BLOG VACATION: June 24 - July 8, 2008

I won't be posting again until Tuesday, July 8. Feel free to look around. - Jack

Quote Unquote: Leg Bump

"Dad, I have a big bump on my leg! . . . Oh, never mind.  It's my knee." ~  Jessie

Self observation and diagnosis made by my six-year-old while riding with Dad to get the oil changed (and a tail light fixed).  

Life is Like a Box of Whores (You Never Know What You're Gonna Get)

"Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." ~ Forrest Gump, Forrest Gump (1994)

[Part 2 of 2]

Due to its personal and lecherous subject matter, I think it best I express the second part of my two-part series on prostitution in a one-act play.

_______________________________

NOW PLAYING

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Holy Crap! Didst She Say Whore?

Chicago, Illinois USA

This ribald tale, showcases the effect of prostitution on society, and indirectly on the everyday language of children. A tawdry modern day story set in Old England, follows a stay-at-home Knight as he struggles with Elizabethan Era verb conjugation, and the use of the word "whore" by his seemingly innocent young girls. Remarkably, this sassy, timeless family classic is based on a whores d'oeuvres of real life events which took place within a 24-hour period in May, 2008. The unrehearsed and uncensored, one-act play, will give the audience a voyeuristic view inside a bawdy game of Closh, the pages of a titillating children's classic, and an unseemly lesson in rhyming.

Running Time: Approximately 8 minutes

_______________________________

"During this performance, please feel free to let your cell phones and pagers ring willy-nilly. However, do remember that there is a heavily-armed knight on stage and you might well be dragged up and impaled." ~ Pre-curtain announcement, taken from Monty Python's Broadway musical Spamalot (and adapted ever so slightly)

HOLY CRAP! DIDST SHE SAY WHORE?

CHARACTERS, in Order of Appearance:

Narrator

Sir Jagger

Leigh

Luella

Jonesy

NARRATOR:

Once upon a time, there lived a stay-at-home Knight named Sir Jagger. The handsome, although admittedly slightly overweight, Knight had three beautiful young girls. Each pure of heart, and until this cursed day . . . pure of tongue.

SCENE I - W-h-o-r-e Play

[The noble carriage]

NARRATOR:

One day, as Sir Jagger accompanied Leigh on a trip to see her Dance Master, his twelve-year-old shared a most salacious story. Good God. Let's watch!

LEIGH:

My Lord, I know not if I durst tell you this tale. But 'tis oh so funny. Doth I have your blessing?

SIR JAGGER:

As you will, my young and saucy daffodil.

LEIGH:

While playing Closh today with friends Gleda and Shandy, I hath a terrible time with my Klos-beytel and quickly fell behind H-O to naught. My next shot I was nary the hoop. Burdened with H-O-R, and without thought I said, "I am a HOR."

SIR JAGGER:

Pray pardon?

LEIGH:

(excitedly) Aye, then Gleda screamed, "Thou churlish clay-brained dewberry! Canst thou wit what thou just spoke? Thou said thou art a 'whore'! "

To which Shandy added, "Aye, come thou impertinent tickle-brained tart!" .

Having realized what I hath said, red faced I shouted "I trow not! But I am a mammering fool-born giglet, I am."

(laughing) We didst laugh, until we didst cry!

SIR JAGGER:

(laughing uneasily) E'en so?

NARRATOR: Bawdy indeed! . . . Although using this same sophomoric "whore" joke himself hundreds of times before, the Knight was not amused. His forced laugh an attempt to cover up his discomfort with his twelve-year-old referring to herself as a strumpet, even in jest.

SCENE II - Onions Gone Bad

[The noble nursery]

NARRATOR:

That evening, Sir Jagger sat reading the children's classic The Tale of Penley Rabbit to Luella, his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Another off-color tale of ribaldry? Let's find out!

SIR JAGGER:

[reading aloud]

"Suddenly, Penley heard the noise of a hoe -- scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. There was Master McGregor hoeing onions -- and just behind him was ye gate!

Penley started running as fast as he could go."

LUELLA:

[pointing to the picture of Master McGregor]

He hor-ing?

SIR JAGGER:

What say you my darling poppet?

LUELLA:

He hor-ing?

SIR JAGGER:

I crave your parden?. . . Oh, he didst hoe? Yay, he didst.

[he quickly turns the page]

NARRATOR:

Ooooohhhh! Naughty, naughty! Sir Jagger was staggered by this last whore-ah! He began to question the true meaning behind the classic children's book. Might have author Lady Potter intended for Master McGregor's garden to represent the temptations of society? Master McGregor, a pimp? The onions, cocaine and myristic acid smoking trollops? How lasciviously scrumptious!

SCENE III - For, Your, Whore

[The noble den]

NARRATOR:

It is the next morning and Sir Jagger reads aloud his six-year-old's carefully scrawled list of rhyme words. Is there one more surprise for Sir Jagger? Let's hope so!

SIR JAGGER:

[reading aloud]

time

Rime

lime

fill

Gill

Bill

sore

more

NARRATOR:

The next word brought Sir Jagger to a dead stop. . . Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Oh, yes! . . . There, written in #2 pencil was that naughty word. Dare I say it? I dare not!

SIR JAGGER:

[Pointing to the word on the paper]

(playing dumb) What word is this, h-o-r-e?

JONESY:

"Whore?"

SIR JAGGER:

Whence did you learn this word?

JONESY:

I don't know.

NARRATOR:

Delightful! Paranoia begin to creep into the mind of the whore-iffied Knight. Oh, how delectably tawdry!

