How Many Languages do You Know?

I have mentioned before that each of my daughters speaks another language besides their native tongue, English. Let me clarify, Eldest speaks Spanish; Middlest speaks Latin (and is learning Spanish); and Littlest speaks French.

I must clarify further. Because these are young people, heading quickly into young adulthood, they are also quite fluent in the modern dialect of Mumble. For those not familiar with that dialect, let me explain. Young people are accustomed to speed: On every corner there is opportunity for fast food; access to the internet is at speeds of over 10 Mbps (I remember my brother demonstrating his first modem at a whopping 300 bps, that could barely keep up with what he typed.); and it is normal for high school students to take a number of Advanced Placement classes, so that when they graduate from high school, they already have college credit. (Eldest started her college career with a year’s worth of college credit.)

In order to keep up with this frenetic pace, young people have developed the dialect of Mumble, or as it is scientifically known, Speedglish, as opposed to my native tongue, which is apparently Sloenglish. The basic structure of Mumble is to truncate as many words as possible and to string them together into one fast paced word. An example might be, “Nahbraugodidalwrngudunderstan.” In regular English or Sloenglish that short burst of noise would be, “No brother, you have it all wrong; you do not understand.”

Do you understand? I hope so, because the concept evades me.

Having daughters fluent in Mumble was handy a couple of summers ago when we were flying from one coast of the United States to the other coast. As I was passing through the TSA check point, I found out quickly that TSA does not stand for “Totally Stinking Awesome”. A TSA agent issued a direction to me in Mumble. I responded politely, “Excuse me?” One of my daughters, seeing the awkward social situation I was in, translated for me, “Dad, he wants you to take your glasses off the top of your head and put them on right.”

I was glad for the translation, but baffled as to the reason. I mentioned to the kind TSA agent, “They are simply for reading.” He was insistent that the security of someone was dependent on my wearing my reading glasses while trying to walk through the security checkpoint. So, I lowered the glasses to the tip of my nose, arched my eyebrow and peered over the top of my glasses (everyone hates that) and asked, “Izdizbetterbro?”

He gurgled, “Yah”.

My daughter scolded me, “Dad, stop it, you are not doing it right.”

And I replied in the only real Speedglish I know, “Fuggedaboutit.”

A Road Trip With Middlest is a Trip

This past week, Middlest and I went on a four and a half hour road trip to visit a college she is interested in attending. I am not sure what all of her criteria for choosing a college are, but I think one of the criteria for visiting this college was that it was far enough away from home so Mom and Dad wouldn’t be “all up in” her business, yet close enough so Mom and Dad could drive to get her for breaks on a regular basis.

The drive was long but enjoyable. Middlest shared her music with me, and we were able to jam out as the miles passed. I wish I could tell you that we engaged in deep personal conversation, but we are both content to simply sit and be together. In fact, Middlest has never been one of those touchy-feely emotional people. When I would pick her up from pre-school, all the other children would run up and give their mothers or fathers a long hug. Middlest, on the other hand, would zero in on me from across the room, paw her foot on the ground a couple times, and with a wild gleam in her eye, she would charge full speed across the room, and slam her head into my stomach. Yes, while other parents were the recipients of loving and tender hugs, I would get a head butt to the gut.

Middlest has also developed a sarcastic and somewhat irreverent outlook on life. This, in fact, makes time with her even more enjoyable. When we left the house at five in the morning, it was dark and there was not much to see. As we travelled on, the sun began to rise, as it does every morning, and we could see the country side around us. Every time we saw something noteworthy I would say to Middlest, “Quick, take a picture.” This is quite easy to say, but very difficult to carry out when travelling down the highway at 65 mph. Consequently, we missed taking pictures of the fog wisping its way across the fields dotted with bales of hay, we missed capturing the pair of six point bucks munching on dew covered grass by the edge of the road, and we missed multiple chances to take a picture of the lovely sunrise.

