Page 10 June 2013 By Greg A Bruns [Greg is on a writing assignment until this fall. This column is one of his personal favorites from the June 2008 edition.] There’s something so regal about Father’s Day now that I’m a dad. It’s a navy blue / forest green / red stripe down the middle with gold embossing on the sides kind-of holiday. It’s whiskey in a Riedel, Cuban cigars on the patio and horse racing at Santa Anita Park in July. For a single day (or morning, in some cases), dads can walk about with a con fi dent swagger, like 007 when he rolls up to a casino in Monaco. His aura broadcasting the message quite clearly: yes, this is my Hong Kong tailored tuxedo. Yes, I am the most lethal man in this room; yes, I am playing high stakes baccarat; yes, shaken – not stirred. This time I’m going to have to put my Bond emulation into suspension until next year, though. Oh, I might be able to sneak some secret agent breakfast out of the deal, but right now there’s just too much going on, so holidays are sort of like tissues around our house right now: cherished and useful for just a moment, and then utterly abhorred and discarded. See, the missus and I are always looking to inject the maximum amount of volatile stress into our lives. We fi gured since we’ve got another baby coming in a month, this would be an ideal time to engage in a complete remodel of our house. You know the type: haul a dumpster the size of the house into the front yard, then scratch everything out of your checking account as the project completion date gets booted incrementally from Labor Day to Christmas. So we moved out of the house and headed down the road a bit. Nothing says ‘howdy neighbor’ better than a loud marital “discussion” in the front yard of the new home. Throw in vision of my wife hauling boxes out of the car in her distended belly state, and our three-year- old trying to coax the neighbor’s cat out of the bushes with a wif fl e ball bat and you’ve got a clear picture of a recent Saturday at our place. That afternoon, Hambone (our son’s name for the purposes of this column) and I left to give the missus a well-deserved break. She’s carrying another boy, and I’m starting to wonder if she knows what she’s in for. She grew up with three brothers, so she might have some idea of what’s coming, but soon she will be the last Mohican in a house full of warmongering boys. Anyway, Hambone and I went back to our home to wrap up some of the small stuff. While I was inside packing up our computer, I heard the little guy slip out the garage door. I fi gured he was going outside to take care of some personal potty business. His mother recently showed him the caveman method of going to the bathroom, so going inside to use the facilities is only achieved with the threat of a spanking or the reward of a popsicle. Which one it will be is completely determined by me, and that is about the limit of my authority around the house. A few minutes later, Hambone appeared in the doorway with a mischievous grin on his face that made me think this is just the beginning of what will likely be another sixteen years of neighborly apologies, tiresome and repetitive explanations about behavior and overall hair-extracting worry. I could only muster “What?” to his look, so he delivered the punchline. “I just pooped in the grass, Daddy,” he said with a snicker. So we headed outside to check it out and – sure enough – out in the grass lay a little boy turd. It was kind of funny at fi rst, and I think he knew it, because even though I was scolding him he had this sort of fraternal smile of acknowledgement that read: Yeah, I know you have to say this is bad. I know you have to do the dad thing, but boy, that’s funny! Just look at that thing – that’s funny! When I fi rst learned of Hambone’s newfound ability to urinate outside, I mentioned something to the missus along the lines of, “I’m sure this will work out well for everyone—especially in the long run.” I chalk up the ‘world is my toilet’ to a mantra that trailer park kids would adopt. I fi gured it was only a matter of time until there would be some Trailer Park Shenanigans going on around the Bruns household. That makes this our fi rst of fi cial TPS report. It’s quite a contrast from slugging martinis in Monaco but I suppose every life needs some balance. Greg can be reached via e-mail: greg@arcadianews.com. This is why the most valuable resource I give to landlords and tenants in the courtroom is called the Arizona Residential Landlord and Tenant Act . Easily found on the Web, it is a booklet of all the laws and statutes landlords and tenants must abide by. Failure of individuals to understand the law and their rights as either landlord or tenant is an unfortunate mistake I see all too often. I tell people nearly every day in court, “You have rights, but it’s your job to know them.” Steven Sarkis is the justice of peace for Arcadia Biltmore Justice Court. Sarkis Continued from page 8 arcadiadaily.com arcadiadaily.com Consider the past 4 years. Is your portfolio ready for what’s next? LivingWellMadeSimple.com eSimple.com rtfolio what’s

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