too close to an oncoming car. He shrieks when street dogs approach. I can’t tell if he loves it or hates it. I assume both.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Chris and I act like drunken teenagers in a stolen Mustang. “Faster! Faster! 20 points for hitting a cat!” We cackle and slap Luca on the back when he makes a mistake. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Eventually, the stress gets to be too much and Luca will hand the reins back over to me. And I’ll set my sights on my second favorite part of the golf cart: Picking up European hitchhikers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-27426852108575427282023-11-28T09:35:00.000-08:002023-11-28T09:35:56.395-08:00A Very Seinfeld Bears Game<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBkSd8Yze93_g0vWF823OMDCplps_6pXqrwiUoeB8fPSXtrRl2cjF54e5aykLtWjKdkaZ5tVdHJdZ5mowTHmJB0Zr-00Wj8yVCVOzTstCyZ5YsVaOK1gThFrOjEsfvvmSwcVrXP9zy6eozzjLTWccPbLcahWYbaPM7veGMHvMuULslaahY8dDpauhmgiT/s4032/IMG_5407.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBkSd8Yze93_g0vWF823OMDCplps_6pXqrwiUoeB8fPSXtrRl2cjF54e5aykLtWjKdkaZ5tVdHJdZ5mowTHmJB0Zr-00Wj8yVCVOzTstCyZ5YsVaOK1gThFrOjEsfvvmSwcVrXP9zy6eozzjLTWccPbLcahWYbaPM7veGMHvMuULslaahY8dDpauhmgiT/s320/IMG_5407.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Luca timed it perfectly. Right after our second (third) glass of wine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">“We should go to a Bears game.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Before Diana and I could slur a “yes” the tickets were purchased. An epic showdown between The Monsters of the Midway and, well, I forgot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Seemed simple enough. Meet at game. Enjoy game. Go home. And thus began a cavalcade of Seinfeld-esc proportions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">First up? We could not find each other. With the full might of Apple and Verizon at our disposal, we circled Soldier Field like prize fighters. “I’m under a sign that says ‘Bears!’”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Eventually, we made it to security. Sorry ma’am, your purse is too big to enter the stadium. Purse too big? That’s a new one. Diana handled it pretty well, with just a eensy bit of Karen-nig as we were directed across the museum campus to The Field Museum, who were much better equipped to handle the juggernaut handbag Diana was smuggling Toyotas in.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">At this point, I went into full Rick-Mode. “Guys. This is PART OF THE EXPERIIENCE. This is fun. We’re EXPERIENCING the game. All these hiccups? It’s the EXPERIENCE.” No one wanted to walk by me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Whoop! We made it into the stadium. Luca, who is a Hamann through and through, bought the cheapest tickets in the building. Which meant walking up. Up. Up. Up. Twisting and turning past the rich people and the slightly less rich people. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">At one point we ran into a wall. The sections went 305, 307, 309…and then, bam. A wall. We asked an usher how to get to our seats and they explained the easiest way was to hire a helicopter to transport us to the other side of the stadium. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We finally made it to our seats just in time to watch The Veteran’s Day performance of “Proud Mary.” It was…patriotic? Question Mark?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">The good news? The Bears won! We had some delicious hot dogs and pretzels and I had a Blue Moon beer to remind me I don’t like Blue Moon beer. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">In fact, we had such a great time we decided it was so much fun that we never had to go back to a Bears game ever again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">p.s. I don’t have any pictures from the night, so here is Jerry looking like an idiot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-15851349278717109542023-11-09T08:48:00.002-08:002023-11-09T08:48:30.485-08:00THE HAIR<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQr7A-mH-6mvVDtR2xFYXyvTdXpYoam0Z_GDunfFYUtPRMFUxfwiXgCDtFANVZANrwbWuC9AAKN57xE_1wPD8zyUeOMlgtuUeYm23Q1V-u-TIJevVLJdeYKWRmtX4FVSAlcpiFvyeZiwnOiVdLfpoqUIzZRIGIRvrYzaOTOo9gkxgMcxk-E0j8R2-93e2S/s4032/IMG_8781%202.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQr7A-mH-6mvVDtR2xFYXyvTdXpYoam0Z_GDunfFYUtPRMFUxfwiXgCDtFANVZANrwbWuC9AAKN57xE_1wPD8zyUeOMlgtuUeYm23Q1V-u-TIJevVLJdeYKWRmtX4FVSAlcpiFvyeZiwnOiVdLfpoqUIzZRIGIRvrYzaOTOo9gkxgMcxk-E0j8R2-93e2S/s320/IMG_8781%202.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">The threats had been coming for months.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">“I’m going to cut my hair.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Haha right. Elijah Steven Hamann would never cut his hair. It’s his identity. It’s his superpower. The most repeated comment I get on Eli-related Instagram posts is “Hair Goals.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Whenever Eli had trouble in school, or struck out at baseball or had a cold, we’d smile and say, “At least he still has his hair.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">But the threats continued. Maybe it was puberty or a need to have an identity not attached to his mane. Or maybe he has a significant other? I don’t know your guess is as good as mine. The kid spends all his time locked in his room, which is exactly what a 16 year old should be doing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Then, one fateful night, the door swung open and in walked a short hair-ed Eli. He did it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Diana threw herself on the ground like a grieving 80 year old Italian woman. Why? Why?????? Why you take my baby’s hair? My poor baby’s hair. It’s a-gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The only problem? It kind of looks great. You know that show “The Bear?” About the Chicago beef stand? The show that prompted women all over the world to say “yes chef” in bed? Yeah, he looks like that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He has impenetrable handsomeness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Our plan now is to tell him how good he looks with short hair in the hopes our old friend Reverse Psychology will kick in. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And also turn our attention to getting Luca to cut his fingernails. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-35624390143554795352023-11-09T08:25:00.003-08:002023-11-28T09:34:59.942-08:00Coffee Boy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IWdbTuoYs2Wh3HQgB0ve7zakjD-J38C0YCVXZFWCaH4fsTg782KUYMFX4G5CqHUL-M6iNS7XIzxWCDebq8kWZBUV-9VNqJGJZGXVxFiyQdkZmHIuxMsCykdrAmMgW6go0v22cbhtCPArC7oKkmFbRXTT04PAclKb1MTGx67Mxi8CkInyuIg6-cUvnSaj/s4032/71478659584__A96C536B-92BB-42C4-8915-60643EB3A0DD.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IWdbTuoYs2Wh3HQgB0ve7zakjD-J38C0YCVXZFWCaH4fsTg782KUYMFX4G5CqHUL-M6iNS7XIzxWCDebq8kWZBUV-9VNqJGJZGXVxFiyQdkZmHIuxMsCykdrAmMgW6go0v22cbhtCPArC7oKkmFbRXTT04PAclKb1MTGx67Mxi8CkInyuIg6-cUvnSaj/s320/71478659584__A96C536B-92BB-42C4-8915-60643EB3A0DD.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was 14 when I got my first job. There was some loop hole in the Child Labor Laws that allowed me and my brother to get dumped into a 100 degree corn field for 8 hours a day. It was miserable, filled with scary corn spiders and even scarier day laborers.</span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-be16617e-7fff-0fc5-4516-c64c79cc856d"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Steve and I hated it so much we would concoct plans to injure ourselves, all of which would require us to have major surgery if they succeeded. My brother stabbed me in the back by acquiring a massive pollen allergy.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I did get comic book spending money.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cut to 75 years later. Elijah decided he wanted to get a summer job. After not being called back for several (Seriously, Trader Joe?) his pal Henry got him a gig at a local coffee shop.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Possibly the greatest job a sixteen year old could have. A bunch of high school and college aged kids floating in hormones and caffeine. There’s a mean, creepy boss. A dumb beautiful girl, countless customers just begging to get their vanilla latte spit into.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The only thing that could ruin it is your idiot father coming in.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Which is my great pleasure. I like to swoop in like Donald Trump at a Mar-a-lago wedding reception. All finger guns and smiles. Sometimes I’ll tap the shoulder of the person ahead of me and loudly proclaim, “That’s MY SON taking your order. Isn’t he handsome?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I then turn my attention to the staff. “Hey. Eli’s dad here. I’m Eli’s dad. I believe there will be a family discount coming my way.” I’ll throw in a fist bump or two.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eli’s friend Henry dives right in, because he knows it makes Eli crazy. “Mr. Rick! Eli’s being real grouchy today.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And suddenly, he is very grouchy indeed. Oh the pleasure of seeing your son shoot you daggers with his eyes. His seething hatred feeds me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes he’ll run around the counter and shove my coffee into my hands to get me out of there. Big mistake. This only allows me to grab him in a great big hug and proclaim, “I LOVE MY COFFEE BOY!”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do love my coffee boy.</span></p></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-52198047575691544212023-11-09T08:24:00.003-08:002023-11-09T08:24:48.396-08:00Conservative Meal<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6eCashzPPx8Gr1y82uvTrhfLFRnI3Qx6cLM6LsKdXIeliTQxApVRBRw8PlZk2dZCNUrn2jHGlqUU1cL61hVfdMg6-lJuFWb0cm2iC2yDjBrG4r9N5r8DINf6YtgNYce2VlYdKKKHL1Kt8AWk2dCc8aMfX00zZMsKoGZmR02JNupGtbQl48u6UDgI9YAs/s4032/IMG_8684.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6eCashzPPx8Gr1y82uvTrhfLFRnI3Qx6cLM6LsKdXIeliTQxApVRBRw8PlZk2dZCNUrn2jHGlqUU1cL61hVfdMg6-lJuFWb0cm2iC2yDjBrG4r9N5r8DINf6YtgNYce2VlYdKKKHL1Kt8AWk2dCc8aMfX00zZMsKoGZmR02JNupGtbQl48u6UDgI9YAs/s320/IMG_8684.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I looked at all the Mid-Life Crisis choices and decided on cycling. I’m not financially secure enough to buy a sports car. An affair feels like a lot of work. Plus I love Diana. I have too much access to wine to start getting into bourbon.</span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ab3624d0-7fff-7131-2997-e4f306116e08"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I decided to become one of those paunchy guys in Lycra you see on the ride of the road. I bought a semi expensive thing with two wheels and am already scouting out my N+1 bike.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My hobby requires me to spend hours crisscrossing the suburban trails to justify my purchases. Sometimes with other Mid-Life Crisis sufferers.