That is until we reached one of our favorite rest stops along the highway. The actual rest stop sits in the median, and travelers heading either direction park their cars and walk on an enclosed bridge to the facilities and restaurants in the building in the middle of the lanes of traffic. As we were heading back to our car, I stopped and was finally able to snap a picture of the sun as it hovered above the highway. As Middlest and I enjoyed the scene, a truck driver ambled by and commented, “That’s not something you see every day.”  Middlest and I just looked at each other, fighting the desire to make snarky comments like, “If the sun didn’t come up every day, we would all be DEAD!” or, “Where are you from that the sun doesn’t come up every day?” But, we politely restrained ourselves. The driver, as it turns out, was talking about the bridges across the road and not the sun rise at all. 

The Cure for All Educational Woes

As I have been reading other people’s blogs, I have noticed that inviting a guest author to appear on another blog, to quote my daughters, is a thing. Not wanting to be left without a guest author on my blog, I have searched for one, and finally found someone willing to do a guest post.

Middlest, also known as Hannah, just finished her Advanced Placement Test for English Composition and her instructor assigned her to write a satirical essay. When she finished, she had Eldest, Kaleigh, who is an English Major, proof read it; which she did. Then she read it out loud to the entire family. In between belly-aching laughs and wiping tears from our eyes, I knew I had found my guest author. Even better, she couldn’t say ‘no’. Well, she could have, but I am her father.

Here is what she wrote:

Countless people have tried, and tried again, to find the solution to all education woes. I mean, let’s face it, you can walk into any high school around the country, and you’ll see the same problems and the same bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived, over-stressed, slightly-depressed teenagers. All high schools are, in essence, exactly the same, and in every one of these high schools, lurks every Education Administrator’s worst nightmare: students who are failing. These nightmares tarnish the reputation of Education Administrators around the world, and so they work feverishly, night and day, in their offices, far removed from an actual school environment, in an attempt to make sure that these nightmares cease to exist.

And they think they’ve found the solution. They’ve proposed a new schedule, in which classes will be longer, and everyday certain periods will rotate out, so that each student can take more classes. The new schedule even has a solution for all the students who are going to be stressed out over their increased course load: every student is required to have a lunch. It’s mandatory free time. It’s actually quite brilliant when you think about it. In fact, when asked if they approved of the new schedule, 100% of those asked agreed. It should be noted that students, teachers, and parents were not included in this survey; they were not even consulted, but those Education Administrators, with all of their doctorates and superior knowledge, would know better than the lowly students, many of whom are failing anyway, and as such, their ability to form logical and coherent opinions is in question. So, it’s good they did not consult students and teachers who have to use the schedule every day, as they may not be well learned in the workings of student’s minds and learning patterns.

The only way to make sure that the under-educated children, who are falling behind in classes catch up, is to give them more time in class per day and give them more classes per day. This way, they can spend even more time learning in an environment that’s moving far too quickly. If you didn’t understand 45 minutes worth of trigonometry, then you are definitely going to understand 60 minutes worth of it. It’s brilliant. Give them more class time, so that when they don’t understand something, the teacher can continue teaching; the class rotates out tomorrow anyway, so students don’t even have class. By the time they come back in two days, they will have forgotten all about whatever it was that was confusing them. You can’t beat that logic.

However, if classes are longer, and there are more classes, but the school day is not getting any longer, then where is all of this extra time coming from? Well, there are going to be 11 less days of class instruction than there were with the previous schedule, and I can’t think of anything more beneficial to the students. Students will now be forced to learn this material in the comfort of their own home, at their own pace. Students can move through it as slowly, or as quickly, as they like.  Some may choose to not move through it at all. They won’t know it for the final, and they may even fail the final, but they’ll be fine, because at least they all got to have a lunch period every day.  Also, having fewer class days will eliminate stress, because students have less material to cover in class. Instead, they will be learning about it at home, without a teacher’s help, and they will learn it mere days before a final exam, so it will still be fresh in their minds when they sit for the test. Really, we should just get rid of all teachers and their distracting explanations, and just cram the entire year into one night of studying before an exam.

This new schedule will vastly improve the quality of our nation’s nightmares. Children will have an increased workload and more class time per day, but less class time overall, so they don’t get too stressed out about their new workload. This new schedule, although it may sound confusing, will actually eliminate the number of students who are confused by giving them more time to think through the problems by themselves on days when they do not have class. It will also ensure that students have less instruction time, so that they can work at their own pace, at home, free from the distractions of teachers.  But most importantly of all, every child will have a lunch period.  
 

