My Life: The Sitcom

By Chadd Allan Wheat

Welcome to My Life: The Sitcom, featuring the panderings and ponderings of Yours Truly, Chadd Wheat.

 

Believe it or not, many of you have actually asked for this book. I don't know if you intend on using it for the bottom of the birdcage, evidence in impending legal actions, or simply as a guide to living frivolously. Whatever the case, I hope you enjoy it.

 

I started writing My Life: The Sitcom in 2002. Most of my articles, as published in The Lebanon Reporter and elsewhere, are my direct observations on the craziness that surrounds my life. Nearly all the events contained herein are actually true, with the names sometimes changed to protect the ignorant.

 

People often ask me where I get the inspiration to write my ludicrous columns. After rubbing my chin and looking sage, I usually say something like, "by consuming too much reality television, caffeine and other borderline hallucinogens.

 

Ha, ha! Just kidding, local law enforcement! As a matter of fact, I never watch reality television!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Osprey House Books
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223121671

Chadd Allan Wheat

Chadd Allan Wheat was born and raised sailing the cornfield oceans of Indiana. He now lives in Venice, Florida, with his wife and corpulent gray cat that is often mistaken for a manatee. He attended Purdue University and has a degree in Military History. His writings have appeared in numerous newspapers, magazines, and anthology books. His hobbies are reading historical fiction, fishing, traveling the Caribbean, and watching college football. The Weasel Cay Chronicles is his first full-length novel.

Book preview

My Life Is a Sitcom

I HAVE DETERMINED THAT I am living in a television situation comedy. Most people who already know me would say that this is no great revelation, but it’s news to me. (I mean, sure, I always pictured my life as an action/adventure with comedic overtones, but not a true comedy.)

It all started back during a recent November when my wife’s sister and husband sold their house. They’re building a nice new home in Avon, Indiana for their budding family, and construction was slated to be finished sometime in late February. By a stroke of fortune (good or bad—who can say?) they quickly sold their former house, thus relieving much of the stress of the move. Of course, this left them in a quandary: they would be without a home for nearly three months. For them, this lead to instant nightmares about living with either set of in-laws or renting a short-term apartment.

Thus, in a pure gesture of Christian fellowship and family love, my wife offered to let them move in with us for a few months. (I don’t recall endorsing the idea, but I’m firmly assured that I did.) My wife’s sister and her husband discussed the idea and decided to become our houseguests.

Of course, most of my guy friends predicted doom from the outset, but I was more confident. I adore my wife’s sister, her husband is a laid-back and great guy, and their daughters are cute as the proverbial buttons.   But that’s when my life became a sitcom.

Don’t get me wrong: we all get along swimmingly. My wife and her sister have always been best friends (except during high school when they tried to beat each other on a regular basis). But the sheer chaos that goes with having eight people and an insolent housecat living under one roof can be stressful.

Let’s start with the increase of noise and activity level. My house used to be a fairly quiet place.  It was nice to come home after a hectic day at work, take my shoes off, enjoy a nice dinner with the family, and relax.   Now it’s like a combination daycare center and amusement park. As soon as I enter the home (after being greeted by a chorus of cheers and hugs, which I don’t mind at all) it’s like I’ve wandered into a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday afternoon. Sheer, utter, loud chaos. The kids are so thrilled to have their cousins as live-in guests that they play constantly. That’s why both sets of parents now call the period between 8pm and 9pm Happy Hour because that’s when the kids get bedded down for the night.

My kitchen has now been transformed into a 24-hour diner. With four adults, two youngsters, two babies, and the aforementioned cat, there are always dirty dishes in the sink and something cooking on the stove. Sometimes we all throw in for one large dinner together when our schedules allow. Other times, my guests may serve one dinner, me another when I get home, and my wife a third dinner when she arrives home. By the time the third dinner of the evening is served, it’s time to prepare bedtime snacks. (We now go through enough milk that I’m considering buying a small cow or perhaps a goat.)

You would think that with all this cooking going on, I’d be able to score a decent breakfast in the morning. I can go through the kitchen and say, two eggs, sunny side, on a shingle, coffee black. Of course, my wife and sister-in-law will both put a hand on their hip as I’m handed a toaster pastry. The basic rule is: if you don’t help cook it, you don’t help eat it. Toaster pastries will do fine for me.

I’ve also mastered a maneuver that I call the four-yard naked dash. Since my wife and I are now staying in our guest room, we use the guest bathroom in the mornings. Since I never wear a bathrobe and never have the foresight to bring my change of clothes into the bathroom with me, I’m getting used to a sprint in the buff every morning from bathroom to bedroom. It’s quite exhilarating, I assure you. And excellent cardio.

But overall – believe it or not – it’s been a fun experience. Just like in a real sitcom, my wife and I usually end the day giggling about the hijinks that occur during a normal day. Like naked babies chasing the cat through the kitchen. Or a naked cat chasing babies through the kitchen.

Eight is definitely company.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This was the original article that started my career as a professional writer. It appeared in The Lebanon Reporter (Indiana) and in the book Chicken Soup for the Sister’s Soul.]