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few weeks ago I was on one such ride with a pal. We were maintaining a lovely glacial pace when I looked down and realized my phone was missing. It had obviously been thrown while I was getting rad on a small rise in the dirt.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a halfhearted search, I decided it was gone forever and rode to the nearest Verizon. The very nice lady told me I would have to not only pay off my lost phone, but the new phone would also cost four billion dollars. I paused on the transaction and rode home to gameplan how to ride the purchase from the family. I’d gotten pretty good at hiding Lycra purchases, but this one would require a little more effort.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was met at the door by Luca, who said, “Dad I found your phone and contacted the lady who has it and all we have to do is go to Des Plaines.” I stared at him like a Neanderthal who saw his first Bic lighter. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Luca came with me because the lady who found it was a little nervous about being murdered by strangers. I figured an unwashed, disheveled teen would alleviate any fear.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The handoff went without a hitch. We didn’t murder her. She had found my phone while on horseback, so we got to meet her nice horse who did that thing where it kind of bit me put in a nice way.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the way home, I told Luca he could have anything he wanted for dinner. Whatever gross fried thing he wanted was his reward.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He got a little look on his face and said, “What if we got Chik-Fil-A?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ooh. Tough one. As liberal cry babies, we are required to hate Chik-Fil-A. Because of the…things they do. You know. Their stuff that goes against our…um…beliefs? I don’t know. All I know is Diana won’t let us go there. Luca and Elijah have never set foot in a Chik. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hmm. Ok. Let’s keep this between us, shall we?” Luca nodded in solemn agreement. This would be a secret we would take to the grave, or publish in a blog no one reads. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Luckily, Des Plaines is overrun with fast food joints and we found a Chik almost immediately. Luca got the basics: a sandwich, a fry and a shake. I got nothing because of my Lutheran guilt. Plus, I look really paunchy in Lycra. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I let my distaste of their politics be known through my courteous and polite attitude. Take that, Chik.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Luca devoured his meal and did not burst into flames or get pulled over by Nancy Pelosi. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we got home, we buried the wrappers in the bottom of our garbage bin. Diana was none the wiser.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hi Diana!</span></p></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-35749625970881341732023-11-09T08:23:00.003-08:002023-11-09T08:50:01.690-08:00THE BEATING<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixZOj6Z4brcQK6VcwB8ek8XEYIEFiDLtu44QmwfA2tloSorvPA7Xl_LO2e4K50LPEUswD0ujgWrVZ-yALfYOp2yere7b4q9m6q9ekvCB3we40XKS5ztDKAfleqUSZ9g5F2wFPp57jwVmhf7sVNxNUBQsslVyyn8bn_uhckh6aDE3F4yLYuS27ASyO5z9v/s4032/71479349678__F1F9AD44-F560-4990-8C3B-040CBC316F0E.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixZOj6Z4brcQK6VcwB8ek8XEYIEFiDLtu44QmwfA2tloSorvPA7Xl_LO2e4K50LPEUswD0ujgWrVZ-yALfYOp2yere7b4q9m6q9ekvCB3we40XKS5ztDKAfleqUSZ9g5F2wFPp57jwVmhf7sVNxNUBQsslVyyn8bn_uhckh6aDE3F4yLYuS27ASyO5z9v/s320/71479349678__F1F9AD44-F560-4990-8C3B-040CBC316F0E.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I took a little break from writing the blog. Partly because there seemed to be a lack of poop and pee stories with Luca and Elijah. Plus the subject of teenage bathroom activity is…dis…gust…ing. </span></p><p><b id="docs-internal-guid-5eb616ce-7fff-57a1-5f48-9b362acb0530" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">More importantly, the boys have a social life. They’ve taken a little heat from their pals about the blog archive and I feel like there are enough things to be embarrassed by as a 13-year-old without your dad adding to the pain.</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But then, in an amazing turn of events, but boys came to me asking to re-boot. They missed reading about themselves. </span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.666667px;">So we're back, baby!</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was a kid, my dad used to whump us in ping pong, Or “Table Tennis” if you are a rich kid. I would occasionally burst into tears at a loss. Dad would sigh and say, “You don’t want me to lose on purpose, do you?” I genuinely did. But he never threw a game. </span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beating your small children in sports is the only way to feel like a real man.</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last Saturday,Diana was in Michigan to soak up the lingering rays of sun. That left Eli, Luca and I to hide in our corners of the house and peer into the flickering light of our personal devices. </span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whataminute. I only have two years left with both boys together. What if we actually hung out? Actually did something together?</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suggested we have a Nintendo sports tournament. Surprisingly they agreed. It may have been the sad puppy dog look on my face. Plus bribes.</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a dinner of beer and burgers we grabbed our little controller things and engaged in a battle of digital tennis and bowling and badminton.</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have no idea what happened since the last time I played Nintnedo, but I got SMOKED. Like, not even funny. Simply destroyed. There was a time when I could hang with them, even beat them. In fact, I boasted to Grandma Connie earlier in the day that I would be the victor. </span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At times, I felt like I was trying to punch a giant, arms swinging wildly while they gently held me at arm’s length. I think they were suppressing yawns.</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ended up sitting on the couch, pouting and drinking an expensive bottle of wine Diana was saving for a special occasion. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But then I realized the boys were laughing and cheering and having a blast. It was a special occasion deserving of an expensive bottle. It was one of our last, wonderful, hilarious times we’d have before everyone leaves for college.</span></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Worthy of a reboot of the blog.</span></p><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-30674376164233597622022-12-31T12:16:00.002-08:002022-12-31T12:16:44.939-08:00NYE 2022<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsB82SBUcSRdkNq81HqX0MgBfNokFkNCgUtVkGlRSL8DlbQ-DZKArs6uBnUxfjOcDcTIAp1UDp-0-tD5M8UJ0pE2V4cLgdpVg5wz4Stm1pyOHzQG8KJfBCKELNS2vOUwoBT3Ne7HwMQu1Da-4kTAhGpve2Di2TZ23PFKkVJmRP5jUOfokhsWssv-18-A/s4032/IMG_7747.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsB82SBUcSRdkNq81HqX0MgBfNokFkNCgUtVkGlRSL8DlbQ-DZKArs6uBnUxfjOcDcTIAp1UDp-0-tD5M8UJ0pE2V4cLgdpVg5wz4Stm1pyOHzQG8KJfBCKELNS2vOUwoBT3Ne7HwMQu1Da-4kTAhGpve2Di2TZ23PFKkVJmRP5jUOfokhsWssv-18-A/s320/IMG_7747.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br />I’m sitting in yet another unbelievably beautiful Mexico house in New Year’s Eve. The weather is perfect. My mental state is the best it’s been in years and I owe it all to the screaming children and wife who are just downstairs. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>There hasn’t been a lot of HamannEggs posts this year. Partly because, as Diana puts it, “The kids don’t poop on things as much.” Partly because I’m lazy. Partly because I’m trying to respect teenager privacy. Rest assured a lot of hilarious things happened and things still got pooped on. By me.</p><p><br /></p><p>We lost our beloved Tutu this year, which broke our hearts harder than we would’ve imagined. We joined football teams and video game teams and cooked and watched R-Rated movies and loved each other like people who barely made it out of a global pandemic.</p><p><br /></p><p>As is tradition, I like to write a little note to each of the HamannEggs fam. So here goes.</p><p><br /></p><p>Elijah, you beautiful almost-man. Every year I get older I realize just how lucky I am that Diana and my DNA mixed in such a way to make the kindest, funniest, smartest kid ever. You are crushing it in high school. Your friends love you. Your teachers love you. Every person you meet loves you. I know we only have a couple years left with you under our roof and I will cherish every second. I love you buddy.</p><p><br /></p><p>Luca, you crazy, goofy sweetheart. Watching you with your posse makes my heart sing. I love how you value friendship more than anything, I love your passion and zeal for anything involving a ball. I love your clicks and singing and independence. I love how you refuse to wear shoes in the dead of winter. I love how you try so hard at everything. I love how every mom tells us you are their favorite. I love you buddy.</p><p><br /></p><p>Diana, you unbelievable beauty. You are the most amazing person on this earth. Your store is an Evanston icon. The town practically revolves around your sense of humor, your sense of style, your sense of right and wrong. You make me feel safe. You talk me off every ledge. You put the world in perspective, even when it’s careening out of control. You are the love of my life. I love you, honey.</p><p><br /></p><p>Jerry, I love you. You big dummy.</p><p><br /></p><p>Happy New Year, folks!</p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-84658200534901753912022-12-28T16:25:00.000-08:002022-12-28T16:25:03.468-08:00THIRTEEN<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJY2IPqFJ1ycifyf_xudAJXInFIPw5L0LkF-8IGyC58TIsVV3ROJbNFUH0_JPTwTUu_IGyZCCFd1P-2ocQyoKO7GgKCsgVPho--5xf3v5TqLYefNAAqLjXyXZ1tKU5p1QkW4n0rL8peuMx-bn0TF75fa8EJoDBhclTCDnel7OnIuxUyMd3LIIQ6WfwZA/s4032/IMG_8009.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJY2IPqFJ1ycifyf_xudAJXInFIPw5L0LkF-8IGyC58TIsVV3ROJbNFUH0_JPTwTUu_IGyZCCFd1P-2ocQyoKO7GgKCsgVPho--5xf3v5TqLYefNAAqLjXyXZ1tKU5p1QkW4n0rL8peuMx-bn0TF75fa8EJoDBhclTCDnel7OnIuxUyMd3LIIQ6WfwZA/s320/IMG_8009.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Luca turned thirteen last month (I know I know, get in line if you want to complain about lack of postings). It was his first disappointing birthday. You know, you get everything you asked for and think, “Is this it?” Not in a spoiled brat way, but I think in a “I can see the next 60 or 70 of these stretching out before me” way. </p><p><br /></p><p>It was slightly depressing. </p><p><br /></p><p>Luckily, we called in the giant blob of arms and legs and B.O. that make up Luca’s friends. The birthday activity included bowling and a sleep over. I’m still not sure how many showed up. Ten? Fifty?