What did You do for April Fool's Day?

Someone once said, "You can please some of the people, some of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time." l searched the internet and discovered that the quote is attributed to Abraham Lincoln, but he didn't say it, at least not exactly that way. It seems the poet John Lydgate penned that quote, and President Lincoln changed it slightly by saying, “You can fool some of the people some of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

I am not sure if President Lincoln gave proper attribution for the basis of his quote, but it would cast doubt upon his reputation for honesty if he did not.

The theme of fooling people came to the forefront of my consciousness this past Tuesday, April 1st. I don’t know what happens in other countries and other cultures, but here in the United States, April First, or April Fool’s Day, is a day set aside to afflict each other with all manner of practical jokes, followed with a loud declaration of “April Fool’s”. That is an important point to remember, since if you say “April Fool’s” it is understood that all must be forgiven and no grudge can be held past 12:00 AM on April Second.

For me, April 1st came and went with neither any jokes being played on me, nor my playing any jokes on anyone else. And I felt slighted at this oversight.

This is not to say that we do not like April Fool’s day. Our house is in a fairly constant state of laughter. I come from a long line of laughers. My grandfather once waited until a young female friend of my parents had a cup of hot tea to her mouth before he explained that his mother won him in a game of craps. He delighted in seeing her snort and splash her tea all over.

This sense of hilarity has passed to my daughters. When they were little tykes, we arrived home from an outing and I opened the door to the van and announced that the fee for riding in the van was a nose. Eldest, who has developed into an expert at ignoring her father, just walked by me. Middlest, tugged at her nose and declared, with a dry drawl, “My nose doesn’t come off." Littlest, took her thumb and put it between the fingers of her fist and with a bright smile, handed me her “nose.”

When I got inside, Middlest called out with overflowing excitement, “Dad! I finally got my nose to come off; it is on the kitchen counter!” Overcome with curiousity, and a vague sense of dread, I looked on the counter, and there, tucked inside of a tea towel, was a cheese-stick. The very tip protruding from the folds of cloth to look like a nose.

With those stories in mind, it is no surprise that when I brought the topic of playing April Fool’s jokes on people to my daughters. Eldest shared that a male student proposed to his girlfriend and when she accepted, he replied with, “April Fool’s”. Apparently, toying with the affections of a young maiden is unacceptable in the realm of April Fool’s jokes.

Littlest, who is quite practical, and does not see why there is all the hullabaloo over romance, said, “Proposing on April Fool’s Day is almost as dumb as proposing on Valentines Day, except worse!”

At this point, Middlest, unable to contain herself, chimed in furiously indignant. “There is absolutely no reason to wait until April First to prank someone. We don’t need a special day to play practical jokes. Any day of the year is as good as the next. Whoever waits for April Fool’s to prank someone is just stooooopid!”

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.

The PGA Championship is Here. HoHum.

The PGA championship is in Rochester, NY this week. The golfers on this illustrious tour have decided to make a swing through my hometown and every one is giddy. The press is out in force with sightings of Tiger Woods and Phil Mickleson. I saw one picture that appeared to show Mr. Woods putting on footwear while leaning against a van. Images like that almost bring me to tears; the elite and famous of golf, putting on sneakers the same exact way I do. Oh! The humanity.

The press has reported on which fine restaurants the golfers are visiting, who among them may be visiting Niagara Falls (a local attraction, if you don’t mind driving an hour to get there), and which among them have sampled Rochester’s world famous “Garbage Plate”.

I ate a Garbage Plate once and I also golfed once. Just not at the same time, nor in the same place. I golfed in Wisconsin, which is far away from NY. This was to protect myself against the paparazzi photographing my first, and only, feeble attempt at golf. It would not do to have my adoring public see me klutzing about that far away fairway.

I am not attending the championship at Oak Hill this week; instead I have elected to stay home and putt around the house. The shed out back needs to be painted, the basement needs cleaning, and with all the hoopla around town, the dust all seems to be settling in my living room.

