Eldest Graduates From College

Today, Eldest graduates from college. Like all major life events, this gives me pause to remember. I remember the morning my wife’s water broke. It was July 1st and she wasn’t due until August 4^th. It was four weeks before the due date and we were both concerned.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that my wife went into labor early. She is early to everything, she comes from a long line of women who are early to everything.

I called the doctor’s office, which was closed, and was given the number for the on-call answering service. I called the number and the man on the other side asked his scripted questions. “What is her due date? How far apart are her contractions?” and so on.

When I told him her contractions were many minutes apart, he asked if this was our first child. It was. He told me to call back when the contractions were two minutes apart.

I wanted to reach through the phone, grab him by the neck, and shake him, but I did not.

Instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Let me start again; my wife is due August 4^th.” And then I stopped. There was a long silence on the line and suddenly the faceless voice on the line said, “Ooohhh. She is four weeks early!” I could almost hear the panic in his voice as he told me he would page the on call doctor immediately, and if I didn’t hear from the doctor in twenty minutes, I should call back.

Eldest was born the next day. She was healthy and happy. At least I think she was happy. She didn’t say much those first few weeks and months, so I cannot be absolutely sure. In fact, she didn’t say much the first few years. Beloved and I would often have to encourage her to use her words, which she adamantly refused to do.

For most of her time in grade school, middle school, and high school, Eldest wanted to be an engineer. She took all the math and science classes she could. She took classes on electricity and computer aided drawing. And we still had to remind her to use her words.

Today, three years after graduating from high school, Eldest graduates from college. Like her entrance into the world, and in the tradition of her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, who all believe that being on time is late, she is graduating early.

Today, Eldest graduates with a degree, not in math or science, but English. Apparently, all those years of admonishing her to use her words stuck with her and now she writes—and wow, does she write! (Check her blog out at kaleigh.distaffen.com)

So, Eldest, congratulations on finishing your baccalaureate degree. I am in awe of your quiet strength, your tender wit, and your firmly caring heart. I am proud of you and can’t wait to see what this new chapter in your life brings.

Summer is Quickly Coming to a Shopping Halt

For my family, this is the end; of summer that is. There were such high hopes for this summer. Early in the summer, I spotted a tweet from a twitter friend, Rachel @girl_onthego, referring to her grandfather’s brain museum. More correctly, it is “The Museum of Neuroanatomy,” and it is located in Buffalo, NY, which is a scant hour drive from my home. It sounded off-beat enough to pique the interest of my daughters and me. I thought it would be a good thing to do.

Although it was on our list, it didn’t get marked off as done; we have decided to keep it on the list.

We did have a busy and wonderful summer. Littlest, Middlest, and I went with a group of teens out to Greenville, Illinois for a week of Bible Quizzing competition. As a family, we spent a day at the fair and an evening at a ball game (I wrote about that adventure last week). This past week, Beloved and I celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary. The details of that celebration will be kept under-cover.

Any long-time reader of my blog knows that I dislike shopping and the end of summer means more shopping: school shopping. I am not sure which I dislike more: school or shopping. Be assured, gentle reader, that I went to school. I even have a bachelors of arts degree in something or another. Notice that even though I was confirmed a bachelor, I still married, and being married is way better than school. Even if my wife works at an educational institution and drags me shopping.

Going shopping with women folk is an experience. Once in a while I will be asked whether I like one piece of clothing over another. The interrogator will hold each piece up over her appropriate body part and look at me expectantly.

I rub my bearded chin softly and make fluffy noises to my self with my brow furrowed. Then I reach out and touch the fabric of each item; I examine the quality of the stitching. Then I pronounce judgment on which one I like the best.

I always end up choosing the least expensive item, for, you see, while caressing the fabric and examining the stitching, I always look at the price tag.

While on one of these recent school shopping escapades, I was thinking to myself, “Self, it will be so nice when school starts and the shopping will be done.”

Beloved, as if reading my mind, hugged my arm and with a warm giggle said, “As soon as everyone gets back to school, we can go Christmas shopping.”

Oh bother.

Do You Have a Pioneer Spirit?

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I didn’t write a blog post last week. It was a bad week. The lawnmower broke, the clothes dryer broke, and I worked extra shifts driving bus.

While driving the bus, I overheard a conversation between a driver and the head mechanic. The driver called the garage and said, “Hey, I am driving this spare bus and I think a horse drawn carriage would drive better than this bus. Will my regular bus be ready soon?”

The garage mechanic replied that the regular bus would be done and if it was not done, he would make sure to “upgrade the spare bus to a horse drawn carriage”.

This gave me hope. After all, our ancestors survived when things were much tougher. There were no buses, no lawnmowers, and clothes only dried if you hung them on a line and let them air dry.

