They’re threaded together with pet names, coded glances from across crowded rooms, a tilt of the head undetectable to all except your Other; they’re knitted fiber by cord by strand into what, over the years, becomes your Us. Warts and all.

There are two Eternal Promises which Cute Redhead and I hold close to our everlasting hearts.

Here’s mine:

“I love you forever and a day. You have my heart. You are my soul and everything I know and love. When I am with you I am Home. But if we were being chase by zombies, I’d so trip your ass and keep running.”

—and before you storm the castle and light me on fire, ladies…here’s hers:

“I know you told me you have to use the Minnie Beasley’s Almond Lace cookies for a product shoot today and not to eat them…but…dude. They’re Minnie Beasley’s and…um….yeah, well I ate them all.”

And she did.

AGAIN.

I am going to lose my mind and I’m not kidding.

They were brought over yesterday by my friend Harmon, the creator of the best damn cookie in the world (and I’m not kidding about that. In fact, if you don’t believe me, just ask the judges who awarded them THE. BEST. COOKIE. AT. THE. NEW. YORK. FANCY. FOOD. SHOW *snap*)

He walked right into my studio with an arm full of these things so I could take new product shots. Cute Redhead walked into the house right after that having wrapped up her High Powered Day. At which point I went like this:

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Honey, please come here.”

“What is it, my love?”

“Honey, Harmon was good enough to come by and drop off these coo—honey: eyes up here.”

[Honey drools]

“…are those Minnie Beas—”

“Harmon, get the kids out of the house.”

*sigh* “Listen, Wife: DO. NOT. TOUCH. THESE. COOKIES. I mean it. I need them for a product shot.”

And do you know what she did? Right then? Guess what she did.

SHE. LIED.

She smiled and sort of giggled all Oh You Silly Man, You and goes, “Ha ha. Okay. I won’t.” And then she looked at Harmon all pointing back at me all, “Is he not crazy or what? Ha ha.”

And then she left. And then Harmon left. And then I left onto something else.

And when I came back…

ONE. HOUR. LATER.

My desk (I promise I am not making this up) was covered in crumbs.

SHE DIDN’T EVEN TRY TO HIDE THE EVIDENCE.

Worse, it didn’t even enter my mind that she’d openly defy High Powered Man’s Primary Directive and scarf down the cookies, until halfway through wiping them off the desk (certain one of The Spawn was to blame for yet another little mess left for ME to clean up), it occurred to me to—

“—wait a second. I recognize those crumbs!”

*glances over to stack of COOKIES. FOR. PRODUCT. SHOT.*

“JANE!!”

Okay. Now.

Married men…(heck, even you single guys probably get this one too): we all know that The Man Is Never Right, right? I mean, never.

EVER.

I don’t care WHAT you think you know, who told you what, or what daytime talk show host is selling you about partnership in marriage:

THE. MAN. IS. NEVER. RIGHT.

Except in something like what I just described. I mean, there is not a jury in the land that wouldn’t convict her and send her crumb-covered butt right up the river.

[Wife walks into my office]

“What?”

“YOU. ATE. THE. COOKIES?!?!”

“Oh. Ha ha. Well. Yeah. I didn’t know you mea—”

“—okay the next words out of your mouth better be something like: ‘I didn’t know you meant unless I was held at gunpoint.’”

“Ha ha. Well I only ate one bag. You didn’t need them, did you?”

And right here I feel billions of brain cells completely dissolve inside my head. I have no category for this. I mean NONE.

We go back and forth in (me) incredulous indignation and (her) caught-red-handed laughter. I THANK her for totally ruining the product photo shoot I had to complete and start scratching my head trying to figure out how to redo what I already had planned. “Thanks a lot you, Schizoid Cookie Monster.”

And get this.

While chalking it all up to *Rolls Eyes* Women, she’s on her way out of the room (still laughing) and then stops, turns, and goes: “Oh, by the way. All that tile I got for the master bathroom the other night?”

“The tile it took you three hours to pick out?”

“Yes. That tile.”

“Let me guess.”

“I hate it.”

“We’re shocked and amazed.”

“Yes. Well. I hate it now.”

“Wow. That took you almost 12 hours to decide? I’m impressed at your restraint.”

“No. I hated it at soon as I got home. I just didn’t want to say anything then.”

“Don’t like talking with your mouth full, huh?”

“Shut up. Will you take it all back to the store for me?”

“Why not. It’s not like I had a photo shoot to knock out or anything.”

“Good. Now…here’s what I need you to do. I need you to—honey: eyes up here. I need you to look in my eyes. I want to make sure you’re hearing me.”

(as God is my witness she said this)

“…it must be fun living inside your head with unicorns and Lucky Charms, you know that? Are you really giving me directions to make sure I’m HEARING you?!?”

“…Yes. Why?”

I just walked out of the room.

Handyman Man stood in the bathtub (in view) and saw the living Hell out of tile and paint and drywall with Some Tool which I don’t know the name of but which I want (not in view). It had a blade as long as my arm and just about cut the house in half. I must get one of these.

The only thing being replaced in this bathroom, folks, is the tub and tile and fixtures. Everything else is good to go.

And that’s pretty much the end of the morning’s documentation of Bathroom Renovation Number 1 because I realized I was not going to get any work done with Giant Saw going and everything else bound to come after it. So I grabbed my laptop and got outta’ Dodge.

But not before Handyman Man explained to me where the leaking was coming from.

He pointed to the hole in the photo up top and said This and then said That and pointed Here and then pointed There. He talked about what had been leaking and what had (brace yourself home improvement aficionados) actually never been leaking at all.

“Um. What? What do you mean it’s never actually been leaking at all? Because I saw this faucet dripping all the time. And let’s not forget that the handles were turning the wrong way. And that the STOOPID hot water handle wouldn’t even shut off all the way. And wait…what about what’s been dripping down into the laundry room?! Dude—I know I’m not making this stuff up, so talk to me like I’m a two-year-old and walk me through this one.”

And then he did.

And then I understood.

I think.

All I know is that Male Limbic Brain deemed the stuff he was telling me Unnecessary Content and dumped it immediately. After which, High Powered Man left the house with bright eyes and happy happy happy thoughts and a sense of freeeEEEEEEeeeeedom! because Whatever It Was was getting fixed.

I couldn’t WAIT to tell Cute Redhead what the problem had been and how it was getting repaired. Which went like this later that evening when I came back:

Cute Redhead: “Well! They sure got busy on that today, didn’t they?”

Me: “Ha! They sure did! Woohoo!”

Cute Redhead: “Was it loud?”

Me: “No idea. I left.”

Cute Redhead: “I wonder what they found when they tore everything open.”

Me: *thinks* ” Got me. Oh wait! You know what?? Handyman Man told me! He told me what the leak was coming from! Yes!”

Cute Redhead: *gasp!* “And?? What was it?”

Me: “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Cute Redhead: “You don’t remember.”

Me: “Right. Don’t remember.”

Cute Redhead: “A ha.”

Me: “Well…that’s not entirely true. I mean, I don’t remember right now. But I did once! It’s just that after he explained it to me, I forgot to remember it. I had things to do.”

Cute Redhead: *stares*

Me: “…What?”

Then I went upstairs and looked in the bathroom.

“Hey, honey. The bathtub is missing.”

“Shut up, Todd.”

“Sweetheart…it’s time to get up, c’mon honey. Dad’ll have your breakfast ready in a minute.”

“Morning, Miss Child. Let’s go.”

“I know, baby. But you have to go to school.”

“Yes, I’ll make sure the bacon is crispy. Now, come on kiddo.”

“Atta’girl, keep moving.”

“How ’bout daddy to starts your bath, baby doll.”

“…baby doll?”

Cute Redhead has been tolerant of me and The Rebel Force. I found her in a jovial and chirpy mood yesterday and decided a few snapshots were called for.

She actually started laughing at me while I took the photos.

And then she said, “Okay, that’s enough.”

And I didn’t think it was enough.

And then she said, “Okay, stop taking pictures of me.”

And I didn’t stop taking pictures of her.

And then she did the thing I actually find hilarious.

Here’s a picture of her, caught in the act.

I think this is hilarious because I’ve seen her do this a million times. This is what I call the Parliament is Displeased look. Which is actually a non-look look. Wherein our protagonist (Cute Redhead) has slipped into ignoring our antagonist (High Powered Man).

And I think it’s hilarious because she’ll actually put her hand up like that and pretend I don’t exist.

While I’m a foot and a half away from her.

Photographing her anyway.

Click. Click. Click.

And inside my head I’m going, “…3…2…1″

Until she goes:

“Dad-gummit!”

And then I start cracking up because that really is her Big Swear Word.

And that really is her Big Swear Word Look.

And the ONLY thing more fun than this is the thing I do every time she makes the bed up. I don’t know why I do this, I don’t know how it started and I don’t know why I get such fun out of it but I do. I think it’s because she still falls for it every time: when she stands up on the bed, grabs the sheet, the comforter and the other blanket and slaps them all Snap!Crack! into the air to shake them out and straighten them up. And if I’m in the room with her I’ll stop whatever I’m doing and help.

And by help I mean nothing like help at all. But you have to act like you’re helping or it’s not fun. And she falls for it. I’ll walk over to the bed and act all, “Oh here, let me help.” And she’ll be all, “Oh, great tha—STOP IT!”

Because I’ll have taken one end of the sheets or the comforter or the other blanket and just lightly held it. And as it falls in place, ever so gently guide it…right out of place. You really have to see this to appreciate it—and trust me, it really is stupid and I’m making it sound way more complicated than it is—but it’s just a form and a style of Looks Like Helping/Not Helping At All/Actually Making It Worse.

You know: marriage.

Lol I kill me!

But the BEST part of this (oh by the way, I was really tired 30 minutes ago and just drank an energy drink and for some reason all this seems to make sense inside my head right now so just come along) is when she goes all “Dad-gummit!” (and that really is her Big Swear Word) (how cute is that?) and then she’ll flash me that look and (not making this next part up) stand on the bed and kick me.

And then jump OFF the bed and (get this one) go all Tae Bo on me.

Because she does Tae Bo.

Which means if she’s ever cornered in a dark parking garage, whoever thinks they’re going to mug her is going to get their bony butt kicked.

That is, as long as there’s a soundtrack she can punch! kick! and JumpBackJumpBackJumpForward! to.

Which I make fun of.

Which displeases Parliament.

We’re underway, folks. We’re about to pull the trigger and start the renovations and repairs on the bathrooms and the laundry room.

See that little hand? That little hand is on that little hip and chock full of Manager Of Planet Earth. I know that hand. VERY. WELL. I would’ve just stood there beside her as we surveyed the hot water heater and the rest of the upcoming project, and left well enough alone. I would have just stood there and acted all understanding (about plumbing, not her) and insightful (about plumbing, NOT her), and confident (ABOUT PLUMBING, NOT HER) *sobs*…

…except that I saw her put that hand on that hip.

And that tells me that Cute Redhead’s mind just tripped into Nuclear Reaction. Which meant that hot water heater was about to be ripped right out. With her bare hands. This called for evasive maneuvers.

“Oh my gosh! Can you believe who got voted off of Idol?!? Right? I know!”

Nothing. Not a word. Not even the courtesy “…Mm.”

And unless I want my Saturday throttled into Stephen King’s portrayal of home repair, I better come up with a diversion and fast.

“Honey, what do you *click* think about getting one of those 60-gallon *click* —”

“…are you taking pictures of me?”

*click*

“Um. Well. Sort of.” *click*

“Yeah. Well you better not show my stomach. I look fat. And if you do I’ll ’sort of’ shove your dead carcass back behind this hot water heater.”

Okay, she didn’t actually say that.

At least not outloud.

But that one little hand on that one little hip?

Loud. And. Clear.

Please take a close look at that photo—but not too close because Cute Redhead just might sense you’re gaze somewhere out there in the Universe and have a heart attack and die. And where she has some self-respect, I have…well…lol none. Because she would stand out in the middle of oncoming traffic before letting the world know that this is the state of one of the bathrooms.

And it is.

Now, before you dispatch the CDC to our house with orders to just set it on fire, let me explain a few things: First of all…we have three kids and are just recently out of the Fix What Breaks season. Prior to that, the idea of renovating anything had as much likelihood behind it as walking the Vegas strip at night with my wife and three children.

…wait.

(not important)

Anyway…so last week, you’ll recall, Cute Redhead asks me to make good on my promise to unclog the drain in the sink in her bathroom. And by ‘her bathroom’ I mean our bathroom but I never go in there because she spreads out enough hardware and toiletry to fix the International Space Station five times over. I am not TOUCHING that stuff.

So, I fix the clogged drain. Resulting in a drain that is not only NOT unclogged (still), it is now leaking in three places (not a lie). And, right on schedule, the other bathroom on that floor decided that a bathtub fixture that won’t shut off would be a knee-slapper. At nine o’ clock at night. With your daughter in the bathtub screaming like some character on that cable show called Intervention, and like we were trying to tie her down and get her on an airplane and off to some rehab.

Except she was screaming because the bath was about to overflow because it wouldn’t shut off.

I hate plumbing.

I’d already NOT fixed the sink in the other bathroom (and made it worse), now I have to figure out how to get the bathtub to stop running. And, yes, I tried everything so don’t start with me. That is, everything but crawl under the house and turn off the main water supply. Yeah, the tub can flood the valley for all I care, I am NOT crawling under the stupid house when nine o’ clock rolls around. Because when nine rolls around, I don’t hit the wall…the wall hits me.

And I lose my good humor, all my charm, and every ounce of my sparkling wit.

“We need to fix this.”

“I am not fixing anything. I am going to bed.”

“I’ll try and fix it then.”

“Knock yourself out.”

And that is truly the conversation me and Cute Redhead had. I lost five points in the Man Game and went to bed. Fifteen minutes later I hear this: “Okay, I used some pliers and I think I got it to drip only a little bit.”

The. Shame.

A few things about that photo:

It’s not hideous, dark, cultured mold you see between tiles.

At least I don’t think it is. What that actually is the wrong color tile grout or whatever you call that stuff.

*looks at photo again

Okay, I don’t think anybody is going to buy that one at all. But it’s true. If you look at the bottom row of tiles, you’ll see that they’re all cracked and had broken off. And I don’t remember why. I think I don’t remember why because I refuse to step one foot in that tub to be surrounded with any memories of Why Are These Tiles Cracked? It’s that bad.

And the rusty water stains?

Yeah not a fan.

And see that cold water fixture with no tile behind it?

Well, well, well-well-well. Who ever do you think is responsible for that snafu? Hm?

Wait, what’s that? Both the hot water and the cold water turn the wrong way to turn on and turn off? Seriously? They do?? Ha ha! What sort of LOSER puzzled that one out??

*raises hand [sad trombone]

So.

What started out as unclogging a stopped up sink (and it still is), has devolved into the renovation of:

The master bathroom

The kids’ bathroom

and

The laundry room.

Which happens to reside directly below both.

Not unlike the Maiden of the Mist resides directly below Niagara Falls.

Enough said.

(But I’ll be recording the renovations with The Rebel Force. That way the court will have all the evidence it needs explaining why I lost my mind.)

Example:

[High Powered Man and Cute Redhead go looking for Bathroom Remodeling Ideas, etc., etc. etc. The drive home. Silence.]

“Um. Is something wrong?”

“Well. No, not really.”

“Um lol…wanna try that again, honey?”

“Well…I wanted to have fun doing this. But now I feel like you’re trying to tell me how to redo my bathroom.”

[looks out driver's side window and mouths 'my bathroom'??]

lol here we go.

But I need to back up and make good on a promise I mentioned a few weeks ago about a certain Big Fight me and Cute Redhead had over something soooOOOOooo stupid, and yet so important (more on that later). I’ve actually been keeping the story on the fight in a holding pattern inside my head, which I’m wont to do until I sort of see it come full circle. I mean, I need it to come together into something cohesive before I’m going to sit down and write it out.

And, well…that happened tonight. But, first, the Big Fight:

A few days after me and Cute Redhead joined our friends at the night of the gourmet cooking class, we decided we’d try our hand at the recipes (and if you haven’t tried them, I really think you need to) (and if you really just said, “I really don’t think I do,” I think you’re really missing out.) We were very excited because though the recipe was simple enough, it promised a meal neither of us could resist. What’s more, Cute Redhead thought it would be a great dish to perfect so we could entertain friends with it. Loved the idea. LOVED it.

And she said (this was one of the Stupid Points of the Big Fight) “like within the week.” And it’s a Stupid Point because she completely denies ever having said “like within the week.” Which I know seems irrelevant, but it sort of comes up later, so just dog-ear that page.

A few nights after that, she tells me that she took a second mortgage out on our home and bought some beef tenderlo—”OH. MY. GAWD. that stuff is expensive! Are you kidding me?!” And that right there was the end of my concern because it really is that good and, having cooked this meal five times over, I’d pay twice the amount for the right cut of meat. (And, for what it’s worth, I’ve experiment on three of the experiments with lesser cuts. Verdict: nothing compares. So, if you want to keep costs down you can certainly recruit a less expensive choice of meat. I’m just saying that nothing will compare to beef tenderloin. Nothing.) [end lecture]

Now. I needed to run get a certain ingredient that (if you can believe it) is actually more expensive ounce-for-ounce than 24K gold beef tenderloin. And it’s an ingredient and a process (I promise I am not making this up) I actually came up with ALL. BY. MYSELF. APART. FROM. THE. ORIGINAL. RECIPE.

And it is even better.

*yay me.

The slight problem with this ingredient was that I bought a five ounce container of it.

And it cost…

…um…

$37.00

BUT…the reason I bought it was because I knew we’d use it since we were having guests within the week, right?

Yeah no.

World. War. Three.

Which I know has got to sound ridiculous—and it sort of was—but there’s more (there’s always more) to it that you have to underst—

Well.

Okay, we’re going to have to switch gears here for a bit.

Grab some coffee.

Marriage, it’s been said, is the process by which a soul undergoes the deepest cutting and most painful surgery. Without anesthetic.

And it’s true. But you have to have a certain number of years under your belt and water under the bridge before you surrender a hefty sigh in a half-chuckle/half-frown agreement to that one. And I don’t care who you are, you don’t get to acknowledging this without having had your share of ups and downs. Which is a very sterilized way of putting the realities.

More, eighteen years and three children into the Waltz, Cute Redhead and I are no more immune to picking up some really bad habits than the next couple. And it has been very difficult in ways I’m not going to detail (and probably don’t need to), but definitely mean to convey:  we get it. I mean, We Get It.

Marriage is, without rival, the most difficult arena two humans can enter into and one which none of us had the capacity to appreciate when we made the vows. Which is how it’s supposed to be, as all the veterans know. And no matter how much you get it in your head, no amount of getting it in your head is going to afford you a hall pass such that you don’t have to come through what you have to come through in order to get it in your heart.

And, kids, that means the hard stuff. Which, again, is a very sterilized way of putting the realities.

And Cute Redhead and myself have our own version of this very thing, make no mistake. I know I do a lot of laughing here on WIP (and it’s authentic, I promise you), but, trust me, we’ve had no shortage of blowouts and close calls and doors slamming and Stupid Words Said and swearing That’s It—I’m Done.

And that night I came home with $37.00 worth of an ingredient she didn’t think we needed

and What Do You Mean “we don’t need it”?? you JUST told me last night we’d have friends over within the week for dinn—

YOU DID TOO SAY THAT! Are you kidding me?! Why in the HEL—

—oh and what’s that supposed to mean?

…and then take one of your world-class fights with the spouse of your choice (because you chose them lol), and there you have what one of my favorite comedians (Ron White) termed “turning my van into a tripod and spinning me into a dimension of Pissed Off I never even knew existed.”

What. A. Night.

By the end of it, we sat in a silence after the salvo, ears ringing and stunned at how much sense this didn’t make. A real good, thick despondency over the disagreement, the miscommunications, the misinterpretations, the frayed nerves, the hurt feelings, the bleah, bleah bleah, right?

And we went to bed (in the same bed) (which should get your attention) (because when you fight this bad and still sleep in the same bed it — I think I see this now — means something profound.)

Because it went like this:

Her: [touches his shoulder] “…are you alright?”

Him: [turned on his side, facing the other way] “…no.” [thinks to self: 'dang it. don't put your hand on my shoulder like that. I've got a really good Mad going here.] Then [*sigh* what's the point?] Grabs her hand.

And then I turned over.

And then we fell asleep. Holding each other’s hand.

And please don’t assign some soft-focused Hollywood soundtrack to that (even though it’d work)…because we were at the end of ourselves. But (remember what I just wrote) sleeping in the same bed. Somehow, we got to the place of realizing there’s not only No Place To Go (there is, but like that’d do anything to help, right?), there’s really No Better Place To Be.

That is, at The End Of Ourselves.

Somewhere in the night, or the next day or days, we realized we need to relearn, unlearn and learn all over again some of the basics. And that, thankfully, has meant everything. I hope, too, I’m not sounding like we were on the edge of divorce. We really weren’t. We were, however, on the edge of cold-blooded murder lol. But there’s something about plotting the demise of your beloved which apparently gives God just the opening He’s been looking for in the form of, “So…you two about ready to look at what I’ve been threading together for the past eighteen years, or do we make another lap around the track, because I love you but yall are really getting on My nerves. You know, in love I mean.”

Okay. Enough of that. Back to the ingredient and why it and everything else ties together.

Cute Redhead had a business trip and was out of town for a day and a night. It fell to me to feed The Spawn and I realized two things about the extra beef tenderloin in the freezer:

Thing 1: I wanted to eat it

and

Thing 2: I wanted to eat it really bad

So I defrosted it and decided to devote my entire day to wondering if it was good and fair and right to make this incredible meal (again) while Wife was away and couldn’t enjoy it. Ten seconds later I decided it was good and fair and right and made my way to the store to get the things I didn’t have but needed…

and then saw the thing I didn’t need but wanted.

The $37.00 ingredient.

Okay, at this point Heaven and Earth are locked in seismic struggle, right? If I buy this to make this reduction sauce (don’t you totally wonder what the ingredient is?) (you big liar, you do too), I might as well find a good lawyer. I was in the white-knuckle grip of right and wrong, and very much on the horns of a dilemma. All while I stood at the butcher counter. All while I looked at The Ingredient. All while tears welled in my eyes.

All while Butcher said, “Pardon me a second, buddy.” and proceeded to stock the shelf in front of me

with

A. FIVE. DOLLAR. PORTION. OF. THE. INGREDIENT.

I looked at it.

I looked at him.

I looked back at it.

I looked back at him.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Can I marry you? I asked.

*Todd claps, skips, squeals out of store and heads home to make dinner

With The Ingredient Which Didn’t Cost More Than Healthcare Reform.

And, friends….I just don’t know how to put this. This latest red wine reduction sauce made me want to take all my clothes off, slather it all over me and lick it off my naked body.

*give you a few seconds to appreciate that one

I’m not kidding. And neither is Beta Male who (I promise I am not making this up) LEFT the saucepan in which I prepared this Nectar Of The Gods on the floor in our bedroom having licked — LICKED — it and Teflon® clean off. It’s that good.

And then the next day Cute Redhead came home.

And I told her I made that dish again. And I told her I…

…bought The Ingreditent JUST! TO! TEST! IT! OKAAAAAY?!

And she shot me

The Look

And then I (hee hee hee) totally clipped the green wire (not the red wire for you bomb squad enthusiasts out there) with, “No no no no no lol no new new new heeewwwww…they have a $5 portion of it!!”

And got The Smile

But I got The Smile only partly because I didn’t sell a child to come home with a $37 ingredient. I got The Smile partly because Cute Redhead and I really are learning the beginnings of the best stuff. And what’s that, you ask? Why it’s what this dude said better than I could ever say it:

So. I end this one certain of (*counts on fingers) three things:

Thing 1: I don’t think this tied together half so well as I had hoped (and don’t care).

Thing 2: I love this reduction sauce (and want more).

and

Thing 3: I love Cute Redhead more than I love this reduction sauce (even though she drives me nuts).

See those?

You know what they are, so don’t even pretend to act stupid. Don’t even pretend you don’t love them. And don’t even pretend you don’t love them after they’ve been in the freezer and gotten oh-so-perfectly-chilled. And don’t even pretend you would’t eat them for breakfast.

That’s right, folks: Thin Mints!

But this actually has nothing to do with Thin Mints and everything to do with (segway!) butter.

Which I am out of. But which I shouldn’t be out of. But which needs some explaining.

Starting with: You’d Think I Was New Here.

Every morning — EVERY. MORNING. — I, the One Dad To Rule Them All, makes breakfast. HOT breakfasts. Nobody’s going to say my babies left the table without warm tummies, and I don’t mean maybe (this is Down Home Todd, by the way). And when you belly up to my board you can expect bacon (maple bacon if I’m feeling magnanimous), pancakes (never pour the batter on a griddle that isn’t hot enough to melt concrete blocks) (and, no, I’m not saying you’re an idiot because you already know that, I’m saying it because lots of idiots people don’t), fruit, orange juice, maybe waffles, often oatmeal, milk for Beta Male, and (don’t ask me why) water for The Princess of Light and Splendor. Always water (sort of gets on my nerves when I’m at the ready with the orange juice, but no need to get uppity).

Now. Alpha Male roles out of bed usually with enough time to grab a shower, bother his little brother, wolf down some of the aforementioned Breakfast of Plenty, and head off to Junior High School (note: I refuse to call it Middle School because I see no reason to call it Middle School. It makes no real sense to me and, this will shock you all, I have this sneaky feeling that some PTO barfly got her fundraisers in a wad somewhere in the last decade or whatever and went all politically correct and changed the name. And if there’s one thing I disdain with every ounce of myself, it’s political correctness. So. Junior High.)

Beta Male will have already been up before Alpha, and definitely before Charlie Girl, if you’re keeping track. He’s up before I am about half the time, but never up before Cute Redhead. Who, by now, is already off doing very high-powered scientific things involving water rights and beakers and lab coats and published papers and other things I pretend to be all atwitter about when she decides it’s high time I got a Ph.D. in whatever it is she does.

While I have breakfast going I am already (you’re totally wondering where this one’s going, aren’t you?) getting the school lunches in the pipeline. I am also very likely dancing and/or singing and/or busting the moves, because in the morning, when I’ve had the coffee and Aretha comes on? I’m black. BLACK. Not African-American—BLACK.

Okay, I’m so white rice is laughing, but I really like Aretha and when she’s tellin’ me I better think (think!), I just can’t not rock the kitchen.

While I make the pancakes.

And the bacon.

And the orange juice.

And the fruit.

And the blt’s for their lunches (got the bacon going, so it only makes sense) (and if you’re not eating a pound of bacon every day, you’re just not trying.)

And the snacks for their lunches

And their lunch drinks

And thei—oops. Flip those pancakes!

*flips pancakes

“ALEX! Yours is ready! And tell Emma she needs to get movi—”

Oops. Butter. He’ll read me the riot act if I don’t get the butter on those panca—

“—where the hell’s the butter?”

*stands in the middle of Ground Zero and

*points to:

“pancakes…oj…bacon (*swoon)…sandwiches for lunch…drinks…aaaAAAAAannnd…”

“…okay, I know I had it here ten seconds ago. And I…wait. Why is the butter wrapper here but there’s no bu—”

“DAMMIT BAILEY!”

The felon, while I had my back turned for TEN SECONDS (it doesn’t even take that long, in case you’re wondering if he’s losing his touch) (he’s not), ATE AN ENTIRE STICK OF BUTTER! And then he skulked off and planted his big fat butt on his big fat bed and waited for me to rain down terror, and consequence and the myriad ways I was about to put the ‘mare’ in nightmare (thanks, Zion).

And I knew right where I’d find him. And so I stomped (you) stomped (are) stomp-stomped (in so) stomp (much) STOMP (TROUBLE YOUNG MA—)

And then I saw that face and decided if I can be blamed for eating six Thin Mints for breakfast (and I did), he can be forgiven for downing the butter.

(And he is).

“From roaming hither and yon throughout the earth and going back and forth within it.”

“Hast thoughy considered my servant, Todd? There is no one on earth likened unto him; he is blameless and upright, a righteous man who doth fear God and shuns plumbing.”

“Does Todd fear God for nothing? Hast Thou  not put a hedge around him and the master bath vanity and everything he doth possess? Surely Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, so that his plumbing tape and his tools are spread throughout the land. But stretch out Thy hand and screw with the p-trap, and, lo, he will surely curse you to your face.”

“Very well, then, everything he has is in your hands, but on the man himself thou shalt not lay a finger.” Then Satan went out from the presence of the Lord and handed Todd his ass.

Let us proclaim the mystery of faith starting with: HOW IN THE HELL am I supposed to plumb the depths of the female mind and fix the plumbing at the same time?!

So there I was, the High Powered Man, waking and immediately thinking High Powered Man Thoughts like, “I will totally bet you that I can lay here and not move a muscle and she’ll cave in and get up and make the coffee.” Which she did (score!) and which I drank (score!), and before the second cup uttered ten simple and entirely lethal words: “You know what I’d like you to do for me?”

*sigh

“I promised I would do that, didn’t ? Alright! No rest for the wicked! It’s Saturday! I shall fix your bathroom sink! Everyone—STAND BACK!”

And then something shiny distracted me and the Winter Olympics came on and that was the end of that.

Until the commercial break and I remembered my High Powered Promise to fix the sink. Which she’s been complaining about for several weeks. And which apparently had a fully matured silverback gorilla stuck inside it. Which is almost as close as I’m going to get to describing what I found in it when I took it apart busted the damn thing.

First we gather the High Powered Man’s tools. Then we open up the doors to her vanity and make the sign of the Cross survey the situation. But first we have to pull out a few million toiletries, noting the abundance of what I grew up thinking were pink cigar holders.

[pause for you to catch up]

Cigar holders.

Yeah no. But that’s not what arrests my attention. It’s not like I haven’t waltzed through PMS Katrina and her mother enough to know what those things are, right? No problem there. No, the thing that arrests my attention is the veritable cornucopia of these gentle little glides such that I wonder how in the world it could ever be necessary that I drag my sorry backside to the store for more. Next time I’m presented with that order it’s going to be met with something like, “Yeah dream on. Try looking under your bathroom sink. There’s enough in there to sop up a murder scene. And while you’re at it, root around for Jimmy Hoffa and let us know what you find.”

Vanity cleared of unnecessary Necessary Stuff, I grab a wrench that is older than God. It came from my late uncle Jerry who, if you’ve read the book, was the one who passed away a few years back and who jipped us out of a body to mourn over (cremation shmemation), so me and my cousins went looking for a corpse during the Boring Funeral. True story.

I affix the wrench to the Thing you affix wrenches to on the (I learned this next word on Trip #1 to the hardware store) p-trap. And turned it gently.

And then (I promise I am not making this up) heard metal tear. Don’t believe me, huh? Well, get a load of this.

Begging two questions, I realize.

Question #1) “Todd, you are a moron.”

and Question #2) “Todd, why are you taking photos of this cluster-fudge?”

But I didn’t say “fudge.”

Answer #1) Shut up.

Answer #2) Because I KNEW this was going to be a train wreck. I knew because the certainty I had that this minor plumbing repair job would careen into a ditch was in direct proportion to how minor it was.

So: very minor = God was bored and thought it would be lots and lots of fun to watch Todd prove yet again that that whole evolving from baboons debate was still on the table.

I was smart enough to take the pieces of the p-trap to the hardware store so I could come home with the correct replacement. Which I did.

Almost.

And by ‘almost’ I mean I’d like to find the person who designed these damn things and beat him with a p-trap.

