So I realize that if I had lots of time and an complete lack of need for income, I could regale you with Muppet stories pretty much every day. So if you love reading this as much as I love living it and sharing it, we can definitely strike some kind of deal. You give me money, I provide you with consistent enjoyment, amusement, hilarity, breaks from your daily grind. Just wanted to throw that out there. Run it up the proverbial flagpole and see if anyone salutes…
Anyone?
Anyone?
Buhler?
Buhler?
Ok, guess not. Well, then fine. Have it for free. But no more bitching about the quality of service on the lido deck then. And we are moving to well drinks in all the bars now. All the fine liquor will be in the captain’s quarters from now on…come to think of it, it always has been. Move along -nothing to see here.
Alright, you know something mush have happened to drag my sorry butt back to the keyboard. So let me get to it. Once a month, I have to be in K-town now to do some work. It’s a good situation, but it does take me away from Ferf and the Muppet for short stints and that part can be trying. The Muppet has been surprisingly nonplussed about it. Ferf has been fairly good about it. I have been accepting all forms of sympathy however and milking it for all it is worth - but that’s just how I roll. With the advent of such wonderful technology like Skype and internet phones I can all but touch my family while I am gone. If I could actually touch my family, or at least Ferf, while I was gone then I am pretty sure that this would quickly become a little too personal a post for most of you to read. That or I would make it a members only site and start making some real money…but I digress.
SO one morning, I got a phone call from Ferf. This is not that unusual, but normally we do our calls in the later afternoon or right before the Muppet goes to bed so we can stick with the whole bedtime ritual and routine. But this day I got a call fairly early in the morning. So I answered it (cause that is the normally accepted response to a ringing phone. In fact, it has become almost Pavlovian these days, which you would think would mean that I should be able to get my dog to answer the phone, but the best I can do is get him to run to the phone and slobber…). Anyways, I picked up the phone and seeing it was a call from m ever-lovin’ wifey, answered it. (cause with caller ID that whole Pavlovian response things is less relevant. In fact, you shouldn’t even bother trying to get your dog to answer the phone. If you could get him to read the screen and tell you who was calling however, that would be a neat trick and could probably score you an appearance on David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks. Unless he was busy destroying his show by sleeping with people who work for him. Maybe he might want to sleep with your dog…you know what. Let’s put this whole dog, phone, David Letterman affair behind us shall we. It leads to dark, awkward places.)
So, lets go back to the beginning. The phone rang, I saw it was Ferf and I answered it. See, that wasn’t so hard was it. There is absolutely no reason to go delving into things like dead Russian psychologists and whether or not David Letterman has a predilection towards bestiality. Why do you people do this!?
SO I answer the phone with out a single thought outside of answering the phone…and Ferf tells me that the Muppet doesn’t think she should go to school that day. Now, understand that this is a HUGE thing. The Muppet likes school. In fact, the Muppet loves school. She’s a role model for goodness sake! She loves the kids, the teachers, the uniforms - she loves it all. So her not wanting to go is well, huge. So she gets on the phone with me. And I ask her how she’s doing the fine morning. (Cause you don’t want to play into anything unwittingly.) She tells me that she is not doing well. I can tell this is going to be a bit of a drawing out process.
Me: Why are you not doing well? Isn’t today a beautiful day?
Muppet: I don’t know if today is beautiful I haven’t seen it yet. And I probably shouldn’t see it.
<Now, to be fair, and in the interest of full disclosure, she did have a bit of a cough - and evidently a tickle in her throat judging by the horrid sound she was making that was more than clearing one’s throat, but less than anything else I could imagine. I realized that at some point it would be my fatherly duty to teach my little princess how to “hock a loogie”. I have come to understand that this is not a practice that girl daddies normally participate in. One doesn’t see a lot of little girls all dressed up in frilly lacy pinky things spitting hocked up snot onto the sidewalk like they might see a teenage boy doing. But even if one is reviled by the concept, one must admit that said teenage boy had to have been taught how to both hock and spit said loogie at some point - either through intentional tutelage or by personal practice from mimicry. However it happened, there was a definite exchange of knowledge, and as I am less inclined to allow others to teach my daughter things “on the playground” I figured that it probably fell to me to cover that particular portion of the life curriculum - mostly because I know for a fact that her mother doesn’t have the knowledge to share with her. I know this because her mother once asked me to teach her how to do it. We were already engaged, so I guess the gloves we off and she figured I had made enough of a commitment that she did not have to fret over whether or not I would call her the next day if she asked me how one does it. Being the good and kind fiancee I was, I acquiesced to her query. We were sitting in Queeny Park in Vancouver - overlooking the entirety of the place, which by the way, is gorgeous. That fact plays little part in the story, but it does help with setting and sometimes context matters. It was late morning, so we had the place pretty much to ourselves. We were sitting on a park bench that was placed with a perfect view of the city, but probably not with loogie hocking practice in mind, but hey, you cannot anticipate everything. So Ferf got the hocking part pretty quickly. (She does have a younger brother and I know for a fact that ScottyBear can bring up quite a loogie, so I assume that she learned the internal portion of the project from mimicking him.) Evidently, though, she never had really “gotten” the concept behind spitting. So there was a gap in her learning that she desired to close. I showed her a couple of times with what were, I must admit at the risk of sounding prideful, beautifully arching blobs of the perfect mixture of saliva and mucus that flew no less than 7-8 feet before impaling themselves on the blades of grass on the lawn before us. I talked at length at the importance of rolling the tongue, the science of creating an airtight seal with your lips until the last moment to achieve maximum velocity, and the art of the perfect trajectory. In fact, it might have been one of my finest off-the-cuff lesson plans. When she finally worked up the courage (and the loogie) to try, she was giddy with anticipation. We were sitting side by side and both looking forward in order that we might together view her first successful attempt so we could do an after action review of her performance. I counted it off for her….three…..two….one….GO!
The sound that emanated from her cheeks, as well as the flakes of spittle on the side of my face gave me instant informational feedback that she had indeed not made an airtight seal like we had spoken of. It was then that I felt the delicate pressure on the top my shoe. That perfect amount of pressure that only comes from a dainty loogie being deposited by gravity onto the top of your foot. I looked at her briefly before looking down to survey the carnage that was my Nike Air. I knew two things instantly. One, the girl before me who would become my ever-lovin’ wife, was not going to “get it” when it came to this activity. And two, she was getting a cold. But I digress…>
So the Muppet had a tickle in her throat that she was unsure how to scratch, but the noises she made suggested that she was not going to scratch that itch before she made anyone around her with a half decent sense of auditory awareness really uncomfortable. Also, she had a bit of a dry cough. Not quite Swine Flu, but evidently annoying enough to her to be worthy of a “I can’t go to school today” intervention.
Me: Muppet, what’s the problem? Are you sick?
Muppet: Oh yes daddy. I am SO sick.
Me: How sick are you?
Muppet: Too sick to go to school!
Me: How sick is that?
Muppet: Well daddy, I have a cough. I couldn’t sleep last night because of the cough.
Me: Baby girl, Daddy went to school lots after not sleeping all night. You can do it.
Muppet: Daddy…<sniffing like tears were beginning to well up in her puppy dog eyes> you don’t understand.
Me: What don’t I understand baby girl?
Muppet: I am exhausted and catastrophied!!!
Me:
Muppet: Daddy, did you hear me!?
Me: Ummmm, yeah. I got you there chief. Exhausted and catastrophied. That sounds bad.
Muppet: Oh it is bad Daddy. So very bad.
