It gets a little tedious having to squint to see the words on television. It's even more tedious to have to sit exactly three and a half feet in front of the screen so everything makes sense and you don't have to say, "Why is that panda screaming like that?" Only to hear, "That's a police car dad." So I got my eyes checked.
For those of you who are my Facebook friends, you have already heard the short version of the visit in the form of my status. I believe it was, "Trifocals? Are you serious?" For those of you who are not my Facebook friends, here you go..."Trifocals? Are you serious?" (As a side note, if you want to ask me to be friends I wouldn't mind...I have to do something to keep a higher number of friends than my teenage daughter...I'm competitive that way. Tell me you are from Slovenia, I'll totally believe it.) Actually, I have been telling people, at work, who laugh at my jokes, "You think that is funny, you should read my blog." Now I am telling people who are reading my blog, "You think this is funny, you should read my Facebook statuses." There you go, the cycle is complete. Cue Phil Collins singing "The Circle of Life." If enough people jump on board I may never have to speak again.
Back to the eye doctor, not literally...I promise to finish this first...of course I do need to constantly squint so that the drivel I am writing is visible. Sometimes though it's better if I don't know what I have typed. It helps me sleep at night. But I digress...
In the beginning, there were bats...and they were blind...and these bats made fun of my eyesight. I never knew that I couldn't see, it was just my version of normal. Kind of like when my parents bought me a Lite Brite for Christmas. If you were raised in a cave, in Slovenia, allow me to explain that toy. It is a box with a light bulb inside. The front has a screen that looks like honeycomb but with round holes instead of hexagons. This screen holds in place a sheet of thick black paper that had letters that showed through the holes. Then there were these bags that had tiny little pegs inside...and they were labeled, "Blue, Red, Orange, Yellow..." you get the idea. Then you take the pegs and poke the orange one through the hole that said "O", The blue one through the hole that said, "B", and so on. I feel that, having the smartest readers in the world, I do not have to explain further. Well I dutifully poked my little heart out, pulling the correct pegs from the labeled bags, the black paper blocked the light and glowed through the colored pegs, and I ended up with a very colorful hot air balloon that, if I do say so myself, rivaled that of the great masters of the Renaissance. And then I took out the pegs. (Here I need those first four "dun dun dun dunnnnn" notes) Mom was great, she let me use one of our matching salad bowls, they all said Cool Whip on the side, to put the pegs in after I took them out. Then I put in the next black piece of paper and reached into the tub of pegs which had magically turned all the same color. Yes, Lite Brite was the magical toy that can be played with once...if you are color blind as well as wildly farsighted.
As an aside, please do not send me swatches (That's right I said swatches) of fabric asking, "What color does this look like to you?" That's been done. It is a curious thing really. People cannot refuse to ask about my malfunctioning ocular parts the first time they hear. I have never gone up to a diabetic and said, "Show me how your body doesn't process this candy bar." or up to a person with a prosthetic arm and said, "Can I lend you a hand?"...oh wait I did do that.
Still I didn't know that I was blind, or color blind, until I took one of those screenings at school. They recommended that my parents get my eyes checked. So I got my first pair of glasses...as an awkward overweight pre-teen...I always suspected that God had a well developed sense of humor. And I have had glasses ever since then...until five years ago on Sylvia's birthday. I won a radio contest and the prize was one free eye of laser surgery. It was great. I went to the evaluation, I found out that I was not only generally and chromatically blind I also had eyes that were shaped like identical little football ends. They could fix it! But it would cost more than we could afford.
Enter my dad. He thought, if there is a chance I didn't need to walk around with coke bottles strapped to my face we ought to give it a shot. He covered the cost, the lifeless personality-less doctor handled the surgery, and I haven't worn glasses in years. Until apparently, precisely now. If I want to stop having headaches, or be able to read, and stop bumping into things, I will need to get glasses to see close up, see distances, and see the mid ranges. But other than that...my eyes are great (even if I still can't see colors).
My new assignment is to pick out frames to house the new lenses. They call the lenses "progressive" but that is just code for trifocals. I feel like I have been run over by the old age bus. The doctor explained that I was not getting old...I am old. He then said that my eyes healed too well. The surgery was a success and my eyes healed beautifully. Unfortunately, my body thinks "healed" means to go back to far-sighted football eyes that need lenses to see everything. I just wish the reset button that made my eyes go back to the way they were when I was a kid would work on my feet! But I would like to say that I definitely am NOT old! Now if you'll excuse me I have to go tell the kids that their music is too loud...before I tell the neighbor kids to get off my lawn!
Playing with words is fun. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them!
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I...Have...Arrived...(kinda)
A while ago, way back in November, I wrote about Dave Barry in my blog. I wanted to let you, my faithful readers, know that I have been contacted by Mr. Barry, and it wasn't a cease and desist order either! I was writing about the fact that he was actually getting paid for writing silly things in the paper. I have been getting paid as well. As of this writing I am skyrocketing up to six dollars and thirty two cents in revenue generated by the ads on my blog. Google doesn't actually send checks for less than ten dollars so I haven't actually seen any of the profit yet, but it could happen at any time! Well, at any time in about four hundred days since I average about a penny a day...but I digress.
As is my custom, whenever I mention people in the blog I send them a note to let them know. I have reconnected with old friends, I have gotten new followers, and I have been rumored to have received a restraining order or two...but I'm sure Bonnie was only kidding. Well, when I sent Dave a note explaining that I had taken his name, in vain, he sent one back to me...in the real mail! USPS baby!
Knowing the level of my blogular obsession, Kristiana took a picture of his note and sent it to me as a text. I was happy to say the least! I have written to some fairly important people in my day and aside from Ray Orrock, who used to answer my letters in his newspaper column, this is the first time anyone has ever written back to me. Happy as I am, as excited as I was, I promptly...lost the note. The time it took me to read the note, read it again, double check the signature against one that is in a book my sister had him sign, and then misplace the note...took all of about forty five minutes. I was upset! I turned over the pile of papers where I last had it, I checked the kitchen table...twice, I even checked the freezer (you never know). I was a little frantic. I had it, in my hand, and then poof...gone. I wanted to write this blog yesterday but wanted to quote it in my writing and I hadn't yet memorized it...I have now. You see, not only did I find it but I took my own picture of it, I have it in our safe, and I have plans to have a replica tattooed over my heart.
I was a little disturbed by the fact that I found his note, and I am not making this up, under my pillow. I can imagine that a rich and powerful man such as Mr. Barry would be able to have the resources needed to break into my house, obtain the note, and plant it under the pillow on my side of the bed. That would be a funny joke that he and his minions would be able to laugh about for days! I interrogated the kids, nothing. I lovingly asked my wonderful bride. "Seriously? No." I remembered that it was on my nightstand when I made the bed earlier...understandable, but not even remotely as funny.
