C.I.B.F. does not usually like sequels (did I just refer to myself in the 3rd person…uhg…bad start) but I feel this one is worth revisiting.
As some of you recall from my post a few weeks back (http://northandover.patch.com/blog_posts/can-i-be-frank-furniture-follies ) I have been supplementing income via a warehouse job at an office furniture company. The gist of that blog was that I am totally out of my element and that things were not exactly going swimmingly in this temporary line of work. When I wrote that piece I did not believe things could get more interesting or, frankly, more entertaining.
Then I met Ramon.
Until this past week, I have primarily worked with three other people in the warehouse; my supervisors, Rick and Wally, and my fellow furniture-lugging friend, Alejandro (come on Lady Gaga fans, sing with me…Alejandro….Ale, Ale…jandro!)
As I walked into the workplace on a very rainy and dreary Wednesday, I was introduced to another member of the team; Ramon.
Ramon is an approximately 40 year old, average sized Hispanic man.
Ramon is a very nice guy.
Ramon is a very hard worker.
And Ramon is completely CAAAA…RAZY!
LOCO!
Loud, funny, unpredictable, Ramon brought a new excitement to the desk jockeying world I have become accustomed to in recent weeks. When I asked my peers about Ramon, I was told he had been working there for years but had been out for the last month.
Wow, a month! Did he take a nice long vacation? Did he have a new baby at home? Perhaps a sabbatical from hustle and bustle of the ‘slave trade’ that is office furniture warehousing? I thought.
No?
What?
Come again?
Yeah, Ramon was out for the past month because he lost ½ of his index finger hauling furniture!
Are you kidding me?
No, they were not kidding. What really blew my mind? Ramon was back for more.
Allow me to backtrack for one second. Prior to meeting Ramon, Rick informed me that I would be working with him for the day as the rest of the group needed to tend to another project elsewhere.
Sure, no problem, Rick. Makes no difference to me.
Yeah, that’s how I felt before Rick blurted out the following phrase…
“So, as far as Ramon…he is a little nuts and sometimes careless…so just watch out.”
Come again, Ricky? How nuts and how careless???
Before I could get a straight answer out of him, they were all gone. It was just me, the 9-fingered bandit and a heaping pile of heavy furniture to unload from a very wet and dark tractor trailer.
Sweet.
Inside of 10 minutes with my new buddy, I understood exactly why he was sans one finger.
He was throwing around 200 lb desks like they were rag dolls.
Hoisting table tops like they were throw pillows.
Curling cubicles like they were cans of corn.
It was awe inspiring.
It was impressive.
And it was a total {cue the Kenny Loggins music} DANGER ZONE.
My kneejerk reaction was “This guy is lucky to have ANY fingers at all!”
After digesting his reckless abandon for his own well being….I realized the only person Ramon cared less about injuring than himself was…gulp… ME!
Not only was he launching unwieldy, awkward furniture to and fro, he was throwing it in my general direction. Can you imagine if I lost my index finger? Forget about the girlish screams that would be heard throughout the six New England states, how would I ever type again?
To add insult to potentially life threatening injury, let’s pile on one more layer of complexity and danger; Ramon speaks very broken and extremely-hard-to-understand English! To say English was Ramon’s second language would be like saying that…well…I don’t know…insert your own parable people!
Not only could I barely understand a word he uttered, Ramon spoke at the pace of a cocaine-fueled South American soccer broadcaster. I was just waiting to hear the scream of....
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!” as he decapitated me with a desk chair.
The ironic (and extremely curious) addendum to this bizarre day at “the office”; while Ramon lacked the ability to clearly communicate with me in English, he could sing EVERY word to EVERY song on the radio we play in the building. From The Beatles to Bob Dylan to Boston. Unreal. So, I just decided to sign my new digitally deficient friend up for Singing Bee! Too much talent to waste in a warehouse!
Ay de mi.
P.S. If you need high quality furniture at a great price, head over to Ideal Office Solutions! 360 Merrimack Street in Lawrence! I’m Frank McCabe, Jr.! (anyone else catch the Junior joke? Nevermind.) Come on down! www.idealofficeonline.com
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Furniture Follies
In the interest of speed, click on link below to catch the lastest C.I.B.F on the Patch! Thanks for reading!
http://northandover.patch.com/blog_posts/can-i-be-frank-furniture-follies
-Frank
http://northandover.patch.com/blog_posts/can-i-be-frank-furniture-follies
-Frank
Friday, September 23, 2011
Confessions of a Ballroom Dance Fan
Bless me Father for I have sinned….
C.I.B.F. is in the confessional today. I am ashamed. I am embarrassed. I am repentful. And I need to bare my soul.
“My name is Frank and I am a fan of Dancing With The Stars,” (DWTS. for us creepy addicts).
“Hiiiii Frank!”, shrieked the former cast of ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’
The elegance. The grace. The costumes. The pageantry.
I love it all. (Oh God, listen to me! I am sick! Please help me, Lord!)
Where do I begin? Where did it all go wrong? I am afraid I do not have the time or writing space to tell you the full story, but somewhere along this crazy journey of life I have lost my way. For my faithful readers (19 and counting) you know it has been a long road back from being unemployed. If I had to pinpoint when I “lost it” it was probably somewhere during this time period.
So, the DWTS build up has been happening for weeks. The new cast was announced last month and the folks at ABC did not disappoint.
Included in this year’s pseudo-celebrity lineup…
•J.R. Martinez: A War hero turned Soap Opera star.
•Ron Artest: Rage-aholic/Pro basketball player
•Ricki Lake: Washed up talk show host
•Nancy Grace: Soon to be washed up talk show host (yikes, Nancy You are awful…get back to screaming about Casey Anthony and stay away from the dance floor)
•Chynna Phillips: Mrs. William “The Underachieving” Baldwin
•David Arquette: Former Mr. Courtney Cox/Future babbling basketcase
•Elizabetta Canalis: Former girlfriend to George Clooney…no, really, that is all she has ever done.
•Hope Solo: The cute, but intimidating, USA Women’s Olympic Soccer Goalie.
•Kristen Cavallari: The former Laguna Beach and Hills beauty who we love to hate.
•Rob Kardashian: Reality TV co-conspirator and brother to a girl who’s claim to fame is her (insert body part)
•Carson Kressley: The Gayest Man in the Universe
And let’s not forget…
•Chaz “Chastity” Bono: the spawn/son/daughter/she-male/trans-gender mess of 1960s power couple Sonny and Cher
Impressive…I know!
Anyway, now that you know who the players are, I can further my penance.
I made a very conscious effort to avoid the media hype preceding the premier of the show this past Monday. If I saw even a glance of Chaz or Chynna on TV, I quickly changed the channel.
“I am not getting sucked into this depressing, reality massacre comprised of 3rd rate, D-List celebrities living out some pathetic, last ditch effort to claim 15 more minutes of fame. No, no…not this guy,” proclaimed my machismo inner monologue
Famous last words. (of course, if those really were my “last words”, I will have really lived more sad life that the demented dancing rejects?)
Sure enough, Monday arrived and there I sat on my couch eagerly waiting to hear that annoying, squeaky voice of America’s Funniest Home Video front man, Tom Bergeron kick off season 13!
Mrs. C.I.B.F. was teaching a class and would not be home until about half way through the 2-hour season premiere (no worries, DVR had been set for 2 weeks!). So I could not even use the typical ‘guy excuse’ of “My wife was watching it. I wasn’t even paying attention.” Oh no, I was locked in all on my own.
Right out of the gate, I began to examine, criticize and score the performers. I was disgusted with myself. By the time my wife came home I found myself making ridiculously un-manly statements like…
“She has great posture, but heavy feet”
“His lines were beautiful but tempo was way off,”
Are you kidding me?
Why do I know the technical differences between a Cha-Cha, a Viennese Waltz and a Paso Doble?
I loathe myself.
Anyway, I have about 7 Rosaries to say, so I better get going.
Amen.
P.S. God, thank you for dressing those female professional dancers in nothing but dental floss and glitter.
C.I.B.F. is in the confessional today. I am ashamed. I am embarrassed. I am repentful. And I need to bare my soul.
“My name is Frank and I am a fan of Dancing With The Stars,” (DWTS. for us creepy addicts).
“Hiiiii Frank!”, shrieked the former cast of ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’
The elegance. The grace. The costumes. The pageantry.
I love it all. (Oh God, listen to me! I am sick! Please help me, Lord!)
Where do I begin? Where did it all go wrong? I am afraid I do not have the time or writing space to tell you the full story, but somewhere along this crazy journey of life I have lost my way. For my faithful readers (19 and counting) you know it has been a long road back from being unemployed. If I had to pinpoint when I “lost it” it was probably somewhere during this time period.
So, the DWTS build up has been happening for weeks. The new cast was announced last month and the folks at ABC did not disappoint.
Included in this year’s pseudo-celebrity lineup…
•J.R. Martinez: A War hero turned Soap Opera star.