So Ferf let her stay home from school. The cough was not very nice and the sounds she was making would have been distracting even to the most dedicated kindergarten student. And through it all, I got a new vocabulary word. One that I am certain we have all felt at one time or another. Catastrophied. Yep, we’ve all been there baby girl…we’ve all been there.
So I picked the Muppet up from Kindergarten today. It’s a fun thing to do when I am able to. She’s always surprised that I am there, and she is always ready to talk about her day: who she sat next to at lunch (which has the possibility for endless drama on an almost daily basis), what she did at school, what she learned, who her favorite teacher is (which never changes, but she wants me to guess every time and seems genuinely amazed at my almost precognitive ability to guess right every time), and other such important details in the life of a 5 year old.
Truth be told (and every now and again it is here on the Maru) I really enjoy the entire verbal process. It’s her inviting me into her world. I know that she might not be so eager to do so later in life, so I relish it now. Today I got some serious scuttlebutt on the goings on in the kindergarten class. There is all kinds of stuff going on there. The Terry Fox run is tomorrow and the kids are raising money for the Terry Fox Foundation. The Muppet decided that she wanted to raise money for Terry Fox like she did last year. She told the kids this. They were not as impressed as she thought they should be - mostly because they are all doing the same thing. SO, being the Muppet, she felt it necessary to remind them that she raised more money than them last year and would do so again this year.
Heh. Funny, cause last year I was working in an office and I could let her go from cubical to cubical soliciting people who would feel occupationally obligated to help her out. This year, I work from home…
But this would not be something that held her back. She told me that we could make calls and get people to give on the internet. Seriously, my child is 5 and has a pretty good understanding of the vehicles best suited for fundraising. I told her that we would make some calls, but she had to do the entire solicitation. SO she had to be prepared to ask people to sponsor her, and then be ready to tell them what she was doing and WHY she was doing it. She seemed to get the picture, so I called a buddy and asked him if she could solicit him for a fundraiser. I explained in great length that he was welcome to say yes or no because the lesson was learning how to ask and how to be grateful no matter the response.
So after the quick run down, I handed the phone to the Muppet. She said hello and then immediately asked if he would like to support her cause. (I winced a bit because first rule of making an ask is to spend some time establishing rapport with the donor…seriously, everyone knows this and the kid blew right by it.) I could hear his side of the conversation and it went like this:
The Muppet: “Hello. Would you like to support my cause?
Her mark: “Well, what’s your cause?”
The Muppet: “We are raising money for Terry Fox.”
Her mark: “How are you doing that?”
The Muppet: “I am calling people and asking them if they want to support my cause.”
Her mark: “How much are you trying to raise?”
The Muppet: “I am letting people decide how much they want to give.”
Her mark: “What does the money go to?”
The Muppet: “The money goes to help little kids in the hospital who have cancer in their bodies, so they don’t have to die like Terry Fox did.”
Her mark: ” <blink> <blink> “uh, okay…how much do you want?”
The Muppet: “However much you want to give so the kids don’t die.”
Her mark: “How’s $50?”
The Muppet: <pulls the phone away from her ear> “Daddy, he’s giving fifty bucks!!” <puts phone back to ear> “Thank you…daddy will get your money.”
Seriously, this happened over and over for about an hour (though the $50 was the high water mark in single gift size). She told the same story time after time. I asked Ferf if she had coached her on wording, and she assured me that she had not, and that the Muppet had come up with that all on her own.
So she’s running in the Terry Fox run. I am pretty sure she will be the highest fund raiser in the class again. But, if you want to give, you can. Click this link to the Terry Fox National School Run. Where it asks for a participant code, type: APSEQT That’s the Muppet’s page. Donate however much you want so the kids don’t die. The Muppet and Terry Fox will both be grateful.
But to get back to the original point of this story - drama in the classroom.
Where were we???? Oh yes, we were on the way home from Kindergarten and the Muppet is sharing her day with me. She sat next to Emma at lunch because her favorite friend was absent. But that’s okay. Her favorite friend was probably sick…or on vacation. And Emma is nice to sit next to because she chews with her mouth closed. And she doesn’t spit when she talks. Both of which are social skills that are evidently not universally practiced in her class. Then, with absolutely no segue, she mentions that Nate doesn’t like it when everyone in the class looks at him when he gets in trouble. I mentioned casually that maybe he should stop getting into trouble if the looks of others bother him so much. The Muppet seemed to be underwhelmed with my suggestion and gave me a look that I AM CERTAIN she learned from her mother who gives me the same look when she is underwhelmed with suggestions I make. She paused dramatically to give the look and continued on with her story about Nate and his distaste for groups of people looking at him when he gets in trouble. Wanting to be an active listener, I asked what kind of things he did to get in trouble and thereby garner the looks. The Muppet told me that he is usually just silly or does inappropriate things.
Now, to be fair, the Muppet has a vocabulary that is kind of outside the norm for 5 year olds (at least this is what I have been told by others. Personally, I think she has an appropriate vocabulary for a 5 year old, but then she is the only 5 year old I have ever had and thus she is judged against herself in my world - thereby ensuring that she is constantly normal). So when she says that someone does something “inappropriate” I (a) know that she is aware of the meaning of the word and (b) ask a follow up question that you would expect me to: “What kind of inappropriate things does he do?”
Again, I am honestly expecting her to reply with something fairly benign like “forgets to wash his hands before eating” or “cuts in line at the water fountain.” Inappropriate to be sure, but hardly earth shattering. So, when I asked the question it was almost a throw away line. I am driving, she is in the back seat and I simply want her to know that I am listening and engaged with her. So you can understand that I almost drove off the road when she said, “Like when he’s inappropriate with others in the cloak room.”
<blink>
<blink>
<blink>
<remember to breathe>
<stop the trembling in your hands>
<release the death grip on the steering wheel>
<calm your voice before you speak and sound relaxed>
“What do you mean baby girl? What kind of inappropriate things does he do with others in the cloak room?”
<blink>
<blink>
<blink>
<check the clock>
<what’s taking so long to answer?>
<don’t sound pushy>
<don’t panic>
“ahem…Muppet? Did you hear my question?”
“What daddy?”
“I said, ‘What kind of inappropriate things does he do with others in the cloak room?’”
“oh…he talks. You aren’t supposed to talk in the cloak room - it’s inappropriate. He does, and so he gets in trouble, and then everyone looks at him. He doesn’t like that.”
<as feeling returns to my extremities and thoughts of justifiable homicide recede from my consciousness and my heart rate returns to normal>
“yes…I can see that. Wanna listen to the radio for a bit?”
Seriously, we’re like 3 weeks in…I don’t know if my heart can make it through a whole year of this kindergarten drama…And poor Nate has no idea how close to death he came today - somebody was gonna get hurt real bad!
note to self - teach the Muppet another word for “inappropriate”…one that doesn’t illicit such strong emotional responses from little girl’s fathers.
So today is an “anniversary” for me. At least that is what we call it. I have often wondered why we use the term “anniversary” colloquially only to refer to annual celebrations of weddings i.e. wedding anniversary, but we say birthday to celebrate the anniversary of our birth. And we use Christmas to denote the anniversary of the birth of Christ. And we use a length of time in conjunction with “reunion” when we celebrate the anniversary of our graduation from school (like this fall will be my 20th reunion - though I have not attended anything close to 10 others).
For those who pay homage to the great god google I give you this piece of intelligentsia:
An anniversary (from the Latin anniversarius, from the words for year and to turn, meaning (re)turning yearly; known in English since c. 1230) is a day that commemorates and/or celebrates a past event that occurred on the same day of the year as the initial event. For example, the first event is the initial occurrence or, if planned, the inaugural of the event. One year later would be the first anniversary of that event.
