BLOG VACATION: Next Post 7/15

Cracking Up (Nick Lowe - 1979)

(Click4 to listen to "Cracking Up")

“If God had to give a woman wrinkles, he might at least have put them on the soles of her feet.” ~ Ninon de Lencios, French Courtesan (1620 -1705)

It was late in the afternoon on a sunny Spring day. Jessie was nearly 3-years-old and Lauren was 8. Jessie and I had been playing in a park next to Lauren's soccer practice, while she practiced. Afterwards, the three of us jumped in a loaner car, and headed to the dealership where our car was being serviced.

About fifteen minutes into the half-hour drive, Jessie began crying. “Daddy, we need to go home! I’m cracking! I’m cracking!”

Cracking? "What do you mean you're cracking?” I said.

“The mulch is making my feet crack,” cried Jessie. “The mulch! I’m cracking! We need to go home!”

The mulch Jessie referred to was the ground cover at the the park. Driving and unable to investigate, I called on my second in command. “Lauren, see what she's crying about.”

Jessie became more distressed by the second. “I’m cracking! I’m cracking! I'm cracking!” Tears flowed down her cheeks.

Lauren quickly examined Jessie’s foot. “Jessie, those lines are just wrinkles. We all have wrinkles.” She held up her own hands. "See?"

Jessie put her bawling on hold and quickly scanned Lauren's hands. A mere breath or two later, with her teary eyes wide, she screamed, “You’re cracking too!”

The wailing continued. Jessie was officially unglued.

I assured her that the cracks on her hands and feet were normal, and that they were just lines called wrinkles. I stuck my right hand back between the seats, and demanded she look at it. Still crying, Jessie inspected the lines on my hand, and then Lauren’s again, and back to her own hands and feet.

Instantaneously, Jessie stopped crying. She sniffled, smiled, and calmly said, “Oh."

Jessie was again glued. We all cracked up laughing.

“Laugh a lot, and when you’re older, all your wrinkles will be in the right places” ~ Unknown

Don't Quote Me: David

"You can really see the details . . . of his stuff." ~ Jessie

My 7-year-old commenting on the genitals of David, Michaelangelo's masterpiece sculpture.

Jessie stood in silence as her mom showed her a picture of David on the internet. Elizabeth went on about the artistic perfection of the statue's human form, and how she witnessed it's beauty first hand on a trip we took to Florence years ago.

This would be all Jessie would say about it.

God, I'm an Idiot!: Silver Wedding Anniversary

(Click4 to listen to "Get Smart" Theme Song)

"Oh my God! He's an idiot." ~ Patti DiMarco (Sarah Silverman), School of Rock (2003)

Elizabeth mandated I wear a suit and tie. This meant one of three things: either I needed to make a good impression on the couple we were dining with, the restaurant we were eating at was stodgily fine, or a suit was the Friday night dress code at the Symphony Center. It didn’t matter, I was wearing a suit and trimming my nose hair — it was to be that kind of an evening.

I would be meeting the couple we were "double dating" with for the first time. She is a friend of Elizabeth’s from a board they both serve on, and he is the head of a prominent real estate investment firm. Although not discussed, I knew I needed to be on my best behavior. This meant no politics, no college football, no bad jokes, and if at all possible, no poop stories — dog or otherwise.

We met for a 6:15 PM dinner reservation at a South Loop restaurant. The restaurant is self-described as contemporary, “offering an imaginative American menu with global accents.” Translated, this means high-priced, offering an imaginatively written American menu with sumptuous names and minuscule portions. The menu didn’t disappoint, it was higher-priced — but not outrageous — and read like a Robert Frost poem. However, beside the Crisp Potato Croquettes, Chioggia Beet Salad, and House-Made Black Pepper Tagliatelle, I didn’t see anything remotely “global.” Even those dishes, the way I pronounced them, were not accented.

The couple we would spend the next four hours with, were especially warm, interesting, and engaging. As expected, the meal and service were very good, and although I tried chewing slower, I was still hungry afterwards. More importantly, besides a small misunderstanding regarding a reference I made to the epic 1956 film, The Ten Commandments, when discussing Jewish Passover (she's Jewish . . . now that I think of it, add religion to my list of things not to talk about) — and the creepy fact that I coincidentally liked and therefore ordered the exact same menu items as my new guy friend — and, oh yeah, I almost forgot, I did toast with my water glass, not aware that my gin and tonic had been served and was sitting right in front of me — besides these few minor incidents, I’d say things were going pretty darn well.

That is until — Dangit! — our new BFFs shared with us that it was their silver wedding anniversary. Naturally, Elizabeth and I were quick to congratulate them. I should have left it at just that, but no can do. From across the table I asked my new guy the question of the night; a question that to this day pesters my memory and ridicules my intelligence.

I said, “So, like what are you supposed to give on your silver wedding anniversary, paper or something?”



It got very quiet. Although maybe only a full second had passed, it seemed like an excessive amount of time between an answer and what I thought was a harmless question. With all eyes on me, Elizabeth said cooly, “Silver . . . you give silver on your silver anniversary.”

I thought, God, I’m an idiot!



Later that evening, on the ride home from the Symphony Center, Elizabeth told me that I'm really not an idiot. It was a good night. Thank God, I'm a trophy husband.

Don't Quote Me: Squeeze Bottle

"Whoa, I've never seen that before!" ~ 12 year-old neighbor girl

In response to seeing a Smucker's grape jelly "squeeze" bottle for the first time.

Making PBJ sandwiches for the kids, I welcomed her to the 21st Century. Although I must say, I suddenly felt sophisticated and worldly. That is until, my 13-year-old said, "Yeah, her Mom only feeds them healthy stuff. They don't have jelly." Damn.

I can't wait to show her marshmallow fluff.

A Life of Illusion (Joe Walsh -1981)

WARNING: This post contains a graphic image of dog crap. Viewer discretion is advised.

“Appearances often are deceiving.” ~ Aesop

As we know, looks can be deceiving. Examples of this old adage are many: just look at Susan Boyle of Britains Got Talent fame, or the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Eliot Spitzer? Who woulda thunk it? Biscuits and sausage gravy — disgustingly good. Also, mermaids, marigolds, and Bernie Madoff — an additional deceptive looking few.

One week ago today, my house could have been added to this list.

Having just completed a 41 minute run — without having a heart attack, or worse, urinating on myself — I emerged from a break in the tree line behind my house. It was a hot and humid night, one of the first of an unusually cold and rainy June. With perspiration and darkness upon me, exhausted, I staggered toward home.

Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I was struck by the idyllic picture before me. My house looked like something right out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Bright, overused lighting, illuminated every window; the glow providing an almost dreamlike quality, a beacon of earthly comforts. I was reminded of how lucky I am and — dammit — how we really needed to do a better job conserving energy.

The Foo Fighters kicked in on my iPod Nano with a cover of Joe Walsh's "A Life of Illusion" — I thought nothing of it at the time, although later it would prove ironic.

As I drew nearer to our patio, the picture of life inside the house came into better focus. I could see my Mother-in-Law in the kitchen window over the sink, joyfully scrubbing — what I could only assume was — a dish. Bless her soul.

Through the sliding glass doors I could see my 7 and 3-year-old daughters sitting at the kitchen table, cheerfully eating what was surely a bowl of ice cream — probably vanilla with Hershey's chocolate syrup. Bless their little hearts.

Lastly, I could see my lovely wife through the family room windows, merrily walking toward the kitchen. My guess, to help her Mom, or join in the children’s ice cream festivities. I still can't believe she married me, God bless her soul.

I smiled, reflecting on the coziness of it all — and how easy it would be to sneak up to the kitchen window and scare the living hell out of my Mother-in-Law. I thought better of it, Thomas Kinkade would have nothing of it. Bless his soul.

I was captured by my home's apparent serenity and warmth. I imagine it's how John Walton must have felt coming home after a long day at the family lumber mill, or perhaps coming in from the outhouse, on a hot summer night on Walton's Mountain.

As I opened the sliding glass door, I took off my running headphones. The Foo Fighters still audible, but distant, I stepped into the kitchen. I was greeted by cool air and the bickering of my two youngest, Jessie and Lulu. They were sharing a kitchen chair and a leftover Portillo’s strawberry shake, and by the sound of it, not doing a very good job of it.

With the picture of warmth and serenity already beginning to fade, I announced my entrance. “Hello!”

The girls focused only on their next spoonful, were oblivious to my sweaty presense. They continued to box each other out, arguing over who’s turn it was.

Elizabeth and I arrived in the kitchen at about the same time. "You won't believe what just happened." she said.

My Mother-in-Law was at the kitchen sink, wiping a brown patent leather flat with a paper towel. "Yeah Jack, you missed all the excitement!"

The girls interrupted their regularly scheduled argument to be bring me a special announcement. "Buck pooped!" screamed Lulu.

"Dad, you should have seen it!" yelled Jessie.

"You wouldn't have believed it," said Elizabeth. "Buck pooped in my shoe."

"Buck pooped in mommy's shoe!" repeated Jessie.

"In your shoe?" I said. Well, I guess that would explain the smell.

Piling on the poopetrator (sorry, I couldn't help myself), my 13-year-old yelled down from upstairs, "Buck also pee'd up here." Damn, that’s gonna get in the padding.

"Yes, in my shoe,” said Elizabeth. “It was so gross."

Okay, I had heard of shit on a shingle, and had witnessed first hand shit on a stick, but I ain't never seen shit in a shoe. This would definitely be a first for me, and for that matter, for Buck as well. He has crapped on carpet, rugs, hardwood floors, laundered clothes, the leather couch, a book, the front seat of my car, and even once on Lauren. But never, ever, in a shoe.