But if they didn’t have lawnmowers, how did they keep their yards from turning into hayfields? I believe I have the answer and decided to propose it to my wife.

Over evening coffee, Beloved was trying to plan out the next week’s meals, along with scheduling trips to take our dirty clothes to her parents to wash and dry. By the way, my in-laws are awesomesauce, and I am not just saying that because I have clean clothes. I am saying that because they are.

Waiting for just the right moment, which was when my wife took a breath, I sprung my idea on her. “What if we didn’t replace the lawnmower and simply bought sheep instead. They would keep the grass down.”

She replied, “The town won’t let us have sheep and our neighbors probably wouldn’t like the noise and the smell.”

“We could shear the sheep and you could knit fine wool hats that we could give to our neighbors. Then they would be happy and have warm ears.”

“I don’t know how to knit hats. We are not getting sheep. Now let me figure out dinner for next week.”

She diligently worked out a fine menu for the next week’s meals. Until I interrupted again. “What about goats?”“

“Goats? Seriously?”

“Yes goats. We could make cheese from the milk and that would help with dinner. You do know how to milk a goat, right?”

“No, I do not know how to milk a goat. We are not getting goats. The town won’t let us have them anyway.”

The flame of the pioneer spirit that once burned bright and hot within my soul was quickly being snuffed out and had been reduced to a smoldering ember. Undeterred, I gave it one last try and suggested, “Why don’t we just dry our clothes outside on the clothes line?”

Beloved shot me a look. You know that look. The look I wrote about a couple weeks ago. She very firmly responded, “Absolutely not.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Stop being silly. It is obvious that if we hung the clothes outside, the goats would pull them all off the line and eat them.”

Needless to say, we bought a new lawnmower and have scheduled a repairman to look at the dryer. Even if I think it is a baad idea.

I Hate Shopping

Here, where I live, in New York State, we had our first accumulating snow of the season. To narrow the geography down a little bit, I live in the western portion of New York State. For those who are unaware, there is a lot of real estate in New York that doesn’t include New York City.

When the snow started to fall, around 7:00 in the evening, I happened to be driving for work. My co-worker and I began to sing Holiday songs. His humor being as warped as mine, we created our own lyrics that were slightly amusing, at least to us. Lyrics like, “Oh the weather outside is....weather.”

Since Halloween, the Christmas shopping advertisements have started on television, and the snow only added to the impending sense of Christmas. The church I attend has, for the past few years, invited the congregation to participate in Advent Conspiracy. I encourage you to check out the website AdventConspiracy.org and read about it for yourself. I especially like the idea of spending less; doing less shopping. I hate shopping.

Let me clarify that it is not the act of shopping that bothers me the most. I shop, but when I shop, I like to get all Walter Mitty and imagine I am on a CIA rendition. I swoop in fast and low, grab the target, pay off an official on the way out, and escape before being spotted by the enemy.

The things that bother me the most in executing my mission are an unspecified target, civilians milling around impeding my progress, and long lines at the border check points.

I am quite thankful that Beloved understands these things and that is why we start our Christmas shopping in October and are usually done by Thanksgiving. We take a couple of weekdays and get out to the mall as the doors open. We shop until the crowds start to swell; and by swell, I mean more than 10 other people in the store.

I am always amazed at how people can safely drive to the mall; they follow all the rules of the road, keeping to the right, neither speeding, nor impeding traffic, and entering  traffic safely. Then they arrive at the mall and immediately upon walking through the doors, lose all common sense. They walk against the flow of traffic; they enter the flow of traffic without looking both ways, and stop without warning in the middle of the lane of traffic.

This addlepated perambulating is infuriating.  

That is why I hate shopping so much, and so, Beloved has a detailed plan when we shop. She knows which stores we are going to attack,which packages we need to extract, and what is a reasonable amount to be paid to each border guard. Every step is planned out. Our Christmas shopping rendition complete, it is now time for my favorite part of the holiday season, eating cookies.

Was it a Mouse in the House, or a Moose on the Loose

Middlest has been known to speak with a British accent, and at one time looked at the clock and out of no where said, “It’s Five O’clock? God Save the Queen!” So, she was not amused on Thursday when she discovered we had a surprise visitor to our house. That visitor revealed its presence to Middlest early in the morning as she was getting ready for school.

The visitor was a wayward field mouse, who had mistakenly wandered into our house and sought out the comfort of our kitchen. This greatly displeased all three of my daughters, and  Beloved as well.

