“Haggling (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn’t want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge.”

“Quick, turn right here!” my wife shouted unexpectedly on our way home from church last Sunday.
“Where?” I replied, trying my best to comply with her ever-so-polite request.
“Right there,” she shouted, grabbing the steering wheel herself to assist me.
“Thanks for the help,” I said sarcastically. “You almost took out two mailboxes and a stop sign. There are laws against that kind of thing, you know. Plus, the kids are in the car too. Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Stop overreacting. There was nobody coming in the other lane. And besides, we merely grazed the side of that fence. You can be so dramatic sometimes. Really. Anyway, we simply had to make that turn. Didn’t you see the sign?”
“Nope. Guess I missed it paying attention to oncoming traffic,” I said, still a little rattled at her passenger-seat driving.
As I regained my composure, I realized what my dear, sweet wife was talking about. Coming up on our left-hand side was another one. The words “GARAGE SALE TODAY” were hand-written in black magic marker on a piece of white poster board. I should have known. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized our swerving vehicle had taken out the sign on the corner.
“Nice job, hon,” I said (again with heavy sarcasm). “You took out their nice homemade sign with your craziness.”
“Oh, relax,” Shannon said. “We’ll pick it up on the way back. And this will help us avoid some of the competition. At least for this yard sale.”
The competition my wife spoke of was the other people attending the sale. Her fear, of course, was that they would either beat her to the “good stuff” or eliminate her ability to barter. If another person wants the same item you do, she reasoned, the owner would be unlikely to come off their price. In the worst-case scenario, it may even turn into a bidding war. This is more like an auction and, as my wife is quick to point out, the odds shift heavily toward the “house.”
And “haggling” (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn’t want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge. Often, you can shave at least a dollar or more off your day’s booty with even a modest effort to wheel and deal. It’s very rewarding.
“You sure know an awful lot about garage sale-ing” (perfectly acceptable slang) I said, only half joking.
Truth be told, she often comes home from such escapades with a whole box full of these valuable treasures. DVDs, toys for the kids, board games, and anything else you could imagine. I must admit, she did find some pretty cool stuff at those darn things. And it’s all so cheap. But it just isn’t my cup of tea.
My one and only attempt at bargain hunting came on the way home from my brother’s house early one Saturday afternoon. Noticing a nice, brightly colored sign in an affluent neighborhood, I decided to try my luck. It was awful. My fatal flaw, as my wife later pointed out, was that I arrived way too late to find anything worthwhile. All the best stuff is usually gone by nine o’clock or so. Apparently, if you want to score a hardly used weight bench for under thirty bucks, you have to get up pretty early in the morning. Deals like that simply don’t make it past lunchtime.
“Everyone knows that,” my wife stated flatly.
Everyone, that is, except me. I had no idea the extreme these people will go to to get a good deal. For all I knew, my wife enjoyed getting up at five in the morning every weekend. I never dreamed this so-called competition really does exist. But they do. And they are relentless in their hunt for value. Some are even known to camp out all night at the bigger “neighborhood” garage sales in hopes of being the first to arrive. I guess it’s true what they say: one man’s junk truly is another man’s treasure. I think from now on I’ll leave this area to my wife’s unquestionable expertise. I just hope she leaves the driving to me.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