His note was simple, elegant, and yet, to the point. After years of getting paid to write this man is a wordsmith extraordinaire! When this little scene is portrayed in the movie they make about my life, Kurt Russell will play me (Mr. Barry's note will be played by Mr. Barry's note) it will surely be the clincher in the Academy Award sweep.
"Not a dry eye in the house!" Washington Post.
"The raw emotion! Breathtaking!" New York Times
"Hey! I thought Bonnie Hunt was supposed to be in this!" Fremont Argus
Have I kept you all in a satisfactory yet not intolerable amount of suspense yet? Hopefully, since it is winter time and, exactly on schedule, my fingers have started cracking at the tip and each keystroke is a new reason to cringe, flinch, and whimper.
Mr. Barry's note said, and I quote, "Hey, Thanks. Sincerely Dave Barry" Anyone have a tissue? I have a little something in my eye....nevermind...I think there's one under my pillow.
As is my custom, whenever I mention people in the blog I send them a note to let them know. I have reconnected with old friends, I have gotten new followers, and I have been rumored to have received a restraining order or two...but I'm sure Bonnie was only kidding. Well, when I sent Dave a note explaining that I had taken his name, in vain, he sent one back to me...in the real mail! USPS baby!
Knowing the level of my blogular obsession, Kristiana took a picture of his note and sent it to me as a text. I was happy to say the least! I have written to some fairly important people in my day and aside from Ray Orrock, who used to answer my letters in his newspaper column, this is the first time anyone has ever written back to me. Happy as I am, as excited as I was, I promptly...lost the note. The time it took me to read the note, read it again, double check the signature against one that is in a book my sister had him sign, and then misplace the note...took all of about forty five minutes. I was upset! I turned over the pile of papers where I last had it, I checked the kitchen table...twice, I even checked the freezer (you never know). I was a little frantic. I had it, in my hand, and then poof...gone. I wanted to write this blog yesterday but wanted to quote it in my writing and I hadn't yet memorized it...I have now. You see, not only did I find it but I took my own picture of it, I have it in our safe, and I have plans to have a replica tattooed over my heart.
I was a little disturbed by the fact that I found his note, and I am not making this up, under my pillow. I can imagine that a rich and powerful man such as Mr. Barry would be able to have the resources needed to break into my house, obtain the note, and plant it under the pillow on my side of the bed. That would be a funny joke that he and his minions would be able to laugh about for days! I interrogated the kids, nothing. I lovingly asked my wonderful bride. "Seriously? No." I remembered that it was on my nightstand when I made the bed earlier...understandable, but not even remotely as funny.
His note was simple, elegant, and yet, to the point. After years of getting paid to write this man is a wordsmith extraordinaire! When this little scene is portrayed in the movie they make about my life, Kurt Russell will play me (Mr. Barry's note will be played by Mr. Barry's note) it will surely be the clincher in the Academy Award sweep.
"Not a dry eye in the house!" Washington Post.
"The raw emotion! Breathtaking!" New York Times
"Hey! I thought Bonnie Hunt was supposed to be in this!" Fremont Argus
Have I kept you all in a satisfactory yet not intolerable amount of suspense yet? Hopefully, since it is winter time and, exactly on schedule, my fingers have started cracking at the tip and each keystroke is a new reason to cringe, flinch, and whimper.
Mr. Barry's note said, and I quote, "Hey, Thanks. Sincerely Dave Barry" Anyone have a tissue? I have a little something in my eye....nevermind...I think there's one under my pillow.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Yes, Virginia, There Is A Cat!
We have a cat. She does all the 'cat' things. She is aloof, temperamental, demanding, secretive, and completely nuts. She also has held a grudge for going on 16 years now. She is a mostly-dark calico and many people do not believe she exists. You see, she was broken at an early age and has never really recovered...this is her story. For you dog people, let me throw you a bone, (get it dog, bone, I crack myself up!) Fudge, the wunderhund, sits beside me while I write every day...it's just a matter of time before I write about him again.
Sylvia and I got our first house, then got a cat. Sylvia's friend, Tammy, is a vet tech and she, "has a box of kittens that someone dropped off at the hospital where she worked." My response was probably something like, "Good, she'll take care of them. Where we going to dinner?" And then the eyes started...complete with pouty mouth... "Okaaaay, we go see the kittens. But I'm not really a cat guy!"
If you are thinking, "Oh no! This guy is a cat hater. I must stop reading immediately and tell my cousin to take down the blog I printed for her refrigerator!" You couldn't be farther from the truth. That was my brother's friend. His license plate frame said, "Looking for your cat...check under my tires." That is not me. I was just always a dog guy...and I have had "experiences" with cats.
In high school my friend Rachel had a cat named La Leak (It was probably spelled some exotic way like La Liq...I never asked) This was a cat I could deal with. She came to me every time I visited and wanted to be pet. She was also 147 years old and would drool on anyone who pet her...but that's not the story. One day I was petting the leaky one, and she was purring, and then...for no reason...she turned her head and started chewing on my arm! Begone psycho!
My sister had a cat who would walk just out of arm's reach and if you tried to pet it, it would draw blood. It was a mane-coon, which is a special kind of "cat" that is part feral, part raccoon, and part three headed dog that guards the gates of the underworld. It was not my, or my bleeding appendages', favorite cat. My sister loved that cat (and all things furry) but I never understood it.
I had a friend, Sandy, who couldn't say no to a cat. When I went to her house, which she shared with about 6 cats, I would always walk out feeling like the cat fairy had sprinkled me with magical allergy dust. Nose running, eyes itching, the whole nine yards! I would take an allergy pill before I went over there...just in self defense. It was also where Sylvia and I had our first date.
Then, closer totghe time when Sylvia's friend had these free kittens, we were looking for our first house. With the real estate agent (who will be a blog all on his own one day) we went to a house in Newark. We got to the door and there was a note that said, "Do not let the cat out..." As we walked in, we were ambushed by a creature with no compassion for human life. Before we were three steps in the cat had batted my arm with its claw three times and I was bleeding! I later looked at the note about not letting the cat out...It actually said, "Do not let the cat out... of the gates of hell. Someone already blew that one! Or, maybe cats just don't like me.
We got to Tammy's house and she showed us this collection of little balls of fur.
"Aren't they cute."
"Yes, but they grow into cats you know."
"Cat's take care of themselves."
"Yes, and then they 'can take care of themselves' kind of like a prize fighter can."
"But look, that one is sitting off all by herself...she is a loner. She needs a home. Tammy says she'll do all the shots. But if you really don't want one..."
"Never mind...you had me at loner." I'm a sucker for the shy kids.