As the primary crap fixer, I inquired about the whereabouts of the poop as if it were a dead body. “So, where can I find it.” Please be on the hardwood floor. Please be on the hardwood floor. Please be on the hardwood floor . . .

“It was in the hallway, but I cleaned it up already.” said Elizabeth. Excellent! “I took a picture for you.” Bonus!

The timing of my run couldn't have been any better. A grainy picture of a rather large crap, lying partially on top of Elizabeth's shoe, replaced the faded image that was my idyllic home. With this new picture burned into my mind and a smile on my face, I headed upstairs to shower and clean me some urine. Life was good.

For the past week, a lone brown patent leather flat, has sat on the dryer in the laundry room. In it is stuffed a generous number of “refreshing scented” fabric softener sheets. Next to it, sits a half-empty container of odor eliminating Febreze. Come tomorrow, no one will ever know that this shoe was once shat upon.

Appearances are often deceiving. You just never know . . .

And it comes with no warning

Nature loves her little surprises
Continual crisis

~ Joe Walsh, A Life of Illusion

Foo Fighters - A Life of Illusion (Cover)

Don't Quote Me: You and Me

"That's you and me, Daddy.  The little one is me, and the big one is you." ~ Lulu

Said by my prideful 2-year-old, while pointing at a couple of  "droppings" in her potty chair.

Now 3-years-old, Lulu still sometimes assigns my name to her larger bowel movements.  I was honored, until sometime later it occurred to me that she was pretty much calling me a big piece of crap.  Which might upset me, if I didn't sometimes — while out of earshot of course — affectionately refer to her as a "little shit." 

I guess, all's fair in love and poop.

MUSICAL MUSING #17: Hair (The Cowsills -1969)

(Click4 to listen to "Hair")

Gimme head with hair
Long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Jessie stood at the top of the stairs, yelling down to where I sat in my computer lair (the room formerly known as the den). "Dad, Did you give me a head with hair?"

Seated across from me was my then 12-year-old, Lauren. I looked at her and shrugged, before yelling up to my 7-year-old. "What do you mean, 'did I give you a head with hair?' "

"Did you give it to me? . . . A head with hair."

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but I answered her anyway. "Yes, Mom and Dad gave you a head with hair," adding for religious correctness, "Well . . . God did."

"No, but did you give it to me?"

"What-are-you-talking-about?"

"Did you give it to me?"

"Give-you-what?"

Lauren smiled. "Dad, I think she's talking about the song."

Ah, the song.  Of course, the song. I had just finished adding a number of songs to Jessie's iPod. One of the songs was the title song from the musical Hair. This is a song — even at a very young age — amused Jessie (especially when sung-along and performed by her Dad, while driving — please don't ask).

Surely only seconds away from self-disembowelment with her little sister's Fisher-Price toy screwdriver, Jessie screamed, "Give me a head with hair!"

"Do you mean the song, 'Hair?' "

"Yes!"

Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  "I gave you 'a head with hair'!"

For her listening pleasure and merriment, I gave Jessie the 1969 chart busting hit, "Hair," by The Cowsills.

********************

Fast forward, 18 weeks and 3 days later.

The family was gathered on Elizabeth's and my bed to watch the last hour or so of the 63rd Annual Tony Awards.

Further proof to my children that the world indeed does revolve around them: Hair: The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical, was nominated for the best revival of a musical, Anne Hathaway (a.k.a. Agent 99, or simply Ella) of Get Smart and Ella Enchanted kid-fame, introduced a live performance by the company, and the song they performed was, you guessed it, the iPod relevant and title song, "Hair."  So you can imagine the excitement in our king-sized when the first words were sung . . .

She asks me why
I'm just a hairy guy

I was psyched for Jessie, they were performing her "head with hair" song.  Although only four feet away, I shouted to Jessie at the end of the bed. "Hey Jessie! It's your song!" I wanted to give her a high-five, or at least a knuckle-bump, but this would require way too much energy for after 9 PM on a Sunday.

We sat in relative silence for the next three and a half minutes while the cast of Hair gyrated and churned through a wild, hair swinging, high energy, sexually charged performance; complete with a "hairy down low" hip swing and nod, and a male breast cupping and squeeze. As far as I could tell, the only things missing were illicit drugs and free-love. This was a performance that surely would make any Vietnam Era hippie proud, and a good 13-year-old Catholic girl (named Lauren) blush.

Laying on her stomach, head resting in hands, Jessie did not say a word the entire song.  At the end of the performance, she turned to me and said, "Whoa, that's not what I expected."

I never found out if, for Jessie, if that was a good thing, or bad thing.

I believe it was a good thing.

********************

I would love to see what Jack Black could do with this song.  Can you imagine . . .

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy

Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy
Shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied!

Daddium Idiom #4

"Where there's smoke, Mom is cooking." ~ Me

Meaning:  Cooking is not one of Elizabeth's strengths.  Although, in fairness, our oven doubles as a crematorium for unfortunate and often unidentifiable dinner remains, left charred and smoldering on it's bottom.

Origin(al): "Where there's smoke, there's fire." ~ Unknown 

Don't Quote Me: Oprah

"I figured out why Oprah is called 'Oprah.'  Isn't it because she's good at 'oprah'?" ~ Jessie

Revelation made by my 7-year-old this past February, from the back seat of our rental car, while on vacation in Colorado.  

Opera . . . Oprah!  Oprah . . . Opera!  Oprah, Opera . . . Keanu!

   

Grace is Gone (Dave Matthews Band - 2002)

Some children say grace to give proper thanks to God, while for others it's simply a series of passwords that stand between them and their God-given right to cheeseburgers. Last Tuesday, grace stood for something totally different to my 3-year-old.

Lulu, Jessie, and I, were seated for dinner. With Elizabeth working late, and Lauren at dance class until eight, it was just the three of us.

The girls were ready to dig into their chicken nuggets, green beans, and corn.  I said, "Who knows grace?"

My question was targeted at my 3-year-old, Lulu. Of course, my 7-year-old — for the most part — knew our family dinner prayer.

As I had hoped, Lulu beat Jessie to the punch.  "I do!"

"Good, go ahead."  I said nodding. 

Expecting the immediate start to our nightly prayer, Jessie and I clasped our hands and bowed our heads. Our reverence was greeted only by the canned laughter coming from "America's Funniest Home Videos," playing on the TV in the family room.

I looked over at Lulu to see what was causing the prayer delay. Lulu sat passively, contently looking at her plate of mostly unobjectionable food.

Raising my head momentarily, I gave another nod to Lulu.  "Okay, whenever you're ready."  (Note:  as a rule, it's not a good idea to say "Okay, whenever you're ready" to a 3-year-old.  Especially, when sarcasm is involved.) 

Lulu gave me a nod back and smiled. I again assumed the prayer position and waited . . . and waited.

Not a single word came from Lulu.

Letting her starvation and impatience get the best of her, Jessie broke the silence.  "C'mon Lulu. I'm starving!" (She really sounded starved, although technically, we know she wasn't even a little famished.)

"Lulu, go ahead," I said calmly.

Apparently not having a clue to what I was talking about, she said "What?"

"Grace," was my one word answer (as in, "That's what").

Lulu paused, and looked at me with eyes wide and her brow raised.  "I know Grace," she said.  Then shaking her head,  she added, "I'm not Grace."

Jessie and I laughed, while Lulu felt the need to further explain that although she knows a girl or two named Grace, she is neither of them, in name nor body. Furthermore, she didn't want to say grace, or for that matter, do any praying.

They say, to pray is to communicate with God.  I pray to God, that I learn to better communicate with my daughter.

That night, we eventually all said grace . . . however, one did in name only.

"When we talk to God, we're praying. When God talks to us, we're schizophrenic." ~ Jane Wagner (Lily Tomlin), In Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe

Say It Ain't So (The Thrills - 2003)

(Click4 to listen to "Say It Ain't So")

“A paranoiac, like a poet, is born, not made.” ~ Luis Buñuel Portolés

Lauren approached our waiting car, looking as if she had just thrown up in her mouth.

I was picking her up at the end of another school day.  However, it appeared my 7th Grader didn't have just "another school day." She either had a mouthful of puke, or something was dreadfully wrong in the unfair — and sometimes cruel — world that she calls "school." (Upon reflection, it could possibly have been both.   After all, Lauren's "puke" face and "something wrong" face, are exactly the same face.  Not to mention, having regurgitated food in your mouth, is often perfectly dreadful — especially at school.)

I suspected the look had nothing to do with vomit.

As she threw herself and her backpack in the front passenger seat, I said, “Hi Sweetie, how was your day?”

Looking me squarely in the eyes, she said, “Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”

Note: Lauren's question caught me by surprise. However, I'd be lying if I said, "Gee, I've never even considered this question before." Okay, I've concluded, Lauren is not “paranoid” — in the clinically psychotic definition of the word. However, I must say, the kid does have an overly abundant number of irrational fears and anxieties. Some of the very recent few include, but are not limited to: hookworm infections, sharp pretzels, parking in front of liquor stores, moths, and the imminent end of the world.  'Nough said.

“Why?” I asked almost defensively, as if it was some kind of trick question.

“Dad, do you think I'm paranoid.”

Sounding a flabber short of being gasted, I said, “Why, did somebody say you’re paranoid?”

“Yes. Do you think I am?”

Looking away from Lauren’s desperate gaze, I pulled away from the curb to begin what I thought could be a long drive home.

Delaying what would inevitably be an unpopular answer, I said, “Who said you're paranoid?”

“My friends Colleen and Jen,” Lauren said. “So do you?”

Still stalling, I said, "Did they say it nicely?”