But this day is actually none of the above, but it does commemorate a past event - 12 years ago today my father died much too young. He was 57 years old. He never saw me marry Ferf. He never saw me move to Nepal. He never saw me get dual citizenship. He never got to talk to me about my travels all over Africa and south-east Asia. He never heard me speak exotic languages poorly. He never saw the birth of the Muppet - nor any of the followig growth she has done in the almost 5 years since. He never drank really good scotch with me and talked about my life and my goals and dreams. He never saw me get my CFRE designation or the years of work that went into earning it. He never celebrated my first 7 figure gift that I brought into an organization. He never saw the first house I bought…or the second one for that matter. He never saw me screw up so badly and then pull life out of the ditch (with the help of more friends than I could ever create nicknames for).
Bottom line…he missed a lot. And the list grows every day. I think that is one of the hardest things to get over. He should be 69, about to turn 70 this year. That’s young…young enough to still be alive that’s for darn sure.
He died of cancer over a decade ago. Sometimes I think I am still pissed at him for having the audacity to die. Yes, that is incredibly self-absorbed to the point of bordering on narcissim…I’m comfortable with that. At least I’m self aware. SO many people miss the boat on that one. But not me. I got that going for me. Which is nice.
It is an amzing thing that our subconscious can remember the anniversary of the deaths of loved ones even we don’t consciously think about it. I had a list of things to do today that I didn’t really get through. I just wasn’t feeling it, you know? I couldn’t get in te groove. I felt blaise and weird and out of sorts. I wasn’t depressed but I was far from perky. Then I looked at the calendar and it occurred to me that this was the day that my father had died on. That gives me a complete pass on all things emotional I think. It’s like playing the orphan card (which Ferf and Merf do WAY better than I because they have lost both parents at much younger ages than I lost the one, so in the scheme of things they totally win on this). If I kinds sulk around on the 19th of May and just don’t get a lot done (or at least as much as you or anyone else thinks I should) then I get to play the “my dad died on this day in 1997″ card and you have to back off. It’s like a rule. No, more like a law. A universal law that must be obeyed.
I am lucky in the one respect that my wife and her family totally get what I am going through. Marvin married a girl and BOTH her parents are still alive! It’s like she’s rubbing it in. She can sympathize, but I get the full on empathy. It’s a totally different ballgame.
So here’s the deal. All of you out there with fathers that are still alive. Right now, go….wait!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? Okay. OKay, not RIGHT NOW…let me finish first. Go get a pen and paper, or open your Outlook (or whatever email client you have chosen or opted to accept like mindless sheep because it came installed on your Bill Gates controlled PC - those of you who use Eudora or Thunderbird, you get a pass from that last rant. If you own a Mac, then you get a cookie) and wrote them a letter RIGHT NOW telling them how much you love them and that you appreciate everything they do/have done for you - especially the being alive part, that is more important than you realize, trust me on this one. It doesn’t have to be long, though seriously, if you are balking at this because of the necessary length of said letter, than you do not understand the point behind this and I am going to have to ask you to go stand in the hall for 20 minutes or until you realize what a selfish punk you are - whichever comes first.
Then, call them too. Becaus hearing their voice is something you should do as often as you can. Just because you can. Besides, Fathers Day is coming up. Get a jump on the crowd.
Go…
Go on,
DO IT.
I am going to call them and ask if you did or not. I swear. GO!
So the Muppet is a huge fan of music. It probably started when she was in the womb and her Aunty Merf would put headphones on Ferf’s belly and play her favorites. Hundreds of hours of bands who graced the cover of classic Rolling Stones Magazine covers. And then, we would all get up for middle of the night feedings and dance back to sleep with the dulcet tones of Marvin Gaye and James Taylor. However it happened, she LOVES music. And she has very specific tastes. I remember when she was like 6 weeks old, she would often ask us to change the radio station if she did not like the music…or maybe she had pooped herself…either way, I usually changed the station (while Ferf changed her - we all had our assigned duties).
But when the Muppet was old enough to talk - so like 12 months old - What? She was extremely bright, and every time I have told this story she gets younger. I realize this, but it is my story so back off. Where was I, oh right, the Muppet was about 8 months old and she would ask for a specific song to be played over and over and over. (Ok, so maybe she was almost 2 years…whatever, it is barely relevant to the story.) It was Toby Keith’s Whiskey for my Men and Beer for my Horses. I know right, who teaches there two year olds that kind of music, but it was usually on the way to church, so that’s when we listen to worship music…
Anyway, she would be sitting in her astronaut-like 5 point harness baby seat in the back and she would simply say, “More Toby please.” If we dared to play a different Toby Keith song, she would become indignant and chant over and over, “NO NO NO…MORE TOBY PLEASE!!!” Until we played it again. Lucky for me, I like the song. Still do surprisingly enough.
Whatever, my point is that her love of music started early. So I was not too surprised when I was listening to music on the computer (that was TOTALLY LEGALLY DOWNLOADED I might add in case anyone is reading this…are you a cop?? Sorry, I ask that of everyone on advice of my attorney, don’t take it personally. Besides, you aren’t a cop are you?” Anyway, I was listening to some music that was suggested to me by my personal music sommelier Mr. Seth - who is a surprisingly astute judge of music for an Orthodox. What? How is that offensive?? It’s legitimate. How many Orthodox do you know that suggest really good music - especially underground style musicians that you have never really heard of? Does this look like an icon you’d find on your ipod:
But I digress, I simply want to give credit where due to the guy who hooks me up with new music - usually every Friday, though he has been slacking in that department for a while now, but this is not the place to publicly call him out for not living up to his job description…that would be really awkward to do to someone - especially a friend.
Anyway, so one day I was working on the computer - probably entertaining my Maru passengers if I am being honest - and listening to said totally legally downloaded music, which in this instance was a lady by the name of Regina Spektor.
For the purposes of full disclosure, and because I think this lady is seriously talented and that everyone should give her a listen: Regina Spektor (born February 18, 1980) is a Soviet-born Jewish-American singer-songwriter and pianist. Her music is associated with the anti-folk scene centered on New York City’s East Village.
Ok, enough superfluous background info about the song…back to the actual story that made all this relevant and not just me being a Dad bragging about his daughter’s musical interests at an early age…in a semi-anonymous way…on a blog that is a spec on the naval lint that is the internet. There is a point! And I shall find it…it’s like a recession you spend your way out of…this is an alphabetical sink whole that you write your way out of. I’m printing money word here. I’m the alphanumeric treasury department. Sure, if I just keep writing then the value of every word is lessened, but we are in a word recession here and dog gone it, I am going to make sure that everyone has as many words as they need until this crisis is over! A chicken in every pot and a post on every blog! For those who don’t get the reference (not you…I know you get it, but there are a couple of dumb errr culturally illiterate I mean, young people who might not get it) - in 1928 the Republican’s promised that if Herbert Hoover was elected President there would be a “chicken in every pot and a car in every garage”. Of course it was a scant 7 months after he was elected that the stock market crashed and the US entered the Great Depression. Even funnier that Hitler took up that charge when he took power in Germany (to give every German a car) and thus was born the VW.
But I digress…When we last left our heroes, they were in a car - ok, so that’s not where I left off, but I am skipping ahead to make a short story long long story short. Or at least shorter. Work with me here people. So, what do we know?
the Muppet has a strong love for music
the Muppet has an even stronger sense of what she does and doesn’t like in her musical tastes
Tex is a really funny writer and you are glad you are here
Tex is not above shameless self-promotion when it is late and he is writing a blog post
History is fun and Tex linked the Republicans and the Nazi in a VERY uncomfortable way even though it is the Democrats that seem to want to nationalize the automotive industry in the States today
When making lists, Tex is easily distracted by stream of consciousness and should go back to anecdotal, or at least narrative writing
Tex, and the Muppet, both like the musical talents of Regina Spektor - and neither of them is getting paid for this heartfelt endorsement
The story that Tex should really get back to telling (sooner rather than later) takes place in a car
Everyone caught up? Anyone need to pee before we get back on the road? Good. Here we go.