So now we had a cat...and this shy, retiring, cute little bundle of fluff...turned into psycho kitty. She was so rambunctious we named her Friska (I know, we are just too cute for words) and she was a lot of fun. She also made me feel like I had radioactive sand in my eyes and talked like Fran Drescher whenever I was home...but she was cute. Sylvia washed her, explored allergy reducing creams, and we tried to keep her as far from me as possible.
Now the cat sleeps on my pillow (how do they know!?) and we have since learned that kitty dander is much more potent than cat dander so we have a sniffle free house again. But that is not what I wanted to write about.
We have friends who have been in and out of the house, for years, who do not believe we have a cat. We have had people take care of our pets while we were away and the only way they knew that we weren't lying about owning a cat is that the food disappeared a little each day. Our cat has carved out a little niche in our room and only comes out when Sylvia or I go in. Then she is playful, fun, demanding, ornery, and psycho.
Why the self-imposed living space limits? Tammy broke her. Well, that's my explanation and Mythbusters hasn't come over to prove me wrong yet, so there you go. When Tammy came over to give Friska her shots she rang the doorbell, walked over to Friska, grabbed her and stabbed her with the needle before even telling anyone hello. The cat, who apparently feels the same way about needles that I do, took off! We didn't see her for three days.
And this is how the legend started. So if you come by one foggy night (because the kids left the hot shower on too darn long) and you see the silhouette of a cat walking along the windowsill. Do not be alarmed. It is really a cat. A cat named Friska. Who is lying in wait until Tammy returns.
Sylvia and I got our first house, then got a cat. Sylvia's friend, Tammy, is a vet tech and she, "has a box of kittens that someone dropped off at the hospital where she worked." My response was probably something like, "Good, she'll take care of them. Where we going to dinner?" And then the eyes started...complete with pouty mouth... "Okaaaay, we go see the kittens. But I'm not really a cat guy!"
If you are thinking, "Oh no! This guy is a cat hater. I must stop reading immediately and tell my cousin to take down the blog I printed for her refrigerator!" You couldn't be farther from the truth. That was my brother's friend. His license plate frame said, "Looking for your cat...check under my tires." That is not me. I was just always a dog guy...and I have had "experiences" with cats.
In high school my friend Rachel had a cat named La Leak (It was probably spelled some exotic way like La Liq...I never asked) This was a cat I could deal with. She came to me every time I visited and wanted to be pet. She was also 147 years old and would drool on anyone who pet her...but that's not the story. One day I was petting the leaky one, and she was purring, and then...for no reason...she turned her head and started chewing on my arm! Begone psycho!
My sister had a cat who would walk just out of arm's reach and if you tried to pet it, it would draw blood. It was a mane-coon, which is a special kind of "cat" that is part feral, part raccoon, and part three headed dog that guards the gates of the underworld. It was not my, or my bleeding appendages', favorite cat. My sister loved that cat (and all things furry) but I never understood it.
I had a friend, Sandy, who couldn't say no to a cat. When I went to her house, which she shared with about 6 cats, I would always walk out feeling like the cat fairy had sprinkled me with magical allergy dust. Nose running, eyes itching, the whole nine yards! I would take an allergy pill before I went over there...just in self defense. It was also where Sylvia and I had our first date.
Then, closer totghe time when Sylvia's friend had these free kittens, we were looking for our first house. With the real estate agent (who will be a blog all on his own one day) we went to a house in Newark. We got to the door and there was a note that said, "Do not let the cat out..." As we walked in, we were ambushed by a creature with no compassion for human life. Before we were three steps in the cat had batted my arm with its claw three times and I was bleeding! I later looked at the note about not letting the cat out...It actually said, "Do not let the cat out... of the gates of hell. Someone already blew that one! Or, maybe cats just don't like me.
We got to Tammy's house and she showed us this collection of little balls of fur.
"Aren't they cute."
"Yes, but they grow into cats you know."
"Cat's take care of themselves."
"Yes, and then they 'can take care of themselves' kind of like a prize fighter can."
"But look, that one is sitting off all by herself...she is a loner. She needs a home. Tammy says she'll do all the shots. But if you really don't want one..."
"Never mind...you had me at loner." I'm a sucker for the shy kids.
So now we had a cat...and this shy, retiring, cute little bundle of fluff...turned into psycho kitty. She was so rambunctious we named her Friska (I know, we are just too cute for words) and she was a lot of fun. She also made me feel like I had radioactive sand in my eyes and talked like Fran Drescher whenever I was home...but she was cute. Sylvia washed her, explored allergy reducing creams, and we tried to keep her as far from me as possible.
Now the cat sleeps on my pillow (how do they know!?) and we have since learned that kitty dander is much more potent than cat dander so we have a sniffle free house again. But that is not what I wanted to write about.
We have friends who have been in and out of the house, for years, who do not believe we have a cat. We have had people take care of our pets while we were away and the only way they knew that we weren't lying about owning a cat is that the food disappeared a little each day. Our cat has carved out a little niche in our room and only comes out when Sylvia or I go in. Then she is playful, fun, demanding, ornery, and psycho.
Why the self-imposed living space limits? Tammy broke her. Well, that's my explanation and Mythbusters hasn't come over to prove me wrong yet, so there you go. When Tammy came over to give Friska her shots she rang the doorbell, walked over to Friska, grabbed her and stabbed her with the needle before even telling anyone hello. The cat, who apparently feels the same way about needles that I do, took off! We didn't see her for three days.
And this is how the legend started. So if you come by one foggy night (because the kids left the hot shower on too darn long) and you see the silhouette of a cat walking along the windowsill. Do not be alarmed. It is really a cat. A cat named Friska. Who is lying in wait until Tammy returns.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Frost I Ain't
Doo,
Wah Diddy,
Diddy Dum,
Diddy Doo.
I have a feeling that if I ever go to a poetry slam (I think that's what they're called) I will have to get up and say this poem. I would love to have all the beatniks nod their beret clad heads and snap their fingers while pretending that I have done something important with my verse. (See how relevant and hip I am! Most of my poetry reading knowledge is from Jethro on the Beverly Hillbillies) I think I'll have to put poetry reading on my 'bucket list' because I am a huge fan of making fun of pretentious snits. In Starbucks I always ask for a large (when I get something for Sylvia...as far as I'm concerned coffee = yuck) only to hear some, in a nasally voice, complain, "Did you mean grande, venti, fortissimo, a'capella, Pavarotti?"
"No Skippy, much like Horton (of Hears a Who fame) I meant what I said and I said what I meant...now give me some coffee, here's five hundred cent."
And the rhymes just flow out of me today! I am inspired! I am also reminded of a poetry reading that we discussed in one of my creative writing classes in college. (yes, I have actually taken classes in writing...it's really not nice for you to say, "Really?! And this is the best you can do?!" so loudly...words hurt you know.) In my class we had quite a varied group of people. Eclectic you might say. The teacher assigned many genres to write about and I was ok with that. Until we got to poetry. I panicked, not as much as the kid with thirty-three visible piercings and extensive tribal tattoos whose stories always ended up being about some mythical being ravaging a fair maiden...if you get my drift, but still, I panicked.