“They didn't mean it meanly? Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”

Her question hung in the air as I took a moment to review my situation: I was trapped with no where to hide. I was like bankrobbers Butch (Paul Newman) and Sundance (Robert Redford) in the 1969 Western,  Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid — and Lauren was lawman Joe LeFors. She had me cornered, high on a rocky canyon cliff, overlooking a raging river of hormones and teen insecurity. I had no choice but to jump. Like Butch and Sundance, if I could survive the fall, I might be able to escape her angst, and make it home safely. The kid demanded an answer, and required an honest one.

Taking a deep breath, I jumped.  “Yeah, I can see why they might say that.” 

Tightly gripping the steering wheel, I braced for impact.

“Paranoid? Paranoid!?” she said, slightly raising her voice.

“Okay, of course you're not clinically paranoid," I said. "Perhaps just overly concerned about . . .”

“Dad? Oh my gosh, you think I'm paranoid?”

“No, no, just a bit overly sensitive . . . ”

Again interrupting, more desperate, and speaking rapidly she said, “Paranoid means that I think everything is out to get me. Dad, I don't think everyone is out to get me. Do you think I think that? Do you really think I think that?”

“No, I don't . . ."

"Do you?"

"No, I . . ."

“Oh no! That's bad!"

"What's bad?"

"[My religion teacher] said that God wants people to have a peaceful mind and the devil wants people to be paranoid!”

Oh my. Maybe, on second thought . . .

The water was freezing and I almost drown, but I survived the ride home. I just hope Lauren doesn't ask me this question again anytime soon — the next time I might have a different answer. For now, let's just add "being paranoid" to the long list of my daughter's irrational fears and anxieties.

“Paranoia is knowing all the facts.” ~ Woody Allen

Teen Wisdom: School Parties

"It's better to have an end of the [school] year party, instead of a beginning of the [school] year party.  Everybody is in a better mood." ~ Lauren

Statement made by my 13-year-old upon entering the car following a year-end party at her girlfriend's house. 

Don't Let the World Get In Your Way (The Jayhawks - 2003)

(Click4 to listen to "Don't Let the World Get In Your Way")

[Note: The following took place in April of 2007.  This is a repost "by request."]

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” ~ Dorothy Gale (Judy Garland), The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Elizabeth and I left the white-picket fences of suburbia to attended a cocktail party in the city Saturday evening.

My experience has been that the downtown party scene is quite different than in the Western Suburbs (or “Iowa,” as they're affectionately referred to by our urban dwelling friends). In a macadamia nutshell, the city crowd is a bit more cosmopolitan — and I'm not referring to Carrie Bradshaw's drink of choice on Sex and the City — and a lot more Martha Stewart.

The difference is only amplified when the party is hosted and attended by board members of a prominent Chicago non-profit organization and their spouses, as was this gathering. I found myself surrounded by highly motivated, successful, martini drinking, goody-do-gooders. (I would include my wife in this description, except she prefers red wine over martinis.)

It was a beautiful warm Spring night, and as expected we had a wonderful time. But as is usually the case after spending time with this demographic, I am left feeling like a social sluggard — like Al Bundy (from the television series Married. . . with Children) but with a little better hygiene.

Why the self loathing?

It may have started when listening to a discussion about city road projects led by a gentleman who in retirement leads a non-profit institution for children, managing about 100 staffers and a $6 million operating budget. The other gentleman in the three-man circle — of which I was a ghost member — was also remarkably well versed on Chicago road projects and its politics, and I learned had spent his day at his children's baseball and soccer games.

I stood silently, force sipping a martini, unaware of any city road construction and thinking better of asking if either of them watched the NFL Draft that day (as I did — skipping my daughter's soccer game to do so).

Or perhaps it was my captivation with the commercial real estate lawyer who spun fascinating tales about his practice and Jewish-mob ancestry. Whom I later learned is nationally recognized for his leadership roles in hunger-relief, serving as Chairman of the Board for the nation's largest charitable hunger relief organization, and Chairman Emeritus of the Board for Chicago's food bank.

I never did ask what he thought about quarterback Brady Quinn dropping to the twenty-second overall pick in the draft that day.

Or just maybe it was speaking with a couple who spent the day volunteering their time, painting the Lincoln Park Homeless Shelter - of which he is a Board Member. (Not to mention his time spent as a Council Member of the Chicago Ronald McDonald House.)

Nursing the same tired martini, I quickly surmised that neither of them watched the draft that day either — you know, painting the Homeless Shelter and all.

In fairness to myself, I did have my shining moment. Not to be out done, I was able to interject into a conversation about my own contribution to the greater good.

“Yes, well, I volunteer as a ‘sound parent’ in my daughter's preschool class.” I heard myself humbly saying to a lovely middle-aged couple.

Yes-siree that's the kind of guy I am: a guy who volunteers his time every other Tuesday for one hour — a little less when running late — and drops this tidbit into a conversation with a couple I met just minutes earlier.

"A what?" the woman asked.

"A sound parent," I replied.

"A what parent?" she asked again.

Trying my best to enunciate I said again, "A sound parent."

"A sound parent?" she repeated.

Okay, I don't have this problem in Iowa. Maybe she was having trouble with my suburban accent. But it was too late to turn back.

Using the skills I learned in sound parent training class, I spoke more slowly and loudly, "Yes, a soouunndd par-ent."

(Note: Speaking slowly and loudly is also how I speak to non-English speaking fast-food cashiers and the hombres who cut my lawn. At times I will also unconsciously add a pseudo-Spanish accent. As if speaking like Cheech Marin wearing headphones, is going to help them understand "I ordered this with no jalapeno sauce," or "Please don't dump the grass clippings in the woods.")

What I didn't realize is that she understood what I was saying, but not what a “sound parent” did. Not only was the light in my head out, but the bulb was burnt, and the light switch was in the "off" position.

Finally, politely she asked, "What is a sound parent?"

Ah, the light went on.

"Oh, I basically go into my daughter's class and work with the students on their sounds."

"Their sounds?" she asked again, still with no idea what on earth I was talking about.

At this point I wanted to say, "Yes . . . sounds. I work with the kids on their animal sounds — Oink. Meow. Cock-a-doodle-doo. We just finished barnyard animals and start on whales and dolphins next week."

"Yes, their sounds. The 'letter' sounds, like . . ."

I was about to be the first person in cocktail party history to ever demonstrate a short "a" sound, when thankfully she interrupted me. Speaking slowly and more loudly she said, "Ohhhhh, you mean phon-ics."

"Yes, phonics. Sounds,” I said. “I'm a phonics parent for my daughter's preschool class." Hel-lo? That's what I've been saying.

(Writers Note: From that moment forward I've referred to myself as a "phonics parent.")

Although now apparently speaking the same language, I decided against telling the couple about my important volunteer work as a "Cookie Dad" for my eldest daughter's Girl Scout Troop. I could just hear that conversation . . .

"A what?"

"A cookie Dad."

"A cookie Dad?"

"Yes. A cookie Dad."

"What's a cookie Dad?"

"Oh, I manage the sales of the troop's cookies. You know? Thin Mints, Samoas, Do-Si-Do's."

"Oh, you mean a hand-held flour-based sweet cake Dad."

"Yeah, that's it . . . "

Emotionally and mentally exhausted, I quickly changed the topic of conversation, "Enough about me. Hey, by any chance did either of you happen to watch any of the draft today?"

"Any of the what?" he asked.

It was time to lose my martini, get Elizabeth, and go home.

"I never should have switched from Scotch to Martinis." ~ Humphrey Bogart (his last words)

Don't Quote Me: Bumps

"All these bumps mess up my hair!" ~ Lulu

Assertion made by little Ms. Daisy from her car seat, on the short drive to preschool.  (My God, she is only three-years-old!  Lord, give me strength.)

MUSICAL MUSING #52: Black Betty (Ram Jam -1977)

(Click4 to listen to "Black Betty")

My sense of pride in my daughters is often triggered by the most infinitesimal and absurd accomplishments — or failures.  

I've beamed as my eldest gagged while trying calamari for the first time. I've revelled as my middle child perfectly recited in it’s entirety the Phineas and Ferb theme song.  And a small tear came to my eye, when my youngest created what must have been the largest and most perfectly shaped poop ever created by a child of her size.

Lately, this sense has been stirred by my children's recognition and appreciation of music. Not just any music. The music that matters — my music.

Last Tuesday, I was never prouder of my seven-year-old.

Already ten minutes late, we were about a minute short of the dance studio where we were to pick up my 13-year-old.  Driving, my thoughts were interrupted by a song intro that was as familiar as the front of my hand — I recognized it, but didn't immediately know it.  A cymbal crash and a steady pedal base drum, punctuated about eight beats in by a classic guitar riff.  I thought, "Good tune, but what the hell is it?"  (It was like when you see somebody you know, but don’t know from where you know them — and their name you know you know, but hasn't yet come to you. That’s where I was with this song.)

No sooner had this thought entered my mind, and before a single lyric was sung, from behind I heard Jessie say, “Oh, Black Betty.”

Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam

Holy shit. She was right. It was “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam. The rockin’, redneck soundin’ hit single from somewhere in the 1970s. Jessie identified the song title as if Black Betty was an old kindergarten friend she had just spotted in the toy section at Target.

Black Betty had a child
bam-ba-lam
The damn thing gone wild
bam-ba-lam

I was stunned, “Wow. You’re right Jessie! How do you know this song? Did you dance to it before?”

(Okay, dumb question. Sure, Jessie’s dance instructor is going to choose to dance to a song that was once boycotted by the NAACP because it’s lyrics were deemed insulting to black women.)

Said it weren't none of mine
bam-ba-lam
Damn thing gone blind
bam-ba-lam

“No, it’s on my iPod,” Jessie said as a matter-of-fact.

I said Oh, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam

Jessie has a hand-me-down 2nd Generation 20GB iPod containing a wide variety of music from her older sister and me. Apparently, somewhere in her “1970s” playlist is “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam.