So on Trip #2 to the hardware store, I walk in, note the laughter of the smart-mouth kid working the register who, when I left the store not 20 minutes earlier, yelled out, “See you two more times ha ha!” and told him to burn in hell. “After you come help me find the right part, I mean.”

When I get home I contort myself to fill the inside of the vanity and get the replacement on in no time flat.

Then I turn on the water.

And it works perfectly.

For four seconds.

Then it started leaking in two places, neither of which were leaking prior to any of this.

Oh, wait. I forgot to detail what was clogging the sink: I have no idea what it was but it growled at me.

I take off the (so not publishable) p-trap. Crooked. Fine. Put it back on. Straight.

Still leaks.

Take if off. Put it on. Leaks.

*thinks

No idea.

*swears

New idea! Plumbing tape!

I have plumbing tape! I know because I had enough foresight to BUY plumbing tape on Trip #1!

So I go through about two and a half miles of plumbing tape and wonder what freak mind decided Saran Wrap could be dyed white and sold to idiots like me. I hate that stuff. And now it’s everywhere. On every threaded part of the p-trap, on the wall behind me, in my hair, and in the shower (I threw it).

But it worked. I put the p-trap back on, tightened this, tightened that, and turned on the water.

And it worked.

For four seconds.

Now it leaks from somewhere else entirely and I give up. UP. I decide I need a screwdriver and go in search of vodka. On the way I encounter Cute Redhead who asks how it’s going.

I give her the play-by-play.

And do you know what she says to me? Hm? Do you? She says, “…oh. No, all I needed you to do what use a coat hanger down the drain and clean it out for me.”

Okay…

At this point the two sides of my brain do backflips and trade places.

“Um. What?”

“Yes, you didn’t need to take it apart. When I said ‘my sink is clogged and I need you to fix it’ what I meant was for you to just take a coat hanger and shove it down the drain.”

“Of course. How ever could I mistake ‘my sink is clogged and I need you to fix it’ for anything else?”

And this is where I’m ending this one. Which, I’m sorry to say, is not the end of the story. There was, believe it or not, one more trip to the hardware store last night…and another attempt at the repair this morning (fail).

Best of all? Cute Redhead actually suggested we (I’m going to try and type this with a straight face): try fixing it together.

I laughed my head off.

“lol yeah no. I don’t think topping off Valentine’s Day with a divorce is a good idea, honey. I’m calling the plumber.”

“Well. Tell him my sink is clogged and I need him to fix it.”

“Let’s hope he has a coat hanger.”

Where I grew up, St. Clair, Michigan, for the curious, we had a garden. A huge garden. And you know how when you travel back to the home of your youth and meet, once again, the things you knew as a child and wonder how space and time manages to shrink everything? Yeah, well this isn’t the case in the case of the garden I’m taking about. It really was as big in grown up eyes as it was in the eyes of a kid.

I certainly can’t posit anything like a love affair with that garden, though. If I was around it at all, it was to weed it, pick corn, or, come Autumn, scavenge it for rotten tomatoes to throw at my siblings (*joy). But somewhere in the past decade or two since leaving that part of the country, I found myself falling in love anew with gardening.

So. That photo above? Our garden. Dormant and mocking me with its barrenness. Mock, mock, mock. The railroad ties were put in several summers back and do a great job of bordering what I intend to be something award-winning this year. Because the last several years have been pallid, to put it bluntly. And it’s a pitiful shame because it gets perfect sun and all the water it needs thanks to the sprinkler system. That said, there’s really no excuse for letting it go to waste. Well, unless you consider the bind weed that’s choked out vegetables and a few poppies.

I hate bind weed (who doesn’t?), and this year I’ve a plan, thanks to Mother Jane (Cute Redhead’s mom) who is a master gardener who taught biology in Mississippi.

That’s a rendering of Mother Jane, and you better take that look seriously. It’s a look that can cook you under the table and name every scientific classification of plant and insect in the western hemisphere. And, truth be told, she’s very much my motivation for the garden. If you’re going to impress someone, make that someone a master gardener, I always say. What’s more, it was Mother Jane who I called several months back with my question about how to rejuvenate a plot of ground overgrown and neglected these many years.

“You need manure, Todd. And lots of it. But you need to kill that bind weed first. So, get a weed killer. But not until the temperatures there are at least 70˚ or it won’t work. A few days after that, maybe four days or so, dump as much manure as you can get there. And make sure it’s fresh. Go muck a barn.”

I’ve struck gold. Colorado has a lot of farms and I’ve contacted the owner of an alpaca ranch who tells me they’re in “constant production” of the stuff I need and that I’m welcome to as much as I can haul away. I can’t wait. Rule of thumb around these parts is that you never plant before May 10th. Be that as it may, I’ll have prepped the soil before that.

I think I’ll take Alpha Male and his compatriots and make a character-building venture out of it (thank you Parenting).

Watch this space, and just you wait: I’m planning a kitchen garden with all the classics…tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, corn (more for Autumn ornamentation than anything else) (I don’t have the space I need to see them germinate enough for the trouble), broccoli, carrots (you need to till deep for those suckers). I might even chance some onions. Oh, and watermelon and pumpkins too. Gotta have those and they’re hardy enough to start earlier than the others.

I dream of dark, rich loam, neat rows and a place to (brace yourself) enjoy one of my favorite outdoor things: weeding.

Oh, and remember the smoker?

Ran into it on my way back into the house. And found my missing boot, too.

That smoker hasn’t seen the last of me, I can tell you that right now.

(Good thing for it I don’t cook outside in the snow.)

Aren’t those beautiful?

White roses for my darling wife.

And, yes, I know tomorrow is Valentines Day…but you know what? That’s not why I got them for her.

I got them for her because she’s kind.

Yes, kind. Kind and forgiving.

So I decided I’d spend a bit of my Saturday morning fixing the sink in her bathroom. Seems the pipe was a tad bit clogged and Drain-O was not doing the job.

Enter High Powered Man to the rescue.

See that? That wrench was used to build the Pyramids in Egypt. That’s how old it is. I used it to very gently unscrew the pipes on the p-trap.

Very gently.

Very, very gently.

And the only reason I’m posting this now is because the smart-mouth kid running the cash register at the hardware store (and who happens to live across the street), rang up my purchase and said, “See you two or three more times ha ha!”

So I’m stalling before I go back and admit that I bought the wrong replacement part.

Oh, and the flowers are nothing more than a peace offering for what I’m screwing up.

[update]

Two trips to the hardware store and now it leaks.

In two different places.

I hate plumbing.

She wore me down.

She and her mother, that is.

I had every intention of waiting until Valentines Day to give her the dress she’d been begging for (every single day since the day she INFORMED me what I would be getting her for Valentines Day) (the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree).

But last night, at dinner (I made the reduction sauce again, for those of you wondering if I’ve yet gotten over that obsession) (I haven’t)…both she and her mother ambushed me.

…with looks like that one.

Not. Fair.

And I buckled. After dinner we exchanged gifts (read: “Daddy, you can now give Mommy and me OUR presents!”)

And the *clapping *squealing *skipping was palpable and eardrum-peircing (which made me happy).

And made Charlie Girl happy too. She allowed me a few photographs this morning to show the world the “blue dress with white polka-dots that has a butterfly on the front!”

But just a few. It’s Saturday, after all, and there are cartoons to watch.

And I’ve been recruited to fix the sink in the master bathroom. Which means we’re going from blue-and-white dress, to black-and-blue bruises. Because there’ll be tools involved and it’s mine to show this clogged pipe who’s boss.

More on this as developments unfold…

(which means if you’re the praying type, now would be a good time.)

…and you have to have a fire because it’s snowing…

…and you have to do your homework…because you have to…

…is there any better place to do it than in momma’s lap by the fire?

Seriously. Is there?

(answer: No)

But it’s also March February. And though the east coast is losing its collective mind over more snow than its ever seen since snow was invented, I’m rather done with the whole show. Which isn’t very smart of me considering the fact that Colorado winter has yet to truly show herself.

Everything is brown, and dead, and dormant. In fact, just yesterday, Cute Redhead and I were laughing about the spell it cast over us just one year ago. We took one long look out the window, cursed the deep freeze, and loaded up the SUV and drove to Las Vegas. Take that, winter.

We won’t be doing that this year. Instead we’re spending the time trying to figure out which to repair or replace first: the water heater (it’s leaking), or the washing machine (it’s leaking too)…and whether we just pull the trigger and remodel the whole upstairs bathroom plumbing snafu (and trust me, it is) (I’d know because I’m the one who played Bob The Builder and helped get us where we are today.)

I look out the window of my studio and see nothing but gray and white and brown. Not my favorite hues, in case you’re wondering. What I want to see is green and blue and every other highly saturated color Spring can afford me.

I came across two short pieces that do a good job of reminding me of what’s coming.

You read these while I go make more coffee.

“Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.” — Theodore Roethke, 1908-1963

and

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” — Albert Camus

C’mon, Spring. You can do it.

If you happen to glance at your calendar, you’ll notice we’re a full eight days out of what has got to be Charlie Girl’s favorite day of the year: Valentine’s Day. If you wonder what it is about that day that does it for her, take a quick look at her bedroom and I’m wagering it’ll come into focus…

…pink.

We’re loving The Rebel Force, by the way. And, believe me, it takes much better photos than the one up top…even though that’s a good shot. What makes me happy about it is that it was very dark in the room where I snuck and positioned myself close enough to catch her in the act without her seeing me. And the proper settings on the camera allowed for a capture I’m happy with. Still learning all the tricks and having a good time in the process. A shot like that, in focus and ample light (there wasn’t), and I’m very impressed.

But not nearly as impressed as I am with her assembly line of what looks to be some serious Valentine’s Card production.

This child put on her pink shirt, pink baubles, and then put pink stickers on her face. She then created a pink box and set about writing her classmate’s names on cards in (wait for it) pink ink.

Then the pink Hershey’s™ Kisses. And the pink M&Ms.

This girl’s working hard for the money.

I only hope I’m able to hold out the eight more days and not break under her near-constant begging that we open up presents early (read: she gets to open the present she hopes I’ve gotten her).

I think it’s really sweet that she and Cute Redhead have every expectation that I, the High Powered Man and Daddy, will be delivering no shortage of gifts and sweet-nothings come the 14th. Alpha Male and Beta Male would rather go to the doctor than suffer the day at all.

But there’s something about being your baby girl’s Ideal that made me glad to stand in line at the store the other day, the only male in the entire store (as far as I could tell), and holding one little blue and white polka dot dress with a butterfly on it that Miss Child is counting on showing up a week from tomorrow.

I wonder, too, if one of those little Valentine’s cards with a chocolate Kiss® has my name on it…

It was positioned where I could not miss it: right atop my laptop where she knew I’d have to see it.

It reads:

“Valentines Present – go to TJMaxx and buy Emma a dress go the little girls aisle and look for a dress with white and blue polka-dots please please please please please please please please buy me the dress.”

And it explains now the questions she fired off the other evening when I was preoccupied with The Rebel Force (“baby hold *click* still for *click click click* daddy just a *click* second”) and the cutest little nose I’ve ever seen…

…questions like, “Daddy? Daddy! Daddy, do we get presents for Valentines Day? Do we? Daddy, do we?”

I should have know she was up to something.

Of course, I’m as stubborn and immovable as a statue. It’s going to take a whole HECK of a lot more than THAT to pry open THIS wallet and fork over WHO KNOWS HOW MUCH for some little blue and white polka—

“She wears a size seven, honey.”

Okay, so maybe as stubborn and immovable as a daddy can be wrapped around a little finger.

It’s a story I’ve been thinking about writing since it came to pass about one year ago. And the only way I’m going to pull this one off is by conveying the following without ever actually saying it. If you get it, great. If you don’t, we’re going to just leave it there. You’ll understand why in a minute.

Oh, and one more thing: if you feel compelled to comment, remember: deft articulation without ever actually saying it, folks.

Note the photograph, but back-burner it for a second.

It occurred to me one day last winter that the time was coming when making certain facts of nature very clear was going to be very important. So, realizing the pup was on the threshold of particular juvenile maturations, I made my intentions clear:

“Hey. Just so you know: sometime in the next several months? We’re going to have The Talk. Just a heads-up, dude.”

And then I dropped it. When the right time presented itself, it was going to be unnerving enough for one party involved. The heads-up was just to be kind.

Fast forward to Springtime, when a young man’s fancy turns to nothing we’re going to discuss here, so please focus and try and keep up, hm?

So we’re driving down the highway, clocking your typical 65 mph, right? It dawns on me my audience is Very Captive, right?

I glance at my clock and realize I’ve just enough time.

Perfect.

I glance menacingly at the young buck. He senses the weight of parental consideration, turns to glance back, notes the brooding aspect, sneers, and offers his signature, “…what?” chock-full of adolescent indignation, and not a little worry that he could very well be busted for any number of things (he wasn’t).

So I turn toward my window and lock the door. Just for effect. We’re going 65 mph down the highway, there’s no where for the kid to go, but I couldn’t resist. I mean it’s not like he could jump out, right?

Notice I didn’t say “it’s not like he didn’t want to jump out, right?”

I turn back to face our main character and announce: “It’s time…for The Talk.”

And dad’s (because, trust me, this one is positioned quite securely in the Dad’s Only Column), there is nothing more fun than watching blood drain from a face. It was like all the sound and movement in the world was ripped right out of space and time leaving the only sound that of his beating heart and pavement flying past his window.

Out of which he looked longingly. As if he longed to throw himself out onto it.

At 65 mph.

“NO! SERIOUSLY! DAD! NO! PLEASE! I AM NOT GOI—”

“Dude, throttle back. Here’s the deal: we either get this started and wrapped up before we get home…or when we get home (here is where I start laughing)…I bring your mom into it.”

I honestly didn’t think there was any blood left in his face to drain.

Boy, was I wrong.

“Okay! FINE!”

“Good man.”

“But just so you know: I already know where babies come from!”

(What a set up. I so knew that was coming.)

Hooded eyes, that same menacing grin, one hand over the steering wheel as though we’ve gone over this a million times (we haven’t), and, “Oh. That’s…not…what…we’re…covering…today…pal.”

His eyes popped out of his head, he choked on two or three question marks, and then passed out.

I was in heaven.

“…what?”

“I’m asking you if you m—”

“OH! MY! GAW—DAAAAAAAAAAD!! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU MEA—”

(I couldn’t have scripted this better if I tried.)

*yawn* “Yeah whateveryouhavetotellyourself. And save it, okay lol? The act? I invented that one, tiger lol.”

By now he’s gripping the front of the passenger side bar, praying for all the world the air bag would engage and slap his name out of the phone book and knock him into last week.

Enough suffering.

“It’s like this, kid…”

One hand over steering column like we’ve gone over this a million times (we haven’t), and:

“Number 1: If you do it, you’re normal.”

beads of sweat

“Number 2: If you don’t do it, you’re normal.”

I hope the battery on the defibrillator is all charged up

“Number 3: “All of us do it.”

feigned shock, but it actually could be news to him so I let that one go

“Number 4: None of us talk about it.”

I’m laughing and he’s trying not to

“Number 5: Feels AWESOME!”

(I’m gonna lie?)

“Number 6: You’re about to enter some pretty tumultuous years here, kid. Some lights are gonna come on, some are gonna go off. Can be pretty tough. This is me saying that if you ever need to talk about this or anything like it, I’m here for you.”

pursed lips, gratitude

“Number 7: LOL You will NEVER talk to me about this geeEEeez you think I’m new here?!”

laughing his little backside off; just what I wanted

“Number 8: You never get to talk to the youngers about this. Ever. That’s my job, and I don’t share it. I’m not kidding.”

he got the point

“Number 9: You get your privacy.”

not my first rodeo

“Number 10: Don’t be a freak about it.”

laughing, shaking his head, and staring out the window. Something about, “…why can’t I have a normal dad like the other guys? Why?”

“And one last thing, buddy?”

*sigh “What?”

“The Talk…is officially over lol.”

And then I dropped it.

We spied the drive-thru and there was no time to lose, right? More, the point of The Talk was not what it might seem.

At all.

I brook no delusions that I’m telling him anything he didn’t already know, didn’t want to know lol, or hadn’t already found out about among the camaraderie of his compatriots. All I wanted to establish was: “We Can Talk About The Tough Stuff. We got bigger fish to fry than the silliness surrounding this issue. And (I didn’t say this last part to him, but I’ve said it to all the dads who’ve heard this story first-hand) if you think this is the biggest problem Life is sending your way…? Lol—yeah no.”

That was my goal. My only goal.

Okay, that and seeing if I could actually write about this without writing about it.

There’s a lot that goes on in any household of Sunday morning, and even though this is hardly all of it, I managed a few snapshots with The Rebel Force and thought a look-see into the Waltz would be fun. Starting with:

…trespassing, apparently, on Alpha and Beta’s turf where a video game was in progress. That’s Beta’s version of bearing his little fangs. And not wanting to risk life and limb, I back out of that room to visit Charlie Girl in hers…

No Charlie Girl. Just an ocean of pink. Exit The Vortex of Pepto-Abysmal and check in on Cute Redhead in ours…

…which, when I clicked the shutter, garnered me The Look and, to the trained ear, the theme from Jaws. Cute Redhead was not feeling very well so wisdom dictated High Powered Man back away slow and choose Life…

…which he did. Back away slow, that is. All the way into the laundry room, in fact, where we notice the water. Going into the drain (good)…but coming from the water heater (bad). Better close the door on that one and ignore it (that always makes it better), and peak into the family room and find Miss Child and see what she’s up to…

A ha. Something about some show I don’t understand. I asked her about it. This is the response I get:

*No response.

I’m guessing the mint chocolate chip ice cream doubles as a nice cold bowl of Unconscious. I think I’ll head upstairs and start some dinner. Beta Male said he’d like to help so let’s see what ‘like to help’ means in BetaSpeak…

“…well if they did sell them at the store—”

“—sell what, kiddo?”

“—time machines, dad. If you could buy a time machine at the store, I’d totally get one and go back to my birthday to get the money I got…BUT I’d go back FOUR times so I’d have four more times the money I got for my birthday.”

I can’t argue with this logic. I try but I can’t. I happen to look up and see Stupid Cat watching us. With the look that says, “Dude…did you just see that spec of dust over there? It moved.”

Stupid cat.

Back to making dinner. Homemade chicken and rice soup. Remember how I said Cute Redhead wasn’t feeling well? She said she wanted homemade chicken and rice soup. So. Homemade chicken and rice soup. I know my place.

*sob*

It’s been a hard week for the Manager of Planet Earth, so I take care of dinner, put her to bed early and (brace yourself) CAVE. IN. under Charlie Girl’s begging I let her make dough.

Not to bake anything, mind you. Just to make dough. Dough makes Miss Child happy. And it’s Sunday night, and the family is fed and safe and I’ve had enough wine to make me think this is a cute idea.

And she knows I have the camera on her…but that smile has nothing to do with that, and everything to do with how much she loves cooking. Or getting her way. Maybe both. (Definitely both).

And how fun is making dough? Fun enough to recruit Recalitrant Teenager. And little sister knows best, so “do it like this.”

That was the last I saw. After taking this photo, that is. Sticky little hands and a mountain of dough.

What you don’t see is what happened next. And you don’t see it because it happened faster than I expected, so I didn’t have The Rebel Force handy…and trust me, I’d have gotten that one on film.

So I’m in my studio when Alpha, Beta (who had gotten in on the fun by now), and Charlie call me up to the kitchen because “You! Have! Got! To! See! This! Dad!” (which should have been my first clue) (it wasn’t). I mean, how exciting can dough be, right?

So into the kitchen I go to see the three Spawn smiling a bit too happily, if you ask me (which should have been my second clue) (it wasn’t).

“What?”

“Watch this!”

*Alpha Male turns on ceiling fan

*on HIGH

“August, why are you turning on the ceiling fan, nothing’s burning or anythi—BAM!

BAM! THUD! BAM-BAM! “Ha ha ha!! Look out! There’s one!” BAM!!

Get this. The little demons had made little dough artillery shells and set them on top of the ceiling fan blades. Which I couldn’t see. Nor did I expect. I mean, I’ve come to expect a lot seventeen years and three kids into this, right? Right? And there is a lot of Life moving through every day around here. But dough artillery shells sitting on top of ceiling fan blades awaiting enough centrifugal force to knock a grown man in the shoulder blade and startle the hell out of him?

Yeah, didn’t see that one coming.

And, if you’re thinking I went all The Law on them, I didn’t. It caught me so off guard I couldn’t stop laughing (which I did) (for ten seconds) (and then I sent them all to bed).

And then I went back down stairs and realized this last shot perfectly captured a man. A man deep in thought. Thinking Deep Man Thoughts…

…like, “I’m clearly not drinking enough.”

Take a nice, long look.

And brace yourself.

BECAUSE IT WAS TAKEN WITH THE CAMERA I WANT! YAY!!

It gives me great pleasure to announce to one and all: Whine-Aid was a success. A massive success! And yesterday, with the final contribution to Shut Him The Hell Up About The &*$@! Camera He Doesn’t Have, I made my way to the camera store, tears in eyes, hands quaking, lip quivering and looked right into the eyes of Camera Salesperson Guy and said, “hold me.”

Actually, I didn’t say that. I said, “RING IT UP BUCKO!” And he laughed because he’d been waiting for this day for a while and was as happy for me as I was for me.

The photography accompanying this morning’s post Tree Fortress was actually taken with The Rebel Force (Canon EOS Rebel XSi) (and don’t even act surprised that I’ve already nicknamed it, you’re not new here), but I didn’t want to announce it because those were my first attempts at real life photography. What’s more, I didn’t think it really fitting to get all hap-hap-happy about those shots because they were taken outside in full light on the automatic setting. Which is really hard to screw up (even though I did) (a lot), and nothing to brag about because it’s really the camera doing its thing. All I did was click the shutter and even a monkey can do that.

The rest of yesterday..and last night…and this morning…was spent reading manuals, trying settings, watching videos online, re-reading manuals, retrying settings, watching more videos online, and being more or less convinced I’m a moron.

Aperture, f-stops, ISO, nuclear radiation, plans to the Death Star, who shot JFK, quantum mechanics, who you dated last divided by Pi, and something having to do with why the full moon this week coincided with That Week (and it did) (more on that another time) (*sob*)…

…all that and more comprised my trying to figure out this camera and render a photograph that didn’t suck.

I took about (not making this up) 320 shots since yesterday. And thank God everything’s digital these days, because if this were the old days and all those tests required old-school film, the kids’ college savings would be GONE.

The correct balance of existing light, exposure, f-stop, aperture, ISO aaAAAaaand acting like I know what any of those things means? Very taxing.

But we press on, yes? We do not give up, right? If I can puzzle out the Wii (and I actually can’t) (yet), I can hunker down and lean into Try Try Again with (here it comes again) The Rebel Force.

And then. This morning. After having slept on it and (confession here) being rather on the nervous side that, after all this whining, I may have gotten in over my head, I rose, made (sign of Cross) the coffee and picked up My Precious.

And messed with the settings for the ten-thousandth time…because I thought it was starting to make sense to Right-Brain Synesthete (who would have completely reverse the way ALL camera settings mean what they mean because if you ask me they’re completely backward and inside out).

And then took this shot.

Manual / Shutter Speed: 1/200 / F5.0 / ISO 800

(and please don’t quiz me on exactly what that means again, my brain is still mush)

I yelled, “I got it!” and woke up half the house.

The shot heard round the world.

So…

…I’m happy. I’m not whining.

And I need to thank:

John (in Wisconsin) for giving me the crazy idea and Dollar Bill #1 to kick things off

Jeff (in Florida)

Juán (in Spain)

Mike (in Wisconsin)

Billy (in Georgia)

Linda (in Texas)

Jo (in Ohio)

Carol (in British Columbia)

and Manu (in California)

for being salt-of-the-earth folks and good-humored enough to suffer my whining and help me get the new camera. It is, in all seriousness, a critical piece to all I hope for the Waltzing In Perdition blog. I’m going to have to come up with some way to thank each one of you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to become the most annoying husband and father in the free world with this camera.

“Dude—breathe. What are you talking about?”

“Me and [names of other hoodlums he hangs out with who, every single one of them, are indeed hoodlums...but the good kind] want to SPRAY! PAINT! THE! TREEHOUSE! So can we spra—”

“No.”

And there began a little back-and-forth I like to call Yeah Dream On.

Long story short, he and his buddies are at that stage in their male developmental psychological continuum wherein everything is an opportunity to destroy anything that moves. Including each other. And what was the coolest picture-perfect backyard tree fort was now, in their minds, the picture-perfect locale for their intended war games. With AirSoft® guns.

Oh great.

Let me admit, straight away, that I was not into this. I mean, at all.

And let me confess, right along with that, that my reason was so lame it’s embarrassing: I liked the way the tree fort looked in the backyard. I mean, it’s a really cool looking tree fort (trap door in floor to hammock, trap door in roof to roof, porthole, canon, solar-powered lights for night time mischief, bleah bleah bleah), and I didn’t like the idea of glancing out the window of our home and suffering an eyesore riddles with graffiti or God-knows-what they’d dream up.

And he left dejected.

And I watched he and his hoodlum gang just sort of stand out in the yard watching the adventure they’d conjured sort of fade away in their now subdued discussion.

Fail. I took me about five seconds to go back in time to the summers my brothers and I, and all our buddies, spent hours upon hours upon hours back in the fields and woods behind our home building forts, hideouts and all manner of secret lairs. And decades later, here I was insisting a tree fort in the back yard maintain a look fit for some article in Better Homes & Gardens.

Yeah no.

“August, c’mere.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a tree fort. Your tree fort. And either it’s really yours or it’s really not.”

That Look.

“So have at it.”

Those Eyes (he’s been killing me with those eyes since the day he was born) (don’t tell him).

“Really??”

“Really. I don’t care what you do to it—but just one request: we have to look at it everyday lol so just don’t spray paint the part facing the house, okay?”

The whooping and hollering and hammering and sawing and drilling and yelling and laughing you heard yesterday? That was Alpha Male and the Hoodlums living the dream…

And if you’re working on your tree fort, you have to work with your shirt off. Even if it’s January. Even if it’s only 40˚. It’s in The Rules.

See that hole in the window? Wanna know what that’s for? To see Mom carrying out tasty little sandwiches and lemonade to the boys playing checkers in the tree fort?

You wish. If you ever happen to be walking out in the backyard and see it open ever-so-slightly to reveal the barrel of an AirSoft® gun, I highly recommend dumping the tray of tasty sandwiches and lemonade and using it as a shield.

It took them about on hour to construct the walls up on the roof and (I promise I’m not making this up) raise the flag. Gotta love boys.

This is Konnor. He’s one of Alpha Male’s Main Dudes. See that look? I’ve seen that look many times. Many. Times. And you do not want to be on receiving end of that determination.

See that arsenal behind him? That’s why (the kid’s got great aim).

“Dad is their a safety switch for this thing?”

“Um, no August. It’s a jig saw. It doesn’t shoot jig saw blades.”

“Oh.”

The trap door to the roof being inspected by one of the Hoodlums. Deemed a success by all the boys.

By the end of the afternoon there were more holes in more walls for more shooting. There was razor wire chicken wire surrounding the underside of the fortress (to keep out…this is just a hunch…girls), there was an extension cord all the way across the yard to the interior supplying electricity for Still Not Sure What, the canon remained a permanent fixture, the flag stood tall in the dying light of a hard day’s work, the war games were just about to start, and the boys, every one of them, were gods.

So what was the one thing missing?

Mom being not-so-sure this is a good idea at all.

SUCCESS.

Is there anything finer, anything more languid than a quiet winter morn with a cup of coffee and the company of a good book? Does any other respite from life’s goings on calm and soothe the soul quite like this?

I mean besides a little dog yapping outside your window like it just got its Alpo mixed up with Red Bull and battery acid, or its owner, breaking ALL. KINDS. OF. FASHION. RULES. (not that we keep a record of such wrongs) (which we do) blocking the morning sun with enough cigarette smoke to assure us Mount St. Helens was just the wind up?

So there sat my friend Mike, enjoying some odd book he’d come across and delving into the life and times of its author, when with no warning whatsoever, the quiet is pierced not by the sounds of a barking dog, but by the drip-drip-drip sound of blood coming out of his ears. Because the damn dog’s barking was loud enough to slap his own name out of the phone book after rupturing both ear drums.

That’s how loud this waste of gravity is. Worse, the Universal Symbol For Stupidity (read: poodles) (and poodles Displease me) (and this dog isn’t actually a poodle but it deserves to be, it’s that stupid) happens to bark at every threat in a five mile radius. And molecules, we’ve discovered, are a worldwide canine threat.

Now, that all by itself isn’t all that much to get all lathered up about except that the circus freak show in the form of Benji Must Die is rounded out by its owner who (as our evidence shows) decides to take the opportunity to step outside in the 15˚ weather and remind one and all that she’s Come Along Way, Baby.

Are those Sorels she’s wearing? And I don’t want to jump to conclusions here, but is that a bathrobe or a shower curtain?

So Mike, ever-ready with a rapier wit and problem-solving approach decides to quiet his mind, step back from the situation at hand, forgive the smell of burning tobacco and wet dog breaching his privacy, and reaches for the sat phone:

“Blaze 23, Tacky 15: This is Double Mike, requesting immediate air strike. Are you in the vicinity?”

“Yes, go with your nine line.”

“Blaze 23, Tacky 15, grid coordinates are 37.662″ N -97.314″ W Grid EM17iq. Request shake and bake with frazzle load. If JDAM’s are available, please combo. Confirm Gunships will be carrying 105’s and the 30 Mike Mike.”

“Yes, we are a Full House.”

“Blaze 23, Tacky 15, that’s what I like to hear. Ground TAC will have SOFLAM if target needs to be marked. Red pointers and smoke are also available upon request. Toast the mutt and arrange a face-to-face with the smoke stack and her Maker. Report back if you need a talk on. Follow up with BDA. Thanks for playing boys. Double Mike out.”

Ha ha! That crazy Mike and his affinity for F-18s followed by 3 C-130 Gunships dropping so much lead on the 1/2 mile surrounding her house, the earth’s magnetic poles are going to reorient themselves in New Jersey, ha ha! What a nut!

[end dream sequence]

Alright, it must be the full moon tonight. Because, once again, I’m compelled to let loose with the unthinkable and post another installment of Endure The Night. This is the beginning, just the beginning of chapter one, and it introduces what will be a continuing fixture starting each one. Namely, a conversation between God and someone else (whose identity will only be revealed at the very last chapter) (which is as much a teaser as it is critical to the actual events which took place).

A note on the conversations: It was years of struggle (and I don’t exaggerate on that one) figuring out how to write this story. There were parts and elements that simply did not, and do not, fit well within conventional confines. Not to me anyway. Perhaps I recruit that simply to forestall, again, writing it down at all. I’m not sure.

In any case, it was about four years ago one evening that the solution dawned over me and lent me the final, missing piece: a certain artistic license, if you will, affording me a platform to broaden the story surrounding the events in a way which satisfied me. The following synopsis (perhaps for the back cover) expounds a bit on what I mean:

The Conversations between God and one other open, overarch, and close the whole story with an Otherworld perspective on what I experienced.  Setting in motion a journey toward reconciliation and redemption, a reunion I never expected and for fifteen years didn’t know I didn’t fully understand until a secret was revealed to me that brought into focus the whole story of my life.

I certainly fled Him down the days and down the nights, and suffered His edict that there would be no thing sheltering me ‘who would not shelter Thee.’