</p><p> </p><p>Bowling was appropriately hilarious. Some bros were mad at other bros and one bro ate off a private party’s table and another bro (possibly the same one) was suspiciously polite, and one bro bowled a miraculous strike despite a shoulder injury.</p><p><br /></p><p>Diana and Elijah attempted to escape the sleep over portion, feigning nervousness over Jerry and the boys. But when it was revealed they weren’t actually taking Jerry anywhere, and were just planning a stay at a luxury hotel, I put my foot down. </p><p><br /></p><p>A huge pile of pizza arrived and we hit a manageable level of pandemonium. Most of the bros screamed at the X-box in the basement, while a few meandered around peeking into our jewelry boxes. </p><p><br /></p><p>Diana and I opted to order something less unhealthy than pizza for dinner. I think we chose burgers. While we waited I thought, “No one would notice if I took one small corner of a pizza.” </p><p><br /></p><p>I grabbed a steak knife and sliced of a little bite. As I was concealing my crime, Luca’s friend rounded the corner at top speed and into the knife. I watched it enter his hand at the knuckle. </p><p><br /></p><p>We locked eyes. </p><p><br /></p><p>We had a silent, mental conversation.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Hey.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Hey.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“So, I just stabbed you.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Yes, I am aware of it. You see, blood is now coming out of my hand.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Do you think this is a hospital type situation? Stitches and such?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“I don’t think so. But I will make you pay dearly for this over the next three to four years.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Like how?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Minimum? I get to spend the night every time I want.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Understood.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“And I will take four donuts tomorrow at breakfast.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Deal. One more thing. Can you keep this between you and I?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Okay.”</p><p><br /></p><p>The friend (after I put on a bandage) returned to the basement. I was glad his dad was the doctor dad and not the injury lawyer dad. </p><p><br /></p><p>I poured myself the biggest glass of wine in the world and heard Luca bellow from the basement,”"DAD???? DID YOU STAB MY FRIEND???”</p><p><br /></p><p>Yes. Yes I did.</p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-67920290153314837772022-12-05T08:37:00.002-08:002022-12-05T08:37:22.675-08:00Baby’s First Motor Vehicle Accident<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8epKs1EClxbTkrW3VIHF0djACiD5MxiUgN7VwTZtR1wlmyyOo_xqOS00u75W8zA0l245v0OrStt_ixl1ponm4BVGtdbXkvvZgq03BHZcFDLJEkrIT6Zj0LfjJikgXI2YPyBoZrAzOv66V_Nl3OX6ryyXm-yGu63BTxjsDUSEg2GJOmAcjnN7swZCUA/s4032/IMG_7996.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8epKs1EClxbTkrW3VIHF0djACiD5MxiUgN7VwTZtR1wlmyyOo_xqOS00u75W8zA0l245v0OrStt_ixl1ponm4BVGtdbXkvvZgq03BHZcFDLJEkrIT6Zj0LfjJikgXI2YPyBoZrAzOv66V_Nl3OX6ryyXm-yGu63BTxjsDUSEg2GJOmAcjnN7swZCUA/s320/IMG_7996.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Elijah and I went into the belly of the DMV beast a few weeks ago to get his learner’s permit. It was almost as fun as that time Diana made us go to Ellis Island in New York. With slightly less standing in line.</p><p><br /></p><p>We are now responsible for 50 hours of driving together. Or is it 90 hours? Regardless, we are holding steady at .25 hours.</p><p><br /></p><p>We’re not racking up the hours because our first supervised drive…did not go well.</p><p><br /></p><p>But let’s rewind. We picked a giant parking lot in Michigan for our inaugural drive. It has everything. Wide open pavement. A little spot to practice parking. Best of all? No one around to ask us what we were doing there.</p><p><br /></p><p>Luca joined to add a little spice and irritation. I even gave Luca a turn at the wheel. He executed a 360 spin into jumping over 7 school busses flawlessly.</p><p><br /></p><p>After 20 minutes or so, Eli asked, “What’s next?”</p><p><br /></p><p>I suggested we drive down one of Michigan’s sleepiest roads. Eli handled himself flawlessly, although I did mention driving 5MPH in a 30MPH zone was technically illegal. </p><p><br /></p><p>I noticed our sleepy road butted up against a real road with real cars filled with Michigan Militiamen. I suggested we pull into a driveway and turn around. Eli turned into nice little house and backed out.</p><p><br /></p><p>Thud.</p><p><br /></p><p>THUD! We hit something. Luca and I handled it like total pros. Meaning we screamed into Eli’s face and I jumped out of the car before he braked.</p><p><br /></p><p>Pleasedon’tbeadogpleasedon’tbeadog.</p><p><br /></p><p>Turned out that Eli drilled a mailbox. It sent across the poor owner’s lawn. </p><p><br /></p><p>Huh. What to do what to do? I will admit a big part of my brain was shouting, “LEAVE. RUN AWAY. GOOOOO.”</p><p><br /></p><p>Was that the lesson I wanted to teach? If you get into a fender bender with postal gear, run away? Maybe. It technically falls into the “Do as I say, not as I do” category. Which is still a lesson.</p><p><br /></p><p>Luca, sensing my evil thoughts, tried to stand the mailbox back up in its ruined hole. It fell over comically. </p><p><br /></p><p>I opted for honesty. Stupid honesty.</p><p><br /></p><p>Eli was still vibrating in the front seat. I told him I would take the blame and wrote a note to the homeowner. “Hi. My name is Rick Hamann and I ran over your mailbox. Nothing would make me happier than jumping into a prolonged legal battle over your property. I look forward to learning that your mailbox cost $4,000.”</p><p><br /></p><p>I stuck the note into the homeowner’s door and offered to drive the rest of the way home. Eli was still catatonic, so I just slid him over to the passenger seat.</p><p><br /></p><p>A few days later I received this text:</p><p><br /></p><p>“Hello Rick. My name is Darrel. You ran over my mailbox and left a note offering to pay for damages. I’m glad you left a contact number for me, that was very straight of you. And for that, don’t worry about the mailbox. I was going to move it anyway.”</p><p><br /></p><p>Eli and I learned that honesty is the best policy. We also learned where the good driving schools are in Evanston. </p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-73317283574627954552022-11-27T14:34:00.000-08:002022-11-27T14:34:04.587-08:00Twelve Hours of Videogames<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtI5Gqipnra3Zv_SKTrgWyFTn2xNymlLmX5ZGREFVFAZpypPqUZPB23UakyIjD1DFbXQmTsm431JcJ2BZ92P8u0MtOO2AU1xgdc12BKLsdsVEsuWsqhjA5sLqyO1w_Bn_cSbDerIJ25gFVQ1GQGacxHH7C9iQ9ntRv_SAXPLrH5DPbP8KC2_b2xps4Q/s4032/IMG_7931.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtI5Gqipnra3Zv_SKTrgWyFTn2xNymlLmX5ZGREFVFAZpypPqUZPB23UakyIjD1DFbXQmTsm431JcJ2BZ92P8u0MtOO2AU1xgdc12BKLsdsVEsuWsqhjA5sLqyO1w_Bn_cSbDerIJ25gFVQ1GQGacxHH7C9iQ9ntRv_SAXPLrH5DPbP8KC2_b2xps4Q/s320/IMG_7931.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10mig3KAXY3nV_f0o2sQ8uMWshgEAAnk1Bp1NYNOr0XSeWlF_An2adNmC2TVrSg8eNJ8xR7h-vJTInoYz8snFcxGLf8bJXA35iiKuTWwfw8u4ghkA-Fn-CmonULds40UqZNcFCyTGmZYPbHmWIxp8LG-gNg1QgXvXsMompjngPeeKSowsiwST3yM5gg/s4032/IMG_7893.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10mig3KAXY3nV_f0o2sQ8uMWshgEAAnk1Bp1NYNOr0XSeWlF_An2adNmC2TVrSg8eNJ8xR7h-vJTInoYz8snFcxGLf8bJXA35iiKuTWwfw8u4ghkA-Fn-CmonULds40UqZNcFCyTGmZYPbHmWIxp8LG-gNg1QgXvXsMompjngPeeKSowsiwST3yM5gg/s320/IMG_7893.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p>At the beginning of the school year, we sat Elijah down and said, “You gotta do something. Gotta do something. A club. A sport. A play. Marching Band. Your father will give you a thousand dollars to do Marching Band, btw. But you can’t spend this entire semester playing videogames. Gotta do something.</p><p><br /></p><p>Eli promptly went out and joined the high school videogame team. Checkmate. </p><p><br /></p><p>Before you ask, videogame teams are legit. There are real teams playing competitively across America. You can also get college scholarships. So, our mediocre parenting has paid off, baby! </p><p><br /></p><p>He had to try out and everything. The game he chose is “Overwatch.” One of those shoot ‘em ups, but with Robots and Genies and Gorillas. Less “Bang bang” and more “Pew pew.”</p><p><br /></p><p>He made the J.V. team but quickly caught the eye of the team captains because he actually took an interest in participating. Eli held team meetings and had a team dinner and organized practices. </p><p><br /></p><p>But before the meetings and dinners and practices, Eli had to play twelve hours of Overwatch.</p><p><br /></p><p>Due to some glitch, Eli didn’t qualify to play in high school tournaments. His…level…was…too…low…because…he…switched…yeah I’m bored too. Net net, he needed to sit at his computer until he reached some arbitrary number that allowed him to compete. </p><p><br /></p><p>Playing videogames competitively involves rabbit like reflexes and impossible hand eye coordination and screaming like a banshee. During the first 3 hours of his marathon, Eli would scream and pound his desk and shout, “Are you serious right now?” Which has become our family mantra. </p><p><br /></p><p>The rest of the family took this opportunity to visit the Greek restaurant where they light the cheese on fire and shout, “Opa!” I got a whole whitefish and gave Luca $5 to kiss the head on camera. </p><p><br /></p><p>We arrived home and Eli was still in his crucible. Or else we assumed he was with all the screaming from behind his bedroom door. I mean, he could have recorded himself screaming and pounding his desk and tricked us so he could sneak off to play videogames, but we knew this was important.</p><p><br /></p><p>The next morning left for work (yeah, they make us work at office occasionally) and caught Eli in the hall.</p><p><br /></p><p>“How bad?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Four a.m.”</p><p><br /></p><p>But he made it. I’m proud of him. I’m glad he’s having fun and meeting new kids and competing and getting out of the house. Virtually, I guess. </p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-20627785123974749382022-08-15T14:34:00.005-07:002022-08-15T14:34:35.770-07:00New York Pt1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEwR5Pbzbkq8oq3v_CKuMd62N1m81UGYgkgOYe_cMvXtyX5rP-aV_KmnIVQJOJMY44OV_J8I5xmUNiHwo8X0Cdhrck4vLrcnigl5D5Xdbpz0yJvXwwJ4iGc0N46WaKoFiG-r9UkNgM2hkGHTRpJpEzAHkJLB0uAEvVgovSTJAvlwGBN-kD3wuXnMi83g/s4032/IMG_7715.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEwR5Pbzbkq8oq3v_CKuMd62N1m81UGYgkgOYe_cMvXtyX5rP-aV_KmnIVQJOJMY44OV_J8I5xmUNiHwo8X0Cdhrck4vLrcnigl5D5Xdbpz0yJvXwwJ4iGc0N46WaKoFiG-r9UkNgM2hkGHTRpJpEzAHkJLB0uAEvVgovSTJAvlwGBN-kD3wuXnMi83g/s320/IMG_7715.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Time is running out. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We barely see either kid anymore. Eli is wither working or hanging in Chicago or trying to hack nuclear codes in our basement. Luca is constantly with his ball of arms and legs and baseball hats. The day that Diana and I officially become empty nesters is fast approaching. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We’re on a constant hunt to find ways to force them to hang out with us. We can barely get them to sit with us long enough to shovel food down their throats before the night shift of friends begins.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So we decided to take a trip to New York. I have a soft spot for the city from my publishing days. Maybe I could get one of them to move to New York so I can come visit every weekend and continue my search for the most beautiful person and/or the craziest person on the planet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">By coincidence, it was the hottest week of the year. “It will just be like ‘Do The Right Thing!” I’d say, not remembering the second half of the movie. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It stormed in Chicago the morning we left, and our flight was promptly cancelled. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While people scrambled around O’Hare, Diana and I silently agreed not to freak out. If this was one of our last vacations together it was the kids who were going to ruin it, not us. Diana found us a flight on a competing airline and I asked not one, not two not three, but four different people if our luggage would arrive in New York.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh yeah. Totally. We have our top people tracking down your luggage. Why I think I see your luggage right now. They’re black squares, right? Yeah. Those are going to meet you at the gate.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We arrived in New York and spent a delightful hour trying to track down our luggage. The hilariously New York baggage dept laughed when we told them the tale of our helpful O’Hare crew. They waved their arms at the thousands of misplaced luggage littering the terminal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t freak out, we silently said to ourselves.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We promised everyone new wardrobes if the stuff didn’t arrive the next morning. We b-lined to our hotel (which was lovely) and decided to grab some provisions before dinner. I forced Eli to join me in visiting an authentic bodega.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Look at this city, Eli! The energy. The people. Ooh look. That person is beautiful. Ooh, a crazy person! Don’t you want to live here?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“It smells.” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I shoved him into the first shop I could find. Upon entry, I realized I should have done a little more research with my eyeballs. It was less “Bodega” and more “Place you go to take a B.M. after shooting up heroin.” The plywood shelves sagged with sadness. The patrons coughed on each other (and us). The owner was unrecognizable behind 14 inches of bullet proof glass.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tried to make the best of it. “Huh. I bet you’ve never seen anyone that strung out before, huh Eli? No sir, I will not buy you a Coors.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After buying the oldest toothpaste in the world we hightailed it out of there and met Luca and Diana for some real authentic touristy Italian food. The wine was delicious, the waiter was hilariously surly and the boys were in high spirits after we promised to buy their love with as many souvenirs as they could carry.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our luggage arrived the next morning in perfect condition. Stay tuned for part 2.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-44350072576548345872022-07-12T13:02:00.002-07:002022-07-12T13:02:06.639-07:00Imposter Dog<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIRAl1zDu5uKMamgGpSFx5Y0dyyevzluQN7CGp25f_4079aDJuXnGGmhbZdrR0_AiN78FexBn6VlAonc5XjDcL5PNyhEV_xM7DCQYMwLZCNtFoha-4gqoEzA1X6_3zP9GRDGQRb98WOeQLeBKC--5-HZEiEvStxHRvEazKIDlc1lgpyDcl0pmi-Hpog/s4032/IMG_7679.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIRAl1zDu5uKMamgGpSFx5Y0dyyevzluQN7CGp25f_4079aDJuXnGGmhbZdrR0_AiN78FexBn6VlAonc5XjDcL5PNyhEV_xM7DCQYMwLZCNtFoha-4gqoEzA1X6_3zP9GRDGQRb98WOeQLeBKC--5-HZEiEvStxHRvEazKIDlc1lgpyDcl0pmi-Hpog/s320/IMG_7679.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We take Jerry to Doggie Daycare a couple times a week. It’s our way of avoiding taking him for walks. Plus, he turns into a real jerk if he doesn’t get 17 hours of exercise a day. The process is pretty easy. Drive to the place, call the number, worker person comes and gets Jerry, Jerry has fun. At the end of the day, the process goes in reverse.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Or it doesn’t.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Diana and Eli drove to daycare a few weeks ago and called the number. “We’re here for Jerry!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A minute goes by. Another minute. Five minutes. Eventually, a worker person came out and popped their head through the window.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It seems like we have a little problem.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Go on…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We think we gave Jerry to the wrong person.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Interesting. It was difficult for Diana to calibrate her rage. The daycare dropped the ball on the most fundamental of jobs. MAKE SURE THE ANIMALS END UP WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But Imposter Dog’s owner is not without sin. How do you drive away with the wrong dog? Yes, we live in an affluent north shore suburb. You are issued a Goldendoodle at the same time you are issued your hybrid car. They just let Jerry jump into their car and thought, “Close enough.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Diana and Eli went home because where else where they going to go? To the Dog Detectives?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">An hour or so later, the Vet called. Imposter Dog’s owner took Jerry to get vaccinated. The Vet had gone so far as to tell them, “Wow, Imposter Dog seems to have gained 20 pounds since your last visit.” Imposter Dog’s owner just shrugged and said, “What a fatso.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Vet checked the little chip inside and discovered that this was not, in fact, Imposter Dog, but was Jerry Friggin Hamann. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Diana rescued Jerry and Imposter Dog was reunited with his idiot owner. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then we went on a ride called The Apology Express. The daycare owner was so distraught in their mea culpa that they debated closing the business for good and moving to a deserted island with no dogs. Diana just said a million free days at daycare would suffice.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Imposter Dog’s owner also sent a lengthy apology via email. It turns out that Imposter Dog’s owner was an absentminded professor at the local college, which made perfect sense. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the days that followed, the daycare instituted a whole new set of rules regarding pick up and drop off. Two-step identifications. Little handwritten reminders of who was who. Not smoking weed every 15 minutes. We like to call them “Jerry’s rules.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But within a week or so they stopped all the new protocols. Next time we pick up Jerry I hope we get a Dachshund. </span></p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-74849298708062140792022-05-31T14:07:00.003-07:002022-05-31T14:07:23.770-07:00Bunnies!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOo3IljXNssW1YneaVX8TwCAiRcQKIiEiSaT1rPsRYCo3kDWBJJx-FagHrQvquQ1WGL6A1bLi_6pEAHJNRRh4J7h_2PvM9n2WLLw0EUyt4zi3ol6hBiUCx0TmT6ct1s1nWFJHNrhoxPehQsBjYzta0JAxo2rGgPgnGytLODlQcNuefNkf5zblJjd8xg/s4032/IMG_6509.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOo3IljXNssW1YneaVX8TwCAiRcQKIiEiSaT1rPsRYCo3kDWBJJx-FagHrQvquQ1WGL6A1bLi_6pEAHJNRRh4J7h_2PvM9n2WLLw0EUyt4zi3ol6hBiUCx0TmT6ct1s1nWFJHNrhoxPehQsBjYzta0JAxo2rGgPgnGytLODlQcNuefNkf5zblJjd8xg/s320/IMG_6509.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Jerry absolutely loves the cabin. I feel like that's a given. It’s in a forest and he’s a dog. We often just let him run wild and go adventuring. He typically races off and returns a small while later covered in goop and smelling like dead things.</p><p><br /></p><p>We worry a little bit about letting him loose, but we are pretty far from the road and at heart Jerry is a scaredy cat who really only adventures under our porch. Plus, he knows where the extremely expensive dog food is located.</p><p><br /></p><p>We were hanging around our little game table which has a lovely view of our back yard. We were playing “5 Crowns,” which has the dual honor of being Diana’s favorite game and the one she is the worst at.</p><p><br /></p><p>Suddenly, Luca started screaming. This is nothing new. Luca’s two main modes are scream and loud scream. He and Elijah raced outside and Eli joined in on the screaming.</p><p><br /></p><p>I looked through the part of my trifocals designed for mid distance and saw Jerry toss something into the air. It was a baby bunny.</p><p><br /></p><p>No no no no no no. Please don’t be a bunny killer. Please don’t be a bunny killer.</p><p><br /></p><p>Diana and I raced outside and wrestled Jerry, who had another baby bunny in his mouth. The baby was screaming like, well, a baby bunny in a dog’s mouth. </p><p><br /></p><p>We released the bunny and it did it’s best to hide in plain sight. Maybe if I curl into a ball on his sidewalk, the giant monster won’t get me.</p><p><br /></p><p>Upon inspection, the bunnies seemed, okay-ish. Traumatized, yes. But they weren’t bleeding or in half. Which was weird, because one of Jerry’s teeth was the size of a baby bunny.</p><p><br /></p><p>I think he was just playing with them. “I’ve always wanted a bunny rabbit. I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him…”</p><p><br /></p><p>We gently placed the trembling bunnies back in their little nest. Their version of hiding was to stick their heads into the bushes and stick their white tailed butts into the air.</p><p><br /></p><p>These rabbits weren’t winning any Darwin awards.</p><p><br /></p><p> But we decided to make sure at least our dog wasn’t the one to kill them. We locked Jerry in the house for the night. Jerry barked and cried and whined and threw himself at the door. “But I want to go out with my rabbit friends, George. I want to hug them and pet them and squeeze them…”</p><p><br /></p><p>The next morning, I raced out into the yard to see what was left of the bunnies. They were gone. I am 100% sure they had moved to the city to make it in organic farming. </p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-82180945652444448692022-05-02T12:44:00.001-07:002022-05-02T12:44:11.842-07:00Coach Hamann<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiryDV-xI7OcXcmQsnknKptM59l-wdRxDjUORntenUqXhvARqRYUCtENZMQvWReTKt45Win_Tso0XvoCa74_DHhONOVJn4w54_IcQeQ4ZYVuCacudeTRY5TVXGbnmXAb1Ft5NsKuSlfjLz02lKvvopyWnM-DUDEQx18F2ZpAbi91Beh8P94x-NszSdnzg/s4032/IMG_2132.