(Note: It is impossible for me to say or write “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam, without following it with “bam-ba-lam.”)

Oh, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam

Shaking my head in disbelief I said, “Wow. Great call Jessie!” By my reaction you would have thought she just named all nine justices of the U.S. Supreme Court.

She really gets me high
bam-ba-lam
You know that's no lie
bam-ba-lam
She's so rock steady
bam-ba-lam
And she's always ready
bam-ba-lam

Basking in her new found glory, Jessie asked, “Who sings this?”

Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam

Who sings this? Man, who does sing this? My God, I couldn’t recall who sang “Black Betty,” bam-ba-lam. I was blowing it. My musical prodigy was thirsting for useless Seventies trivia and I was having a brain fart.  Disappointed in myself I answered, “I’m sorry Kid, I can’t remember. It’s a one-hit wonder with a weird name — but I can’t recall it right now.”

Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam

Jessie didn't know what a "one-hit wonder" was, so I had a brief father-daughter talk about musical flashes in the pan and fleeting fame, as "Black Betty" played itself out and we waited for Lauren.

She's from Birmingham
bam-ba-lam
Way down in Alabam'
bam-ba-lam
Well, she's shakin' that thing
bam-ba-lam
Boy, she makes me sing
bam-ba-lam

Whoa, Black Betty
bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty
BAM-BA-LAM

On the way home, Jessie continue to flex her 70s music muscle by identifying on the radio Queen's 1974 breakthrough hit “Killer Queen.” This one was easy, hell, the name of the band is in the song title, and . . . vice versa. She couldn't duplicate the shining moment presented by Black Betty, bam-ba-lam — the musical call of her young lifetime. Instead of head shaking praise, she got only a wink and a smile, being told to "Stop trying to show off."

It wasn’t until we got home that I recovered from my RAM (random access memory) jam, remembering that "Black Betty” was performed, fittingly, by a band named Ram Jam.

With great pride, Jessie and "Black Betty" will be forever linked.

Whoa, Proud Daddy . . . bam-ba-lam.

Don't Quote Me: Stickers

"Dad, I have stickers on me!" ~ Lulu

Announced by my three-year-old as she entered the Family Room covered with $10.08 worth of 42-cent, Nutcracker postage stamps.  If she wasn't dressed in footy pajamas, I might have been tempted to take her to the Post Office for immediate shipment.

Words You Used To Say (Dean & Britta - 2007)

“History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

I was the unwilling and sole contestant in the 1st Annual Offensive Slang Pronunciation Bee. The event was held last week at my very own dinner table.

Jessie, my seven-year-old daughter, was the moderator. My first — and what would be my only — word was the always inappropriate noun, fag.

“Dad, what does f-a-g spell?”

Thrust center stage, I was surprised and unprepared for this word, but remained cool and collected under the gaze of my curious daughter. There was no need to repeat the letters, ask for a definition, or to use the spelling of the word in a sentence — surely all permissible questions under the rules of a Pronunciation Bee. However, before answering, I did need to know the origin of this unsettling question, coming from my 1st Grader.

"Who told you that . . . spelling?" I asked.

Jessie cast her eyes downward and slowly chewed her hot dog as I eagerly awaited her admission. Somehow I didn’t think she got it from a British cigarette advertisement. (“Have you got a fag, mate?”)

A wily smile came over her face.  Swallowing, she looked straight into my mind penetrating laser shooting eyeballs before answering matter-of-factly, "It was Mr. Angeleno."

Mr. Angeleno? What the . . . ? Mr. Angeleno — one of my BFFs — and his family were at our house the previous weekend. Now that she mentioned it . . .

Jessie continued, “Remember when we dressed Mr. Angeleno in the pink feathery thing and pink hat? He said, ‘This looks more more like f-a-g than f-a-b.’" She asked again, "What's f-a-g?”

(Holy crap, the kid was right. The girls had Mr. Angeleno and I each choose a small piece of paper from a hat. In early elementary school chicken scratch, mine read “rock star,” and Mr. Angeleno’s read “fab.” I was "required" to wear a Cat-in-the-Hat-Thing-1-or-2 looking blue haired wig, while Mr. Angeleno was adorned with a hot pink feather boa and sun hat. Joking, and with goodwill towards all men, Mr. Angeleno in a low voice said just what Jessie had said he said, clearly underestimating my daughter's hearing and memory — but unfortunately, not her phonics ability.  Little did anyone expect that, in less than a week, his spelling would be used in the 1st Annual Offensive Slang Pronunciation Bee.)

The word was back in my court, the hot kitchen light shining brightly on me. Jessie eyes were fixed on mine as she and my salad awaited the pronunciation.

In a moment of clarity, I shifted into "deemphasize" mode, it was Mr. Angeleno's and my only defense. I said, "Oh yeah, that's right. F-a-g spells fag. It's what the British call a cigarette," adding nonchalantly, "and a not-so-nice word for people who are homosexual."

Jessie appeared delighted by this word and my explanation.  I could imagine the joy she must have experienced mulling over my definition — "Awesome, cigarettes and sexual all rolled up in the same word.  This one must be bad."  

I felt compelled to add, "You are not to use this word, do you understand?"

Tickled by her new found adult knowledge, and armed with a fresh forbidden word, Jessie managed to feign a serious look and nodding her head said earnestly, "Yes, Dad."

With Jessie apparently secure in the pronunciation and spelling of this offensive word, and I the Pronunciation Bee champion, I expected this was the last I would here of this word for a long while . . .

I was wrong.

The following Monday while reviewing Jessie’s schoolwork from the previous week, I noticed that she got a word marked wrong on her spelling test.

Upon closer examination, I recognized the word she misspelled was “flagpole.”

Shockingly, what she wrote was "fagpole." F-a-g-p-o-l-e, fagpole.

That evening, Jessie would be the unwilling and sole participant in the second Offensive Slang Pronunciation Bee, held at my very own dinner table, in less than a week. I don't expect she will spell "flag" incorrectly again, as hopefully, neither of us will be spelling "fag" in the foreseeable future.

"When it doubt, sound it out." ~ Unknown

Daddy Proverb #31

"A day is lost if one has not watched Sportscenter." ~ Me

Meaning:  I really like Sportscenter; on some days during football season, even more than laughter.

Origin(al):  "A day is lost if one has not laughed." ~ French Proverb

DON'T QUOTE ME: Bathroom Problems

"Mom, all of our bathrooms have a problem.  The bathroom downstairs doesn't have any toilet paper.  [Pointing] This bathroom doesn't have a towel.  And the other bathroom doesn't have any soap. We have problems!" ~ Jessie

Bathroom report given by our seven-year-old in the middle of an informal "dinner party" we hosted.  (Note:  Later, in a private ceremony, Jessie was promoted to Director of Lavatory Operations and Maintenance for our household.  The lavatory janitorial position remains vacant.)

I Say A Little Prayer (Dionne Warwick - 1967)

“The Creator, if He exists, has a special preference for beetles.”~ J.B.S. Haldane, British-born geneticist and evolutionary biologist

Beetles can be found in almost any habitat, however, my experience is they're usually found clinging to screen windows and doors, or mysteriously dead underneath.

The latter is how Elizabeth likes her insects — dead underneath, and deader on top.  It doesn't matter — dead, medium dead or well dead, just dead. At least, those insects that have the misfortune of entering our house.  Her compassion extends only beyond our front door for these multi-legged, antennaed, bug-eyed creatures.  (This goes for spiders as well.  Unless the spider's name is Charlotte and she has a pig-friend named Wilbur.  Otherwise, in our house, the best spider is a lifeless curled-up spider.)

So you can imagine Elizabeth’s joy when she and our three-year-old discovered a beetle by the sliding screen door in our kitchen.

As family exterminator, coroner, pathologist and mortician for all foreign bodies in our home or yard, I listened with interest from another room as mother and daughter first sighted the intruder.

"Spider!" yelled an excited Lulu.  

This was followed by a repulsed, "Eewww, don’t touch it." It was Elizabeth, “Jack!  Can you come . . . Lulu, I said, don't touch it!  Jack, can you come here? There’s a huge bug by the screen door."

"Daddy, Spider! Hurry!" added Lulu.

(In Lulu’s eyes, any surface-dwelling “bug” is automatically a “thpider.”  If airborne, it’s usually identified as a bee, although a “skeeto" is also a word option.)

Within seconds I was in the kitchen looking at a rotund clay colored beetle, resting motionless on it’s back. (Okay, calling the beetle “rotund” was a little mean. I’m sorry, let’s just say it was “big boned,” or, excuse me, I think the correct term would be "big exoskeletoned.” Beetles don’t have bones.) With Lulu at my side, I examined our visitor more closely, instantly determining that unless it was a heavy sleeper, passed out, or a good faker-outer, this Beetle Bailey was dead.      

Upon learning the beetle was likely deceased, Elizabeth was relieved but grossed out just the same.  For Lulu, this only added to her excitement; not only did we have in captivity a wild beetle, but it was dead too.  

I felt bad for the poor lifeless little guy. I wondered, did he flip on his back and die (the tragic "I've fallen and I can't get up" death . . . if only he had LifeCall), or did he die and (like in the cartoons) then flip on his back (with "x" eyes and a tiny tongue hanging out)?  Either way, the time on earth of one of God's small creatures was over, and it momentarily saddened me.

I unceremoniously picked up the beetle carcass, opened the sliding screen door, and flipped it into the bushes. Closing the door, I said to Lulu, tongue-partially-in-cheek, "Say a prayer for the beetle."  

As I walked toward the kichen sink to wash my hands, I heard Lulu praying:

Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen.
Blesses, O Lord, and these thy gifts,
which we’re ‘bout to receive,
from thy bounty
through Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen.