And though this is just a story, my story, it is also a sort of Midrash…that ancient Jewish milieu making ample space for  story-telling, teaching and exegesis.  So I’ll say it here:  if you mean to force what I’m telling through the lens of rigorously executed theology, I can promise you’re going to be sorely disappointed.  Or violently offended.

Or both.

So don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Alright. That’s that. The book’s Introduction is succinct, to say the very least, and immediately ushers in the first conversation setting the stage for the following chapter.

I include here the beginning of the book with an invitation to sample what I’m working on…and a request that the reader lend no small measure of grace: I really don’t like doing this.

But, again…compelled.

* * *

I was born an artist.  The manner by which the creativity in my family’s genetic code elected to present itself in me, at least most noticeably, was in illustration.  Cartooning to be exact, if you can believe that.  I mention it only to somehow explain, albeit anemically, the constant availability with which the senses convey to my heart and mind the experiences and sensations of the world around me.  Which is a mouthful, but only offered here to establish what for me is a natural disposition.  That is, that I am no stranger to emotion and not at all uncomfortable in it.

But then that was before God decided it was time to ruin my life.

* * *

“Come with Me to where I ever Am, a place you once were but are no more.  I would have you present at a birth.  Are you willing?”

“I am willing.”

“Then come. Your brother’s heart is soon to begin beating again.”

* * *

The story of my life—the real story—began when I was twenty-four years old.  At a Christmas party serving as ground zero for the start of an adventure I never would have signed up for had I known what was coming.

I realize now it started earlier than this particular night, which I learned was the birthday of the girl who would one day be my wife.  It would be a full year before I met her.  I know, too, that the composure and decorum I possessed was coming to a pale end as God, with the infinite precision I would grow to recognize more and more, counted down, ‘…three…two…one…Now.’ And, right on schedule, and in the space of one heartbeat, the story He had set in motion eastered its way into my life with no more fanfare than a couple entering a room to greet their friends at a Christmas party.

I watched them come in entirely unaware of the interior events about to unfold.  Meaning little since I was no more aware than anyone else.  Their arrival, benign as could be, was a trojan horse conceiling a lethal agent, somehow giving me pause to consider what it would have been like to see my own parents walk into the same room on the same night greeting the same people and knowing the same warmth and comfort of the relationships now filling the whole of the great room at Downing House.  And though the consideration felt harmless just moments before, it flared now into a devastating onslaught as the hypothesis of my parents entering my world brought with it the necessary, and until now entirely unconsidered significance:  that their being there in the physical would have meant also that their hearts were there as well.

Which would have been no small thing seeing as how seven years before, I left the home of my youth knowing I would never return.

And it surprised me considerably because I really didn’t expect to close the evening genuinely glad that I didn’t get all I wanted.

Unless you’ve been under a rock for either the last 24 hours, the last week, the last several months, or (for those who know their technological history) the last ten years, you are fully aware that Apple finally debuted their much-anticipated tablet, called the iPad.  A brilliant name, in my opinion…but I’m not interested, at the moment, that is, in discussing marketing and advertising and big $15 words like ‘neuro-associative conditioning’ (read: the better part of our solar system already has a love affair with the iPod, extrapolate, extrapolate, extrapolate).

It’s no secret AT. ALL. that I’m a huge fan of Apple products. And before you devolve my good name into ‘fanboy’ status, let me be clear: I only like the best. The best. And I don’t care who makes the product, if it’s the best, I’m loyal to the end. Likewise, the day that product or service is no longer The Best, I take my loyalty elsewhere.

Period.

Or, in other words, if your Kool-Aid tastes good, I’m drinking.

More, I love technology. I LOVE it. Ever since Star Wars made the jump to light speed into my eleven year old life, I’ve had a love affair with buttons and lights and click-beep-engage. Not gonna lie. The more the better. Less is more? Yeah no. More is more.

Well.

The anticipation for the iPad reached fever pitch in the last several weeks such that the list of Must Haves grew and mutated and expanded into a device on which most people, including me, lost all perspective.

What the iPad does it does well, in my opinion (but for a reason I didn’t expect). And though the line-up of dissenters is longer (today) than those praising the device, and though a majority of them espouses a litany of ways in which it fails (and miserably), by virtue of what it doesn’t ship with (read: a video camera and multitasking, to name a few)…

…it was while watching the presentation that I gradually realized something for which I found myself surprisingly glad:

The iPad doesn’t do everything.

My good friend Jill and I were nearly drunk with excitement and IM’ing back and forth for the duration. As we began noting what wasn’t included in the device in spite of the rumors, I mentioned (in jest) that this was proof that “Steve loves us and wants us to relax.” Jill fired back with, “I don’t want to relax. I want to write an email, drink my coffee, send a text, and drive all while putting on mascara.” I nearly fell off my chair laughing. (*fist bump to Jill)

I read several pundits all over the world sounding off about the dawning of this new era (and trust me, it is) (and trust me, I’d know)…and I was pretty impressed with the near virulent disdain of the iPad’s design, function, capability, etc., etc.

It was the vitriol over multitasking (or absence thereof) that arrested my attention most. And the more I thought about what ‘we didn’t get,’ the more I found myself…well…breathing a sigh of relief.

As excited as I’ve been about the coming of this new technology, I have to admit that I was a bit less than enthusiastic about yet another screen jockeying for my attention (and likely winning it). “My marriage lol is NOT going to survive this!” I joked with my friend Jill. To say nothing for the likelihood of more monthly costs, yada yada yada.

But, at the end of the day, I can’t help but admit that I’m landing on the grateful side that this device doesn’t do everything and then some. The more I write, the more I like writing. The more I write, the more I seek quiet and simplicity. And for as impressive as multitasking might be, I don’t think any one of us (adults) is going to get very far trying to convince the rest of us that spinning all these plates has made us better, more peaceful, or more centered people.

So.

The iPad is a game-changer. Like the iPod was, as an mp3 player. If you don’t believe me, stop reading and go count all your CD’s, your cassettes, and your albums (kids, ask your parents). There is no shortage of vantage points and pontifications about the print industry and it breathing its last, so I’m not going to regurgitate any of that here. It’s out there if you want to search for it and read for yourself.

Email, browsing, photography, books, music, video. You know the drill.

For my part…do I want one? I do.

But I want one because I’ve gotten tired of multitasking being the New Normal. I want one because I like the idea of actually divesting myself of the constancy of All Things All The Time.

As I write more often, photograph more often, and communicate more…specifically, I see the iPad as a device affording me the reductionism to do just that.

Just that.

And I like that.

Everything you’re about to read, and every photograph you’re about to see actually happened shortly after Christmas. And, to give credit where credit is due, we’ve our good friend Kendall over at The Ink to thank for grabbing my Not The Camera I Want camera and covering the event like rabid paparazzi.

Stupid Cat’s spidey senses apparently picked up the pitter-patter zipTwang! of little feet.

But not before the little Olympic sprinter made his way behind the clock and into the furnace vent. What you see above is Stupid Cat having (I am not making this up and this is exactly what Kendall told me) moved the clock. This beast means business.

They both spied a breach in security at the same time and made their way for it. AND! IT! IS! ON! Go, mouse! Go!

The plot thickens. Our poor Octavius was Paw-Blocked. Which is sad all by itself, yes. But what really chaps my hide is that the little Cat Ankle Bracelet I put on Stupid Cat apparently does nothing to dissuade this beast’s primal instincts.

Octavius pauses. Stupid Cat pauses. One teeny tin little meeces paw is raised. Though the air is charged with electric-danger, in the quiet, our protagonists share a mutual respect.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Then a dodge! A feint! Behind the Sorels! Go!!

Remember the scene in Jurassic Park where you don’t see the big monster coming to pick its teeth with that goat…but you see the glass of water ripple with the low foreboding and tremulous reverberation of Big Monster Footsteps Coming?

That’s what Octavius thought about when Stupid Cat put her paw down and shut down that little escape.

Run, Forest! Octavius! Run!

Okay, dude…that was not the smartest thing to do. You’re, like, totally cornered.

Oc. Seriously…she can totally see you, dude.

Salvation! Run to that cave! Into the cave, Octavius! Ru—wait.  Dude, what? That’s The Golden Retarded’s mouth.

And, folks, Kendall tells me that the little nutjob actually made a break for it and ran Straight. Into. The. MOUTH. of Bailey, The Golden Retarded. Who was sitting there watching the whole thing, gaining more and more confidence that there were at least two other creatures more retarded than himself.

Not a good plan. Bailey was all, “DUDE! Pew! Pew! Pew! Bleah! GAWD Get out! Blech!” and our little Octavius took off in the other direction, most certainly disoriented and tail-spinning into all kinds of little mice vertigo.

And that, my friends, is the last I have the heart to detail. I have nothing left to say.

Words cannot describe the sense of loss.

So, let us a take a moment, shall we? Do let’s.

*moment

*sad trombone.

Mushrooms with Cream and Brandy on Brioche á Tête

2 oz. (59.14 ml) Butter
1 oz. (29.57 ml) Olive Oil
1/2# (0.22 kg) Mushrooms, quartered
1 Shallot, minced
4 Garlic Cloves, minced
1/2 cup (118 ml) Cognac or Brandy
1 tsp (4.9 ml) Flour
1 cup (236 ml) Brown Stock (this is what Cute Redhead had an award-winning argument over)
1 cup (236 ml) Cream
Rosemary
Squirt of Lemon Juice
Salt
Pepper
Brioche, split

Method

Melt butter and oil over medium-high heat and add mushrooms and shallot, season with salt, and let brown. Add more oil if necessary.
Add garlic and cook for one minute
Add Cognac and reduce by 3/4’s
Add flour and stir in and cook for one minute
Add stock (this is what Cute Redhead nearly killed each other over) and stir in and reduce by 3/4’s
Add cream and reduce by 1/2
Add rosemary, lemon juice, and season with salt and pepper.
Serve of Brioche (Cute Redhead and I both agree, however, a fresh croissant would work just as well)

Serves 4.

Here’s my photograph of it (which was not taken with The Camera I Don’t Have Yet).

Beef Tenderloin with Sauce Bordelaise and Potatoes Lyonnaise

4 Tenderloin filets
Salt
Pepper
1 Tbsp (15 ml) Oil
1 Tbsp (15 ml) Butter
1 cup (236 ml) Red wine
1 Shallot, minced
2 cups (473 ml) Glace de Viande Brown stock (I am getting ticked off all over again about this stock because this is EXACTLY what Cute Redhead and I devolved into primal, murderous intentions toward one another. You know, in love, I mean.)
2 Tbsp (30 ml) Butter
Salt
Pepper

Method

Season tenderloin with salt and pepper. Chef Tom overheard me saying to someone, “…people tend to under-season. So get generous with that salt and pepper, and I don’t mean maybe.” And then he stopped on his way over to help the mortals who were trying to cook with the same brilliance I was, and said, “You know, that’s exactly right.” (*pats self on back)
Heat butter and oil over medium high heat and add tenderloin, brown and turn over.
Remove from pan, drain off excess oil, add wine, shallot and reduce by 3/4’s
Add (I’m starting to have this stupid argument in my head all over again) stock and reduce until sauce begins to thicken
Reduce heat to low
Season with Salt and Pepper

Serves 4

Potatoes Lyonnaise

2# (.90 kg) Potatoes, peeled and sliced 1/2″ thick
Oil, as needed
1 Onion, peeled and sliced
4 Garlic cloves, minced
1/4 cup (59 ml) Parsley, chopped
Salt
Pepper

Method

Place potatoes in a pot, cover with water, add a little salt, and simmer for 10 minutes. Drain. (Really watch this, they can over-cook very quickly and get too mushy; you want them soft to where you can pierce them with a fork but still firm)
Heat oil in pan and add potatoes and onions. Season with salt and pepper and brown. Add more oil if necessary and adjust heat
Add garlic and cook for a few minutes and set aside
Add parsley

And here’s my photograph of this dish. Without rival, one of the best meals I have ever had.

Look forward to hearing anyone try these out!

Enjoy!

PS – Two Things:

Thing One) I promise I’ll write the story about The Stock &  The Big Argument.

Thing Two) all this cooking brought back a flood of memories of my days as a cook’s assistant when I was 19. I was thrown into the position of head cook when the person holding that title up and quit one week after I was hired. I’ll soon write down the story (and if I can remember it, the recipe) for a dish I prepared one day. The dish became famous and they put it on the menu. What they didn’t know then and still don’t know now, is that I made the recipe up on the spot. Because I was scared to death. Because I forgot to thaw the meat for the recipe I was supposed to prepare.

Fake it till you make it, I always say.

Remember that scene? It was in The Six Sense. And what made everyone wig out was all the chairs around the table were suddenly and impossibly stacked one atop the other. No way for the kid to have done it in three and a half seconds, and no explanation for it either.

Okay. Keep that in mind.

So we’re out at some restaurant this past summer, right? Just chit-chatting away with other grown-ups having grown-up conversation. Conversation like, “Yeah, I’d like to see that brochure again too, because I’m pretty sure having children and teaching them to talk back was not a part of the package.”

One of my children — and by now, I’m going to wager all my regular readers know exactly who I’m talking about without naming names *cough* Beta Male *cough* — was hovering nearby.

I should .•*•Time Travel•*•. here real quick and tell you another story, though. A story that will set the stage here even more and, if nothing else, explain why the seemingly paranormal became the New Normal a loooOOoooong time ago.

[.•*•Time Travel•*•. Star date: Summer 2000]

I’m sitting at my desk working on my computer. I’m type-type-typing away at something and then sit back and think. As I’m thinking about what to type next I’m looking at the monitor.

And amazing new thoughts and concepts and ideas start flowing one after another in a cascade of brilliant and free-associative articulation. Which was incredible and liberating and transcendent.

It was also illegible because it read like this:

“ad axkljcxfh     qh 4rtgqyxbcas f@#$sdafh  f231[po23rn  q3r4j1 ewf 2314"

My eyes were popping out of their sockets because while all this was happening, I was sitting back with my hands crossed, head tilted all RCA dog and everything...

AND. NOT. TOUCHING. THE. KEYBOARD.

It only lasted a few seconds, but in those few seconds, I went from curiosity to confusion to horror to laughter.

Because when I glanced from the computer screen channeling the devil to the keyboard, I saw one tiny little hand reaching up from under the desk and scrambling over the keyboard clickety-clacking type-type-typing to beat the band.

Okay, that was one of the first times Beta Male left his little footprint fingerprint on the world around me.

[end .•*•Time Travel•*•.]

Back to the restaurant.

Turn to left, talk to guest on left. Turn to right, talk to guest on right.

Set fork down.

Turn back to guest on right to answer question whilst simultaneously reaching for aforementioned fork on my left.

*Brain notes absence of fork. [Time span: roughly 2.8 seconds]

Turn to left to pick up fork—see kitchen chairs stacked one atop the other forks—scream like little girl.

“Alex would you please stop doing that!?”

(Photographic Disclaimer: None of these photos, nice as they are, were taken with The Camera I Don’t Have Yet. The only reason they look halfway decent is because when it comes to Photoshop, I am a god. A god, people. A god.)

Okay, okay, okay, I know I’ve been grossly negligent these past five days and I’m sorry. Lots of life has happened and this truly is my first chance to get to the blog and catch up.

So, let’s get right on into, hm?

[Big lead-in] I can be a big, fat idiot sometimes a lot of the time…

Like all posts having to do with almost killing your spouse in front of God any everybody, ours begins with an incredible meal with great friends and this hair-brained idea that we would recreate, in our own kitchen, the delicacies festooning this page.

See that dish up there? I made it. Me.

Me me me me me.

And, in fairness, not just me. Cute Redhead, our friends Brent and Michelle, Trecia and Mike, Racquel and Sam, and Chef Tom (who I think we annoyed the hell out of but that comes later).

We met at this very cool cooking school place where you take a second mortgage out on your home and learn how to cook very cool meals and then drink very large amounts of very good wine while sitting around a very hip and perfectly appointed table and act like you do this all the time. The cooking school is called The Kitchen Table and if you ever have the chance to participate in an evening fairly pop-sizzling with hip friends, hip cooking and hip people watching you from behind a glass like your some sort of Hip Experiment, trust me: do it.

But don’t do the big fat argument that Cute Redhead and I did over something so earth-shattering and critical to the survival of mankind that there is no way I can conceal the sobering reality of what we fought about. The world must know. Everyone must be made aware of this because, failing my sharing The Issue, we run the risk of relational land mines going off all over America. What could we possibly fight over garnering statements this sensational, you ask?

Why veal stock, of course (more on that later).

The dish is called Beef Tenderloin with Sauce Bordelaise. And you know what else?  When we sat down and sampled our work, Cute Redhead took a bite of hers, I took a bite of mine, we looked up, looked right at each other and she said, (something I’ll tell you later). And I was literally about to say the very same thing.

This is Mushrooms Something Something on a Something. I don’t remember. I have the recipes but they’re not handy and I have to hurry up and get all this down before the Spawn get home because the rest of the night is going to be STUPID busy.

Now, I’m not a big mushroom kinda guy, but let me tell you: this dish was just ama—well actually, there’s no other way to put it: I’d roll around in it and lick the whole dish off my naked body.

It’s that good.

(and don’t even pretend that grosses you out because if you tasted it too you’d ask me for seconds) (bada-boom).

Oysters. (No, really?)

I’ve never had oysters before in my life, if you can believe that. But I did. Raw. We made some pickled sort of vegetable-type topping thing involving celery and carrots and something else. And then we went out to the Very Hip Table and sampled our work. I dove right in. I slung back five in a row. Though they were not as unsavory as Cute Redhead believed (read: “Yeah no, I’m not touching those things, dream on”), I don’t ever picture myself waking up, springing out of bed and proclaiming loud and clear, “Gotta have oysters! To the oyster bar! Away!”

No.

Making the Mushroom Something Something. I don’t know about any of you, but there is nothing like creating anything with the right equipment. And by right equipment I mean a professional kitchen baptized in every conceivable kitchen utensil, pot, pan, knife, ladle, towel, oil, spice, Marty Steward Died And Went To Heaven, yada yada yada.

Our friends Trecia and Racquel. Trecia would never come out and tell you this, but when it comes to cooking, she can kick anyone’s butt.

Anyone’s.

See that cute redhead? That’s my Cute Redhead. See the fair maiden next to her? That’s Michelle. See how they’re smiling?

They’re drunk.

(kidding.)

Okay, that’s our guide, Chef Tom. I had this feeling he was bone-tired after a day of who-knows-what else, but he was a good sport and put up with our (I love this word coming here) bonhomie. Which is French, from bonhomme, good-natured man : bon, good (from Latin bonus; see deu-² in Indo-European roots) + homme, man (from Latin hom; see dhghem- in Indo-European roots). Which is just a ten-dollar sentence for “Brent and Todd and Sam and Mike were being dorks all night long but it was for Brent’s 40th birthday and we just shelled out a lot of money to cook our brains out and have a blast, which we did so deal with it, Chef Tom.”

And this is Brent showing the oysters What’s What. Brent and I have known each other since God was an altar boy.

Not gonna lie: pouring in the brandy and watching the stove turn into Raging Inferno was a highlight.

And, dear God in heaven, I have discovered the making of the reduction sauce. I will never eat anything without it again. I will put it on chicken, on steaks, on fish. I will put it in my coffee. I will put it over cereal. Ever shall I sing the praises of the reduction sauce.

Shallots, red wine, beef tenderloin drippings, Something Else I Can’t Remember, and a little Something Else I Can’t Remember? Are you kidding me? Where do I sign?
We end with these four beef tenderloins and our very own kitchen table. The very next night. Where we decided we’d try our hand at the dish you see up top. And you know what? It was a huge success. And the thing Cute Redhead said to me the night before when she tasted it for the first time? The very thing I was about to say out loud myself? “The kids would love this!”

And they did. The very next day we went bonkers, bought the ingredients and gave everyone a task to complete toward the creation of a dish we can’t wait to have again.

So. In closing (the Spawn are home) let me just say that I realize I only alluded to the fact that sometimes a lot of the time I can be a big fat idiot. The story behind how the purchase of veal stock almost resulted in a steak knife in my back is eclipsed only by how brilliantly seventeen years of marriage and doing The Kids Thing for the past thirteen of them, teaches High Powered Man and Cute Redhead a lot of bad habits.

Like talking and not listening but being 1,000% certain you’re being 10,000% clear.

Which we’re not.

But we’re learning.

Or, rather, unlearning.

Not easy. And this is me trying to laugh about a fight so bad and so stupid [of me] [oh, who am I kidding] [of both of us], in order to make my way through this particular waltz by putting it in a story (and I will) (soon) and sharing it with all of you.

In the meantime, however, I’m going to go eat the last bit of the leftovers I hid in the back of the fridge.

PS – If anyone would like these recipes, just leave a comment and I’ll post.

Okay, I’ve put this off as long as I could. That is, until I was sure.

And this, folks, is one for the record books.

You’ll recall my realizing that my vision was getting weirder and weirder by the day. You’ll recall how I brilliantly deduced that this meant that the years had caught up with Opey and, try as I might to deny it, I was looking 44 square in the face.

And 44 was staring right back.

Except I couldn’t see it because it was all blurry.

Glasses on. Glasses off. On. Off. Back on. Back off. Paper close. Paper far away.

“…oh no.”

Bifocals.

“Oh well. I’m 44. These things happen.”

So I go get my eyes tested and get new frames. All recounted here and here, for the uninitiated.

Then, last night, this conversation took place between myself and Cute Redhead:

“Um…where are your new glasses?”

“Over there. Why?”

“You don’t like them?”

“I like them fine. Why?”

*staring

“How’s the book, Todd?”

“I like it. It’s this great stor—. Wait. Why?”

“You’re not wearing your glasses to read, Todd.”

“I know. I never need glasses to read.”

“A ha.”

*staring.

“…oh my God.”

I sit straight up in the bed and start laughing. Suddenly the eye doctor’s words come back to me, “The reason you’re eyes are feeling weird is because the lenses are over-correcting. You’re eyes are stronger than they were before.”

Which meant…

I GOT BIFOCALS AND DIDN’T NEED THEM.

I put them on. Pick up the book. No difference.

I take them off. Pick up the book. No difference.

I put them on. Bring the book close to my face. No difference.

I take them off. Push the book way back to where People Who Wear Bifocals Hold Reading Material When They Don’t Have Their Glasses.

Big difference. As in, I couldn’t read it far away. As in, I’m not far-sighted.

As in, I’m the biggest moron in the world.

I signed up for bifocals not needing anything like bifocals! At all. AT. ALL.

So there I am sitting in bed and laughing and all I can think of is the $ObsceneAmount.95 I just shelled out for the STUPID (big quotes in the air coming here again) “progressive lenses,” not to mention the cost of the eye exam the day before.

While Cute Redhead is lying there, one hand tucked under her cheek, ready to call it a night.

And smiling.

The smile that says, Todd, I love you Todd, you are a special kind of stupid.

I just got back from Round Five at the eyeglasses one-stop-shop place and worked it out with Salesperson Lady. Got new frames (the ones I wanted in the first place) (and here they are):

Yeah, I know: big fat hairy deal.

And that blue photo way up top? That’s the little test card they hand you after you try on your new “progressive lenses” and see if you can read the very bottom teeny-tiny print. Which I could.

“Ooooh! Look at that! I can read the very bottom teeny-tiny print! Yay progressive lenses!” That was yesterday.

Today, without glasses (and with the correct regular ones too) I picked up the little test card thing again.

“Oooh! Look at that! I can read the very bottom teeny-tiny print! I’m a moron!”

Good news: I don’t need bifocals after all (read: I have bionic eyes).

Better news: I saved money.

Best news: Even though I’m a special kind of stupid, at least I can see. Up close and far away.

In order to make what I am writing about at the bottom, I have to first revisit a story from A Beautiful Hell.

It’ll make sense in a little bit, so just humor me and enjoy:

“Dress Pants”

So I go to buy new pants.  Dress pants.  “Slacks,” I hear them called.  I do not care for this word, but at 43 one can get away with comfortable jeans with holes in the knee for only so long.  So: new dress pants.

I like Land’s End.  Sears, just up the street, carries Land’s End.  Land’s End dress pants.  The aforementioned “slacks.” So, into Sears I go, only to discover that, apparently, according to the bright happy folks in the Land’s End Sizing Department, I don’t exist.

I look and look and look and drift precariously close to the shelf displaying the sturdy Dockers (which I like, but which will also only get…well…you know…The Look if I bring them home).

So I call Wife.

Not for a shoulder to crrryyyy on….not for mooorrral suppooooort….

Actually, I call her because I’m going to tell her I’m now at another store over on such-and-such street and that I might be a little longer than expected.

But…before I can tell her that she, hearing my brief rant about Land’s End and their pure, virulent hatred for men with my waist size, says to me…

…and I quote:  “Well, just go over to the Junior Boys department and look there.”

As God is my witness she said this to me.

A phone conversation which was, up to this point, mild and conducted in hushed, respectable tones instantly mutated into, “OH, WE’RE GOING TO PRETEND YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT!”

She was serious.  But then she started laughing at me going off like the Fourth of July.

I ended the phone call.  When Dapper Sales Guy at the other store walked up to me offering his Dapper Sales Help, he was taken aback slightly with my answer to his question, “sooOOOoooo, where we at tonight?” My answer being, “I’m in hell.  Can you fit me?”

Long story short, this store loves me.  This store believes I exist.  This store stands tall and announces to the world: “Yes, dammit! We WILL dress Todd in SLACKS!”

“…wait.  Did you just call them…slacks?”

“Yes.  Is that a problem, sir?”

“No.  Not at all.  I’ll take two.”

—

Okay. Now.

Let’s talk about the new glasses. And, no, they’re not (big quotes in the air) “bifocals.” They’re (big quotes in the air again) “progressive lenses.” Which is HipSpeak for This Is Going To Cost Your More Than Your Mortgage.

So yesterday I go and get my eyes checked. Every test in the world. The eyes are doing well, so that’s good news. But not so well that the infamous mid-forties doesn’t have a say-so. Not the end of the world. And, so, far-sightedness. Also not the end of the world.

I didn’t have time to pick out new frames and wait around so I decided I’d head back over there today—and take Cute Redhead with me so I could get her help. Not that I didn’t feel I could pick them out myself. But we’re talking marriage here, right? And that means Cute Redhead, like all you wives (don’t even pretend this isn’t true), reserves the right to lie right through her teeth about liking the new frames. Which she did for the last year and a half about the ones I’ve had…but I didn’t find that out until last week. Nice waltz.

So there we are in the shop looking over the possibilities, which, you’ll be interested to know, are quite limited due to the required depth of the lens. Meaning it needs to be a certain size in order to accommodate the (say it with me) “progressive lens.”

What.Ever.

Me: “I like these.”

Her: “Mm. No.”

Her: “How about these?”

Me: “Ah. NO.”

Me: “Hm. These might not be so *puts them on* OhLordNo.”

Her: “I like this color.”

Me: “Not happening.”

Me: “What about these?”

Her: “Mm. Uh uh. Hey! Try these! These are a good size for your face!”

Me: “Maybe. If I was hoping to signal passing aircraft with them. Next.”

Me: “I wish my face wasn’t so narrow. Do you think my face is too narrow? I think my face is too narrow.”

Her: “Here. Try these on.”

Me: “…Um. Do you hate me?”

Her: “Sigh. You know what you should do! Right over there are some kids gla—”

Me: “OH, WE’RE GOING TO PRETEND YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT!”

Her: “No, really lol! You can just SEE if they’re any tha—”

Me: “You. Can. Leave. Now.”

So, I land on the ones in the photograph. Prada for those who care (I don’t). And though I tried to keep costs under the national debt, the rest of the experiment played out like this:

Salesperson Lady: “Ewwwkay, so that’s the fraaaaAAAaammmes…*click click click on register computer*…and the leeeEEeennnses….*click click*…and the Whatever It Was She Called It I Don’t Remember But It’s So They Don’t ScraaaaAAAAaaatch…*beep boop beep*. Alrighty then, that’ll be just $Obscene Amount.95.

“Um. What?”

“$Obscene Amount.95.”

“What did I just buy, The Hubble Telescope?”

“WeeeEEeeell, let’s take a loooOOok, we have the fraaaAAAaammes…”

“Okay, first of all: is this really your voice or are you auditioning right now for some Nickelodean Preschool Wiggle-type show? Second of all, I just need bifocals, not transplants.”

“You mean progressive lenses.”

“I mean shoot me.”

After several weeks of looking down at my book, and then up at the chalkboard, I realized my vision was blurry and unable to focus as it had in the past. It took me several weeks to realize this wasn’t normal.

So. Glasses.

That was tenth grade and a lot of years ago.

After several weeks of looking down at my book, and then up at anything else, I realized my vision was again blurry and unable to focus as it had in the past. It took me several weeks to realize this also wasn’t normal.

So. To the eye doctor.

I have had this love-hate relationship with glasses for most of my life. They just annoy me. A nuisance to take care of, clean, lose, find, replace, etc.

I’ve several times floated the idea of the corrective surgery, but had that shot down in glorious defeat because, according to the kids, I “just wouldn’t look like dad without your glasses.”

That’s charming and endearing and all. I get it. But I’d like to see so can we please consider it anew? What’s more, when I think of myself, I never picture myself in glasses. Which is pretty intriguing considering I’ve worn them most of my life. I’ve no real explanation for that, except that I just don’t see spectacles on my face when I envision it. In fact (and this is starting to sound more like a psychotic split than anything else) whenever I look in the mirror and see the glasses, they sort of always surprise me.

Eye Doctor Boy does the test, measures this, measures that, tests here, tests there…even does that little burst of air in your eye to test for glaucoma.  Not a fan, but I passed. Even better, I learned that half the reason I couldn’t figure things out with the Takes Glasses Off To Read, Puts Glasses Back On To See Distance was, in part, because my near-sightedness has actually improved.

“It’s what?”

“It’s gotten better. Not very common but it happens. The reason you’re eyes are feeling weird is because the lenses are over-correcting. You’re eyes are stronger than the were before.”

“So, what you’re saying is that I—”

“—don’t need as strong a prescription.”

“Oh. I was going to say ‘is because I have super powers.’”

“Super powers?”

“Well. Yeah. I sort of thought this was because I might have developed super powers.”

“Would you like super powers?”

“Dude. Who doesn’t, right?”

“Good point.”

So. Super powers. But apparently even us super heros get far-sighted as the years go by.

So. Bifocals.

All of this cracked me up, by the way. And I’ll keep laughing until I have to pick out new frames. Because Cute Redhead waited a full year since my former pair to tell me she never did like them.

*sigh

Okay, I can explain…

A few months ago we sat around the dinner table with Alpha, Beta, and Charlie and got cornered into telling stories from way back when (thank you, red wine). Before we knew it, the room was in hysterics as the kids got to hear mom and dad tell things they’d never heard of.

The one that made them lose. their. minds. happened like this:

Sweet husband sees Cute Redhead sitting on the bed reading a magazine. It’s a beautiful summer day. The light is casting an ethereal gloam around her and he’s overcome with love.

Overcome.

He goes into the bedroom and does his best impersonation of Overcome With Love Newlywed and positions himself right in her way. Just like a cat would when you’re trying to read something.

Looking down at him, she smiles The Smile. Looking up at her, he smiles The Smile back. And then he reaches up, places his hand behind her neck and pulls her into A Kiss.

A very [censored ] and [very censored] kiss.

When their lips parted, she sat back up and looked down lovingly on her husband. And he smiled. And tears were in his eyes.