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiryDV-xI7OcXcmQsnknKptM59l-wdRxDjUORntenUqXhvARqRYUCtENZMQvWReTKt45Win_Tso0XvoCa74_DHhONOVJn4w54_IcQeQ4ZYVuCacudeTRY5TVXGbnmXAb1Ft5NsKuSlfjLz02lKvvopyWnM-DUDEQx18F2ZpAbi91Beh8P94x-NszSdnzg/s320/IMG_2132.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Luca exists in a blob of 4-10 boys. It’s an unstoppable mass of arms and legs and b.o. that crashes into homes, consuming all snacks in its path. The good news is all the boys in this blob are kind and hilarious and tolerate my special brand of stupid dad.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A few months ago the blob decided to join a flag football league. They really wanted to play full contact football with pads and helmets, but…Evanston. The blob doesn’t care what kind of football because the blob just needs to keep playing. Blob is play. Play is blob. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The flag football games took place at the big inflated indoor fieldhouse across town. On the outside, it looks like a giant, quivering marshmallow. On the inside, the stench of 1,000 tweens hits you in the face like a bucket of socks.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">On the morning of the first game, Luca and I arrived the Hamann-required 20 minutes early to meet the coach. Instead of a coach, there was just a pile of uniforms. As gametime neared, the pile didn’t magically turn into a coach. The blob didn’t seem to mind, but we dads felt it was necessary to have a coach. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Luckily, an Alpha Dad stepped up. He is an E.R. doctor, so, you know, qualified. He coached the blob to a huge, lobsided victory. His technique was to stand on the sideline and do and say very little. The blob was so in sync that the just rolled over the other team. Blob is play. Play is blob. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This went on for the next couple weeks until Alpha Dad had to go out of town. This left the blob coachless. The blob nominated me to coach. Not because of my apparent skills, but the blob thought it would be funny to see the unathletic, glasses nerd stand on the sidelines.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the days leading up to the game, I asked Luca what I needed to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just say, ‘Good job,’ and stay out of the way.” I could do that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">However, 24 hours to gametime, I started to get pretty nervous. What if they needed actual coaching? What if they played a team who could stand up to the blob? What if they lost under my non-coaching? I came very close to having an old school panic attack, but my brain miraculously turned off that spigot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The morning of the game, I asked Luca if I would try or if I should act like a hilarious goofball. He thought for a moment and said, “Um. Maybe in between?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My addition to the coaching regime was stretching before the game and doing that thing where you put your hands in and go, “One two three roar!” Which I would say only 50% of the blob understood for its delightful irony.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The blob crushed the other team. Blob is play. Play is blob. I mostly stayed out of the way and said, “Good job.” But after seeing the sad faces of the other team I suggested maybe we lighten up a little bit? The blob laughed. The blob destroyed. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I barely got to congratulate Luca on his play before the blob moved on to someone’s house to eat all their chips. </span></p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-67912259557420672352022-04-16T14:29:00.000-07:002022-04-16T14:29:29.083-07:00SOLO<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHr2BCfUO2PZ3kaNdsNIig1l_Tk4mUVTcFErcr6LV_-HYr6txVqvTKu7ZOTZOPQJo9yI1Y5x3MKc5sd2SXIdts7vHTes4h2CTeEjipipHfrmI7OpPznFJ-da_DCJkFmiET-BArF5tEiKvkXdaxS_hZOlXgkyYK3scQixZLsiYk7P_kVEFqc_Pe7Ju-Q/s4032/67081324703__4AF3511A-8086-45B0-B585-080E5E705634%202.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHr2BCfUO2PZ3kaNdsNIig1l_Tk4mUVTcFErcr6LV_-HYr6txVqvTKu7ZOTZOPQJo9yI1Y5x3MKc5sd2SXIdts7vHTes4h2CTeEjipipHfrmI7OpPznFJ-da_DCJkFmiET-BArF5tEiKvkXdaxS_hZOlXgkyYK3scQixZLsiYk7P_kVEFqc_Pe7Ju-Q/s320/67081324703__4AF3511A-8086-45B0-B585-080E5E705634%202.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Diana and the boys headed down to Georgia a few weeks ago to visit her sister. My German/Lutheran-ness wouldn’t allow me to take the three days off. What if someone needed me to attend a meeting about a meeting? What if???</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They didn’t miss me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The trip was simple: O’Hare – Savana. Eat good food. Hang with good people. Savana-O’Hare.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My plan was also simple: Watch crap. Eat crap. Drink crap. Finish my big Simpson’s Lego. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just as I was easing myself into a vat of crap, I began receiving urgent texts from Luca. “Dad. Mom is crazy. Dad. Make mom stop. Dad. Help.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I called Diana’s phone to make sure she hadn’t gotten into a scuffle with TSA over her bomb of a figure. Bam! Apparently, the flight was oversold and the agents were offering the staggering sum of $5,000 in travel miles to take a later flight. Her sister was planning a trip to France later this summer and Diana thought the dough would be a lovely sisterly gift. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">However the five G’s was only good for one, so the boys would have to fly by themselves. The gate agents felt like they were up to the task. Diana felt they were up to the task. Luca and Elijah thought they were walking into a disaster. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I asked her to put Luca on. “You are witnessing what I like to call ‘Diana Crazies.’ There is no cure. There is no stopping her. I recommend you just get on the plane and if something goes wrong you’ll basically get to hold it over her head forever.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Before Luca could respond they were ushered onto the plane. It went fine. They drank diet Cokes and watched videos. Di’s sister met them at the gate and they met up with Diana a few hours later.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fast forward through great fun on their side and 4 kinds of self abuse on my side. They landed back in Chicago and Diana went to the airline gate to acquire about the miles, which had yet to appear in her frequent flier account.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The woman said, “Miles? What miles? No miles here.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Eli and Luca took a seat and prepared to watch everyone’s favorite show, “Don’t Mess With Diana.” Did she take the later flight for her health? What kind of airline do you think you are running here? Say, where is your supervisor? And where is their supervisor? Yeah, let’s get all the supervisors here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They did an amazing job of fighting off Diana. Miles? What’s a mile? This isn’t an airline. We make cookies here. Mr. Burns old fashioned extra chewy…”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Suddenly, Luca appeared at her side. In his pre-flight Tik-Tok-ing on the way to Georgia, he happened to record a pivotal moment in Hamann History. The gate agent speaking clearly into a microphone, “We are willing to give up $5,000 in miles for anyone willing to take a later flight to Savana.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So many apologies. Diana ate the apologies like M&Ms. Nom nom nom. Delicious apologies. Oh, I couldn’t possibly have another apology. But you know what? You only live once. I’ll take another 40. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And now Di’s sister and family will be traveling to France this summer on the dime of the good people at United Airlines. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today’s picture is the Lego I built.</span></p><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-7298219540460732822022-03-27T15:42:00.004-07:002022-03-29T07:51:55.043-07:00R.I.P. Tutu<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3i2o1FD7ZF8FGgx-z72ZuPQxhkhC1LQaTJKhlEXlmol_Kg5mJvFiQeoRaow2puORRAPepDYaVxZxkTV2W5-KdSr7vNSkKZWgW9EmU74QnMChu9kdYxwvA36yjeLBTEzBXDdkw9WwuTsfHurpg96-zOOSRCsX303m-5Y5-dOuy2J9HefvPt499cZ-6cA/s4032/IMG_7206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3i2o1FD7ZF8FGgx-z72ZuPQxhkhC1LQaTJKhlEXlmol_Kg5mJvFiQeoRaow2puORRAPepDYaVxZxkTV2W5-KdSr7vNSkKZWgW9EmU74QnMChu9kdYxwvA36yjeLBTEzBXDdkw9WwuTsfHurpg96-zOOSRCsX303m-5Y5-dOuy2J9HefvPt499cZ-6cA/s320/IMG_7206.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Years ago, my brother and I were driving through central Illinois and decided to drop in on our Grandma Carol at her favorite lunch spot. When we walked through the door, she caught sight of us and got so excited she spit chunks of tuna salad sandwich all over her booth mates.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This was the reaction Tutu gave every time she smelled me walking into a room. She’d paw at the ground and wiggle her butt and sometimes moan these little happy sounds. 100% of the time I would scoop her up and nuzzle her and explain in great detail why she was the best baby in the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As COVID dipped, wine stores opened, doggy daycare accepted blockheads and schools went back to in person, Tutu and I spent an unhealthy amount of time together. I carried her everywhere. When she wasn’t charming people on video conference calls, we were sneaking naps together in between meetings. All the while explaining why she was the best baby in the world. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I would wake up at all hours of the night (see my previous post) to feed, cuddle, administer eye goop and explain again why she was the best baby in the world. She would return the favor by curling up in the crook of my arm and lick clean all the evil from my skin.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We knew she wasn’t long for the world even when we picked her up from the pound 32 weeks ago. She was covered in tumors and was blind and deaf and had lived a rough, rough life. But it was our goal to spoil her rotten for whatever time she had. And spoil her we did. Little pink sweaters. Obnoxiously expensive food. Plus, a general agreement that her little feet need never touch the ground. And, of course, my continuous explanation why she was the best baby in the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was alone would I occasionally sing directly into her head so she could feel the vibrations? Yes. Yes I would. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tutu had gotten tired over the last few weeks. Less interested in food. Often shaking like a leaf for no reason. But she never lost her cuddly, sweet, “Grandma Werewolf” personality.