Reading poems? Can do. Discuss them with any clarity or conviction? Not so much. Poetry is just not my thing. All that symbolism and "this means this" and "that means that," I just want to crawl into a hole and die. I am a straightforward sort of guy. I actually told Sylvia, when we were dating, "I don't do hints well. If you want me to know something, write it on a board and smack me in the face." Have I mentioned that my nickname is "flatnose"... and that Sylvia is extremely literal? But I digress. I remember a scene in the movie Weird Science. The whole house is in chaos, magical things are happening all over the place, and a missile forms and pushes it's way through the room and out the roof. As it stops growing and the camera lingers on the missile, a white dove flutters down and lands on the nose of the missile. Then, and I love this, you hear a bell, "dingggg." It's like the movie makers are saying, "We know this is a movie for teenagers...pay attention and see symbolism...NOW...OK, back to the silliness."
I would like to say, I do know what a white dove symbolizes, but I have no idea what it means in the big picture of the movie! What? It's a peaceful missile? Don't worry, be happy? No countries were bombed in the making of this scene? I have no idea! Just tell me stuff...and then feed me a sandwich. I'm a simple guy.
Well all that rambling has led into what I really wanted to talk about today. My creative writing teacher loved to have us all read our writing. She called it "publishing" but I called it terrifying. I was not a comfortable reader. Turns out, though, that I got so many compliments on my voice that I soon got over the fear and was comfortable with it. But today is not about something I wrote, but about something a grandmotherly (it's a word) classmate wrote. The teacher led us into her reading with a special, "I want us all to pay close attention to this. We will be discussing it after she is done."
The poem started, my brain shut down, I tried to figure out if there really was a difference between red and green M & M's, and then she was done. Poem over, I tried to look like I was contemplating her work seriously. The class loved it! We literally spent most of the class having people say things like, "I think the use of the clouds to show sorrow was brilliant!"
"The changing of the seasons brought tears to my eyes. This is an important piece."
"It brought up images of family members I've lost. Can I get a copy of that?"
All the while the author sat silently, the rule of the teacher, not showing any emotion at all. Merely taking it in with a nod every now and then. The teacher let this love fest go on for about half an hour, and luckily never called on me because my comment would have been something like, "Seriously, why are these things different colors?"
When the conversation waned (told you I went to college) the teacher asked the author, who was probably in her mid sixties, to tell what she thought the poem meant to her. Her response was priceless!
"It's a load of crap!" she laughed, "I hate poetry so I just put words on a page to finish an assignment. She (teacher) made me do it and then wanted me to sit silently while everyone discussed it!"
At this point I was out of my chair pumping my fist in the air and shouting, "YES!! Woof, Woof, Woof! Brilliant!"
So my point is, I guess, that poetry is fine to read and it can be important until another person reads it too...and then the fireworks start. I mean who knows for sure? Maybe Robert Frost was working for the zoning commission when he wrote about fences and good neighbors. As far as poetry is concerned, I only need to know one thing...where can I get a Jethro-like beret to wear while I read my poem?
Wah Diddy,
Diddy Dum,
Diddy Doo.
I have a feeling that if I ever go to a poetry slam (I think that's what they're called) I will have to get up and say this poem. I would love to have all the beatniks nod their beret clad heads and snap their fingers while pretending that I have done something important with my verse. (See how relevant and hip I am! Most of my poetry reading knowledge is from Jethro on the Beverly Hillbillies) I think I'll have to put poetry reading on my 'bucket list' because I am a huge fan of making fun of pretentious snits. In Starbucks I always ask for a large (when I get something for Sylvia...as far as I'm concerned coffee = yuck) only to hear some, in a nasally voice, complain, "Did you mean grande, venti, fortissimo, a'capella, Pavarotti?"
"No Skippy, much like Horton (of Hears a Who fame) I meant what I said and I said what I meant...now give me some coffee, here's five hundred cent."
And the rhymes just flow out of me today! I am inspired! I am also reminded of a poetry reading that we discussed in one of my creative writing classes in college. (yes, I have actually taken classes in writing...it's really not nice for you to say, "Really?! And this is the best you can do?!" so loudly...words hurt you know.) In my class we had quite a varied group of people. Eclectic you might say. The teacher assigned many genres to write about and I was ok with that. Until we got to poetry. I panicked, not as much as the kid with thirty-three visible piercings and extensive tribal tattoos whose stories always ended up being about some mythical being ravaging a fair maiden...if you get my drift, but still, I panicked.
Reading poems? Can do. Discuss them with any clarity or conviction? Not so much. Poetry is just not my thing. All that symbolism and "this means this" and "that means that," I just want to crawl into a hole and die. I am a straightforward sort of guy. I actually told Sylvia, when we were dating, "I don't do hints well. If you want me to know something, write it on a board and smack me in the face." Have I mentioned that my nickname is "flatnose"... and that Sylvia is extremely literal? But I digress. I remember a scene in the movie Weird Science. The whole house is in chaos, magical things are happening all over the place, and a missile forms and pushes it's way through the room and out the roof. As it stops growing and the camera lingers on the missile, a white dove flutters down and lands on the nose of the missile. Then, and I love this, you hear a bell, "dingggg." It's like the movie makers are saying, "We know this is a movie for teenagers...pay attention and see symbolism...NOW...OK, back to the silliness."
I would like to say, I do know what a white dove symbolizes, but I have no idea what it means in the big picture of the movie! What? It's a peaceful missile? Don't worry, be happy? No countries were bombed in the making of this scene? I have no idea! Just tell me stuff...and then feed me a sandwich. I'm a simple guy.
Well all that rambling has led into what I really wanted to talk about today. My creative writing teacher loved to have us all read our writing. She called it "publishing" but I called it terrifying. I was not a comfortable reader. Turns out, though, that I got so many compliments on my voice that I soon got over the fear and was comfortable with it. But today is not about something I wrote, but about something a grandmotherly (it's a word) classmate wrote. The teacher led us into her reading with a special, "I want us all to pay close attention to this. We will be discussing it after she is done."
The poem started, my brain shut down, I tried to figure out if there really was a difference between red and green M & M's, and then she was done. Poem over, I tried to look like I was contemplating her work seriously. The class loved it! We literally spent most of the class having people say things like, "I think the use of the clouds to show sorrow was brilliant!"
"The changing of the seasons brought tears to my eyes. This is an important piece."
"It brought up images of family members I've lost. Can I get a copy of that?"