Elizabeth looked at each other and smiled; Lulu had recited her rendition of our family’s dinner prayer.  With a chuckle and a wash of the hands, I was quickly over our world’s loss.

More importantly, our house was again bug free.  Amen.

"Little bug morticians arrive and turn them over, and if you look veeerrry closely you can see little tiny Lillie's on their chests." ~ Droopy Dog, @ Yahoo! Answers. Answer given to the question, “Why do bugs end up on their backs when they die?”

DON'T QUOTE ME: President Obama

"Girls! Be quiet. I'm on the phone with Barack Obama." ~ Me

Spoken sternly while driving, as a ploy to get my daughters to quiet down while I talked on my cell phone.  Jessie, my seven-year-old, instantly stopped talking, saying soberly, "Seriously?"  Lulu, my three-year-old, wasn't impressed, and kept right on screaming (or maybe she was singing, it's sometimes hard to differentiate between the two).

When I finished my call, I told Lulu, "You can stop screaming now, I'm off the phone with President Obama."  On queue, she became silent.   

MUSICAL MUSING #11: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (Gordon Lightfoot -1976)

I was on my way upstairs to take a shower when from my TV I heard Gordon Lightfoot's uplifting 1976 hit, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."  The ballad is about the tragic sinking of the freighter S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald on Lake Superior the year before the song's release.   Having heard this song hundreds of times, in my best Lightfoot-baritone, I let the first few lines drone from my lips:

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never . . . 

I stopped mid-lyric, choosing to sing the second line again:  

Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.

I enjoyed this line so much, I sang it again, and again, always with special emphasis on "Gitch-e Gu-mee."  

Of the big lake they call Gitch-e Gu-mee. . .
Of the big lake they call Gitch-e Gu-mee. . .
Of the big lake they call Gitch-e Gu-mee. . .

I soon realized it wasn't the line itself I found so entertaining, it was the words "Gitche Gumee."  Before hitting the shower I dropped "Of the big lake they call" and with great vigor and vocal variety, sang only "Gitch-e Gu-mee."

I had reduced Gordon Lightfoot's (5 minute and 57 second) hit single to an intoxicating two words.  Words, I concluded, did not belong in such a gloomy song.  They deserved their own song, like Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti", Cinderella's "Bibbidi-Boppidi-Boo", or even Iron Butterfly's monotonous "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida."

By the end of my shower, like a cat tiring of a ball of yarn, I had enough of Gitche and Gumee.  But they did get me thinking:  who in the world calls Lake Superior "Gitche Gumee"?

I first heard this depressing song a little under 33 years ago, and I've never heard anyone besides Mr. Lightfoot, refer to the largest of the Great Lakes as Gitche Gumee.  Gitche Gumee sounds like a fungal condition or the names of a couple Pokémon characters, not a mass of water.  Definitely not a great lake.

Okay, so the name is taken from the Ojibwe Indian word Gichigami, meaning “big water.” And, yes, of course I knew Henry "Waddy" Longfellow wrote about “Gitche Gumee” in his epic mid-19th Century poem The Song of Hiawatha.  (As I said, I've never heard of anyone besides Mr. Lightfoot and Mr. Longfellow, refer to the largest of the Great Lakes as Gitche Gumee.)

(Speaking of the Ojibwe, wasn't Ojibwe one of Jabba the Hutt's enslaved dancers eaten by the rancor creature? . . .  Never mind, that was Oola.  My bad.)

So, if like that Lightfellow and Longfoot, I spent any time by the shores of the lake that, it is said, never gives up her dead (which I ass-u-me they did), I would probably find at least a Chippewa or two referring to Lake Superior as Gitche Gumee. If not, I expect the proprietors of The Gitche Gumee Inn or Gitche Gumee Campground and RV Park say Gitche Gumee all the time.

By the time I was showered and dressed, I decided from that day forward, I would refer to Lake Superior as Gitche Gumee.

I just wish I adopted this name years earlier. The name would have come in handy in my childhood geography classes. 

Mrs. Peluso (my Sixth Grade teacher):  Class, can anyone tell me the names of the five Great Lakes? [Noticing me with my arm raised high] Jack?

Jack (me):  They are . . . Lake Michigan . . . Lake Erie . . . Lake Ontairio . . . Lake Huron . . . and  . . . Gitche Gumee.

Man, I love that name.

DON'T QUOTE ME: Parked Car

"Yeah, we were sitting behind a parked car for like five minutes." ~ Jessie

My seven-year-old commenting on her morning run to Dairy Queen with her Mom.  Elizabeth took Jessie for an ice cream on their way home to celebrate Jessie almost scoring a couple of goals in her soccer game.   Reportedly, they spent a good amount of time waiting in what they thought was the drive-thru line . . . it was a parked car line.

I'm Your Boogie Man (KC & The Sunshine Band - 1977)

It was the summer of 2003. The summer Carrie, my wife's 21 year-old cousin, stayed with us.   My daughter Lauren was seven-years old and my daughter Jessie was just shy of two.  As is customary on Sunday, we attended 10:30 mass at our church.

We were seated about five rows back from the Altar. Carrie sat to my right, Lauren and my wife Elizabeth were to my left. Jessie sat straddled on my lap, facing me, resting her head on my shoulder. During the Second Reading, with the congregation quietly listening to a letter from some apostle, Jessie took her head off my shoulder and stared intensely at my nose.

Like an animal sensing an impending natural disaster, I knew something wasn't right.

There was a moment of silence. A moment when time seemed to stop. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was coming, and I couldn't stop it.

And then without proper warning it happened. Jessie pointed at my nose and yelled, "Boo-gey!"

(Oh my God! I was like Nancy Bellicec at the end of the 1978 science fiction film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, being pointed out as human by Matthew Bennell and his bloodcurdling pod scream.)

I was in on-the-spot shock, instantaneously sitting in a warm pile of mortification. Jessie continued pointing at my nose yelling, "Boo-gey! Boo-gey! Boo-gey!" I tried to smother her cries with my hand, while the word "bogey" reverberated throughout the church. Those seated around me snickered and I could hear hushed giggles and whispers.  I began to perspire.

I looked to my family for support, but was denied three times. Elizabeth, Lauren, and Carrie turned away, struggling to hold in their own laughter, refusing to make eye contact with the boogeyman.  (I could have sworn I heard a cock crow in the distance.) 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was only seconds, I was able to "shush" Jessie.

But the question remained, did I have anything in my nose? If so, what nostril?  Tissue was not an option and a pick or push was out of the question.  How about a quick wipe with the hand?  Or should I simply do nothing and hope those around believe it was the false accusations of a sugar-cereal crazed little girl. I sat frozen.

Elizabeth was the first to finally look at me.  Pointing to my nose, I gestured for an immediate visual report on my nostrils. The report came back negative, all was clear. But the damage was done.

What, if anything, Jessie saw in my nose that day we'll never know. However, a valuable lesson was learned: never yell "bogey" in a crowded church. Someone could get their pride hurt.

"Lord, if You can't make me a better girl, don't worry about it.  I'm having a real good time like I am!" ~ Unknown

DON'T QUOTE ME: Garnished Savings

"I told Lulu her chicken tenders cost four dollars and if she didn't eat her lunch I was taking it out of her piggy bank." ~ Elizabeth

A mother's confession of a last ditch tactic to get her three-year-old daughter to eat her lunch while dining out.  Lulu didn't eat her chicken tenders and, to date, no piggy bank savings have been garnished.

Almost Forgot Myself (Doves - 2005)

"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This past winter, Jessie had a Kenny McCormick-thing going on. Kenny is the orange parka wearin' character on the animated television series South Park who (prior to season six) was horribly killed in about every episode.

It goes without saying that the horribly killed part is not the thing I'm referring to, but I'll say it anyway — the horribly killed part is not the thing I'm referring to.

What I am referring to is this: Jessie, like Kenny, would tightly draw the hood of her ski jacket over her head, covering her mouth, and consequently, muffling her speech. With her coat on, my bright, well spoken little girl had been reduced to an incomprehensible, muffle-mouthed, hooded curiosity.

In shopping plazas and grocery stores, adults and children alike stopped and stared as my buttoned-up seven-year-old trailed behind, speaking in what linguists could only classify as jabberwocky — unintelligible to anyone not located in the mysterious world within Jessie's hood.

"Umphehohmebohemubehdehwah."

"What Jessie?"

"Umph ehuh meboh emu behdehwah."

"Jessie, I can't understand you. Take your hood off."

"Whumph?"

"Take your hood off.  I don't understand you."

"Em uhwum hebmowa?"

"What? I can't . . . Yeah sure. Okay."

"Hebmowa?"

"Jessie, I have no idea what you're saying . . ."

This wouldn't have been a problem if we could have gotten her to take off her hood once in a while. Unfortunate for us, indoor or out, Jessie was perfectly content staying in her cozy little muted world.

Relatively early in the Kenny season I started to worry that perhaps this was an early sign of something more serious — okay, I'll say it, an early sign of geekiness. Let's face it, communication challenges aside, Jessie’s preference to wear her jacket indoors, hood up and buttoned, was . . . a little . . . geeksterish. I could be overheard on more than one occasion saying to inquiring adults, “Yeah, that’s my daughter over there in the powder blue jacket . . . yes, the one with the hood . . . I know you’d think she’d be hot . . . Yeah, I have no idea what she's saying.”

I vaguely recalled an article about French Researchers recognizing early signs of geekism in children as young as six months.

Were there warning signs? I began to think through some of the possible red flags -- my daughter’s beloved "high-water" jeans, her fascination with Star Wars, the microscope for Christmas, and now this Kenny-thing. Damn! I knew that "Darth Tater" t-shirt her grandparents bought her  in Idaho last summer was a bad idea.  