Last weekend we as a family took a vacation - see previous post for details if you missed them. I had a fantasy baseball draft to do, and K-town was where said draft is held every year. And, yes, I did draft a freaking amazing team and should walk away with the championship yet one more time this year. Thank you for asking. The team is called the Sons of Thunder and we stole our logo from the Trenton Thunder (the NY Yankees AA affiliate ball team). We use the alternate logo:
Yeah…it is very cool.
But I digress…so after said draft had taken place, I collected the Muppet and Ferf and we got in the car to drive home - usually about a 3.5 hour drive. Though often times it will take longer because we have to stop in Merrit, and Hope, and Chiliwack so that the lovely ladies of my family can pee. Each of these places is like 5 minutes from each other. I kid I kid. But this time we were leaving a little later than I had wanted, and so Ferf and I formulated a plan. The Muppet had nothing to drink for like hours before we left, and we had her do a “last pee” right before we loaded up and left. This would, in theory, get us past Merritt and let our first stop be Hope. (And in a perfect world, our only stop.) But as we neared Merritt, we heard the first of the plaintiff cries from the back - “I have to pee!!” SO I looked at Ferf and said, “let’s stop in Merritt, I will top up the gas tank so we do not have to stop again, and you can drain the Muppet, so we do not have to stop again!” It seemed the perfect plan. Tank got filled, and the Muppet expelled the fluids that she had somehow managed to create out of nothing. We loaded back up and got on the road again.
Now it really is no more than 45 - 60 minutes from Merritt to Hope if you are driving the speed of traffic - which I was. But I swear it was like 10 minutes outside of Merritt that the Muppet said, “I have to go potty again.” Now, this was not something that made me happy to hear. I like to hear my daughter say many things…”I love you Daddy” is pretty high on the list…”uh oh” as a non-sequiter is low on it. But 30 seconds after she just voided her bladder and we are on the road through the mountains, “I have to pee again” is right there at the bottom. So, I looked at Ferf with that Dad look that communicates, “aw hell no” without actually saying “Aw hell no” cause my momma raised me better than to talk like that. And then I said, “Baby girl, you are gonna have to wait until the next place - cause YOU JUST WENT PEE. There is no way you have to go again.” Then Ferf whispers, “she really did pee back there - a lot!” So now I am convinced that she is just restless and thinks public toilets are cool. So I decide internally that I will not stop in Hope unless I become convinced that she really has to pee, and by rule (newly instituted solely for that drive) I will be hard to convince. So for the next 40 minutes we are serenaded by the Muppet bouncing from ” look Daddy, there is snow on the ground…I really have to pee Daddy…I see the moon Daddy…the moon is following us…I need to pee Daddy…my dolly can fly…I want to be a princess when I grow up…I need to pee Daddy…Mommy, did you know I need to pee…the moon is still following us Daddy…I have to get my masters degree before I can marry right?…are we there yet…I need to pee.” You get the picture. Any kid who is that easily distracted, does not really have to pee. The need-to-pee-ers bounce up and down a lot and focus solely on their painfully obvious need to pee, they kick their feet back and forth on the seat back in front of them in such a way as to annoy their parents rhythmically as if each kick to the seat was punctuating “I’…”NEED”…”TO”…”PEE” over and over, and their eyes start to well up with tears cause it hurts so badly (from which we get the phrase - “I have to pee so badly that my eyeballs are floating”). The Muppet was exhibiting none of the classic signs of serious urinary need. SO, as we passed the last exit to Hope, I motored on. Besides, Chiliwack is like only another 27 miles (44km to those who so love the Queen’s rulers). And she did not say a thing about peeing for the last 10 minutes before Hope or the first 5 minutes after Hope. And I figured that even if there had been the smallest degree of legitimacy to her claim, that we had simply been party to that mystical happening where the pee simply goes away. We’ve all had it happen…you have to pee so badly you think it is going to burst out of some other orifice, or create a new one, and then suddenly, it just goes away. We don’t really know what happens to it. It’s there and then it is not. Like some kind of bodily fluid Bermuda Triangle. But it only happens to pee…cause if it happened to say, blood, we would be in a world of hurt.
Police Officer 1: What happened here?
Police Officer 2: We don’t really know sir.
CSI: Don’t look at me.
Coroner: Don’t quote me on this, but it would appear that his blood simply went away.
Police Officer 1: I thought that only happened to pee!
Coroner: We thought so too. But if the bodily fluid Bermuda Triangle is expanding…well, I don’t even want to speculate about the consequences…
So maybe my burgeoning career as a screenwriter just went down in flames. But that is okay. I was digressing anyway. So meanwhile back at the ranch, we were minutes past the last exit for Hope and the Muppet is back to providing us with a need to pee play-by-play. And I think, maybe, just maybe, she really does need to pee. But I go back to the bag o’ tricks to see if she is distractable. We talk about the moon again for a while, and she seems to become oblivious to the pee - only to have it rear it’s ugly head in her consciousness once again. SO we move on to princess stories and contests to see how much dialogue from EVERY FRICKIN BARBIE MOVIE THAT IS IN EXISTENCE AND I HAVE BEEN FORCED TO WATCH OVER AND OVER AGAIN LIKE A CHINESE WATER TORTURE she can remember. (turns out to be just about every jot and tiddle in case you were wondering.) (And here is a link to the Wikipedia entry for what a jot and tittle is in case you were wondering that. I am a full service blog post provider and never let me hear you say differently!) But again, her mournful cry would echo through the car at random intervals, “I need to pee REALLY BADLY NOW DADDY.” So, I dug deep down into my repertoire and pulled out - the ipod. And the playlist that makes the Muppet happy. So we plug it into the lighter outlet in the car, and wallah - instant personal radio station. And I figure if I put on one of her favorite songs, then she will be so enraptured with singing along that all thought of urination would cease and desist. So I scramble to scroll through the list of over 500 totally legally downloaded or otherwise acquired songs, and the first one I come to that I know makes her short list, is Regina Spektor’s Fidelity. It is a great little diddy that will get stuck in your head and is fun to sing along with - thus making it perfect to help a 4 year old forget her (possibly) pseudo need to pee.
And at first it had every appearance to work exactly how I thought they would…she saw that I was turning on the ipod and immediately perked up and started asking if she could choose the first song. But I was already ahead of her on the song choice. I wanted to get something on ASAP. So I told her, I picked one of your favorites, and I pushed play. The first notes of the song flitted through the air from the speakers and her eyes lit up with recognition and she said, “OHHHH! Regina Spektor. I like Regina Spektor!” And she started singing along. At which point I looked over at Ferf with, I am sure, the most smug of looks thinking, “HA I KNEW IT! I WIN!” (yes, I realize this makes me horribly shallow that I somehow turned my daughter’s ostensibly fake need to pee into a contest of will with me, and worse, that it was important to me that I win. But I deal with it and move on…so should you. Nothing to see here people. Move along.)
It was about that time that the Muppet spoke from the back shattering my thin illusion of superiority. She simply said, “I love Regina Spektor. And speaking of Regina, my vagina needs to pee.”
I pulled over at the next gas station. I had to. I could not drive I was laughing so hard and my eyes were blurry from the tears.
