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.
Yes, it has been a long time. Officially this is the longest I have gone without a post of some sort since I started this voyage back in 2006. My bad. It’s summer and things have been hectic. Remember that Ferf broke her foot? She milked that for a full 2 months in a big boot and “couldn’t really walk” and I was doing WAY more than normal around the house - which is saying something cause, let me tell you, on any given day I do A LOT. Seriously, Ferf married well!! But I was doing way more than the way more than normal I do, and bottom line - I (a) didn’t have time (b) was too dang tired or (c) couldn’t come up with an amusing was of telling any stories for a bit. Oh, and add to that the fact that I had been working more than ever on Ferf’s website and running the business side of her occupation and well, one can only do so much. At least I can only do so much. A dear friend of mine recently said to me, “turns out I have a ceiling.” Evidently I too have one, and unfortunately, the Maru was on the other side of it for a bit. But two things have me encouraged - first, I am back on the Maru. Second, I may have a ceiling, but at least it ain’t glass!! (though that would be so cool during a thunderstorm - but probably not so much during a hurricane)
Anyways, this summer was back to nature here on the Maru. We, as a family, spent a good deal of time outside and got back to the whole natural eating thing we had slipped away from for a bit. To that end - we did some serious canning and freezing. So if Y2K ever shows up again, I suppose we’ll be ready. But don’t you come knocking on my door simply because you didn’t prepare like I did. I don’t have enough for everyone - but my neighbor down the street does still have a chemical toilet left over from 1999, and he’d prolly let you use that if you came by and needed it.
So, one of the things that Ferf wanted to do this summer was to get some fruit - lots of fruit. She wanted blueberries, a whole lot of blueberries. The upside of living where we do in Canada is that fruit grows here like mushrooms in sheeit. It is everywhere and it is wonderfully sweet and juicy and yummy. For those of you who were not blessed with knowing me as a young child (and believe me that would truly have been a blessing to you) you would not know how strange it is for me to have written a sentence like that last one - no, not the you would have been blessed to know me as a kid one…the one before that about fruit and it being described with terms like yummy goodness. As a child I was NOT a fruit fan. I would eat apples (red delicious only) and occasionally grapes (especially green seedless ones frozen in the freezer). That was about it. I simply did not like the flavor or the texture of such things. I figured that if eating a piece of fruit caused the freaking fall of man, then I was better served to stay away from such things. Imagine how much better off we’d all be if Adam hadn’t liked fruit.
Genesis 3
The Fall of Man
Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?”
The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, 3 but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’ ”
“You will not surely die,” the serpent said to the woman. 5 “For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her.
But Adam was not a fan of fruit and said to his wife, “No thank you.” His wife said to Him, “But I have taken of it and eaten and did not die.” Adam cocked his head to the side and said to her, “Look woman, this has nothing to do with the rightness or wrongness of eating a piece of freaking fruit. You wanna listen to a dang snake, you go right ahead. But I don’t like fruit all that much, so back up off me woman.”
Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the LORD God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and she hid from the LORD God among the trees of the garden. But the LORD God called to the man, “Where are you?”
He answered, “I’m over here, watching my wife try to hide from you in a berry patch. I told her the thorns would hurt, but she dove right in. It’s crazy! She said she had to hide cause she’s nekkid”
And he said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?”
The man said, “The woman you put here with me—she ate some.”
Then the LORD God said to the woman, “What is this you have done?”
The woman said, “The serpent deceived me, and I ate.”
Then Adam said, “honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into this one Lord. She’s hanging out with snakes, eating bad fruit. The whole thing is sketchy to me.”
And the Lord, wiped serpents, Eve and fruit off the face of his creation and replaced them with dogs that could speak, beer and women that were totally hot and utterly compliant.”