I soon convinced myself that any possible geekoid tendencies started with that potato Darth Vader shirt.

Was I overanalyzing this, or was this a forerunner of geeky things to come? The hood-thing today, band camp tomorrow? This couldn't be. Elizabeth is very cool. Lord knows, I’m certainly cool. There is no history of geekism in our families . . .

I jokingly shared the story of Jessie’s Kenny-thing with my older brother. After a good chuckle, he maintained that when I was around Jessie’s age I had a geek tendency or two myself. He reminded me of my Johnny West “dolls,” and Circle X Ranch I had setup in my bedroom. I reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that they were not dolls, they were action figures. I also reminded him that just a couple years later, I used the same action figures, including the Jane and Josie West action figures, to play football games against each other. (Let me tell you, Geronimo was a beast coming off the edge).

Okay, so maybe my Johnny West-thing was a bit effeminate, but not geeky.

In all fairness, my brother had forgotten something I did that was much more geeky than Jessie's Kenny-thing.

When I was about her age . . . I pretended like I was Sinbad Junior, the valiant son of Sinbad the legendary sailor.

I fashioned my dress and play after the 1960s cartoon, Sinbad Jr. and his Magic Belt. The show consisted of the 5-minute adventures of Sinbad Jr. and his first mate Salty the Parrot. By pulling tight his magic belt, Sinbad Jr. would gain the ability to fly and superhuman strength (reportedly equivalent to fifty men, I presume of average to a little above average strength).

Okay, so, a kid pretending to be a cartoon hero — normal. Walking around with my shirt untucked, a “magic” belt around my stomach (think Errol Flynn in Robin Hood), and a nail file as my trusty sword (tucked under my belt when not swashbuckling) — geek-ster.

I don’t know how long I lived in this world. A day, a week, a month, all winter? I really, really don’t remember. Regrettably, I do know somewhere in a family photo album lies picture proof of my Sinbad Jr. act. Adding more dorkiness to this already geek packed memory, the pictures also show me wearing a Burger King crown.  Let's review: an untucked shirt, a magic belt, a nail file, and a Burger King crown. (I like to think that our family just happened to go to Burger King that day, and the crown was not part of my super sailorman get-up . . . Let's hope so.)

My childhood geek tragedy does have a happy ending. Just look at me now. Despite what my thirteen-year-old daughter says, I certainly turned out cool (okay, just go with it, alright?). 

So what if Jessie had what some — Or I — might call a geek-like episode? There's still plenty of time to grow out of it — or into it.  She does look awfully cute with her big brown eyes peering out form under her hood — and I know of a good band camp in Northern Wisconsin.

"This information cannot leave this room. Ok? It would devastate my reputation as a dude." ~ The Geek (Anthony Michael Hall), Sixteen Candles (1984)

"Coolness is in the eye of the beholder." ~ Me

A Child's Wisdom: When You're Wet

"It's hard to put your underwear on when you're wet." ~ Lulu

Observation made by my three-year-old while getting on her "Dora" underwear after an evening bath.

She Knows (Thin Lizzy - 1974)

"At school, we had to wear this hat for Spring Sing, and it said 'made in China' on it, and I said to the person next to me, 'Uh oh,'  and said, 'I know you will probably not do this but whatever you do, do not put this in your mouth." ~ Jessie, my seven-year-old daughter 

This morning I happened across my three-year-old in the hallway, her large piggy bank in her arms. She had carried it downstairs from her bedroom and now (like many Americans) looked as if she was struggling to keep a hold on her life savings. As she tottered toward me, Lulu said wearily, "Dad, can you open this?"

More concerned about her dropping and breaking the ceramic pig than removing it's rubber plug, I said "yes" and quickly snatched the unsteady piggy from her arms. The bank had flowers, butterflies, and Lulu's name ("Lucille") hand painted on it. It was a baby gift given to her by a close family friend.

As she followed me into the family room I said, "Be careful not to drop this, it's very special."

"Yeah, I know," said Lulu. "It's made in China."

I was instantly both impressed and humored: impressed she knew that it was made in China, humored she thought something "made in China" was special.  (Ha!)

Later, as I gathered coins strewn about the family room carpet, I thought more about Lulu's comment. I became nostalgic for the simple days of my childhood; when China was a far off place I hoped to dig to one day. A cartoon land of small slanty-eyed, buck-toothed, pony-tailed, dirty knee'd people, speaking really bad English. If I imagined they exported anything at all, it surely would have been chopsticks and Rice-A-Roni (the people of San Francisco just couldn't get enough of that stuff).

To possess something made in China, truly would have been something special to me. Lulu reminded me of this, and got me thinking there is still something special about the Global Economy and a product being "made in China" -- Wow! To think this piggy bank came all the way from China . . .

You know, I still would be more impressed if it had come from Ohio and had a "made in USA" sticker. How funny is that?  Oh, well.

"Truly wonderful the mind of a child is." ~ Yoda, Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones

"Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these!" ~ Children's Rhyme

"China is a big country, inhabited by many Chinese." ~ Charles De Gaulle

DON'T QUOTE ME: Baby Girl

"Was Patrick a girl baby or a boy baby?  I was a girl baby." ~ Lulu

Asked of Patrick's big sister by my daughter.  Patrick is a seven-year-old boy we carpool everyday.  Lulu is a three-year-old girl who doesn't yet understand the natural laws of gender.

Inside of Me (Starlight Mints - 2006)

"There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes." ~ The Doctor, Dr. Who (Television Series)

The other day while cleaning the lint filter in our clothes dryer, I got an idea for a good kid joke. I immediately scooped up the fresh ball of lint and went in search of my two youngest offspring - Jessie (7) and Lulu (3).

As fortune would have it, they were both playing in the family room while Elizabeth sat on the couch reading a book. With the lint from the dryer hidden and balled up in my hand, I approached Jessie and asked she stand still while I inspected her belly button.

From under her shirt I pulled out the fantastically oversized lint ball and exclaimed, "Oh my goodness!"

Jessie laughed while her three-year-old little sister stood and examined the marvelous lint mass in silent amazement. I turned to Lulu and asked, "Do you want me to check your belly button too?"

Wide eyed, Lulu nodded her head.

I discreetly ripped a small piece of lint from the ball I had just wondrously pulled from Jessie's belly hole and said, "Let's take a look."

From my knees I reached under Lulu's shirt and quickly found her belly button. She laughed and squirmed as I performed a thorough "lint removal" with my tickle finger, extracting the much smaller but still remarkably sized wad of lint from under her shirt.

Lulu's smile faded as she marveled at her very own ball of navel fluff. Lifting her own shirt, she looked back and forth between her belly button and the lint ball.

I was about to leave the room, triumphant in my childish joke turned prank, when Lulu solemnly asked, "Dad, is this for true?"

Hesitating, I took the road marked "adult" and smiling I said, "No honey, Dad got that lint from the dryer."

Visibly relieved, Lulu laughed.   All in her little world was right again.  Everyone was happy.

Good times.

"We hope we have been able to provide information for doctors when they are next confronted with the simple question of 'why some belly buttons collect so much lint and others do not'." ~ Dr. Georg Steinhauser, Austrian Scientist

DON'T QUOTE ME: Baby Picture

"We've got to get more pictures.  She's getting old enough to figure it out." ~ Elizabeth

Referring to the framed picture sitting on my three-year-old Lulu's nightstand.  The picture is of me holding a baby.  Lulu believes the baby in my arms is her (I don't know why in the world she would think that), when actually it's her now thirteen-year-old big sister, Lauren.  We have never taken the time to change the picture, nor have we had the heart to tell her the truth . . . We really need to get more pictures and switch that out.

Island In The Sun (Weezer - 2001)

"There is probably no more obnoxious class of citizen, taken end for end, than the returning vacationist." ~ Robert Benchley

My family just returned from a 9-day family vacation in Maui; we had a horrible time and the island is an absolute dump.

Just kidding.

We had a great vacation.  How could we not? It's Maui for Christ's sake! The island is just as the travel guides advertise: pristine rain forests, postcard perfect beaches, breathtaking waterfalls, vibrant rainbows, magnificent mountains, procreating whales, unpronounceable city and beach names, and a range of activities to keep anyone with a full deck of limbs plenty busy. Also, where else in the United States can you get all of this and tomorrow's New York Times delivered electronically today, to your inbox at 9:12 in the evening?

If you find yourself dreaming of a Maui get away, believing it is the more desirable counterpart to your own crummy vacation visiting in-laws in Peoria, you are experiencing what is called Maui envy. You have seen the picturesque postcards, watched the three-part Brady Bunch Hawaiian adventure, know you're not going to vacation there anytime soon, but desire Maui and the idyllic escape it represents. Face it, you have Maui envy, and you have it bad.

There are a number of things you should know about Maui before getting sailor drunk on Tiki drinks and:

a. Blaming your spouse or significant other for your vacation deficiencies.

b. Ordering the complete Hawaii Five-O and Magnum, P.I. DVD box sets

c. Purchasing a $646 one-way ticket to Kahului (Maui)

d. Developing a grass skirt and coconut bra fetish

I repeat, before you pickup that first umbrella and orange slice garnished Mai Tai, please consider reading my following posts:

Top 10 Things Your Gloating Neighbor Didn't Tell You About Maui

. . . to be continued

#10 The Flight There and Back is a Bitch

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Whoever said to "focus on the journey, not the destination," was obviously not talking about the 10-hour flight from Chicago to Maui. After three hours on any airplane, it's all about focusing on the destination.

Like a marathon runner, I hit the proverbial wall somewhere over the Pacific at 40,000 feet; a few hours, or in-flight movie short of Maui's Kahalui Airport. It's at about this time I began having feelings of jealousy for my neighbors heading to Florida. More specifically, I yearned for their two and a half hour flight. In my "journey" induced delirium, the two and a half hour drive to the Great Wolf Lodge Indoor Water Park at the Wisconsin Dells sounded even better than that. If not for the grace of the Apple iPod, I don't know if I would have made it to Maui with my cheery outlook intact.