“Holy crap!” The words slipped out of my mouth before I had time to think.
“Holy crap?” my wife repeated back to me. “That’s what you have to say about us having another baby?”
I couldn’t help it. It’s the only thing I could muster through the shock. My mind and body had suddenly gone completely numb. Under the circumstances, I think I was doing pretty well just to maintain consciousness. This was, after all, our third child and our little girl is still just a baby as far as I’m concerned. Taking care of two is enough of a challenge. Did we really need to stack the odds against us by having a third?
“Now babe, I don’t mean to seem unsupportive. I’m just trying to absorb what this means,” I replied sympathetically.
“I know. It’s a lot to take in for me too,” my wife said calmly.
“I mean, have you considered the fact that once the new baby arrives we’ll actually be outnumbered by our children?” I continued. “How long do you think it’ll take before Cody starts using that situation to his advantage? I’m afraid we may well have unknowingly sowed the seeds of an impending civil war.”
“Why must you exaggerate everything? Cody isn’t going to start anything with us. He’s going to be the best big brother ever,” my wife stated with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.
“I have no doubt about that. But where you and I fit in the picture is still up for debate. At least we have a little time before his newfound infantry learns how to walk.”
“Yes. Thank heavens for that,” Shannon replied sarcastically. “I don’t know why you can’t drop the joking for even a minute. The pregnancy test is still in my hand, for goodness’ sake.”
“That reminds me. When I picked that up at the store for you today, I noticed the box indicated an effectiveness of over 99%,” I said inquisitively.
“That’s true, the home tests are extremely accurate nowadays,” she replied.
“Right. Then I noticed they were usually sold in packs of two. Kind of strange, don’t you think? If the manufacturer actually believes their own claim, less than one in a hundred women would need a second test. Unless, of course, the other one is included to give the mommy-to-be a head start on a new scrapbook. You didn’t happen to see any stickers fall out when you opened the box, did you?”
“You really can’t stop, can you? Just for a second I wish you’d be serious.”
The truth is, my baby factory of a wife was making a very good point. It appears there is actually a time when sarcasm may be inappropriate. Who knew? I was a word-wielding force of destruction upon learning about her first two pregnancies. But Shannon, for some reason, seemed more concerned about this one. So I backed off, at least for the moment.
“I’m just a little scared right now that’s all,” my wife said, revealing her feelings of vulnerability to me.
“I know, babe. It’s going to be an adjustment, that’s for sure. But you know, it does answer my question about what the future holds for the little tots.”
“It does?” she asked, somewhat confused.
“Sure. Think about it. We obviously have a trio of future Olympic medal winners on our hands,” I stated with the utmost confidence.
“Oh Lord, I’m afraid to ask. What on Earth do you mean by that?” Shannon said unenthusiastically.
“Let’s see. For all three babies I barely touched you. As a result, my success rate has to set some kind of record or something. That means my little swimmers must be simply amazing. Imagine what they can do when they get to the one hundred meter breaststroke!”
“Please stop talking now,” my wife said as she tried in vain to avoid my ridiculous explanation.
“Babe, you know how much Cody loves the water. I think we need to get them swimming lessons immediately. Though it looks like they don’t need any, just a few years of practice. Then it’s gold medal city, baby!”
“You are absolutely insane,” she said.
“You married me,” I replied.
“Don’t remind me,” Shannon shot back, ending our banter temporarily.
After I got the joking completely out of my system (it took a while), we settled into a nice embrace as we thought about having a new baby in our future. I’ll admit the idea is scary. There is no telling what’s in store for us around the bend. But that really isn’t much different from yesterday, is it?
So, we’re going to roll with the changes and provide the newest addition to the Basham clan with as much love and support as humanly possible. We have to do something to prevent him/her from joining Cody’s growing army of infants. He gets stronger every day. Heaven help us.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

Kyle Farnsworth is a relief pitcher for the famed New York Yankees major league baseball team. That is, until he was traded to the Tigers in a late-season move to improve their chances of making the playoffs.

At this point, anything less than another World Series championship for the Yanks would be considered a failure. So they decided it was time to make a move. Sadly, Mr. Farnsworth took the news rather hard.

I happen to have a loose personal connection to this particular ballplayer. I went to high school with his older brother. And as luck would have it, he also attended my alma mater (I never graduated college) with my younger brother and cousins. They say he was a bit of a jerk back then. He was apparently very conceited about his athletic ability, especially after getting drafted into the Bigs.

So it was interesting to see how fate had turned the tables on him, serving up a great big piece of humble pie.

Tuning in to the baseball highlights on ESPN (a normal occurrence around my house even though the Braves are having a rough season), I saw this grown man crying on national television. The idea of leaving seems to have hit him pretty hard. I’m not quite sure why, though. Being raised in the south myself, I could understand crying if I got traded TO the Yankees. But not if I found out I was LEAVING New York.