Speaking of far away, Eldest is in the land of avocados this week. She left for Guatemala with Roberts Wesleyan’s Enactus  team this past Monday and will return next Saturday night. I think she chose this club to join, and this trip to take, to avoid the golf tournament. Her flight took her across the Gulf of Mexico, just about the time many of the golfers were flying into Rochester. On a side note, when she returns she has requested that we take a trip to the zoo.

I asked Middlest and Littlest what they thought about the PGA being in Rochester. Middlest responded with a laconic, “I really don’t care.” Littlest perked up just slightly and responded, “What golf tournament?”  

Neither is upset at missing a chance to see Tiger Woods out on the links, but they are excited to go with Eldest on a trip to see the lynx..and maybe a tiger too.

My Children are Growing Older, Thankfully, I Am Not.

My health care professional, in this case a Nurse Practitioner, tells me I have to lose weight. I have a couple of problems with that; first, she is just a practitioner. Now if she were an Expert, or even a Highly Trained Professional, I would feel better. I am reluctant to let someone ‘practice’ on me.

Secondly, I think her scale is broken. I have no evidence to support this belief; I just think it is broken. And I value my opinion quite highly.

Either way, I have decided I need to exercise more. When I was first married, I used to run quite a bit. By ’quite a bit’ I mean often, although not necessarily far. That was the only way I could keep up with my wife; she moves like a bolt of lightning. When I got a bit older, and my knees started to file complaints with the labor relations board about how I abused them while running, I began swimming.

I remember swimming with my girls as they grew up. They would splash in the shallow end and come over between my laps to tell me of the amazing things that happened while they played in the water. Then they grew older and would swim a few laps with me, before wandering off to the deep end to dive from the diving board.

I remember the amazement the girls would express as they swam hard to keep up with me. I would slow down and swim leisurely, but they were little and it was still difficult for them to keep pace.

Then, about five years ago, I started working a few extra jobs, and swim time went away. At least for me. The girls got involved with the synchronized swim club at their school.  And Middlest just recently took, and passed, her class to be a life guard.

Now, this summer, I decided to swim again. It has been five or six years, and a few extra pounds, after I stopped swimming regularly. After three or so laps, Littlest comes along side me at one end of the pool and asks how I am doing. I tell her it feels good to be swimming again. She grins, “Yeah, fun, isn’t it.”

I nod and start off on my fourth lap. I get to the other end of the pool and prepare to turn around, when I realize that Littlest is hanging on the edge of the pool, awaiting my arrival. I stop abruptly and take off my goggles, just to be sure I am not seeing things.

I look back to the far end of the pool, then back at my daughter, then around the pool and finally back at my daughter, who looks at me innocently, but with that twinkle of merriment in her eye that says, “ooooo, this is gonna be so much fun.”

“Where did you come from?!” I ask.

“I swam here,” she replied in a calm, un-winded voice, as opposed to my heavy gasps for precious oxygen.

I searched for a snappy come back, but my oxygen-deprived braincells were not firing properly. I just shook my head.

Eldest has celebrated her last birthday as a teenager and is going to Guatemala soon. Middlest, at sixteen, has completed her training as a life guard and is ready to save lives. And Littlest, at halfway through her second decade, can swim way faster than I can.

I am thrilled my daughters are growing into such wonderful young women. And I am proud to be their father who is holding steady at twenty-five.

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.

Middlest Learns to Drive

This past January, Middlest took her written test for her learner’s permit. I wrote about that experience here. Throughout the past three months, she has diligently been practicing her driving skills. This amazing young woman’s driving has gone from sending me into panic attacks to being able to sit back and relax while she drives; and by relax I mean not grip the seat with white knuckles.

This is not to say she is ready to take her driver’s test; she still has trouble with lane changes. I can understand her concern with changing lanes. Using the mirrors to see where vehicles are behind you takes a little getting used to and so we work on changing lanes.

“Dad, can I change lanes now?”

“Signal your intention, check your mirrors, check your blind spot,” is my stock reply. “Do you think you can maneuver safely?”

“I think so; do you think it is safe?”

I squirm and twist in my seat and see she has plenty of room to move over, but I do not hear that familiar clicking of the signal light as it turns on and off. “Signal....Signal!...SIGNAL!!” I repeat myself, louder and more urgently each time. As I speak, I continue to twist and turn and notice on the dashboard that she has, indeed, been signaling.

