Emergency equipment

Parenting is much more an art form than a science. It's open to different styles, various interpretations and has different value depending on who's doing it.

But I think I'm safe in saying the one thing all parenting has in common is it's gonna cost ya.

Both of my kids have gone to out-of-state colleges, one in Texas and one in Iowa. Don't ask. Anyway the one in Texas transferred back here after his freshman year, but he still has a little gift I gave him when he first moved out.

The emergency credit card. They both have one.

It's the peace of mind card, the one that let's them take a cab home when they find themselves outside a club in the senseless murder district at midnight. The one that says use me at urgent care to stop the bleeding, or get antibiotics for the sinus infection. It's the airline ticket if they have to come home in a hurry.

Yes it's the credit card I gave them to be used in emergencies, but I now realize the other thing I should've given them is a long lecture on exactly what constitutes an emergency.

Buying posters from artists you like, new shoes, that cute sweater—you know the one, sushi because it's the best sushi place in Iowa (how many can there be?) are all examples of non-emergencies.

Yet every once in awhile, I put on my little green visor, open up the inter webs and go through the "emergency" charges my darling offspring have made. And almost every time, one or two of them will spring out at me like a Jack In The Box, or a coiled rattler.

That sound you hear is my wallet screaming.

I don't want to make it seem like they're on wild spending sprees with my money. They're not. For the most part, they let me know when they're buying something on the card, or they ask if they can.

But as any parent will tell you, it doesn't matter how old your kids get—they're always testing you and seeing how far they can push it.

And sometimes that means re-zoning the borders of Emergencytown right up against Retailville.

The goodbye girl

Here's the thing about having a daughter who goes to an out-of-state college. It is a constant, seemingly never-ending series of goodbyes.

And I'm not going to lie to you. I hate it.

I first wrote about this when my son decided to go to UT Austin for his freshman year. As anyone who ships their kids away to school knows, it's heartbreak on a schedule.

I moved her in to her dorm in Iowa and then said goodbye as I left my baby girl behind. She was a mess. Fortunately I was the tower of strength my children have always known me to be. In other words I managed not to start crying like a baby until we were in the car and heading towards the airport—in South Dakota. Don't get me started.

I fly her home for a quick Thanksgiving, then a short four days later we're saying goodbye. She comes back for Christmas break. We have a great three and a half weeks, celebrate the new year and then we're saying goodbye again.

The next goodbye is scheduled for Easter break in March. Maybe I'll be able to ramp up for it.

I suppose the goodbyes would be easier if she were going to school in state. She'd be away from home, far enough away from us, but not sixteen-hundred miles, two plane rides and a three-hour drive away.

What can I tell you? I love my girly. And while I love that she's growing into an independent, educated, wickedly funny young woman who can belch for forty-five seconds straight (it's a skill), I hate that she's doing it in Iowa.

So until March, we'll be burning up Facetime, which is the next best thing to being with her.

It'd be unfair, selfish and manipulative for me to try to sway her into coming back by playing on her emotions and trying to bribe her.

That's why I'm not saying anything about how much her grandmother and her dogs miss her. How she'd have her car here, you know, the one we'll be painting for her. And how'd she'd probably have a big increase in her allowance and credit card spending.

It wouldn't be fair. So let me just say, have fun back at school baby. Make the most of every minute—this will be one of the big adventures of your life. And take full advantage of all the variety, options and diversity that Iowa has to offer.

Corn on the cob. Corn chowder. Corn muffins. Corn casserole. Corn pudding. Corn salsa.

Shop talk

On the list of things I don’t like to do, somewhere between going to the gym, cleaning up after the dog and watching QVC, is shopping for clothes. Maybe if I was 60 lbs. thinner, could rip out a page from GQ, walk into the men’s department at Nordstrom, point at it and say, “I want that.” I’d like it a lot more.

But I’m not. I can’t. So I don’t.

Having said that, what I do love is shopping with my daughter.

She definitely doesn’t fall far from my side of the tree when it comes to sharing the same philosophy about hitting stores at the mall. Get in, get out and no one gets hurt.