Once on the ground, we were too tired to be overjoyed. It was 2:50 AM CST time and by the time we got to our hotel and into our room, it was 5:00 AM CST (midnight Hawaiian time). We left our house for O'Hare some seventeen hours earlier.

The return is a little better only because you are exhausted from your vacation and a good part of the flight is in darkness. So we were able to sleep, bob, and drool all the way home. Driving in our garage at about 10 AM CST - almost fourteen hours after leaving the warm and tropical confines of our Maui hotel room.

Hey, I hear the Wisconsin Dells has some nice packages this time of year.

#9 Maui is Damn Windy (Chicago Has Nothing on This Place)

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui: 

Maui is a surfer's heaven and a combover's nightmare; the wind is simply ever-present. I'm not talking about a gentle tropical breeze, I'm talking about conditions that will blow your socks and hat off. (The only escape I found from my constant companion was in old Lahaina town.)

I believe the windy conditions have something to do with the trade winds and the fact that Maui is made up of two large mountainous regions. Or maybe, Paka'a the Hawaiian god of the wind (and proclaimed inventor of the sail) is just screwing with me. I don't really know. I do know, if I had it to do over again I would have packed a kite.

#8 The Time Change Messes With Your Body and Mind

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Hawaii is in the same time zone as the Aleutian Islands. This means absolutely nothing to most until, defying the body's natural laws of sleep, you find yourself awaking before the crack of dawn every morning. 

To kill time, you go for a run and when you return you turn on the TV to find Oklahoma St. tipping off against Tennessee. You check your iPhone for the time and see it is only 6:25 AM, and the Dow Jones is already down 217 points in active midday trading. For a moment you are staggered, while your body gets its mind around the reality of being on Hawaiian-Aleutian Standard Time:  five hours behind Chicago at this time of year (and an hour ahead of Nukualofa).   It's enough to make you wonder what time the Nightly World News comes on.

(A Little Advice: If you should visit, make sure you mute the ringer on your wireless phone before going to sleep at night. Otherwise risk a 3:27 AM "wake-up" call from your buddy checking to see what you thought of the Bears getting quarterback Jay Cutler from the Denver Broncos.)

#7 I've Never Seen So Many Danger Signs

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Elizabeth, I've a feeling we're not in Illinois anymore . . .

If the Five Man Electrical Band had spent anytime in Maui before penning their 1971 hit "Signs," the lyrics might have gone something like this:

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.

Blockin' out the scenery, TELLING ME I COULD DIE.

Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

Danger signs seem to be everywhere on Maui.  I'm not talking the yellow cautionary variety. I'm talking the red or orange "WARNING" sort. Milu, the Hawaiian god of death, seemingly lurks beyond every rock, stream, waterfall, wave, road, and path. 

The messages on the signs are clear and are obviously to be taken dead seriously.  However, many are so direct and dire in their wording that when combined with the rudimentary graphic depiction, they become almost . . . comical:

STRONG CURRENT

YOU COULD BE SWEPT AWAY FROM SHORE AND COULD DROWN

IF IN DOUBT, DON'T GO OUT

WAVES BREAK ON LEDGE

YOU COULD BE SWEPT OFF, INJURED OR DROWNED

IF IN DOUBT, KEEP OFF

WARNING

FLASH FLOODS, SLIPPERY ROCKS, SWIFT CURRENTS & HIGH SURF HAVE RESULTED IN INJURY AND DEATH

Shorebreaks, sharp coral, and sharks!  Oh, my!

Drive at your own risk roads!  Oh, my!

Falling rocks and man-o-wars!  Oh, my!

. . . We must be in Maui. 

#6 If I See Another "Hawaiian" Shirt I'll Puke

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Excuse me. Don Ho called, he wants his shirts back.

You know, those brightly colored collared short sleeved shirts, with floral patterns or tropical island images such as parrots, flamingos, and cocktails (the Hula dancers are my favorite). The "Hawaiian" shirt is worn on Maui (or at your local luau theme party) by every sunburned male over the age of forty. Is there any quicker way to identify a haole? (Haole is Hawaiian for "foreigner" or "outsider".   Often confused with ha'ole, meaning "without breath"; or a-hole, shortened slang for "a stupid, incompetent, or detestable person".)

Good fun, akin to wearing a baseball jersey to a baseball game, or an assault on fashion sense? My eyes tell me the latter. If you visit, think about leaving the Hawaii jersey at home.  Please.

#5 Food is Very, Very Expensive

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Okay, not surprising considering it is an island tourist destination located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, some couple thousand miles away from the mainland. 

I have seen more expensive prices in an airport.  But still, $7.50 for a Subway foot long? Come on!

#4 If You See Poi, Run Away!

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

"Poi? We ain't got no poi! We don't need no poi! I don't have to eat any stinking poi!"

If you do go to Maui you will most likely find yourself at a luau. And if you find yourself at a luau, a local will certainly "encourage" you to try the poi. And if you politely decline . . . the local will strike down upon thee with great disdain and indignation!

Oh, what is poi you ask? This nutritious "gray nebulous blob of nothingness" is a paste made from mashed taro root. Yummy!  (Come on, what is there not to like in that description?)  More importantly, Hawaiian's are brought up on it, it has great significance in Hawaiian culture, and it tastes brutal.

So, if you're asked to eat it, it's best not to but say you did.  Or else, experience the wrath of a Hawaiian.

#3 Hawaiian Music Becomes Tiresome

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui: 

While in Maui I had more than my fill of traditional and popular Hawaiian music.  There was simply no getting away from the sound of a slack-key guitar or ukulele.  You can run, but you cannot hide.  

I think I burned out somewhere around Day 4. It was like being caught in the Twilight Zone; with every lobby, store, and restaurant, playing a never ending loop of an indistinguishable Hawaiian sounding tune, followed by "Bruddah Iz" (Israel Kamakawiwo'ole) singing his "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" medley.  Over and over . . . and over . . . and over . . . and over again.

Por favor! No más! No más!

#2 Hawaiian Speak is for the . . . Kama'aina

Top 1o things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

Officially, Hawaii has two (yes two) official languages: English and Hawaiian. And the native-born and long-time residents (called kama'aina) officially speak both . . . at the same time . . . often within the same sentence.

Let me clarify. Everyone we encountered spoke English, but to confuse matters, Hawaiian words were often thrown in. A famous example is Bing Crosby singing "Everybody loves the hukilau, where the laulau is the kaukau at the big luau." 

Bing, you lost me after the.  

For me, it's either one language or the other. I'm all in, or all out.  Let the record show, I opted out.   No alohas (or "hello-ah" as pronounced by my three-year-old),  no mahalos (or "maloha,"as Elizabeth was overheard saying for "thank you"), and I refused to order the pupu platter (ordering the appetizer platter instead).    

Okay, when I first arrived I did, on occasion, mumble the obligatory aloha, but even that proved confusing. It wasn't until a few days into the vacation that I learned the word "aloha" is not just used as a greeting, but is also used when parting. Yes, the same word for "hello" and "goodbye." What's with that? I didn't know whether they thought I was coming or going.

For crying out loud, pick one and stick with it.  Hello or goodbye.  English or Hawaiian.  Just pick one! . . . Mahalo very much.

#1 I Can't Wait to Go Back Next Year

Top 10 things your gloating neighbor didn't tell you about Maui:

The flight there and back really isn't that bad. And you know, the time change does have it's advantages; like getting tomorrow's paper today, and watching live sporting events before breakfast. Oh, and that wind, nothing like a gail force tropical breeze to cool you off on a warm Hawaiian day. Excuse me? What about all those danger signs everywhere? Oh, you mean like, "Turn Around, Don't Drown?" What a hoot! Don't worry, we'll be careful.

Anyway, where else am I going to wear the new "Parrots and Margaritas" design Hawaiian shirt I bought in the airport on the way home? Sure, the food is expensive but what worthwhile tourist spot doesn't have pricey food? (Speaking of food, you know I'm not really sure I've ever really even tried poi. It sure looks gross, but I've heard Poi English Muffins are to just die for.)

With the Maui sun still fresh on our tanned (or in my case, reddened) skin, and Maui sand still in our shoes, we are already looking forward to going back next Spring. Until then the 'ohana (family) will just have to hula to our "Iz" music downloads.

You know, because Maui is simply the po'okela (best). Can I pour you a Mai Tai?  Aloha!

"Haka Tiki Mou Sha'ami Leeki Toru." ~ Hawaii State Motto ("Death To Mainland Scum, But Leave Your Money")

DON'T QUOTE ME: Sniffles

"No, I have sniffles.  Not a cold." ~ Jessie

My seven-year-old's response when questioned if she had a cold.  Yeah, and I have the itchies.  Not athlete's foot.

Misunderstanding (Genesis - 1980)

make-up \ˈmā-ˌkəp\ - something that makes up for a previous postponement, omission, failure, or deficiency. ~ Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary

Every Wednesday my three-year-old daughter goes to gymnastics.

Well, most every Wednesday.

Because of my forgetfulness, we missed a class. Thankfully, I was able to schedule a make-up. I informed Lulu we missed gymnastics, but not to be upset because "I was able to schedule a make-up class" for the next Monday. Lulu wasn't the least bit upset, seemingly even excited about her "new" class.

The day came for the make-up class. As I dressed Lulu in her black long-sleeved leotard, she asked me,"Dad, why do I have to wear my leotard to the make-up gymnastics class?"

I answered simply, "Because it's gymnastics. Gymnasts wear leotards."