There's A Chili in the Air

AS LOYAL (AND DISLOYAL) readers know, I've already pointed out that Fall is my favorite time of the year. I get simply giddy when I think about the beautiful foliage, warm days, crisp evenings, and the wonderful tradition of the only true great American sport (football). But it's also my favorite time of year to demonstrate my kitchen prowess by making some of my favorite dishes.

I could go on and on for hours about my culinary repertoire which features an eclectic variety ranging from gumbos and jambalayas to barbeque and chicken wings and on to some mysterious Wheat family secret recipes like Cabin Burgers and Famous Cheeseburgers. But today's focus will remain on one of my favorite Fall creations: chili.

There are lots of chili experts in the world. Some argue about various incarnations of the dish: just meat, with or without beans, with spaghetti, with macaroni (the so-called and oft-maligned Hoosier Chili), and with more variations of spice than can be listed.

Since I also make chili in a variety of forms, I don't feel bad about sharing any of my secret recipes. After all, my recipes change from one day to the next and only go to serve as guidelines to the cook.

Before we start, I feel it necessary to issue a warning and a disclaimer: my chilis range from mildly amusing affairs to concoctions that can lead to night terrors. Use at your own risk.

First, you must gather some items that you will need: a big kettle; two cans of generic pre-spiced chili beans; one fresh tomato; salt and black pepper; one not-so-fresh tomato ; one dried chili pepper; one large can of tomato juice; one jar of hot salsa(for character and texture); a wooden spoon; a burn kit; a welder's mask; one pound of ground round beef; a jar of ground chili powder; a can of beer; a bottle of original Tabasco brand hot sauce; and a Bible, just in case.

Secondly, especially for males cooking at home, it's important to make sure that your family (especially children) aren't at home during the cooking process. And it’s probably a good idea to have one of your pets bear witness to your greatness. Not only will you save them from lots of emotional stress, but it'll give you a chance to clean up any spills, burns, or other collateral damage.

Now on to the cooking. First brown the hamburger, continually stirring and mixing it so that it's in a delicate, crumbly, juicy state. Mix in salt, black pepper, and a wee bit of chili powder to taste. Be sure to sample the meat with the wooden spoon. When it's properly browned, remove it from the skillet and proclaim Mmmm, mmmm! to yourself while waving the wooden spoon in the air and placing a hand on your hip.

Place the meat in the kettle and turn the heat on medium. Pour the tomato juice, beans, and salsa into the kettle. Take the wooden spoon and stir the concoction while wildly cackling. If you have a small pet in the kitchen with you, refer to him as your assistant, Dr. Horatio.

Dice up the fresh tomato and drop the whole thing into the pot. Take the not-so-fresh tomato and heave it out the back door. Drop in the dried chili pepper after removing the stem. Also pour about half a can of beer into the pot and stir. (Dispose of the other half of the can as you see fit.) This is when the chili truly earns its flavor and nuances. You can't cook it in an hour – it must simmer much of the day. While you wait, watch a football game and continue to stir the pot. (Also don't forget to let Dr. Horatio outside to potty if needed.)

Make sure to monitor your creation throughout the afternoon by tasting it with the wooden spoon. Add the Tabasco and other seasonings to taste. Keep in mind that the best hot chili is one that sneaks up on you about three minutes after you taste it, sucker punches you, then dashes away gleefully into the night.

Before your family gets home, sample a small bowl of your creation. Ask yourself some important questions:

Does it have a good flavor?

Does it have an inviting aroma that clears both the mind and sinuses?

Is it spicy enough to make a liberal blush?

Would the Environmental Protection Agency approve of it?

Is it safe around women, children, and small animals?

Are sasquatches real?

If you can answer 3 out of these 5 questions with a resounding yes, then you have created a successful batch of chili.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is still, after almost twenty years, how I prepare chili.]

The King of Norway and Me

DURING A FOOT INJURY a couple of years ago, I noted that I am definitely no longer the king of my castle. At least not the kind of king who rules through absolute monarchy by the grace of God, meting out favor with a firm yet loving hand. I've rather more become like the King of Norway – a political figurehead.

Obviously, one aspect of having a broken foot is having to depend on others to do unto you and for you. During the early stages of my malady, when my foot was swollen to the size of an overstuffed ottoman, it was difficult to even move, let alone function normally.

Sure, I played it up for a while. I let my wife and children become my personal house servants by fetching me drinks, ice packs, medicine, remote controls, and other items to my whim. (Of course, when I needed something, I would ask in a pathetically weak voice that sounded like it was an effort merely to speak: H-h-honey... could you bring m-m-me a Diet Coke?

Friends also helped out during my convalescence by bringing over books, plants, get-well cards, and bouquets of beer (also known as guy flowers).

The experience also allowed me to recognize what pregnant women must feel like: everyone smiled at me and treated me extremely politely. People held elevators for me. Men held doors for me. Women smiled reassuringly at me. Children hugged me for no reason. Dogs and cats sniffed me lovingly. (Or maybe that was because I had bacon for breakfast.)

But since I had no choice but to rely on others for what I normally did for myself, I had lost control of my life. The situation came to a head when I decided to throw my wife a party to celebrate her receiving her master’s degree from Indiana University. (We'll place the diploma underneath her much more colorful and revered one from Purdue.)

I told my wife not to worry about any aspects of the party. The plan was all set: I marked a date, I invited several close friends, I arranged baby-sitting for the children, I