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Friday morning, I was nudging her towards her uneaten food when she collapsed in my arms. She was so scared. She howled as I held her tight. It's okay. It's okay. Eventually she calmed down but couldn’t stop shaking. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I dressed her up in her very best pink and white turtleneck sweater and wrapped her in the little blanket she slept on at the pound and we went to the emergency vet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Diana met me there and the doctor explained that if our goal was to give her the best life we could, it was better for this to be her last day than to have her heart give out in the next 48 hours. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They brought her in to say goodbye and she lit up. Her little tail wagging. It was the man! I held her and began to weep. I cried so hard I thought my eyeballs would pop out of my head. I blubbered my final explanation why she was the best baby in the world. She was the best baby. She was my special, special girl and she was my favorite baby. My baby. My itty bitty baby. My Tutu.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'll miss you, gal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-71822331324621822172022-03-20T11:03:00.001-07:002022-03-20T11:03:15.614-07:00We Broke Tutu<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTCco45HtzdqPC3o-j2QJmlsWnt8N7SrxWNpvdWapse-u3ltqqiZH8QrdOqNxskRkl0hp7gRim8LPkuqhMtX1Xp2NH5ncy17FHVWM0XYupmWjsPZ7H06KwgBoxyeKPvld_jNi5O9QwDS1YkwlV5tyRKxHVC6DhNhe2mrBXClpsXB6Ij7lQ9eSWvmM5Og=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTCco45HtzdqPC3o-j2QJmlsWnt8N7SrxWNpvdWapse-u3ltqqiZH8QrdOqNxskRkl0hp7gRim8LPkuqhMtX1Xp2NH5ncy17FHVWM0XYupmWjsPZ7H06KwgBoxyeKPvld_jNi5O9QwDS1YkwlV5tyRKxHVC6DhNhe2mrBXClpsXB6Ij7lQ9eSWvmM5Og=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>My old co-worker used to describe the blog as a detailed catalogue of one man’s failure at raising his children. Sometimes we forget that I am also failing at raising two dogs. </p><p><br /></p><p>Dad’s who didn’t want dogs is an internet cliché, but I fit it to a t. I carry Tutu around like an infant all day every day. I speak to her like an insane person. She is my special baby. Does she know she is my special baby? Does she know how much I love my special baby? </p><p><br /></p><p>We also dress her like one of the “Golden Girls.” She has a sweater for every holiday. A little yellow one with “Boo” on the front. And the little red sweater with “Ho ho ho.” Diana’s favorite is a little black number that looks like a tutu. But my all time favorite is the pink and white turtleneck. She is the spitting image of my great aunt Verle whose apartment what also all pink and white except for the occasional splash of dark brown whisky in a glass.</p><p><br /></p><p>Around Christmas something shifted. Tutu started waking up in the middle of the night to bark. That’s weird. She never barked before. We’d let her out and then she’d calm down. But it steadily got worse. 1am turned into 1am + 3am. And then 1am + 3am + 4am.</p><p><br /></p><p>Bark bark bark! It was like someone pounding a drywall nail into my ear canal. The sound could penetrate Diana’s deafness and would drive her crazy. She escape to our guest room. Jerry would moan and cry in the corner of the bedroom. Why oh why did you bring this tiny bark machine into our home, Hoomans?</p><p><br /></p><p>I began to just stare at the ceiling waiting for the barking to start every night. I was getting less and less sleep and was turning into a real a-hole during the day. Something had to be done. </p><p><br /></p><p>We began pumping her with enough drugs to drop a water buffalo. We would walk her around the house for an hour before bed to wear her out. I would roust her awake during the day to get her days and nights calibrated. </p><p><br /></p><p>And every night and 1, 3 and 4 she would bark. And I would cry.</p><p><br /></p><p>A few Fridays ago, I was playing Simpsons trivia with my pals (it’s as cool as it sounds) and I got a text from Diana that simply read, “OMG.”</p><p><br /></p><p>I immediately called her, fearing she had calculated how much I spent on Legos this year. </p><p><br /></p><p>Diana had been combing the internet for solutions to our geriatric canine insomniac. She stumbled across an article about dog sweaters. It turns out it’s really bad for dogs to be in sweaters for more than 3 hours at a time. It overheats their little bodies and is super uncomfortable. </p><p><br /></p><p>Tutu had been in a sweater non stop since we discovered humiliating sweaters. We were boiling her every night and her barking was pleas to stop the torture. </p><p><br /></p><p>It couldn’t be that simple, could it? That night Diana took off Tutu’s sweater and the slept through the night. And every night since. </p><p><br /></p><p>Here endeth the failure. </p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-57462423750668818252022-03-06T09:27:00.001-08:002022-03-06T09:27:07.853-08:00X Marks The Spot<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDLCTHhOp1PFIUrWWGIjY86SuzTemifIVqjmXM8He7TuZlf7FpzAO0-GdBCx60o3vAfYpT_PoHV0gNUvBEq0ntRCMZrmeAWy5vXbz9MY5tVM6La9TmEUjWU-xl4kxZygOYQogw6guEJCtUqcR6OAtRpff-369mq7OJPnrspqvqoluqN9cEhNSC2s9PWg=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDLCTHhOp1PFIUrWWGIjY86SuzTemifIVqjmXM8He7TuZlf7FpzAO0-GdBCx60o3vAfYpT_PoHV0gNUvBEq0ntRCMZrmeAWy5vXbz9MY5tVM6La9TmEUjWU-xl4kxZygOYQogw6guEJCtUqcR6OAtRpff-369mq7OJPnrspqvqoluqN9cEhNSC2s9PWg=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Screams from the basement are nothing new. It’s where we keep our evil third son, Hugo. It’s also where the videogames are. Usually the screams are from shooting/killing games. We lost the violent videogame battle years ago. But lately the screams come from a new kind of genre: pirate games. </p><p><br /></p><p>The boys of Evanston are obsessing over an open world game where you assume the role of old timey pirate and sail the seas in search of gold, skeletons and megalodons. Yes, you can shoot other kids, but that’s not the point. Which makes my soul feel better given the whole WWIII situation happening in Ukraine. So now the screams are, “Argh! Ahoy! Blouse shirts!”</p><p><br /></p><p>One day on vacation, Luca and I found ourselves strolling along the beach, talking about pirates. Did pirates ever visit this surf spot? Did they drink margaritas at Don Julio’s restaurant? Did they stab that guy who plays tuba in the town square until 2am every night?</p><p><br /></p><p>Luca discovered an old, rotten coconut in the sand. We immediately started a game called, “Throw the coconut into the surf.” For a kid who usually has seven screen going at any given time, a simple game of toss/retrieve was so simple. So beautiful.</p><p><br /></p><p>The coconut quickly gained value. The coconut was gold. We morphed our game into the classic “build sand walls to protect thing from a million years of surf.” Dig moat. Build sand wall. Waves crash. Start over. </p><p><br /></p><p>In other words, perfection.</p><p><br /></p><p>I got a little too hot (old man alert) so we decided to call it a day. But what to do with the coconut? Chuck it? Burn it? Take it home? Luca got an idea: What if we buried it?</p><p><br /></p><p>Yes! “X” marks the spot. We looked for a perfect location. I suggested burying it between two topless sunbathers, but Luca suggested I not be a creep. We decided to bury it near a little bar where the patrons didn’t look like coconut thieves. </p><p><br /></p><p>We placed the nut into a little hole and found two big sticks for our “X.”</p><p><br /></p><p>A few days went by, filled with surf lessons and snorkeling and bad hat purchasing. We were at the beach and I had assumed my position under an umbrella with my Nick Offerman book. I had recently purchased some roasted crickets from a beach vendor, which tasted like roasted crickets. They served the purposed of maintaining my “idiot” status among our wonderful neighbor girls. </p><p><br /></p><p>Luca suddenly remembered the coconut. Oh! Let’s see if it’s there! I leapt from my chair and we headed off with the enthusiasm of Blackbeard just before he murdered a bunch of people. </p><p><br /></p><p>Almost immediately I wished I had brought sandals. The midday sand was scorching. We “ouch ouch-ed” our way and ended up needing to stand in the surf for a couple minutes to sooth our burning tootsies.</p><p><br /></p><p>Then came the issue of remembering where we actually buried the nut. It was by a bar, but the beach was littered with roughly 42,000 bars. The topless sunbathers were gone, apparently warned there was a creep around. </p><p><br /></p><p>So we would race up the beach, realize were in the wrong spot and then race back to the cool surf. </p><p><br /></p><p>Eventually we spotted the bar! With the bored people! Luca and I searched for the “X.” But no luck. There were a few old firepits around that contained lots of X carcasses. Well, who wants an old rotten coconut anyway?</p><p><br /></p><p>Oh wait! Look. We spotted a half “X.” A capital “I.” Or a minus sign. We dove into the sand and dug. There it was! The rotten old nut. The greatest, most valuable rotten old nut in the world! </p><p><br /></p><p>We shouted and celebrated and danced and sang, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.”</p><p><br /></p><p>Then we chucked the coconut and went home. </p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-3379284905948690862022-03-02T08:03:00.002-08:002022-03-02T08:03:30.490-08:00Whales, Dolphins and Dorks<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAfX5a4bjZ9EMy7WzFxUQV2iLRPR3hK63LNXvFW-bRrfsoaVog9P5elcHi0iXeXLm-Gcf_JCmx-XftlenupcaflwhUVvS6rBS7fEYH_npA91_hO2tEJVAt68ZdWOT9i5vcCx2ShAYR7C2oshQY8Zrurf9PeXe-NdruFo17A-Od8EQiTlsU18y0j3qq4g=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAfX5a4bjZ9EMy7WzFxUQV2iLRPR3hK63LNXvFW-bRrfsoaVog9P5elcHi0iXeXLm-Gcf_JCmx-XftlenupcaflwhUVvS6rBS7fEYH_npA91_hO2tEJVAt68ZdWOT9i5vcCx2ShAYR7C2oshQY8Zrurf9PeXe-NdruFo17A-Od8EQiTlsU18y0j3qq4g=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;">My transformation to Dork Dad was almost complete. I already had a paunchy stomach. I recently purchased a man purse/fanny pack for my SPF 100, glasses cleaner and wallet. Now all I needed was an oversized floppy hat. The kind that acts as universal birth control. Elijah and I found one at a local surf shop that was a little too big for my pinhead. When asked via text for her opinion, Diana said, “I hope you don’t bring that back from vacation.” </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was ready to go snorkeling.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our great and lovely neighbors like to spruce up any sitting on your butt vacation with at least one adventure. Last time it was screaming across the Mexican canopy via zipline. This year, they wanted to head out on a boat and mingle among the jellyfish and stingray and sea urchin.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">At 7am, we jumped into a van with the intention of catching a boat a few towns over. The driver mentioned his cousin was our captain and was actually just at the bottom of the hill, which he gladly drove us to for $20.