News like that would be cause for a celebration. “Fire up the grill honey,” I’d say. “All my rowdy friends are coming over tonight. Let’s make sure there’s plenty of barbecue and Budweiser for everyone.”

For the life of me I just couldn’t figure out why a home-grown Southern boy would be so upset that he’d be moved to tears over leaving the Bronx. It just doesn’t make sense. They don’t have sweet tea anywhere. And have you ever tried to stir sugar into an ice-cold glass of un-sweet tea? You end up with a swirl of what looks like sand art circling the bottom of your glass. Stir some more, more swirling. Nothing dissolves. It just doesn’t work.

I also bet you can’t find a Waffle House up there to save your life. How anybody can survive without scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns is beyond me.

Or maybe Mr. Farnsworth just never got the memo about crying in baseball. Last time I checked it wasn’t a co-ed sport. He might be more comfortable playing softball instead.

On second thought, those young gals are pretty tough too. Quitting baseball altogether and taking up a hobby may be the best thing for this tortured soul. Perhaps he can find inner peace and happiness with a crochet needle in his hand. I hear it’s making a comeback.

Poor thing. I hope his buddies have the good sense to revoke his man card temporarily until he gets his head together.

Truth be told, Kyle is actually a very tough guy. He is always getting into fights on the diamond and, as a result, is the last guy I’d have ever thought would be crying on television. Punching someone, yes. Crying, no. But it is nice to see that he’s human after all.

And although I’m giving him some ribbing here, there’s no doubt in my mind he is a macho kind of dude. In all seriousness, he is just as entitled to an emotional moment as the rest of us. His just happened to be broadcast for the world to see.

All of this nonsense got me thinking. As men we are taught we aren’t supposed to cry. At least that’s what my father taught me. “You gotta be tough to make it in this world,” he’d say. And to some extent he was right. However, there are a few occasions I have found when it’s perfectly acceptable for a grown man to cry. To avoid any further confusion (and potential embarrassment), I have listed them below as a quick reference guide the next time you guys get the urge to tear up.

Death of a loved one—this can also include animals, but is limited to pets you have owned for more than a year. Also, rodents being held captive against their will (hamsters, gerbils, etc.) do not count.

Spiritual experiences—to be clear, a trip to Disney or the state fair is not considered spiritual. Eating the best barbecue sandwich you’ve ever had, however, will earn you the right to a sniffle or two.

Sustaining a broken bone—a much different cry than the others, any extreme pain can result in tears streaming down a man’s face. These are not emotionally driven, however, and a strict time limit is in place to preserve his dignity.

Birth of a child—a new baby coming into the world is an emotional experience. When this happens in your family there is little doubt a tear or two will come to your eye. This is perfectly acceptable and does nothing to diminish your manhood in the slightest. But this does not mean you can sit around watching the birthing channel all day with a box of Kleenex. In that case I would recommend you seek therapy immediately.

Getting kicked in the gonads—this one goes without saying. Receiving a swift shot to this region of the body will bring anyone to their knees. In fact, it’s actually how the expression, “That’s enough to make a grown man cry,” originated. Some poor guy got kicked in the pants and voilà, a new expression was born.

So you see, grown men do cry. Sometimes. It just isn’t in our nature to turn on the faucet at the drop of the hat. Well, not all of us anyway. I guess some guys are just more in touch with their feminine side than others. But that doesn’t make them bad people. It just makes them sissies. And that’s perfectly fine by me. Let’s just keep it out of baseball from now on, shall we?

* * *

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

It’s not every day a guy gets to talk to an old friend he hasn’t heard from in over fifteen years. At least it didn’t used to be. I guess Facebook is changing that pretty quickly. It probably won’t be long before people never even lose touch in the first place. But for me, Internet or not, it’s still a pretty great day when something like this occurs. And that’s exactly what happened to me this afternoon.

Through a strange online version of the Kevin Bacon game, my old high school buddy Luis found me on this gigantic social network. Now I already knew Facebook was huge. But I had no idea just how huge. It turns out that my old friend relocated to Colombia some fifteen years ago and has been living there ever since. I realize that’s not exactly a stone’s throw from Georgia, but at least it’s still within driving distance. So it can’t be all that bad. Besides, I’ve heard South Carolina is a beautiful state.