And just for your listening and viewing pleasure, Here is the song we were listening to at the time. I hope it doesn’t make you have to pee…
To quote City Slickers, “Hey you know, the first time I tried to talk to you, you embarrassed me. So I teased you a little bit which maybe I shouldn’t have done, so I’m sorry. And now you’re sitting over there playing with your knife, trying to frighten me - which you’re doing a good job. But if you’re gonna kill me, get on with it; if not, shut the hell up - I’m on vacation.”
That’s me as of today. I’m on vacation. I up and took my family away from all this and packed up the car and got out of town like a bat outta hell meatloaf song:
In deference to my saintly mother, I did not curse. (Here is why, in case you forgot) At least not me directly. It was cuss by proxy. Which has nothing to do with Munchhausen by proxy, but that is the coolest sounding medical diagnosis ever, so when one has a chance to say Munchhausen by proxy, one should take it. Even if one has to invent opportunities to have said chance. But, this was not Munchhausen by proxy, this was cussing by proxy - which is not a cool sounding, but ever so much cooler to do. I highly recommend it if you have a religious background, or just can’t make cussing sound cool. I think it is a skill personally. Some people can just make a cuss word sound so very awesome, and some people sound like they are trying to speak a foreign language with an awkward accent. They ought not to cuss - not in public any way. And definitely not if they are doing so in anger. Cause they may very well be righteous in their anger and have ever reason to legitimately cuss, but when they do everyone around them stops and stares and thinks, “poor guy, he’s really pissed but he sounds like an idiot when he cusses.” Folks like that need a proxy cusser. They should find someone who really has a knack for it, and pay them to follow them around - especially if they think a given situation has the probability to turn to a circumstance wherein they will need/want to cuss. Then when said circumstance arises, they can simply point to their proxy who will immediately stand in for them, cuss a blue streak that would make a sailor blush - but in a way that would garner respect (at least for the delivery if not the content) of everyone in earshot - including the target of said blue streak, and then proxy can sit back down and leave the clean up to the original guy. The original guy can give a smug, self-satisfied grin and walk out (choosing for himself whether or not to slam an opportune door), while the proxy, having accomplished his work for the day, can continue to sit and enjoy the ambiance he has created.
But I digress…I was packed and headed out of town before that last rabbit trail. And let me tell you, if I drove like I write, me might still be on the road to nowhere - or at least pulled over on the bridge to nowhere, possibly fishing off of it.
But, thankfully, I do not drive using the same method that I write with…who has ever heard of stream of consciousness drving anyway? Not that I am always conscious when I write mind you…
Again, I digress. This is becoming like a Seinfeld episode about nothing…only without so many viewers, or pay…NO SOUP FOR YOU!
SO the whole famn damily (yep, good old Ruxpin too) got in the car and headed out for a vacation. Some much needed R&R. Rest and Relaxation are just what the doctor ordered. Though a friend of mine who served in the military some 40 years ago, did recently tell me that R&R was for the Army. Navy men went for I&I - Intercourse and Intoxication. Either way suits me fine for the next 5 days. In fact, who am I to opine about the correctness of any branch of the military? That would be semi-unpatriotic. So, in the interest of my country, I shall rest, do my best to become inebriated, relax and have intercourse. God Bless America! And Canada too…I’m sure the Queen’s navy and army did their fair share of sleeping, drinking, relaxing and fornicating during their enlisted days as well. So we are off to the playground of the interior - the Okanagan. Yep. We’re here to be tourists. I thought about wearing plaid shorts and black socks with tennis shoes and a hawaiian shirt with a nice big straw hat and zinc oxide on my nose. But I just don’t think I can carry it off. I would look ridiculous with zinc oxide on my nose.
I cannot honestly remember the last time that we as a nuclear family went off by ourselves to have a family vacation. I am totally looking forward to it - though if I am in the midst of it am I still looking forward to it. Maybe I am looking parallel to it…or looking overlapping to it…or maybe I am looking at it like a boson
since bosons can occupy the same place at the same time. An example is the photon, which is a particle of light. Since light can also be regarded as a wave, the laws of superposition apply. This means that the peak intensity of two intersecting waves can overlap at some point in space. Extended to the concept of the photon as a wave-packet, two or more “light-objects” can occupy the same space at the same time.
I love it when I get to bring quantum mechanics and physics into the Maru. Seriously, I could put the mathematical equation for this in here too, but none of us would get it, so just take my word for it. Ok fine mister big shot “I understand it”. You know who you are, you arrogant…
The Pauli exclusion principle with a single-valued many-particle wavefunction is equivalent to the assumption that the wavefunction is antisymmetric. An antisymmetric two-particle state is represented as a sum of states in which one particle is in state and the other in state :
and antisymmetry under exchange means that A(x,y) = -A(y,x). This implies that A(x,x)=0, which is Pauli exclusion. It is true in any basis, since unitary changes of basis keep antisymmetric matrices antisymmetric, although strictly speaking, the quantity A(x,y) is not a matrix but an antisymmetric rank two tensor.
There you go. Proof that while for most of us, two objects cannot occupy the same space, two “light-objects” can. And so I can indeed be in the midst of something and still look forward to it at the same time…though I suppose that could invoke Einstein’s theory of relativity, or Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle….Crap for Crap! I’m on vacation here. Give me a break! My head hurts…
I’m going for some R&I - you figure out which ones I mean…
The long dark tea time of the soul - also known as the weekend girly, giggle-fest tea party with a temp-bachelor dad - has come to an end. The gaggle has been disbanded - with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I love the silent G in gnashing. It rocks. I think we should do more silent G’s. I mean sure we already have gnashing, and gnat, gnome, sign, campaign, reign, foreigner, diaphragm, design, resign, feign, champagne and, my person favorite - phlegm. But the ones that start with a silent “g” are extra special. Uncle Gaydog, is also a fan of silent letters. He and I were both voted down by our respective spouses when we suggested we put a silent “Q” in the middle of our child’s name. Think about how awesome that would be. Little Johnny becomes Little Johqnny. Then when said child goes to school each year on the first day when the teacher is reading the class roll they would get to Little Johqnny and stumble over the pronunciation. At this point Little Johqnny says, with just the right amount of disgust (and a well practiced eye roll), “It’s pronounced Johnny…the Q is silent. Obviously.”
However, now in retrospect, I will admit that having to type Feqrf or Mquppet multiple times in most posts would have been a serious pain in my aqss.
But it appears I have digressed. I was writing to celebrate the end of my 3 day long celibacy time away from my ever lovin’ wifey and my survival of the weekend little girl pinkapalooza - A 24 hour sleep deprivation party that provides opportunity for nail painting, singing and dancing, hair do-ing, dancing and singing, Barbie movies, sugar rushes, giggling and screeching. Little girls absolutely love it. Daddies smile and nod a lot with tears from both joy of knowing their daughters are having fun and a soul-wrenching migraine born of having one’s nails painted instead of watching March Madness all weekend long like had been planned for months and months and made even better with the release of the brackets that provided some of the best match-ups in college basketball. SO, let us celebrate the joy of survival. By no means would I belittle the suffering of others by comparing what I went through to the suffering of others - especially in a historical context. However, there were points where I was ready to admit that this was a whole new standard by which future things could be measured - especially in the midst of the Duke vs. Texas game when there were a series of tears from each girl in succession because they had each wounded another in deeply scarring and immediately forgotten ways.