All the while the author sat silently, the rule of the teacher, not showing any emotion at all. Merely taking it in with a nod every now and then. The teacher let this love fest go on for about half an hour, and luckily never called on me because my comment would have been something like, "Seriously, why are these things different colors?"
When the conversation waned (told you I went to college) the teacher asked the author, who was probably in her mid sixties, to tell what she thought the poem meant to her. Her response was priceless!
"It's a load of crap!" she laughed, "I hate poetry so I just put words on a page to finish an assignment. She (teacher) made me do it and then wanted me to sit silently while everyone discussed it!"
At this point I was out of my chair pumping my fist in the air and shouting, "YES!! Woof, Woof, Woof! Brilliant!"
So my point is, I guess, that poetry is fine to read and it can be important until another person reads it too...and then the fireworks start. I mean who knows for sure? Maybe Robert Frost was working for the zoning commission when he wrote about fences and good neighbors. As far as poetry is concerned, I only need to know one thing...where can I get a Jethro-like beret to wear while I read my poem?
Friday, January 7, 2011
Who Me?
I know it's been a while since I've written...I cannot tell you how many stories are just floating around inside this cavernous cranium of mine waiting to come out in words...but alas, I have started earning my keep again. The writing will have to be fit in when I can. While I am still in the "nuts and bolts" portion of the blog, allow me, once again, to thank you for coming and checking this out. I've even gotten a few compliments out walking around my daily life...I gotta tell you, that feels nice.
I have assigned a new goal to the blog. Whenever a musician hears his or her song on the radio, they know they've arrived. I really doubt that any radio, anywhere, would read my words over the air. Whenever my family would see something in the newspaper that was worthy of repeating they would clip it out and send it to me. Then I would, and you know where I am going with this, put it on my refrigerator with a magnet. That is my new goal. I now want to see my writing that has been printed out and posted on the refrigerator of a stranger. How would I know? Well I have started breaking into houses all over the tri-cities area to do random refrigerator checks. Nothing yet, unfortunately. Remember I said "a stranger's house" so if you are a follower of the blog that doesn't count and your house is relatively safe...but one of you really needs to change the toilet paper roll in the back bathroom. It's been out for two days!
Now that that's off my chest, I can start to write about what I really wanted to talk about. A kindergarten story. I believe the statute of limitations has expired and I won't name names so I think I am safe. The final words of this story have become a punch-line of sorts around the school. I hope you enjoy it.
It was a calm clear day and, more importantly, I wasn't absolutely stressed about needing to get something done in my classroom while my students ate their lunch. (It could happen) I decided to hang around in the lunch room and socialize with my little ones. It was a fairly tough year (and I have taught everything from high school emotionally disturbed kids to elementary aged special needs kids...so this is saying something) and I was just making a break-through. I wanted to keep the momentum going. I was walking around teasing the kids, "Is that for Mr. Garrett?" "Did anyone save me a piece of pizza?" "No? Rats!" The kids and I were having a good time and I sat in an empty spot at the long cafeteria table when all of a sudden behind me... BLAM!! The next few seconds played out in slow motion and I will remember them forever.
I turned around and was face to face with two very shocked and very messy students. I cannot do the scene justice but I will try to describe the fallout. It will be much easier when they put this into the movie about my blog...Orson Wells will play me. In front of me were two 5 year old girls, side by side. One of them was covered with varying degrees of lettuce, croutons, noodles, ranch dressing, and topped off with what looked like about a gallon of chocolate milk slowly draining down her face, neck, and arms. She was still holding what was left of her tray and her expression was a mixture of "Huh?" and "What do I do now?" It was really sort of comical but I have been doing this long enough to know that I would really hurt this child's feelings if I were to start laughing hysterically.
This was also a rare moment of clarity for me. As a teacher (and as a parent) I find that I, quite often, need to work out the details of what happened and then decide my course of action. Not this time. I was right there! I turned around the instant after it happened! I was also absolutely positive that there was no malice in this situation. No kids were running off and laughing while these two suffered. There were no angry looks anywhere near us. Both of the girls had looks of "what the heck just happened?" I knew there was no punishment to be doled out, I didn't even need to break into my "teacher face," there was just a mess to be dealt with and a child to be consoled. Child, not children. Allow me describe the other girl now.
She was equally covered by the edible debris...on exactly half of her body. She looked like she had been lovingly draped with a drop-cloth that only covered the right side of her body and then had it taken away just before I looked. She was surprised but not terribly upset and even managed to take a bite of the apple that was in her hand.
I tried to convey that I knew nobody was at fault in this caloric catastrophe and that I knew it was just a horrible accident, but I couldn't quite piece together how this could have happened...unless they started placing tiny explosive devices in the milk cartons. I just couldn't help myself. I asked the holder of the tray, "Honey! What happened!?"
The other girl said, taking another bite of her apple, covered with as much food as anyone next to the epicenter of a foodquake should be, and with as straight a face as you could possibly imagine said,
"I wasn't there."
Not "I didn't do it." Not "It wasn't my fault." Not even "Boy, did you get the license of that truck?" She actually said, "I wasn't there." And this is when I started laughing...and I thought (but didn't say) "I hope you have fun in prison sweety."
So now I have an out. Every time something bad happens, I can just say, "I wasn't there." Works like a charm.
I hope you learned something from today's blog...and I also hope you send this to your cousin to post on her refrigerator.
I have assigned a new goal to the blog. Whenever a musician hears his or her song on the radio, they know they've arrived. I really doubt that any radio, anywhere, would read my words over the air. Whenever my family would see something in the newspaper that was worthy of repeating they would clip it out and send it to me. Then I would, and you know where I am going with this, put it on my refrigerator with a magnet. That is my new goal. I now want to see my writing that has been printed out and posted on the refrigerator of a stranger. How would I know? Well I have started breaking into houses all over the tri-cities area to do random refrigerator checks. Nothing yet, unfortunately. Remember I said "a stranger's house" so if you are a follower of the blog that doesn't count and your house is relatively safe...but one of you really needs to change the toilet paper roll in the back bathroom. It's been out for two days!
Now that that's off my chest, I can start to write about what I really wanted to talk about. A kindergarten story. I believe the statute of limitations has expired and I won't name names so I think I am safe. The final words of this story have become a punch-line of sorts around the school. I hope you enjoy it.
It was a calm clear day and, more importantly, I wasn't absolutely stressed about needing to get something done in my classroom while my students ate their lunch. (It could happen) I decided to hang around in the lunch room and socialize with my little ones. It was a fairly tough year (and I have taught everything from high school emotionally disturbed kids to elementary aged special needs kids...so this is saying something) and I was just making a break-through. I wanted to keep the momentum going. I was walking around teasing the kids, "Is that for Mr. Garrett?" "Did anyone save me a piece of pizza?" "No? Rats!" The kids and I were having a good time and I sat in an empty spot at the long cafeteria table when all of a sudden behind me... BLAM!! The next few seconds played out in slow motion and I will remember them forever.