•Ron Artest: Rage-aholic/Pro basketball player
•Ricki Lake: Washed up talk show host
•Nancy Grace: Soon to be washed up talk show host (yikes, Nancy You are awful…get back to screaming about Casey Anthony and stay away from the dance floor)
•Chynna Phillips: Mrs. William “The Underachieving” Baldwin
•David Arquette: Former Mr. Courtney Cox/Future babbling basketcase
•Elizabetta Canalis: Former girlfriend to George Clooney…no, really, that is all she has ever done.
•Hope Solo: The cute, but intimidating, USA Women’s Olympic Soccer Goalie.
•Kristen Cavallari: The former Laguna Beach and Hills beauty who we love to hate.
•Rob Kardashian: Reality TV co-conspirator and brother to a girl who’s claim to fame is her (insert body part)
•Carson Kressley: The Gayest Man in the Universe
And let’s not forget…
•Chaz “Chastity” Bono: the spawn/son/daughter/she-male/trans-gender mess of 1960s power couple Sonny and Cher
Impressive…I know!
Anyway, now that you know who the players are, I can further my penance.
I made a very conscious effort to avoid the media hype preceding the premier of the show this past Monday. If I saw even a glance of Chaz or Chynna on TV, I quickly changed the channel.
“I am not getting sucked into this depressing, reality massacre comprised of 3rd rate, D-List celebrities living out some pathetic, last ditch effort to claim 15 more minutes of fame. No, no…not this guy,” proclaimed my machismo inner monologue
Famous last words. (of course, if those really were my “last words”, I will have really lived more sad life that the demented dancing rejects?)
Sure enough, Monday arrived and there I sat on my couch eagerly waiting to hear that annoying, squeaky voice of America’s Funniest Home Video front man, Tom Bergeron kick off season 13!
Mrs. C.I.B.F. was teaching a class and would not be home until about half way through the 2-hour season premiere (no worries, DVR had been set for 2 weeks!). So I could not even use the typical ‘guy excuse’ of “My wife was watching it. I wasn’t even paying attention.” Oh no, I was locked in all on my own.
Right out of the gate, I began to examine, criticize and score the performers. I was disgusted with myself. By the time my wife came home I found myself making ridiculously un-manly statements like…
“She has great posture, but heavy feet”
“His lines were beautiful but tempo was way off,”
Are you kidding me?
Why do I know the technical differences between a Cha-Cha, a Viennese Waltz and a Paso Doble?
I loathe myself.
Anyway, I have about 7 Rosaries to say, so I better get going.
Amen.
P.S. God, thank you for dressing those female professional dancers in nothing but dental floss and glitter.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
A Never Ending Boy's Night Out?
Welcome back, y’all (for some reason I have been using the word ‘y’all’ lately despite being totally annoyed by this southern slang)! C.I.B.F. has been on a little of a late summer hiatus…just… because.
In any case, I have been pondering a very serious subject but one I have decided to view as a positive and possibly awesome opportunity for me. As many of you know we have a child, our only son Frankie, (yes, there is another Frank!) with autism.
The oldest of our three children Frankie, who is now 8 years old, is severely impacted by this disorder. He is completely non-verbal and faces some intense behavioral and social challenges. Since he was diagnosed at age 2, we knew he had an uphill battle with this very puzzling, incurable and incredibly widespread epidemic that afflicts 1 in every 110 children; making it more common than childhood cancer, juvenile diabetes and pediatric AIDS combined.
Needless to say, it has been a tough road for our family but that is not the moral of today’s story. While we continue to have very high hopes for Frankie’s future, there is a strong reality that we may need to care for him for the duration of our lives. Quite honestly, this possibility is, at the very least, worrisome but today it dawned on me that this situation may just evolve into a cool and fun existence…for me anyway.
Allow me to explain why…
Fathers and Sons, throughout the course of history, have possessed a very unique and almost indefinable bond with one another. Sure, some father-son relationships have been major disappointments (READ: Vito & Sonny/Fredo Corleone (Michael was a genius), George Bush & George W. Bush, Earl & Tiger Woods, and Martin & Charlie Sheen (and that strange Estevez person) but, as a rule, Dads and their Baby Boys are loyal, lifetime friends and confidants. As time rolls on and Frankie grows into a man, I may have an exclusive, and incredibly rare, access to the lifetime pass at a Boy’s Club!
In most “normal” families, fathers knowingly and willingly realize they will need to let go of those Apples of their Eyes. Whether Junior is off to college, decides to move out on his own or enlists in Uncle Sam’s Army, somewhere around the age of 18, he will want to take on this world on their own. Cut the cord. Be his own man. And it needs to be accomplished without the help of dear, old Dad.
For me, that day may never come and it struck me as a possibly perfect scenario!
I am fairly certain that our two daughters will move on with their lives someday. They will leave our nest to spread their wings which is fine (of course, I wish I could keep them under my protective custody forever). Additionally, my wife will surely grow somewhat bored with me and most certainly find my insightful wit less and less funny (actually, it has already happened!) as the years press on. Frankie, however, may just be with us for the long haul and just what the doctor ordered.
So, assuming his life skill abilities progress in a reasonable fashion, I may have an all-star roommate with no lease agreement attached. Think of the possibilities? Imagine being able to live with your college roommate, your best buddy, your wing man…forever (accompanied by your wife’s unconditional consent no less )? Think of the fun.
Once Frankie reaches a relatively adult age (I am thinking 15), I could have a backstage pass to my best pal; 24/7/365.
I can just hear it…
“Hey bud, beautiful day… let’s go golfing…Mom and I will have another anniversary next year! No worries”
“Franko, let’s hit the track and double the money you won on that scratch ticket!”
“Frank, remember, ‘Mum’ is the word (literally and figuratively) when she asks how many beers I had during our fishing weekend.”
And here is the best part? Mom (a.k.a. Mrs. Can I Be Frank?) can not utter a complaint. Not a one. Never. What mother in their right mind could ever complain about her husband spending quality time with there son – whether he has special needs or not!
On top of that, Frank, in all probability, will not be taxed with the burden, er blessing, of a girlfriend or wife. Another win for Dad! Why you ask? Let’s admit to a tried and true fact of life; as much as a boy is committed to his Old Man, the power of a good woman will trump that card; everyday and twice on Sunday. Those are just the rules – which I may have the privilege to break.
As a good friend of mine brilliantly stated, ‘When life hands you lemons…find someone whose life handed them vodka’. A wise outlook if you ask me.
Don’t want to get ahead of myself, but as they say is school, dare to dream.
In closing, break out the bunk beds, Frankie-Boy, cause we may just be roomies for life!
Love ya, buddy!
Dad
In any case, I have been pondering a very serious subject but one I have decided to view as a positive and possibly awesome opportunity for me. As many of you know we have a child, our only son Frankie, (yes, there is another Frank!) with autism.
The oldest of our three children Frankie, who is now 8 years old, is severely impacted by this disorder. He is completely non-verbal and faces some intense behavioral and social challenges. Since he was diagnosed at age 2, we knew he had an uphill battle with this very puzzling, incurable and incredibly widespread epidemic that afflicts 1 in every 110 children; making it more common than childhood cancer, juvenile diabetes and pediatric AIDS combined.
Needless to say, it has been a tough road for our family but that is not the moral of today’s story. While we continue to have very high hopes for Frankie’s future, there is a strong reality that we may need to care for him for the duration of our lives. Quite honestly, this possibility is, at the very least, worrisome but today it dawned on me that this situation may just evolve into a cool and fun existence…for me anyway.
Allow me to explain why…
Fathers and Sons, throughout the course of history, have possessed a very unique and almost indefinable bond with one another. Sure, some father-son relationships have been major disappointments (READ: Vito & Sonny/Fredo Corleone (Michael was a genius), George Bush & George W. Bush, Earl & Tiger Woods, and Martin & Charlie Sheen (and that strange Estevez person) but, as a rule, Dads and their Baby Boys are loyal, lifetime friends and confidants. As time rolls on and Frankie grows into a man, I may have an exclusive, and incredibly rare, access to the lifetime pass at a Boy’s Club!
In most “normal” families, fathers knowingly and willingly realize they will need to let go of those Apples of their Eyes. Whether Junior is off to college, decides to move out on his own or enlists in Uncle Sam’s Army, somewhere around the age of 18, he will want to take on this world on their own. Cut the cord. Be his own man. And it needs to be accomplished without the help of dear, old Dad.
For me, that day may never come and it struck me as a possibly perfect scenario!
I am fairly certain that our two daughters will move on with their lives someday. They will leave our nest to spread their wings which is fine (of course, I wish I could keep them under my protective custody forever). Additionally, my wife will surely grow somewhat bored with me and most certainly find my insightful wit less and less funny (actually, it has already happened!) as the years press on. Frankie, however, may just be with us for the long haul and just what the doctor ordered.
So, assuming his life skill abilities progress in a reasonable fashion, I may have an all-star roommate with no lease agreement attached. Think of the possibilities? Imagine being able to live with your college roommate, your best buddy, your wing man…forever (accompanied by your wife’s unconditional consent no less )? Think of the fun.
Once Frankie reaches a relatively adult age (I am thinking 15), I could have a backstage pass to my best pal; 24/7/365.
