Sibling Rivalry?

Pop quiz, hotshot!

"What do you do when you introduce a darling, beautiful, and overwhelmingly cute baby into a household that already has a spoiled child?

What do you do? What do you do... "

(With apologies to Dennis Hopper for ripping off his “Speed” emoting/best quotes.)

I’m sure that this type of sibling rivalry has gone on for generations – the “cute” firstborn isn’t so cute anymore, and along comes a younger, prettier version of you, who quickly takes your place at the top of the adoration chain. Next thing you know, Baby Eve is pushing the two year old down the stairs.

This is what we’re experiencing in the Gressel household right now. Only it’s on a slightly different level.

You see, my wonderfully precious yet incredibly jealous cat Jack has been having a hard time adjusting to the fact that he is no longer the center ring attraction in our house. A month ago Little Baby Emmy came along and pushed him to a “supporting star” role, a demotion that old Jack ain’t taking oh so well.

So what can a highly envious cat do to make his displeasure known?

Well, in Jack’s case, he’s decided to make sure that he inserts his large ass (literally) into every photo of Little Baby Emmy. Like it or not.

Being the doting-Poppy-with-a-nice-camera that I am, I tend to take a photograph or two (okay – or 600) of my granddaughter on a regular basis. And thanks to Mr. Pushy, they all tend to come out looking like this:

Of course, what does Jack think about all of this? This pic says it all. Yes, the SOB is laughing at me.

It’s my hope that Jack and Emmy eventually form a truce (and God help us – not an alliance!), and they become the best of friends. Because the day is probably coming where Jack decides her bassinet is the best place to nap, or Emmy decides that "Gee, that cat food looks mighty tasty", and that could be ugly.

So I’ll do what I can to ensure their lifetime of friendship. I’ll just have to teach Little Baby Emmy how to give Jack his nightly treats, and to let him in & out as much as he wants, and everyone will get along fine.

And maybe I’ll have to give him some time in the spotlight, too. Just keep him away from the staircase.

OMG! Girl Power Returns!

There have been a lot of decent band reunions this year - The Police, Genesis, you name it.

Then there are these five chicks:

I love to joke about The Spice Girls, because when Miss Katie was young, she was convinced that she'd be loving TSG forever! Har har har - That pre-teen crush didn't last two summers, although she did see them in concert. (Fortunately, I didn't have to go. God must've been smiling on me that day.)

So the Girls are back, looking a whole lot different these days. Scary straightened her hair, Baby grew up some, Sporty decided that lesbian-chic really wasn't the best look for her, Ginger has done good things for children's charities, and Posh?

Well, Posh has done it all. New nose, new hair, new inflatables, new fake-bake tan, new country... She's practically a brand new woman. Who still can't sing worth a crap.

But none of that matters - Girl Power lives. Whoo-hoo, I suppose.

And hey -- at least it's not the Bay City Rollers coming back...

Stacey and Clinton Would Beat Me Down!

I will fully admit that I’m not the most fashionable guy in the world.

I won’t pay $100 for a pair of jeans, and I don’t have a running tab at the dry cleaners for my cashmere. In fact, a large majority of my clothing comes right off the shelf at your nearest Mart-Mart or Penney’s store. Why, the most expensive piece of clothing I own is my leather Disneyland jacket, which I think was about $200.00. After that, who knows?

But for the most part I can generally dress myself and still be able to be seen without being publicly humiliated and/or mocked for my crappy attire.

But not today.

You see, today I am unfortunately saddled in the following attire:

* Orange short sleeve shirt
* Black pants
* Brown socks & shoes.

Ick. Add a pair of pink socks and a green tie, and I could star in the center ring for Ringling Brothers.

I have a good excuse, though. It was dark this morning at 4:30 when I grabbed my clothes out of the closet. I grabbed my pants, put my shirt over them on the hanger, then threw my shoes into my gym bag. Off I went to exercise, destined to not return home until after work this evening.

Only thing is – I thought I had my brown pants, not the black ones. (Remember - it was dark out, and I was still mostly asleep, despite my ability to stand up.)

So there I was at the gym, chatting it up with Naked Klaus, about to get dressed. I’d completed my cardio for an hour, I’d squeaked out a victory over the Lovely Mrs. G. in “PIGGY”, and I’d stood for 10 minutes in a mostly cold shower, trying to cool down. Now, it was time to get dressed.

I took my shirt off the hanger, and that’s when I realized my tremendously tragic trouser faux pas. SHIT!

I didn’t have any other clothes with me (except for my exceptionally sweaty gym clothes and my swimsuit), so I really didn’t have any other choice. I had to wear the orange/black/brown combination.

Somewhere out there Calvin Klein is having a stroke about now...

It’s doubly bad, because unless it’s October 31, I purposely avoid wearing the orange shirt/black pants combination anyway. It’s perfect for Tricks and Treats, but on an everyday basis? It’s just bad. (Plus, people keep trying to open my lid, looking for a mini Snickers bar.)

So I’m doing the only three things I really can at times like this:

1) I’m laying low, hoping nobody notices and/or makes gagging noises.

2) I’m sending apology letters to Tommy Hilfiger, Georgio Armani, Beau Brummel, and the fashion dude from “Queer Eye” as soon as I finish this post.

3) I’m hereby vowing to pay better attention when hitting up the closet oh so early in the morning.

Still, some might think I’m actually a trendsetter. I mean, I’ve seen some of the dumb things guys have worn on runways, all in the name of fashion. Can I possibly be that far off from being The Next Big Thing?

Why, yes. Yes I could.

The Year of the King

Yesterday was my 42nd birthday. It was a banner day all around, and a perfect end to 10 days of food, fun, and celebrations. In the last 10 days we’ve celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary, Father’s Day, the Lovely Mrs. G.’s 42nd birthday, and then mine. Add to that two baby showers for Little Miss Emmy, and you’ve got one family that’s partied out for a little while.

Regardless, we had fun at Casa De Gressel. I got some really cool stuff from my family, and we ate an “ass load of pizza”. (Mrs. G. had special ordered pizzas from Geno’s East in Chicago for me – Mmmm, mmmm, good – pizza via FedEx!!!) Then, the fireflies came out and lit up the backyard in their annual lightshow. I’m telling you – it really doesn’t get better than that.

So now I’m 42. I call it my “Elvis Year”, because The King was 42 when he kicked the bucket and went to the Great Graceland in the Sky. So the way I figure it, if I can make it through the next 365 days intact, then I’m doing all right for myself. Of course, since I’m not hopped up on goofballs like the King was, I’m already a lap ahead.

I really don’t mind being 42. I’m past the point where anyone is going to card me for buying alcohol (the gray hair and face full o’ wrinkles is a pretty good sign), and people now call me “Sir” sincerely, and not with that snotty attitude that they give twentysomethings. I’m 42, a grandfather, and a little round in the middle, but it’s okay. I’m still young on the inside, and that’s what counts.

I’m a firm believer that you’re only as old as you let yourself be. I don’t know if I’ll perpetually be 12 years old, but for now, it seems to work out. The kid in me seems to enjoy it.

So if today is your birthday, then best wishes. And if not, well then a Very Merry Unbirthday to You!

Elvis would’ve wanted it that way.

10 Years!

Today the Lovely Mrs. G. and I are celebrating our 10th anniversary. Awww.

It was 10 years ago today that we were officially, formally, and (mostly) legally married in her parent’s backyard, overlooking the lovely views of the river in western Montana.

Clarification: I say “mostly legally” because we had signed the paperwork two days earlier, and according to Montana Rules, the day you sign is the day you’re legally married. So according to the Book of Hoyle, we were legally married on June 12, but our ceremony was on June 14.

Tomato, To-mah-to, we’re still happily married. Does it really matter?

10 years. Wow. In many ways it feels like it’s only been a few weeks; in others, it feels like it’s been a lifetime. I’ve known Mrs. G. for 21 years, which is half of my life at this point, so maybe that has something to do with it.

We had a fabulously cool wedding – food, fireworks, music, and lots of cake. About 150 people were there, including friends, family, and a few stragglers that we had no idea who they were. It was a pretty basic wedding – a quick ceremony in the backyard, a really good lunch, a few photos, lots of beverages, and dancing until dark. Then the fireworks came out, and we celebrated in pure “Love American Style” format. Who could ask for anything more? Oh, maybe another slice of that Mickey Mouse groom’s cake, but that’d just be greedy of me.

And now here we are, 10 years on, still dancing on clouds. I’m a lucky guy; I’ll admit it proudly and loudly. We rarely have “our moments”, but for the most part we get along swimmingly. Mrs. G. takes good care of me, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.

So here’s to you, Mrs. G. Ol’ Tommy loves you very much. Here’s to another 40 years – I’m looking forward to that Golden cake.

Winners Are Losers Who Got Up And Gave It Just One More Try...

I lost a game this morning.

It’s important to mention this because I am one of the most competitive people in the world. Put me into a game or a contest, and I play to win, every time.

It’s bad, but I can’t help it. I’ve always played to win – I don’t know how to throw a game. My poor little granddaughter is in for a world of disappointment when Poppy whomps her at Candyland in a few years.

But this morning I lost a game. And I’m still a little bitter about it.

You see, The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have a lot in common: We are both brutally competitive, and we’re both overly stubborn. We’ve been tracking our miniature golf scores for the last 11 years (she’s waaaay ahead of me in the number of victories, a fact I don’t like to acknowledge that often), and every morning at the gym we play a game of basketball – “PIGGY”, instead of the traditional “HORSE”. We’re fiercely cutthroat at everything we play, from sports to board games to...

...The Toothpaste Game. This is the one I lost today.

The rules of the Toothpaste Game are simple: Be the last one to get anything out of the tube of toothpaste. You then leave the bone-dry tube for the next opponent to try to squeeze anything out. If you can’t get a dose of Colgate out of it, and you’re forced to go get a new tube out of the linen closet, you lose.

Mrs. G. and I are both very good at this game. We’ll squeeze, fold, flatten, and otherwise mutilate that toothpaste tube for a good week or two, just so we don’t have to be the loser who has to admit defeat and go get a new one. You’d think we were the largest tightwads of the face of the planet if you were to see how little toothpaste is actually left in one of our empty tubes when we finally throw it out. It’s equally impressive and a little bit frightening at the same time.
So this morning, after a full week of squeezing and folding the tube into all sorts of origami-like shapes, in a desperate effort to get blood from a stone (or whitening gel from a tube, whatever the metaphor may be), I finally surrendered and took one for the team.

Yes, I lost the toothpaste game. Mrs. G. has all the rights and privileges of a full days gloating ahead of her. She’s the victor, and I have to publicly give her the props that she so richly deserves.

There.

As for me, I’ll go lick my wounds and wait a month or so for the new tube to be down to the dregs. And then the challenge will be back on. But until then, I’ll have to simply accept the reality that I did not win this time around. Sniff.

Oh, well. At least I won’t have any cavities to slow me down.

An Anniversary of Sorts

With all of the hustle and nuttiness of the past couple of weeks, I totally forgot to post a special anniversary blog last Friday. Why, it was on June 8 two years ago that I started this cleverly original B.S. machine known as “I’ll Grow Old But I Won’t Grow Up.” Ta da!

I’m actually amazed that I’m still at it, to be honest with you. With the exception of my lifelong Disney craze, I tend to get bored with hobbies fairly quickly. But it’s been fun to write, and even more fun to look and re-read what it was that was on my mind oh so long ago.

I could do one of those columns where the writers starts with “Boy, if you told me two years ago that I’d be...”, but why bother? “Keep Moving Forward”, as we learned from Meet The Robinsons. I can’t tell you where I’ll be two years from now, other than crossing my fingers and telling you that I sure as hell hope it isn’t Sioux City, Iowa.

I started this journal in 2005 as a way to mark my upcoming 40th birthday. Public whining, if you will. Now here I am, about to turn 42, and very glad that I’m not 30-something any longer. I’m actually enjoying my 40s; I guess we’ll see how long that lasts. The Lovely Mrs. G. tells me that I’m “aging gracefully”, although she does love to point out (and laugh hysterically) that I’m getting old man hair growing out of my ears. (I don’t believe her, though. Can anyone loan me a good mirror?)

So here I am – two years older, and hopefully a little wiser. I’m now a grandfather, something I never suspected I would be when I first logged on. I’m still stuck in the Midwest, but that dream I first posted way back when about moving far, far away still lives. Oh, sure – it may take a little bit longer than I anticipated, but the fire still burns. And hopefully I’m still a decent guy, full of wit, sarcasm, and huge buckets of charm. And modest, too.

So there you have it – two years of blogging. Thanks for stopping by to read my 350+ posts, and thanks for not mocking my ear hair. Ewwww.