I love my child with all my heart, but next time such a thing lines up on the horizon, I am taking a short 3 hour boat tour:
And on a completely separate note, Ferf is going to a hip-hop dance class tonight. Oh yes. I said it. She’s gonna go do hip-hop with other moms. They need action figures:
Say it with me, “yo yo yo Ferf!” She left for class listening to Snoop Dog and dressed like Flava Flav:
Yep… Ferf is pimpin’!! I’m thrilled for her because she is so freaking confident that she will do this. And yet, at the same time (in possibly equal amounts) I am horribly embarrassed for her. Cause seriously…upper middle class white Canadian hip hop moms?? Seriously? …
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Just in case you want to join her in her quest…I give you free dance lessons courtesy of the Godfather of Soul and the hardest working man in showbiz:
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zdz88MBWomo[/youtube]
This little piece of PSA musical history is for everyone. Cause evidently Valentines Day is for everybody.
FYI, I am not one to buy into commercially driven “holidays”, but I do special things for Ferf on Valentines Day every year cause why not. Of course, I do things the other 364 days as well - which proves I am no romance rookie - but I do my own thing on Feb 14th that makes the Mallmark Mafia no revenue at all. (one day I will wake up with a valentine’s horse head next to me in bed when those wiseguys catch up to me, but until then I shall mock them unmercifully and wave my private parts in their general direction.)
That being said, Ferf and I will be joined by Hamie and his South African Hottie for an stay at home double date. Hamie and I will be preparin dinner from scratch and the ladies shall be ordering off the menu. Of course it is a 3 course meal and they are allowed to order 3-4 items per course. Unfotunately for them, the names of the items on the menu have absolutely nothing to do with the actual foodstuff, so they could end up ordering coffee, salad dressing and a pat of butter for the first course - but that, my dear friends, is the fun part. Eventually they will get everything that we made, but only over the course of the dinner and in the order that they requested them from the menu.
Dinner will be good, hilarity will ensue and I will get laid. Hamie, on the other hand…well, lets just leave it at “on the other hand” cause this is a family show…
Well, here I am. Another year later. Another year older. I’m romancing another beautiful dusk in the mountains on the porch of my family home in British Columbia.
Christmas is over, but we haven’t quite made it to the new year. Give me a couple of days…I’ll get there too.
This year we decided that we would just do Christmas as a small nuclear family. (i.e. we did not have any money to fly down and do the holiday with the whole faim damnly like every other year.) So the holiday was all about the Muppet. She seemed okay with that. She didn’t even notice a smaller than average haul of presents this year - of course, that could be because she was holding THE GREATEST PRESENT EVER. We hunted a tree and killed it, chopped it down and brought it home and planted it in the living room and then decorated it while watching the snow fall through the front window drinking hot chocolate.
I know! It’s like a freakin’ Hallmark made for TV movie isn’t it? But it’s true. All true. The fire was roaring, the snow gently falling and Trans Siberian Orchestra playing on the CD player.
Who knew that the snow would keep falling for like a week and we’d be snowed in!! That sucked a lot of joy out of the whole thing. Christmas stir crazy was setting in. I don’t think I have ever watched so many videos in my whole life. The entire Barbie collection, every Dora video ever made, plus most every Disney movie. Seriously, I was ready to dig through 30 inches of snow with my eye teeth.
Eventually we did indeed get out. Though skating down the back alley with your car is not as exciting as it sounds.
And once I got out and got back to the office on Monday, Ferf calls me and asks if I would “pick her up a little something”. Being it was right after Christmas, I was leery, but I figured, “hey, maybe I get lucky out of it”, so, I asked what she wanted. And this is what she wanted:
Yes, that is what you think it is. Unless you think it is the love child of Darth Vader and R2D2…
which is a semi-logical conclusion I grant you. But sorry, that is not correct.
Those of you who guessed “a government subsidized 80 gallon composter” you win!! That is exactly what it is. Yep…I am now the horribly romantic guy who bought his wife a composter. Seriously, she used to get all excited when I brought her roses. Now she gets sexually aroused when I buy her a big plastic thing that turns organic material into psuedo-shit brown manure. Oh yeah baby. I should be on freakin Oprah with that story. I am that romantic. Don’t hate me guys, just try to keep up.
So here I sit on New Year’s Eve Day having just watched the clock turn over to 2009. Ferf is snoozing next to me having had the crap kicked out of her by this dang cold she’s been trying to fight for over a week, and while she has been losing the fight, it has given her opportunity to self-medicate. I am considering the last couple of weeks, if not the last many months, but mostly just the holidays. Holidays are like pre-arranged excuses for scheduled evaluations. Time to think. Time to dwell. Time to supersaturate your system with sugar and then contemplate life as your body goes into diabetic shock and you hit the sugar downer. Now wonder people kill themselves this time of year…
But fret not, I am not suicidal. I’m not even into bruising myself on accident. But I am semi-somber. This has been a tough holiday season. I lost 2 uncles to cancer this fall and was not able to attend either funeral. Plus the whole Christmas away from family thing. Kinda rough actually. Believe it or not, I was actually asked what it would take to get me home for a funeral. A cousin of mine asked my brother whose funeral I would come down for. (I know. I know. He’s young, naieve and obviously still has the whole black/white view of the world about him. Don’t be pissed at him on my account. More pity that fact that he still thinks life is such a simplistic equation.) Nonetheless, the question was posed to Marvin, who then passed the question onto me. Seeing as how my favorite Uncle had passed away and I was unable to make it to Texas in the 48 hours between his death and the funeral, they were wondering who I would make it down for. Indeed, there is morbidity to the question itself. But once asked, does an inquiry not deserve some acknowledgment?
Ok, actually I think the question is invalid on many levels as it presupposes quite a bit of false assumptions (like that I was making a choice when in reality there was no choice to make or that the nature of it implies it to be a character issue on my part i.e. I would do more to make it down for some things than I would others - especially when the “things” we are talking about are the funerals of family members). But all that aside, I think that funerals always cause us to question things. And, it is easier to question others than to delve into questions about ourselves, our faith, or our worldview. There was no reason to question too much with either Uncle James or Uncle Bobby. Both had lived long fulfilling lives. Both had seen their children grow up, their grandchildren born and a whack of great grandchildren born. Both were well loved. Both will spend eternity in Heaven. Everything’s tied up in a nice neat bow. And add to it, that they are both no longer suffering. Hard to get into the “life’s not fair” discussion with these two deaths. But death still makes us think. Think about my dad dying so young. My father-in-law and mother-in-law dying so young. Think about spending time with people - did I spend enough time with them?? Could I have spent more? Should I have spent more? Done more? Said more? Am I doing enough with all the other people I love right now? What if…
You see how this can tail spin you pretty quickly. And while I am not spinning on my tail, I am up late all by myself writing to a great sea of readers that I believe exist (on days where I am really optimistic) about my internal musings. Let’s not psychoanalyze me though. I am healthy - you maybe not so much. But me? Mentally sound and well hung. Let’s move on.
So do we ever spend “enough” time with those we love? Do we ever really talk to them about our feelings for them, and even if so, is it enough? Do we try to really understand those we love beyond past what we already know about them? Believe me when I say all these questions are exacerbated when you live 3000 miles away from your family. I often wonder what would be different if I had not gone all over the world and not lived in Canada, and instead just stayed put in Tejas. Who would I be? What would my family be like? My belief system, my worldview, my understandings, my political leanings, my opinions, my career, my dreams and my hopes…how would they be different, and would I like them more or at all? Does anyone there even know what an 80 gallon composter is!?
Here’s what I do know. I miss my family. All the time really, but it is usually more like a dull ache. During certain times and season it grows to a knife honed edge like cut deep inside, but 90% of the time it’s just there in the background. Life goes on and I am simply not there for a lot of it. I miss a lot that happens down there. Phone calls and emails and blog posts only get you so much when it comes to really staying abreast of the guts of people - who they are and who they are becoming. (except for this blog of course, you guys know me all but Biblically through this thing) I know that it works both ways too, they miss all the same things with me and my family here.