At the same moment I realize she signaled her intention appropriately, she matches my tone of voice, and with her sharp wit, which she has often directed at her poor father, “Dad, I have been signaling for so long it is growing a beard!”

After running a few errands, with Middlest driving, and trying to find a parking spot in a crowded parking lot, where the lines had faded to nothing, she had had enough driving. As we left the last store she said, “Dad, I don’t want to drive home, I have had enough.”

I tried everything I could to coax and convince her to drive home. She refused and since she still had the keys, she unlocked the door, and sat defiantly in the passenger seat.

Something about sitting in the right hand side of the car seems to make everyone a better driver. On the short drive home she expressed concern over my following distance, my speed, my proximity to vehicles on either side of me, and how I almost missed our drive way.

In my defense, I drive large yellow vehicles for my part-time job. In those vehicles, a wide turn is the only way to maneuver around corners. Sometimes, when I am in my car, I forget it is only a Toyota Corolla and does not need such a large area to turn. At times, I also forget I can turn right on red. I deeply apologize to the impatient mini-van at the red light, who repeatedly blew its horn at me. Until I realized I could actually make a legal right on red.

I do find it interesting that those people who sit on the right hand side of the vehicle can always seem to drive better than the person sitting on the left. Perhaps our British friends have it right and we should move all our driving positions to the right hand side of the vehicle. Since sitting on the right hand side of the vehicle imparts instant expertness to driving, this should reduce accidents by a significant amount.

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.

The Olympics, from where I stand--or sit

It is summer Olympic time in the world. These are the sixteen days when the top athletes in the world meet in London to compete in events of athletic prowess to see who is at the top of their game. This is done while the rest of the world’s population stops all physical activity, plops on a couch or comfortable chair, grabs a bowl of unhealthy snack food, and watches all of the competition on television.

Of course, as with any televised event, the favorite activity in our household is critiquing the coverage, commentators, and commercials that come streaming across the screen.

In the commercial category, there are some hands down gold medal winners. In this category are any of the commercials with children or mothers. With the exception of the illegal space aliens living among us, we are all children and all have mothers, so these commercials are easy for the general population to identify with. One such commercial contains a heart warming image of a young male child trying to leap off a concrete platform and land safely in a large vat of water some fifty feet below. It is possible for the child to leap because the platform is without a safety rail around all four sides.

Or another favorite is the “Toddlers-who-wrestle-chairs” commercial. In this commercial event, toddlers of all colors and genders try to pull large pieces of furniture to the floor and pin them. While they do this, referees watch to make sure the toddlers follow all the rules. The commercial ends with these small-bodied, large-headed, little people, pinning the large pieces of furniture every single time. Awesome.

These commercials are total fantasy. This is, after all, America, where we protect our children from all dangers, real or imagined, at all costs. After all, our parents allowed us to play outside for hours, ride our bikes without helmets, and climb trees without nets underneath, and look how this generation turned out.

In the “Epic Fail” category of commercials is the Sears commercial that starts out with a young and, apparently, madly in love, couple frolicking on the beach. The male half of the couple runs down the beach and quickly slams into a large refrigerator. When Middlest saw this, she exclaimed, “What is a refrigerator doing chilling in the middle of the beach?”

There are two types of commentary: the commentary at the venues, and everything else. The voices on the TV, thankfully, have not had a conversation with the voices in my head. Those who speak in venues are awesome. Those individuals are past competitors and present coaches who know the subtleties of the competition and  take every opportunity to tell us how much they know.

The second type of commentary is the between the broadcast of venues, when talking heads sit in chairs and talk...and talk and talk. During the coverage I have observed on NBC, I have seen a number of high profile celebrities being broadcast. With names like, Mick Alfreds, John Mac N Cheese, and Ryan Watercress Salad. I have come to the conclusion that no matter how well known and highly paid these people are, babbling is still babbling. Case in point, Mr. Mac N Cheese was talking about water-polo. In describing the play, he used the analogies of a rodeo and a headless chicken, saying, “Water polo, well, it is like, you see, a bull named Fu-Manchu, riding a headless chicken for 8 seconds, to get across my point."


Lastly, and speaking of NBC, the network has taken a lot of heat for it’s ability to predict the future outcomes of events. Case in point, they were able to air a trailer from the excited reunion of swimmer Missy Franklin with her parents after she won the gold medal, a full 5 minutes before she swam in the meet. NBS has mastered the ability of breaking news, video taping it, and airing it, before it has even happened.

The things I am thankful for.

I have noticed recently a number of people being thankful. Some are posting what they are thankful for to Facebook. Some are making lists. I on the other hand, am feeling guilty for doing neither. Therefore, bear with me dear reader, for I am about to unleash thankfulness all over this blog.

I am thankful for indoor plumbing, furnaces and air-conditioning. I am thankful for winter, so I do not have to mow the lawn, and summer so I do not have to shovel the driveway. I am thankful for bread, since I like sandwiches. (Have you ever tried to eat a sandwich without the bread? It is messy and unfulfilling.) In fact, eating a breadless sandwich makes me thankful for silverware.

Most of all, I am thankful for my family and their sense of humor. Some people say that humor is a result of environment; I believe it is genetic. Both my grandfather and my father enjoyed waiting until someone had a drink poised at their lips before they said something utterly unexpected. This caused the intended victim to spew the contents of their mouth all over, causing even more riotous laughter. I, for one, have stayed far away from this gag, since I hate the end result of clean up.

This bent towards practical pranks was passed on to my brother. He would get up in the middle of the night and rubber band the cupboard door handles together. My poor mother would wake up early in the morning, stumble to the kitchen, without turning the lights on, for coffee, and open a cupboard door, just to have it inexplicably slam closed. Another favorite prank of my brother’s was to adjust the clips that hold cups on the drain rack. He would push them just far enough back so that when placing a cup upon them, the cup would catch, but not slide onto the clip. My mother would growl from the kitchen as she readjusted all the clips so she could set cups on them.

Mom has been waiting for her chance at revenge for years. Now she is getting it. My brother has his own child, a daughter. Let the revenge begin.

Back to thankfulness. One Thanksgiving, we were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Grandma announced that since it was a special occasion, she was going to use her fine china plates. Of course the girls in the family were all a twitter (no, not that twitter, the other one). The guys were less excited, they were more concerned about important stuff like, turkey, mashed potatoes and football. While the tables were set, one of my girls kept inquiring about the china plates and then about the fine glasses Grandma was putting out. She then asked, “Grandma, are we going to use the china silverware too?”

Grandma answered that we were going to use the regular silverware since she did not have any china silverware.  At this point Middlest, who was about five at the time, chimed in, “Humph, it is a good thing Grandma doesn’t have china silverware since none of us know how to use chopsticks.”

Eldest wants to be an engineer.

Recently, I confronted sexism, gender bias, or whatever you want to call it, at least in some small way.  I was at open house at Gates Chili High School, where Eldest and Middlest are students.  The plan for the evening was to follow the girls’ schedules, spending ten minutes in each class. Beloved followed Middlest’s schedule and I followed Eldest’s. Eldest is a senior and is taking seven Advanced Placement classes this semester. I do not mean to brag. Actually, I do mean to brag. She, like her mother, is beautiful, intelligent, and driven. She does not even have time in her schedule for lunch. Which I do not understand at all, since lunch was my best subject in school.

Perhaps, those of you who are parents have experienced the babbling of an infant that in a moment sounds like intelligent speech. I am not referring to the approximations of saying words that sound like mom or dad. I am talking that surprising moment in which it sounds as if an infant has spoken a complete sentence. For Eldest that first sentence came as she was laying next to her car seat, pushing it back and forth, looking under it as if it were an automobile on a lift. At that moment she said, “How’s it work?”

The intervening years have been filled with pens torn apart, unused 35mm cameras dismantled, even rewiring a bathroom. The most wonderful thing for me?  Sometimes she even lets me help.

At this open house, I followed Eldest’s schedule diligently. Going to all of her Advanced Placement (AP) classes, until I arrived at the one class she is taking that is not AP, “Principles of Engineering.” The teacher began to talk and I eagerly listened, until he said, “This is an excellent class, if your sons want to become engineers.”