SIR JAGGER:

Didst you learn it from your sister?

JONESY:

No. . . 'Tis a real word?"

DAD:

Eh, no 'tis not. (mumbling) As far as thou art concerned. (speaking clearly) Find another rhyme my golden marigold.

[Jonesy takes the paper and runs from the room. Sir Jagger sits thinking.]

NARRATOR:

Oh, no, no, no! Is that it? No more? . . . Not as tawdry as I had hoped. (tired and dejected) Jonesy, like Leigh and Luella before her had innocently used the word "whore." There, I said it. Whore, whore, whore. [sigh]. . . But still, Sir Jagger sat wondering how all three of his uncorrupted girls could have spoken this same not-so-naughty word within a twenty-four hour period.  Was it mere chance? Or perhaps somebody's twisted idea of magic? Or possibly, the work of witches? 

He could come up with only one answer: it was the witchcraft of the two old crones that propositioned he and a fellow Freshman classmate twenty-five years ago, as they walked to a Dunkin' Donuts in San Antonio. . . (excitedly) Oooohhh! A possible tale of ribaldry? We'll have to save this for another day! Until then, goodbye!

"No, no, no, no, we'll have none of this! You've gone too far! You've ruined it for me! Well, this tale is over, but you must admit it was a ribald tale, wasn't it?" ~ Evelyn Quince (Jon Lovitz), Tales of Ribaldry (Saturday Night Live)

In Case You Were Wondering . . . My Pimp Handle?

I interrupt my two-part series on prostitution to bring you this special announcement . . .  

According to playerappreciate.com's pimp name generator, my pimp handle would be "Big Plahah J. Wicked."

On the Radio (Donna Summer - 1979)

[This post begins a two-part story spotlighting the world's oldest profession and its impact on a suburban trophy husband, and his three children.]

PART I

From the backseat came the voice of my six-year-old daughter, "What's this song about?"

Holy prostitution, Batman!

Playing on the radio was "Roxanne," the 1979 hit by The Police, about a man who falls in love with a call girl.

Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light

Those days are over
You don't have to sell your body to the night
Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right

Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light
Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light

Sure, sex acts for money is a perfectly reasonable topic of discussion for a six-and-a-half-year-old. Don't you think? I could have easily turned the radio station and given Jessie the standard "inappropriate for a six-year-old" response.  But no, having just read in Rolling Stone Magazine about Michelle Braun, "The Sex Queen of LA," and her "celebrity" escort service, I believed I had this one under control. So in an Eliot Spitzer minute of judgement, I tried explaining it to her.

(Now, don't worry) I used a twisted, G-rated, pay-for-friendship illustration. It was one of those explanations that half-way into it you have a Talking Heads, "Once In A Lifetime" moment and ask yourself,"Well, how did I get here?"  The rest of the explanation is spent just trying to get back to where you started; an attempt to explain away what you've already explained.

This is usually achieved by deliberately confusing the hell out of the unsuspecting child in a maze of gibberish -- the bigger the words, the better. The goal is by the end of the anti-explanation, the poor child is so utterly confused she can't remember what the question was; or if asked by an adult, cannot coherently articulate anything you've spewed.

(What's she talking about? Oh, I have no idea Auntie Tina. It sounds like some song about friendship. . .  I don't know maybe she's thinking of "You've Got a Friend," or "You're My Best Friend," or some other age appropriate song she learned in school. . .  Red light? Got me. Where in the world do kids get this stuff?)

Jessie was not shaken. "Is this based on a true story?" she asked.

"Nah, it's just a song. You know, like 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' Sure, somewhere a lamb could have followed a girl named Mary to school, but it's not why the song was written."

Nodding her head Jessie said, "Yeah and if it did, I don't think the teacher would allow a sheep in the class."

"Exactly. Right. Good point.  You got it."

Jessie was silent, and "Roxanne" ended none too soon. Thank God the next song was the wholesome rock ditty, "I Love Rock N' Roll," by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts. A good ol' fashioned song about meeting someone at a bar, and taking that nameless someone home -- the all-American way, FREE of charge. I quickly turned the station. Sure, I didn't want another question, but more importantly, I dislike the song.

Little did I know that Jessie's innocent question was a mere portend of the whore-id things to come in the days ahead.

To be continued . . .

Traffic Light (The Ting Tings - 2008)

"Let sleeping dogs lie." ~ American Proverb

I was having a nice relaxing drive home on a beautiful Spring morning. Having dropped Jessie at school minutes earlier - I was lost in thought as Lulu sat strapped in her carseat quietly watching Piglet's Big Movie on DVD.

What I was thinking about I can't remember. But I do remember a feeling of bliss; thinking how rare, peaceful moments like this are in my stay-at-home day. I was with child, a terrible-twos-year-old no less, and there was no talking, yelling, screaming, singing, banging, knocking, kicking, running, tooting, asking, telling, crying, sneezing, wiping, picking, drinking, slurping, burping, or eating.

The only thing missing from the moment was The Eagles playing their 1973 hit "Peaceful Easy Feeling" over the car radio. In its place was Carly Simon's voice coming from Hundred Acre Woods, singing the playful "A Mother's Intuition."

It's a mother's intuition
To make a little space
It's her quiet mission to tidy up her place
A mother's intuition is like a kangaroo's
She hops around, she mops the ground
She fusses over you

A mother

With her intuition
Will know just what to do

As the song played, I remember thinking how cute it is that Lulu always breaks into a smile when she hears it. I have to believe it's because she's thinking of her own "Mama," and how she too "fusses" and always knows "just what to do." (And not because, like me, she finds the image of Elizabeth mopping, comical.) Listening to the song is the last peaceful, easy, feeling I would have for the remaining fifteen minute ride home.