Mimi and Papa (my folks) I love more than words. I am who I am largely because of them. Mom has a hard time with this because she can’t believe that she had anything to do with me becoming someone who would live 3000 mile away, but it’s true. She more than anyone always pushed me to believe in myself and that I could do anything and that I had to sail out of the safe harbours in order to explore and discover life (ok, so she doesn’t really talk like a Hallmark card, but she did give me literally hundreds of those cards with those exact sentiments, if not words, during high school and college). She gave me the courage to step outside the Red River/Rio Grande box and push the limits, even if she wishes that I hadn’t listened quite so well now. I love that she made me believe in the more out there. That she convinced me to never be afraid and if I was, then to face that fear. Mom engraved those things in my soul, while also making sure that I never forgot how important family is. I am the husband and father I am today because of all the things she took the time to talk to me about growing up. Going through her own hell of divorce she used each opportunity to teach me how to keep from ending up on that same road. I am confident in my marriage because of her. (the fact that I married an uber-hot lawyer who works as a Passion Coach helps too mind you, but that is because Mom always told me to marry the best - and I did. In fact, she specifically told me that I should marry Ferf…even when we had broken up…and I was dating someone else…as I left to go on a date with someone else…even then she would tell me that I ought to be marrying Ferf.) I truly love my momma.
Marvin is the big brother that everybody wants, but I got. Don’t get me wrong. He can be a turd (as big brothers are wont to do), he can be annoying as hell (as big brothers are wont to do), he can piss me off faster and hotter than just about anybody else on the planet (as big brothers are wont to do). Mind you, all his shortcomings aren’t really his fault…he’s a big brother. Little brothers have no inherent faults. But he is my brother and I would unhesitatingly die for him. He pushed me to be smarter, faster, stronger, tougher, even when he wasn’t intentionally pushing me. He spent his life setting the bars for me - even if he had no idea that he was. Sometimes I got over the bar and often I didn’t measure up to it, but either way the measuring stick for success to me was Marvin. Ok, maybe not with GPA, but hey, at your 20 year reunion when guys are doing the whole “glory days” thing you will for sure hear them talk about the game or the play that everyone still remembers. I am not expecting anyone to come up to me and say, “dude! Remember when you aced Mr. Miller’s science test!? That was so awesome!” Turns out that no one really cares what your GPA was…whatever, I’m not bitter. When I look at Marvin now, I see that he is still having the same impact on people’s lives today. He continues to set the bar for people and lives to inspire people to be better than they think they are. I admire his consistency. He was noticed that Ferf and I weren’t, as he put it, “root growin’ folk.” But he is that tree planted firmly by streams of water. His roots go way deep. Deeper than I think mine ever could. He is the stable force for the family. There are parts of that that I don’t envy him for. He has become the “family pastor” and if somebody dies, he does the funeral…it’s almost an expectation now. He doesn’t get to grieve like a son or nephew or cousin or grandson. He’s the pastor who does the funeral. I hate that for him. I don’t even mention to family that I am ordained, cause I don’t want that mantle…but I hate that he has to carry it. Bittersweet is too nice a sentiment for it. (by the way…I am hereby stating that he will not do my funeral. I want someone else. At my funeral he is a brother. He can check his credentials at the door. He can either sit out in the audience like everyone else, or tend the bar, but not doing the funeral. What? You’re not having an open bar at your funeral?) It’s funny in a way. There is probably no one that I wished knew me more than him. He used to know me better than anyone. But, as mentioned before, time and distance have a way of loosening that knot. He and I are a lot alike which is why we probably get so ticked at each other on those things that we disagree on. Ferf was recently reading a book wherein the author was talking about expectations. I think that I probably owe Marvin an apology for having unrealistic expectations of him. I want, and/or expect him to know me like he used to. To be able to read my mind and just “get me”, but that’s somewhat ridiculous. He might have similar expectations of me - who knows. But I think I have had them of him and it is just not right of me to do so. So, should you ever get around to reading this Marvin, I am sorry for that. I am not fully sure how to stop, but I at least got to step 1 or 2 here, so that’s a good start. I think I want to get to know my brother again. Know who he really is. Not who he shows people he is, and not who I remember him to be and not who I suppose he is based on historical knowledge and my own finely honed skills of people reading. Nope. None of that. Just who he is. Not even who I expect him to be. Just who he is. You’re a good man Marvin. I know that to be true. In a lot of ways, you are still the standard by which I judge a bunch of stuff in my own life - good and bad. But I realize that neither is really fair to you. We’re not kids anymore trying to one up each other. We just are who we are. Similar in a lot of ways and very different in a lot of ways. I’d like to really know and understand all those ways - without judgment.
2009 could be a very interesting year. Lord knows 2008 had its share of ups and downs. But as the year ends, I think deeply about friends and family and loved ones (not really sure how you could be a loved one and neither friend nor family, but that is how people say it). Mimi and Papa, Marvin and Twig, ColbyT and Mojo, Krissy and ‘drien - I love you all deeply. Sissy and Boo, ScottyBear and Yoda, Seester, JonoO and the little red haired girl and Topher - I love you all deeply too. Everyone else don’t get your panties in a knot just cause I didn’t call you out by name. Either I am too lazy to type you all, too tired to think through every single one of you, or you don’t make the love list. If you fall into category A or B then know you are loved deeply by me and I will try to tell you personally this year. Those in category C, well, you know…try harder. Or buy me coffee. Either way really.
So this morning we got up to find even more snow on the ground. This is not incredibly had to comprehend since we live in the proverbial Frozen North. But it always adds a layer of complexity to driving for me (growing up in Texas, we didn’t get a lot of practice with cars and snow) as well as adding at least two layers of clothing (especially on Ferf and the Muppet). So we start the day a little behind the 8 ball on time, as Ferf wants us to leave early to get the Muppet to school on time and to ensure that we have enough time allotted to crawl forward at 5 mph in case the roads are slick.
So while trying to get the Muppet to shotgun a bowl of cheerios, we were concurrently putting her fully clothed body into a full body snowsuit with straps over the shoulders and a separate snow jacket.
Then we had to put the snow gloves on and then the hat over the ears and then the Pièce de résistance - the snow boots. The boots have to go on last, but the snow pants have two parts and the internal sleeve of them is supposed to go inside the boots, while the outer sleeve goes over the boots, thus ensuring a warm and dry foot experience. The whole thing breaks down when said sleeves bunch up inside the boot causing consternation for your four year old because it is “uncomfortable”. Then your wife tells her to stomp her feet a bit and it will all be better. And then it’s not “all better” and the tears well up in you little girl’s eyes and she says, “fix it Daddy. You’re a good fixer.” And you wonder how in the heck you are going to “fix” this - again, with a background that includes Texas heat and where “layering” meant you did this with your shirts:
But undaunted, I tried moving things around near her boots and pulling up her socks a little more, and of course, none of this worked. So I employed that old stand-by that has worked for years with children and less intelligent older people (of course I don’t mean you…I’ve never done this with you) and changed her focus by mentioning the fact that there was lots of snow on the ground and if the suit was uncomfortable, we’d probably have to stay inside today and not go play in the snow. In fact that sounded like a great idea - it’s warmer inside and we won’t catch a cold…and about this time the Muppet declares that it all feels much better and Daddy fixed it, cause he’s a good fixer, and we should get to school so she can play in the snow.
Mission Accomplished.