I am puzzled by this attitude towards the small and lowly mouse. As my daughters grew up, they enjoyed watching a set of videos starring a country mouse and a city mouse. This dynamic duo of mousedom traveled all over the globe, had many fine adventures, and contributed greatly towards the good of mankind. This animated duo helped save people during the San Francisco Earthquake, preserve priceless ancient artifacts in Egypt, inspire Monet to paint water lillies, and even protected the crown jewels of England.

Despite this early education regarding the wonders of mousedom, my daughters do not like mice. They think they are evil.

And my phone registered their discomfort Thursday morning as it rattled incessantly with messages of grief, anguish, and disgust. Finally, after a bazillion texts, the phone heaved a sigh of quietness as daughters went off to school and Beloved was certain I would be home to take care of the situation.

The last set of texts went like this:

Eldest - I didn’t see the mouse when I left this morning,

but I also wasn’t looking for it.

Me - K. Thanks

Eldest - But I could feel its evil little presence watching my every move.

Me - Ha! I shall poison the evilness. And  

      let its carcass rot outside for all eternity

Eldest -  My ears rejoice at the sound of such an evil plan!

Me -  But soft, I am eager to slay the

        beast and return my domain to a    

       happier state

Later, Eldest once again texted:

Eldest - Has the enemy been vanquished?

Me - The trap has been laid.

        The enemy shall be caught

        unawares and sickened by its

         own appetite

Eldest - This Lady protesteth not.

Some people have the nack for taking a mole hill and turning it into a mountain; my family takes a mouse and turns it into a moose.

My First Phone Call to Beloved

This August, Beloved and I celebrate our 24th wedding anniversary. For those of you keeping score, yes, I married her when I was one year old. I must also confess that Beloved was my first real girl friend, and that is probably why I was a little awkward while we were dating.

Who am I kidding? I am still awkward.

The first time I called her during our first summer of dating, I was staying on campus and she was living at home. I went down the hall to the pay phone with the proper coin in hand. For those who are unfamiliar with pay phones, they were large phones bolted to the wall. You inserted a coin and were able to make a phone call for an alloted number of minutes. They were replaced by cell phones.

I put in my coin and dialed her home number. Remember, there weren’t cell phones, I had to dial the number to her house and hope someone answered. Someone did answer; her father.

I really like Beloved’s father. He is a wonderful man, but I must admit back then I found him a little intimidating. It isn’t that he was big, or loud; he wasn’t. He did’nt have guns nor did he hunt.

He was a division chair at the college Beloved and I attended. He had a reputation for being a firm professor, who had high expectations. And most everyone had to take his class. I transferred into the college from another school and did not have to take his class, which was a relief.

But now I was on the phone, calling his daughter, and he answered. I responded with, “Hello, can I speak to...”

Then it happened. I forgot her name. I was so awkwardly nervous just dialing the phone number that when he answered, my brain did a complete memory dump. This was not only the professor from school, this was the father of the girl I liked. I was so nervous, I didn’t remember my name, and I for sure didn’t remember her name.

After a few moments, my memory was once again working and I was able to ask for Beloved by name.

“One moment,” he said and then I heard a chuckle: a chuckle I now know well and enjoy hearing. That chuckle was followed by the muffled sound of him calling to his daughter. “It’s a boy for you, and I think he forgot your name.”

I have forgotten many things since that time and I am sure I will forget many more things that have yet to happen. But, I am so thankful that despite the first awkward moment I spoke with my then future father-in-law, that he didn’t hold it against me and still approved of me marrying his daughter.

Help, I need Inspiration

There are times when I am intimidated by this space. I run out of ideas and inspiration. It is at times like these I turn to my family for help. I asked Beloved what I should write about and she responded, “I don’t know.” This is of no help, I am the one who really doesn’t know and really should.

This not knowing is unacceptable in the connected age we live in, and led me to do what every Internet junkie would do. I Googled “What should I blog about today?” I was less than impressed at the results. In the top ten results there were advertisements to purchase a system from Empower Network for driving traffic to my blog, so I can make more money from my blog. I don’t make any money in the first place, and in the second, I can fool the most fool proof of anything, even if it is only “Simple, 3-step Formula.”

I want inspiration, not a sales pitch.

The next result was a blog post from someone named Social Pro, who told me my problem was I hadn’t done my homework. Like I haven’t heard that before, from all my teachers, throughout my entire educational career.

Social Pro’s idea of homework was to take one or two days a month and dedicate them exclusively to brainstorming blog ideas. Not going to happen; I actually have to work too much  to pay the bills to take two days a month to sit around waiting for inspiration.

I need inspiration and I need it now.

Littlest, who is very supportive, said, “Daddy, you can do it. Just write about whatever you want; I believe in you.”

I need inspiration, not affirmation.