All was right in the world . . . that is until my FATHER'S intuition kicked in and I had to open my BIG FAT YAPPER! . . .

I stepped in it while stopped at a traffic light. It was there that I tragically broke from nirvana for a teaching moment.

Pointing to the red traffic light I said, "See Lulu? When the light is red, Daddy stops. And when it turns green, Daddy can go."

Peeking over the passenger side front seat, unexpectedly Lulu screamed, "Dad, I see a green light! Go! Daddy go! Go!"

With a number of cars ahead of me in the left turn lane, I couldn't yet move. I chuckled and calmly tried to explain this exception to the green light rule, "Okay, okay, okay. But I can't go yet, I have to wait for the cars in front of me to go first. Then I can go."

Lulu would have nothing of it. The light was green Amsterdammit, put the pedal to the metal! She continued screaming, "Daddy go! Daddy go! Daddy go!" Thankfully the cars cleared and seconds later I was able to turn.

Although she was a tad (or two) overly enthusiastic, I was impressed with how quickly she picked up the concept. Yes, it was kind of annoying, but cute in a childhood Macaulay Culkin kind of way.

Less than a minute later we approached another traffic signal. Lulu, the newest member of the the Traffic Light Nazi Party, was at it again.

"Daddy go! . . . Yellow light! Red light! Stop! Daddy stop! Stop car stop!"

Okay, not cute anymore. Just kind of annoying in a teenage Macaulay Culkin kind of way. I told Lulu to "quiet down" and to use her "inside voice." But the kid was obsessed, she wouldn't listen.

"Green light! Daddy go! Daddy go! Green! Go!" she screamed.

Oh man, what had I done? I yearned for the good ol' days of a minute earlier. Everywhere I turned, more traffic lights, accompanied by more screaming. In my mind I frantically navigated the route home with the least number of traffic lights. It didn't really matter, six one way, half a dozen another.

"I can't see see the green light! I can't see! I can't see! . . . Daddy, I see a green light! Go! Go!

Light after light. . .

I can't see the light! I can't see the green light! Over there! Red! I see a red light. Stop! Stop! . . . Go! Green Daddy! Go! Green! Go!"

After light. . .

"You've got to wait for a green light! I see a red light. Stop Daddy stop!

"Lulu shhhh! Daddy can see the lights." I countered, but I had lost control many lights ago.

This went on until we passed the last signal about a half-mile from home. By the time we pulled into our garage, I had a splitting headache and Lulu was showing symptoms of traffic light withdrawal: exhaustion, sweating, and a runny nose.

My parental teaching moment turned into a parental learning moment. I learned that "father's intuition" can't be trusted, sometimes a dog should just "Let sleeping puppies lie," and there are a lot of frickin' traffic lights between home and Jessie's school.

“On a traffic light green means go and yellow means yield, but on a banana it's just the opposite. Green means hold on, yellow means go ahead, and red means where the hell did you get that banana at...” ~ Mitch Hedberg, American Comedian (1968 - 2005)

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The editors of "Confessions of a Trophy Husband" are telling me this is where the story should end. A tired, screamed out toddler; a Dad vowing never to utter the words "traffic" and "light" together again; and an unconventional quote comparing traffic lights to bananas, from a dead unconventional comedian. But no, this is my blog and I'll run-on if I want to . . . and I want to. Because this last piece of the story is not just coincidental, it's a little freaky deaky doo . . .

So, I carried Lulu from the car to my bedroom and plopped her down on the unmade bed, propping her head on a king-sized pillow. I told her she was going to watch a little more TV while I took a quick shower. She was happy about this, and I was just happy to have the whole traffic light, stop and go incident behind us.

I turned on the TV and changed the channel to PBS Kids Sprout. "The Sunny Side Up Show" was on, hosted by Kelly and Chica, the chicken puppet.

As I began to undress I heard Kelly say, "Today, on The Sunny Side Up Show, we are talking about the meaning of the words 'stop' and 'go'. . ."

Say what? I froze in horror, holding my breath as I waited for her screaming to begin again. I slowly turned to look at Lulu. She was watching the TV with a big smile on her face.

Let sleeping puppies lie.

She turned her head and smiled at me with the same cheeky smile.

Let sleeping puppies lie.

I gently smiled back.

Let sleeping puppies lie.

She continued watching the show.

Exhale.

And I let the sleepy puppy lie, as I took a shower.

"Let sleeping puppies lie" ~ Jack Butler, American Stay-at-home Dad

Quote Unquote: Banking

"Okay, but I don't want to put in the bank.  I want to save it." ~ Jessie

My six-year-old's  response to her Mom and Dad's proposal to match dollar for dollar, any "job" money deposited in her savings account.  (I think Elizabeth and I need to spend a little more time explaining the benefits of banking and money interest.)

I'll Get You, My Pretty, And Your Little Book, Too!

INT. DODGE MINIVAN (MOVING) - DAY

The rented 2007 Dodge Caravan creeps forward, caught in a Memorial Day back-up on I-95 . DAD drives and MOM sits in the front passenger seat.  Dad fidgets nervously, obsessively glancing at the portable GPS sitting on the dashboard.  Mom is relaxed, slouched in the passenger seat reading the paperback, Take the Cannoli: Stories of the New World by Sarah Vowell.

