The Houghs: Rich People, Dead People, and Papa

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Rich People, Dead People, and Papa

If it's one thing Florida has, it's decent weather.

Morning commutes down here rule...

Yes, I might complain about the congestion, or the traffic, or the cost I accrue when traveling home for the holidays, or even the bizarre third-world vibe that I get while driving to work. These are all sound reasons why someone born and raised among the open fields and dense forests of central Michigan would detest living in urban sprawl. It ain't for me.

But you cannot - cannot - complain about Florida winters.

I would've been pissed...

Unless, of course, you're flying down here to visit only to find that the temperature down here is colder than the frigidness you just left behind in Michigan.

This, dear readers, is exactly what my Dad got to enjoy during this last visit of his: a brutal cold-snap that seemed to last only while he was in Orlando - settling in the morning of his arrival and vanishing the morning of his departure.

Any way you look at it, that just plain sucks.

Yes, Dad came down to visit for the weekend - just an in-and-out deal, but one that serves as a decent break from the grueling mid-winter slums that accompany this time of year. Due to the fact the weather was dismal, we didn't hit up the parks or anything like that; besides being abnormally cold, it was also windy. Grilling outdoors - which is usually a breeze - was a nightmare.

So, while we were confined to the indoors, we decided to occupy the kids as best we could - hitting up Puzzles with the kids, decorating Valentines cupcakes, and, of course, watching copious amounts of television.

Walking Dead

If I had to choose a theme for this weekend, it'd probably have to be dead people. They were everywhere, whenever you turned on the television. Being avid fans of AMC's Walking Dead, Dad and I decided that this weekend would be an excellent opportunity to barnstorm our way through the first six or seven episodes of Season II over the course of the first two nights of his visit. This is a much better approach than, say, waiting a solid week for a 48-minute, commercial-ridden, cliff-hanger.

Spartacus

That's exactly what I'm doing with Spartacus: Vengeance, and it's frustrating beyond all rational thought.

Not all walking dead people on TV try to eat the living, though. Sometimes they help present The Oscars. Yes, we sat through the Oscars.

I'm not proud of it.

Highlight of the night. Bar none.

But hell... we were out of zombies and Brett McKenzie was up for an Oscar for his Muppets work (a double-bonus for me, as I love Flight of the Conchords and the Muppets). Hell, that's like watching a movie where Indiana Jones wields a lightsaber and rides a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Did you know this guys is still alive?

Sign me up.

The glitz, the sleaze, the corn-ball speeches, and the slew of 'holy shit, they're not dead?' over the course of the three or four hour run (not sure exactly how long it was - we sure as hell didn't stay up for the end) was more than enough of a reminder for me as to why I don't usually watch crap like that in the first place.

Hopefully they have crack in Hell...

I don't know if they honor Whitney Houston every year at the Oscars or what, but I sure got tired of hearing about that ol' crackhead. Sheesh...

Anyway, Dad flew out Monday morning, and I had previously decided to take the day off in order to lesson plan and work on crap around the house (that would've otherwise taken up time during Dad's visit). I'm a big fan of three-day weekends anyway. So, while I'm hacking away at this, here's some pics and footage from Dad's visit.

Enjoy.

Dad brought some of his check-up equipment down with him, per our request, in order to better asses the girls' recent bouts of coughing...

...not sure why, really, since we already had a set here at the house. Oh well.

If she continues down the whole 'Doctor' path, maybe I can afford to be put into one of those senior communities where the old guys get to drink scotch and drive golfcarts around, prowling for hot, 74-year-olds. A man can dream...