I turned around and was face to face with two very shocked and very messy students. I cannot do the scene justice but I will try to describe the fallout. It will be much easier when they put this into the movie about my blog...Orson Wells will play me. In front of me were two 5 year old girls, side by side. One of them was covered with varying degrees of lettuce, croutons, noodles, ranch dressing, and topped off with what looked like about a gallon of chocolate milk slowly draining down her face, neck, and arms. She was still holding what was left of her tray and her expression was a mixture of "Huh?" and "What do I do now?" It was really sort of comical but I have been doing this long enough to know that I would really hurt this child's feelings if I were to start laughing hysterically.
This was also a rare moment of clarity for me. As a teacher (and as a parent) I find that I, quite often, need to work out the details of what happened and then decide my course of action. Not this time. I was right there! I turned around the instant after it happened! I was also absolutely positive that there was no malice in this situation. No kids were running off and laughing while these two suffered. There were no angry looks anywhere near us. Both of the girls had looks of "what the heck just happened?" I knew there was no punishment to be doled out, I didn't even need to break into my "teacher face," there was just a mess to be dealt with and a child to be consoled. Child, not children. Allow me describe the other girl now.
She was equally covered by the edible debris...on exactly half of her body. She looked like she had been lovingly draped with a drop-cloth that only covered the right side of her body and then had it taken away just before I looked. She was surprised but not terribly upset and even managed to take a bite of the apple that was in her hand.
I tried to convey that I knew nobody was at fault in this caloric catastrophe and that I knew it was just a horrible accident, but I couldn't quite piece together how this could have happened...unless they started placing tiny explosive devices in the milk cartons. I just couldn't help myself. I asked the holder of the tray, "Honey! What happened!?"
The other girl said, taking another bite of her apple, covered with as much food as anyone next to the epicenter of a foodquake should be, and with as straight a face as you could possibly imagine said,
"I wasn't there."
Not "I didn't do it." Not "It wasn't my fault." Not even "Boy, did you get the license of that truck?" She actually said, "I wasn't there." And this is when I started laughing...and I thought (but didn't say) "I hope you have fun in prison sweety."
So now I have an out. Every time something bad happens, I can just say, "I wasn't there." Works like a charm.
I hope you learned something from today's blog...and I also hope you send this to your cousin to post on her refrigerator.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Puzzle That Ate Fremont
I was going to title this, How I spent my Christmas vacation, but I thought that might be to cliche...even for a kindergarten teacher. As I lay here in a bed that is not my own, less than twenty four hours from when the students come back to class, I thought I would try to squeeze in one more post. If someone wanted to call me and offer me millions of dollars to write this rambling for a newspaper making it possible for me to stay here another day, I must tell you...I can only wait maybe ten or fifteen more seconds....starting now...ok now...how bout now...crap. So I need to get up in a bit and start packing for home.
We started this break much like any teacher does...as part of a spectacularly choreographed dance number where we all throw student work into the air and jump off tables singing about no more kids for two weeks...well that's what we feel like anyway...and when they turn this blog into a movie that is how it will be portrayed. Kevin Bacon will play me.
Actually, I had a few things to take care of around the house, we needed to finalize the decorating for company, we needed to shop for a few last minute presents, and I needed to get the fire extinguisher to put next to the tree. Remember, we are German and put real candles on our real tree....real carefully. On Christmas Eve we spent the evening watching Kristiana perform in the choir at church and then opened presents with Sylvia's side of the family. On Christmas morning we spent a little time going through our stockings before my family came over in the morning. There were some very strange looking, rather large, rather smelly, raisinettes in my stocking...and a nasty note from Santa saying that "coal was too good for you!"....but I digress.
When the wrapping paper carnage subsided, we had time to sit and enjoy each other. Well, Kristiana got a new Ipod and Jake got a new remote control thing-a-majig, so Sylvia and I got to enjoy each other...while working on "the puzzle." I have no one to blame but myself. I bought it. And even with the best of intentions I now see that I should have chosen more carefully. Allow me to back up a bit. It was 1996, Kristiana was just a few months old, Sylvia and I were celebrating our third married Christmas, and I thought it would be a good idea to start a tradition. I actually thought, "this will be fun" but I now see that I was young and foolish. I bought a puzzle. You see, I didn't really think about how hard a puzzle whose border was not rectangular would be. There were also two puzzle ornaments about the size of a Pringles lid where you put together these ornament puzzles and then hang them on the tree. Those pieces were mixed in with the larger puzzle. Drat. I thought we could leave it on a table and when visitors came we could sit and chat and put a few pieces on. No pressure. That was the first year...and the last...for more than a decade.
This year I got it out of the bottom of the closet and thought, "This is the year." When I opened the box I saw what will now become an omen of Christmas peril...melted candy canes...in the box...all over the pieces. Throw it away, right? Did I mention that I am cheap...with OCD tendencies? I lovingly wiped off each sticky piece, threw away the offending canes, and laid the puzzle out (face up) so "we" could begin. That initial start consisted of us looking at the box, saying, "There are no edge pieces", and then going off to do something else. Oh sure, occasionally we would get together and put together all the pieces that had words on them. Those were easy. There was a woman in a plaid red skirt. She, and her skirt, remained headless for quite some time. There was a swan (a swimming) that was relatively easy to piece together, since it was all white...but most of the time we just complained that there were no edge pieces! In fact, when people came over and saw that we had a puzzle out...and then commented on how brilliant the person who started this tradition must be...would look closer and say, "This thing has no edge! We have to go."
Such was our misery. We covered the table when our niece came over. When we uncovered it, "Noooo!" some parts fell apart. We moved a light to shine on the table because, of course, that was the reason for our slow progress. It helped, but in the final assessment we see..."the stupid puzzle has no edges!" And then we got invited by very generous and wonderful friends to come here, to Angel's Camp CA, to celebrate New Years. After the first of the year I go back to work, the rest of the family despises the puzzle, I need to at least finish the border or it will be thrown into the box in the first fifteen minutes of my being back in the classroom. I'm telling you, this puzzle is getting done. This Year!!
It came down to the day before we left...everything was set, we were mostly packed and were going to leave in the morning. I decided to try to get at least the border done on this puzzle that was just about half finished. If the border was done, I thought, then they can't just throw it into the box. I can stay up a little while longer. I gathered all the pieces that looked like they should be border, I started trying them all. Great! This one fit. Well that created a weird looking space...I think I saw one that looked like...yes it fit! Then the edge literally dead ended...no more obvious pieces. I had to just put a few pieces together in the middle to figure out how to finish the edge.