I can just hear it…
“Hey bud, beautiful day… let’s go golfing…Mom and I will have another anniversary next year! No worries”
“Franko, let’s hit the track and double the money you won on that scratch ticket!”
“Frank, remember, ‘Mum’ is the word (literally and figuratively) when she asks how many beers I had during our fishing weekend.”
And here is the best part? Mom (a.k.a. Mrs. Can I Be Frank?) can not utter a complaint. Not a one. Never. What mother in their right mind could ever complain about her husband spending quality time with there son – whether he has special needs or not!
On top of that, Frank, in all probability, will not be taxed with the burden, er blessing, of a girlfriend or wife. Another win for Dad! Why you ask? Let’s admit to a tried and true fact of life; as much as a boy is committed to his Old Man, the power of a good woman will trump that card; everyday and twice on Sunday. Those are just the rules – which I may have the privilege to break.
As a good friend of mine brilliantly stated, ‘When life hands you lemons…find someone whose life handed them vodka’. A wise outlook if you ask me.
Don’t want to get ahead of myself, but as they say is school, dare to dream.
In closing, break out the bunk beds, Frankie-Boy, cause we may just be roomies for life!
Love ya, buddy!
Dad
Friday, August 5, 2011
FOUR! Golf Hacker Grievances
I am no Tiger Woods but I love the game of golf. I have played since a very young age. But even after more than 30 years of whacking around that little, frustrating white-demon of a ball, I am still a painfully average player. At this stage of my life, I have accepted the fact that golf is a hobby, at best, and I simply try to enjoy the experience. With so few opportunities to play, when I do have the chance (i.e a Window for your dedicated C.I.B.F-ers!) I need to soak in every minute of it.
This brings me to the point.
When I have the time to get out on the links, I want maximize my fun. In a perfect world, I have three great friends playing along side of me rounding out the foursome. However, many times only one or two of your compadres are available to join you on the course.
And herein lies the danger.
For you non-golfers, there is an unwritten rule that applies to groups less than four. Most golf courses, both public and private, prefer (dare I say demand) foursomes whenever possible to keep the pace of play moving and eliminate excess groups. Therefore, if you only have two guys in your group, golf course personnel do their best to pair you up with another two. Follow me?
Now, if you belong to a private club then this practice is somewhat less painful. Typically, you will be somewhat acquainted with your new playing partners and you can still have a pleasant round.
However, for the public course hackers, it is like a ‘buyer beware’ sticker for the golf world. Regardless of skill, personality, color, religion or creed you can be paired with ANYONE. And, frankly, I usually hate these people for a number of reasons.
Here is why…
A public golf course is, oftentimes, the ‘Village of the Damned’ for amateur players. Rules, restrictions and etiquette are frequently thrown out the window in the name of “everybody should have the privilege to play golf”. You know what? No, not everybody should.
While I am not trying to profile here, public links players can often be weekend warriors that march out every Saturday or Sunday to pound the living bejesus out of the ball, not to mention Mother Nature.
Their skill level is usually a C-.
Their grasp of the rules and regulations borders on criminal negligence.
Their respect for course property is like a vandal in heat.
Getting the picture so far?
Here is a visual in case you still can’t quite understand…
The Attire
Imagine two forty-something year old guys. Each dressed in a one-size-too-small golf shirt with a coffee/spaghetti sauce/blood stain on the front of it, a pair of cut off ‘jhorts’ (READ: jhorts= jean shorts), and some old school 1980s Spot Bilt coaches shoes that serve as a substitute for spikes. Odds are they have on some flimsy visor that was given to them for free that reads, “My Favorite Hole is the 19th!”
The Equipment
Golf rules clearly state that a player can have no more that 14 clubs in his/her bag. The weekend hack-attack usually has around 18. The mix of ‘weapons’ typically consists of a miniature golf putter he stole during his kid’s field trip to Canobie Lake, a set of irons that started rusting during the Clinton administration and, amazingly, a brand new driver (which he probably won in the office raffle). Also, these types always have the cool (and incredibly useless) gadgets in their possession. Ball retrieving devices, yardage telescopes, and survival kits are often tucked neatly away in their Budweiser Select golf bag (yeah, the bag is yet another freebie they got from their brother-in-law who won it at dart league).
The Conversation
While I can not prove this fact I am confident there is an unknown, but absolutely quantifiable and scientific, ratio to how bad a golfer plays that is directly proportional to his I.Q. The worse the player, the worse the conversation you will need to endure through a grueling 18 holes. For a player that consistently scores higher than 100 (more than 30 shots higher than the course predicts a player a should shoot) odds are he is discussing NASCAR and the arm wrestling contests between he and his supervisor at the tattoo parlor.
Is the picture getting clearer now?
But, let’s not forget about the most important and telling attribute of the true hack…
The Game
Well, here is the true pinnacle (Get it? Pinnacle! Nevermind, you are probably a hack too!) of the problem. The public course protagonist in this fictional tale based on true events, is simply, just…AWFUL.
The swing is the equivalent of a sugar-high, blind-folded 6 year old waiving at a candy filled piñata.
The contact is more depressing than a Catholic Junior High School Dance.
The follow through is like that of a murder-weapon-hiding cop.
As far as putting, you might as well hand him a spade shovel or a sledgehammer; would not make a difference.
So, what can I tell you?
This article is not an attack on amateur golfers – I am one.
This is not some elitist country club snob spewing his opinions at the masses – I hate those guys.
I am the everyday golfer, but that does not mean that a large majority of the hackers do not annoy me; you do.
Look, I do not pretend to be Jack Nicholson…or is it Phil Micklaus? Or …ah well….what does it matter? And while I am not God’s gift to golf, I am….somebody. (Sorry, couldn’t come up with anything better there).
Don't forget to catch C.I.B.F. on Patch, http://northandover.patch.com
and follow us on Facebook, search, Can I Be Frank?
This brings me to the point.
When I have the time to get out on the links, I want maximize my fun. In a perfect world, I have three great friends playing along side of me rounding out the foursome. However, many times only one or two of your compadres are available to join you on the course.
And herein lies the danger.
For you non-golfers, there is an unwritten rule that applies to groups less than four. Most golf courses, both public and private, prefer (dare I say demand) foursomes whenever possible to keep the pace of play moving and eliminate excess groups. Therefore, if you only have two guys in your group, golf course personnel do their best to pair you up with another two. Follow me?
Now, if you belong to a private club then this practice is somewhat less painful. Typically, you will be somewhat acquainted with your new playing partners and you can still have a pleasant round.
However, for the public course hackers, it is like a ‘buyer beware’ sticker for the golf world. Regardless of skill, personality, color, religion or creed you can be paired with ANYONE. And, frankly, I usually hate these people for a number of reasons.
Here is why…
A public golf course is, oftentimes, the ‘Village of the Damned’ for amateur players. Rules, restrictions and etiquette are frequently thrown out the window in the name of “everybody should have the privilege to play golf”. You know what? No, not everybody should.
While I am not trying to profile here, public links players can often be weekend warriors that march out every Saturday or Sunday to pound the living bejesus out of the ball, not to mention Mother Nature.
Their skill level is usually a C-.
Their grasp of the rules and regulations borders on criminal negligence.
Their respect for course property is like a vandal in heat.
Getting the picture so far?
Here is a visual in case you still can’t quite understand…
The Attire
Imagine two forty-something year old guys. Each dressed in a one-size-too-small golf shirt with a coffee/spaghetti sauce/blood stain on the front of it, a pair of cut off ‘jhorts’ (READ: jhorts= jean shorts), and some old school 1980s Spot Bilt coaches shoes that serve as a substitute for spikes. Odds are they have on some flimsy visor that was given to them for free that reads, “My Favorite Hole is the 19th!”
The Equipment
Golf rules clearly state that a player can have no more that 14 clubs in his/her bag. The weekend hack-attack usually has around 18. The mix of ‘weapons’ typically consists of a miniature golf putter he stole during his kid’s field trip to Canobie Lake, a set of irons that started rusting during the Clinton administration and, amazingly, a brand new driver (which he probably won in the office raffle). Also, these types always have the cool (and incredibly useless) gadgets in their possession. Ball retrieving devices, yardage telescopes, and survival kits are often tucked neatly away in their Budweiser Select golf bag (yeah, the bag is yet another freebie they got from their brother-in-law who won it at dart league).
The Conversation
While I can not prove this fact I am confident there is an unknown, but absolutely quantifiable and scientific, ratio to how bad a golfer plays that is directly proportional to his I.Q. The worse the player, the worse the conversation you will need to endure through a grueling 18 holes. For a player that consistently scores higher than 100 (more than 30 shots higher than the course predicts a player a should shoot) odds are he is discussing NASCAR and the arm wrestling contests between he and his supervisor at the tattoo parlor.
Is the picture getting clearer now?
But, let’s not forget about the most important and telling attribute of the true hack…
The Game
Well, here is the true pinnacle (Get it? Pinnacle! Nevermind, you are probably a hack too!) of the problem. The public course protagonist in this fictional tale based on true events, is simply, just…AWFUL.
The swing is the equivalent of a sugar-high, blind-folded 6 year old waiving at a candy filled piñata.
The contact is more depressing than a Catholic Junior High School Dance.
The follow through is like that of a murder-weapon-hiding cop.
As far as putting, you might as well hand him a spade shovel or a sledgehammer; would not make a difference.
So, what can I tell you?
This article is not an attack on amateur golfers – I am one.
This is not some elitist country club snob spewing his opinions at the masses – I hate those guys.
I am the everyday golfer, but that does not mean that a large majority of the hackers do not annoy me; you do.
Look, I do not pretend to be Jack Nicholson…or is it Phil Micklaus? Or …ah well….what does it matter? And while I am not God’s gift to golf, I am….somebody. (Sorry, couldn’t come up with anything better there).
Don't forget to catch C.I.B.F. on Patch, http://northandover.patch.com
and follow us on Facebook, search, Can I Be Frank?
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Unemployment Chronicles: Hi, my name is Frank and I am a Soccer Mom
If you have followed the trials and tribulations of my seemingly endless job search via C.I.B.F.’s The Unemployment Chronicles series then you have a clear understanding of the insane journey I have undergone since leaving the full time work world.
In this ‘spare time’, I have experimented with several childish and, at times, outright moronic activities. From drinking morning Bloody Mary’s and taking bubble baths to growing mustaches and buying Cadillacs.
In this break from reality, I have mastered a plethora of useless skills. The daytime TV schedule; memorized from Ellen to Oprah. When my Sunday paper arrives I now can quickly sift through the circulars and identify the ultimate deal on hot dogs, cereal and detergent.
As far as the whole “stay at home Dad” role I have been forced to take on? Well, let’s just say I can now teach a PhD level course at flippin Hahhh-vid!
I am the league MVP at making kids lunches.
The F. Lee Bailey of settling child disputes.
Drop offs and pick ups you ask? I drive blindfolded.
In the high stakes game of little girls’ hair styles - ponytails, pigtails, braids and barrettes - I am the long lost savant son of Paul Mitchell and Vidal Sassoon
Kids parties and playdates? Chuck Norris drives ME there.
And even after conquering all of these challenges listed above, I still had the time to work on projects, job hunt and, of course, write this nationally recognized blog each week.
That is…until a couple weeks back.
I am have come to the debilitating reality that, as Alice Cooper so brilliantly shouted, SCHOOL’S OUT FOR SUMMER, and my self-proclaimed mastery of this household has reached a critical crossroads. Just when I thought I could match up against the likes of Carol Brady, June Cleaver and ALL 3 men (Selleck, Danson and the other guy) from 3 Men and a Baby ….summer is here and I am back to square one.
Allow me to elaborate…
Monday, 6:00AM:
The household awakens. My wife gets ready, administers a few chores for me to manage during the day and heads off to her meaningful professional life. I lay in bed until the last possible second when these 3 cherubs of mine force me to get upright and get moving because today marked the true beginning of summer life at home!
One of them is in summer school, one in soccer camp and one in some reading program (Really? Reading Camp? Must take after the mother because I remember taking special pride in my ability to forget how to read during the summer hiatus)
I drop all of them off before 9:00AM. But, unlike school, these activities only last 2-3 hours, so instead of attempting to do something productive with my day, I am now forced to run around and deal with mundane tasks such as the bank, the food store, the post office and then hurry back for picks up. Did I mention it is also 95 degrees?!?! In a blink of an eye they are all back in my possession and it is only NOON!
To make matters more difficult, my wife has ramped up her professional commitments and is working MORE hours as a dedicated hospital nurse.
While I am very thankful for her willingness to do anything it takes to help the family, I am officially jealous.
Her day was spent assisting mothers and their newborn babies; my day was centered on Spray N Washing a pair of Size 5 capri pants covered in grape popsicle.
She was applauded in a newspaper article for her incredible efforts (yes, she really was); I was thanked by some pimple-faced high school kid for remembering to put sunscreen on my child.
It is just too depressing for words (well, I guess it isn’t because I am sitting here typing in this heat which I am now convinced is the seventh circle of hell).
OK, I need to stop. Guess I will go run through the sprinkler before my afternoon cry.
In this ‘spare time’, I have experimented with several childish and, at times, outright moronic activities. From drinking morning Bloody Mary’s and taking bubble baths to growing mustaches and buying Cadillacs.
In this break from reality, I have mastered a plethora of useless skills. The daytime TV schedule; memorized from Ellen to Oprah. When my Sunday paper arrives I now can quickly sift through the circulars and identify the ultimate deal on hot dogs, cereal and detergent.
As far as the whole “stay at home Dad” role I have been forced to take on? Well, let’s just say I can now teach a PhD level course at flippin Hahhh-vid!
I am the league MVP at making kids lunches.
The F. Lee Bailey of settling child disputes.
Drop offs and pick ups you ask? I drive blindfolded.
In the high stakes game of little girls’ hair styles - ponytails, pigtails, braids and barrettes - I am the long lost savant son of Paul Mitchell and Vidal Sassoon
Kids parties and playdates? Chuck Norris drives ME there.
And even after conquering all of these challenges listed above, I still had the time to work on projects, job hunt and, of course, write this nationally recognized blog each week.
That is…until a couple weeks back.
I am have come to the debilitating reality that, as Alice Cooper so brilliantly shouted, SCHOOL’S OUT FOR SUMMER, and my self-proclaimed mastery of this household has reached a critical crossroads. Just when I thought I could match up against the likes of Carol Brady, June Cleaver and ALL 3 men (Selleck, Danson and the other guy) from 3 Men and a Baby ….summer is here and I am back to square one.
Allow me to elaborate…
Monday, 6:00AM:
The household awakens. My wife gets ready, administers a few chores for me to manage during the day and heads off to her meaningful professional life. I lay in bed until the last possible second when these 3 cherubs of mine force me to get upright and get moving because today marked the true beginning of summer life at home!
One of them is in summer school, one in soccer camp and one in some reading program (Really? Reading Camp? Must take after the mother because I remember taking special pride in my ability to forget how to read during the summer hiatus)
I drop all of them off before 9:00AM. But, unlike school, these activities only last 2-3 hours, so instead of attempting to do something productive with my day, I am now forced to run around and deal with mundane tasks such as the bank, the food store, the post office and then hurry back for picks up. Did I mention it is also 95 degrees?!?! In a blink of an eye they are all back in my possession and it is only NOON!
To make matters more difficult, my wife has ramped up her professional commitments and is working MORE hours as a dedicated hospital nurse.
While I am very thankful for her willingness to do anything it takes to help the family, I am officially jealous.
Her day was spent assisting mothers and their newborn babies; my day was centered on Spray N Washing a pair of Size 5 capri pants covered in grape popsicle.
She was applauded in a newspaper article for her incredible efforts (yes, she really was); I was thanked by some pimple-faced high school kid for remembering to put sunscreen on my child.
It is just too depressing for words (well, I guess it isn’t because I am sitting here typing in this heat which I am now convinced is the seventh circle of hell).
OK, I need to stop. Guess I will go run through the sprinkler before my afternoon cry.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
A Lie-fe Lesson
(As a pre-cursor to this post, please note that I am not advocating nor condoning the act of lying. What I am suggesting is that a certain level of “politeness” needs to be maintained in order for our society to function as a whole. Read on.)
According to the great short-cut-creators for the diction deficient, Wikipedia, a lie is defined as follows…
A lie (also called prevarication, falsehood) is a type of deception in the form of an untruthful statement, especially with the intention to deceive others
We all know what a lie is. And whether you are lying about how fast you were driving or the location of the missing body in question, lying, in my experience, will eventually catch up to you. When it does, there is always a price to pay…be it the disappointed look from a parent as you enter a ‘time out’ or the desolate stare from your new cellmate, Bubba, as you enter Alcatraz.
In the incredibly below average film, “The Invention of Lying” (filmed in – cue the Bruce Springsteen background music – my hometown of Lowell, MA) they glimpse into a society where lies do not exist. While the movie was a flop, the lesson is clear; a world with total and complete honesty is dysfunctional.
Nonetheless, most people would agree that lying is a ‘bad thing’, but I contend that without some presence of lies in our everyday life, we would not be able to maintain any of our relationships; with family, friends, co-workers …and so on.
“White lies” are usually told in situations that have no serious bearings or consequences. White lies are the things we say just to keep the day moving and avoid unnecessary conflict. White lies work. White lies are good (or was that ‘Greed’? Have to double check with my moral compass, Gordon Gecko.)
Now before I have to fight off the attacks from all of you God-fearing-Bible-quoting purists, let me explain. How many times in a typical day are we “forced” to tell a white lie? Think about it.
Some examples…
“Hey Steve, so sorry I am late for the meeting…but the traffic was just…”
(Right…and by “traffic” do you mean “hangover”?)
“Julie, I love your sweater! So flattering on you.”
(You excitedly state to your boss as she waddles down the hall wearing something that was spawn from the closet of Bill Cosby & Thornton Mellon's Tall and Fat Collection)
“Oh my goodness, your baby is gorgeous!”
(What you really mean is, ‘Where did you find Shrek the 5th? At the orphanage in a Leper colony?) [that one is for the lovely ladies in the LGH MIU]
Just the tip of the lie-ceberg…
“Honey that was a delicious dinner. I’d love some more but I am totally stuffed”
(After being served Central American prison gruel from her cookbook of horror)
“Boy, Bill, young Billy is sure turning out to be one heck of a little ball player,”
(Moments after his kid dropped 3 fly balls and struck out looking 4 times to cost his team the game. Hey Billy, you stink, pal.)
“Ahh, kids, thanks for this beautiful Cat in Hat, glow in the dark bow tie! I will wear this to work tomorrow”
(Sure I will. Sorry kids, truth hurts)
And that is the point. Certain truths will only cause pain and, at the very least, insult the people on the receiving end.
Just last week I forgot to give my wife an important phone message. When asked about it a few days later, I informed her that I did, in fact, tell her about it (when I knew right well I did not). After all, that is just going to cause ME pain and suffering. (Whew, I am so glad she does not read this blog!) Alright, that specific logic may be a little off point, but you know what I mean?
In closing, I am not endorsing anyone taking the stand as a character witness in the Night Strangler trial, but I am preaching that a healthy amount of teensy-weensy-half-truths will surely result in a more happy and harmonious existence.
Just remember, you can’t spell LIFE without L-I-E.
Isn’t that right, Dr. Drew?
According to the great short-cut-creators for the diction deficient, Wikipedia, a lie is defined as follows…
A lie (also called prevarication, falsehood) is a type of deception in the form of an untruthful statement, especially with the intention to deceive others
We all know what a lie is. And whether you are lying about how fast you were driving or the location of the missing body in question, lying, in my experience, will eventually catch up to you. When it does, there is always a price to pay…be it the disappointed look from a parent as you enter a ‘time out’ or the desolate stare from your new cellmate, Bubba, as you enter Alcatraz.
In the incredibly below average film, “The Invention of Lying” (filmed in – cue the Bruce Springsteen background music – my hometown of Lowell, MA) they glimpse into a society where lies do not exist. While the movie was a flop, the lesson is clear; a world with total and complete honesty is dysfunctional.
Nonetheless, most people would agree that lying is a ‘bad thing’, but I contend that without some presence of lies in our everyday life, we would not be able to maintain any of our relationships; with family, friends, co-workers …and so on.
“White lies” are usually told in situations that have no serious bearings or consequences. White lies are the things we say just to keep the day moving and avoid unnecessary conflict. White lies work. White lies are good (or was that ‘Greed’? Have to double check with my moral compass, Gordon Gecko.)
Now before I have to fight off the attacks from all of you God-fearing-Bible-quoting purists, let me explain. How many times in a typical day are we “forced” to tell a white lie? Think about it.
Some examples…
“Hey Steve, so sorry I am late for the meeting…but the traffic was just…”
(Right…and by “traffic” do you mean “hangover”?)
“Julie, I love your sweater! So flattering on you.”
(You excitedly state to your boss as she waddles down the hall wearing something that was spawn from the closet of Bill Cosby & Thornton Mellon's Tall and Fat Collection)
“Oh my goodness, your baby is gorgeous!”
(What you really mean is, ‘Where did you find Shrek the 5th? At the orphanage in a Leper colony?) [that one is for the lovely ladies in the LGH MIU]
Just the tip of the lie-ceberg…
“Honey that was a delicious dinner. I’d love some more but I am totally stuffed”
(After being served Central American prison gruel from her cookbook of horror)
“Boy, Bill, young Billy is sure turning out to be one heck of a little ball player,”
(Moments after his kid dropped 3 fly balls and struck out looking 4 times to cost his team the game. Hey Billy, you stink, pal.)
“Ahh, kids, thanks for this beautiful Cat in Hat, glow in the dark bow tie! I will wear this to work tomorrow”
(Sure I will. Sorry kids, truth hurts)
And that is the point. Certain truths will only cause pain and, at the very least, insult the people on the receiving end.
Just last week I forgot to give my wife an important phone message. When asked about it a few days later, I informed her that I did, in fact, tell her about it (when I knew right well I did not). After all, that is just going to cause ME pain and suffering. (Whew, I am so glad she does not read this blog!) Alright, that specific logic may be a little off point, but you know what I mean?
In closing, I am not endorsing anyone taking the stand as a character witness in the Night Strangler trial, but I am preaching that a healthy amount of teensy-weensy-half-truths will surely result in a more happy and harmonious existence.
Just remember, you can’t spell LIFE without L-I-E.
Isn’t that right, Dr. Drew?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Phrank the Phantom
In the first summer edition of C.I.B.F.; it’s restaurant review week!
Specifically we are talking about customer service. Can it ever be too good? Seems like a stupid question. Who among us does not like a pleasant experience with the nice people who serve us our meals? Oftentimes, great customer service is what builds reputations and ensures loyalty. Right?
Well, if there is such a phenomenon as customer service that was too good, I just experienced it.
Last week, my wife and I were out for our Anniversary/Father’s Day/Bruins-Winning-the-Stanley Cup dinner. We made reservations at an incredible new steakhouse we had never been to before, which I will not name. (but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you!).
The atmosphere was incredible. The food was amazing. The service, however, was simply too good…or more specific too much. Too many greetings. Too many people checking in every 8 seconds. Too many waiters serving us. It was customer service overload.
The following is an actual reenactment of our dining experience (I may be exaggerating a little…but this is really close.)
Enter the establishment. Immediately, we are greeted with Fenway Park-like applause and cheers from the entire staff. I may have even heard a “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ in the mix, but it was too loud to tell. Finally, when the excitement died down we were airlifted like Ali Baba on a magic carpet and carried to our table by four giant men wearing togas (insert ‘Animal House’ line of your choice here). Upon arrival, we are delicately placed into robes and gently placed down onto our gold plated velvet chairs.
We were not asked if we wanted water. These people poured it into our mouths for us.
We did not receive a cocktail menu. Instead Tom Cruise and ‘the other guy’ jumped over the bar to concoct custom martinis tailored specifically for us based on a background check and an extensive family history.
Before we could take a deep breath and attempt to read the menu, we had 3 different cows standing tableside for our choosing.
What the hizzy is going on here?
Maybe I will take a look at the wine list? OH NO! Look out, here comes Kendall Jackson and the Cabernet 5 racing to our disposal with a vat of fresh grapes ready to stomp like that ‘I Love Lucy’ episode.
Jeez.
At this point, we are starting to sweat. This is just way too much pressure for a supposed relaxing dinner for two.
Not only was the service frantic, but the pace was unbelievable. Correct me if I am wrong but when you typically sit down for a nice meal at a high end restaurant you expect to take your time? No? Start with a drink, ease into an appetizer, slowly moving on to the main course and capped off with a dessert or coffee. Not here at Senor Speedy’s. No, no. We were in and out in less that one hour. It was like an episode of Man vs. Food. We felt like we were being timed.
Before I even took my final beat-the-clock-bite of steak, one of the 82 people serving us was abruptly cleaning up the table. The fork in my hand was replaced by a pen to sign the check that magically appeared sometime around salad.
Whew! It was intense.
After a few days to ponder this event, I have come up with some rules of thumb to offer my new friends at the Hurryup Café:
Most people actually enjoy chewing their own food; I promise you.
It is most common to request a credit card AFTER the meal is served.
While foot massages are nice, not necessary during dinner.
Allow your guests maybe like 5 or even 10 seconds between the crabcake and the chocolate cake
Lastly, do not stare at your guests with a forced, frightened, pained smile throughout the meal. It really does wreck the appetite
Food for thought. (Ha, ha…get it? It’s a play on wor…uhg…sorry)
Warm Regards,
Phrank (a.k.a. The Phantom Gourmet)
(no, not really…or maybe I am?)
Specifically we are talking about customer service. Can it ever be too good? Seems like a stupid question. Who among us does not like a pleasant experience with the nice people who serve us our meals? Oftentimes, great customer service is what builds reputations and ensures loyalty. Right?
Well, if there is such a phenomenon as customer service that was too good, I just experienced it.
Last week, my wife and I were out for our Anniversary/Father’s Day/Bruins-Winning-the-Stanley Cup dinner. We made reservations at an incredible new steakhouse we had never been to before, which I will not name. (but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you!).
The atmosphere was incredible. The food was amazing. The service, however, was simply too good…or more specific too much. Too many greetings. Too many people checking in every 8 seconds. Too many waiters serving us. It was customer service overload.
The following is an actual reenactment of our dining experience (I may be exaggerating a little…but this is really close.)
Enter the establishment. Immediately, we are greeted with Fenway Park-like applause and cheers from the entire staff. I may have even heard a “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ in the mix, but it was too loud to tell. Finally, when the excitement died down we were airlifted like Ali Baba on a magic carpet and carried to our table by four giant men wearing togas (insert ‘Animal House’ line of your choice here). Upon arrival, we are delicately placed into robes and gently placed down onto our gold plated velvet chairs.
We were not asked if we wanted water. These people poured it into our mouths for us.
We did not receive a cocktail menu. Instead Tom Cruise and ‘the other guy’ jumped over the bar to concoct custom martinis tailored specifically for us based on a background check and an extensive family history.
Before we could take a deep breath and attempt to read the menu, we had 3 different cows standing tableside for our choosing.
What the hizzy is going on here?
Maybe I will take a look at the wine list? OH NO! Look out, here comes Kendall Jackson and the Cabernet 5 racing to our disposal with a vat of fresh grapes ready to stomp like that ‘I Love Lucy’ episode.
Jeez.
At this point, we are starting to sweat. This is just way too much pressure for a supposed relaxing dinner for two.
Not only was the service frantic, but the pace was unbelievable. Correct me if I am wrong but when you typically sit down for a nice meal at a high end restaurant you expect to take your time? No? Start with a drink, ease into an appetizer, slowly moving on to the main course and capped off with a dessert or coffee. Not here at Senor Speedy’s. No, no. We were in and out in less that one hour. It was like an episode of Man vs. Food. We felt like we were being timed.
Before I even took my final beat-the-clock-bite of steak, one of the 82 people serving us was abruptly cleaning up the table. The fork in my hand was replaced by a pen to sign the check that magically appeared sometime around salad.
Whew! It was intense.
After a few days to ponder this event, I have come up with some rules of thumb to offer my new friends at the Hurryup Café:
Most people actually enjoy chewing their own food; I promise you.
It is most common to request a credit card AFTER the meal is served.
While foot massages are nice, not necessary during dinner.
Allow your guests maybe like 5 or even 10 seconds between the crabcake and the chocolate cake
Lastly, do not stare at your guests with a forced, frightened, pained smile throughout the meal. It really does wreck the appetite
Food for thought. (Ha, ha…get it? It’s a play on wor…uhg…sorry)
Warm Regards,
Phrank (a.k.a. The Phantom Gourmet)
(no, not really…or maybe I am?)
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tin Year Anniversary
Attention female readers of “Can I Be Frank?” I may need your advice! Maybe? Not sure yet? Please read on.
Later this month we will celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary (you can hold your applause, but thanks). Ten years! Whew. A lot has happened. Three kids, three moves, three jobs. Like everyone married for that amount of time we have had our ups, downs and everything in between. Overall, it has been a fun and, certainly, interesting ride thus far.
OK, enough with the background noise. I did a little research on the old Google machine and what I learned was that the traditional or, at least,
symbolic ten year anniversary gift involves tin or aluminum.
According to www.the-wedding-anniversary-site.com,
"...the tin and aluminum symbols of the tenth wedding anniversary gift represent durability and pliability, meaning it can be bent but not broken. Within your marriage by this stage you will have experience the need to compromise on some things, but your marriage is still going strong,".
Sure, makes enough sense. I'll bite. After considering this fact for a very short while I have come up with (I believe) a few brilliant and meaningful gift ideas that will not only keep with tradition but bring a big smile to the Mrs.’ face.
Ready?
Here we go...
Tin Foil
Useful, practical, affordable...almost always needed around the house. I would say that encapsulates my lovely wife to a capital T! No?
A Tin Can
The universal symbol for the wandering, free spirit (a.k.a. 'a bum'). I think this gift captures my carefree-throw-caution-to-the-wind disposition which so perfectly balances against Amy's conservative and calculated nature (not to mention, if I do not find gainful employment VERY soon, I will be sent packing with that tin can and starring in my own reality series, "Real Hobos from Essex County"). No, really, I will.
A Tin Whistle
A traditional Irish instrument used to make beautiful music...a lot like she and I have made for the last decade (wait a second...that one almost borders of clever and romantic). Nah.
And last but not least...
The Tobacco Tin
Often referred to as simply a "tin", chewing tobacco is frequently housed in a small tin container. In my estimation, tobacco use – and the tin itself - is representative of loyalty, commitment and a touch of unforeseeable but probable doom...just like marriage. Right?
You know what? As I continue to type and think about all of these terrific tin treats, I realize that my wife deserves them all! Yeah, that’s it. Nothing too good for her.
So, on our anniversary I will drape myself in tin foil….while chewing tobacco….while playing the tin whistle. As for the tin can…that can be my tip jar. How could she not be impressed with that display of thoughtfulness?
Well, I feel better now. Guess I was worried for no reason. I think I have my anniversary plan wrapped up in a bow (pun intended) but if you girls want to weigh in, be my guest.
Warm Regards,
Frank "The Tin Man" McCabe
P.S. Apparently the Daffodil is the 10 year anniversary flower. Maybe that is a safer bet?
P.P.S. Don't forget to find me on Patch as well, http://northandover.patch.com
Later this month we will celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary (you can hold your applause, but thanks). Ten years! Whew. A lot has happened. Three kids, three moves, three jobs. Like everyone married for that amount of time we have had our ups, downs and everything in between. Overall, it has been a fun and, certainly, interesting ride thus far.
OK, enough with the background noise. I did a little research on the old Google machine and what I learned was that the traditional or, at least,
symbolic ten year anniversary gift involves tin or aluminum.
According to www.the-wedding-anniversary-site.com,
"...the tin and aluminum symbols of the tenth wedding anniversary gift represent durability and pliability, meaning it can be bent but not broken. Within your marriage by this stage you will have experience the need to compromise on some things, but your marriage is still going strong,".
Sure, makes enough sense. I'll bite. After considering this fact for a very short while I have come up with (I believe) a few brilliant and meaningful gift ideas that will not only keep with tradition but bring a big smile to the Mrs.’ face.
Ready?
Here we go...
Tin Foil
Useful, practical, affordable...almost always needed around the house. I would say that encapsulates my lovely wife to a capital T! No?
A Tin Can
The universal symbol for the wandering, free spirit (a.k.a. 'a bum'). I think this gift captures my carefree-throw-caution-to-the-wind disposition which so perfectly balances against Amy's conservative and calculated nature (not to mention, if I do not find gainful employment VERY soon, I will be sent packing with that tin can and starring in my own reality series, "Real Hobos from Essex County"). No, really, I will.
A Tin Whistle
A traditional Irish instrument used to make beautiful music...a lot like she and I have made for the last decade (wait a second...that one almost borders of clever and romantic). Nah.
And last but not least...
The Tobacco Tin
Often referred to as simply a "tin", chewing tobacco is frequently housed in a small tin container. In my estimation, tobacco use – and the tin itself - is representative of loyalty, commitment and a touch of unforeseeable but probable doom...just like marriage. Right?
You know what? As I continue to type and think about all of these terrific tin treats, I realize that my wife deserves them all! Yeah, that’s it. Nothing too good for her.
So, on our anniversary I will drape myself in tin foil….while chewing tobacco….while playing the tin whistle. As for the tin can…that can be my tip jar. How could she not be impressed with that display of thoughtfulness?
Well, I feel better now. Guess I was worried for no reason. I think I have my anniversary plan wrapped up in a bow (pun intended) but if you girls want to weigh in, be my guest.
Warm Regards,
Frank "The Tin Man" McCabe
P.S. Apparently the Daffodil is the 10 year anniversary flower. Maybe that is a safer bet?
P.P.S. Don't forget to find me on Patch as well, http://northandover.patch.com
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Dad's Camping Weekend: No Moms, No Rules
This weekend I am excited to continue a terrific tradition started by a great group of guys a few years back now simply known as 'Dad's Camping Weekend'.
Dad's Camping Weekend has grown into a fantastic late-spring event whereby 15-20 Dads lead their children into the wilderness (OK, 'wilderness' might be a little strong - we stay at a very user-friendly camp ground that has all the amenities...but nonetheless!) to spend two quality days and nights in the great outdoors.
The ratios are impressive.
The average age of the Dads is about 37.
The average age of the children is about 7.
I would say the kids out number the Dad's 2 1/2 to 1. (yes, I know there are no 1/2 kids.....YET!)
The kids absolutely love this trip. The wives view us all as 'Ward Cleavers' and are endlessly thankful to us for "giving them a break". In my humble opinion, I think we are all brave souls and, without question, a pack a superstar father figures.
So, enough patting ourselves on the proverbial back and let me clue you in to a little secret (sorry, fellow Dad campers - don't ban me from the trip); Dad's Camping Weekend is as fun for the Dads as it is for the kids.
Here is why...
Unlike the traditional family trip, Dad's Camping Weekend is more focused on fun than flora and fauna. Hiking, site seeing, and stick-whittling take a back seat to whiffle ball, eating and drinking.
While Mother Nature welcomes us with open arms, I am not sure Mother McCabe would approve of all of the comings and goings at camp.
And please admit it, Moms; when we add you into the mix, camping becomes like every other day in your household (i.e. there are rules). Kids eat healthy, dress warm, brush their teeth, go to bed at a reasonable hour, yada, yada, yada.