Middlest is my go to daughter for inspirational humor. This is the girl who, at the dinner table, said, “If I cried as much as I actually say I do, my tear ducts would pack their bags in disgust and exhaustion and move to my kidneys.”

When I asked her what I should write about she said, “Dad, I have trig homework, AP World homework (that is the class where they watch movies during class and do the learning at home on their own) and a synchronized swim show this weekend. I need to get my homework done. Do YOU know how to do infinite geometric series?”

I need inspiration and a mathematician.

Eldest, when I asked her what I should write about, threw her hands in the air and said, “Write about...ME!”

Finally, something to inspire me. Unfortunately, I have run out of my weekly allotment of words. I will have to write about her another time.

I Shared Something on Facebook that Disturbed My Wife

Last week, I saw a post on Facebook that I liked and shared on my timeline. It was one of those posts with a picture and some words. The words read, “Women are made to be loved, not understood.” I found the caption to be humorous and insightful, but my wife didn’t. Within a few moments, I receieved a text from her asking why I posted that picture. Did I not understand her, did she do something to make me not understand her?

Let me point out that I have known my wife for more than two decades. I know my wife. I know her birthday, her social security number, her favorite color, and the color of her eyes. I know what to say to make her smile and what not to say, because it makes her unhappy. Apparently I can add one more thing to the unhappy list. Despite all the things I know about my wife, and all the many things I understand, there are things I still do not understand.

I know my wife likes cards. Very early in our relationship it became quite clear that one of the ways she demonstrates her love is in the giving of cards. This was not true of me, but I quickly learned to show her affection by giving her cards. In those early days of our relationship, before cellphones, we would talk on the land line  phone during our lunch breaks. During one particular conversation, it was clear Beloved was not having a very good day. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, I considered how to make her feel better. Soon, a plan emerged, and when work was over, I put it into action.

Beloved rode home from work with me at that time. When I went to pick her up, I quickly found a parking spot and hurried into the basement of the building where she worked. I rushed into the bookstore conveniently located in the basement level and scanned the small section of greeting cards in the center of the store. I found the perfect one, It had some teddy bears on the front along with some affectionate words. I grabbed it and opened it up to makes sure it wasn’t one of those gag cards with the picture of some horrid biker guy and some awkward words scrawled across the top. Thankfully, the affectionate words continued and there were more teddy bears inside. I didn’t have time to accurately read them, but it was a card, teddy bears, and affectionate words. How could that go wrong?

I made my purchase, scurried back out to the car, signed my name, put the card in the envelope, wrote Beloved’s name on the envelope and laid it on the dash of the car for her to see when she got in. And I did it just in the nick of time. She sat down and when she saw that card she gave me that smile that gives me warm fuzzies inside.

As we pulled into traffic, Beloved let out an unexplainable sound I shall not forget. It was a cross between a loud laugh and a gasp of horror. I looked over at her, very concerned. She was aghast as she said, “Father’s Day? You bought me a Father’s Day card?!”

I don’t understand why my wife likes cards so much, even if they are Father’s day cards, but I know her, and more importantly, love her. Men smarter than I have spent years researching the human psyche and have but scratched the surface. How can I expect to understand the wonderful, complicated, exciting woman I have decided to spend my life with? I cannot, but I love her.

You Are My Favorite

I work with a gentleman who often announces that he “loves” someone “the best”.  Usually the person receiving his affection is the person closest to the coffee maker. I think he believes that if he bats his big brown eyes, gives a huge toothy grin, and butters up his target with shouts of sweetness from across the room, he may be rewarded with a cup of coffee.

Last week, Eldest hacked my Facebook. She took my phone when I was distracted, and updated my status to read, “Eldest is my favorite!” She then ceaselessly giggled when she told me what she had done. I didn’t say anything; I just plotted my next move. That post, by the way, received two likes and a number of comments about how I must have been hacked.

Any good parenting book will tell you not to play favorites with your children. But a few years ago I asked Littlest to put a load of laundry into the washing machine. She was deeply offended since she thought it was one of her sister’s turns to do that chore. She pleaded, “But daddy, why me?” I replied, “Because you are my favorite.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she rolled her eyes, “I know, but...”

I think I am still waiting for that load of laundry to be put into the washer.

This choosing of the best has been a tradition in our house since that time, with Eldest and Littlest each arguing between themselves as to who is really my favorite. Meanwhile, Middlest stays out of the fray, and when I tell her that she is my favorite, she replies with a stately and quietly dignified, “I know.” This is out of character for Middlest, who has made it a point to attack every moment of the day with enormous gusto, scathing sarcasm, and the wittiest of comments, such as, “What?! It’s 5 o’clock already?! God Save the Queen!”