Well to make a long blog short...I had a full blown mental break and ended up staying up until three in the morning finishing the puzzle. Good thing we weren't planning on leaving until noon.
So filled with a sense of completion we came to celebrate the New Year and play in the snow with a group of friends. I can't tell you about all the fun we had just yet...statute of limitations and all...but we have thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
When I go home I plan on taking the puzzle apart and putting it back into the box. Then I will wrap the box with chains and throw it off a bridge into the murky waters below and prevent others from suffering the same fate...or maybe I'll raffle it off as a prize in my blog! (insert evil laughter here)
We started this break much like any teacher does...as part of a spectacularly choreographed dance number where we all throw student work into the air and jump off tables singing about no more kids for two weeks...well that's what we feel like anyway...and when they turn this blog into a movie that is how it will be portrayed. Kevin Bacon will play me.
Actually, I had a few things to take care of around the house, we needed to finalize the decorating for company, we needed to shop for a few last minute presents, and I needed to get the fire extinguisher to put next to the tree. Remember, we are German and put real candles on our real tree....real carefully. On Christmas Eve we spent the evening watching Kristiana perform in the choir at church and then opened presents with Sylvia's side of the family. On Christmas morning we spent a little time going through our stockings before my family came over in the morning. There were some very strange looking, rather large, rather smelly, raisinettes in my stocking...and a nasty note from Santa saying that "coal was too good for you!"....but I digress.
When the wrapping paper carnage subsided, we had time to sit and enjoy each other. Well, Kristiana got a new Ipod and Jake got a new remote control thing-a-majig, so Sylvia and I got to enjoy each other...while working on "the puzzle." I have no one to blame but myself. I bought it. And even with the best of intentions I now see that I should have chosen more carefully. Allow me to back up a bit. It was 1996, Kristiana was just a few months old, Sylvia and I were celebrating our third married Christmas, and I thought it would be a good idea to start a tradition. I actually thought, "this will be fun" but I now see that I was young and foolish. I bought a puzzle. You see, I didn't really think about how hard a puzzle whose border was not rectangular would be. There were also two puzzle ornaments about the size of a Pringles lid where you put together these ornament puzzles and then hang them on the tree. Those pieces were mixed in with the larger puzzle. Drat. I thought we could leave it on a table and when visitors came we could sit and chat and put a few pieces on. No pressure. That was the first year...and the last...for more than a decade.
This year I got it out of the bottom of the closet and thought, "This is the year." When I opened the box I saw what will now become an omen of Christmas peril...melted candy canes...in the box...all over the pieces. Throw it away, right? Did I mention that I am cheap...with OCD tendencies? I lovingly wiped off each sticky piece, threw away the offending canes, and laid the puzzle out (face up) so "we" could begin. That initial start consisted of us looking at the box, saying, "There are no edge pieces", and then going off to do something else. Oh sure, occasionally we would get together and put together all the pieces that had words on them. Those were easy. There was a woman in a plaid red skirt. She, and her skirt, remained headless for quite some time. There was a swan (a swimming) that was relatively easy to piece together, since it was all white...but most of the time we just complained that there were no edge pieces! In fact, when people came over and saw that we had a puzzle out...and then commented on how brilliant the person who started this tradition must be...would look closer and say, "This thing has no edge! We have to go."
Such was our misery. We covered the table when our niece came over. When we uncovered it, "Noooo!" some parts fell apart. We moved a light to shine on the table because, of course, that was the reason for our slow progress. It helped, but in the final assessment we see..."the stupid puzzle has no edges!" And then we got invited by very generous and wonderful friends to come here, to Angel's Camp CA, to celebrate New Years. After the first of the year I go back to work, the rest of the family despises the puzzle, I need to at least finish the border or it will be thrown into the box in the first fifteen minutes of my being back in the classroom. I'm telling you, this puzzle is getting done. This Year!!
It came down to the day before we left...everything was set, we were mostly packed and were going to leave in the morning. I decided to try to get at least the border done on this puzzle that was just about half finished. If the border was done, I thought, then they can't just throw it into the box. I can stay up a little while longer. I gathered all the pieces that looked like they should be border, I started trying them all. Great! This one fit. Well that created a weird looking space...I think I saw one that looked like...yes it fit! Then the edge literally dead ended...no more obvious pieces. I had to just put a few pieces together in the middle to figure out how to finish the edge.
Well to make a long blog short...I had a full blown mental break and ended up staying up until three in the morning finishing the puzzle. Good thing we weren't planning on leaving until noon.
So filled with a sense of completion we came to celebrate the New Year and play in the snow with a group of friends. I can't tell you about all the fun we had just yet...statute of limitations and all...but we have thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
When I go home I plan on taking the puzzle apart and putting it back into the box. Then I will wrap the box with chains and throw it off a bridge into the murky waters below and prevent others from suffering the same fate...or maybe I'll raffle it off as a prize in my blog! (insert evil laughter here)
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
"They" Said It Would Happen
I do not want to write this particular blog post, but I suppose I must. I'm afraid something is happening to me that I was not prepared for. Before we begin, I would like to address this to the proverbial "they" who say "things" that involve everyday life. I'm sure you are familiar with them. You know, "They" say if you swallow chewing gum it will never digest. "They" say when you floss your teeth you will have fewer cavities. "They" say you should throw away leftover turkey after 2 days or you run the risk of food poisoning. Yes, "they" are wise beyond their years. Unfortunately for me, "they" also say that I would eventually start to grow up.
I'm not particularly happy about it but, apparently, I am becoming more mature. Don't get me wrong, if someone laughs at the dinner table so hard that snorts fill the air, I will imitate the sound for the next five minutes! Guaranteed! When making our bed I will still arrange our stuffed animal mascots in compromising positions. I still take great delight in doing things that make Sylvia say my name so that "Jeff" sounds like it has two syllables. "Jeh-eff did you draw smiley faces on all the eggs?" "Jeh-eff stop playing with the remote control fart machine?" "Jeh-eff don't teach the kids that!" Most of these types of things are followed by, "You goof." It's kinda my thing.
Now, I am finding an area in my life that is completely foreign to me...and it is freaking me out! The approaching date is merely coincidental. I'm not one to pick New Year's Eve as the time to pause, reflect, and evaluate where I am going and then make a resolution about something I need to change. To me, the new year is just an arbitrary date and if people wait until then to do all of the things they should, well, a lot of things won't happen during the year while waiting for the mythical January first. What I am saying is that I did not "resolve" to change this attitude of mine. And yet it's changing all the same.