Lulu momentarily looked confused, before apparently making sense of my response. Running late (what else is new?), I moved past what seemed an odd question.

As we pulled into the gymnastics parking lot, Lulu asked "Is the make-up class here?"

"Of course, where else would it be silly?" I said.

Lulu sat silently, suddenly looking unsure about the situation.

I hustled Lulu inside and quickly shed all but her leotard and Dora The Explorer underwear (stylishly visible underneath).  Racing through the gym door, I directed her to a smiling instructor seated in a small circle of Lulu sized humans.

Lulu hesitated before slowly making her way to the circle and finding a spot to sit.

For the next fifty-five minutes I watched with a handful of Moms from the waiting area as the children stretched, straddled, somersaulted, jumped, ran, balanced, and lastly (what I'm told is the very "bestest" part) got ink stamps on their hands and feet.  Lulu gave her instructor a high-five and came bursting through the gym door.  Looking like she had something very important to tell me, she ran to where I sat.

"Daddy! There was no makeup in the class," she said.

Puzzled by her comment I repeated,"No makeup?"

Shaking her head from side-to-side, Lulu said, "Yes, they had no makeup! It was not the makeup class."  

Smiling I said, "Honey, that was not a makeup class it was . . ."

Interrupting, she said, "I know Dad, you put me in the wronged class!"

Oh okay, you mean the makeup class, commonly confused by fathers with the make-up class.  Well, someone had some explaining to do (and that would be me).

The same word but with a different meaning conundrum. The peculiarity of language or the natural by-product of a forty-four-year-old man sharing his days with a three-year-old, makeup crazed little girl?

I don't know who or what is to blame. But I do know, you can't make up this stuff.

makeup \ˈmā-ˌkəp\ - cosmetics used to color and beautify the face. ~ Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary

BLOG VACATION: March 28 - April 5, 2009

THE VACATION FILES: Wai'anapanapa State Park, Maui (2004)

That's me on April 1, 2004, in Maui, at what Elizabeth and I thought was a nude beach. 

This picture captures my disappointment when I learned nude bathing was "absolutely" prohibited. An uptight park ranger later informed me "no nude bathing" also meant no nude sunning, running, jumping or frolicking (which includes prancing and skipping merrily).  

Unfortunately, this also ruled out nude volleyball, which I hear is all the rave at nudist resorts. It really was a shame, because as you can see I was looking pretty darn fine that day. Not to mention I brought a volleyball and net all the way from Chicago.

(Okay, I made that up.  All except the part about nude volleyball being the rave at nudist resorts . . . so I've heard.  And of course, the part about me looking pretty darn fine in my Jesus sandals and authentic "1999 World Series" t-shirt.)

I expect to post again on Monday, April 6th. Thanks! - Jack

Virtue and Vice (The Black Crowes - 1999)

It was the Sunday before Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.

I was alone with Jessie, my seven-year-old, driving to her 9:00 AM religious education class at church.

Thinking out loud, I said, "It's almost Lent."

"What's Lent?" Jessie asked from the backseat.

My, my, my. How quickly they forget. Had the previous year's cookie fast taught her nothing? Lord knows I surely hadn't forgotten about my last retreat into the desert with Jesus. Forty days and nights without sweets, fast food, red meat, and Seinfeld reruns. You know, it does a thing or two to a man's soul and, if done right, can also do some good for a man's waste line.

I reminded my unmindful little one that Lent was basically the time before Easter for reflection, fasting, self-denial, and good deeds.

Jessie was silent for a few moments before blurting, "I know what I'm going to do!"

"What?" I said, sharing in her enthusiasm.

"I'm going to do a lot of jobs, and make a lot of money!" she said.

I waited a few seconds to allow Jessie to bring her idea home with the part about giving the money she earns to the poor or needy. However, the only sound in the car was that of the radio. Stopped at a traffic light, I turned to see Jessie with a greedy smile on her face, contently looking out her window with dollar signed eyes.

Okay, what part of fasting, self-denial and good deeds, didn't she understand?

In an effort to impose "good deeds" as part of her Lenten journey I said, "Aaand? . . ."

"'And' what?" Jessie said.

The evils of the almighty dollar had apparently reached beyond Wall Street and taken control of my innocent child. I tried again to gently lead her down the path of piety, "Make a lot of money, aaanndd? . . . "

Becoming frustrated, she said, "Make a lot of money aaanndd what?" She didn't have an inkling.

"How about make a lot of money and giving it to the poor or a charity?"

"Oh," Jessie said.

For Jessie, Lent had suddenly lost it's golden luster. While I gave a short sermon on the goodness of the season, Jessie sat rethinking her options.

Reflecting on my words for a good 5 seconds, Jessie apparently had an epiphany.

Taking a deep breath and putting on an artificially good face, Jessie said wearily, "Maybe I'll just give up cupcakes."

Oh well, there's always next season.

"Lent is when I determine which addictions I may still have some control over." ~ Lenten Card, from someecards.com

CONFESSION #67: I Sometimes Use Smiley Faces In My E-Mails

I sometimes use smiley faces in my e-mails.

If you've received any amount of e-mails, instant messages, or tweets, from any tech savvy female under the age of forty-five, you've seen them: those cutesy little sideways faces, created by combining keyboard characters, and used to bring emotion to the typed word. The most popular being the basic, but always happy, noseless smiley face :)

(For those of you who are not familiar with the typographical smiley face, and are wondering why the hell I just typed a colon and a parenthesis at the end of a sentence: tilt your head slightly toward your left shoulder and look again at this apparent punctuation malfunction. If you stare long enough, the colon and parenthesis will transform into little eyes and a smiling mouth. This is what I'm talking about.)

Note, the period and parenthesis I just typed at the end of the last paragraph, is really a period and a parenthesis, not a one eyed smiley face.

As I said, I do sometimes type them . . . but I'm not always comfortable doing so :

Not that there is anything wrong with them ;)

No, seriously :|

I actually like when other people use them :D

Kind of how I like the color pink on girls :P

But only certain guys can pull off the pink golf shirt, dress shirt, or tie :0

And, I'm not one of them ;)

No, really, I'm not :/

(While other men wearing pink can look GQ, when I wear any hint of the color I just look GQueer; as in "Gee, you look unnatural or odd," not, "Gee, you look effeminate." Now if I was thin, neat, and wearing pink, I just might look effeminate. But then again, if I was thin and neat, I'd probably look good in pink.)

But as I said, I still do on occasion use the typed faces. Specifically, the smiley, sad, or winky face. That might not come as a surprise to you if you knew in fifth grade I also unnecessarily dotted the "J" in my first name with a star. It was kind of like name art: the girls had their cute "Y " dotted "i," and I had my bold and always masculine "☆" dotted "J".

I thought it was cool. You know, like the Converse All-Star logo? That is until somebody broke it to me that not only was it uncool, but it also was kinda . . . not so masculine. One boy's individualistic, artistic expression, is another boy's early sign of homophobia. It goes without saying, I succumbed to the power of peer pressure and by the Summer of '76 removed the star from my written name.

Thirty plus years later I'm at it again with artistic expression in my writing. Only this time it is with typographical faces, and it's pretty much just a "girl thing." By that I mean I only use them when writing girls. Nothing against my X and Y chromosomal brothers, but men typically don't discuss emotions let alone insert them into written form with text faces. Using the faces is akin to giving a guy flowers, it just doesn't seem right. Let me demonstrate:

EXHIBIT A (the smiley face)

Hey Frank, I hope can you play hoops Saturday morning :)

Sorry, don't think so.

EXHIBIT B (the sad face)

Damn! The Bears' are just decimated with injuries :(

Not.

EXHIBIT C (the winky face)

Dude, I can't believe the Cubs didn't re-sign Kerry Wood ;)

Do you see what I mean? Just kinda . . . not masculine, a little unnatural, and odd.

Not that there is anything wrong with them. I'm just not always comfortable using them ;)

"People seldom notice improper punctuation if you type a big smile." ~ Me

Dangerous Type - The Cars (1979)

DON'T QUOTE ME: Jesus' Last Name

"Christ." ~ Papa Walt

Answer given to my seven-year-old daughter in response to her question, "What was Jesus' last name?" I don't know who ultimately gets credit for that punch line, but it was an especially quick and witty response by my Dad ("Walter son of Wilbur").

Heaven Knows (Donna Summer - 1978)

Yesterday we attended church with my parents.

Sitting in the third pew, thank God the children behaved pretty well. Besides me having to tell my seven-year-old, Jessie, to sit up, and Elizabeth telling our three-year-old, Lulu, to keep still a couple of times, as far as I could tell my children didn't cause any disruptions or major distractions to those around us.

No talking or whispering too loud. No laying in the pew, on the floor, or on a parent. No dropping of play things or books. No musical or talking toys. No bathroom runs. No sleeping. No finger pointing. No hair brushes or lip gloss.

In hindsight, maybe Lulu was a bit fidgity . . . and I guess she did fuss with her pigtails quite a bit . . . and, oh, she did demand to be held by Elizabeth a couple times. But all things considered, a pretty good morning at the ol' churchyard.

At the end of mass, a gray haired gentlemen who apparently sat somewhere behind us, approached my Dad in the aisle. All I could hear him say to my father was, "Are those your grandchildren?" I could not hear the rest of the brief exchange, but it was obvious to me this nice man was complimenting my parents on their cute and angelic granddaughters.

Not able to remain humble, as only Jesus, Cal Ripken, Mother Theresa, and maybe Gandhi could, I asked my Dad what the man said.

Smiling, my Dad said, "He asked me if they're my grandchildren and I said 'Yes,' and he said, 'That little one looks like a handful.' "

Surprised the man would say that, I asked my Dad, "And what did you say?"

"I said, 'You got that right.' " was his reply.

Heaven knows, they both got it right.