An iPod Nano connected to a power outlet sits in a cubby below the radio console.  "Pull My Hair" by Bright Eyes plays over a staticky radio frequency. 

The family is dressed in casual summer clothing matching the summer like temperature outside the air conditioned minivan; except for LAUREN who is dressed in a long-sleeve gray Bucknell shirt, worn blue jeans, and sneakers.

Lauren sits in the passenger side bucket seat directly behind Mom, playing with her pink Nintendo DS. JESSIE sits behind Lauren, quietly flipping through the pages of a children's book. LULU is across from Jessie in the third row seat singing loudly to her cloth "Colonial Betsy" doll; the words are mostly unintelligible and the song unidentifiable. 

Surrounded by traffic, the minivan comes to a stop.

DAD

Wow.  This is not good.

He nervously taps the steering wheel four times and glances at the GPS.

DAD

(continuing)

It still estimates a 12:46 PM arrival at Reagan National.

He looks at Mom.  She does not look up from her book.

DAD

(to himself, barely audible)

"Brutal. I'm going to pull my hair. Talk about a fitting name for a song."

He abruptly picks up his iPod and advances to the next song before turning down the volume completely on the dash panel. He looks back at his twelve-year-old daughter.

DAD

Lauren, you've been playing on your DS long enough. I want you to read your book for awhile.

He looks forward as the traffic begins to creep forward again.

LAUREN

But, I'm pretty much done with my book.

The minivan moves slowly with traffic.

DAD

So, what does 'pretty much done' with a book mean?

LAUREN

What do you mean?

DAD

Are you finished with your book or not?

LAUREN

What book?

DAD

(exasperated)

The book you're 'pretty much done' with.

LAUREN

Yeah? I am.

DAD

Lauren, what book is it?

LAUREN

Oh, Lunch Money. [By Lauren Clements]

DAD

Haven't you . . . 

LULU

(yelling/singing unintelligibly)

DAD

Lulu! Quiet! . . .  Haven't you read that before?

LAUREN

Yes.

Surrounded by traffic the minivan stops.

DAD

(looking at Lauren)

Then why are you reading it again?

LAUREN

What do you mean?

DAD

Why are you reading the same book twice?

LAUREN

I'm not.

LULU

(yelling/singing unintelligibly)

JESSIE

Dad! Lulu's not being quiet! I can't concentrate!

MOM

Lulu, inside voice.

DAD

Lauren, you just said "yes," you had already read it.

LAUREN

I did already read it. I mean, I've read it before today.

Dad takes a deep breath.

DAD

Okay. Have you finished it?

LAUREN

No.

DAD

I want you to put your DS away and read it now.

LAUREN

Okay.

Dad turns the volume back up.  The radio plays The Whitsundays singing "It must be me . . ."  Lauren leans over putting away her DS and looks for her book in her bookbag. Dad and Mom look at each other. He roles his eyes and sighs. She smiles.

CUT TO:

Overhead of red Dodge Caravan surrounded by cars and trucks, slowly moving forward in the middle of a three lane highway.

  

LULU (V.O.)

(screams)

JESSIE (V.O.)

Lulu! I can't concentrate!  Dad make her stop!

PULL BACK TO REVEAL:

The red Dodge Caravan in a traffic jam winding as far as the eye can see.

DAD (V.O.)

(optimistically)

Hey, I think it might be picking up, up here.

"I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!" ~ The Wicked Witch of the West, The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Subject: The Coyotes

E-mail from my Mother-in-law . . .

----- Original Message ----

From: Grandma Maudie 
To: Jack Butler 
Sent: Saturday, May 10, 2008 8:32:50 AM
Subject: The Coyotes

Hi Jack,

Don't let Buck or Lulu outside alone - There is a
problem with Coyotes in the midwest and California.
They are attacking kids. One went into a convenient
store in Chicago and they are coming up to houses.

Have a good Mother's Day.
Maudie

----- Reply Message ----

From: Jack Butler 
To: Grandma Maudie 
Cc: Elizabeth Butler
Sent: Saturday, May 10, 2008 9:56:12 AM
Subject: Re: The Coyotes

Oh, thanks for the Coyote warning -- I saw two of them in a 7-Eleven yesterday buying beer, and one came to my door asking if Buck could play. Don't worry about the kids, I have them packing heat.

Your Yankee Son-in-law,

Jack 

Quote Unquote: America

"We're lucky to be borned here.  It's one of the best country's in America." ~ Jessie

Statement made by my six-year-old following a brief discussion about the victims of the cyclone in Myanmar, and the restrictions on international aid by it's military rulers.

We are lucky to be "borned" here and not Myanmar . . . or New Orleans (I kid).

Still The Same (Bob Seger - 1978)

"The quickest way to know a woman is to go shopping with her.” ~ Marcelene Cox

Having a little bit of time before having to pick-up Lauren from dance class, Elizabeth stopped into a local retailer. She soon found herself at the sunglasses display with not one but two twenty-something sales girls attending to her.

With each pair of sunglasses Elizabeth tried on she received varying levels of approval from Sales Girl #1 and #2, amazingly mirroring Elizabeth's every comment or facial expression.

"Those look good. I saw Angela Jolie with a pair just like them." said Sales Girl #1, referring to a pair of black oversized designer sunglasses Elizabeth was trying on.

"Don't you think they are too wide for my face?" Elizabeth responded.

"Yeah, maybe like a little too big for your face." said Sales Girl #1, shaking her head.