But that is not how it went down, and here we are today. But that is not really the point of this post, I was simply letting you know that I used to loathe fruit and now, I really like it. No, the point of this post is the berry picking portion of the story, which I haven’t even been able to get to yet, cause that saucy tart Eve screwed stuff up so long ago. We’re still paying the price for her…<sigh>
Anyway, back to the story…let’s see, fruit, yummy goodness, oh yes, I remember! Ferf wanted fruit. We have an abundance of “you pick it” fruit farms around us here in the valley. She thought we might go pick some fruit. Blueberries to be exact - cause it was blueberry season and she wanted like A LOT of them. I am into this a bit, but still leery that I will be doing the majority of the picking because the Muppet will enjoy it for about 10 mins before she gets utterly bored and Ferf has the broken foot…SO, I ask the ever-lovin’ wifey how many berries she is thinking about obtaining. She tells me, “no more than a hundred pounds.” Oh, good. Nice to have an upper limit. 100 FREAKING POUNDS OF FRUIT!? Are you kidding me?? And you want to PICK IT? BY HAND??? “Well,” she tells me, “it would be cheaper.”
Admittedly, that does tend to get me attention. “How much cheaper?” I ask. “I can call and ask,” she replies. (don’t you love the witty banter we have in our home. We’re like the Gilmore Girls, only we’re not named Gilmore, and we’re not mother and daughter, and we’re not both female, and..you know what - turns out we’re nothing like the Gilmore Girls…just ignore that whole train of thought.) SO she calls. Turns out that to have them picked is $0.10/pound more than you picking them. Hmmm…so if we got 100 pounds, that would be a $10 difference in total price…It would probably take me 2 days to pick that many berries doing 8 hour days, so my time would in fact be worth…<add the two, sum up, carry the naught, divide by the sum of the parts> $0.62/hour.
So we called and ordered 100 pounds of already picked berries. WooHoo!! The next day I got to the berry farm to pick up said berries. I go to the counter and give them my name and they go to get the berries. As I am standing there, I figure I’d give something a shot…So I ask the girl, “Since I am buying so much at once - I assume I get a bluk discount, right?” She looks a little bewilderd, but says, ” I can give you $0.10 off per pound.”
Has it really been almost a month since I posted?? I have been too busy on the ever-lovin’ wifey’s internet presence and have let my own go a bit. I am truly sorry about that to you whom look to the Maru as a constant (or at least consistent) source of…source of…ummm…whatever need it is you have that somehow goes unmet in any other place in your life. I can only imagine how difficult these last few weeks have been on you. Seriously, I can only imagine because I wouldn’t actually know in a personal way. But I am here to empathize with you. I feel your pain. Let’s move on.
So Ferf broke her foot this weekend. Yep. Broke her right foot - and know I don’t mean she broke it off in my arse. I mean she broke a bone in it. Fracture of the fifth proximal metatarsal.
So now she has a big black air cast boot on her foot. Very sexy. She wears it well - makes it look good.
But how did she break it you ask. I’m glad you asked. She tripped over thin air whilst walking across the bedroom floor. She swears that she tripped over my house shoes, but I think that’s bunk. My house shoes are not something easily tripped over. They are size 12 after all. How on earth does someone overlook a freaking foot-yacht parked in the middle of the floor? If it were me, I would rather have people believe that I tripped over thin air. But she stands by her story…well, sits by it really. She doesn’t stand so much right now. heehee.
She did it right as I was leaving for the weekend. Friday morning and it is literally 10 minutes before my ride was coming and she takes the dive upstairs and I run up to find her doing a full frontal face plant on our bedroom floor - her head landed 4 inches from the door jam. The good news is that she didn’t brain herself as well. But we got her up and down stairs and her foot elevated and iced. It was already swelling by that time and she couldn’t put weight on it. So she asked me if I could go to the store and get her some crutches before I left. Dutifully I checked on line and made some calls to drug stores and such. No luck. No crutches to be had. I had the dubious honor of letting her know that there would be no crutch based assistance coming. I offered to cancel my trip, but she wanted me to go. When my ride showed up I took my bags out to his car and when he opened his trunk, there was a set of crutches. I asked him if he were planning to get injured to which he responded that they were a set he used after ankle surgery and he was taking them to the Salvation Army. I laughed and took them into the house for Ferf. She used them all weekend and waited until Monday to even go see a doctor. Ahh my wifey. She’s a keeper!