Such tenderness.

[end scene]

Okay, here’s what you would have seen if Camera Two was on:

Evil Man sees Vulnerable Woman sitting alone.

He goes into the kitchen and stuffs about six Oreos into his mouth and chews them up.

But doesn’t swallow them.

He goes into bedroom and starts making out in the middle of the day.

(She will deny this but it’s true).

After the very hot make out session, she looks down smiling at Her Man and he is smiling too.

With the aforementioned tears in his eyes.

Such evil.

He was smiling because he pulled it off. And there were tears in his eyes because the pressure to laugh was about to blow his eyes right out of their sockets.

Because all over her mouth, while she smiled, was what looked like a slimy, gritty oil slick. But she didn’t know it.

It was hilarious.

Then Evil Man couldn’t hold it in any longer and starts laughing.

Then she starts laughing when she sees the condition of his mouth. “Ew!” she says.

Then suddenly she stops laughing because she realized what he’s laughing at: the condition of her mouth.

She grabbed the camera which was right there and took that photo.

Then she clocked him. Hard. But he kept laughing.

This photo has been the stuff of legend. And missing for about fifteen years.

I just found it.

Tonight, at dinner, I’m going to recount that story.

And then I’m going to present the proof.

That their dad really is evil.

And still laughing.

Okay, first of all: this photo is not edited in any way and I promise I am not making that up. The pizza really is this big.

Second of all: we keep the name and place of this pizza joint top secret…so if you locals are hoping I let you in on our favorite pizzeria nom nom place, yeah you can forget that.

And that’s my buddy Ryan looking at it longingly, as if to say, “Hello my darling, where have you been all my life.”

You know how your eyes order something bigger than your stomach? Well…we really were this hungry.

And you know how you wrap up a meal with leftovers and say nice things like, “Oh, no—you take the leftovers home. Seriously.” Yeah that was a huge let down because I let him take it home.

Which was probably wiser than putting my hand between that pizza and those teeth.

Take about a dozen sheets of paper and write on the top sheet.  Just the top sheet.  Fill the entire page with whatever you will.  Just be pressing the pen so hard—holding it so tightly—that by the last stroke of your pen, you are drenched with sweat, consumed with fear, and aching from the strain.

And when you remove that page, and all the others underneath it, you’ll know what I felt…if you can clearly discern in the indentations on the last page what you wrote on the first.

That’s what you won’t be able to see when you read this.  Nor will you see the blurred writing on some of the pages, blurred because the tears were smearing the ink.  You won’t be able to see the panicked, discombobulated freneticism in my handwriting wrought by the combustion of deep dark secrets and the light of day.  It sounds embarrassingly melodramatic.  But it’s true.

So it is for me to convey in the clean printed lines of a  book, the very messy things that happened when I spent twenty-one days completely alone in the mountains of Colorado.

* * *

“He is sleeping.”

“He is.  It is the only true quiet he knows. Yet this silence will likewise betray him.”

“Why must that be?  It seems a cruelty to disturb so deeply.  To do it here.”

“Alas, it is here he will hear his own voice for the very first time.”

* * *

Everything about posting this feels counter-intuitive. But something compels me to post it anyway. And I can’t tell you how alien it feels to do so. Like most men, I prefer to speak or write about nothing until I’ve sorted it out entirely in my own head. Writing is the same way. I’d sooner walk on hot coals than reveal a work-in-progress.

But, again: compelled.

Something happened to me when I was twenty-four. Something which galvanized the whole of my life, and which animates, to this day, my soul at a level I never speak about. Ever.

So when God leaned into me with the direct order to write it down in a book, you’ll appreciate how, in all my humility and reverence, I looked Him straight in the eye and said, “No.” I learned years ago that to not argue with God is to insult him deeply. Thus began another wrestling match with Him. And, though I’ve no doubt Who will win this one as well, I’ve also no doubt He loves a good fight.

Big shock coming here: I write. A lot. So I wonder what will come of this confession: the book, A Beautiful Hell (and the other two coming after it) was, in one very real sense known only to me and a handful of other people, a decoy.

Let me back up and explain.

The thing that happened to me when I was twenty-four. The twenty-one days completely alone in the mountains of Colorado. All that led up to them, all that transpired, all that’s happened since…is a story I have warred with for well over ten years, if not more. That’s how long it’s been since I realized He wanted me to write it down. I laugh now thinking of my friend Sarah who, upon hearing that I flat-out told God “yeah, in Your dreams,” was completely taken aback that I would openly defy Him. Which made me laugh because I have no category for not being that honest with Him. And, as I said up above: it’s not like we don’t know Who’s going to win ultimately.

But I have indeed warred with this story. And for a variety of reasons not least which is the content. I struggled for years with how to write it down, because there are parts that broke all the rules, as far as I was concerned, about how to convey what it was that happened. I see now it was precisely that tension, buried in me for years, which worked its slow work of germination so that later, when a secret was revealed to me, the how would finally come into focus. And, finally, seeing how to write it, I would sit down and get to work.

That secret was revealed about three years ago. And I’m still fighting. Except now for a far different reason than one I can blame on the mechanisms of structure, tone or timbre. Now the anxiety orbits around what it does in me to go back to the story and allow myself to exist within it, recall it, know the Then in the Now, and put it on paper. I found I could only do it in short bursts or courage. Because it was very much…is very much…like holding onto a live electrical wire. Small doses is the best I could do. The most I want to do.

It’s just painful, nerve-wracking, somewhat retraumatizing…and yet healing all over again.

Enough drama.

The other books being a decoy. What I mean by that is this: the book I’ve written, and the others coming after it to complete the Waltzing in Perdition Chronicles, are actually my first risk. That is, sticking my toe in the water of writing at all. I thought that I could use the experience of A Beautiful Hell to chance what putting out there a part of my life was like. I cared little then and care little now for the response (which, thankfully, has been positive), because I had another thing in mind: the one book I am really trying to write.

So. I’m compelled to more or less out myself and reveal a work-in-progress, revealing parts at a time here at Waltzing In Perdition. The story is not at all funny, very personal, and pretty threatening to many a construct, both mine and others. It involves the present, the very past, and a vantage point I have to lean hard into artistic license in order to articulate to my satisfaction.

But I’m writing it down. Like He told me to. And though I have no intention to ever see it formally published in book form (He said “write it.” He didn’t say publish it.), I’m working on it. And up above you see the cover design (in progress), an excerpt from the Introduction (in progress), and a conversation between God and another person whose identity I will not reveal until the end of the story. But which, upon so doing, will bring into focus the entire story in a way that, to this very moment, rattles my cage and brings tears to my eyes for all its potency.

Like I said: live electrical wire.

The title is derived from the scripture I find more meaningful to my journey than any other: Psalm 30:5. “Weeping may endure for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”

Endure The Night.

Alpha Male and Beta Male, big brother and little brother, share a room, as is fitting considering the duty beholden to both to beat the living hell out of each other every chance they get.

But Charlie Girl…

…has no one with whom to share a room.

And, though it took me a while to see it Cute Redhead’s way (read: “exactly how long are we going to act like you have any say in this, Todd?”), I finally came around to understanding that the little girl was genuinely scared and definitely lonely.

*sigh

*open covers

*small feet find themselves snug in between wife and I, into the Safest Place On Earth.

The other day I decided to clean out a closet in my office and found something I’d forgotten I had, as well as (as far as I’m concerned) a Great Idea.

“Um…what are you doing?”

“Well…she said she’s afraid of the dark. So…well. I thought a night light would help.”

“Todd, that’s a disco ball.”

*stares

“So?”

I was thinking of this today while driving down the road and pushing the visor down and then forward to align with the windshield, and afford me something akin to the sunglasses I didn’t have with me…at which point I saw, again, a litany of everything that could possibly go wrong should the vehicle suddenly find itself locomoting on only two of its four wheels and, God forbid, tip over.

What idiocy. The printing of the warning, that is. I mean, what fool needs to have that written out—let alone remember in the split-second before dining with the Lord for all eternity, that all the help they could ever need, should they be quick enough to review it, is in textbook form on the back of the visor?  And, even though here in Colorado we’ve seen our share of SUV newbies Who Don’t Know How To Drive In The Snow (or the mountains) do just that, still. Write it out? Really?

Warning signs are stupid and entirely unnecessary.

That is, most warning signs.

“So how do you like the soup?”

*clunk-slosh (sound of wine bottle being set on table) (firmly) (in front of me).

“Um.”

“Yes?”

“It is, without rival, the finest soup ever to touch human lips and I am reminded all over again why I fell in love wi—have you lost weight?”

I will never learn.

You know the circus clown cars out which emerge all manner of colorful, whacky, happy little clowns in numbers far exceeding the vehicle’s apparent capacity? Right. Okay, that’s Beta Male.

On the way home from the bookstore I thought I’d fill the quiet with a question that occurred to me when we passed a couple walking their dog.

“Hey, if you were going to get a puppy, what kind would you get?”

And inside my head all I’m in thinking is Benign Yet Happy Little Question, right?

“A black lab.”

“Hm. Okay. Cool.”

Then, as if to show the obvious anemic creativity of my question, he comes back with this:

“Dad, if you were going to own an empire of any food product, what would it be?”

Picture, here, the Beloved SUV swerving down the road because I’m laughing so hard I can’t hold onto the steering wheel or the hot chocolate we just snagged along with our books.  And when I managed to compose myself, he finds purchase in the break in my hysteria and says,

“…I’d go for salad dressing.”

He’s a little clown car, I’m telling you.

]]> http://www.waltzinginperdition.com/archives/2415/feed 6 http://www.waltzinginperdition.com/archives/2385 http://www.waltzinginperdition.com/archives/2385#comments Sat, 09 Jan 2010 17:16:47 +0000 Todd Clary http://www.waltzinginperdition.com/?p=2385

(Okay, this is a really long story. It’s a combination of about six different stories I was going to write out, but they all sort of threaded together just today, so I decided to wrap a big giant Oh What The Hell Why Not around it and pull them all together. We’re all over the map, do a bit of Time Travel, and Zip-twang! all over the place because I’ve linked to a bunch of other people I need to mention. It’s, trust me, one big giant ToddBrainDump®. So. Get your coffee, scoot in close, try to keep up, and prepare to hear something hilarious about why Frappé is out of his mind and my new best friend).

(Story 1) So there I was this fair morn, lying abed, pondering the day’s intentions when I rolled over, stretched luxuriously, and reached out my arm to hold my loved one.

Which is because I keep my iPhone on my night table right next to me.

I realize almost immediately that it’s Saturday (good) but that I don’t smell any coffee (bad). Which means my first wife, Cute Redhead (it being Saturday and all) had no intention of exploding onto the world’s stage the way she does each and every weekday morning, explaining the explosion of red hair I see buried under the eighty-seven pillows…

…leaving the work of Altar Boy boy to me.  Usually, I walk to the coffee machine every single morning with a devotion and sobriety only a little black and white frock and big, golden, candle thingy would round out. And some murmuring latin choral music in the background. That’s how I approach The Cup. Singing,

The steadfast joe of the Lord never ceases
His coffees never come to an end
They are brewed every morning
Brewed every morning
Great is the rich, full, blend
Pour more
Great is the rich, full, blend.

-TIV (Todd International Version)

Okay, I think that is hilarious, it’s a knock-off of another song but I can’t remember the original anymore because I’ve been singing it to myself secretly for over twenty years and I’m not lying. I’ve just never actually typed it out and let the world know that I border sacrilege until I get through a few cups. Okay that made me laugh even more because I think I also realize that as soon as a bunch of people read my attempt to pass off borderline sacrilege on not having had coffee yet, they’re going to spray their coffee all over their monitors.

(Story 2) Okay, back burner this for a bit (but keep the iPhone part near the front) and let’s .•*•.*.Time Travel.*.•*•. back a few weeks. To WalMart (Time Travel isn’t always pretty, folks). We were visiting Cute Redhead’s Jerry Springer family over Christmas and they live in the south.

I mean…the South.

(pauses)

No, you’re not listening to me. I mean…

THE SOUTH. Think banjos, husbands and wives divorcing and still being brother and sister, and people who’d deep fry milk if they could puzzle out how to hook up a winch and dip a whole cow into boiling oil. Dude. (Okay, that’s actually a little overboard, I admit it. These people are way too nice to hurt a cow like that.)

Anyway, I decided that though watching The Shining was actually relaxing me, there’s nothing more effective than a trip to Walmart to convince you that the gene pool, by and large, has no lifeguard on duty. So there I am walking through this denizen for (I don’t remember what I was sent for I just know I was sent), when all of a sudden I hear the familiar buzz of The Electronics Section. *swoon*

And so I go over to the big giant wall of TVs all playing the same video and approach it like…well. Like this: in my mind I see the camera about one hundred feet above the scene and the light from the holy media is bathing me in something sacred and there’s this loooOOOoong shadow of my mortal self (note: I’m an artist, making me not mortal) (it’s in The Rules) stretched out behind me, right?

It was awesome. Because right before I get up to this one Wailing Wall of TVs (and I was about to start wailing and you’ll understand why in a second), I remember my very cool friend Herzog (who is the devil) telling me about such-and-such flat screen tv that is all the rage and delivering more bang for your buck yada yada yada I want it I want it I want it whine whine whine whatever.

(Story 3) But then I see it. I not only see it, I realize I’m standing RIGHT. IN. FRONT. OF. IT. It was like the gods of television were welcoming me into their presence and gifting me with a spiritual mentor all my own. Just for me. Right there. It was as if the flat-screen tv I was staring at with my mouth agape was gently smiling back saying, “Hello Todd. We love you. We do. And we’ve been expecting you. You may rise. No, wait…that’s too much. Back on your knees, slave.” And I would have.

Except that at that very same moment, I realized the gods were not smiling. At all.

They were openly mocking me. Because (and I swear to the real God) (He said it was okay this one time) (and I am not making this up even a little bit) ON. EVERY. SINGLE. TV in the entire Electronic Cathedral was showing

a commercial

for

The Camera I Want.

My mouth just dropped to the floor. I stepped back, looked right. Then left. Up. Down. Straight ahead.

Blinked.

Blinked again.

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. And if there was a soundtrack it would have suddenly stopped and a phonograph needle would have ripped across the album sending the sacred moment right down the toilet. (Note on this ’soundtrack’ thing: I wonder if others are like me and hear a soundtrack to their life all day long. Let me know if you do too. And if you do, we’ll play checkers together in the asylum…which I can do now because the hallucinations have thankfully subsided ever since the bats started flying around me).

(okay I’m not kidding…right now…I have absolutely no memory of what I started writing this post abou—oh wait now I remember)

So. Walmart. TV (want it but I’m more focused on whining about something else). Camera.

I leave dejected. Laughing but dejected. I’m being tested, I can tell. I tell Cute Redhead the Universe is laugh-laugh-laughing at Todd by teasing me with The Camera I Don’t Have in new and creative ways. She doesn’t even look up. *sigh*

Back burner this for a second (but keep the Camera commercial on TV part near the front).

End .•*•.*.Time Travel.*.•*•.

(Story 4) Now we arrive back home to *Hallelujah Chorus* Colorado. To discover that my buddy Kendall had something delivered to my house for him to pick up when he got around to swinging by. Conversation went something like this:

“Hey, is it cool if I have a package delivered to your house and I’ll swing by sometime and pick it up?”

“Sure buddy. No problem.”

“Awesome. Thanks man. You know, you really are the most incredible person I think I’ve ever known. And even though I never say it, I really do wish I was more like you. [okay, Kendall, never actually said this but I know he feels it in his heart] It’s a Canon G10 my dad is sending me for Christmas.”

“Um. What?”

“Yeah…it’s this great camera that I’ve been wanting and anyway he’s sen—”

“Burn in Hell, Kendall.” *click*

I was so mad. And yes I know it’s not The Camera I Want. But it’s its little brother and a damn (can I say that on the air?) good camera in its own right.

And now I get to watch it plop its little butt right on my own doorstep and mock me. Just like the Wailing Wall of TVs at Walmart did. Just like the commercials for My Camera on those TVs did. Just like Kendall’s camera is doing right now. Mock, mock, mock.

Okay.

(Story 5) So John Macco, who is hilarious but deserves to be hit in the head (you know, in love) was having himself all kinds of fun making fun of me being all wrapped around the axel and knotted up because I kept going on and on about taking pictures with everything but The Camera I Want. So he made the big fat mistake brilliant move of joking that I should make a donation page and see if people would actually contribute to Whine-Aid™ and get me to shut the hell up about it once and for all (not likely).

It had to be done. I was pushed over the edge, cornered, mocked, teased, and basically dared that I didn’t have the audacity to do it.That was the straw the broke the camel’s back. Oh whatEVER. As if I wouldn’t take photos of myself dancing naked on the bar if I actually get this camera. Please.

And so I did. Last night. And then I went to bed. Which brings us to

(Story 6) this morning when I woke up, stretched luxuriously, and reached out my arm to hold my loved one. The iPhone. Which had a very cool little iPhone notification that went something like this, “Um…Todd. You better come take a look at this.” And then I rubbed my eyes, clicked swiped, touched, swiped again, entered password…

…and then sat straight up in bed with hair sticking straight up, my eyes like Buick hubcaps (while I launched Stupid Cat off the bed because right before ALL of this, the stupid thing broke my Angelina dream sequence with her Stupid Cad Sandpaper Tongue and licked me awake (leave that one alone, folks, tempting as it is).

I’m looking at the Whine-Aid™ Contribution and World Domination Ground Control app and am thinking, “…wait. dude. what? that can’t be right.” (note: I don’t capitalize until I’ve had coffee.)

And then I look again. And it is right. And my eyes pop right of my head just like the do in cartoons (not the cartoons on tv these days which I hate, I mean like back in the day with Bugs Bunny) and you hear that old antique car horn sound go HooOOOOooga!

Because My New Best Friend  made a donation to Whine-Aid™…that is just…I’m sorry, there’s no other way to say this…but he did something that pretty much proves that the rest of you contribute like little girls (no offense, little girls). My New Best Friend’s name is (brace yourself for the coolest foreign name in the whole wide world) Juan Ramón Fernández Villanueva (don’t even try pretending you aren’t saying that name about five times in a row and don’t even try pretending you’re not saying it in the voice of the dude on Fantasy Island). But I call him Frappé because the first time he contacted me on the former blog I read his name, laughed out loud at how cool it was, and wrote him back saying Starbuck’s needed to flat-out copyright all four parts of it and name some cool coffee concoction after him. Also, I couldn’t pronounce it all without choking on the accent marks so I nicknamed him Frappé.

Which brings me, finally, to this:

Frappé…you are amazing. If you knew how many people in the USA read this stuff here and on Facebook just to see what you’re going to say, you’d be convinced of your rockstar status and I’m not kidding lol.  They love you and so do I.

And If I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me, “Who is that guy??”…I’d have almost as much as you just donated to Whine-Aid™.

(PS: John Macco, I don’t want to start a fight between you all or anything…but everyone’s laughing at how you donate like a little girl. Just sayin’.)

1) John Macco thinks he’s hilarious.

2) I think he’s hilarious too.

3) He sent me this in the mail the other day because he’s tired of me whining about not having The Camera I Want and I said I should start a contributions page.

4) I’m not saying I’m going to, but if I were…I’d call it Whine-Aid™. And this would be Dollar One.

5) [three days later] Okay, yes am doing it. You think I’m not willing to photograph myself dancing naked on the bar when I get this camera?? Ha! Just click here, smarty-pants.

#1) Beta Male. He’s actually in there, between Alpha Male and Cute Redhead, and his little face is smashed up against the oven window along with the rest of them to watch…

#2) What You Don’t See. Which is what they’re looking at. See how Cute Redhead is there (by the way, even though she drives me batty…and she does…she is beautiful, I think. I like it when she wears her hair up like that. I don’t know why.)

*tilts head.

Hm. Anyway…

I’m giving away a $15 iTunes Gift card (winner selected at random) for the correct answer to: What it is that could enchant the minds of kids to this day like that? You put it in the oven and, like it did back when we were kids, they make a little bit of magic.

Winner will be selected randomly! Feeling lucky? Go!!

You better sit down for this one:

Cute Redhead hates my iPhone. She hates it. If you ask her, “Cute Redhead, do you hate High Powered Man’s iPhone??” she would look you straight in the eye, raise her eyebrows and say, “Oh, goodness sakes, no!”

And she would be lying right through her teeth. She’d try to sustain the weight of the bald-face lie, though, but then it’d implode in all over itself. And then she’d choke on the exclamation point and fall dead at your feet.

So, there we were driving along Interstate Middle of Nowhere yesterday and (you’ll want to sit down again for this one) she was driving. Begging the question, “Todd? We’re you held at gunpoint and given no choice but to let her drive?? Wha–??” And I would say, “Now, now…it’s not that bad.” But then I would be lying and this really isn’t about me so let’s move on.

While she was at the wheel, I was on my iPhone. Which is sort of like saying I was on crack.

Well. Actually…okay, it’s exactly like saying I was on crack. But it was very productive crack because what I was doing was (HUGE Marty Stewart coming here) going through the entire house, room-by-room, and making notes on all the To Do’s that needed To Get Done. Which may sound boring as can be but was actually a lot less boring than looking out the window at Bleak Utter Nothingness passing by.

When I finished (it took me about an hour and a half) (sounds like we run a tight ship, huh, lol?) (yeah no), I set it down, crossed my arms, smiled, looked straight ahead and said, “Are you wanting to give that dude in front of us an SUV enema, because I’m not sure we could get any further up his rear end without a big giant rubber glove.” Actually, I didn’t say that but I thought it. What I did say was, “Very cool. That was fun.”

“What was fun?”

“Well, I just went through the house, room-by-room, and wrote down everything that needs to be done organizationally to make better use of all the space we’re not utilizing.”

(to which she said and I promise I’m not making this up):

“Oh my gosh! That’s exactly what I was doing too!”

And that was really cool. See? Seventeen years of marriage and we actually have the occasional mind meld.

Very cool.

And that’s why I brought up that she hates my iPhone. Which is sad because that’s like hating the baby Jesus in the manger and I just think that’s rude. So, when she realized that I was on the iPhone (here I genuflect) being productive and looking for ways to improve our familial quality of life, you just KNOW she beat herself up for thinking bad iPhone thoughts and being all wrapped around the axle and regretting being so mean to me and wanted to apologize for that and more, so much so she couldn’t even see straight.

lol I kill me.

Today, I made good on my Marty Stewart Hopped Up On Methamphetamines Reorganization and Restructuring Plan. And the first thing I did was go into the crawl space under the house. Which we have, for years, called the Chamber of Secrets because that’s was where we would (can’t divulge that information here in case The Spawn have learned to read). And the reason I cleaned it out was because it had turned into the Big Giant Magical Landfill under our house in which you could throw anything you didn’t want to deal with and it would be gone forever. Including your spouse.

lol I kill me.

Anywhoooo…I did it. I cleaned the crawl space. Threw out this, moved that, and decided I’d take a photograph of the biggest spider factory on planet earth. Anyone see Blair Witch Project? Remember The! Very! Last! Scene?! Where that dude is standing in the corner but you don’t see him until the other one is knocked stone cold dead by Creepy Killer Guy You Never Actually See and then the camera sort of tilts when it falls on the ground and you see that dude in the corner? And then you landed in the lap of the perfect stranger in the theatre seat next to you begging him to hold you and make it stop? (not that I did.)

(Okay, I did.)

I don’t have time to go into it here, but Cute Redhead and I got in a big fat giant argument tonight about how I’m going to be cleaning and organizing the entire house for us. All by itself, that argument could fill a book. I would title the book “All Women Are Out Of Their Minds—HOW IN THE WORLD COULD YOU BE ANYTHING BUT KISSING MY BUTT FOR BEING WILLING TO DO THIS FOR YOU?!”

And it would be a best-seller.

It would be available online. It would sell in stores. It would fly off the shelves. It would be available as an electronic eBook

for

the

iPhone.

Which she wouldn’t read because she hates the baby Jesus my iPhone.

Okay. Last hotel room before we’re home. I told Beta Male I needed a quick something for this post and let him get a bit wild on the bed. He suddenly found energy he didn’t possess one minute earlier when I told him to get ready for bed.

Big shock coming here:  driving halfway across America with your wife and three kids is about as conducive to working as using the time between the contractions to wallpaper the front hallway.

I thought we’d fair a bit better this go-around, seeing as how each of the little cyborgs was hooked up, dialed in, and zoned out on separate electronic entertainment devices. I even got a splitter allowing two sets of headphones to enjoy the dulcet tones of whatever freak Hannah MonJonah crap it is they had better make sure I don’t have to hear. Nevertheless, their laser-guided Who Has More honing devices were pop-sizzling at the ready should any one of them happen to have one molecule more brain-melting experience than the other, in which case they lost their minds and basically started whining loudly enough to make me kick myself for not leaving them at the gas station fifty miles back when I had the chance.

At least I was lent a fine pair of noise-cancelling headphones by my friend, Kendall, who seemed to anticipate the likelihood that this vehicle would hold all the promise for peace and quiet as that front hallway I mentioned above.

There are so many things about road trips I hate…and let me be clear hear about what I mean and what I don’t mean by hate:

What I mean: I hate road trips.

What I don’t mean: I sort of hate road trips.

I really have no category for the folks who idealize these things into family sing-alongs and scrap-booking little cutout shapes for whatever part of their brain they siphon off delusions of Little House on the Prairie, but these things are hell.

For one thing, I can’t drive the whole way. I wish I could, but I can’t. Now, this is going to come off a bit on the…well, mean side. But I more intend the humor to come through. And as my friend HeatherAnne and her compatriots over at The Collective have so perfectly articulated, “Mean and funny is still funny.”

That said, let’s see how much of the passing Total Nothing Passing Outside My Window we can wipe from memory with a list of Three Things I’m Not Enjoying:

#1: Their bickering. It is not fighting. It is not arguing. It is not even bothering each other. It’s bickering. And it’s bickering because that is precisely the word my mom and dad used when they (and I swear to God they did this) reached back from the front seat of the station wagon (yes, wood-paneled…let’s just get that out of the way), and beat the living hell out of all five of us with a red yardstick. Which we all knew as Big Red. That’s what we got when we tipped the scale of their fading sanity with our bickering. Now, I would never recruit a three foot red yard stick to hit my children with when they were engaged in too much bickering. Because I forgot to pack it. But the biggest pain in the backside that this bickering fosters is it means enlisting Cute Redhead or myself to referee the latest bicker. Which means I have to take off the relationship preserving noise-cancelling headphones. And that Displeases me.

#2: Her driving. Okay, this might not earn me a lot of points with the ladies but I’m not going to surprise anybody by saying it anyway. I think men are way better drivers. I know you have the uteri, the whole Mothering thing, hell you (probably shouldn’t have just said ‘hell’) have the whole Mother of God thing on your sides. You can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never ever ever let me forget I’m a man yada yada yada. I get it. You have all kinds of things on your side, but I’m pretty much certain one of those things cluttering up your corners is not Drives Well. We are on a straight away between Wichita Falls and Amarillo right now. I want you to close your eyes, lay your head back, divest yourself of all distractions and worries, and imagine Utter Nothingness. Straight. Utter. Bleak. Nothingness. That’s what we’re on right now. Now…all men, right now, instinctively just twitched one of their fingers and very subtly moved their right foot. And here’s why: in our minds, that sort of straight-away means CRUISE! CONTROL! Which means, pick a speed and STAY. WITH. IT. Better yet, let the SUV do it for you. And the twitch of our finger was us clicking on cruise control, and our right foot moving was our taking our foot off the gas and letting the machinery do its thing. No stopping. No starting. No stopping starting stopping starting stopping starting stopping merge starting no-wait-merge-back starting stopping shoot me. And in this way we can use all the available time (that’d be the time I’m not leaning out the passenger window hurling) talking about all the Utter Nothing we’re driving through. And in the same way I know all the guys RIGHT NOW agree with me, I also know NONE OF THEM are going to admit it and take one step back leaving my butt on the firing line. Not my first rodeo.

#3: The accommodations. I don’t mean the quality. I don’t mean the company. I mean the size. As in spatially. Now, this is the 21st century, right? And I know it’s the case in many cultures around the world, but you can drop the whole National Geographic whatever-your-point-is right now, because I do NOT live and sleep right on top of every single member of my family. I mean, think about this: when you’re home you have different rooms and different things to do. But when you’re in a hotel room or guesting at someone’s home, you’re more or less throwing all your luggage and the kids and each other into a 20 x 20 dog crate and wondering why, no less than eight hours into it, you realize you carved out a little time to stop the merriment and settle in with the rest of the clan to watch The Shining. And it relaxes you. That’s always a good sign that your nerves are sort of fraying at the ends.

Okay, that’s three. I could write a bit more but, to be honest, it’d be a bit on the disingenuous side because I’m just blowing off a little steam, folks. Nothing to see here. Show’s over. Move along.

And I was totally kidding about the men being better drivers, ladies. Honest.

I’m actually laughing more than I’m bickering.  That is, when I’m not hurling out the passenger window.

This is our farmhouse I go on and on about. Old as the hills, this one.

This is the original fence post. Was never painted.

That’s Brandy.

Beautiful horse.

That’s the old barn.

That’s Old Tom Trail running past.

Thanks for another break from it all, Farmhouse.

See you next time.

(And no, none of these were taken with the camera I want.)

(Ha. Thought I’d let you off without whining, didn’t you?)

So there we were driving crawling down interstate-Outer Rim Of The Galaxy when it occurs to me the snail’s pace we’ve devolved to has nothing to do with anything serious, and everything to do with The End Of The Word. Which, in this part of the country (which I’m not going to name for several reasons), has little or no experience with falling snow. Or driving in it.

It’s been about seven years since we’ve taken a trip of this distance in the beloved SUV because, as soon as the kids were of an age where others at the rest area would hear them yelling while we we ran to the car and peeled out before they could catch up, we took to the skies and shortened the chaos of travel considerably. And it was definitely a trade-off. I lost the freedom to get where we were going on our terms and at our pace, but gained the joy of watching Cute Redhead secure herself to the seat she was in, the one next to her, the one in front of her, the overhead bin, the International Space Station and the landing gear of every airplane in the landing pattern, all in one strategic foot-up-on-tray-table move. All while tuning into the available cockpit channel on her headphones so that (I’m not making this up) she could be sure the pilot was in control.

“Hey Jane I was going to ask you if y—”

“Shh!”

“…Um. What are you doing, honey?”

“I’m monitoring the cockpit.”

“A ha. Well. Do be a dear and let me know when they start screaming like little girls and putting us into a nose dive. I don’t want to spill my drink.”

Where is the camera when you need it.

Now, since we’re back on the roads, it’s reduced to her one foot on the dashboard in front of her and one hand on the bar above her (I really don’t know what those things are for unless it’s to secure a rope and a winch and aid not-so-deft people into the passenger seat), all while sucking all the air out of the car in abject horror because the car in front of us has spun out, flipped over, careened into oncoming traffic, burst into flames and incinerated everyone in a five mile radius.

I mean merged left half a mile down the road ahead of us.

So there I am driving the 2006 EarthDestroyer—Now With BattleAction® (and which, as far as I’m concerned, is the Millenium Falcon) (making me Han Solo), while Recalcitrant Teenager is fighting (oh surprise) again with Beta Male, (the very one who Saved. His. Money. And. Got. His. Own. iPodTouch), while The Princess of The Bag of Cheddar Cheese and Sour Cream Ruffles is occupying herself doing who-knows-what (I was distracted by Imperial Forces)…all while I’m watching my wife’s forehead break out in beads of sweat.