I was dumbfounded, stupefied, flabbergasted, and so angry I had to consult a thesaurus to find words to describe my emotional state.  My daughter is many things, but a son is not one of them. She is taking seven AP classes, not even taking lunch. She has her college application process started and wants to do three years at Roberts Wesleyan College and two more at Rochester Institute of Technology. She wants to be an engineer. And she is not male; she is a beautiful young woman.

If the high school teacher not acknowledging that my daughter, who is most definitely not a male, could want to, and actually become, an engineer was not bad enough, a few days later she received a letter in the mail from the BSA. I tried to think where I had seen those initial before. Was it “Beautiful and Stunning Americans”? No, BSA is the Boy Scouts of America, and apparently, the local Boy Scouts of America are holding a series of meetings to explore what it means to be an engineer. The only connection with BSA that my daughter has is her scouting for a boy. I do not wish her to find one too soon however, so she will not be attending these meetings.

I did not realize becoming an engineer was so complicated and had such gender bias. I hope that when Eldest finally becomes an engineer she will give me a ride. I really like trains.

Spelling bee

GCMS held their school spelling bee this past week. Middlest was selected from amongst her classmates to compete. She was less than enthused; she was downright depressed. With all of her activities, she did not want to add another one. Mother asked, “Did you tell your teacher you didn’t want to compete?”

                “Another girl already tried that. The teacher told her there was not anyone else who wanted to compete. Like really? There is a whole class full of AP English students who could compete.” Middlest expressed her frustration with a roll of her eyes and a scowl. “Last year was more fun, when Littlest and I competed together!” Which they did; both of them made it to the last round. Being stumped on baccalaureate and annihilate.

                The preparation continued. Mother reading a word and Middlest spelling it. With scientific precision Middlest rattled off the proper spelling for each word. When she missed one, she would write the proper spelling on a sheet of paper for further review. Mother read the word, “similarity” and Middlest commenced, “S-I-M-I-L-A-R-I don’t understand why I have to do this!” Her transition between spelling and complaint was smooth and seamless.

                The next word was deceit. Which prompted a discussion of the ‘i-before-e-except-after-c rule and all of its corollaries, such as ones you can disprove with science and other weird options. Littlest piped in, “I thought every time I read that word in a book it was spelled, i-e-t.” to which Middlest responded, “I hate reading books that haven’t been written.”

                The evening of the spelling bee arrived. Middlest again expressed her unwillingness to compete. Littlest offered to take her place, “No one will know it is me.” Middlest rolled her eyes, “No, it is ok, I will do it alone. But I wish you were competing with me.”

                That night Middlest got out in the second round. The word that tripped her up? Loneliness.

               

                

The dead carcass.

Thursday middlest girl and I worked on the dead car residing under the carport. It would not start, and I was sure the death was due to a dead battery. Since I was on a lifting restriction of 20 pounds, I needed help lifting the battery and middlest was kind and gracious enough to help, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. 

We had to work on the car Thursday, because Friday a snowstorm was expected. This being western New York in the dead of winter, we usually expect snow. Upon hearing we were supposed to have a storm, middlest announced, “Why do we get all the snowstorms when we are off school?  I think the teachers and the weathermen get together and conspire about this.” I assured her there was no conspiracy as we drove to the auto parts store.

Upon arriving at the store, the Sales Associate asked if I was sure the battery was dead. Not once commenting on why my 13-year-old daughter was lugging around the bazillion pound battery instead of her muscular, and quite good looking, father. Since I had measured the voltage with a voltmeter and it read 6 volts when it should have read over 12 volts, I said I was 99.999% sure it was dead. I paid the king’s ransom for the new battery, and lugged it out to the van. Well, middlest lugged it out, and still no comment from the dignified Sales Associate. 