"What about these?" Elizabeth said trying on a pair of light beige framed and brown lensed glasses.

"Ooh, I like those a lot . . ." said Sales Girl #2.

"I don't like the the color." Elizabeth interjected.

"I was going to say, except for the color. Yeah, definitely do not like the color." said Sales Girl #2.

This went on as Elizabeth continued trying on glasses either chosen personally or by the sales girls, discarding those she already tried, onto the glass countertop. She had gone through nearly a dozen sunglasses, when she picked-up an Izod two toned brown lensed pair, looked in the mirror and said "I like the black and brown two-tone."

"Oh, those are cool! Yeah, two tone. They look fantastic on you!" said Sales Girl #2.

"Do you think?" said Elizabeth.

"Love them!" said Sales Girl #2.

Sales Girl #1 adding, "Oh yeah.  Like they are so you."

Elizabeth looked in the mirror and agreed, they did look good. She took them off to look at the price, but there was no tag. Upon further inspection she noticed a small scratch on the frame.

She wasn't concerned, the glasses were generally priced the same, and the scratch was not a show stopper. Elizabeth showed the scratch to the sales girls and being half Italian, asked if they might take a percentage off because of the damage.

Sales Girl #2 was game, "Yeah maybe. Let me ask my manager." She paged her manager overhead and as quick as you can say "Discount Designer Sunglasses, Great Choices for Under $100," the manager was at the sunglasses display rack.

Elizabeth with the backing of the sales girls asked for an additional discount due to the scratch. The boss woman studied the glasses and said, "These are not our glasses. We don't sell Izod. Someone must have switched them."

Sales Girl #2 gasped. 

Sales Girl #1 stood speechless, her mouth open before temporarily closing it to whisper, "We've been scammed."

Elizabeth was also surprised. Surprised she had been touched by an apparent crime, but also that the Store Manager said they didn't sell Izod sunglasses.

"You do sell Izod. I bought a pair here before." Elizabeth said.

"If we did, we have not sold them for a long time." said the Sales Manager.

While the Sales Manager chastised Sales Girl #1 and #2 for not keeping a closer eye on the store merchandise, reminding them that they were not to remove the tags on the glasses when customers are trying them on, a horrifying thought entered Elizabeth's mind.

She rummaged through her bag in search of something. It was not there. She looked again, double checking all pockets. It definitely was not there; her worst fear materialized.

Interrupting the Sales Manager she said, "Oh, you know what?. . . Those are my sunglasses."

"Excuse me?" said the Sales Manager.

Chuckling, Elizabeth said, "The Izod sunglasses are mine. I bought them here awhile back."

"There like yours?" said Sales Girl #2.

"Yes." said Elizabeth, now laughing. "They are mine."

"Oh my God." whispered Sales Girl #1.

Elizabeth had just tried to purchase her own sunglasses. She wore them into the store on her head and must have placed them on the counter, mixing them with the store owned sunglasses. Elizabeth failed to recognize her own glasses, and the sales girls and manager failed to recognize the humor.

It was time to go pick-up Lauren. Elizabeth left with her really cool, two tone, Izod shades. And she didn't have to pay a dime for them.

"Same as it ever was. . . same as it ever was . . . " ~ Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime

Quote Unquote: Five-Dollar Bill

"Anakin Lincoln!" ~ Jessie

My six-year-old answering the question, "What President is on the five-dollar bill?"  I think maybe Jessie has been playing her Nintendo DS Lego Star Wars II game too much. 

All's Well That Ends Well (Aberdeen - 2008)

It's been a bad day.
Please don't take a picture.
It's been a bad day.
Please.

~ R.E.M., Bad Day

Ding-dong.

The front doorbell rang and I was not answering it.

It was about 6:30 PM and my two-and-a-half-year-old and I were home alone. I was on my knees, a wad of paper towels in my hand and a role at my side, frantically working to soak up the blackened water spewed across the rug.

Lulu thought she was saved by the bell, more than ready to escape the scene of the accident to answer the front door. I told her in a no uncertain tone to "Stay here," a couple of "You're in big trouble Missy" looks later adding, "No-no Lulu. You paint only on the table, not on the floor. The water glass stays on the table. Do you understand?"

"Oh-oh. I sorry Daddy" she mumbled, looking down at the dark blotches.

Ding-dong. The doorbell rang again.

Who was at the door? I didn't know, and didn't care. I had a rug to save. About a minute earlier Lulu kicked over the glass of yuckety-muckety paint water on an expensive Persian rug . Why the glass was on the floor? I don't know. How we let that interior designer lady talk us into buying a very expensive wool rug for under the kitchen table? I don't know that either -- I just work here. I do know I should have purchased the "Brawny Man" big roll instead of the wimpy generic "on-sale" roll.  For absorption's sake, I at least should have gone with the 2-ply.

Ding-dong. The damn doorbell rang again.

I thought it had to be either my six-year-old being too lazy to walk around to the garage, a little friend of hers looking to play, or the Omaha Steaks guy. Who else would ring the doorbell three times?

Wanting desperately to flee, Lulu looked towards the front hall entrance and back at me. She never so wanted to answer a door in her entire life.

"You stay right here." I reminded her.

A few moments later the phone rang. The ringtone "It Keeps You Runnin'" by the Doobie Brothers played on the wireless handset nearest me (a befitting ringtone for the day I was having) . Within reach, I picked it up and looked at caller-ID. It was a cellular call from a hazily familiar local number. Who was this?

I reluctantly hit the "talk" button and in a short "this better be good" tone said, "Hello."