It all started when I had a daughter. I realize that I've had a daughter for many years. I didn't say that I was growing up at blazing speed! "They" just said it would happen eventually. When Kristiana was old enough to talk and older than the "I'm gonna marry Daddy" phase. She asked Sylvia and I, "When can I get married?" My answer has always been, "Ten years after Daddy is gone, honey" or "When you are 132." When she figured out that this was unrealistic on my part, she would say, "I'm going to go out on dates sometime you know." I would tell her that I, of course, knew this. I would then say that all of her dates would need to meet me and that I would be sitting at the kitchen table...cleaning my shotgun...seriously.
Well this has been the conversation for years...and now I am feeling an attitude shift. I am not ready for dating and I am centuries away from considering walking her down the aisle, but lately there have been signals that make me think, "I may be ready for this...someday."
I have been blessed with a very smart daughter. I have also been "blessed" (said through clenched teeth) with a strong willed daughter. It makes for some difficult situations while growing up and the balance of power in the household, but Sylvia and I agree that being a strong adult will be a wonderful thing. Very few people can "put one over" on her. She has demonstrated time and again that her moral compass is stuck directly on North and she has a highly developed sense of right and wrong. Perhaps this is why I am making an adaptation without needing to be institutionalized.
I would never want to embarrass anyone, ever, so I will try to tread lightly here. The other day a young man figured out a clever way to get her phone number...and I didn't head for the weapons safe. Another young man asked her to ice skate together when they were on a field trip...and they held hands. I, the person who is growing up, did not dress in all camouflage and paint my face with green and black grease paint. Boys call to talk to her on the phone...I do not start sharpening battle axes on the large spinning stone wheel we have in the garage. She goes to Starbucks with a group of friends...some of whom are boys...and I do not follow them while wearing the ammunition belts, loaded with bullets, criss-crossed across my chest! I think about it!...but I don't do it...anymore. I think there is real progress happening here.
Why just two days ago we all went to the mall, and while Jake and I were looking at the sporting goods store and talking to the manager about the pros and cons of crossbows versus pellet guns, Sylvia and Kristiana were trying on dresses...for prom! I did not try to bite a barbell in half...and they were right within reach! I tried to stall, I tried to stay in the sporting goods store long enough for them to need to find us rather than us having to go to the land of lace and ribbon.
When Jake and I had boosted our testosterone levels to near neanderthal level we ventured out...grunting and scraping our knuckles on the ground. We found the women-folk in a store that had seats outside the dressing rooms. Speaking as a man, that's never a good sign. And then Kristiana came out of the dressing room. Let's just say, I can see why all of these young men are starting to hang around...and it's not because she had the good sense to pick a dress that was on sale, which she did. What a beautiful young woman. I did not lie on the ground in the fetal position and suck my thumb...for very long.
So while I am really not ready for all of this to start happening, I suppose it is going to happen whether I like it or not. I am getting used to it slowly but surely...anyone like to purchase a couple of slightly used bullet filled criss-crossed belts? "They" said I wouldn't need them anymore.
I'm not particularly happy about it but, apparently, I am becoming more mature. Don't get me wrong, if someone laughs at the dinner table so hard that snorts fill the air, I will imitate the sound for the next five minutes! Guaranteed! When making our bed I will still arrange our stuffed animal mascots in compromising positions. I still take great delight in doing things that make Sylvia say my name so that "Jeff" sounds like it has two syllables. "Jeh-eff did you draw smiley faces on all the eggs?" "Jeh-eff stop playing with the remote control fart machine?" "Jeh-eff don't teach the kids that!" Most of these types of things are followed by, "You goof." It's kinda my thing.
Now, I am finding an area in my life that is completely foreign to me...and it is freaking me out! The approaching date is merely coincidental. I'm not one to pick New Year's Eve as the time to pause, reflect, and evaluate where I am going and then make a resolution about something I need to change. To me, the new year is just an arbitrary date and if people wait until then to do all of the things they should, well, a lot of things won't happen during the year while waiting for the mythical January first. What I am saying is that I did not "resolve" to change this attitude of mine. And yet it's changing all the same.
It all started when I had a daughter. I realize that I've had a daughter for many years. I didn't say that I was growing up at blazing speed! "They" just said it would happen eventually. When Kristiana was old enough to talk and older than the "I'm gonna marry Daddy" phase. She asked Sylvia and I, "When can I get married?" My answer has always been, "Ten years after Daddy is gone, honey" or "When you are 132." When she figured out that this was unrealistic on my part, she would say, "I'm going to go out on dates sometime you know." I would tell her that I, of course, knew this. I would then say that all of her dates would need to meet me and that I would be sitting at the kitchen table...cleaning my shotgun...seriously.
Well this has been the conversation for years...and now I am feeling an attitude shift. I am not ready for dating and I am centuries away from considering walking her down the aisle, but lately there have been signals that make me think, "I may be ready for this...someday."
I have been blessed with a very smart daughter. I have also been "blessed" (said through clenched teeth) with a strong willed daughter. It makes for some difficult situations while growing up and the balance of power in the household, but Sylvia and I agree that being a strong adult will be a wonderful thing. Very few people can "put one over" on her. She has demonstrated time and again that her moral compass is stuck directly on North and she has a highly developed sense of right and wrong. Perhaps this is why I am making an adaptation without needing to be institutionalized.
I would never want to embarrass anyone, ever, so I will try to tread lightly here. The other day a young man figured out a clever way to get her phone number...and I didn't head for the weapons safe. Another young man asked her to ice skate together when they were on a field trip...and they held hands. I, the person who is growing up, did not dress in all camouflage and paint my face with green and black grease paint. Boys call to talk to her on the phone...I do not start sharpening battle axes on the large spinning stone wheel we have in the garage. She goes to Starbucks with a group of friends...some of whom are boys...and I do not follow them while wearing the ammunition belts, loaded with bullets, criss-crossed across my chest! I think about it!...but I don't do it...anymore. I think there is real progress happening here.
Why just two days ago we all went to the mall, and while Jake and I were looking at the sporting goods store and talking to the manager about the pros and cons of crossbows versus pellet guns, Sylvia and Kristiana were trying on dresses...for prom! I did not try to bite a barbell in half...and they were right within reach! I tried to stall, I tried to stay in the sporting goods store long enough for them to need to find us rather than us having to go to the land of lace and ribbon.
When Jake and I had boosted our testosterone levels to near neanderthal level we ventured out...grunting and scraping our knuckles on the ground. We found the women-folk in a store that had seats outside the dressing rooms. Speaking as a man, that's never a good sign. And then Kristiana came out of the dressing room. Let's just say, I can see why all of these young men are starting to hang around...and it's not because she had the good sense to pick a dress that was on sale, which she did. What a beautiful young woman. I did not lie on the ground in the fetal position and suck my thumb...for very long.
So while I am really not ready for all of this to start happening, I suppose it is going to happen whether I like it or not. I am getting used to it slowly but surely...anyone like to purchase a couple of slightly used bullet filled criss-crossed belts? "They" said I wouldn't need them anymore.
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