“Honey…it’s ‘with Thee’, not ’swiftly.’

[eyes never leaving Highway to Hell in front of us] “What?”

“I said it’s ‘with Thee.’ Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Not Hail Mary, full of grace the Lord is swiftly—”

“Shut up. And do you have to be going so fast?”

“Do I have to be going so fa—. Are you kidding me? I’m going ten miles and hour. I could be carrying all our luggage on my back and cover more ground in an hou—”

*click*

“Um. What did you just—DID YOU JUST PUT ME IN FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE?!?”

And she did. While I was trying with all my might to control several tons of metal and steel and internal combustion and the lives of my family and the baby Jesus and ion canons and R2D2 and puppies and Campbell Soup commercials and April Fresh fabric softener and homemade cookies and OH! MY! GOD! WE’RE! GOING! TO! DIE! during the break-neck jump to lightspeed we all know happens at ten miles an hour…

…she reaches over and flips the switch and engages all four wheels to make sure we live.

Prior to this I was bored completely stone cold out of my mind (the Star Wars stuff was just going on in my head to keep me awake), I’m driving with one hand over the wheel, not even gripping it but doing that thing where it’s really your wrist atop the wheel, while I’m leaning my head against my other hand leaning against the window. I think I was yawning too.

Because, as I said, it was snowing in this part of the country. And that, gentle readers, is Armageddon to the locals.

It. Was. Hilarious.

Now, in their defense, snow is definitely not weather they’re used to. At all. I mean AT ALL. So, naturally, no snow removal equipment meant snow was packing itself on the road ways and creating, if you ask me, helpful little corridors through which your vehicle progressed, not unlike the little guided tracks on kiddie go-cart rides.

I mean there was NOWHERE to go, and we’re not talking about long stretches of highway here, people. We’re talking about the occasional ten feet. Maybe.

And because the world was ending, everyone with license plates different from mine (read: people not from Colorado) was taking their sweet time, slowly, with trepidation, fearfully making their way to the White Throne of Judgement prayin—

Oh, I forgot this one. Right before Cute Redhead decided she needed to take measures into her own hands and initiate evasive maneuvers by reversing thrusters and avoiding distaster, I was looking out my window at the smaller SUV I was passing. Because, I deduced, it was going about eight miles per hour.

With its hazard lights on.

With the driver (I can read lips because of the hearing loss, remember) praying. PRAYING.

You have got to be kidding me, folks lol (and unlike the all-too-often texted ‘lol’ all over our phones, I really did laugh out loud).

But the laughter was cut short as soon as, glancing over to show Cute Redhead how petrified the woman in the other vehicle was, I noticed she chanced coming out of crash position to engage the hyperdrive four-wheel drive.

*Note: did Han Solo ever warm to the idea of Princess Leia reaching past him to punch in the coordinates?

No.

I was now no longer laughing quietly.

Now I was nearly wetting myself laughing hysterically because just when I start questioning whether I ever embellish these stories…

…she reaches over and puts us in 4-wheel drive whle we’re going ten miles an hour. Hilarious.

Hell.

Beautiful.

Happy 2010 everyone.

But for those wondering what it is I keep whining about, by way of The Camera I Don’t Yet Have…here it is.

The Canon EOS Rebel XSi.

I don’t even know what all the letters stand for.

I don’t even care.

I just want it.

…maybe I’ll start a Let’s Put An End To His Whining Donation page.

[Update] I did.

We have made our share of road trips, believe me.

We’ve driven north, south, west and, most definitely, east…referring to the thirty-seven hour drive to the outer banks some seven and a half years back. Which just so happened to mark the last time we decided to load up whatever vehicle we could cram everything into and assault the highways. And which also happens to be the author of the slight tick you’ll notice I produce when the memory is excavated. After that jaunt we decided, like it or not, the other passengers would tolerate the children’s antics, and so graduated to air travel. Which I adore.

But which costs an arm and a leg these days.

So, the trip down south this Christmas peered down its nose at us and defied the thought of any skies being friendly, or affordable, and found us, after a long hiatus, cramming everything into the beloved SUV and getting miles behind us.

The Road Trip has evolved into an entirely different animal while dormant these seven years. With the advent of all things electronic, each child had their preferred mode of entertainment and Cute Redhead and I had our much-desired Quiet.

So the trip progressed with a lot less Stop Touching Me! than its predecessors, thank the Lord.

A few notes:

We notice it does not matter where Recalcitrant Teenager sleeps as long as he gets to sleep.

So let him sleep.

And any hotel room is an amusement park for kids until mom and dad enforce the curfew, turn off the television and negotiate who-sleeps-where. Then it’s a prison. Until it’s time to get going the next morning, before dawn, and they’d sell their little souls to keep sleeping.

I thought this was hilarious. We had our minds set on none of the typical fast food breaks for the duration of the drive. So, remembering the Chipotle app on the beloved iPhone, I pressed the Current Location button to find out just how close the nearest favored restaurant was. If you’re wondering how many west Texas boasts, there’s your answer.

And this one one more time with a little background:

Cute Redhead was driving while I had work to do. You’ll notice the location of her iron-grip on the wheel, securely at ‘ten’ and ‘two.’

What you don’t see in the photo is when it was me driving later that night through a part of Texas recently bestowed with more snow than it knew what to do with. Which is code for: any snow. And while I drove with not a little boredom through The End Of The World (read: Texans, and we love you, do not know how to drive in snow. Um. At all.)

So there I was, one hand casually over the top of the wheel, the other holding my head as I leaned against the window trying not to yawn (I wasn’t tired…I was bored) while going

(brace yourselves)

ten miles an hour.

It was hilarious. Sure Texas has no category for this. I mean, I get it. But in Colorado, when it snows that much, it doesn’t even show up on our radar. But that didn’t stop Cute Redhead (who was certain we were all going to die) from reaching over

While. I. Was. Going. Ten. Miles. Per. Hour.

and switching the vehicle into 4-wheel drive.

I would have been completely offended had I not been laughing so hard. At her.

Or at the woman I passed who, God love her, was going (I am not making this up) eight miles per hour with her (not making this up) hazard lights on and (as God is my witness, I am not making this up either) praying.

lol it’s snow, honey, not Armageddon.

There were other parts of the trip possibly worth noting, but nothing out of the extraordinary, truth me told.

And, besides, when you deliver your kids to a farm with places like this to explore…

..what’s there to complain about?

Nothing.

Okay, first of all…he’s not dead so don’t even fall for it.

Second of all, his name is Octavius (but that came later).

So I was scrubbing — SCRUBBING — the wood floor in the kitchen the other day. We’ve gone through all kinds of powered floor cleaning machinery and I’d decided they all suck. I don’t care who tries selling you what, there is nothing to compare to getting on your hands and knees and making your grandmother proud with some Murphy’s Oil Soap and a little elbow grease.

Which I was. And I was almost through with the job when I looked up and saw Stupid Cat doing that thing I hired her for. That is, she was in 24/7 Red Alert Pounce Position. Which means there was (say it with me) another mouse.

Now before you start counting out loud the times I’ve mentioned the mice in this house, let me cut to the chase: I really don’t care. It’s not like we’re being over run by them. And even though our kitchen floor is beyond salvation (read: we hate this floor), and you probably could trace the patch in front of the sink to the source of foot and mouth disease, it isn’t as bad as I make it out to sound. What’s more, I think the little meeces are hilariously cute. And I really don’t want to live a life so cosmetic and sterilized that something like a little dirt and grime on the kitchen floor, or common field mouse running across it makes me scream.

Which I didn’t.

But which Cute Redhead would.

So there I was holding Octavius (more on the name in a bit) by the tail and laughing at him because, like I said, I think he and his kind are hilariously cute and (I mentioned this once before) I can’t help but hear little ‘boing-boing-boings!’ inside my head when they run around with Stupid Cat going all ‘zip-TWANG!’ after them.

I told you he (Octavius) was faking it.

How cute is that? Sorry it’s a bit out of focus. I was laughing while he sat on my hand and I tried taking the shot with other hand.

But right after this he starting boing-boing-boing! bouncing all over the place and I had to, in between fits of laughter, try and catch the little character as he climbed up my shirt. And when I caught him by the tail, I put him in a little box so that I could plot the murderous practical joke get back to scrubbing the floor.

And then in walked Cute Redhead, Alpha Male, Beta Male, and Charlie Girl.

“Oh, there you are, boys. I need your help.”

“What with?”

“With this. Look.” (family gathers around and peers into little cardboard box in which we find the mouse)

And that’s when Cute Redhead screamed bloody murder (which is what I was hoping for), lost all composure, broke character and

(this was the best thing in the whole wide world)

ran screaming toward the street.

At which point she scared the little furry thing half out of his little Disney-wits. At which point he jumped clean out of the box and started boing-boing-boing! bouncing around the front porch.

While Cute Redhead continued screaming.

While Neighborhood Kids looked on with nothing like shock or surprise (they hang around here enough).

While Charlie Girl started screaming too (what is it with you women and mice?)

While Alpha Male laughed as I got on my hands and knees to scrub the floor (that was three minutes ago and therefore a whole other lifetime ago) chase little…

“Dad—name him ‘Octavius!”

Octavius.

“Ha ha! I love that name! Octavius! Octavius! Come here! Please do not boing-boing-boing! bounce away! She won’t hurt you at—okay, actually yes she would but I! Will! Protect! You!”

So. His name is Octavius. And he’s cute and really tiny and if I were going to draw a cartoon character of him, he’s just what I’d draw. He’s that cute.

He’s also gone.

He boing-boing-boing! bounced right off the porch into the front garden.

And then I went back in finished scrubbing the kitchen floor.

With Murphy’s Oil Soap.

And then there’s fair. As in Fair River Farm. Which is, unless I’ve been getting my history mixed up, the unofficial name gracing a homestead as old as one can imagine and deep in the heart of Mississippi. Which is also a step back in time, to put it mildly.

Of all the photos you’re about to see, I’m sorry to say I hadn’t taken one of the house itself. But I will tomorrow since I’m sure we’ll be heading back to the farm more than once.

Today I took a walk with Beta Male and visited, once again, the old bus having antiquated itself into legend half a century ago. A fact confirmed over dinner this evening (which consisted of a sweet potato—my very first.)

Some shots of the expedition (still not taken with the camera I will soon possess (if anyone’s been wondering):

It was a city bus and its owners gave it to Mr. Kees fifty years ago, as I mentioned.

It’s sat in the same spot for that long, serving, according to Cute Redhead, as a one-time infirmary for a Girl Scout camp. I think the colors make a terrific photo.

Love this shot. Cobwebs as old as the hills, blue-cast and blowing in the breeze like curtains.

Back at the house, from the back room, came music out of this ancient Magnavox. Still plays, albeit none too impressively. Nevertheless, there’s something very nostalgic about hearing a phonograph player deliver Mancini with a hiss-hiss-ticking the youngers have no category for.

And for you collectors out there? Brace yourselves: this is just one part of one shelf of one corner of the farm house upon which rests, in memoriam, every (and I mean every) National Geographic ever printed. Treasure trove.

Finally (and I don’t expect the attempt at a panoramic shot from my Not The Camera I’ll Soon Have quite does the job), a shot from inside the farmhouse, near the fire where I sat down, stopped stepping, started reading, and took in the Nothing.

For a change.

Just the sort of step I don’t mind watching.

I’m away from the house and need to check in on things.

*beep boop beep

[breathy female computer voice] “activating home surveillance camera noooww.”

I knew it.

I’ve held off as long as is required, according to The Rules Inside My Head. Which were amended to prevent me from bad-mouthing Colorado’s winter, which I’d been wont to do in the past whenever the temperatures dipped precariously close to freezing.

The amended Rules, however, preserved my life-long stipulation which allows me the freedom to state, loud and clear, that come the morning after Christmas:

I Am Done.

With winter, that is

Up until Christmas I’m good with it all, especially if it’s white. But no matter how white it is, once I’m done (and I’m done) with the whole Christmapalooza, I’m ready for my very first love.

Which happens to be warmer weather and ocean. So, to celebrate that which is coming…a few photos from the trip me and Cute Redhead took to Hawaii.

Christmastime

is in our grasp

so long as we

have hands to clasp!

- Merry Christmas to all

I know I can be sort of high-maintanence with all the Let’s Not Get Shut Down Because Your Bedroom Is A Biohazard stuff I go on and on about, but I have to draw the line at finding everything — EVERYTHING — in that photo up above, under Alpha Male’s bed down below.

I mean, really?

Doesn’t one start to notice yogurt containers when they start growling at you?

And considering that I just posted this morning about all the dust, I’m concerned people are going to start thinking we never clean around here. Because, trust me, WE CLEAN.

In fact, it seems like at least half of each weekend is taken up with the regimen of keeping Startship Our House from spinning out of orbit.

But, again…really? A half-eaten Little Debbie Nutty Bar?

I mean…I was a teenager once. I get it.

So: Empty cereal bowl?

I get it.

Dirty spoon?

I get it.

Yogurt, Starbucks, candy wrapper, dinner plate, pudding cups?

I. GET. IT.

But what kind of person doesn’t eat both Nutty Bars?!

There is no way that boy came from my loins.

[Official Disclaimer: it's more the lighting than actual dust] [please believe me.]

Colorado is dry. Very. Dry.

So dry, in fact, that the normal amount of dusting any household might experience probably isn’t going to pass muster out here in the Rockies where one white glove test on Monday doesn’t really mean anything on Tuesday. Just so you know.

I was being Marty Stewart again the other day, and found the little brush thing for the vacuum cleaner when it occurred to me I’ve never actually used the thing before. Never one to shrink from new adventures, I clicked the little sucker (ha ha, get it?) on and went looking for trouble.

And found it.

One brush down the side of the lamp at Cute Redhead’s favored antique secretary desk, and I knew this was going to herald obscene discoveries throughout the house. But not before I reached for the camera and took a shot for posterity’s sake.

Or for proof that we really do need a live-in maid.

One great thing about living in what’s technically ‘high desert’ is the amount of sunshine we enjoy. It really is intoxicating, especially if, like me, you grew up further east where gray skies were the daily diet for easily seven or eight months of the year. But the payoff for the sunshine and its obvious offspring, dry heat, is the amount of dust swirling around the state.

Which really isn’t a big deal considering the fact that I found the little brush thing for the vacuum.

I wonder if there’s any real-world old-fashioned remedy for controlling dust in a house. And can you believe how much of a life I don’t have such that I’m actually writing about dust, let alone taking time to take pictures of it.

The excitement. The glamor.

I better throttle back and go do the dishes before this whole things turns into a night of clubbing.

I’ve just experienced something so wonderful, so amazing, I just had to tell you all.

But, first, a bit of backstory, as briefly as I can:

I have been told I can be, well…sort of on the particular side. Particularly when it comes to what I’m designing. And by ’sort of’ what I mean is that when what I design isn’t perfect I turn into an insufferable homicidal maniac.

Which Cute Redhead loves hates.

And when I dreamed up the Waltzing In Perdition blog back in August I spent several weeks researching, designing, and redesigning way beyond the point of reason. And though I have it in me to learn the deeper level of coding the blog was calling for, I determined to do the unthinkable. That is, hand it off to the brake specialist. Meaning, I was going to

(sit down for this one)

let someone else work on the project for me.

Me. Todd Clary.

Was going to let a…mortal…touch my work. Dude.

And I did. I relinquished control of what I designed and handed it off to someone with more coding experience than myself. And it wasn’t easy. But I detailed it to a ridiculous degree precisely what I needed, how, when, why, and where. I even used the holy words: pixel-perfect. And what this means to the untrained is: “I want you to code EXACTLY what I’ve designed. And if one pixel is out of place (and I’ll know) I will hunt you down and make you rue the day of your birth. You know, in love.”

Here are a two of the ten pages of the layered design file with my notes on what I needed done:

See all those red boxes with my notes? (Matt—don’t even) That’s how specific I get when I’m showing what it is I need done. Some consider this over-the-top. I consider it business as usual. Besides, this is my blog we’re talking about, not some run-of-the-mill inconsequential silliness like my will.

And hired coder boy got the big 8 x 10 glossy. Or so he lied said. Because as it turns out, in Hired Coder Boyland, ‘pixel perfect’ means I Think This Way Is Better.

And, gentle readers, there is no quicker way to see Todd glorify (yes, glorify) into an artistic raging homicidal maniac than to take the pencil out of his hand and come up with something like I Think It Looks Better This Way.

So. Since September I’ve been living with the blog being what I’d call 94% There. And the morning I came down to get coffee (here I make the sign of the Cross), Cute Redhead, upon hearing me call it ‘94% There’ said (bright-eyed, hopeful, happy, and believing) “Well! That’s pretty good! You can live with 94%! Right?”

I just looked at her and walked out of the room.

Flash forward to yesterday when I chanced looking for new expertise to tackle the remaining 6%.

And not only did I find the expertise, the experts at Waters Design in Georgia did the job in record time, on budget, and with nary a glance at what formerly hired coder boy had me thinking was impossible to pull off.

And so, the folks at Waters Design are my new best friends. Better still, I am hereby recommending them to anyone who needs Wordpress theme coding help. Which I did.

But which I don’t anymore. Because it’s now 100% There.

(release the doves)

Remember how we’d tear around the house, around the yard, around the block? Remember how we’d pal around with our buddies, our partners in crime? Fighting the bad guys, the Imperial Forces, the dark entities of the netherworld?

Remember how serious it was? How one false move meant curtains for the free world? Remember how the fate of civilization hung in the balance? Remember our battlecry? Our victorious defiance of all that would stand in our way??

Remember?!

Remember how we didn’t know we didn’t know that sneaking up on all our testosterone was a teeny tiny little pink Slight Change of Plans?

And, for me, writing considers no commodity more precious (or scarce) than the Very Quiet.

So when my good friend Tim Keel posted a note about Ommwriter, I stopped everything for a few moments and encountered something profound and entirely unexpected. And, sadly, almost long-forgotten:

Peace and quiet.

If you’re given to the written word and the struggle and joy and excavation and passion and frustration of all its moving parts, you simply must do yourself the favor of discovering this application and the way its creators have successfully elevated to simplicity what had been reduced to freneticism…and, thus, wrested from technology’s grip an art precariously close to dormancy.

Redeemed.

Bravo.

Well done.

Thank you.

(…now, back to Book Two of The Waltzing in Perdition Chronicles.)

“Yeah, kid.”

“So…what’s that one thing you have that takes pictures of things that you put on it and then puts it on the computer?”

“My camera?”

“No…the flat thingy.”

“Flat thingy. Ah, you mean the scanner.”

“Yeah, that. So…you can put anything on there and then you can make as many copies as you want to?”

“Yeah, Alex. Why? You have a drawing you want to make copies of?”

“No. I want to make copies of this.”

“Nice try, kid.”

“Dang.”

That’s the guess.

The fact, however, is that what ever year it may have been, I was definitely obsessed. With the book in the photo above. The original one titled “Fun Projects for Dad and the Kids.”

Remember in grade school when you got to go to the school library and pick out your book? Well, this was the one I raced to every single Friday without exception. The original was a hardcover and the old too-much-red in the image was just as you see it in the photo.

I adored that book because it was full of the most amazing one-of-a-kind backyard projects I could imagine. More, I’d never since seen anything like the magic this guy illustrated and presented to the world in the form of real-world things you could build on your own.

Or, rather, what your dad could build on his own.

Or, rather, what I annoyed my own dad, way back in 1972 or 1973, week after week after week when I brought the book home and begged, borrowed, and pled for him to cave in and undertake something wild right out of the pages of this book.

The poor man had enough on his plate with the five of us running around without adding to it something like this. But I was insufferable and obsessed with the whole thing.

But, as happens in life, even budding ones, Life moved on and we moved to another town and I never saw that book again.

But I never forgot it.

Flash forward about thirty years to the advent of the world wide web and imagine, if you can, me scouring the search engines the world over for evidence that the book existed. Because I hadn’t seen it in that long. All I knew was the title and that the cover had something like an amazing tree fort and the image had too much red in it and the title was in red as well.

That’s all I knew. I had no idea who the author was.

But about every six months or so I’d tackle the search engines once again, hoping that the exponentiating nature of the internet was spreading out its web enough to capture proof of the book or, even better, a way to get a copy.

And then one day, about eight years ago…bingo.

There it was. I recognized it immediately. And chuckled at the newer politically-correct title.

I contacted the author (David Stiles) and told him my story and how the book, in addition to infusing in my young mind a love of secret hideaways and trap doors, had also greatly influenced my own style of illustrating. And how, not until I was able to once again flip through the pages of the book, did I realize just how much.

Better yet, he sent me an autographed copy as a gift.

I tore open the package when it arrived and turned page after page after page until I came to the one I was looking for.

The Space Ship.

How I loved that space ship. How I dreamed of having one of my own. How I annoyed my dad until he lost his mind and caved in, and…

…surprised us one day with “…we’re building the Space Ship.”  I thought I died and gone to heaven. The house we lived in at the time had about an acre of land behind it, and, up on the hill at the very back, just in front of the sumacs, we broke ground and wrested from the pages of the book (hammers, saws, nails and all) proof that dreams do come true.

And that what back then seemed like something akin to getting dad to cave in…

…was actually dad rising up and giving our childhood a story that has since become legend.

Beta Male just walked in to my office as I was typing this…took one look and yelled, “Is that it?!”

(smiling) “Yeah…that’s it, buddy. That’s the Space Ship I’ve told you about. You’ve never seen this photo?”

“No!” (eyes wide)

“A ha. Well. I have a book for you…”

I love Mondays.

Monday is trash day.

I love it so much I even have it on my iPhone calendar with a beeping little reminder so that on Mondays, at 9 a.m. sharp, I am given a little technological nudge in the form of: “Quick! Throw things out before Cute Redhead catches you!”

I have this terrible wonderful habit of throwing out anything I decide is In The Way. And when I’m in That Zone, everything is In The Way.

And I don’t like clutter. At all. And if I have to walk into a room around or over things, it Displeases me.

And we don’t want That.

So I tend to transmogrify into Marty Stewart and start straightening things up. Because my children have suddenly evaporated and devolved into whatever predated humans with opposable thumbs. It is amazing. Ask them to pick up the room and they turn into limp, boneless sacks of goo.  However, tell them there’s a new video game to be had, and they’re after the Nintendo like a dog clawing under the refrigerator after a MilkBone™.

So, it all started with Stupid Cat who was crouched, tail-twitched, stone cold not-moving in 24/7 Red Alert Pounce Position.

Looking under the couch.

A ha. Not my first rodeo. This means another mouse. If you need backstory on that one, click here and we’ll wait for you.

So, I dropped what I was doing and moved the couch so I could watch Next Cat Hors d’oeuvre run for its life.

*move couch

No mouse runs out. But I didn’t care. Because what I saw when I moved the couch tripped my head into something I can’t repeat if I were to put it into words. Which I did.

So whatever I was doing before this (I still don’t remember) was eclipsed by New Mission. Which was to clean this room. The TV room. The room the kids hang out in and, if I can find a clean spot on the couch, I’ll hang out from time to time.

But not this time. This time I was on New Mission. Which was to clean this room.

Okay, two hours later I take the photo up above. See how the couch is moved all crooked? That’s where it all began. When I moved it so Stupid Cat could Dine and Dash. Which she didn’t because there was no mouse. Or…rather, if there was a mouse, it was well hidden amidst:

…every candy wrapper west of the Mississippi

…21 (I counted) VHS movies (we haven’t had a VHS player in years)

…31 DVDs (none of which were in their correct cases)

…a used Q-Tip (on top of the Giant TV Cabinet) (don’t ask because I don’t know)

…egg shells (concerning)

…old shoes

…old socks

…a Thermos I haven’t seen in four months with something…heavy…slogging around inside it (do we open it and conduct it to the dishwasher? No. No, we don’t. *trash)

…enough Legos to build an aircraft carrier

…every useless, plastic, stupid fast food toy ever made

…a ton of other things I don’t want to revisit.

Five hours after that, the job was done.

That was last weekend.

Last night I threw out something else.

My back.

Want to know how?

By lying in bed DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

NOTHING.

Please shoot me.

See those beautiful trees? See those magnificent mountains behind the trees? See that brilliant blue sky and the dizzying splendor of the sunshine? See the gentle snow, softened by Nature’s soothing murmurs?

See all that?

Let’s just soak it all in for a quiet moment, shall we?

* * *

Okay, first of all, yes I took the photo with my iPhone (here I genuflect). And though it is the device the world over (unbelievers, shame on you), it is not the photography device I want. I want a Canon Rebel TXi. I think that’s what it’s called. Nevertheless, the iPhone was immediately at the ready when I realized it could capture the last remaining moments of my life and provide outstanding footage at my memorial.

Should they ever find my body.

* * *

So we all decided to go skiing, which we’re wont to do of a weekend here in Colorado. We loaded the up the beloved SUV and headed up to just above 11,000 feet to meet several friends, a billion kids, and not nearly enough wine to convince me (yet) the undertaking was at all wise.

[clicks remote]

*Flash forward to the scene where I am about to get off the chair lift while simultaneously realizing that the time span between First Snowboarding Lesson and Actually Practicing Snowboarding is roughly the same distance between planet Earth and the moon.

*Swear.

*Get off chair lift in one piece.

*Thank the Trinity.

*Wave goodbye to everyone else in group as they head down mountain.

*Access Male Limbic Brain for stored catalogue of Previous Snowboarding Lessons.

[Files Deleted]

*Swear.

*Access iPhone (sign of Cross).

*Note full coverage atop Very High Mountain in spite of total lack of oxygen.

[thank you, Steve Jobs] [*fist bump]

*Look up: “Helicopter Service.”

*No Helicopter Service.

*Swear.

*Gird loins and just head down Very High Mountain on snowboard.

*Glide.

*Glide left.

*Glide right.

*Smear body on side of indigenous tree atop Very High Mountain.

*Swear at tree.

*Cease gliding.

*Commence falling.

*Fall on face.

*Get up.

*Glide again.

*Glide right this time.

*Bad idea.

*Fall on face again.

*Get up.

*Glide left this time.

*Also bad idea.

*Land on butt so hard I see stars.

Stars.

*Repeat.

*Five times in a row.

*Access iPhone and text friend.

*Swear in text message.

*Swear badly in text message.

*Receive “funny” response from friend.

*Realize now-former friend doesn’t realize I’m not laughing.

*Lie in snow drift in so much pain that I’ve lost all my good humor.

All of it.

*Turn head to the left.

*See pretty scene of indigenous trees, snow, blue sky and dizzying splendor of sunshine.

*Bright Light.

*Tunnel.

*Run to the light.

*Mistake dizzying splendor of sunshine for Died And Went To Meet The Lord.

*Swear.

*Wish I was in bed.

*Wish I was in traction.

*Wish my mom was here.

*Sit up, take off snowboard.

*Admit defeat.

*Walk. Down. Mountain.

*Meet up with Cute Redhead, rest of skiing group.

*Watch everyone’s smirk slide off their faces when they realize Extent Of My Bad Mood.

*Actually exchange Very Bad Swear Words for “Gee, that was…difficult.”

“Well…I’m sorry. And I think Emma might be ready for a break too, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Got it. Emma?”

“Yeah, daddy?”

“Come with me. You’re about to find out what a Margarita is.”

“It’s only 11:15, honey.”

“I know.”

Remember that treehouse? That treehouse rules. It. Rules. We added a ship’s wheel (right inside that window), a porthole (right inside that door), and a few other Very Top Secret fixtures—any of which I could tell you, but if I did, they’d have to kill me.

We finished the treatment with the shake shingles, too, making the whole of the exterior one very cool looking hideout. A man cave, if you will. A place to retreat, hole up, steal away, and pull the curtains closed on the world to do what all little boys need to do:  which is, every now and then, retreat, hole up, steal away and pull the curtains closed on the man cave (not that any self-respecting man would hang curtains in his cave).

And, knowing full well that no man cave is completely impervious to the occasional salvo, we’ve fitted it with the military’s most capable defense system: the canon. Which, if you look closely in the background, is being sneaked up behind by the reason the boys tried to establish The Fort as one big pure Testosterzone: No. Girls. Allowed. (“Except mom because she’s not really a girl.”) (Direct quote.)

So, um…boys? You might want to reinforce your defense system.

Because if there’s one thing Little Girls can’t resist, it’s hanging curtains in your man cave.

I think I’m surrounded by morons.

Not my family…not my friends…not anyone I know—it’s not us, it’s others.

This whole ADD thing is, if you ask me, a big, fat giant fabrication conjured up by morons to mollify the tender insecurities of morons. And its close cousin, ADHD, is just another bastard child from the same circus sideshow. Except this one gets more medication.

All my life, I’ve suffered odd looks from pretty much everyone I’ve ever known. The very first time I noticed it myself was around first grade, but mom tells me it was kindergarten when it what I’m about to go into first showed up on the scene.

[Scene: First day of kindergarten where teacher interacts with child and then comes and confers with child's mom]

Teacher: “…um.”

My mom: (Not even blinking. I was third in a litter of five, so she couldn’t care less if she was about to hear I’d just grown wings and flown out the window.) “Something wrong.”

Teacher: “Well. No. No, nothing’s…wrong. But…”

My mom: “Yes?”

Teacher: “Well…it’s just that everything he supposed to know, he doesn’t know.”

My mom: “A ha.”

Teacher: “Yes. And well…it’s also that everything he’s not supposed to know…he knows.”

My mom: (laughing at the rookie) “Good luck.”

Nothing particularly astonishing about that little flashback, I know. Except that it was the beginning of a lifetime of weird looks, RCA dog head tilts, and no shortage of raised eyebrows brought on by either my questions, my decisions, my perceptions, my drawings, or some other manner of how I connected the dots in my head. Because none of it ever appeared linear. Or possessed any observable method of anything like structure. That is, to the people outside my head. Who have sort of always gotten on my nerves.

Not you, it’s others.

The easy explanation is that I’m what’s called a Synesthete. Which just happens to be a $15-dollar word flying around the last several years having something to do with how a mind maps the world around it, and gleans, processes, forms, digests, and then presents information.

*yawn, I know.

The more popular word employed for this sort of consciousness is this ADD thing I hear far too much of.

So I decided long ago that I would categorically reject the notion, the diagnosis, and the idea that I am unable to hold one thought from start to finish, affording the reader, the observer, the conversationalist, whatever it is they typically seek in order to gather whatever it they gather. Which I have.

So it’s not that “I have ADD,” it’s that the rest of the world is (how to say this gently) made up of morons who can’t keep up.

And that photograph up top? Well, believe it or not, that happened all by itself the other day while I was making breakfast for the Spawn and being Marty Stewart. The maddening part is that, though I had the whisk in my hand when I reached over to grab the pancake mix, the move was blocked by the eggs sitting there on the counter. And instead of knocking one off and making a nice mess, it somehow worm-holed its way inside the whisk, just like you see in that photo.

I swore at first because I thought for sure it did what my unseeing eyes expected. That is, sent egg-onto-floor. But when I turned my head to try and catch egg-flying-off-counter, I was stunned to see that Very Self-Contained egg was fully intact on the inside of the utensil designed to beat and scramble its innards into kingdom come.

And that…reminded me of my brain.

And how it never has

and never will

succumb

to the expectations of the world in which it’s contained.

And that very much frustrates The World…because it is heavily invested in beating and scrambling everything it encounters.

Ha.

Rookie.

“Good luck.”

I took it, just moments ago, lying on the floor of the boys’ bedroom, hoping to afford you, the alert reader, with a certain vantage point.

