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 me. 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)