Evidently the Muppet was quite the trooper this weekend. She took care of everything that Ferf needed. She carried food and dishes to Ferf, she brought her drinks and kept the house “tidy”. She did her chores and never once complained. She was awesome. In fact, she tried to do everything. She tried to not only bring Ferf a bottle of extra strength Advil liquid gels, she tried to open them and give her some of them. Unfortunately she was foiled by the child proof lid.
She tried and tried to get the bottle open, but to no avail. Frustrated she handed the bottle to Ferf and told her that she could not get it open. Ferf smiled and told her that it had a safety feature - a child proof lid. The Muppet thought about that for a moment and said “it’s child proof?”
Ferf said, “yes honey…it’s child proof.” Again, the Muppet thought about that and finally said with a deeply sincere look on her face,
“But HOW does it know that I am a child???”
Later I told the Muppet that it is magic, like a thermos. It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold, but nobody knows how it can tell the difference.
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? …
…
…
…
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]
So, evidently I am on a roll here with thematic stories. I don’t like it any more than you do - trust me. But this is my life…what am I gonna do. All my loyal reader(s) know that my wife is a professional passion coach. It’s true. And yes, I am a lucky man. But that is not the point. Ok, Ok…considering the fact that my wife is a passion coach, who cares what the point is. You noobies can dwell on that for a bit longer, but I am moving on ahead.
So Ferf is a passion coach and one of the things she does is answer people’s questions. Not the “where’d I leave my socks” type questions, but the “there is no way in hell I am going to ask this out loud” type. Hence, she gets many questions via email. ‘Cause was can all type p-e-n-i-s, s-e-x and v-a-g-i-n-a even if we don’t like to say them out loud.
Sometimes these questions are truly heart wrenching. Sometimes they are truly disturbing. And sometimes, like today, they are down right hilarious. Now, please understand, I am kept completely in the dark as to my wife’s client list - though often times I get these knowing nods of “dude, thanks” from guys and I figure their wife was a client. But outside of that (which makes church awkward) I am out o’ the loop regarding who she sees or who asks what question. And that, my dear friend, is what allows me to share today’s story with you. We are all in the dark and can assume that I might have even made this up…but I didn’t!!!!
So this letter comes from a guy. A dad. Might have even been a single dad. Don’t know. But the fact that it is a dude writing, tells me that this guy is seriously seeking help. Guys are not the first ones to run for “help” in any area that pertains to the sexual organs. If it’s our organ we figure we have got it under control. If it’s someone else’s organ and there is an issue surrounding it, then we are ABSOLUTELY SURE that there is a game on TV that needs watching. If it’s someone else’s organs and the issue is that they are spilling out of a bikini top - then yeah, sure we’re there to help. Outside of that. Not so much.
But this guy - he’s looking for some assistance (though not with his sexual organ I might add for the sake of clarity, and because if I don’t clarify half of you will stop reading…and badger will just be disappointed). No, this gentleman is concerned for another. Which of course is very noble. Only one thing could be more noble according to the Princess Bride:
Miracle Max: You got any money?
Inigo Montoya: Sixty-five.
Miracle Max: I’ve never worked for so little. Except once, and that was a very noble cause.
Inigo Montoya: This is noble, sir. His wife is… crippled. His children are on the brink of starvation.
Miracle Max: Are *you* a rotten liar.
Inigo Montoya: I need him to help avenge my father, murdered these twenty years.
Miracle Max: Your first story was better.
Anyway…the gentleman in question had to gather up all his gumption and sit down at the keyboard and over come the normal PEBCAK issues that stop most of us from doing something on the internet and then write out his story & the resulting question and then send it out into cyberspace.
All in all, not the most fear-free of activities. So kudos to this guy. He deserves a moment of honest appreciation…you know, before we kinda mock him. So here’s to you question sending dad guy!