So last night I made a huge, huge, HUGE mistake. A stupid mistake. A. Very. Stupid. Mistake:  I sat down right after everyone went to bed and started to read a book. And that, folks, is stupid.

Because I have two sons. And they are the Spawn of Hell (making mine beautiful) (most of the time) (but not this time). Also, they share a room. Which is because they’re boys and, even if they kill each other (they try), they’re boys, so they have to share a room. It’s just in The Rules.

So there I am sitting down reading trying to read my book. And then I hear Cute Redhead’s feet hit the floor and stomp into the boys’ room. And she was tuned up. Very. Tuned. Up. Because the Spawn had been screwing around (we’re shocked and amazed) and not going to sleep. Stop the presses.

So I set my book down *sigh* and head up stairs because I know that there’s going to be all kinds of I Did NOT’s and Listen To Me Young Ma—DON’TYOUROLLYOUREYESATME flying all over the room. And sure enough, there was. Alpha Male is sitting on his bed looking culpable, while Beta Male is whimpering up on the top bunk looking as victimized as can be. I don’t know who started what, why, how, where or exactly when. And though those points of the story would have surely been as interesting as the day is long, all of them were summarily eclipsed by the sight I beheld upon entering the room, which was:

Cute Redhead. Standing on the bed.

YELLING LIKE A HOMICIDAL MANIAC.

Remember how I said Alpha Male was sitting in his bed? Well, he was. That bed you see in the photo. And I tried to get a vantage point in the photograph to lend you, the alert reader, just what it must have been like for him to look up and not see the sun and all the planets (as in the photo) (and they actually orbit and it’s really cool), but to see stars.

Because his mother was about to clock him, them, you, me, all of us, into next week.

She had had it.

And having had it, she lost all composure and decided that her majestic 5′4″ would be even more intimidating if she stood up on the bed.

In her nightgown.

And yelled.

I just stood in the doorway, completely prepared to lend my support in the very foreboding form of Wait Till Your Father Gets Home. But that was wiped right out of Male Limbic brain the second I saw what she was doing.

And then I sort of started laughing.

And that doesn’t help, so I shut that down right away. Choose life, I always say.

But she’d totally lost any chance of being taken seriously and I could see the grin fighting for it’s life at the corner of Alpha Male’s life. So, in order to avoid his untimely death, I stepped in, told Cute Redhead I’d take it from here, give them What For, and proceeded to usher her out of the room and back to bed.

Which I did. I mean, I think I did. I mean, I think that’s what I remember.

All I know is that when I watched her stomp OFF the bed and stomp OUT of the room, I looked back at Alpha Male and he looked at me, and we both didn’t dare chance what we both desperately needed to do. Which was laugh our heads off.

Which I don’t recommend.

No. I just ushered Cute Redhead out of the room with the age-old, time-tested best advice in the world:

Let go and let Todd.

“Boys? Like this: I could care less who’s to blame. All you need to know is that I could make what I’m fully capable of look like an accident.”

Blank stares.

“Good night, boys.”

“Good night, dad.”

*Light.

“…dad?” Were you lau—”

“I said goodnight boys.”

Then I went downstairs and laughed myself senseless. Because seeing her stand up on the bed yelling like a raving lunatic was hilarious when the last thing I expected to see was her standing up on the bed yelling like a raving lunatic.

I called our friend saying only, “We need you.” She arrived in less than three minutes.

We drove to the hospital leaving the care of our little boy with another friend.

They hooked up all those things they hook up to monitor the unborn baby.

Hours later the doctor regretted the discomfort but could offer little more than her own understanding, she also being a mom.

So we drove home at two-thirty in the morning.

On the way, halfway home, my phone rang.

“Mr. Clary? This is the hospital. We see something on the monitor tape we didn’t see when you were here. We want you to stop the car, turn around and come back. Now. We want to deliver the child now.”

I was already slowing the car and pulling over before the conversation was over. One doesn’t need the end of the sentence when the hospital calls you in the middle of the night, so I had a sure feeling plans were changing.

My wife was all-pistons-firing and girding herself for what news the call brought. Which I conveyed in as calm a way as I could, all things considered. “They’re concerned about something on the tape they didn’t see while we were there. They want us to turn around now and come back. Honey, they want to deliver the baby.”

And so we turned around. And the light-hearted banter among the three of us transformed into a sudden sobriety where each of us, I’m sure, quietly leaned into God, Please…

And everything turned out fine.

Our second son, known far and wide as Beta Male, turned ten years old recently.

He is a happy boy, but not cloy.

He is affectionate to a fault, if there is such a thing, but not delicate.

He is intelligent and questioning and curious, but not driven by academics.

He knows he is an athlete because we’ve told him he is, and, believing us, he’s tried his hand at many sports and taken a liking to the arena, but is never far from smiling to himself while he competes.

He is the typical little brother, getting pounded on by his big brother, but may turn out to be a living example of the old adage, The Little Fish Grow Up To Eat The Big Fish…so, if I were you, big brother, I’d stay on his good side.

He smells like a little boy, has a retainer he refuses to wear, will wear the same shirt for a week, like all other ten year olds, and not only not care…he won’t even realize it; he loves pancakes and bacon now, but for the first year of his life, spit up after every single feeding.

He is a fine mix of all these things and more.

One of my very favorite, most treasured memories about him is this:  When he was crawling, I’d hear the tiny shuffling coming down the hall, and stop just outside my office door. Then, steadying himself on two chubby little knees and one chubby little arm, swing the free arm so he could hit my office door and call, “Da!”

And I love how, no longer crawling, ten years later, when he passes through a room and sees me? Chances are exceedingly high he’ll come over, lay his head on my chest and offer nothing more than, “…I just want to be near you.”

Anyway, here it is. I no longer refer to it as the working title, but the official title: On Flying Blind.

And I’m well into the compilation of the stories, as well as fighting with the cover layout and design. And the color scheme…which is why I’m showing only a black and white rendering here. I’m expecting the final draft will tip the scales at nearly twice the size of A Beautiful Hell and (really about to corner myself here) be published and available by Spring of 2010.

I’m looking forward to painting more images (in story form, of course) of the Waltz in Perdition that shows life a little bit further down the road…past diapers but not quite into high school…the years between Up All Night and Getting To Go Out At Night Again.

I’ll keep you posted!

There are, I have decided, Two Worlds within which every parent walks, one foot firmly (or not so firmly) planted in each.

There is: What You See World and What You Don’t See World.

What You See World looks like some of this:

High Powered Cute Redhead Scientist Wife conducts herself with the utmost professionalism and decorum. She is from Mississippi. As in Deep Mississippi. As in she married a Yankee and her hometown has never gotten over it. She runs Earth. In her head. All day long. She worries for all of us because it is her job. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I just know that if she Stopped Worrying for even one minute, every planet in our solar system would spin right out of orbit and that’d be the end of it. So we let her worry. It’s how she irons out all the wrinkles in the world. She is proper, under control and never breaks character. Ever.

Ever.

What You Don’t See World looks like some of this:

She is a lunatic and I wish I could film her and show the world how she thinks she can dance when there is any Mo-Town playing. It drives me nuts that everyone thinks I’m the animated nutjob. If you could see what I see in her, you’d never, ever believe it. She lives to irritate me when she knows I’m irritable. She thinks it’s funny. It’s getting to where she can laugh me out of a bad mood sooner and sooner. But I don’t laugh during Irritable. I laugh later when I think of how she dances around the kitchen in her So Not Black way, knowing full well it drives me nuts.

What You See World looks like some of this:

Alpha Male has one job. This job is made up of One Singular Purpose. This Purpose consists of One Thing And One Thing Only: being the consummate big brother to Beta Male in every way you can imagine (but you have to have had a big brother to get this one). We’re talking the full spectrum, ranging from Sweet (but we won’t tell anyone) to Bully. And everything in between. Each night during Bedtime Clown Car Circus, he finds a brand new way to bother his little brother. Then little brother deploys the Very Practiced and Fake Crying (not my first rodeo and I invented that one, so don’t even), making me, The Law, come Up There. And I will find Recalcitrant Teenager standing up on his lower bunk (so busted), caught red-handed picking on Beta Male. Who half the time started it anyway (not my second rodeo either and I invented that one too, so don’t even). And then I will point (fail), raise my voice in that Lowered Voice That Growls (fail), tell him to get his butt back in that bed right now—AND NO I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR SIDE OF IT JUST GET BACK IN BE—ALEX! YOU LAY DOWN TOO BUSTER! (fail, and fail.) And then he gave me a look I have seen in photos I have on the wall. And I have hidden in my heart. And which I haven’t seen in too long.

It wasn’t anger. I’m not even sure it was frustration. It was a knotted up look with lowered brow and tightened jaw and it took me back ten years to the first time I ever saw it. (Mine only and I’m not sharing it).

What You Don’t See World looks like some of this:

The Law goes down stairs and tries to read and not think about how he feels like the day Alpha Male tries not to cry too, Because It’s Time To Say Goodbye, is getting closer and closer. And remembers the day his little punching bag, Beta Male, stomped his little angry foot into this world. And how Dad Two Times Over stepped into the hospital hallway to level out. And, alone, surrounded by the buzzing hospital hive, heard felt my firstborn son turn the corner all the way down that long hall. And how I knelt down on one knee and watched him walk very slowly toward me. And how I held his small face and said, “…you have a little brother,” and looked into his I Have No Real Idea What You Just Told Me eyes knowing that, no matter how many times he pounded on his little brother (and he does), nobody would love the little compatriot hoodlum like we would.

So, today, in about two hours, I’ll be going to his school and telling a big, fat, giant lie. To the school secretary. And to Alpha Male. I’ll come up with something about an orthodontist appointment we completely forgot about. And he’ll roll his eyes but not too much because, after all, I’m yanking his little butt out of the last day of school before Thanksgiving, right? And then we’ll drive to the orthodontist. But then we’ll pass it right by. And he’ll recruit his signature Hey Dumbass Dad Voice and say, “…um. You missed your turn.” And then I’ll say, “…um. No, I didn’t.” And then I’ll take him to the movie he’s wanted to see. Just me and him. And I’ll try and lose myself in the movie and not think about how the time is going by too fast for me.

I feel like all I do is yell at him these days. And I miss that little kid.

So I’m taking him out of school and we’re playing hooky.

Take that, World.

What You See World looks like some of this:

Beta Male is the nicest kid in the world. And he’s polite and sweet and affectionate. And you have to know him from the moment he was conceived (and I was there, trust me) to know that there is a very fine line between Authentic Nicest Kid In The World and I’m Actually Feeling A Little Scared So I’m Doing Over-Nice To Figure It Out. And you have to know how to waltz through that one. It’s very delicate, that one. He’s a middle kid and I know Middle Kid. So it’s delicate, this one. Not him. It.

What You Don’t See World looks like some of this:

High Powered Dad (me again) finds a quiet space to lie down for just a second. Alone. Please God, alone. Let me have just some Alone. And then Beta Male will come by and see the one thing he never

ever

ever

fails to take advantage of:

Dad’s available chest. At which point he will drop

drop

whatever he’s doing, wherever he was going, whyever he was knotted up, and come over and lay his head down on my chest. And right in front of God and everybody say (I promise I am not making this up), “…I just like being near you.”

And then I’ll realize (again) that they are, in fact, here to kill us. The kids, I mean. They’re here to kill us.

Us and every misconception we ever had about who’s healing who.

And how transforming our hearts began with Bone Tired. And Too Tired To Care That God Is About To Cut. Very Deep. And Very Surgically (but it’s eclipsed by the intersection of The World We See and The World We Don’t, cleverly disguised as the birth of our children).

What You See World looks like some of this:

Charlie Girl, not unlike her mother, runs Earth. And ever since the first time she tipped her little hip backward in Full-On Attitude, and pointed one little finger right in my face, and gave me What For (she was not even three)…I realized that I could have eighteen sons, one right after another, and she and her Mom would still outnumber us eighteen billion to one. Sometimes she throws a fit. Sometimes I throw it right back. Sometimes I screw it right up and fall for the lie that it’s a tug-of-war and outyell her. Everytime I do that, I win.

Meaning I lose. Because I can outyell her.

And I hate that part of me.

What You Don’t See World looks like some of this:

Holding her and apologizing while she cries, she apologizes right back, meeting my “honey, daddy is so sorry for yelling,” with “…it’s okay, daddy.” And she will have to wait till she sees her One Day Husband do very likely the very same thing with his little girl, before…

…she realizes that, way back to her childhood, daddy’s heart was breaking and no, it’s not okay. Daddy very much still needs to unclench his heart’s fist and unlearn, relearn and learn a better way. And thank God this little girl still thinks he’s a hero.

These are the Two Worlds I live in.

Colliding.

Colliding.

Colliding.

I needed to laugh, and this did the job.

So, the other evening, I’m sitting in this chair, right? Tap-tap-click all over the world on Starship Internet, right? Chit-chatting here, ignoring there, bleah-dee-bleah yada yada yada.

The whole house is (sign of Cross) asleep and, in the silence I finally remember my own name. Which is something only parents really appreciate, because on most days, who we are, what we need, why we get up and doing it all over again, DOES. NOT. MATTER.

At all.  I mean, it does, but our spawn will never really appreciate it until their therapists, twenty years into the future, will have had it up to Here listening to them whine about how we screwed up their lives (and they’re going to do this, just like we did, so wake up, baby doll). And the therapist, having had it up to Here with the whining will smack them across the head, and employ what I like to call Single-Session Therapy in the form of, “Get over it! You have no IDEA the lengths they’d gone to to care for you selflessly.”

Except that I wasn’t caring for anyone selflessly. Even a little bit. Right then, I was wiped out, run over, and had my own version of having had it up to Here. I was just answering email and reading news. And, for what it’s worth Those Of You Who Think That’s Code for: www.IsThatEvenPhysicallyPossible.com, I actually was answering email and reading the news. So don’t start with me.

And, then she comes flying into the room like a bat outta hell.  And by she I mean her:

That is our cat. The kids call her Katherine. I call her Stupid Cat. Because she is nuts and I’m not lying. If you’ve followed along here on WIP or on Facebook, or if you’ve suffered me in real life, you’ve probably heard me go off about how this Stupid Cat drinks water. By standing IN the water dish. And wakes me up everyday at 5:00. By licking MY BACK with her Black & Decker Sandpaper Tongue.

We got her a year or so again. Because we needed her help.

Backburner that for a bit.

So I’m sitting there the other night and this Whackjob Cat comes FLYING into the room playing with a cat toy the kids made for her earlier that evening. It was cute and then annoying and then off my radar screen, all within about 15 seconds because I was focused elsewhere. And if you’ve ever seen a cat LOSE. ITS. MIND. over an inanimate object, you know exactly what I’ll briefly describe with the following photos and few words:

FUZZY CAT TOY! GO! RUN! BAT-SMACK-SLIDE! CHASE!

GRAB! DODGE! SLIDE! BAT-BAT! DOWN THE STAIRS! GO!

INTO HUMAN’S OFFICE! SMALL FUZZY CAT TOY! ENGAGE!!

SLIDE! BAT! CHASE CHASE CHASE! HIT! HIDE!

STOP!!

STOP.

JUMP! GOT IT! KILL! KILL FUZZY CAT TOY! GO!!

FUZZY CAT TOY ESCAPES! REPEAT! FUZZY CAT TOY ESCAPES!! GO!!

Okay. Stop the film.

That photo right above? That horrible out-of-focus photo? Two things about that horrible photo:

Thing 1) All of these were taken with the beloved iPhone (sign of Cross). That’s why they’re of a lesser quality than the camera my wife will be getting me for Christmas. (Dear Wife, when you read this don’t forget to ask me exactly what camera you’re getting me for Christmas because if it’s not the right one I will be Displeased.)

Thing 2) The main reason all these photos are blurry, especially the one above—and if you’re wondering exactly what kind of life I don’t have that I would be chasing a cat around the house taking dumb ass photographs like this here’s why: I was laughing my head off.

I mean LAUGHING MY HEAD OFF.

And chasing her around the house to take pictures of her.

Okay, backburner all of that for a second, too.

Remember how I led off this one with ‘the other night?’ And have you noticed that the rest of these photos are not night shots?

Here’s the backstory on why:

So…that other night when I was sitting there and trying to ignore Whackjob Stupid Cat running in. And then out. Then jumping on the couch. Then across my chair. And I mean FLYING right over the moon across-my-chair, and then batting the stupid Fuzzy Cat Toy across my feet. Twice…

…I’d finally had it up to Here.

So since the cat was now frantic because the Fuzzy Cat Toy was stuck under the couch, I decided I’d go over to the couch and lift it up like a very hot and muscular High-Powered Man. Which I am. So I do.

I lift up the couch so that Stupid Cat can get Fuzzy Cat Toy and get out of my hair, right?

And she bats the toy and right across my feet.

Okay. Now.

Look at this next photo.

Yeah. Not a Fuzzy Cat Toy.

A Fuzzy Live Mouse.

And I drop the couch and LAUGH MY HEAD OFF.

OFF.

I am not afraid of mice. At All. I’m not afraid of snakes. At all. I’m not afraid of spiders (I used to be but I’m not anymore and that’s a long story for another time). But I realize, finally, that the Stupid Cat is doing her job.

The one I hired her for.

To be a mouser.

But I don’t feel bad for being annoyed, nor for swearing at her (and I did) (a lot) while she went bonkers while I sat there trying to focus elsewhere. And the reason I don’t feel bad for bad-mouthing Stupid Cat is because I was laughing too hard. Because when I lifted the couch and realized it was a Fuzzy Live Mouse running FOR. ITS. LIFE for the last forty-five minutes, its little heart no doubt beating like a snare drum…all I could think of in that moment was “what if Cute Redhead had been the one to realize, just now, that this was Satan?”

Because that’s what her mind would have registered lol. She would have seen the Darling Fuzzy Little Disney Character (that’s what I saw) and realized that Lucifer and The Alien and Shelob and Rapists and Monsters and Bugs (that’s what she sees) had all melded into one being and run across her foot. At night.

And I couldn’t stop laughing.

But eventually I did and went to bed.

[end scene]

Next day. Stupid Cat is still flying around the house chasing Fuzzy Cat Toy.

I forgot all about the night before  (believe it or not, I forgot) because I hadn’t had coffee or any reason to live yet. So, all I knew was that I hadn’t had coffee yet, and, not until Todd has coffee, does Todd love you and have a wonderful plan for you life.

And when I finally gain consciousness, I realize Stupid Cat is still at it.

With Fuzzy Cat To—wait a minute.

“ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU’RE STILL PLAYING WITH THAT MOUSE?! HA HA! THAT’S HILARIOUS! OMG THIS IS AWESOME! ARE YOU KIDDING ME THAT IS HILARI—wait WHERE’S MY CAMERA?!”

And then Chase Chase Chase Click Click Click HA HA! Click OMG This is NUTS lololol click CLICK click-click-click HA HA HA!

So get this one. This is awesome:

Trapped. Spring Mechanism Engaged. Tail! Twitch Right!

Tail! Twitch Left!

And that’s pretty much it.

That is the physical comedy I watched for about sixteen hours and finally broke down and chased our Stupid But Great Mouser Cat around the house chasing some poor little disney character of a poor little mouse (sorry PETA lol) all over every inch of this house.

And if you think I’m making it up, look at this last one.

Which shows Stupid Cat totally standing right there on all four legs (you see only two, I know) but totally I So Have Your Fuzzy Ass lol but stopped while Disney mouse tries to figure out for the ten-millionth time in the last sixteen hours what in the Hell to do now.

Which may not be funny to you lol…

…but it was funny to me. Which is why I wrote this one down.

Just for the record.

First, gather all the clothing you own.  All of it.  Then put it in a canon.  Now shoot it into your closet.  *ka-boom*  That is what our bedroom closet looks like, and I’m not exaggerating even a little bit.

Okay, that’s something She Does To Torture Me and herein begins the War Games of Love.

Now go get the biggest cooking pot you can find.  Make sure it’s big enough to take out a charging bull elephant headed straight at you.  Also, make sure you just used it to prepare some meal that would make a Brillo pad curl up and wither away at the sight of it.  Now put it in the dishwasher WITH. NOTHING. ELSE. and turn on the dishwasher full blast with every conceivable feature the machine can muster.

Okay, that’s something I do to torture her show her my Undying Devotion To A Clean Kitchen.

Next, grab a cup of coffee.  Make sure it’s hot.  Actually, make sure it could pass for black boiling brimstone.  Fill it to the rim.  Add some sickly sweet creamer like Melted Snicker Bomb or Cream of Box of Krispy Kremes.  Stir it with anything nearby.  Like a pencil.  Or a measuring spoon.  Or my keys.  Now, go sit down and read the paper.  But make sure you sit down in a rocking chair.  Rock back and forth like Ritalin doesn’t even show up on your radar.  Rock like there’s some Aerosmith playing but only you can hear it.  Now spill your coffee everywhere.  Now act surprised that it happened.  Again.

Okay, that is something She Does To Torture Me.

Okay, now go and promise to clean a) the living room b) the garage or c) anything else, it really doesn’t matter.  Have every intention in the world to keep this promise.  Turn into The Maid.  Descend on the mess like some rabid housekeeper convinced that somewhere in the disaster area someone left a $1,000 dollar bill.  Then, think of something a) shiny b) involving a bar with one of your buddies who always laughs at your jokes and who likes beer, too or c) anything else-, it really doesn’t matter.  Now, suffer complete and total amnesia and swear to God in heaven you Never Actually Promised To Do Anything You Really Do Nag A Lot You Know That.

That is apparently definitely something I do to Get On Her Nerves.

Okay back to the kitchen.  Decide you’re going to cook something.  Anything.  But decide that instead of being able to find what you need to prepare this meal you are a giant rat in a maze the size of the Library of Congress and there’s a cattle prod on your butt making you flail around the room getting everything all over the walls.  Now use every single pot, pan, dish, tray, utensil, storm door, extension cord, twin-engine airplane, my circular saw to cook this dish.  Make it look like a murder scene.  Spill something.  Spill something else.  Burn yourself.  Bring the dish to the table and look morose and all martyred at your sacrificial love and care.  Then, act like you’re a fastidious little chef and act completely aghast at the suggestion that You Make The Kitchen Look Like A Murder Scene.

This is, again, something She Does To Torture Me.

Garage.  Alright, go clean the garage as (allegedly) promised.  But while you clean the garage, revert to some Neolithic maniacal bastard and decide that the fate of the free world rests solely on you and your ability to throw out anything that annoys you.  Note that everything annoys you.  When your spouse comes out to check your work “see how it’s going,” threaten her with You Can Have The Kids AND The House And There Isn’t A Jury In The World That Would Convict Me because she wants to turn the fate of the free world into a relationship.  I HATE this and can’t be bothered with mortals because the fate of the free world rests solely on me and my ability to throw out anything that annoys me and right now everything annoys me.

This, for some reason, is something she claims I Do To Torture Her.

The cars.  Let’s clean the cars, shall we?  Do, let’s.  [opens Todd’s car] [pick up paper] [clean smudge on window] [adjust air freshener] [done].

[Opens HER car door—ALL. THE. ANGELS. AND. SAINTS.  ThereIsNoWayI’mTouchingThatScienceExperimentFor-getYou [closes door, backs away.]

This She Does To (say it with me) Torture Me.

More housekeeping.  Notice how the entire Outside has somehow found itself inside the house?  See that?  See the dirt, the twigs, the feathers (the feathers?), the stones, the I Have No Idea What That Is?  See all that?  Let’s sweep it up, will just take a moment c’mon.  Sweep the floor.  Then sweep that floor.  Oh hell,  sweep them all.  Then leave little piles of Outside all over the house like little altars to the floor gods.  And leave them there.  Do NOT get the dust pan and actually take the piles of Outside to the trash.  Leave them there.  I don’t know why.  Just leave them there.  I know all it takes is following through, getting the dust pan and—HEY LOOK! SOMETHING SHINY!

This drives her Stark Raving Mad.

Laundry (oh, you knew this was coming).  Do the laundry.  And by “do the laundry” I mean get all the dirty clothing from every part of the house and bring it to the laundry room.  And by “every part of the house” you have to remember to look in places no single person without children would ever think to look.  Like:  the freezer in the garage outside (not making that up), or behind the headboard (also not making that up and it unfortunately is not part of some wild jungle love story), in the file cabinet, behind the toilet (I don’t even want to talk about this one).  Now, bring it all down to the washing machine and put it all in together.  Forget that old “All-TEMPA-CHEER” commercial about separating colors and just stuff everything inside it like your trying to burst through to some other dimension where it doesn’t matter all your socks and underwear are now pink.

THIS.  MAKES.  ME.  CRAZY.

That one piece of furniture in the living room.  She moves it one inch back.  I move it one inch forward.  We’ve done this for about five years straight.  We never talk about it.  We just do it.  We know we’re doing it, but we never talk about it.  This issue alone could earn some marriage therapist a permanent winter home in Tahiti.  This drives each other up the wall, but it seems to work for us and we’re leaving it alone.

She uses my razor.  MY.  RAZOR.  It drives me nuts, but I got her back by once being out of deodorant and used her Secret.  ONCE.  I smelled like a florist from three blocks away.  That one backfired.

She can’t seem to figure out the very nimble and delicate process of hanging up my pants the right way.  Sixteen years of marriage and still no opposable thumbs.  It makes me want to run screaming into the street.

I have been known to (big shock coming here) say rather…well…inappropriate things at very in appropriate times.  Personally, I think this is a gift.  She quite does not.  But it hasn’t stopped me.  This is going to drive her to drink.

She sleeps with every pillow in the house.  She sleeps with every pillow on the block.  That pillow you’re missing?  She has it and she sleeps with it.  I could die in my sleep and she’d never notice.  I hate those pillows.

This one pair of black pants, a few shirts, a jacket and this one pair of shoes.  All items of clothing I own which she detests.  Which is putting it mildly.  I have them locked and put away because if I leave them unprotected for one minute she’ll light them on fire.

She burns up at night.  I freeze to death.  She can’t open jars.  I open them all.  She MIGHT fold laundry.  I put it all away.  I load the dishwasher.  She’d sooner go into labor all over again than empty it.  She has enough worry in her little head to build a VW engine before lunch time.  She can’t not insert herself into just about everything.  I will never admit I’m wrong.  Ever.  She can be so critical.  I can get moody.  I absolutely can’t sta—

Oh who am I kidding.

I love this, lol.

The skies don’t typically unload with this frequency until March and April, and, then, it’s with a humidity not unlike the snows out east, bringing ice, snow we used to call “good-packing” (read: the snow balls will leave a mark), and breaking whatever branches had survived so far in spite of winter’s classic right hook.

So. On Getting The Hint…is it just me, or are any of you other natives under the impression She’s quietly announcing something thunderous by way of what we know She leans toward come early Spring?

Anyway…

I like that photo up top for its leaden sky.

I like this one because it’s the view outside one my studio’s windows.

And I like this one because of the contrasting colors. And, yes, I punched the saturation in Photoshop. On purpose. Because, in my opinion, if Mother Nature is going to punch, I’m going to punch right back (thank you, thank you…I’ll be here all week, you’re a wonderful crowd).

This one is, believe it or not, not enhanced. That is, not in Photoshop. Here I messed with shutter speeds and f-stops bleah bleah bleah. All on the only digital camera I own (for now) and which I detest because it’s not the one I want.  I like that green, though.

And I’m good with all of that on the outside. The snow is loud and silent all at the same time. There’s a whole spectrum from white to blue and, therein, every other color too. I’m good with what’s going on on the outside…

…because this is what’s going on in the inside. Nice dog, nice fire, nice laptop keeping said nice dog’s big fat butt out of my chair.

You’ll notice, too, a complete absence of my mentioning any plans to go shovel the snow.

Because I’m not.

I will, however, be sledding down several hills with my hair on fire. With Beta Male. Who is presently chomping at the bit to get out into all of this. I’ll bring the iPhone on that adventure and see what footage we can add to this days goings on.

Best of Sunday’s Best to all!

And, yes, I’m just screwing around with a friend’s camera as I try and decide which one to get.

And, yes, that’s a tattoo.

And, yes, I have two.

And, no, you can’t see the other one.

And, no, I’m not explaining why. Because why comes into focus when I explain where.

And, no, I’m not telling where either.

I turn on the lamp this morning to try and figure out what Space-Time Continuum Starship Todd has landed in this time, and see the big fat Golden Retarded all curled up in the chair, which he KNOWS he’s not allowed to curl up in with his big fat butt.

He doesn’t even pretend anymore.

And don’t be fooled by the graying hair and come back with “Oh look at that sweet old soul. Let him alone and make him comfortable.”

Yeah no.

Hold out a piece of bacon or cheese and that shuffling, sweet old soul turns into an atom-splitting wind-up toy on roller skates and would come flying off that chair, headed straight for the hand your about to lose—and probably miss only to introduce a new back entryway to your kitchen in the form of the hole his big fat butt on roller skates just put in your wall.

And, yes, he actually opened one eye and gave me the big Yeah Whatever.

I hope you were irritated and a little bit annoyed. Even if you kept it to yourself. Which we all do, because these are the kids we’re talking about, and, in spite of all the little things that get in the way (or so it seems from where we sometimes stand), this is the stuff their little lives are made of.

I hope you got to the school just in time to find out you should have arrived about 45 minutes earlier because the place is packed to the gills.

With kids.

And their parents.

And camcorders.

And grandparents.

And every neighbor in the neighborhood.

And I hope you were sardined shoulder-to-shoulder and polite and gracious when cameras came out, at the ready, to get a shot of each child with a line to read.

I hope you had to have this conversation with your boy today, “Um, no Alex. You will please tuck in that uniform shirt right now. The men and women you’re honoring today need it perfect. Your great-grandfather needs it perfect.”

“Dad…his name is Roland. And he’s dead.”

“His name just so happens to be Roland Owen Garland, and I don’t care if he’s been dead a thousand years. If he saw that uniform shirt not tucked in he’d come through the woodwork and string me up. Tuck it in. It’s Veteran’s Day. And it matters. Go.”

And I hope that when you saw the little hellion come in carrying the colors, you worked hard to hold it together because you realized you’re looking at what may just be, unfortunately, and also fortunately, a room full of our future defenders.

And I hope you had to push from your mind the unthinkable likelihood that someday, some of these babies will make the ultimate sacrifice. For us.

I hope that when all this young Perfect stood up and sang Grand Old Flag, and recited poems, and speeches…

…each one hardly knowing they have no idea what it is they’re really speaking into…

…or why all their parents’ eyes are brimming…

…that you stood up too and decided whatever meeting, phone call, or project was waiting for you because of this little interruption, could just wait till Hell froze over for all you care.

And when the young Perfect sang each branch’s theme song, I hope you turned around and saw this gentleman…

Who rose to lend his voice to the halls of Montezuma…

…who was helped up by his wife…

…with whom he’s been with since before the war…

…and who was shaking as he stood, because he’s been around that long and gets to shake if he wants to, and don’t you forget it. Plus, oxygen tanks are cumbersome…

…and who stood their trying to sing but couldn’t because he was crying…

…because though we couldn’t help but look at him (a photo of the moment would have been disrespectful, to put it mildly), we watched him watch the kids.

Singing.

To him.

And saluting hope. And courage. And You Do What Has To Be Done Because It Has To Be Done, thanking him. Even though all the thanks in the world will never be enough.

It will never be enough.