A slightly distressed female voice said, "Hello Mr. Butler. This is Yong Chung. I am at your front door and your garage door is open and it looks like your home but . . ."

Shit! Piano lessons! I forgot about piano lessons!

"Oh, I'm so sorry Mrs. Chung! I'll be right there!"

The piano teacher was at the front door and I had no kids to give her.

I jumped to my feet blowing by Lulu to get to the door. I apologized to Mrs. Chung for leaving her waiting and quickly explained we were in a state of rug emergency - threat level red (a severe risk of stainage). Before I finished babbling, I noticed Mrs. Chung's attention diverted to something behind me. I turned to see Lulu standing in the entrance hallway licking a container of Marshmallow Fluff like it was some freakish lollipop. Oh that's just great. I excused myself and snatched-up Lulu, setting her in the Family Room before disappearing with the Fluff back into the Kitchen.

I needed to get a kid home, and fast.

The spots on the rug were looking better but not good. They had gone from black to gray. I had five bottles of tonic water in the pantry, but of course no club soda for the stain (you can't make Gin & Tonics with club soda). Instead I grabbed a jug of white vinegar and poured it on the ashen stains. Again pressing paper towels to rug, I called a neighbor in search of Jessie. Damn! I got voicemail. I hit redial. Damn! Voicemail again. I know Jessie is there and that they are home. Come on, pick-up! Redial. Voicemail. Nottafinga!

With Lulu playing with puzzles quietly in the Family Room and Mrs. Chung waiting in the Living Room, I took matters in my own hands. I figured I could run to the neighbors house two doors down and back before anyone even knew I was gone. Drastic times call for drastic measures and this was obviously drastic times.

I stealthily made my way to the door to the garage. Once out, in Forrest Gump-like form I took off running -- sprinting out the garage, across the driveway, and through the neighbors front lawn.

As I cleared my neighbors front yard I spotted Lauren in the distance on a swing set with her girlfriends.

I stopped and yelled, "Lauren! Get home! You have piano lessons! Run!"

Lauren acknowledged me with, "But Dad . . ."

That's all I needed to hear, I turned and Gumped it back home. Upon entering the house I expected to hear Lulu crying "Daddy!" But thankfully I was met only with the sound of Little Bear's voice coming from the television. Upon entering the Kitchen, I could see Lulu hadn't moved in the minute I was gone [Writer's Note: time frame added for concerned readers and child welfare investigators]. Mission accomplished.

The spot on the rug was "the pee on the toilet seat" on what was amounting to a bad day. Other developments since 3:00 PM:

• Picked Lauren up from the orthodontist where I wrote a $4,821.25 check for braces she not only hates but according to "her friends," she also doesn't need. (Note: an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen on the way home didn't make things any better for her -- although I think Jessie seemed a little happier).
  

• Lulu escaped from the house not once, but twice. The first time falling in a puddle while making a mad dash for our playset. The second time, dressed only in red crocs, a diaper, and Mickey Mouse t-shirt, I caught her before getting to the backyard of my neighbors house (in route to a playset two doors down).

• Protesting an empty food bowl, Buck (the dog) put a whoopin' on his water and food bowl -- spilling water on the tile floor of the laundry room.  I was out of his special GasteroENteric (anti-diarrhea) dog food, and didn't want to leave to get it until UPS came with Elizabeth's Mother's Day present (a portable GPS if you must know).

• UPS arrived at about 5:30 PM with the box containing Elizabeth's gift absolutely demolished. I had no choice but to refuse it. As if he thought it would make me feel better, Mr. Brown told me "I know it was not like this yesterday." Thanks Brown.  I did not have a gift for Elizabeth, and Mother's Day was just two days away. (Although, I did have a "soaker" from stepping in Buck's spilled water when answering the side door.)

In a matter of three hours the day had gone down hill fast.  I also went from a leading candidate for Daddy Blogger's Father of the Year, to an anonymous hotline tip away from a visit by the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services.

Things could only get better, and they did . . .

Lauren came home seconds later and the neighbors eventually picked-up the phone and sent Jessie home.     

The white vinegar appeared to do the trick on the stains.  

Buck was later satisfied with a bowl of Honeynut Cheerios. 

Lauren seemed to be over the initial shock of having braces.  

I told Elizabeth that due to circumstances beyond my control she would not be getting a gift on Mother's Day, as expected she was understanding.

Like the Shakespearean play, All's Well That Ends Well, there are times when the line between comedy and tragedy is blurred.   The same can be said when trying to classify a good day versus bad.

  

And there are times when "all's well that ends well" pretty much just sums it up.  You know?  Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all.  

"If you don't think every day is a good day, just try missing one." ~ Cavett Robert

Gort! Klaatu Barada Read!

INT. KITCHEN - MORNING

The digital clock above the double oven reads 10:01 AM.  JESSIE sits at the kitchen table busily coloring on white printer paper; surrounded by a mess of crayons and a Disney Princesses cup. DAD is standing at the kitchen island reading the Metro section of the Chicago Tribune. The paper lays amid food containers, cereal boxes, wrappers, unopened mail, and dirty breakfast plates.

The "Wonder Pets" theme plays loudly on the TV in the background.

Keeping her head down while continuing to color, breaking the silence she speaks assuredly.

JESSIE:

I'll know how to read when I'm six.

Distracted by the crappy extended weather forecast, the comment takes a few moments to sink in. Eyes cast downward he replies matter-of-factly.

DAD:

You are six.