We both appreciate the true fact that you can shop and shop all day long, but eventually you have to make a decision and buy something. For us, eventually comes sooner rather than later.

Neither of us has any desire to spend time in each section looking at every. single. item.. Instead we quickly find what we like, try it on, and if it fits it’s a thumbs up. If it doesn’t we move on.

Together we’re like Secret Service agents of department store shoppers – we don’t focus in on everything individually. Instead, we take in the big picture, scanning the floor looking for items that grab our interest, then we move in. We also don’t have those little wrist walkie-talkies, but I think they’d be cool.

We don’t see the point in making an entire day of looking for a shirt, a blouse or a pair of pants. There are things to do, people to see and only so many hours in a day to get it all done. Streamlining the process helps make it all possible.

There’s also another thing my daughter and I have in common when it comes to shopping.

We both like to use my credit card.

Gimme shelter, or not

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

Getting educated about college

It's been one day since the son got accepted to a prestigious out-of-state college, one that's a shining blue spot in a big red state. I'm not naming names.

But it has a tower. A Longhorn steer. And a bass drum named Big Bertha.

Along with his out-of-state college comes the out-of-state tuition, which is four times what it would be if he were an in-state resident.

I was expecting the hefty tuition tab. What I wasn't expecting, or at least didn't figure into the worksheet (as if I did a worksheet) was the travel expenses. For us going there, and for him coming home.

Since yesterday, we've already fired up the credit cards and racked up a few thousand in airline tickets and hotel reservations for Family Orientation. Then there's getting him settled in when he leaves for the school in August. Another parents of freshman get together in October. And then we have to bring him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas (we figure the guy we've rented his room to will be already be gone for the holidays).

The other thing all this "education" means is, since he starts in August, our annual vacation to the Hotel Del Coronado will not be happening for the first time in fifteen years. Instead, we'll be holed up in a room at the Doubletree Hotel, enjoying the chocolate chip cookies they give us on check in, and buying him everything he needs for his microscopic-sized room at the university.

And when I'm not doing that, I'll be complaining about not being at the Del.

In those rare moments I can get past how much this is all going to cost, I forget about the fact since young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the top film schools in the country, I'll have to work writing banner ads and manifestos until I'm ninety.

But that's overshadowed by the enormous pride I have for my boy in going after his dream, getting in the school he wanted and having a clear vision of the path he wants to take. Even though because he's so talented in so many ways, there are a wide variety of paths open to him.

Besides, credit card applications are like buses. There's always another one coming along.

Pay as you go

When it comes to credit cards, I like to know I'm at least getting a little reward for my completely undisciplined spending. That's why I have two airline affinity cards I use to help me rack up the miles.

Funny thing about credit card companies - they expect you to pay them. I know, right?

Sometimes, as any freelancer will tell you, the bills get there before the checks do. The cash flow isn't always as prompt as you'd like it to be. It's not that it's not there, it's just not there right now.

A few months ago, I managed to run up one of my cards to a healthy sum. It fact, at that point in time, it was a healthier sum than I had coming in.

Eventually I paid it off, but I'm not a guy who likes to have debt. I'm not comfortable with it, never have been. I used to pay my phone and electric bills a year in advance just so I wouldn't have to think about them (I also used to spend my rent money at the track, but I don't do that anymore either - long story).

Now before you say it, don't say it. I know I could've invested that money instead of letting the phone and power company earn interest on it. But to me, my peace of mind and retaining the ability to breathe knowing those bills were paid was a good investment.

Anyway, as a result of having run up that card - little suckers just sneak up on you don't they? - I now do something I've never done. I pay as I go.

At the end of every day, I go on the credit card site and see how much I've charged. Then I transfer money from my checking account to cover the daily balance. With a keystroke, I'm current on the card.

It also helps because knowing how much is in my checking keeps a tighter rein on my spending since I know I'll have to cover it the next night. At least that's the theory.

But with 467,000 frequent flyer miles, I'm not sure how well it's working.