Ok… on to the story. (Though Ferf did not give me a lot of lead in details, so work with me as I am having to make a lot of this up use inductive reasoning to solidify some of the normal surrounding detail. SO, dude, emails my wife because he has a question that needs addressing so he can get some sleep at night and not feel so awkward when he is out and about with friends and family. The sheer horror of his certainty that he is the only person alive who has been confronted with this potentially humiliating, if not fully scarring issue has provided him with little sleep and even that has been filled with night terrors not seen since before horror movies were serialized into plot-less caricatures by a soulless Hollywood hell bent on turning a genre that was intended to scare children into unquestioning obedience into a uncreative money-grab. But I digress…
This man has come to the guru seeking knowledge. His dilemma is as unconquerable as Mt. Everest to him. He has no one to turn to and needs an answer. How can he look at himself in the mirror and feel that he is anything but a failure as a father if he cannot deal with this? Sure it starts small, but if left unchecked, how can he be certain that he is not a scant couple of decades away from being keelhauled onto Oprah or worse - Jerry Springer because of his inaction as a father…
So he asks the question. “What should I do?” He gives some basic info: “I have a 5 year old daughter. And she, she… *sigh* I have found her in her room on occasions… “should I make an issue out of this, or just let it go…” “My 5 year old daughter likes to hump her teddy bear because she says it feels good!”
I can’t help myself. As I fall down into fits of hysterical (if not maniacal) laughter, I suddenly I have this image of a made for TV mini-series, produced by HBO -
The Playground Pimp
.
.
.
If I were writing the response (which I am not for obvious reasons), I’d tell him to get Teddy a necklace and put it on the little stuffy slut:
Considering the content of this particular post, I should have probably done some kind of segue post after the whole Valentine’s Day thing…but, alas, I did not. So you will just have to believe me when I say that this post is not some awkward continuation. I am not Johannes Brahms, and this is not variations on a theme.
[youtube]s9Dn6AuIgHI[/youtube]
And that is, far and away, the closest to class and highbrow content we will find in this post, and it is with the utmost confidence that I tell you we have nowhere to go but down from here. SO let’s quit wasting time and start the intellectual free fall, shall we?
I have a dog. Ok, we have a dog. Alright fine, we bought the Muppet a puppy. My consistent reader(s) knows this of course. For the rest of you I ask that you turn in your hymnal to page 169. I can say that the puppy in question, Ruxpin, is barely a puppy anymore and now looks like a chocolate mop. Why one would create a mop out of chocolate and then push it around their hardwood floors is a post for another time, but suffice it to say, that should you ever make it over to my house (and bring wine if you do) you would think that I had somehow sculpted a mop out of chocolate and then brought it to life.
He had just finished attacking Frosty and letting him know who’s who in the pecking order when we took this photo. Sorry for the gore on his moth and shirt. It was a very one-sided fight.
His hair is even longer now and his eyes have gone missing. It’s very strange. He gets around with some hybrid from of sonar that he’s adapted, because there is simply no way that he can see. It’s like 100 years of evolution happened over the course of 4 months with this guy. In that way he is completely amazing and ahead of his time. In other ways, he is about as base as one could get. Case in point..well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?
Before I go too much further, I need to give you a little background. Think of it as a chance to get to know me a little better. This is me being open and transparent. How else can we have an honest relationship if I am not forthcoming with the details of my life? I wear house shoes. It’s true, I do. Ferf gave me a pair of fleece lined Crocs for Christmas. They’re black and I admit, very comfortable. Ferf has a pair too. I bought them for her first. Her’s are pink. They look like this:
The Muppet, on the other hand, has a pair of Scooby Doo slippers. They look like this:
This will all become important later…trust me. In the mean time, just rest in the knowledge that these are the house shoes that are worn in our house. I mean really, I don’t know what kind of footwear you have on your feet at night in your home, so you actually have the upper hand on me. But that is the burden I bear…
Back to the story at hand.