So, on Friday, Eldest posted that she was my favorite when she hacked my Facebook. On Saturday, I posted, “Middlest is my favorite.” She remained silent, but her sisters argued back and forth in the comments that they were actually my favorite.

On Saturday, I posted “Littlest is my favorite.” By this point social media apparently had grown bored with my inability to pick one favorite and stick with it; that post only had two likes and no discussion. Littlest would say that there were no comments because it was the truth.

On Sunday I posted that my account had been hacked, and that “Beloved  is truly my favorite.” Now that post was greeted with great mayhem, with 14 likes and 5 comments.

Unlike my friend from work, I would never resort to underhanded complimenting in order to get something I wanted. I simply have a hard time making up my mind who is really my favorite.

Although, Littlest has been getting up early and making me coffee this week.

And the other day, Middlest had me laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Oh, and Eldest has been playing the piano lately.

And Beloved took me out to breakfast.

Crud, I cant make up my mind.

Women are always right

My wife is always right. Women have always been right, except for that one time in the Garden of Eden. There have been a few other times through the course of history where a woman has not been right. Those few times are the exceptions that prove the rule.

Since the entire family took a week to go to Seattle, the rest of the summer is dotted with short day trips here and there to round out our plans. This past week was one of those day trips. Well, not actually a day trip, since we stayed overnight. That moves it into the two-day trip on a technicality. Beloved found an amazing package deal for “Splash Lagoon” in Erie, PA. Splash Lagoon is billed as the largest indoor water park in the east.

Our visit to Splash Lagoon was wonderful. My three daughters and my wife loved the water slides. I enjoyed them a bit too, but my twenty-five year old bones started to hurt a little, so I spent a bit of time in the hot tub (oohh, that was nice), and observing some of the staff from the water park. It was a very noisy environment, with all that water splashing around. Since one of my jobs is in a noisy environment,  I greatly appreciated how the lifeguards could gain a colleague’s attention with a blow on a whistle and then communicate important information across a great distance.

The only negative experience I had during our visit was from a fellow guest. This gentleman was an addlepated twit. Perhaps, dear reader, you think I am harsh, but read on before you pass judgment upon my judgment. My wife and I were sitting next to each other on the deck of the hot tub. She decided to check on our daughters. She left her towel on her chair and I had my hand resting on it. Mr. Twit walked up, blankly staring over the top of my head, bent over, picked up Beloved’s towel, pulling it from my hand. He then wiped his face with it. He kept the towel, which was fine, since beloved would not have wanted to use it after that anyway.

When Beloved’s sister heard of our plans to go to an indoor water park in the summer, she was concerned and asked Beloved if she was sure that she wanted to go to an indoor water park while the weather was so nice. Being the father of three sisters, I have observed that sisters have a deep and profound love for each other and often question each other’s actions and motivations. A sister is constantly looking out for her sibling, eagerly desiring value-added outcomes for the loved one.

I am sure there is a dear reader who is already pointing out that my wife and her sister cannot both be correct in this situation. Let me restate that women are always right. Period. I, as a man, simply must enlarge my frame of reference to see how this is true. First, it has been a long, hot, dry summer in most of the country. Going to an outdoor water park is a right idea. Enjoy the heat, enjoy the sun, and get wet while you do. My sister-in-law was right.

My wife was right too. She had one shot to plan this getaway and she planned it for Thursday and Friday (the 26 and 27 of July). On Thursday, a strong line of thunderstorms moved through Eastern PA and much of New York State. The storms were so strong there was accompanying wind damage in PA, the power went out at Splash Lagoon, and there was a tornado in Elmira, NY.

Therefore, despite the observation that one of them had to be wrong, both my sister-in-law and her sister, my wife, were both right. This proves beyond any doubt that a woman is always right.

It is the most wonderful time of the year.

I, for the most part, love this time of year. The weeks between Halloween and the New Year are filled with family and celebrations. Thanksgiving, New Years, and of course, the biggest celebration, Christmas, give time to gather with family, friends and fiends. By the way, fiends are simply friends without our presence.

In me, these celebrations give rise to some anxiety, and that anxiety revolves primarily around one activity – shopping. I dislike shopping. It makes my knees knock when I think I might be purchasing the wrong gift, in the wrong color, or the wrong size, or that the intended recipient already has a gazillion. When the recipient opens the gift, I always hold my breath, hoping they like it. So far, everyone has been gracious when receiving a gift. No one has complained; not even the fiends.  For that, I am thankful.

Another reason I dislike shopping so much…I believe there is a conspiracy against me, and others like me, by United Group for Leveraging Items Expected Sales (UGLIES). It works this way; let us say I want to purchase a widget for my great Aunt Gertrude. Gertie loves widgets and has an extensive collection. As I move from store to store, perusing the aisles of widgets, those cameras hanging from the ceiling record my movements and identify that I am seeking to purchase a widget. Immediately a hold is placed on the price of widgets in all stores within a 20-mile radius of my location.