And I hope that after the program ends and you turn your head graciously so that your neighbors can wipe their tears while you wipe yours, you muster the courage to walk up to that Old Guard and tell him, “…my grandfather was in the war, sir. He’s no longer with us. But when I saw you, I kind of see him. And I really miss that sonofabitch. So. Thanks.”

And I hope that when he puts his older hand on your younger shoulder and smiles, you carry it with you for the rest of the day.

And I damn sure hope your shirt is tucked in.

Not a lot to this one, so just bear with me.

Q-tips with no…well, no tips. I don’t know why. I just came into the bedroom and there they were, in this pile, on my bed. Left there.

Again, no idea, but if The Blair Witch Project had nothing to work with but our bedroom and Q-tips, I think these things would be hanging from branches in the woods.

This is a bee bowling ball hive. It came out of our chimney. The kids took turns taking it to school for Show & Tell and become instant rockstars. Because we told them the house was full of killer bees. It wasn’t but it made a great Show & Tell.

When I wake up in the morning and Take the Cup, and then make the spawn their breakfast…I am experienced enough to know what to expect when I crack open an egg. Twins were not what I expected that morning.

If you’ve ever driven through west Texas during a thunderstorm—and by west Texas thunderstorm I mean something biblical that would make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a theme park—you’ve likely encountered one of Nature’s delightful concoctions we all know as hail. And by hail I mean you’re going to get your butt knocked across west Texas while chased by demonic heat-seeking golf balls, meaning the hail. The beloved SUV sustained an amount of damage I don’t even want to get into, but if I did, I only would because the insurance company covered it.

Also, if you’re ever in one and you have to pull over to let Mother Nature get it out of her system, and your three-year old child is panicked and crying his eyes out in the back and screaming, “Why is God doing this?!”, I don’t recommend replying with, “Because you and your brother have been fighting all the way across west Texas and driving your parents nuts, that’s why. Thanks for the plague, you little monster.”

Just a little parenting tip for you there.

This is what happens, you’ll be happy to know, when you leave cans of Coke in the freezer. I didn’t hear them explode. What I heard, in my head, mind you, was “Not me!” because I knew no one was going to own up to this one. I just closed it and walked away.

Actually, I chipped off a bunch, put it in a glass with a little Captain and walked away pretending the freezer didn’t look like something out of Poltergeist.

Alpha Male pieced this creature together when he was about four. Then walked right into my office, slammed it on my desk, looked me right in the eye and said, “LIKE THIS.” And then marched right out.

I had no idea then, and no idea now, what he meant.

We end with this one.

Don’t ask me because I don’t know. All I know is that Cute Redhead once made this for dinner and I took one look at it and said, “Yeah, no.” And then took a picture of it to prove to the world I wasn’t making it up. This was actually over ten years ago, and the image is blurry because I couldn’t keep the camera steady. Because she was hitting me. Hard.

Because I was laughing. Hard.

I lost a lot of those contests.

Ten years later, his sense of humor still firmly intact, he suddenly becomes an impenetrable wall of Recalcitrant Coolness in front of the camera. He’d sooner have the fact that he’s still a little lunatic (and he is) captured on film than be caught standing next to his mom. Except that he was caught standing next to his mom…and would have been vapor but for my command to, “…stop. right. there.”

And grabbing the camera I told the two of them to stand up straight so I could see if my suspicions had any traction. And, just as I thought, somewhere in the last little stretch of Life happening, the little imp tipped the scale and got within striking range of his mom’s towering superiority. All 5′4″ of it.

And that made him smile.

Almost.

I was reminded today, again, that this isn’t the end.

And we are not Home yet.

I know someone navigating something…taxing. All I can do is pray.

I know someone walking with someone else into the Obscene Dark. All I have is quiet respect…and hope that not making them talking about it comes across as the mercy I intend it.

I know several people working double-time to balance the balancing act. I see more fear and pain and panic, and am certain of that…than I am fooled by aplomb. So when I think of them I try and think of all of us surrounding each other in the midst of the fact that everyone’s trying to do the best they can with what they’ve got. And I hope that when words would not help, and they don’t always help, I’ll have the courage to refrain from speaking. And I hope that when words are needed, if they’re needed, I’ll have the courage to speak past the niceties and let them hear what I think are two of the most powerful words in any language: “Me too.”

I know lots of people who are one bad decision from finding out that the vow “for better or for worse” could have covered what they have convinced themselves couldn’t possibly be covered by such a young, naive, and happy promise.

But it could have.

Everything feels paper thin right now. And nothing seems funny, although I find myself laughing in order to steady myself.

There are birthday parties, and cocktails parties, and funerals and more babies coming; I see what used to look like a death or a dormancy to me. But now I know I’ve seen enough to know that what’s really happening, deeper down, is that roots are threading themselves one into another and, when the storms and floods come (and they’re coming) they’re going to pass too. And, passing, what looked dead and dying is going to be there. Still strong.

That gives me courage right now.

I know this is vague.

I mean it to be because there is, right now, a lot I don’t want to talk about. So I’m praying. Past words. Into the better mediums.

I just needed to remind myself that this is not the end.

And I am not Home yet.

And I’ve many times been close to actually following through on the threat.

But I don’t think I need to bother with it because the washing machine has more or less taken matters into its own hands. And by taken matters I mean that it is rendering all our clothing with what looks like someone decided Penzoil motor oil would do a better job than the trusted Tide we all know and love. And then decided to open the lid during every cycle and um…drizzle…the oil like it was garnishing some fancy dessert.

So there I was today, being Marty Stewart, folding the laundry and discovering all these spots all over everything.

Just wonderful.

I said I wanted a new washing machine and dryer (can you believe I’m going off about this lol?)—I didn’t say I wanted to suffer the Maytag’s equivalent of the Space Shuttle losing tiles on re-entry and incinerating every bit of fabric we own.

But all over everything are these smudgy brown oil spots. And I know they’re that and not that because I’ve seen this before. As in the last time, a hundred years ago, when we had to get the then new washing machine.

But I fold everything anyway because it’s not like I can rewash them and get rid of them. And I know that because I’ve made that mistake too, thinking if I ignore it it’ll all go away. Yeah no. Last time I tripped over that one, nothing came out right.

So I decided to ignore it so that it would all go away.

And vacuum. Because now the laundry was folded but I was still feeling like Marty Stewart. So I pulled out the vacuum and it transfigured. Just like Jesus did when Moses and Elijah showed up and the boys were all, “Hey! Let’s build a—” But God was all, “Yeah no. Sit down, dorks.”

And I caught it on film and the big soon-to-be-famous photographic PROOF that I own the Wondrous Vacuum of Blessing and Glory is right up there. Look at it. Look at the light and the angels and the sparks and the pixie dust and (by the way, I LOVE Red Bull)…

And who cares if everything in the house decided to start breaking down all at the same time, along with the car? Who cares if the washing machine decided to go out in a blaze of glory and take everyone with it? Who cares?

Because now I have a vacuum cleaner that, if you look, really close, you’ll see Mary.

Or Elvis.

Or all that sparkly whipping-wavy splashy stuff the ABC network logo does, and—

…wait, is that another Red Bull?

Because last weekend, Cute Redhead and I had an award-winning argument. And though we landed on our feet (thank you, God), and though the rest of the weekend unfolded with all manner of peace and quiet…

I just wasn’t prepared to walk into the kitchen today and see that she had made a:

Big.

Giant.

Mixing bowl.

Full.

FULL.

of Rice Chex.

Peanut Butter.

Chocolate.

and Powdered Sugar.

*blinks

*blinks again.

Someone save me.

(Addendum: Okay, she just walked in, read this and said, ‘lol well I think most people are going to just say that looks good.’)

Okay, I’m NOT arguing that….

BUT. A. WHOLE. MIXING. BOWL?!?!?

I am certain every piece of candy was counted, sorted, and traded in first round drafts until, comatose, each child was ushered off to bed.

I am certain I’m glad the Autumn curtain fell as it did with the snows, the friendliness and the overall good company of so many fine people. And as we move through the home picking up (already) more candy wrappers than I’m pleased to find (though I would have been doing the same thing were I as young and invincible), I’m grateful for the coming dormancy of winter.

I think of our table and of the altar it really is in every home…

…around it there have been meals without number, most of them wonderful…some not so much. Some slow and languid, others rushed and fragmented, to put it mildly.

…there have been the most memorable conversations and, unfortunately, conversations edged with a prim politeness toward one another because the tension in the air got in the way of a heart’s better courtesies. There has been much laughter and not a few tears. There has been a terrific bubbling fount of Mom! Dad! Guess What! and no shortage of I Said Leave Your Brother Alone.

A lot has happened around that table. And I’m looking forward to the upcoming months of relative hibernation as the colder weather closes in and the fire in the hearth affords more chess games than the backyard affords any chance of the warmer weather’s game-playing.

In this house there is always something to clean up.

There is always someone to feed.

There is always laundry to be done.

There is always, daily, world without end, myriad ways to step into life…or, better said, myriad places to invite Life into the goings on.

There will be hurt.

There will be healing.

There will be plenty.

And want.

But there will always be, thank God, friends to connect with unexpectedly…

…like in hallways at cocktail parties, where five minutes of catching up give us what we need to get to the next place because we remember, again, that everyone is pretty much in the same season, working double-time to navigate the best and the not-so-best.

Here’s hoping that, as we enter our relative dormancies, our reflections and pauses come to fruition in real words said that bind up and bind together, real actions that make real differences; that tables are surrounded with life and living and joys and sorrows and every inward and outward texture that makes up the fabric in which we live and walk and run-too-fast, tear down and mend back up once again.

And, as difficult as it was to have to choose just two, I’m going with the two that actually made me laugh out loud for real as soon as I read them:

Nancy B. (Colorado) and Dave S. (Minnesota).

Thanks for playing, everyone, and keep an eye out for the next contest giveaway soon!

“You:  —out.”

And just like that, I was removed from the room. Run off and unceremoniously dismissed by a monstrous regiment of women, made up of every nurse in the hospital, every female in the state, every ovary in the solar system, my mother-in-law, the (female) doctor, and my wife.

No explanation other than, “You haven’t eaten in twelve hours. Go. Get out of here. Leave her to us.” And inasmuch as I had no working category for what had just come over me, I did know that, in spite of the fact that I never wanted to leave her side again, I better get food in my body before it was being picked up off the floor and fed intravenously. And, besides, there was something newly flattering about what I’d just been called.

I left the room, navigated the hallways which had, in the space of half a day, gone from labyrinthine to second-nature, and made my way to find nourishment.

And, on the way, my nose closing in on the sources, I was suddenly flash-backed to a Very Deep Quiet…because of the aroma of something like incense. From what felt like, what sounded like, what smelled like Very Long Ago.

So I interrupted my direction, famished as I was, to follow the redolent invitation…because I knew what this meant. And, turning, the corner…I was right.

A chapel.

And the Very Deep Quiet.

Considering the great risk in the simple act of sitting down in a pew (I was exhausted enough to wonder whether I’d get back up), I took my place and did my level best to hold it together. And lost. Because, about two hours before…

…I was holding her hand and leaning in toward her face, turned toward me. Then away. The strain and the endurance palpable. If there’s a more acicular feeling of helplessness as a man, I’ve not encountered it. But I held her hand hoping she would crush it in a vice grip, forcing me to somehow share the struggle and soothe my insecurities.

But she didn’t. And that arrested my attention more than I can find words, because it meant that she was, by herself, absorbing the momentum of delivering our baby. And though I was there, that’s all I was.

And my face down by hers, trying to comfort, the room fell completely quiet, and then the strangest thing in the world happened: it got even Quieter. Or somber. Or sacred. Or Something. A perfect Stand Still.

Words really do fail.

But I noticed it immediately and raised my head to see the smiling face of the older woman there standing on the other side of my wife massaging her back, a wonderful friend who journeyed with us a long way and whom we invited to be in the delivery room for the arrival. And she was several steps ahead of me, meeting my confused wondering with a gentle and knowing smile. And just three words to tell me what was happenning.

To which I responded, “…what do you mean, ’she has a transmission?’” (Thanks, hearing loss.)

Louder, Trying Not To Laugh At The Man Whisper: “No…she’s in transition.”

And in an instant, though I couldn’t quite graph what I’d just been told, I was told enough to give purchase to my seeking mind and understand that, where my wife was now was a place I could not join her. Nor could any other person. Not in this most crucial space.

She was in the midst of what I’ve heard called The Craft of the Father. That is, the space where Life comes through the woman at a soul level, and at its most profound moment, when the Door between this world and the next swings open. I just happened to be in the room and realized shoes were a desecration, because this just became hallowed ground.

Much freneticism.

Nurses, doctor, monitor, one more time, you can do it, you have to.

And then he breached the old with one very lusty cry, announcing the arrival of our New Normal, all seven pounds and one ounces of him.

And the doctor held him with assurance and expertise. While still he cried and protested.

So, I left her to go cradle him. And got very near his little face. And spoke his name for the very first time.

“August…”

A statement, not a question. Because that is your name and I am your daddy (that was the newly flattering name I’d just been called).

And he opened his eyes. And I was the first thing he ever saw.

And, as God is my witness, he didn’t cry again for the rest of the day. Nor did he close his eyes until the weight of the journey came to rest heavily on his little shoulders and sleep overtook him later that afternoon.

At which point the women pushed me out of the room unapologetically.

At which point I went to find a cafeteria.

At which point I smelled something wonderful.

At which point I smelled something Quiet.

At which point I sat down for a man to Man.

At which point I began crying like the newborn I’d met not too long ago.

At which point I thanked God for the blessed little loan, and then promised Him I’d do my level best to see him safely back Home someday.

At which point it became important to me to be the kind of daddy that showed this little boy how to one day form his own friendship with God.

At which point, seven years later, after tucking him in bed and turning out the light and then turning to leave the room, I heard:

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“I think I’m ready to start my friendship with Jesus now.”

At which point, everything came to another perfect stand still.

At which point I thanked God for the darkness because eyes full of tears and a face full of Do. Not. Choke. Up. have a way of getting in the way of introductions.

Which really wasn’t an introduction at all.  Well…maybe it was a formality. Because we’d been trying to love Love into this youngling from the first moment we realized we were sobered out of Not Knowing and thrown onto the shore of You Don’t Even Know You Don’t Know, in the form of learning how to waltz with a toddler standing on the tops of your feet while you kept dancing barefoot in the kitchen.

Through the years.

And the mistakes.

And the diapers, the carriers, the first night out just the two of us again, the shots, the first steps, the removal of training wheels, and the moments still too potent, and lethal to my heart, and beautiful in my heart, and painful all the same, to write about (so I won’t).

Right up to the moment when God stood waiting for an introduction, in Divine Humility, while I said to my son…

“August…”

One Very Happy fourth grader…

…and one Very Happy second-grader…

…willing to let her brother bury her in the snow

…is rescued by one Very Loyal Golden Retarded

…winning the devotion of the Damsel of Pink Mittens

…earning himself accolades and awards in the form of whoozagooboy? huh?? WHOOZAGOOBOY??

…which doesn’t mean you get to to shred the Damsel’s Mitten, Bailey, so drop it right now an—

—DON’T YOU ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME!

Right now, right outside my window, Colorado is going bonkers. That is, if it’s possible for a weather pattern to lose its mind in the form of more snow than anyone in their right mind would think appropriate, let alone called for.

But Colorado (or her natives) (or her transplants) are not noted for their restraint either, so turnabout is fair play. Sometimes you just have to go with it and let loose. Like today when I drove home from picking up Beta Male and The Princess of This World and The Next in the big giant SUV (and it is big. and giant.) And on the way home, coming ever so sure-footedly (sure-wheeledly) down the street…all the snow on planet earth decided to slide off the roof.

And onto the windshield. Stopping the wipers from any hope of any chance of any movement.

The kids laughed. And then didn’t laugh because they thought I was blinded. But I wasn’t. There was just enough of visibility for me to go into full Dad’s Got It, Relax mode and realize that, not only were we safe…

…we were the only ones on the street.

And that, of course, meant I had to slam the pedal to the floor and remove the snow off the windshield. By forcing enough centrifugal force to make it slide off. In the form of a doughnut. Or six.

So, in celebration of the snow turning me into a lunatic (behind the wheel of an SUV in eighteen feet of snow with two screaming laughing howler monkeys in the front seat with me back seat flying around in circles so that we could get home and make hot chocolate…)

I’m giving away two brand new Waltzing in Perdition mugs! For hot chocolate! Yay! Or coffee! Yay! Or whatever you like drinking when you realized the snow has handed you a Hall Pass in the form of Go Play!

I’ll randomly award one a piece to the two winners who answer the following question and make me laugh out loud (not just the typed version…the real laughing out loud version):

“What’d you REALLY think the last time you woke up to 48 inches of snow?”

The contest starts now! I’ll announce the winners on Friday! Go!!

Would you look at that?

If that isn’t Christmas breathing down our necks, I don’t know what is.

I stepped out on the front porch this morning to give Mother Nature a chance to explain Herself and couldn’t deny Her the fine handiwork.

But for that red and green enduring, it’s white everywhere.

Everything, innocent again.

I’ve a friend back home in Michigan who, if she reads this, will smile. Because I know without having to ask that, with every first snow, she too thinks about chocolate pie and Miracle on 34th Street (the original version).

I’ve another friend in L.A. who reminds me of this old piece, titled ‘Good Timber’:

The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.

The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.

Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.

Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.

The snow is still falling, bigger flakes now than even half an hour ago. It’s quieting everything and making all the schools call it quits (except ours, of course lol). It’s like a big freeze-frame.

But this photo one more time, which I saw when I stepped out on the porch, way over on the far side of the house and very hidden by the boughs of the giant pine tree towering over it. And the color and the fact of it reminded me, again:

There is never nothing going on.

…looks to me like Mother Nature is about to remind us all that Winter is alive and well.

And look what She left all over my backyard too.

(Alright, I confess…these are photos from last winter. But let’s be honest…we know it’s coming lol).

Boys? Lend me your ears.

So, you know how it is when you (not us, it’s others) are all wrapped around the axle, and amped up, and wired for sound, and annoyed, and on the Very Rare rampage through your world?

And you know how it is when you (not us, it’s others) can’t do anything right, and you don’t know whether to beat the living stew out of something or sit yourself right down and plan to tell your buddies you watched UFC…and you were going to. You honest to God were going to.

But on the way to that channel, you ran right into Beaches.

And it was all over.

Okay.

So I was sorta’ wondering…

…what if some guys (not us, it’s others) actually do have…a…

um…

you know. *rolls eyes over in that direction*

I mean…I know I’ve observed it. I know I have. I know I’ve seen some dude having the guy version of a hissing fit that made me certain he hadn’t been able to zip up his pants all week and there are no more Dove bars to make all the pain go away.

I know I’ve seen this.

In fact, I’ve seen worse. Much worse.

Not in any of you, guys. My goodness, no. Perish the thought.

And as certain as I am that all our wives, all our girls, all our ladies would openly deny ever having witnessed anything, on our parts, as unbecoming as an emotional dip in our granite constructs (here I flex), I can’t help but feel it something obligatory to weigh in on this very rare condition.

That is, He-MS.

And, again, I was sorta’ wondering…

…wouldn’t it be helpful for the guys (not us, it’s others) who have (it’s just a rumor) been known to have a…I don’t know…a moment, let’s say…to have a web site where we could all just set our beers down, try for all the world to make eye contact with our comrades in arms, and admit that it really does hurt knowing we have our mother’s thighs?

And wouldn’t it be great if the web site had a podcast? And wouldn’t it be great if it was a place where they (not us, it’s others) could…I don’t know…make fun, let’s say…of how we they get sometimes? And wouldn’t it be hilarious if there were all kinds of Guys Only things going on there? And wouldn’t it be great if I and (you know who you are) some other dude had a forum to…I don’t know…go off, let’s say.

And wouldn’t it be great if the ladies (most, not all) laughed too? Because they (most, not all) realized we’re making fun of ourselves other guys (not us, it’s others) and not them?

What’s that? You think it’d be cool??

Seriously?

Funny. Because so do I.

First Things First: these photos were all taken on my iPhone. So if you’re impressed with that (and you should be), you’re missing the point. Because though the iPhone is this cool, Colorado is even more amazing…and you have to work really hard to get a bad photograph at the Sand Dunes.

Or in the Tetons…

But you can try. To get a bad photograph, that is.

I mean, if you can stop laughing at how boys come out of the box knowing instinctively, that when you happen upon water like this on the trail, it’s a Mortal Sin to not take advantage of the miracle.

So, there’s just a little more from last summer’s travel log. And there’s more to come. I think I’ll be revisiting these images often through the winter.

Because I can’t wait to go back for more.

And, yes, I teamed up with the Princess of Light and Splendor to rescue from a trash bin a discarded cardboard box.

And, yes, I reinforced it, taped, it, cut it, painted it, painted it again, measured, cut a little more, and fashioned for the little doll a costume her friends will ooh and ahh all over.

And, yes, it’s pink.

And, yes, I sat down with Cute Redhead and Alpha Male and revisited The Grades That Could Be Better, and did a (thank you God) good job of navigating the three of us through that one. Together.

And, yes, we kept our cool. And, yes, he listened. And, yes, Grace and Gentle really does engender sonship (again, thank you, God.)

And, yes, I did manage a private father-to-Beta man-to-man about respecting his sister’s boundary lines, “…so you’re going to have leave her costume alone no matter how cool you think it is.” (And it is.)

And, yes, I sat and watched this amazing snow fall in deepening light that rendered every color like a hard light filter on a theater stage.

And, yes, there was a fire going.

And, yes, there were mouths to feed.

And, no, I didn’t take the remnants of the roasted chicken and in the space of (I promise am not exaggerating this even a little bit) ten minutes, produce homemade chicken and rice soup out of (what might as well have been) thin air.

And, no, none of us could contain ourselves.

And, no, these three children have never ONCE sat down and fairly gushed over something so perfectly tasting that they sprouted Generosity Lobes fully matured on the first spoonfuls, offering what they wouldn’t finish to the highest bidder.

And, no, there was no auction. Because, no, there was none left.

So…*sigh*…once again…

…no matter what Dad does…

…only Mom can work magic like all that.

(It’s a long one, so grab your coffee and get comfortable.)

It all started with that idiot family who hoaxed the whole world a few weeks back with the balloon thing. It’s all over now and I hope that whack job dad sits in prison for the rest of his life for what he put everyone me through. But, before all that…

…I was working away, minding my own business, doing all the Very Important Todd Things I do everyday, when my neighbor knocked on the door and, opening it, met me with this: “Turn on your TV.”

Okay…”turn on your TV,” since 9/11 has no other potential meaning besides Something Very Bad Is Happening Right now, and my brain went immediately into BioNuclearWhereAreTheKids mode. So turning on the television, I saw what the rest of the country saw: that stupid balloon FLYING across the sky with (as far as I and every other parent watching at the moment was concerned) MY SIX YEAR OLD SON INSIDE.

And that’s all the attention I’m giving that lunatic fringe family, because it only served as reason to throw a cocktail party. Which went like this:

Very Cool Friend on Phone: “Are you watching this?!”

Me: “Yes!”

Very Cool Friend: “I can’t take it anymore!”

Me: “Neither can I! It’s high time we threw a cocktail party!”

Very Cool Friend: “Yay!”

And so we did. In fact, we even put it on the calendar right then and there instead of letting it slip away into one of those Oh Let’s Get Together Sometime things which we all say and never mean (but usually do mean them when we say them), we just mostly never actually follow through and do the actual getting together, no matter how great an idea it is when we say it.

But this time we did. Right on the spot. Because we were amped up and Parent-Panicked and in need of good friends and all the light-hearted banter and good clean fun that comes with cocktail parties.

I sit here now, coffee very close at hand, recalling with amusement the day and a half of preparation for the party, as well as the party itself (which I haven’t yet figured out how or even if I’m going to be able to write about) (it was that good). And I’ve been wondering for several days if I could actually pull off writing about what it’s like to get ready for a party when your wife would like to wrap you in razor wire and set you on fire.

Because I sort of forgot to tell her that I told a few people we were going to have a little get together. And by ’sort of forgot to tell her’ I mean I completely forgot to tell her for about four days. And by ‘about for days’ I think I mean about a week. I can’t really remember and I don’t see the point in remembering, because by ‘a few people’ I mean I decided phone calls and hand-written invitations are for sissies and decided I would just go ahead and invite Facebook.

And by ‘invite Facebook’ I’m happy to report that I actually mean exactly that: I invited Facebook. Which I thought was brilliant but which a few people remained unclear on the brilliance of such that I had to revisit the invitation on Facebook and explain why a few people couldn’t find their names on the guest list. And that went like this:

Me: “Oh.Well…that’s because there is no guest list.”

Smarter Person Than Me: “A ha. No guest list. I see. And…um…exactly how does anyone know if they’re invited?”

Me: “Because I invited them in Facebook Land. And I decided that ‘if I like you in Facebook Land, then I probably like you in real life,’ so just come on over at our hou—okay, you know, these aren’t big words I don’t see why this is all so confusing. It’s cocktails, not theoretical math.”

Smarter Person Than Me: “Ewwkay. And what’s Jane had to say about all this?”

Me: “About what?”

Smarter Person Than Me: “…your upcoming funeral.”

So, I somewhere after all that, got around to mentioning to Cute Redhead that a few people would be stopping by on Friday night. Which she actually thought was nice and light-hearted and oh-maybe-I’ll-make-a-little-something-to-nibble-on and all that. And I just knew this was going to be a really fun evening with nice music in a nice setting practically carbonated with really cool people.

Until she asked me how many people would be coming over and at what time and how many kids should we plan on and I need to know exactly who can’t eat wheat because I’ll make chili and cornbread but it will be gluten-free and what about the so-and-so’s did you invite them and I need to know right now who has RSVP’d and we have to clean the house and wash every plate and dish in the county and what in the hell do you mean you invited Facebook?

And things sort of…well…unraveled from that point on. Because it was Thursday afternoon and we were officially in Get Ready mode. And I’m a guy so I didn’t quite appreciate the critical nature of Get Ready mode enough to satisfy Cute Redhead’s level of National Security which had taken over her brain. And her ovaries.

Because I apparently decided to throw a little get together at the same…um…time…that she felt more like throwing me and all other human males into a tree shredder. And I’m really, really hoping that’s as far as I have to go in trying to say, without actually saying, exactly what sort of um…mood…she was in during Get Ready mode.

And Get Ready mode, I now know, involves cleaning everything. Twice. In the exact order Cute Redhead has clearly outlined. Three times. On paper. Because she even wrote down, on paper, exactly what she needed taken care of before the ‘little get together.’ Which I am not writing about here because you’re just going to have to be patient until I can write out that whole other You Are So Making This Up (which I won’t be making up).

So…I began cleaning. Everything. Because the little get together has now ballooned into numbers tipping the scale into No Fire Marshall In The World Could Sign Off On That Many People In One Building (thank you, Facebook). And I was full-tilt in Male Limbic Brain mode and I had music cranking all over the house while I began cleaning: the bathroom, the kitchen, the basement, the floors, the dishes…

…while….

…seeing to it that Alpha Male and Beta Male sat down and got their homework done or they could kiss goodbye anything they thought they’d be doing until that homework is done young man an—DON’T YOU ROLL YOUR EYES ME BUCKO! and all that…

…while…

…she took the Princess of Pink Nails and Sparkles to Costco to get all the Things You Have To Have For Parties.

And when she came back the bathroom was CLEAN. And the dishes were CLEAN. And the basement was CLEAN. And I happen to know all of these things were cleaned because

I. CLEANED. THEM.

And I remember cleaning them because when I *sat down in the chair in the living room to clear my head of the fragrant afterglow of 409-SoftScrub-Windex-Tilex-PineSol-Cascade-Murphys-Oil-Soap-Gun-Powder-Jet-Fuel, which by now had sent me on a mind-shattering magic carpet ride (that’s how dizzy I was, and right here I’d like to recommend that if you ever undertake cleaning any room with any of this stuff, you remember to either open a window or turn on the fan thing in the bathroom or they’re going to find you half in the bath tub and half out, passed out and drooling all over yourself, positioned in such a way that, should it be photographed, will ruin any future hopes of a congressional appointment.)

Okay. Get used to those little asterisks I recruit now and then, because when I use them like I just did, I mean to come back to them and explain something. Something like this:

*Sitting down in the chair in the living room to clear your head for a quick moment after three hours of non-stop cleaning somehow equals “You know what, honey? I don’t like you. In fact, I hate all your outfits, you have no taste in music, your hair looks like you styled it with a blender, and and I’m not even sure the kids are mine.”

The ensuing ‘conversation,’ brought on by my sitting down so that I could catch my breath, is not publishable important. It involved accusations thoughtful suggestions and maniacal histrionics intelligently articulated and ordered lunacy logic from her both of us, and eyes wider than a rabid yorkshire terrier considerate glances accompanied with really not nice name calling cute little things we call each other that only we get.

Because we disagreed about super-glueing a broken pencil.

Please read that again.

We disagreed about super-glueing a broken pencil. Which came about 35 minutes before I sat down to catch my breath because I was higher than a kite from the cleaning solutions tripping through my brain like I was three days into a weeklong jaunt around the Northwest with the Grateful Dead. Which came after I went outside to figure out why the parking lights on Cute Redhead’s car wouldn’t turn off. Which Cute Redhead asked me to investigate. Which I was investigating on the internet because the internet has been known to afford something akin to a clearing house for answers to all sorts of random questions like ‘why in the world are her parking lights not turning off?’ Which was interrupted when the Princess of Pink Nails and Sparkles broke Beta Male’s big giant Mickey Mouse-shaped pencil (I’m not making this up) because she thought it looked “bendy.”

Now, if any of that wasn’t clear I can’t help you. Because I’m not revisiting it. Ever again. For the rest of my life. Because I’m this close to crying all over again right now. It was that scary.

Because when I *sat down in the chair in the living room to catch my breath* I fired enough brain synapses to reach for my laptop and Google: “Dear Google gods, you are most high and lofty and to be praised. Please, may your lowly servant request an audience and plumb the depths of your all-knowingness and know the secret to turning off the parking lights in a (certain make and model)? Thank you, O Google gods, may you live forever.”

And I got my answer. At the same time the Princess and Beta Male gave me another opportunity to earn my honorary degree in criminal justice. Because we had on our hands a Crisis and a broken Mickey Mouse-shaped pencil had just been brought before the grand jury. Which Beta Male is an EXPERT at convening when pretty much anything certain things don’t go exactly his way pan out in a way that’s fair to all involved parties. At which point Cute Redhead and I disagreed about the necessity of looking for and finding RIGHT NOW the Krazy-Glue® in order to (I am not making this up) glue

GLUE

a stupid pencil back together.

(Official Disclaimer): Okay, in Cute Redhead’s total defense, I get it. Even though it was ‘just a pencil,’ and hunting down the Krazy-Glue® seemed, to me at the moment, the biggest waste of energy and time and over-nurturing I have ever seen in my life…I get it.

Like this: There really is going to be a lot of really hard things in their lives we really won’t be able to fix. But this we could fix. So. Krazy-Glue® for a broken pencil.

And for the record, it worked, so she more or less won that one.

Not that any of us married people ever trip all over ourselves to need to be right about anything. Or win. Anything.

(End Official Disclaimer)

Now. Poor Male Limbic Brain wasn’t firing all 96 cylinders at the moment. So it hadn’t partitioned off the atoms necessary to understand why *sitting down in the chair in the living room to catch its breath while looking for the answer (and finding it) to why the parking lights wouldn’t turn off, while helping siblings not kill each other outright, invoked the following comment from Cute Redhead, who happened to pass through the room at that very moment.