At Dad's weekend, we set the benchmark for success pretty low. Basically, as long as no child drowns in the lake, gets lost in the woods, eaten by a bear (granted I have not seen any bears in the greater Rochester, NH region...YET!), lit on fire or contracts some poisonous rash- we consider ourselves model Scout Leaders and the trip a complete victory for Man.
Sure we bring more beer than band aids. More cigars than sunscreen. Sweatshirts become pillows. Fingers become toothbrushes. Gum becomes toothpaste.
You want cookies for breakfast? Go for it!
Don't want to change into your pajamas? I don't care.
Skin your knee? Rub some dirt on it!
Bath? Ba,ha,ha, ha!
Come Sunday, all bodies have been accounted for and we make that long trek back home to normalcy. The kids may be a little tired and cranky. The Dads are definitely tired and, dare I suggest, a little hungover (you know, from the intoxicating clean air)?
But hey, anything for the kids, right? ;-)
P.S. Don't forget to catch me on Patch as well, http://northandover.patch.com/
Dad's Camping Weekend has grown into a fantastic late-spring event whereby 15-20 Dads lead their children into the wilderness (OK, 'wilderness' might be a little strong - we stay at a very user-friendly camp ground that has all the amenities...but nonetheless!) to spend two quality days and nights in the great outdoors.
The average age of the Dads is about 37.
The average age of the children is about 7.
I would say the kids out number the Dad's 2 1/2 to 1. (yes, I know there are no 1/2 kids.....YET!)
The kids absolutely love this trip. The wives view us all as 'Ward Cleavers' and are endlessly thankful to us for "giving them a break". In my humble opinion, I think we are all brave souls and, without question, a pack a superstar father figures.
So, enough patting ourselves on the proverbial back and let me clue you in to a little secret (sorry, fellow Dad campers - don't ban me from the trip); Dad's Camping Weekend is as fun for the Dads as it is for the kids.
Here is why...
Unlike the traditional family trip, Dad's Camping Weekend is more focused on fun than flora and fauna. Hiking, site seeing, and stick-whittling take a back seat to whiffle ball, eating and drinking.
While Mother Nature welcomes us with open arms, I am not sure Mother McCabe would approve of all of the comings and goings at camp.
And please admit it, Moms; when we add you into the mix, camping becomes like every other day in your household (i.e. there are rules). Kids eat healthy, dress warm, brush their teeth, go to bed at a reasonable hour, yada, yada, yada.
At Dad's weekend, we set the benchmark for success pretty low. Basically, as long as no child drowns in the lake, gets lost in the woods, eaten by a bear (granted I have not seen any bears in the greater Rochester, NH region...YET!), lit on fire or contracts some poisonous rash- we consider ourselves model Scout Leaders and the trip a complete victory for Man.
Sure we bring more beer than band aids. More cigars than sunscreen. Sweatshirts become pillows. Fingers become toothbrushes. Gum becomes toothpaste.
You want cookies for breakfast? Go for it!
Don't want to change into your pajamas? I don't care.
Skin your knee? Rub some dirt on it!
Bath? Ba,ha,ha, ha!
Come Sunday, all bodies have been accounted for and we make that long trek back home to normalcy. The kids may be a little tired and cranky. The Dads are definitely tired and, dare I suggest, a little hungover (you know, from the intoxicating clean air)?
But hey, anything for the kids, right? ;-)
P.S. Don't forget to catch me on Patch as well, http://northandover.patch.com/
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Unemployment Chronicles: Pass the Grey Poupon...it's Royal Wedding Week!
The job search has been suspended!
No, I have not found gainful, full time employment, but that will need to be put on hold. And why? It's Royal Wedding Week!
Just when I thought I had reached rock bottom in terms of my self-esteem and confidence as a business professional I have stooped to a new low. I am officially sucked into all of this Royal Wedding-hype like some sick, demented middle aged British shut in. Truthfully, I have not paid much attention to all the hoopla until the past few days. I saw the headlines, caught some of the news stories, but I have been on the sidelines in terms of engagement (sorry for the bad pun there).
AND then...last night...it started. Dateline was running a special on Kate Middleton. Intrigued? You betcha!
Maybe it's just that I was tired, bored and nothing else on T.V. that peaked my interest?
Wrong.
Awaken this dreary Monday morning with my usual self-loathing for having no real professional purpose when suddenly I turn on Good Morning America to find it is all-things Royal wedding. Not sure how much time passed until I realized the shower was running, the kids were downstairs screaming and doing God knows what and I was totally immersed in Robin Roberts reporting LIVE from jolly old England atop a double-decker bus.
Look in the mirror, slap myself in the face and I attempt to 'man up'. I switch the channel over to SportsCenter, but, frankly, after about 6 seconds I was tuned back into some OTHER morning talk show discussing the pending nuptials of William and Cate. I can't fight it.
I ask you, what is wrong with me?
I was completely enthralled with the review of who got invited and who did not?
Mesmerised by the talk of the procession through London.
Amazed by all of the planning, the pomp, the circumstance.
I am loving it!
So, again, what is wrong with me?
Have I transformed into some sort of "English muffin"? Morphed into a "Queen" of another color?
I am following EXTRA's Mario Lopez on Twitter to make sure I do not miss one minute of the action.
I have DVR'ed 7 specials airing simultaneously to guarantee I am on top of all of the Anglo-Saxon-action!
I just spent 10 minutes arguing with my 4 year old because she wants to watch Little Bear and I KNOW I am missing great wedding gossip from the ladies of The View!
Anyway, enough time babbling on this foolish blog. It's almost Tea Time.
Pip, pip, cheerio!
Frank
Just when I thought I had reached rock bottom in terms of my self-esteem and confidence as a business professional I have stooped to a new low. I am officially sucked into all of this Royal Wedding-hype like some sick, demented middle aged British shut in. Truthfully, I have not paid much attention to all the hoopla until the past few days. I saw the headlines, caught some of the news stories, but I have been on the sidelines in terms of engagement (sorry for the bad pun there).
AND then...last night...it started. Dateline was running a special on Kate Middleton. Intrigued? You betcha!
Maybe it's just that I was tired, bored and nothing else on T.V. that peaked my interest?
Wrong.
Awaken this dreary Monday morning with my usual self-loathing for having no real professional purpose when suddenly I turn on Good Morning America to find it is all-things Royal wedding. Not sure how much time passed until I realized the shower was running, the kids were downstairs screaming and doing God knows what and I was totally immersed in Robin Roberts reporting LIVE from jolly old England atop a double-decker bus.
Look in the mirror, slap myself in the face and I attempt to 'man up'. I switch the channel over to SportsCenter, but, frankly, after about 6 seconds I was tuned back into some OTHER morning talk show discussing the pending nuptials of William and Cate. I can't fight it.
I ask you, what is wrong with me?
I was completely enthralled with the review of who got invited and who did not?
Mesmerised by the talk of the procession through London.
Amazed by all of the planning, the pomp, the circumstance.
I am loving it!
So, again, what is wrong with me?
Have I transformed into some sort of "English muffin"? Morphed into a "Queen" of another color?
I am following EXTRA's Mario Lopez on Twitter to make sure I do not miss one minute of the action.
I have DVR'ed 7 specials airing simultaneously to guarantee I am on top of all of the Anglo-Saxon-action!
I just spent 10 minutes arguing with my 4 year old because she wants to watch Little Bear and I KNOW I am missing great wedding gossip from the ladies of The View!
Anyway, enough time babbling on this foolish blog. It's almost Tea Time.
Pip, pip, cheerio!
Frank
Monday, March 7, 2011
Fall from Grace
Of all the great jokes, stories, limericks and puns in the history of the world that make us laugh, there is nothing more funny than 'the fall'. Falls have been the hallmark of untintential hilarity for centuries; and for my money, it still remains the best!
What makes falls so funny? The shear surprise to both the victim and their witnesses? The uncertainty of what caused the fall? The embarrassment that the fall-ie will surely experience in the following minutes? It really doesn't matter, but I challenge you to find me a human that does not love the sight of another person unexpectedly tumbling to the earth.
On top of that, the sick and demented reality of falls is the sheer lack of compassion expressed by those watching. Admit it, your first instinct is to laugh even if the fall-in-question has caused bodily harm. Right? If you answered 'No', you are a liar and I suggest you stop reading and throw yourself in one of those giant puddles that are now forming in the March thaw as pennance.
To make matters worse, the fall could be happening to anyone you know and it is always equally funny! Your best friend. One of your kids. Even Grandma. Sure, we all do the fake "OH NO, ARE YOU OK?" and then run to the person's aid. But, assuming no real damage has been done....bring on the chuckles!
May sound a bit cold (and I am admittedly one of the clumsiest goofs you will ever meet) but allow me to relay a true story that remimded me of the comic genius of stumbles...
Very recently I was in attendance of a formal function (no, not the prom!) and witnessed a fabulous fall! I was casually standing around, sipping a cocktail and enjoying the atmosphere. I noticed a rather large, (and later I learned, inebriated!) woman approaching with heals as high as the Himalayas. I noticed she looked a little wabbly and her friend was arm-in-arm with her. As she closed to about 3 feet of where I was standing....BANG! Down she goes, right in front of me. Given my prim-and-proper surroundings, I did not belt out in a belly laugh (not yet anyway), but I did, however, freeze up. This befallen, buxom beauty was 36 inches from me on the ground flailing like a Galapagos Turle that was tipped on its shell and I just stared. With her friend's assistance, she quickly rose back up on those mountain high Monolos and limped her way through the crowd. Embarrased? Yes. But, seemingly, OK.
And what do I do, being the mature, sophisticant? RACE to my closest acquaintance and share the shame! It was like I was the Village Idiot running through town spreading the good news of our Lord Jesus Christ!
And you know what? I am fine with that because, as I said in the beginning, FALLS= FUNNY.
Everytime.
Got a funny fall story - I would love to hear it!
What makes falls so funny? The shear surprise to both the victim and their witnesses? The uncertainty of what caused the fall? The embarrassment that the fall-ie will surely experience in the following minutes? It really doesn't matter, but I challenge you to find me a human that does not love the sight of another person unexpectedly tumbling to the earth.
On top of that, the sick and demented reality of falls is the sheer lack of compassion expressed by those watching. Admit it, your first instinct is to laugh even if the fall-in-question has caused bodily harm. Right? If you answered 'No', you are a liar and I suggest you stop reading and throw yourself in one of those giant puddles that are now forming in the March thaw as pennance.
To make matters worse, the fall could be happening to anyone you know and it is always equally funny! Your best friend. One of your kids. Even Grandma. Sure, we all do the fake "OH NO, ARE YOU OK?" and then run to the person's aid. But, assuming no real damage has been done....bring on the chuckles!
May sound a bit cold (and I am admittedly one of the clumsiest goofs you will ever meet) but allow me to relay a true story that remimded me of the comic genius of stumbles...
Very recently I was in attendance of a formal function (no, not the prom!) and witnessed a fabulous fall! I was casually standing around, sipping a cocktail and enjoying the atmosphere. I noticed a rather large, (and later I learned, inebriated!) woman approaching with heals as high as the Himalayas. I noticed she looked a little wabbly and her friend was arm-in-arm with her. As she closed to about 3 feet of where I was standing....BANG! Down she goes, right in front of me. Given my prim-and-proper surroundings, I did not belt out in a belly laugh (not yet anyway), but I did, however, freeze up. This befallen, buxom beauty was 36 inches from me on the ground flailing like a Galapagos Turle that was tipped on its shell and I just stared. With her friend's assistance, she quickly rose back up on those mountain high Monolos and limped her way through the crowd. Embarrased? Yes. But, seemingly, OK.
And what do I do, being the mature, sophisticant? RACE to my closest acquaintance and share the shame! It was like I was the Village Idiot running through town spreading the good news of our Lord Jesus Christ!
And you know what? I am fine with that because, as I said in the beginning, FALLS= FUNNY.
Everytime.
Got a funny fall story - I would love to hear it!
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Support for SMA
Today, you will not be getting my usual senseless banter but rather a topic very close to me; Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA)
What is SMA, you ask?
WHO IS AFFECTED?
My personal interest in this illness is that it has afflicted one of the most special people in my life; my nephew Matthew. Matthew was diagnosed in December of 2009 (December 16 to be exact because you never forget dates like that) at 8 months of age. Initial reports from specialists was that Matthew may have just a few months to live. Naturally, our family was devastated, but we pressed on. My sister and her husband sought out every possible answer to, at the very least, "help" Matthew's condition. But odds and statistics were not favorable. Today, we are blessed to report that Matthew is holding his own. A new medication is showing great signs of improvement and we all do our best to remain hopeful and pray for a miracle.
However, SMA is defeating one of it's very bravest soldiers; Coby Quinn Kulis. Coby was diagnosed just months after he was born is now only 5 months old.
During his short life, Coby has been given the very appropriate nickname 'Superman' by his Mom; and he continues to earn that title every day.
A few weeks ago, it appeared Coby had just days, if not hours, remaining; but he has continued to battle - and in this process he has educated and inspired people across the web.
You see, Coby's incredibly brave and strong parents, Lori and Dave (whom I have never met) have decided to chronicle Coby's struggle through the most powerful communication tool at our disposal; Facebook. This decision has allowed hundreds, possibly thousands, of people to gain an understanding, interest, and sympathy for not only Coby, but for SMA. The buzz around the internet has been just amazing. In most certainly the darkest hours of their lives, the Kulis family has decided to not only just be great parents, but powerful advocates and spokespeople for this little known disease that is taking lives like Coby's and Matthew's everyday.
On Friday, March 4th, we are excited to be hosting a fundraiser to benefit Families of Spinal Muscular Atrophy (FSMA) - a non-profit organization dedicated to helping these families dealing with these overwhelming and, frankly, unfair circumstances.
'Shamrocks for SMA' is a St. Patrick's Day-themed event dedicated to raising awareness, compassion and funding; for which this disease so richly deserves. If you can support this event, my sister, the Kulis' and so many other families would be so very thankful.
Shamrocks for SMA
Friday, March 4, 2011
The Claddagh Pub
399 Canal Street
Lawrence, MA
7:00PM - 2:00AM
http://www.fsma.org/
http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/event.php?eid=124210054318829
What is SMA, you ask?
Spinal muscular atrophy (SMA), the number one genetic killer of children under the age of two, is an often fatal disease that destroys the nerves controlling voluntary muscle movement, which affects crawling, walking, head and neck control, and even swallowing.
WHO IS AFFECTED?
- SMA is one of the most prevalent genetic disorders.
- One in every 6,000 babies is born with SMA.
- SMA can strike anyone of any age, race or gender.
- One in every 40 people carries the gene that causes SMA. The child of two carriers has a one in four chance of developing SMA.
- 7.5 million Americans are carriers.
- MA is the number one genetic killer of children under the age of 2.
However, SMA is defeating one of it's very bravest soldiers; Coby Quinn Kulis. Coby was diagnosed just months after he was born is now only 5 months old.
During his short life, Coby has been given the very appropriate nickname 'Superman' by his Mom; and he continues to earn that title every day.
A few weeks ago, it appeared Coby had just days, if not hours, remaining; but he has continued to battle - and in this process he has educated and inspired people across the web.
On Friday, March 4th, we are excited to be hosting a fundraiser to benefit Families of Spinal Muscular Atrophy (FSMA) - a non-profit organization dedicated to helping these families dealing with these overwhelming and, frankly, unfair circumstances.
'Shamrocks for SMA' is a St. Patrick's Day-themed event dedicated to raising awareness, compassion and funding; for which this disease so richly deserves. If you can support this event, my sister, the Kulis' and so many other families would be so very thankful.
Shamrocks for SMA
Friday, March 4, 2011
The Claddagh Pub
399 Canal Street
Lawrence, MA
7:00PM - 2:00AM
http://www.fsma.org/
http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/event.php?eid=124210054318829
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Iceman Cometh
I am not the handiest of homeowners. Truthfully, I am pretty bad. I try, but it is like a foreign language to me; just does not make sense. I can do the basics...cut the lawn, paint a room, screw in a light bulb...but sadly it does not go much farther than that. Even the simple handy-man tasks intimidate, and frankly, do not interest me in the slightest (which is probably why I am typing this silly blog from the catacombs of The Nerditorium rather than patching up the hole in my son's bedroom wall!!).
Today, however, I was inspired to take charge of the most pressing home improvement project I have ever noticed about my dilapidating abode; my cable T.V. was in jeopardy! 6:45AM (imagine the ticking clock music from 24)
I stood in my kitchen making school lunches (oh yes, I am Betty Crocker...just not Bob Villa) when I noticed that my cable wire, which has been hanging off the side of the house for months, was now in the frozen cocoon of an icicle the size of...I am not exaggerating....a Pontiac Bonneville. My heart sank. At any given moment, this 'glacier' could break and take my precious television viewing privileges with it. This pending doom is where I draw the line! I raced up the stairs, threw on some warmer clothes, and prepared to deal with this potentially paralyzing home entertainment crises.
I knew what needed to be done. This mammoth ice monster needed to be destroyed. I grabbed the hammer (actually, I asked Amy where the hammer was) and headed outside to the frozen tundra that is my yard.
I trudged outside and crossed through the nearly three feet of snow that has fallen this month. I approached the beast and pondered my strategy. Yep, pretty simple. Smash the s&% out of this thing! As I was following through with my Babe Ruth-like homerun swing, it suddenly struck me that this might not be the way to go. This could take the cable down with it. Uh oh! Maybe I should....too late...CRASH! Down came Mount Everest to the earth. I closed my eyes for a second...wondering if I had just wrecked Tuesday's dream of American Idol and Entertainment Tonight. I squint the lids open and notice the WIRE WAS STILL IN TACT!
WOO HOO! Take that 'This Old House'!
There is a new Sheriff in town!
Crises: Averted.
Cable TV: still rocking.
That should keep the wife, Ty Pennington and Sir Edmund Hillary (for you history buffs he the guy that first climbed Mt. Everest
See you tonight Ryan Seacrest!
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