When I find the perfect widget at a reasonable price, I purchase it. This is where the fun begins. The price I paid for that widget is shared amongst UGLIES network, and when the cameras have followed me out of the store, into my vehicle, and driving down the road, at least one store within that 20-mile radius immediately marks down the price of the widget I just purchased. The markdown is just enough to cause me to wish I had purchased it at that lower price, but not enough to make it worthwhile for me to return the original widget, drive to the other store, and purchase the cheaper one.

My next, and greatest, reason for disliking shopping is the crowds. Thankfully, Beloved and I are usually able to do our Christmas shopping during weekdays and avoid most crowds. It never ceases to amaze me how people manage to pilot 3000 pounds of metal, propelled by small explosions occurring inside a metal case, down roads, amidst many other vehicles heading in completely different directions in a safe manner. Yet, when they arrive at the mall, they completely forget how to navigate.  “Stay to the right. When walking in a group, do not obstruct the flow of traffic. Do not stop in the middle of the walk way, and if it is an emergency and you must stop, put on your 4-way flashers.”

The larger the crowd, the more discomfort I feel. I like to get to where I need to go, buy what I need to buy and exit the store quickly and efficiently. However, I am large, and when there are many people milling about, I need to exercise caution to keep from knocking people over. Beloved, who is not only drop dead gorgeous, but petite as well, does not have this problem. She can slip through the tiniest gaps in the crowd, and take off like a whippet at the races. As a result, she is often looking back at me in exasperation, wondering why I do not move faster.

I tend to lumber around behind people, as I move from one store to another. It reminds me of those bucolic scenes from old western movies. You know, the ones, where the cowboys are slowly riding along, playing harmonicas, as they herd the droves of cattle towards Abilene, or some other stop on the railroad.

Then I remember why those cows are being moved down the dusty trail to Abilene. They have been sold—sold to be shipped down the railroad, slaughtered and turned into prime rib, steak, and hamburger, to be eaten by people back east.

Did I mention I do not like shopping?

Eight-thousand, one-hundred and eight days.

Beloved and I tied the knot on August 19^th. Some woman named Kim married some guy named Kris on August 20^th. Their marriage has lasted 72 days. On the day Kim filed for divorce, Beloved and I celebrated 8108 days of marriage. I do not write this to poke fun at Kim and Kris; a failed relationship is painful, no matter how short. A failed marriage must be even more so. Just imagining life without Beloved makes me cringe. That would be, to quote one of my favorite pieces of literature, “A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” (Thank you, Judith Viorst.)

Therefore, I do not intend to make light of this short marriage. I do, however, intend to make light of society for paying for it. Apparently, the couple was paid in the neighborhood of $18 million for their wedding to be broadcast on TV. This means that over the course of the 72-day marriage, as a couple, they made over $10,000 per hour.

Every viewer of that special should be shouting in protest, “That is my money, I want it back.” In fact, they should be calling for an occupation of most reality TV shows, until they redistribute their wealth and engage in common sense.  If you think that freedom from that kind of exploitation for everyone is an innate right, you might be one of us.

That is the problem. ‘You might be one of us.’ People are waiting for someone to tell them what they should buy, how they should dress, how they should style their hair, what they should drive, in order to be ‘one of us.’ We watch reality TV shows to tell us how to ‘live the good life.’ We hope they will tell us the secret of how to ‘be one of us.’

In reality, the ‘they’ are just like ‘us’. With two exceptions, we pay to watch their lives, rather than living our own and they pay more for their mundane lives than we do for ours. I drive a mundane car, live in a mundane house, and have a mundane job (two actually).  Since I cannot afford to buy new tools every week, I, on regular occasions, go on adventures to find the ones I already own. I shopped for a used mini-van and was bitten by a poisonous spider. I have answered the age-old question, “Is a recorder a classical instrument?” I have been called a leprechaun and passed out from joy. I have driven halfway across the country and schemed with my friend about hiding the body of someone we hit, rather someone we had not hit yet, but might theoretically hit at some possible future time, and what we would do to escape the severe penalty of said theoretical hit. All of this has been done in my mundane life, with my mundane mini-van, mundane house and in a mundane neighborhood.