Without looking up from her artwork, she too takes a few moments before replying.

JESSIE:

Oh yeah.

Not another word is spoken . . .

"Gort! Klaatu barada nikto" ~ Helen Benson, The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

Subject: Fwd: DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN...?

E-mail from my sixty-five-year-old Mother-in-law . . .

----- Original Message ----

From: Grandma Maudie
To: Lisa Madden; Elaine Thompson; Jack Butler
Sent: Friday, May 9, 2008 7:48:04 AM
Subject: Fwd: DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN...?

[Blog Note: E-mail pictures omitted]

O YOU REMEMBER WHEN...?

• All the girls had ugly gym uniforms?
  
• It took five minutes for the TV warm up?
  
• Nearly everyone's Mom was at home when the kids got home from school?
  
• Nobody owned a purebred dog?
  
• When a quarter was a decent allowance?
  
• You'd reach into a muddy gutter for a penny?
  
• Your Mom wore nylons that came in two pieces?
  
• All your male teachers wore neckties and female teachers had their hair done every day and wore high heels?
  
• You got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking, all for free, every time? And you didn't pay for air? And, you got trading stamps to boot?
  
• When a 57 Chevy was everyone's dream car...to cruise, peel out, lay rubber or watch submarine races, and people went steady?
  
• Yadda Yadda Yadda . . .

----- Reply Message ----

Re: Fwd: DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN...?

From: Jack Butler
To: Grandma Maudie
View: Friday, May 9, 2008 8:46:37 AM

Maudie,

Wow! This is stuff I've seen only in antique shops, black and white movies on American Movie Classics, and in Time-Life books. You must be older than I even thought.

Jack

P.S. - Lauren is doing a report on the 1918 Influenza Epidemic. Can she give you a call to talk to you about what health measures you and your family implemented to safeguard against it? She would really appreciate it.

Quote Unquote: Bald

"I'd rather be bald than no hearing or seeing." ~ Jessie

My six-year-old daughter answering, "If you could lose one sense, which would you choose?" This philosophical question was posed to me at the dinner table by Lauren, my twelve-year-old.  Jessie chimed in before I could respond.  

Disturbing in the fact that I'm hair impaired.  Comforting in that it could be worse.

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

This story takes place in April of 2007 . . .

Elizabeth and I attended a cocktail party Saturday evening in Chicago. The downtown party scene is a tad different than here in the suburbs (also referred to as "Iowa" by the urban dwellers). Basically, 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 further amplified when the party is hosted and attended by board members of a prominent Chicago non-profit organization and their spouses, as this was. I found myself in a room filled exclusively with highly motivated, extremely successful do-gooders (my wife Elizabeth being one of them).

It was a beautiful evening and as expected we had a very good time. But as is usually the case after spending time with this demographic, I am left feeling like an Al Bundy (from the television series Married. . . with Children); a social sluggard.

Why the self loathing?

It may have started when listening to a discussion about city road construction 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 not only well versed on city road construction and its politics, he also spent the day attending his children's baseball and soccer games. I stood silent, force sipping a martini, 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 maybe it was being fascinated by the commercial real estate lawyer who spun 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 nation's largest charitable hunger relief organization, and Chairman Emeritus of the Board for Chicago's food bank. I never did find out what he thought about quarterback Brady Quinn dropping to the twenty-second overall pick in the draft.

Or just maybe it was speaking with the couple who spent that day volunteering their time painting the Lincoln Park Homeless Shelter. For which he is a Board Member, and also a Council Member of the Chicago Ronald McDonald House. Still sipping the same tired martini, I quickly surmised that neither of them watched the draft that day either.

In fairness to myself, I did have my moment.

I was able to drop in conversation with a man and woman, that I am a "sound parent" volunteer in my daughter's preschool class.  Oh, yes-siree that's the kind of guy I am: a guy who volunteers every other Tuesday for one hour (a little less when I'm running late), and then brings it up in 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 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 with headphones on, 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, the bulb was burnt, and the switch was in the "off" position.

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

The light went on.

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

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

At this point I felt like saying, "Yes . . . sounds. I work with the kids on their animal sounds: Oink. Meow. Cock-a-doodle-doo. We finished up barnyard animals and are starting whales and dolphins next week."

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

I was about to make the short "a" sound when thankfully she interrupted. Speaking slowly and more loudly she said, "Ohhhhh, you mean phon-ics."

"Yeah, phonics . . . sounds. I'm a phonics parent. . . for my daughter's preschool class."  Hel-lo?  That's what I've been saying. 

From that moment forward I referred to myself as a "phonics parent."  

I decided against telling them 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 go home.

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

Quote Unquote: Crappy

"The other ones are so crappy Mama?" ~ Lulu

Asked by my two-year-old at the dinner table after I commented to Elizabeth that I had almost given up on Archer brand (Target) prepared foods because "the other ones [we tried] were so crappy."

O be careful Dad what you say

O be careful Dad what you say

There's a child in her high chair

And she's listening with great care

So, be careful Dad what you say.

~ Adapted children's hymnal, O Be Careful, Little Eyes

Jools and Jim (Pete Townsend - 1980)

"I think it moved" ~ George Costanza, in "The Note" (Seinfeld)

"Can you please move your penis for me?"

That's what she said. Badum-dum! Only that is really what she said.

Can I move my penis? Well, that's something I'm not asked everyday. Actually, I can confidently say I've never been asked this in my lifetime.

Lisa, the female thirty-something lab technician (excuse me, I mean ultrasound technologist) asked with the casualness of somebody asking to move a car.

Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know where to put it. You know, that silly thing is always getting in the way. I have the darnedest time finding a parking place for it, and it barely fits in the garage. Ha, well enough about me, give me a second to find my keys.

I moved it up the driveway and went back to reading my book. Well, I should say I went back to scanning the text on the page. Reading requires word recognition and comprehension. There was no recognition or comprehension going on.

I found it difficult to concentrate on a book while lying on my back, naked from the waist down (my underwear pulled down around my knees), with a young lady rubbing warm lubricant on my scrotum (with a wand-like instrument called a "transducer"). I had other concerns and it wasn't whether or not my epididymis was infected or inflamed.

My attention was focused just north of my testicular ultrasound, on my recently adjusted . . . Jimmy Tiddlywinker. I was using every available neuron in my brain to make certain there was no action from Jackson; that Mr. Wrinkles didn't become Mr. Happy (or even a little dandy). Any movement, although not uncommon (so I have read) and perfectly normal, would be positively mortifying.

My brain was exchanging signals up and down the spinal cord with The Penis (the organ Formerly Known as Jimmy Tiddlywinker).  The official orders from the brain were to 1.) play dead, 2.) don't think for yourself, and 3.) under no circumstances pass "go." In the case of an erectile emergency -- my hindbrain had the Bea Arthur v. Margaret Thatcher Mud Wrestling mental imagery queued and ready to play.

Five minutes into the procedure I was hiding behind my book, staring at a page that might as well have been blank. Lisa the ultrasound technologist silently did her thing.  I peeked from behind my book to see her occasionally glancing between my legs (I believe she was getting her ball bearings, according to Fletch "It's all ball bearings nowadays") but spending most of her time looking at a video monitor while moving the booster transducer back and forth on my . . . bollocks. She paused momentarily at various spots and hit a key on the keyboard with her free hand.

There was no pillow talk. The voice of Ray Davies of The Kinks and the sound of her keystrokes is all I heard.  Ray Davies was in my head repeatedly singing the same line from the 1981 song "Destroyer":

Stop! Hold on. Stay in control. [click]

Stop! Hold on. Stay in control. [click]

Stop! Hold on. Stay in control. [click]

Despite being jostled from time to time and feeling what I swear was a cool breeze, all remained quiet on the the Southern Front. However, I realized I hadn't turned the page of my book since I opened it. A minor detail I failed to take into account when fake reading. (Even more alarming when you take into consideration I was fake speed reading.) Damn! Lisa the ultrasound technologist either knew I was faking or must think I am a really slow reader. But then again, she probably hadn't noticed.  Let's face it, she really didn't care about me as a reader or anything having to do with my brain. To her, I was just a faceless . . . scrotum. She wanted me for my testes.

A couple of well timed page turns later, I was finally beginning to relax. I was feeling confident (or dare I say cocky?) enough that I thought I could stop pretending, and actually read from my book. The book, The Wild Trees by Richard Preston, was about the giant redwood trees of the Pacific Northwest. I began reading the book just that morning and found myself on page twenty.

I began reading:

"In its first twenty years of life, a coast redwood can grow from a seed into a tree that's fifty feet tall. In its next thousand years, it grows faster, adding mass at an accelerating rate."

A seed? Grows faster? Adding mass? Hmm, maybe reading a book about trees is not a good idea at this time. I continued . . .

"A redwood can go from a seed to a big tree in about six hundred years. Around age eight hundred, which is the end of its youth, it may reach its maximum height -- its thirty-something-story height."

Okay, not good.

Stop! Hold on. Stay in control.

I ain't no redwood but I don't need six hundred years to get "big."  My tree measures time in milliseconds.  Enough, no more reading. I went back to fake speed reading.

A few page turns later Lisa the ultrasound technologist signaled the end of the procedure with a simple, "All done." My inclination was to say "thank you," and offer her ride home.  But then thought better of it. 

I did thank her moments later when before leaving she gave me a towel and said, "Use that to clean yourself up." Proof that inside she did care about me and I wasn't just another Bilbo Baggins. Although I bet she said that to all the guys. 

I'll never forget her parting words, she said, "Someone will be coming to get you." No, no, no, that wasn't it. She said, "Someone will be here soon . . ." No, no, that wasn't it either. Oh, damn, I don't remember exactly what she said, something to the effect that someone would be taking me back to the Emergency Room.  And just like that, Lisa the ultrasound technologist walked out the door and out of my life.

I felt a sense of relief as well as great pride. Relieved because . . . do I really need to rehash this movement thing? I think not. Proud that I achieved the erectile dysfunction I worked so long and hard on (hey, did I just make a pun?). It just shows that when you set your mind and penis to something, anything is possible. For what seemed like an eternity (maybe 15 minutes), he didn't move.  He just laid there like a slug. (After all, "it was his only defense.") I have never been prouder.

I entered the Emergency Room that Saturday morning at about 9:00 AM having endured terrible stomach pains the night before. Two and half hours later I sat relaxed, waiting to be rolled back to Emergency Room #12.  My stomach still bothered me but my scrotum felt great. I did crave a cigarette -- and I don't even smoke.

A short time later a guy dressed in hospital scrubs stuck his head in the room and said, "Someone will be coming soon."

That's what she said. Badum-dum! No really, that's it!  That is what she said.

"The penis must be said to have its own mind." ~ Leonardo da Vinci

"Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts . . . " ~ Homer Simpson, in "The Last Temptation of Homer" (The Simpsons)