And then we got in the car and drove (slowly of course) to school. When we pulled to a stop in the parking lot the Muppet slid down from her legally required booster seat
and started scrunching her face up in obvious discomfort. She wiggled her bum around a lot and then said, “Mommy, my panties are all up in my bum!” As she says this, she keeps rubbing her mitten covered hands over her multi-layered covered bum and trying to grab anything so she can tug on it, and having nothing even remotely resembling success. I am in the driver’s seat with a serious smirk on my face, trying not to laugh out loud because I know this is semi-serious to the Muppet.
I did however, in the interest of disclosure, sneak a smile at Ferf as she opened the back door to get a better handle of what was going on.
She asked the Muppet, “can you wiggle it out?”
Muppet: “No mommy, it’s way up my bum.”
Ferf: “How can I help you baby girl?”
Muppet: “Pull them out!!”
Now again, the Muppet it wearing a coat that covers her down past her bum. She has on snow pants that go up past her bum, under them she has on pants with a shirt tucked into them and of course under that she has a pair of panties that are making a run for it up her tail pipe. SO, Ferf gives the briefest of exasperated looks (heh, I said brief) and then pulls her hand out of her warm gloves and proceeds to burrow it up the jacket, down the snow pants, under the pants, up the shirt and finally (evidently) finds the offending area. She looks at me and says, “wow, they really are way up there.” Then she (evidently) gives some helpful tugs on the pinched material. As she goes in for another pull (from what I could tell from the outside) the Muppet says, “That’s enough mommy!”
And I can only guess that Ferf either:
a) did not hear her
OR
b) thought that she would make really sure that they were fully extricated from the buttocks and not just “enough”
Because the Muppet says, “MOM - that’s enough. Please pull your hand out of my pants!”
I felt like I should comment at this point, so I jumped in with, “Anything over two tugs is considered inappropriate!”
Then I fell into laughter and Ferf grinned and the Muppet just looked somewhat put out. But at least her bum was comfortable.
I say all this to say that this is yet another example of how to know when your wife has truly made the transition from woman to wife to mother. When they are willing to selflessly and unhesitatingly uncover their hands to bare skin and then reach down and grope around a 4 year old’s bum so that she can pull bunched panties out of a butt crack. THAT IS MOTHERHOOD!
If any of you would even remotely self-identify as a loyal or consistent or even semi-occasional reader here, then you are somewhat acquainted with my Uncle Bobby. He is one of my mother’s older brothers with whom I lived one summer after my folks split up and before my momma made the move up to Bivins, TX where we would live my junior year in high school. Anyway, you can refresh your memories of him by reading that previous post. Many of you know that he has been battling with cancer and organ rejection and other such medical issues for a while now.
This morning I got the call that I knew was going to come. Marvin called to let me know that he passed away this morning in his sleep. He had been in the hospital for a stretch recently, and in fact, they had not expected him to come home from there. But true to form, Uncle Bobby is not going to let anyone tell him what to do, so he recovered enough to go home. (Although it was assumed that it was really just to be made comfortable.) His brothers and sisters had a chance to go visit and see him “one last time.” His son and daughters, his grand kids and great grand kids all had that chance. Quite the gift.
Having someone die is never easy. I know. I have had lots of loved ones pass away in my life. We often will try to ease the loss by looking at it from their point of view i.e. Uncle Bobby was quite sick and in both physical and emotional pain and this really is best for him. Or we see them in Heaven in a much happier place, and I know that Uncle Bobby is there now. But all of that notwithstanding, losing someone you love sucks. It hurts. It is hard. The moment of them dying is like a beginning of hard moments that we live through from that point forward. Christmases they are not here for, anniversary dates, momentous occasions that we can’t share directly with them. Each of them is a sharp prick to the heart that is unseen but deeply felt. It seems that my calendar is becoming filled with these memory moments. Make no mistake, every memory of a loved one gone is bittersweet. I love that I have those memories, but it is with some sadness that I enjoy everyone of them. It is with a tinge of longing that I think about every moment that I spent with those I love(d) and a part of me wishes that I could go back in time. I am not really sure what I would do there if I could though. I have been lucky (or intentional enough) so that I have not lost someone AND felt like I haven’t told them I love them or let them know how important they are to me. So going back in time is more complicated for me. It would literally be simply for my benefit, but then I would have to leave everything here to do it, and it begs the question about how long would I stay there, would I make the same choices, and would I screw up the space-time continuum, and multiple other quantum physics issues that I am not as well versed in as I might like to be. Suffice it to say that I just wish I had the people I have lost here with me again.
It would appear that unless a miracle of bail-out proportional sizes appears in the next few hours, I am not going to be able to get back down to TX for the funeral. So, I am left to grieve here. Without the extended family that is so comforting in such times.
And yet, I have to wonder. Times like this force one to think. Deeply. About many things. But today I choose, from among those many things, to think about Uncle Bobby. I chose to remember every smile of encouragement he gave me. I chose to dwell on his words of affirmation that he poured into my life, and the many sentences he spoke to me that all started with “aww hell boy” and ended with a life lesson that helped make me the man I am today. I chose to be thankful for the time I was given to spend with him. I chose to focus on the memories of him singing Marie Laveau because that is something that has brought a smile to my face since I was a kid. I want to spend some time thinking about the man he was and the man he wanted me to be.
Sometimes there are people in your life (some might be family, or some might be friends, or some might be both) who through circumstance and timing speak into your life at a time when you are most susceptible to listening. Call them a mentor or adviser, coach, counsellor, guide, instructor, teacher, trainer, tutor - call them whatever you want. They are people that no matter where in time or space you are. No matter what you are doing or thinking about doing. No matter how foolish you are certain that you are. They are the ones that you know, that you know that you know, believe in you. They are the ones you think about in your heart before you do whatever it is that you are going to do. They are the ones that in your mind you hear tell you that you can and will succeed and give you the courage to try. They are the ones who ignore the facts when you fail and tell you to get up and do it again. They tell you that they have “had worse cuts than that on their eyeball” when you think about giving up. They are the ones who put bourbon in your coke before your mom comes into the room and winks at you and says, “when i was your age, I had a gun in my hands. No reason why you can’t have a drink in yours.” They are the ones who want you to know that they think you are a man before you do. They are like my Uncle Bobby.
Our culture really doesn’t have rites of passage anymore for men. We graduate and wonder if that rolled up piece of paper makes us a man. We get hair on our chest and wonder if that makes us a man. (well, if I had hair on my chest, i would have wondered. Back off on the smirk their mister - grass don’t grow on a playground!) We get married (eventually) and wonder if that makes us a man. We have kids and figure, if I am not a man at this point, I am not sure I’ll ever be one. Seems like other people know you are a man before you do. My Uncle Bobby was the first one to see it in me. He was the first one to talk to me like it, and challenge me like it, to treat me like it. I am not sure I can really explain HOW he did that. He didn’t do anything drastically different than anyone else at the time. It was just different with him. I could, and did, talk to him and sit out and watch the sun go down with him, drink the occasional beer with him, and just see it in his eyes. And that is the single most powerful communication that a boy can have. It is when someone you love and trust gives you that look that you somehow just know. You know that you know that you know. A stake is driven in the ground and some kind of spiritual ley line emanates from it and ties you to that place and that person. Uncle Bobby was that for me. That one place that I knew I was tied to. The place that I would always measure my travels from. The place that everything could be compared to no matter where I went or what I did.
For the rest of my life, no matter what I do (and I plan to do some pretty bodacious things) I will always wonder what Uncle Bobby would do, but I will never wonder what he’d think. And I know that it would start with, “aww hell boy” and end with that look. Thanks for everything Uncle Bobby.
and the other in state 
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