I received a thank you note from a student in my Sunday school class. This young man of the seventh grade variety wrote, “Thanks for sacrificing your useful time…” not valuable time, but useful time. He understood something amazing. Doctors have valuable time; lawyers have valuable time (at least they charge enough to make it valuable); Kim and Kris had a valuable marriage. But, value isn’t always useful. I fixed a leaky toilet and Beloved said I was “useful to have around.” A plumber would have been much more valuable, but I was useful. That is the way I want to be—useful. For that reason, I plead with you all, sacrifice your useful time; fix a leaky toilet, play with a child, take a good afternoon nap, laugh at a joke (preferably one of mine). Do not occupy Wall Street. Do not emulate those people on TV. Instead, be useful my friends, be useful.

I am not Muqtada al Sadr

I recently attended a family reunion on my wife’s side of the family. While talking to my wife’s cousin, Doug, who was on leave from Afghanistan, he mentioned he saw my picture every day. I told him he was spending too much time on Facebook. He replied that he saw my picture in the newspaper over there.  Apparently, there is a Shiite cleric, Muqtada al Sadr, going around Afghanistan Iraq fomenting trouble, and he looks like me. I need to clarify two things, first, I have never been to Afghanistan Iraq (although I am fond of their blankets during the winter months), and B) I have no idea what foment means.

I asked my daughters for a definition of foment. They are intelligent young ladies, who, when they were younger, actually pretended to be in school. I was sure they could give me a definition. One of them said, “Dad, go look it up.” I think they played school too much when they were younger. As I crossed the room to get a dictionary, the kind printed on paper and bound with a stiff hard cover, another daughter said, “Dad, don’t you have a dictionary app on your ipod?!” Such an intelligent young lady. I stopped and looked for my ipod. At this point the third daughter chimed in, “Dad, you were just at the computer. You could simply go to dictionary.com.”

I looked up the word using dictionary.com and discovered foment means to stir up trouble and I aim to stir up trouble for three smart alecky…I mean intelligent young ladies.

After finding the definition of foment, I made a to-do list. It started with a scientific inquiry into whether I really look like Muqtada or not. Not having access to facial recognition software, I uploaded a picture of Muqtada to Facebook and asked my friends there if I looked like him. Astonishingly, 80% of the five people who responded said we looked alike. Thank you Mrs. Redfield for believing in me.

Of the four who said that Mr. al Sadr looked like me, two were my daughters. I foresee even more foment from me in their lives.

I then turned my attention to the next item on the list and started to search through every drawer, shelf, and safe spot in our house for my passport. My wife saw the path of destruction I left everywhere I searched and asked, “What are you fomenting about now?!”

I responded that in light of recent developments I was going to turn in my passport. I could just imagine what atrocities the TSA might do to me when they realized you-know-who looked like me. I read just last week that they frisked some woman’s hair. I could not bear the thought of them pawing through my full mane of hair. So, I told Beloved I was going to return my passport to the State Department. Then Beloved reminded me I did not have a passport.  I took my to-do list and marked that item off and proceeded to the computer to scroll through my email and check my calendar.

“What are you doing now?” Beloved inquired.

“I am checking what international travel plans I have and cancelling them.” I responded.

Beloved rolled her eyes. “No passport, no international travel plans. You don’t travel!”

I took my to-do list and scratched that item off the list. Then I went upstairs and laid down in bed.

“What are you doing now?” Beloved inquired.

I showed her my to-do list. Scientific study-done. Passport-returned. International travel plans-cancelled. I have had a busy morning; I am going to take a nap.

I hear the hushed voices downstairs as Beloved and my daughters foment trouble for me.

Sunday mornings at church and my friend Gus.

Sunday mornings are difficult for me. In between two jobs I usually only get a couple of hours of sleep before heading off to church. Thankfully I teach a class of young men, 7^th and 8^th graders, whose energy and enthusiasm keep me awake. If I had to go to an adult class, I am sure I would be quickly asleep. This would be a distraction since I snore loudly.

On Sunday mornings we do not have Sunday school. Apparently attaching the word school to anything immediately makes what it is attached to dull. Old School is boring, one-room-schoolhouse is quaint, school of fish is all wet, and Sunday school is dry. Our youth pastor, who is an intelligent, industrious, imaginative, and innovative chap, has labeled our Sunday morning activities Sunday Small Groups (SSG). I think, “Great Gangs of Glamorous Guys and Girls that Give it up for God” has a much nicer ring and when shortened to G7 is even easier to spell than SSG.

One of the rules in my SSG class is that whatever important stuff is shared in the class stays in the class. If you continue reading, you will find some important stuff. I got the permission to share this stuff, provided I changed the young man’s name. So I did, he is now August Flopière BooKnee. If you say that with a French accent, it sounds very proud and has a certain appeal to it. In fact if you say it with most any accent it has a nice ring to it. August Flopière BooKnee. However, since it is a rather long name I will nickname him Gus.