Arriving home we, I mean she, put the battery into its new home. I tightened it in and went to start the car….nothing. Dead. Ugh. Immediately I suspected the battery. Yes, it was new, but when in doubt, I always suspect the battery. Primarily since it is the easiest thing for me to identify under the hood. Voltmeter in hand, I checked the battery. 6 volts?! It should be 12 volts. Now that was suspicious; it was brand new.  I checked a few other batteries, and a 12 volt power supply, and the meter read 6 volts for all of them. I deduced I had a problem with the voltmeter; no worry, I have two other voltmeters. Of course, I know one does not work and I do not know where either is.

Middlest asks, “What shall we do now?”  I reply, as any wise father would, “Have lunch.” She had cold pizza, and I had a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  While eating I tried to remember the last place I saw my other volt meters. I could not remember, they were lost—and my wife was not home to ask. Wives and mothers, my wife is both, have that amazing knack of knowing exactly where lost items are. The other day we lost power at our house; I started to mumble something about checking the battery. My wife rolled her eyes. Shortly after that, the power came back on. I am sure my wife found that too.

Without help, all alone, I started to look for the missing voltmeter. While looking, I kept talking with myself about it being easier to fix the broken one, but reassuring myself I would need one to figure out the problem with the other, I kept looking. While looking, I found a bunch of other stuff I forgot I had lost. Neat stuff. Shiny stuff. Stuff that distracted me for hours, until eventually I completely forgot about looking for the other voltmeter and about the dead hulking shell of a car under the carport.

That is until middlest asked me, “Whatcha gunna do about the car Dad?” Car? What was she talking about? Until after a few minutes of staring at her blankly, she said, “We left the hood open, shouldn’t we close it?” Finally, I remembered what I had been looking for and why. I mumbled something about calling the garage to have them fix it. She said, “Don’t forget to close the hood.” Me? Forget? I have a mind like a steel trap. I gazed around the porch, wondering what I was doing out here and what all these neat shiny things were in all of the boxes.

On Friday I was looking for my cordless drill and found the two other voltmeters. I was so ecstatic I totally forgot about the drill for a couple of hours. That is until I found the charger for the drill’s batteries in my room as I was looking for something else (I do not remember what I was looking for).  I got the drill out, and put the batteries in to charge. With any luck, I will not forget to bring the drill with me when I visit my brother, which is why I was looking for that in the first place. The car is at the garage, they haven’t called me yet, I hope they haven’t forgotten. 

SNOWDAY?!

Tomorrow the forecast calls for a winter storm, with up to 15 inches of snow in the area. This means a rush on the local grocery stores. For some mysterious reason whenever the forecast calls for snow, people immediately go to the grocery store to buy bread and milk.

I went to the grocery store today to make some purchases for dinner tonight. We are having pot roast, using a calorie-free carbonated beverage as liquid, instead of water. I did not purchase any milk or any bread. The gentleman in front of me as we checked out was lamenting the storm, and the possibility of getting snowed in.

“You were afraid of running out of milk and bread?” I asked him.

“Oh no, I don’t touch the stuff, I am gluten and lactose intolerant. But the talking heads on my television set said it would be a good idea to stock up on milk and bread.”

“Excellent idea, you can feed the poor sparrows and put out saucers of milk for any traveling cats caught in the storm.”

My children are thrilled at the prospect of a snow day. They are eagerly plotting how to ensure that school is closed tomorrow. They have heard from a number of experts on how to ensure this happens. They are going to wear their pajamas backwards, sleep with a spoon under their pillows, and flush ice cubes down the toilet. They received most of this information from a family friend, who is an elementary school teacher. So it must be right!

I told them I have the foolproof way to ensure a horrible snow storm. With great eagerness they begged and pleaded to hear my words of wisdom.

“Wash my car.”

The looks on their faces indicated they did not believe it, so I explained that as soon as I wash my car, it never fails to storm out so it gets covered with salt again. They rolled their eyes in disbelief and grabbed entire trays of ice cubes to flush down the toilet.

My youngest girl announced that the last time it snowed particularly hard out, one of her classmates came to school visibly angry. When she was asked what the problem was she explained her father “made me come to school; he would not let me stay home.”

My daughter consoled her and said that I had made her come to school too.

To which the girl replied, “You don’t understand, my father is the Superintendent!!! I begged him but he wouldn’t cancel school.”

“Why not?” my inquisitive daughter inquisited.

“He said we didn’t have enough bread and milk.”