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I had all my Dork Dad gear, plus a flannel shirt, because of my allergy to cold. As I age, I tolerate cold less and less. Especially water. Cold water on my skin feels like a million pins and needles. It’s so uncomfortable that I often wonder how far along the Autism spectrum I am. I’ve all but abandoned pools and oceans unless it’s so hot I will burst into flames.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So why did I agree to go snorkeling? My hatred of missing out on fun with Eli and Luca beats my hatred of cold.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After meeting our hilarious and charming crew (I have yet to meet a jerkface Mexican person), we set sail (vial outboard motor) to the middle of the ocean in search of whales.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been fooled before on the old whale hunt. “Oh, they were just here yesterday. Shoot. You should’ve seen ‘em. They were asking about you and everything.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But these guys knew their stuff. We came face to face with six or seven massive beasts, who all did us the solid of splashing their giant tails or doing that thing where they shoot salt water out of their heads. We even saw some frisky dolphins who were hilariously curious about our boat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Luca spotted a cluster of Jellyfish and I said, “Awesome.” Our captain replied, “Not awesome.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We then headed to a little beach for the main event. We were outfitted with the world’s oldest and ill fitting-est snorkels and flippers were told to walk the plank. The second I hit the water I strung together a set of swears that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush. My facemask decided to poop out and my sinuses got a thorough salt water treatment. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wondered if 45 seconds was enough snorkeling when I noticed Luca was also struggling. He was in near tears. I directed us to the beach, where we regrouped. I was plenty happy to just examine every grain of sand. Ooh look. Sand.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The captain had taken a liking to Luca and arrived with a little life preserver to help with the snorkeling. All Mexican captains, surf instructors and waiters love Luca. They love to shout, Luuuuca!” and then laugh.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Luca headed off with the captain and the rest of the group to look at Dori and Nemo and Marlin. I stayed safely on shore to continue my sand studies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Chris, my bromance partner, arrived looking like Daniel Craig emerging from the sea. He asked how my snorkeling was going and I lamely said, “Oh. Yeah. My mask is broken. I’m fine here on shore.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh, take mine. I’ve seen enough eels.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I tried to argue with him, but Chris has this way of convincing me to bomb down hills on skateboards or take expert level yoga classes or ziplining. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I re-entered the ocean and after much swearing, got the hang of snorkeling and saw some fun little fishies and little eelies and some rockies. It was, dare I say, fun?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We were beaconed back to the boat for peanut butter sandwiches (courtesy of Lexa) and headed back home. I was glad for my flannel shirt and big, dorky hat, BOTH of which I am bringing home. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-58728746349242991792022-02-25T10:35:00.005-08:002022-02-25T10:35:51.994-08:00Baby’s First Hang Ten<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHWjh_ZcQE2bV_ffjTBp-G0dmQT3rNDibsyshkgWhwTweU3FSK9JCFdWyut7Cw_UTrUgeTGW3caIGiNJUThgitpcMeEgRQlq1WYg608aPEZB4oeLYLgGjNYBiYSGyjZY6WMowh8HoJJAiB9uf1jYM1FYwLF3TWkRFLHYCm0J6r0morXAxMXUviFukf3Q=s2784" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1856" data-original-width="2784" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHWjh_ZcQE2bV_ffjTBp-G0dmQT3rNDibsyshkgWhwTweU3FSK9JCFdWyut7Cw_UTrUgeTGW3caIGiNJUThgitpcMeEgRQlq1WYg608aPEZB4oeLYLgGjNYBiYSGyjZY6WMowh8HoJJAiB9uf1jYM1FYwLF3TWkRFLHYCm0J6r0morXAxMXUviFukf3Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh64UWR5LGfm9QKJtwfxviMgMSgBpM1572OZfcgbHZfPMvAQnJ7pZ3-3RTIpxjUT-l0W58Poz3zlIm_z1t_q5TU_LorP0vcyOspsfVlRnoEFR-1ncMp1iEiOp8Cy1fr-otj-a30pij5RRxyhJDRC0oN4PtlVW74VxSXiTfRB1YcRaQqSwvQIOxx0m5hkQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh64UWR5LGfm9QKJtwfxviMgMSgBpM1572OZfcgbHZfPMvAQnJ7pZ3-3RTIpxjUT-l0W58Poz3zlIm_z1t_q5TU_LorP0vcyOspsfVlRnoEFR-1ncMp1iEiOp8Cy1fr-otj-a30pij5RRxyhJDRC0oN4PtlVW74VxSXiTfRB1YcRaQqSwvQIOxx0m5hkQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Years ago, I took a surfing lesson in Australia on a commercial day off. I arrived out of shape, addicted to cigarettes and nursing a hangover. After twenty minutes of thrashing by Aussie waves and taking on more water than The Orca at the end of “Jaws,” my instructor gently recommended I do the rest of my lesson from the safety of my hotel room.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Since then, I’ve had an aversion to the surfing arts. To paraphrase Robert Duvall, “Hamann don’t surf.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As with most hard and fast rules of my life, Diana had other plans. We are currently on our make-up vacation in Mexico with the lovely Murphy/Green family (See my New Year’s Eve post for the gory details). Diana could sense this was her opportunity to finally turn our kids into characters from “Point Break.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the past, the kids have been satisfied with kiddie activities. Your basic sandcastle building and minor splashing/salt water tasting. But now, as Testosterone and Estrogen surge through their bodies, they yearn for more danger and less clothes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When Diana suggested the kids take a surf lesson, I initially scoffed. Hamann don’t surf. But the kids were totally into it. So I did my best to ruin the fun by warning them that the chances they’d actually stand on the board was less than zero. Take it from my experience 16 years ago, kids. Surfing is brutal and you’ll hate it. Plus, don’t smoke.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Their instructor was a hilarious local who “pretended” to be tough, but no amount of order barking could hide the delight in his eyes. The kids participated in the on-land instructions with the appropriate teen sarcasm. Then it was off to the water. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They lined up in the surf and the instructor found the most perfect wave in the history of waves. The shoved Luca, who popped up. The sun broke through the clouds and the heavens sang “Good Vibrations.” Diana burst into tears.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The girls quickly followed suit. Each riding a wave and splitting their faces with gigantic smiles. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then it was Eli’s turn. Surely, he’d prove me right. Hamann don’t surf. I was already preparing my Dad speech about the merits of quitting when he popped right up. His glorious mane floating in the Atlantic (Pacific?) air. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The kids rode wave after wave and made Hang Loose gestures and Diana cried her eyes out, saying this was the greatest day of her life. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I even emerged from the safety of my umbrella to shout and clap. I shouted and clapped so much that I got a bad sunburn. Which serves me right. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">p.s. As you can see from the Elijah photo, a bottom exposing interloper named “Prancy Nancy” seemed determined to be decapitated by rookie surfers. The professional photographer managed to include her in almost every shot. </span></p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-44568425052979789632021-12-31T10:41:00.006-08:002022-01-01T10:43:09.978-08:00New Years Eve 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguOALMaYBpXcPwbR_Wk80qu_fSFTFwKYXr4TTZKa5ky1dSbg4gHTPbjLAydlxbOnSdYIPP293KujutHROwXpmqXH8bUwLG7vctOxOiHE8vUVxaSgAefYWOoHf8JBI1JTYXK_b9ZOi1MATUM4UVpyub68GxsqeZ-rIs55wt_CJ0fTD1azT-VwA9_8Am-Q=s3088" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguOALMaYBpXcPwbR_Wk80qu_fSFTFwKYXr4TTZKa5ky1dSbg4gHTPbjLAydlxbOnSdYIPP293KujutHROwXpmqXH8bUwLG7vctOxOiHE8vUVxaSgAefYWOoHf8JBI1JTYXK_b9ZOi1MATUM4UVpyub68GxsqeZ-rIs55wt_CJ0fTD1azT-VwA9_8Am-Q=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvY4nt9Izdw4bu96f_Y704VGn_OmSWmTNmMsBUfKm6WxT-nqfrl2pubQnmkxfg5X1CC8jzEYoAFMOArlufuJ9qyygfbX8Q0oPjuLJTnwAfNoQEqSZZWTBMxQtEjPv1raoXcOn0DhL8gziLzdpdlonYvnqHAtKBRDjL7upN1mPEXZXMhCZY6U7w1br0kA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvY4nt9Izdw4bu96f_Y704VGn_OmSWmTNmMsBUfKm6WxT-nqfrl2pubQnmkxfg5X1CC8jzEYoAFMOArlufuJ9qyygfbX8Q0oPjuLJTnwAfNoQEqSZZWTBMxQtEjPv1raoXcOn0DhL8gziLzdpdlonYvnqHAtKBRDjL7upN1mPEXZXMhCZY6U7w1br0kA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhM281-TNkrFswNvHXi8Hcv5UHUbrnS4_f2rOW6-8YcmmMoZGnw2VWx34wNEiI5uaRv_lGZ-yyrPLDxk_G_jkqdlkFgQ6Oarf2ZZtshx7pnNqdKmQqgzlF7yn8nm0d4y9qCM1Qfbi1wiUr3KGJ_J2gAp5fbeNTO30XnT4VzSr9m_UBgvSJVCbVrS30sSA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhM281-TNkrFswNvHXi8Hcv5UHUbrnS4_f2rOW6-8YcmmMoZGnw2VWx34wNEiI5uaRv_lGZ-yyrPLDxk_G_jkqdlkFgQ6Oarf2ZZtshx7pnNqdKmQqgzlF7yn8nm0d4y9qCM1Qfbi1wiUr3KGJ_J2gAp5fbeNTO30XnT4VzSr9m_UBgvSJVCbVrS30sSA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh82YtKJCdOZPMokFpBURBb8lA20KgWDqUOutc3dC310isBS_Mg--4rZjrmhtlFadn2HsgOVkCYakQXu5j--IBbuMTe4UtpdEnqCitzT5fz09Zy4Np5-TX-zRLxFAWREEBk9zXggSfiUxU_BjvjG5VN9-0R2buJqCxoRVS8rZDalb1TcV2NfphKPphwmA=s3088" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh82YtKJCdOZPMokFpBURBb8lA20KgWDqUOutc3dC310isBS_Mg--4rZjrmhtlFadn2HsgOVkCYakQXu5j--IBbuMTe4UtpdEnqCitzT5fz09Zy4Np5-TX-zRLxFAWREEBk9zXggSfiUxU_BjvjG5VN9-0R2buJqCxoRVS8rZDalb1TcV2NfphKPphwmA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> I was sitting on the couch making out with Tutu. I was well on my way to the proper buzz to sleep the night before a big Mexico trip. Our bags were packed. My brother’s dog watching bribe was set out like Santa’s cookies. The boys were mainlining videogames in anticipation of 8 nights away. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Life was, dare I say, perfect?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Diana walked in. “Did you happen to renew your passport this year?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Rewhat? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Apparently there is a little date on your passport that indicates when you have to get a new one. Something like every ten years. It’s easy to miss. Especially when you don’t leave your house for two years. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I searched my brain for evidence that I had actually renewed my passport and simply forgot. All I could find was Simpsons trivia.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Diana burst into tears and the boys simply said, “What?” over and over. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I began to repeat, “Go!” over and over. Go. Don’t let my stupidity keep you from the vacation you planned a year ago. Go. My fragile emotional state can’t handle ruining 2021. Go. Go. Go!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Diana and the boys and our neighbors (oh, did I forget to tell you I ruined our neighbors’ vacation too?) decided to postpone. It was a sign from God. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">God wasn’t done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Diana and Lexa scrambled to book someplace in the US. They found outrageously expensive tickets and accommodations in Puerto Rico. Yes. This is still salvageable. Let’s do this.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Just to be double sure, I looked at the COVID numbers online. There was a 3,000% increase in COVID over the last 5 days. Three. Thousand. Thanks for checking Rick. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our neighbors decided to get as far away from us as possible and just started driving west. We opted to head to the cabin. Yeah. The cabin. That’s right. We own a cabin. With toilets and a fireplace and everything. We can salvage this vacation. No one can stop us from our own darned place.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning I ran to Starbucks to get us travel coffee. As I drove home, snow started dumping. I looked up into the sky and heard a booming voice say, “I don’t think so.” By the time I got home the weather folks had issued a “Don’t leave the house ever again” warning.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That pretty much sums up the year for us Hamanns. But you know what? We’ve never been happier. We’re closer than ever. We love each other more than ever. We’ve made it through another scary year together. Together.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As is tradition on HamannEggs, I like to leave a little note for each member of the family.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Diana, you are the love of my life. You still amaze me with every eye shot, COVID scare, and ruined vacation. You manage to see the good in everyone and everything. You keep us together. You are everything. I love you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Eli, I am so proud of you. You are a wonderful, hilarious caring teenager. You’re the coolest kid ever. I am zero percent surprised you are doing so well in high school. There is no one in the world like you. I will also destroy you in Magic The Gathering later today. You make me so happy. I love you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Luca, you’ve grown leaps and bounds this year. You are an awesome little sport-o. Your enthusiasm is contagious and hilarious. You make me laugh every day. You make my heart break every day. You are my special guy. I love you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Jerry, you are a good boy. Stop eating shoes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tutu, don’t die. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-7989099749019939782021-12-22T09:11:00.004-08:002021-12-22T09:11:39.982-08:00The. Worst.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgALr9NFL85CM7rzJ-gs6UgFWfehNWBfIIV5HWaKC37ZucbwZWSFbK3iBsRFV3YBS9MlvXOdLnDaSI8z4TGLAdgBbn5JKjLAQliHbFRN4OKWvQ1FmcN-5PiXSPGpVnfNrZctl1K_rtpYJo9p_w1od-QOEN6pd-16A5Z-qiieFVeUz84ht3OhWDMLbXRUQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgALr9NFL85CM7rzJ-gs6UgFWfehNWBfIIV5HWaKC37ZucbwZWSFbK3iBsRFV3YBS9MlvXOdLnDaSI8z4TGLAdgBbn5JKjLAQliHbFRN4OKWvQ1FmcN-5PiXSPGpVnfNrZctl1K_rtpYJo9p_w1od-QOEN6pd-16A5Z-qiieFVeUz84ht3OhWDMLbXRUQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A week ago, Elijah got exposed to COVID. One of his pals breathed their evil funk breath on him at lunch. Better safe than sorry, we kept him home for a few days. His symptoms included videogame addiction and making a huge mess in the kitchen. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It quickly morphed from safely quarantining to just skipping school. So we forced him kicking and screaming back to high school. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We had a few hours of peace and quiet and then we got a text:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ELI: What is happening? We are on lockdown.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">DIANA: I have no idea. Is it because of COVID?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ELI: I’m really scared.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">DIANA: Are classes still going on?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ELI: No we are huddled in the corner…If anything happens, I love you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What the ever loving FUCK??? The worst text exchange a parent can possibly have. A living nightmare. Is this the world we exist in now? Our beautiful, smart, funny, caring baby hiding in the corner of a geometry classroom because of a gun in the goddamn school? Sorry for the swears. But if there was ever a time to introduce swearing into HamannEggs this is it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We quickly found out that Evanston police had swarmed the school. There was a gun “incident” but it didn’t look like an active shooter. Thank the lord. But neither we nor Eli could be 100% sure it wasn’t turning into hell on earth. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We kept texting him. Telling him we loved him. Asking him if there was people in the room he could hold hands with. Yeah, is there someone you can hold hands with in case this is your last moment on earth? We told him to do whatever the police said and under no circumstances should he put himself in any danger. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He kept his sense of humor in his personal nightmare, texting us about his feet falling asleep and making (in hindsight some not great 9/11) jokes. I assured him when he got home he could have his first glass of wine. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Luca eventually joined the text exchange, as he was on a soft lockdown because of the mess. He showed us a picture of a robot he drew with rectangular nipples. We discussed the benefits of rectangular robot nipples for a while.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Things eventually calmed down and we got the details. Apparently some idiots were smoking weed in the boys’ bathroom and got busted. When searched, a few guns were found. Morons. Jackasses. Blockheads. Fuckwits. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Can you imagine the avalanche of excrement that is going to rain down on those kids’ heads? Just because they wanted to be cool weed dealers? Not to mention the army of Karens who will descend on the school administration. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They sent everyone home for the rest of the year. Our last text on the subject was:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ELI: I think we should go see the new Spider-Man movie tonight.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You bet your ass we went. </span></p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5463952000937199378.post-83613378405938809062021-11-28T09:57:00.003-08:002021-11-28T09:57:27.646-08:00Magic<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3shN9RBZAEjm69TAHAhSAlwRtfB-F5FCJvKWOOwSZJiaVQTPNFJW0xb4YllbJOpN4t0B5uEolQ3xLG6VrkVyCU-M-FxP8zWixtkpMnVhJLR5_x5m1_AMeZquNwJKZ21piW-SvPTGPF3v/s2048/IMG_5200.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3shN9RBZAEjm69TAHAhSAlwRtfB-F5FCJvKWOOwSZJiaVQTPNFJW0xb4YllbJOpN4t0B5uEolQ3xLG6VrkVyCU-M-FxP8zWixtkpMnVhJLR5_x5m1_AMeZquNwJKZ21piW-SvPTGPF3v/s320/IMG_5200.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">When Elijah came home from camp last summer, he regaled us with stories of defeating rival Camp Mohawk in the annual camp Olympics and getting lost in the woods and learning to love and watching his friends get picked off by Jason Voorhees’ mom.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Naw, he doesn’t tell us squat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He did, however, tell us about a game he played constantly: Magic The Gathering. Diana and I simultaneously gave him a wedgie and swirly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Despite being a fashionable nerd, I missed Magic The Gathering (MTG). It always felt more like a theater dork game than a band nerd game. But in a desperate attempt to cling to my son in any way shape or form before he leaves for college, I asked him to teach me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The game is based around collecting little cards with dragons or elves or spells on them. You use them to fight someone else’s dragons or elves. There are tens of thousands of cards in existence, so it is physically impossible for someone to try to buy them all. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I was determined to try.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Egged on by Eli, I started buying up cards. Cards that ended up on the floor, in huge piles around the dining room table, under the couch, in my pockets. Diana hates this game with every fiber of her being.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pretty quickly, we learned the best place to waste our money was at Evanston Games. THE place for Evanston nerds. Eli and I immediately found our home. Eli loves it because EGames is a wonderful, welcoming place that attracts kids who don’t really fit in anywhere else. Lots of gender fluidity, awkwardness, and dorky hairdos. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">EGames loves Eli because he is a naturally charming kid who wants to help anyone and everyone. Plus he is bankrolled by a dad with more money than sense (remind me to tell you about the Simpsons toy collection I just purchased). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They love me because I like to burst through the door and shout, “I would like to purchase your most expensive card, good people!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve become so invested in the game that we attend Friday night “drafts.” Which is basically me, plus 12 kids half my age tearing open card wrappers and playing a little round robin tournament.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am not joking when I say the kids are half my age. The other week I was playing against a ten year old person who identified as “they/them” and they stopped playing to stare at me for a moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Are you a DAD?” they asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Uh, yeah. I’m a dad.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Whose dad are you?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I pointed out Eli. “I’m his dad.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They stared at me for another beat. Then asked, “Can I have a dollar?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yes. Evanston Games kid. You can always have a dollar. </span></p><div><br /></div>Rick Hamannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06604261480535741580noreply@blogger.com0