The youth pastor starts the morning’s festivities with a rousing, yet thoughtful, examination of scripture. When he finishes, we break into our small classes and the teachers ask the students a bunch of questions. I ask these questions since I do not have all the answers, although I have been told I am supposed to be asking them to get the students to think.

A few weeks ago, at the beginning of class as is my custom, I asked the students how their weeks were.

“Ok, I mowed the lawn.”

“I watched the food channel.”

“I went on a covert mission for the CIA.” (Yes, I didn’t make that up, that was truly the comment made.)

“I had five baseball games, they were all cancelled.”

Gus added, “School, soccer, sleep, and eat.” Gus is a young man concerned with conservation; conserving energy, natural resources, and apparently words.

 After each scholar had a chance to share the activities of their week, we delved into the questions. I was so tired this particular morning, I could string words together to make a coherent sentence. I struggled with the topic of peer pressure. Trying to highlight that peer pressure could be a good thing, provided it pressured their friends to be better people. As I babbled along, and asked questions like, “Have any of you ever done something that you felt guilty about?” I noticed Gus’ expression change, subtly and after a few moments he reached behind him, into the deepest parts of the couch cushions and pulled out a Bible, which he handed to his neighbor. The neighbor exclaimed, “That’s where my Bible went!”

Two hours of sleep, stumbling through the lesson, and this distraction, my brain wasn’t working very well.  (Beloved would tell you it never does.)

So I inquired of Gus, “You took that from your neighbor?”

“Yep.”

“You are giving it back because of the lesson?”

“Yep.” He replied again, looking sheepish, but still conserving words against a possible shortage.

I laughed, he laughed, the neighbor (who even though he was a little put out by the temporary loss of his Word) laughed. Eventually the entire class laughed.

When the laughter subsided, I looked at my notes for the next question and quickly realized no matter what I said or did, Gus had taught the class better with one simple act than I could have with a hundred of well thought out questions or a million well thought out statements. So, I said the one thing every student wants to hear.

“Class dismissed.”

The dangers of car-shopping

     My beloved and I went shopping for a new van recently.  New car shopping is inherently dangerous to health, primarily because of going into sticker shock. But, as I found out, there are more insidious dangers lurking while looking at cars.

We arrived at the car dealership and spoke with a salesperson, telling him exactly what we were looking for. We had done our research, looking at “Consumer Reports”, speaking with friends and neighbors, and talking with our insurance agent. We decided on a used Toyota or Honda van with less than 30,000 miles. The salesperson took us around the lot, showing us vans that met those criteria. As we approached one van the salesperson said, “I probably shouldn’t even show you this van, it just rolled off the truck this morning and I am sure it is a mess.” Sure enough, the van was well loved. It looked like 5 kids had just climbed out of the van after playing soccer in the mud. It was trashed. I had a greater appreciation for the job dealerships do in cleaning up cars before we buy them.

We moved on to the next vehicle and I noticed that my head began to hurt. Right up on top. I felt a monstrous, painful, bump up there and immediately thought that I had bumped my head on something, but I couldn’t remember what or when. Six hours later the lymph nodes over my ears and down the back of my neck began to painfully swell. I suspected that I had been bitten by some critter and that was the cause of the painful bump on the top of my head. At first, I thought I might have been bitten by the Egyptian Cobra that had escaped from the Bronx zoo. I turned to the Internet and did some research and quickly concluded that the snake hadn’t bitten me. First, the venom can kill a full grown Indian elephant in 3 hours. I took my pulse and realized I wasn’t dead and it was six hours after the attack. Second, the escaped snake had been recaptured two weeks earlier.

Researching deeper, I came to the conclusion that I had been bitten by a brown recluse spider. I would have much preferred a black widow, since that sounds so much more theatrical and dramatic. But I suppose I will settle for the brown recluse. I imagine that when I stuck my head into the van, the sunlight glinting off the shiny dome of my head startled the introverted, venomous, eight-legged critter, and it sunk it’s fangs into my skull.

This is not the first time I have self-diagnosed maladies using the Internet. Just recently I diagnosed myself with a kidney stone. Beloved asked me if I was going to see a real medical professional. I informed her that the best web sites indicated that I should go to the doctor if I had blood in my urine, or if I developed a fever. I told her I had all ready paid myself $70 for diagnosing myself.

Beloved wrinkled her nose, rolled her eyes, and scowled at me as she asked, “What if you are wrong.”

“Then I will refund my money.” I told her.

I have not always been so accurate with my diagnoses. The first time I diagnosed myself, I discovered I had Kuru, which comes from the cannibalistic eating of undercooked brains from infected family members. When I told Beloved about my discovery she stated, “Hmmm, that’s interesting, when I cook your relatives I always make sure they are well done before we eat them.”