After a few quick digital exchanges, I came to understand that my pal had actually left the United States completely. Right after graduation he packed up his stuff and took off for the cocaine-exporting capital of the world (as I remember he was incredibly ambitious). It seems “The Colombian Connection,” as we called him jokingly back in school, was finally earning his reputation.

If this had taken place say, a generation ago, there is very little chance we would have ever been reunited. But now thanks to Facebook (and of course Al Gore—father of the Internet), it appeared our destinies were intertwined once again. Believe it or not, he didn’t stumble onto the website during a weekend excursion back to the States. It seems the image on their homepage depicting the entire world being connected wasn’t such a stretch after all. After speaking with Luis further I came to realize that Colombia is a much nicer place than we tend to give it credit for.

“So why in the world did you ever leave the South, man?” I asked him, wondering why anyone would do such a thing.

“Might want to check your map, buddy. I’m a bit farther south than you are,” he replied.

“You know what I mean,” I said, determined to get to the bottom of this perplexing mystery.

“Well, I must admit I do sometimes miss that good ol’ Southern cooking. Your mom made a mean raccoon meatloaf,” he replied, reminiscently.

“I know. It’s to die for.”

“But I finally just got tired of all the B.S. living stateside. Heck, I hear it’s gotten so bad up there lately that Obama is considering renaming it the B.S. of A. if it doesn’t get better soon. I hope he gets free boots as a perk for being the president. There’s no doubt he’s knee deep in you-know-what right now.”

“Yeah, I see your point.” My friend was right. Our country, the same one many in my family served for so proudly, was now on the brink of total disaster. He obviously saw this coming a long time ago and hightailed it out of here. It’s amazing, you think you know someone and never even realize they have psychic ability.

“So I moved down here. People think it’s so dangerous. But I’ve lived here for fifteen years and haven’t even been mugged once,” he said emphatically.

This was indeed something to be proud of. During that time I’ve lived in the U.S. and actually have been held at gunpoint. Granted, I don’t carry a shotgun strapped across my back for a trip to the local grocery store, but I’m not against it. There’s something to be said for preemptive measures.

Logically speaking, my buddy was making quite a case for his decision. Creeping into my own mind was the possibility of packing up the family and moving down there myself. Sure there’s the drug smuggling, blazing equatorial heat, and guerrillas waging war in the streets to contend with. But my son has been training to be a Ninja since he could walk. He just turned four and between the two of us I’m sure we could keep his mother and sister safe.

“Ya’ll got any jobs down there?” I inquired, figuring even if Shannon wouldn’t make the move I might still be able to commute somehow.

“A few. That is, if you don’t mind packing up ‘cargo’ planes. Why, do you want to move down here or something?”

Then I remembered. My dang red hair was a problem. Not the hair itself but rather the pasty white complexion that comes with it. I get a third-degree burn from mowing the grass with my shirt off. There’s no way I could handle Columbia.

“It did cross my mind. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s just not realistic. But I have to say it was great hearing from you, man.”

“Same here. If you ever change your mind, let me know. By the way, I see that you’re now doing well as a writer. Congratulations. I see that sarcasm of yours is finally paying off.”

“Well, I am a writer, but as far as the ‘doing well’ part and it ‘paying off,’ I’m still working on it. But I would love to send you a copy of the new book when it comes out.”

“That would be great! You might have to pay a pretty penny, though. Getting stuff from the States to Columbia is usually not very easy (funny how they seem to have no trouble at all getting stuff out).”

“I’ll see what I can do. It was great talking to you, Luis. Take care, buddy.”

“You too. Stay in touch.”

What a great day. I was reconnected with a long-lost friend and now have a viable option should things get worse for us here. That reminds me, I need to get a passport. I should probably ask my brother if I could borrow his jet ski. And it might be a good idea to hit the shooting range a couple times this summer. It’s better to be prepared for the worst and hope for the best, I always say.

* * *

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)