The setting: I was working on my computer the other night. I was on my bed. No, I was not nekkid. You’re horrible…
I was working on my computer. I was on my bed and my wife was working down in her office and the puppy was laying on the floor on the side of the bed. And when he lays on the floor he thinks he’s a porn star. Seriously, he lays on his back with his back legs splayed like a nasty yoga master. I’m not kidding. His legs touch the floor on each side. He’s the basis for spread eagle comparisons. And his wee little puppy testies are right there in the middle. I know this, not because I was intensely looking you sicko, but because the Muppet looked at him in repose the other day and said, “Daddy, he’s got bumps on his body” and pointed at his man lobes. I told her that it was nothing to worry about and to leave the dog alone. I have no intention of letting my child and dog get into some weird quid pro quo relationship. But I digress…
So I was thusly working on my computer when I heard a sound that was new to me. Now it is not that I have heard and mentally cataloged every sound. I admit this. But in one’s own house, one does feel like one should know the normal sounds. And this was not a normal sound. Now, I get that “fully functional” dogs have a certain learning curve as they grow up. In fact, dogs that have been neutered have also been known to, as Merf so eloquently put it when she was a little girl, “do hanky panky with a blanky.” The sound that I heard did not, at first blush, have that shall we say, rhythmic quality to it. So I furrowed my brow and listened a little more carefully. I tilted my head to listen harder. And there was nothing. Then I heard it again. I leaned over and look and see nothing but a single Scooby Doo staring at me from the floor. He was not making any noise that I could discern. So, I went back to my work. Then I hear it again. I look over, and again, nothing but a glazed over look from Scooby Doo. It was almost like he was mocking me, so I slapped him and watched him flip over. “Take that Scooby”, I thought, and I went back to my work. A little while passed and I had heard nothing more and was just starting to think that it was the old “house settling”, when I got up to do a fluid level check (yes, that means I had to pee, but I was trying to be polite) It was then that I noticed Scooby Doo sitting back up-right on the ground. Staring at me. MOCKING ME! I went to kick him, cause he’s not real and it’s okay to kick not real things, but it dawned on me that not real things don’t set themselves back up-right when you slap them over on their butts. So I hesitated. Cause it is not so okay to kick real things, and I was starting to question. Then I decided, nope, he’s not real and I booted him across the room. After the fluid level check, I realized that I would need to rehydrate so I jogged downstairs to grab a 64oz mug of ice water cause that’s how I roll. And when I came back, Scooby was not across the room where I had kicked his stuffed arse. In fact, he was sitting in Ruxpin’s bed…upright. I almost got a little nervous at this point. I watch Supernatural and so the possibilities of possessed stuffies are hidden in my psyche. I get that. But I overcame the fast twitch mental muscles, and decided that there had to be another possibility.
It was about this time that Ruxpin sauntered over and sat down next to Scooby Doo. He had a look about him like the star football player cozying up to a freshman cheerleader. His body language was all, “how YOU doin’?” I kinda smiled and again went back to work. Then I got the sound waves crashing against my ear drums again. And this time, I look over in time to see Scooby Doo getting Scooby DONE. Yep, Ruxpin made Scooby his bitch. I started to intervene, but then figured that I do want to pimp this guy out later in life, so maybe I should let him learn on a Scooby Doo slipper. What could it hurt. Of course, to the best of my knowledge, Scooby is a boy. That would make it less okay - not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I won’t get paid for that kind of stuff by the breeder, if you get what I am saying. Then I thought about him dry humping Scooby Doo while the Muppet was wearing the slipper, and realized that would definately be bad. Only one person should be slipping into Scooby at a time, if you get my drift…
SO I snapped my finger and he stopped mid-thrust and spun his head towards me. I SWEAR IT WAS LIKE SEEING A KID GET CAUGHT WITH THEIR HAND IN THE PROVERBIAL COOKIE JAR. I actually laughed out loud. I told Ferf about it, and she too saw the wisdom of segregating Ruxpin and Scooby Doo. So we moved the Muppet’s slippers into her room, and have started shutting the door.
On a side note, when I came home tonight, I found one of my house shoes alone by the back door. It was not with its pair where I left it. I looked at Ferf and with raised eyebrow…
said to Ferf, “my house shoe is being deflowered…which is fine as long as my sock stays dry when I put it in. But the day that it gets wet when I do that, somebody gonna get kicked.” Which I think is fair. Cause my crocs are gender neutral, which has got to be better than Scooby Doo have to take it for the proverbial team. I mean yes, Scooby and Shaggy do have an uncomfortably questionable relationship that leaves more questions than it answers. But that doesn’t mean that he has to be humped by a chocolate mop. That’s kind of like Scooby being molested by a Scooby snack. It’s just wrong. And, on the upside, I have another sound tagged and cataloged. So I got that going for me…which is nice.
and the other in state 
:
