Tag Archives: humor

Stuck training the new guy

If you’ve ever had to train a new employee, and the guy was taking a long time to catch on to tasks you could do without a moment’s thought, you might have found yourself thinking the same things as I did the other afternoon.

I was attempting to train a new worker how to use the leaf blower to herd dead leaves into one big pile. There is a profound difference between creating wind and using it to affect some purpose. His insensibility to this, and the resulting random rearrangement of leaves, led me to my first great trainer’s cliché. “It would be so much easier to just do this myself,” I thought.

But that would mean sending my trainee away discouraged. I worked with him on the rudiments of directional leaf blowing. It was a hard sell, which inspired my next trainer’s lament. “This guy has the intellectual capacity of a five-year-old,” I said to myself.

I spent 20 minutes walking sideways with him, shrinking the perimeter of ground covered by leaves. It was probably that I was uncomfortably hunched over the entire time, helping him aim the blower nozzle, that led me to my final nugget of trainer’s wisdom. “I’d be better off trying to teach a first-grader to do this,” I muttered.

This is when I discovered that statements made to relieve frustration (and back pain) lose much of their impact when reality robs them of their comforting hyperbole.

The new employee had the intellect of a five-year-old because he was exactly five years old. It wasn’t my idea to hire him for this work. He volunteered. In fact, he volunteered so vehemently that I’m sure he would have run into the house crying if I’d denied him his training.

Little boys are fascinated by power tools. Combine the necessity of plugging it in to an electrical outlet with the magic of creating wind, and the leaf blower is a kid magnet. Unfortunately, the power of the gods comes with a steep learning curve for a kindergartener.

To his credit, he stuck with the training, and the associated parental scowls, long enough to get the hang of it. When our herd of leaves was under control, I let him go solo.

He even earned a short break for the obligatory leap into the pile.

rewards of hard work

I just hope this doesn’t make him think that after his first day of training at McDonald’s they’ll let him jump into a pile of hamburgers.

But the days grow short this time of year, and there was a large pile of leaves to vacuum and bag. He wanted to take training on this process too, but the machine was a little tall and heavy for him to hold upright. It was clear that his workday was over when he began throwing armfuls of leaves at me and shouting, “Confetti!”

Leaf fort

Makes you wonder how many children get bagged up and carted away with the leaves every year.

In the end, he learned a little bit, and I learned a lot. I have to practice being more patient with my volunteer helpers. As to whether I would be better off trying to train a first grader, well, I guess we’ll find that out next year.

Conversations with my wife: Boob on fire

I was in the dining room, helping my son with a school project, when my wife hurried up to me and grabbed my hand. She clamped my hand over her left breast. She was clearly alarmed.

WIFE: “Feel that. My boob feels like it’s on fire!”

She had on a sweater over her shirt, but I could still feel that it was hot. It was very hot, chemical reaction hot.

ME: “Is it just the one?”

WIFE: “Yes. The other one’s fine.”

She lifted up her shirt and put my hand on top of her bra. We’re married and everything, so there was no danger of this act leading to anything sexual.

WIFE: “What’s going on with my boob?”

I could see a wet spot on her bra.

ME: “Is it sweating?”

WIFE: “I don’t think so.”

She stretched her bra and sniffed the wet spot.

WIFE: “It doesn’t smell like sweat.”

I sniffed it.

ME: “No. It kinda smells like pork.”

I pulled her sweater back down and noticed that the wet spot went through.

ME: “Did you spill something hot on yourself?”

WIFE: “I don’t think so. I was just cutting up an apple for the baby.”

ME: “Show me what you did.”

She led me into the kitchen and pointed to the fruit bowl on the shelf above the counter.

WIFE: “I just got an apple out and started cutting it up.”

In front of the fruit bowl, the crock pot sat on the counter, gurgling hot little bubbles in the condensed water around the edge of its rattling lid as it slow cooked a pork roast.

ME: “You leaned over the crock pot to reach the apple, didn’t you?”

WIFE: (Relieved) “But why didn’t I get burned right away?”

ME: “It took a minute for it to soak through to the skin. Your boob got slow cooked.”

WIFE: “That’s why my bra smells like pork.”

ME: “I sure hope so.”

crock pot

The culprit. My wife wouldn’t let me post a photo of the victim.

I’m the Einstein of chicken strips

One day, when our older son was barely three, I decided to make chocolate chip cookies. He was in the other room playing as I mixed up the batter. He must have smelled them when they were about half way through baking. He came into the kitchen and peered through the glass in the oven door. “Chocolate [chip] cookies!” he exclaimed. “Daddy, you’re a genius!”

Back then he pronounced genius “genjus.” He used to call me a “genjus” once in a while, when I did something really smart, like making cookies. I’m not sure when, exactly, he began pronouncing genius correctly. He kept getting smarter and smarter, which meant my intellectual pedestal became proportionally diminished.

Einstein avoids chicken

Sure, he was good with simple stuff, like time travel, but could he handle the confounding problem of chicken strips? (Image: Ferdinand Schmutzer)

By the time the boy began saying genius the right way, I rarely heard it used in reference to me anymore. He understood that a person could learn new things every day. This being the case, of course Daddy had learned a lot of things during his many days. That didn’t make him a genius; it just made him old.

During the past two years, the boy has spent his time developing his own genius, which is right and proper. He knows nearly everything now, which must be a good thing. He’ll know even more tomorrow, his vast knowledge knocking another block out of the height of Daddy’s pedestal. The once colossal Daddy gets more life-sized every day, which is necessary, but also a little sad to shrinking giants.

morsels of enlightenment

The semi-sweet building blocks of my early genius.

The other night we were at a restaurant. The boy ordered chicken strips, which is another way of saying he decided against the grilled cheese sandwich. As usual, he asked me to cut up his strips for him.

“Can’t you cut up your own chicken?” I asked. “You’re a big boy now.”

“No. You can cut it,” he replied.

I cut up half of his chicken and then moved on to my steak. After watching me cut off a few pieces, he said, “Daddy, I want to help you cut your steak.”

“You can’t even cut your own chicken,” I told him. “You have to be able to do that before you can cut somebody else’s steak.”

A few minutes later, he had finished the strips I’d cut for him. He picked up his fork and knife and attempted cutting up the rest. After dragging his food across the plate with his knife, he asked me for help.

“Try switching hands with your knife and fork,” I said.

“Why?”

“You have more strength and control in your right hand. That’s the hand you should hold your knife in.”

He switched the utensils and cut through the chicken with ease. His eyes lit up. “Daddy, you’re right! You are so right! You’re a genius!”

For one day, my pedestal didn’t shrink. It may even have inched higher. I treasure that day; I don’t know when I’ll see another like it.

Boobies of knowledge

Our one-year-old doesn’t like saying goodbye to Mommy. Even if he doesn’t need her for anything specific, and even if he is happily playing with Daddy or Big Brother, he likes knowing that Mommy is at hand. Daddy can do everything for him that he needs done, but it’s hard to put 100% faith in somebody who doesn’t have boobies. Everyone knows that boobies are where parenting knowledge is stored, which means if Daddy forgets how to do something, he’s got no place he can go to look it up.

Two-volume set

“Think what you will. I refuse to hide my ample reference materials.” (Image: Stanley Kubrick/Look Magazine)

Thus, whenever Mommy leaves the house, she takes the entire archive of tips for keeping little boys happy and comfortable with her. She also takes a couple of really comfortable snuggling pillows, but that’s of secondary concern. The important thing is she’s leaving a fragile little boy in the hands of some dude who is likely to forget the recipe to baby’s comfort at any moment.

When Mommy needs to run an errand, she sometimes finds herself slipping out of the house quietly, to preserve the little boy from any unnecessary anxiety. This is what she thinks she’s doing. What she is actually doing is deferring the unnecessary anxiety until the child is completely in the care of a man whom the boy recognizes as wholly devoid of appropriate reference materials, since Mommy always carries those with her.

Whenever our little boy realizes he hasn’t seen Mommy for a while, he runs toward the door to the garage, since that is Mommy’s most likely escape route. If Mommy has gone out, Daddy needs to take some time to reassure the boy that he does indeed remember how to feed and diaper a child, notwithstanding his flat, bony chest. The boy always recovers his composure, but it can be an unpleasant 10 minutes of distress.

If Mommy is just someplace else in the house, Daddy only needs to make the boy understand that, or, as in the most recent case, let him figure it out for himself.

We have a low counter beside the door to the garage. Sometimes, Mommy sets her purse on this counter.  Last time the boy went to the door chasing a missing Mommy, he saw the purse sitting upon the counter. The purse was evidence, but it was not definitive proof.

carrying mommy's phone

“Mommy can’t be too far away if I’ve got her umbilical cord in my hand.”

The boy pulled the purse to the floor and opened it up. All the distress melted away from his countenance as he plucked out Mommy’s cell phone. This was proof. Mommy might leave home without her purse, but she would never ever leave her phone behind. A phone doesn’t make such a good snuggling pillow, but then grown-ups do have crazy ways.

He took the phone and climbed the stairs. He heard the shower running so he pounded on the bathroom door. When Mommy opened the door, he handed her the phone. He understands how troubling it is to be separated from your comforting boobies of knowledge.

Now, everybody could relax.