And here’s the comment: “Are you going to help me at all?”

And that’s when I lost it. Okay? I lost it.

So this is me, admitting right in front of God and everybody, that I lost it. I had been (whine whine whine) for THREE hours straight while (whine whine whine) so that the kids could (whine whine violin music whine) so that this (colorful metaphor) cocktail party could sustain (all the people on Facebook) and I had (whine whine whine) pretty much hit my limit of how much…

…mood…

…I could cheerfully absorb. As in “absorb the momentum of,” I mean. As in the tone, force, and…mood…of her seemingly benign comment had a lot of unseen moving parts. Beginning with this:

(God to the heavenly host): “Yall know what? I’m *yaaAAAaawn* feeling kinda bored. Hey I know! Watch this! Clary is about to get his— hee hee hee, okay I’m not going to ruin it just watch.”

And it devolved from that moment forward for the next hour while Cute Redhead and I sat down. And talked. And resolved it.

And *apologized.

Cute Redhead: “…okay, *maybe I overreacted.”

Me: “…okay, maybe the Titanic hit the iceberg.”

And then all that eclipsed whatever reason I originally conjured up for a cocktail party, because now I thought it high time we celebrate another award-winning episode of Extreme Marriage: Our Edition.

Excellent.

So remember when the engines go all supernova and blast the rocket into outer space? And then remember how after the contrails are wispy white and the cheers have faded and the mission is well underway, how you’d go down to the launch pad and peer down into the cavernous cavern where all that supernova stuff took place a bit ago? And remember seeing what it looked like?

Okay, it looks just like our stove and that’s a photo of it right up there. I remember spaghetti sauce, Ravioli, bacon, cookie dough smoke (yes, smoke) that permeated the kitchen every time that burner was turned on because, though my kids definitely can muster the energy to bake cookies…they apparently can’t drum up the energy to remove the lump of the stuff so that we don’t cook it into every meal for the next week and a half.

There’s Sloppy Joe’s going on, and scrambled eggs, and no matter what I type from here on by way of home-cooked meals…nothing is going to eclipse how disgusting that looks.

So.

Don’t even try pretending yours don’t or haven’t looked just like that. And don’t even try pretending you’re still not grossed out anyway, because even I can’t fake that one.

But don’t even bother making fun of us about this, because tomorrow we’re throwing a big fat giant cocktail party (Just Because) and I’ll be buying shiny, new, pristine oven-catch-all things, so that our guests don’t discuss Our Complete Inability To Clean A Stove over the cocktails I just mentioned.

And then I’m donating the old ones to the Air & Space Museum.

I close my eyes and think, “I never dreamed that once upon a time I’d have three children bouncing off the walls like primate extras on the set of Planet of the Apes.”

Because once upon a time, I didn’t.

Once upon a time I didn’t have Bailey the Golden Retarded sprawl himself out forcing a total reset of the chessboard because of his big fat butt.

Once upon a time I didn’t have a recalcitrant teenage boy, who so desperately needs his [backside] handed to him in chess, handing mine to me.

Once upon a time I didn’t have a child sitting at the restaurant table kicking kicking kicking the table, who had no idea what I meant when I gently seethed, “sit…indian…style,” which then forced me to switch vernacular gears and basically let the whole room hear me not-so-gently seethe, “CRISS-CROSS-APPLE-SAUCE!”

Once upon a time I didn’t have a tiny little daughter chucking Attitude all over the room because I denied her enough sugar to stop all brain activity stone cold, and insist she actually eat the food on her plate.

Once upon a time I didn’t have a Cute Redhead, who had no concept of whistling anything resembling a melody, whistling things resembling nothing like melody. Loudly.

All the time.

Once upon a time I didn’t have a cat that has less short-term memory function than Dory from Finding Nemo, and who (if cats can actually do this) mourns for food like her dish is the Wailing Wall.

Every ten minutes.

Once upon a time I didn’t start my day bright and early while the soft, gentle snowflakes lighted upon the windowpane while I poured myself a cup of coffee…but not before setting the coffee container on top of the refrigerator, altering the available surface area.

Once upon a time I didn’t see a bottle come FLYING off the top of the refrigerator, hit my hand holding the cup of black bubbling napalm coffee, then land on the sugar bowl.

Once upon a time I had no working category for a sugar bowl triple-back-flipping like it just nailed a perfect ten in the Coffee Olympics.

Once upon a time I would have had to answer, “No,” had you asked me if I’ve ever seen sugar EXPLODE in midair like a bomb went off in a fifty pound sack of sand.

Once upon a time I didn’t have the dishwasher open because I was unloading it while all this happened, and watch the (now empty) sugar bowl fall and bust into a million heat-seeking shards of glass while, at the same time, cover the clean dishes like soft, gentle snowflakes.

Once upon a time I lived in a fairy tale world where none of these things happened.

But then my Once Upon A Time was woken from its sleeping beauty and I found myself surrounded by grumpy, happy, dopey, bashful, sneezing little dwarves, whistling fair maidens, cheshire cats, and one dog I truly hope never leaves us and goes to heaven. Or his big fat butt.

This is what you call Living The Dream.

Because…

The snow is still falling softly and gently. The house has stopped rocking. The kids are fed, safe, and warm. The Golden Retarded is snoring at my feet, and I can see the cat’s tail (only the tail) sticking out from under the couch over there. Cute Redhead’s “whistling” has throttled back to that hum she hums when she’s whisking around picking up this and straightening up that, and me, the High-Powered Man Who Just Got His [backside] Handed To Him In Chess, has made it to the end of the day which, two hours ago, looked for all the world like it’d never end.

And I happen to believe that, one day, I’ll sit in some Too Quiet, close my eyes…

…and daydream it all back.

Okay. Mother Nature made good on her warning and woke us up following through, just like a good mom does. She didn’t have to raise her voice, but when She says snow, She means it.

The first of the season.

As snows go, it’s really nothing to get all worked up about. And since I was raised in Michigan, where you barely see the sunlight for about 7 months of the year, Colorado does a stellar work in the Best Of All Seasons department. In fact, the worst of Colorado’s winters are (lets be honest, transplants) a veritable joke compared to what She requires for the rest of the country when it comes to winter’s finest. That is, humidity enough to make 32˚ proof that Hell really did freeze over.

Not so much here. Technically speaking, freezing temperatures in Colorado have to hit the low teens, or lower, for us to notice. And add sunlight to those numbers and you’re donning a jacket or a sweater and calling it good.

I used to have no good thing to say about seeing the end of summer. And even worse things to say about the advent of what’s falling outside my window right now. But, for some reason, I’m good with it this year. And that’s a big deal to me because I think it’s proof that I’m beginning to unclench my fists to Inevitables, and learning to move through What Is.

And, so, learning things.

Things like no matter how beautiful and quiet and gentle this first snow is, the kids who have Late Start and don’t head off to their schools for another two hours, still haven’t learned how to make my coffee, bring it to me in bed, start a fire (as specifics go, let’s be sure and indicate that that means ‘in the actual fireplace’), make their own breakfasts, and pack their own lunches.

Win some, lose some lol.

There’s this commercial where a young couple is walking hand-in-hand in the the park during the Fall. There is no dialogue and no need for it. I don’t recall the product or service being advertised. I’m going to guess it’s one of those Diamonds Are Forever commercials.

I just remember how they walked along, in love, and then caught up to a much older couple walking much more slowly. And then how, in order to keep walking and not disturb the pace of the elders, they *Let Go Of Each Other’s Hand, sort of smiled at each other and came around each side of the older man and woman and reconnected and kept walking.

But the younger woman, now ahead of the couple walking slowly, glances back and catches the eye of the older woman.

And they smile at each other.

And they get it. There’s ‘in love’ and then there’s Into Love. If you ask me anyway.

The first time I saw this commercial I resisted the eye roll (I’m a guy. It’s in The Rules…we have to roll our eyes at this sort of commercial)…and let myself think about how well they portrayed Journey. How well they captured the mellowed Finally Stopped Rushing Needlessly of the elder couple. How the younger couple, because they were walking too, were appreciated for their youth and all the ways They Didn’t Know The Didn’t Know. And how the elder couple smiled at them as if to, in the smiling, tell them, without words, “You’ll get here. You Will. And we can promise you it will look different than you think.”

It’s my strong belief, that that Getting There isn’t a newness…but a Return. A homecoming.

*Letting Go Of Each Other’s Hand. Did you catch that? When I saw the commercial a few more times, it began landing with precision: that there are times where you find yourself Letting Go like that, metaphorically…proverbially…whatever you want to call it. In the commercial everyone was smiling gently with no small measure of understanding. I like too how the elder couple stayed constant…slow…sure…steady…and secure…while the youngers drifted apart, not for very long…but apart. And then came back together.

It matters to all of us that there are couples much further down the road, or just up ahead around the bend, who’ve seen it all too. The commercial conveyed Letting Go as a momentary happening.

But sometimes the moments last longer than we wish they did. Sometimes the hands never come back together.

I’m looking for a quote by Tozer, I believe. It’s something like “…returning to the place you began and knowing it for the first time.” I can’t get it out of my head, and at the same time, I can’t recall it exactly. And it’s driving me nuts. If anyone knows it, please tell me what it is.

So.

I have been thoughtful, lately, a lot, of the first few steps Cute Redhead and I took together. I think of the silliness of premarital counseling (read: no one listens, none of us listened, and no one ever is going to listen, so let’s all be real about it lol). No need to bore anyone with any personal info about how she and I have, many times, stepped on each other’s feet learning to Waltz. There’s nothing new I can tell anyone who’s already on the dance floor.

But I titled this post “Dancing Barefoot In The Kitchen” because it conveys (or I want it to, anyway) to me a house in desperate need of a housekeeper, dinner started twice now because the first pot of pasta boiled the water into vapor and then scalded itself into the metal for the rest of eternity, homework, jobs, living paycheck to paycheck or with excess, loving like cats and dogs (that is, when there’s time) (and there’s not), and all the other moving parts that make up Journey.

And the times where, in the midst of the insanity, I’ve snared Cute Redhead who’s tried to pass through the kitchen safely, swung her into me to dance. With music. Or no music. Or just to give her a hug so that we can recite our famous lines to each other:

Either Of Us: “I love you.”

Then The Other (all forlorn and resigned): “No you don’t…*sigh*, but that’s nice of you to say.”

And then, having walked around the promise that We’ll Get There, and holding hands again, we keep walking.

And dancing.

It’s just not going to look the way you thought it would lol…

1. the male equivalent of PMS
2. a state of irritability, moodiness, and occasional bloating that occurs only in men

“Man, what’s up with Brad? He’s wearing sweatpants and glaring at everyone.”
“Oh yeah, he couldn’t zip up his jeans and has been cranky all week.”

That’s all I’m saying for now…but you’ll wanna keep your eyes and ears open for something pretty fun coming down the pike pretty soon that’s pretty much going to take things to a whole new level lol.

I’ll keep you posted when we’re ready for the Big Reveal.

In the backyard, next to the Best Tree Fort in the World, near what will be the Best Garden on the Block (next year) stands the grapevine. And there’s a recent photo of it, right up there.

Cute Redhead is at a college reunion this weekend and returns later this evening and, boy, has she needed the time away to recalibrate and reconnect. While she’s been gone, the kids and I have managed to stay fed, clothed, and emotionally and physically intact. No cuts, bruises, blood, broken bones, traffic tickets, or anything. Total success.

But while she’s been gone, that grapevine shed its verdant and let out its Autumn ensemble. Which is fine. But then, over the ensuing three days, it went from that to dried up and brown and not at all beautiful. A bit too fast for my liking.

And this is just my roundabout way of inferring that, three days without The Hub in the Wheel is just about enough, thank you very much, and I want my Her back now.

And I’d write more about all the craziness that’s gone on while she’s been away…but that’d take time away from the:

dishes

vacuuming

laundry

etc., etc., etc.,

that I have to take care of lest The Return devolve into The Sentencing lol.

First, take the only existing set of keys to the SUV and lock them in the SUV. Make sure the house key is with them. Make sure your laptop, your phone, your life, your soul, your identity, the original plans to the Death Star, Jimmy Hoffa, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and your wallet is also in there.

Next, have your wife step outside the front door right then and ask, “Honey, will you go pick up Beta Male from soccer practice?”

Next, be the picture of calm restraint and say, “Um. Yes. But I’ll need your car keys because I just locked mine in my car.” When she responds with, “Oh. No.” (because you both just realize that seven years getting away with that single key just saw its pitiful end), you just go, “I’ll figure it out later,” and you go pick up child from soccer practice.

Next, at the soccer practice field, look for child for Typical Minute Where You Should See Him because the entire 4 – 12 year old population of America is running around.

After the Typical Minute Where You Should Have Seen Him, the brain goes into Hm Mode.

After Hm Mode, the eyes narrow ever so slightly and the Relaxed Casual Parent Adrenal System prepares to dump eight and a half cubic tons of Panic into the bloodstream.

But the first sign of this comes in the form of Eyes Narrow Ever So Slightly because now you’re in Hawk Mode. Hawk Mode is recruited with Nuclear Face Recognition Software Version 10 Million right after Hm Mode has been exhausted in order to instantaneously observe, sift, categorize and determine presence of Could Be Missing Child every potential candidate (read: every child within a 900-mile radius).

All women are born with this because they all come out of the box hooked up via Advanced DNA-Fusion Reactors into the Universal Uterus. If there is a missing kid, for even 28 seconds, every mom in the world instantly goes into 24/7 Red Alert.

All men are not born with this. But the first time it happens to any man, that man grows a uterus on the spot. It’s just how it is, I don’t make the rules so take your complaint somewhere else, boys.

After Hawk Mode comes up with No Results, the space of time between Levelheaded Calm to Abject Panic Over Obscene Plausible Outcomes is in direct proportion to the current content of your bowels.

By the fourth phone call back and forth between myself and Cute Redhead, our voices betraying all of the above without ever having to explain a single bit of it, I have traversed this entire continuum no less than five times. Each phone call devolved into Quicker, Quieter, and Hold It Together. We are full tilt into:

He’s Been Gone For 45 Minutes And Nobody Has Seen Him mode.

I have run up and down the entire soccer field. That is, fields. That is, a 747 could land on this stretch of greenbelt and I’m not kidding. I see other parents and my grim courtesy to their “Hey Todd, sup?” immediately conveys to them Something’s Not Right. Urgency fans out, rippled-effect and clairvoyant. Parents are called. Nothing. Coach is called. Nothing.

End With: Wife calls.

“…Stop. He’s here. He’s home. I don’t know when he got here or how. But he’s okay.”

Say nothing until I’m certain I can say it with no indication that the relief of those words has a lump in my throat, because I hate crying, even in front of her.

Exhale. “Okay. Good. Okay, I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

Drive home nearly intoxicated with Thank God.

Not much more to waste time articulating, because it can’t be articulated. Just stare straight ahead and let the Obscene Plausible know it can clear the room, and clear your mind. Just stare.

And Thank God.

Then.

When you get home to have your wife say, “Ha ha. We can laugh about it now, ha ha. Can you believe I actually HAD a whole conversation with him thirty minutes ago and DON’T EVEN REMEMBER IT?? Ha ha!”

“Um. What?”

That photo up there?

That’s me thinking, “…did you really, honest-to-God-in-heaven…just put me…through all tha—DO YOU REALIZE I WAS FLYING F-L-Y-I-N-G AROUND THIS NEIGHBORHOOD LOOKING FOR PEDOPHILES, SERIAL KILLERS, AN—?!?”

And she goes (and I promise I am not making this up): “Ha. Yeah.”

And that’s why I started drinking at 4 in the afternoon, and I’m not making that up either.

(Cute Redhead and I just had a big argument. She accused me, I accused her. We got all knotted up and wrapped around the axel and then laughed. Because I told her ‘You drive me absolutely up the wall. And I absolutely love you.’ And then she smiled (tried not to smile) and said, ‘Well…you drive me absolutely up the wall too.’ And that was that lol. So the time I was going to use to write today’s story was all used up by her Not Giving Me An Inch. So, here’s a fitting story of What It’s Really Like Around Here, straight out of A Beautiful Hell. I hope you enjoy it. Just like I’m about to enjoy my next gin and tonic.)

Her office is eight feet by six feet and, except for the few bright, happy photographs of me and the kids, a repository of boxes (I promise I am not making this up) stacked TO. THE. CEILING. Full of environmentally-scientific graphs and charts and models and Best Management Practices, and when I say stacked to the ceiling I mean just that: stacked to the ceiling.

I don’t get to her office very often because…well…because she’s sort of forbidden me from ever stepping foot inside a fifty foot perimeter. Or seventy-five foot perimeter. Or whatever the restraining order is all snitty about (something to do with my delivering flowers to her on our wedding anniversary and telling the receptionist to say they were from ‘her knight in tightie-whities.’) Whatever.

Now, normally, I would enlist the most discriminating and professional demeanor when I’m around this sort of thing…but…well…I just sort of can’t. I mean, I’m a Right Brain for God’s sake. And offices where they throw around jokes like “ha ha! did you hear the one about the biogeophysicalchemical cycle? it GOT A FLAT!” are just asking for it, if you ask me. And, to be honest, delivering the roses that day (one rose for each year of our waltz), but letting the receptionist take them back to her office instead of me was the zenith of self-control. And, yes, I really did tell her to say, “they’re from your knight in tightie-whities.” The receptionist thought this was hilarious. Wife did not. It went like this:

[ring] “Hi there, sweety! Happy anniversary! Did you like the flow—”

“I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

“…done what? You don’t like the flowers?”

“The flowers are beautiful.”

“Good. Count them. There’s one for each year symbolizing sixteen years of uninterrupted, perfect bliss and the blessed occasion of your life-long sentencing without parole.”

[she laughed] “Yeah, whatever. I just wish you hadn’t said ‘knight in tightie-whities.’”

“Yeah, whatever. Just be glad I didn’t walk back to your office singing Copacabana…because you know I would have if I wasn’t certain it would have given you an aneurysm.”

When she arrived home that afternoon, we commemorated the anniversary in that most romantic of styles that only the most romantic of couples do in that most romantic of ways: by going to Target.

So, my wife, the brilliant high-powered scientist and I, the brilliant high-powered Man, went to Target with one goal: to come home with a whole new ensemble of bedding, and shams, and pillows, and curtains, and linens, and aaAAAAaall the accoutrement required in order for the room to be “just right.”

It was maddening. She walked up and down aisle after aisle surveying this fabric, considering that comforter, comparing this bedskit, contrasting those curtains, and more or less weighing every possible color combination in the solar system. She was looking for the perfect look. She was looking for the right feel. She was looking for a bone marrow transplant as far as I was concerned, because this was impossible.

I can’t tell you how close I came to filling up the shopping cart with half the tools from Hardware Aisle, setting it on fire, and ramming it straight into Bedding Aisle.

The good news, though, is that we left the store with just the right assortment of Everything You Must Have To Make The Bed Look Just Right.

And she was happy. Happy. She, the high-powered scientist, had divested her high-powered mind of all things scientifically high-powered and relished in the womanly pleasure of fabric, and color, and textures, and matching, and contrasting, and happy, happy, happy. She was happy.

And then we got home and she hated it (you knew this was coming).

I should have known this was coming. I didn’t see this coming. What I did see, however, was my butt heading back to the store to switch out The Ugliest Comforter Ever Made for the Right One. Which I did. Cheerfuly (lie). I even called her from the store to make sure this was The Right One. It was.

And I brought it home. And she loved me for it. She loved me, and our marriage, and our sixteen years of uninterrupted, perfect bliss, and the way her Man cheerfully (lie) returned The Ugliest Comforter Ever Made and exchange it for The Right One. She loved me. She loved the new comforter. That is, until she looked at it and realized she hated that one, too.

So, on Third Trip Back to Stupid Store, her Man is no longer cheerfully (true) exchanging The Second Ugliest Comforter Ever Made for whatever the hell is behind Door Number Three. By now, Husband is eyeballing the lighter fluid in Camping Aisle and thinking he could light up the night sky like a Blitzkrieg and forget the whole damned thing.

But he doesn’t. He comes home with one she actually approved of. And good thing, because had he been forced to make Trip Number Four, he’d have also been forced to walk into her office the next day to witness her high-powered scientific mind implode under its own weight while he belted out Copacabana.

In his tightie-whities.

It’s this Subscribing to the RSS Feed thing. I’m trying to explain this to a few people half the world mortals who I love, and I keep screwing it up.

So. Let’s start at the beginning:

Is your computer plugged in? And don’t think I haven’t run into that one. If you knew how many people call, text, and email me EVERYDAY asking me to ‘fix it’ on their computers you would swear I was making it up. But I’m not making it up. And by ‘fix it’ I don’t mean the RSS thing. I mean anything. On their computer.

It all started with the day I wiped out my friends brand new hard drive by accident. I mean totally wiped it out. It was an accident and, to this day, he doesn’t know it happened. And he doesn’t know it happened because I saw my whole life flash before my eyes and wet myself on the spot. And then I spent the entire night (and I mean I watched. the. sun. rise.) fixing it without ever telling anyone what I did. But I fixed it. That was way back when computers were operated by Hamsters On Running Wheels. And ever since then, baptized by Lucifer’s fires licking my bottom (so did not come out right, that one), computers have just somehow been second-nature, and that little morsel has a way of making you the go-to guy when it comes to things that aren’t working right. Like…

…the RSS thing. I keep hearing about people who are reading and enjoying the blog and that totally jazzes me and makes me want to dance around the house with We Are Family (Sister Sledge) rocking the whole block and don’t even pretend you don’t get that.

But I’m also hearing from my Way Cooler Than All Of Us Put Together friend, Lady B, (who happens to have the two coolest profile photos known to Facebook) that some people are for some reason not able to get the Subscribe to RSS thing to work right.

So. Cry me a river I don’t care We Are Family is cranked right now and even though I’m White and officially Not Allowed To Dance, I have to bust the moves for a bit.

Okay, I’m kidding (lie), here’s what you do:

You want the RSS feed? There are several ways.

Way One: Put this in your browser:

feed://www.waltzinginperdition.com/feed

When you do the WIP™ page will transmogrify (it’s really a word) from this:

into this:

See that blue header? See all that bold text? See all that other text? See how much I’ve written? See how I have no life?

Shut up.

Okay, that’s an RSS feed. No one actually knows for sure exactly what RSS stands for, but I can just about promise you that some anemic concave-chested kid with dyed black hair obscuring half his face, but who could hack into Fort Knox before homeroom is over could tell us. And I happen to know this kid. He told me it means “You’re an idiot and my generation is just waiting around until yours dies off.” And then he laughed and I pretended not to snap his glass slipper of a little neck between my thumb and index finger before We Are Family was over.

RSS stands for “Really Simple Syndication” but sometimes “Rich Site Summary” and all it is is a quicker way to read any web site. But the fun’s just started. If you have a site that affords an RSS feed, like WIP™, and you want to be alerted each time White Men Who Think They Should Be Allowed To Dance (they’re not) posts something, you can tell your browser to mail you a notice from the RSS page. Okay, now. See over there on the right column of the RSS feed page? Where it says Subscribe in Mail?

Click on that and it should automatically open your mail program and send some code across the universe which will put a notification of some sort in your email program that’ll tell you when WIP™ does anything. There are way too many mail programs out there for me to detail each one’s unique characteristics, so if you’re still stuck on this one, just keep reading. There are five more ways to skin this cat.

And That’s Way One.

Way Two: if you really really REALLY want to stalk me, the quickest, easiest way in the world is to send a note to todd@waltzinginperdition.com and I’ll see to it that the hamsters get a triple cappuccino and get your name added to the list of people who want to be emailed every time WIP™ blinks.

In the email just write something like, “Yes! I too would like to laugh every day and remind myself my life sucks less than yours!” and bing-bang-bam you’ll be ’subscribed.’

That’s Way Two.

Way-Three: Okay, see this little orange RSS icon right here:

Click on that, and that web feed address will automatically (term only web people use coming here) populate your url window and your browser will (another word only web people use but start using it because even though it’s geeky it really is cool too) resolve at the RSS feed, and you’re good.

That’s Way Three.

Way Four: See the little blue tiny RSS symbol at the right side of the browser’s url window right here?

Any site that is coded to give an RSS feed has one of those. I don’t know how it happens, it just does (lie. I know exactly how it happens but it will bore you and then scare you because it’s the sort of thing that makes you wonder ‘okay, if he knows how that happens, you don’t suppose he could hack into my bank account, drain the sucker and we’ll never see his big fat butt ever again because he’ll skip town with all my money and go live in Cabo, do you?’). And, yes I can, but no, I never would (lie.)

Okay, yes I’m lying. I never would.

But give me a cappuccino and a little Sister Sledge and I’ll bet you we could all be millionaires sipping Mai Tai’s on a beach in Cabo by next week.

If you click on that it will do some form of everything I’ve explained here.

Okay, here’s the last way:

Way-Five: You have to fly me to your home so I can roll my eyes and DO IT FOR YOU GAWD LOL.

But if I come over, I’m bringing the iTod and we’re going to show these kids what bustin’ the moves to We Are Family is supposed to look like.

Now…start stalking.

The Official Party Line is: *ahem* “I’m very upset and disappointed, young man.” Which is what I said, while leaning against the wall, arms crossed in That Way.

And that’s as far as I got before I couldn’t stop laughing and had to *turn my head and face out of the room.

*This is a perfected parenting move where you’re working not to laugh your butt off, but you turn your head and look away so that the child being reprimanded, scolded, grounded, brought within an inch of his life, whatever-you-want-to-call-it, thinks that you’re turning away in something like exasperation and “Oy! Go raise children!” or looking up to heaven all Heaven Help Me. And if you’re really good at it you can even bring your hand to your mouth and make it look like you’re holding back the floodgates because you’re heart is breaking. But actually, it’s another deft move designed to cover the laughing and keep in the pressure inside your mouth that is reaching epic proportions and getting This Close to blowing your dental work across the room.

Back story:

So Beta Male is doing well in math. As in he absolutely does not get this ability from me. He gets it from his mother who was a Phi Beta Kappa Kappa Ramalamadingdong IDon’tKnowWhatTheHellThatIs but she can keep all the numbers in the western hemisphere tallied in her head all day long and then hand them off to her brother who is (brace yourself) degreed out the wazoo in (brace yourself again) ‘theoretical math’ which is (okay, really brace yourself this time) high mathematics involving numbers that don’t actually exist.

As far as I’m concerned, numbers are just art and I’m only half-joking.

So. Beta Male is advancing to the next higher level of math everytime we turn around. Awesome, right? Right. I have one concern and one concern only, and it’s this: that he never tips the scale in knowing how proud we are of him such that he fears ever disappointing us with a grade which the gods would frown upon but which we mortals would just tilt our heads and go, ‘…wait. You just solved cold fusion on the napkin in your Drake & Josh lunchbox?’

This morning I’m doing all the Morning Things Before School, like drink enough coffee to make the Budweiser Clydesdales Riverdance their way right into America’s heart. And while I was doing all that this morning, Beta comes before the Throne of Awesome Power and confesses that he needs me to sign his math test.

Because the grade he got on it was (this is shameful, I admit)…okay, I don’t actually know what the grade was because I didn’t even look at it. There were breakfasts to be made, lunches to be made, little baby second grade girls to fuss after, and thirteen year old boys to fist-bump-later-dad-later-bud. I don’t have time for a grand jury over some math test where Beta male descended from his lofty heights and treated numbers like the humans.

But that didn’t stop him from fairly throwing himself at the mercy of the court which garnered my compassion and my understanding. Which is not hard to do with this one because he’s one of those Middle Children who can’t live under the weight of having disappointed a parent, and, of course, I couldn’t possilby know anything about that.

So I soothed and fawned and assured and c’merelil’manned him up one side and down the other *musses up his already mussed up here* gimme that ol’ test, tiger, *sign *sign *sign Now Go Have An Adventure, Nemo!

And then sent him off to school.

And then went down to my office all liquored coffeed up and ready to start the day’s waltz…

…where I found the scrap of paper in the photo above.

The little hack had been practicing FORGING! MY! SIGNATURE!

Forging MY signature!

FORGING! MY! SIGNATURE!

At which point I found myself knocked senseless between the onslaught of Oh You Will Regret This One Buster and the blitz of Ha Ha! I am SO proud of that! That’s just what I tried at his age! Yay!

I couldn’t stop laughing. The whole Father Forgive Me For I Have Sinned thing? Yeah. Totally gamed me. Played me like a fiddle.

He wasn’t upset that he bit it on the test. He was upset that he couldn’t perfectly imitate my signature and had to bail on that attempt and come clean. And though I do blame him for trying, I don’t blame him for failing. If you’ve ever seen me write in real life and in person, it would weird you out. It’s all I’ve ever known so the novelty wore off well over forty years ago. But it would weird you out if you’ve never seen me write. Because I’m a lefty. Which is not a big deal. Except that I’m what I’ve heard called a Hard Lefty, meaning that…

…okay, so you know how Lefties are all wired all wrong and weird and left-like, and so they turn their hands that weird wrong left-like way? Yeah, well I never learned how to do that. And even when the nuns tried showing me how to do it, I didn’t like it because Lefties push their hands across the paper left-to-right. And I didn’t like pencil smudges all over my hand. Or all over my math homework artwork.

So, my brain decided Mortals Are Charming. Stupid, But Charming and so I turned the paper instead. And had the last laugh because from that day forward I started writing vertically. And since the nuns had heard rumors about some kid called Damien, they weren’t taking any chances and just backed away slow and let it lie.

Which was good because writing vertically lasted about a day and then I started turning the paper even more upside-down-like. And had another last laugh. But I’m not laughing anymore because I think it rendered me dislexic because I can not only read upside down now, but in reverse letter shape order too. Great fun at parties.

Okay, wide circle, but here’s why I told you all that: if you can sign my name, mimic my signature and fool the world with the forgery after seeing how I write…pal, you have earned whatever it is you’re trying to steal lol.

Nevertheless, The Official Party Line is: “I am very disappointed in you, young man.” [but in about twenty years will laugh with you over beers about this, waytogoslugger lol and next time? get rid of the evidence.]

Okay, bear with me on this one…we’re going to make a wide circle here.

When I sired (such an awesome word) a boy, I was ready. It went like this:

Wife: [sound like enraged she-elephant passing a kidney stone the size of a she-elephant].

Doctor: “It’s a boy!”

Me: “Yay! A boy! Hey, I’m a boy! I’M READY!”

When I sired the second male, again, I was ready. That one went like this:

Wife: [sound which made first delivery look like result of Very Successful Stool Softener] [meaning people on the eastern seaboard heard her scream.]

Doctor: “It’s another boy!”

Me: “Yay! Another boy! Hey, I’m a boy! I’M READY!”

When Wife delivered the third child, a girl, I was ready. And by ‘I was ready’ I mean I was not at all ready. Nevertheless, that one went like this:

Wife [no sound at all this time because she had the Biggest Epidural In History, rendering her the Bionic Uterus]

Doctor: “It’s a girl!”

Me: “Yay! Another bo— Dude…wait, what?”

Okay, actually I didn’t say that at all. I just watched Cute Redhead cry because she always wanted a baby girl and now she (we) had a baby girl. So…she cried, and I cried. We all cried. Even baby girl (code name: Charlie) cried. In fact, she cried the most. She cried the most because she realized our gene pool had no lifeguard, dumping her right in the middle of two adults who had no idea how to change a little baby girl diaper.

Okay, that’s only half true. Miss Wife certainly knew how to change a little baby girl diaper. Because she’d lived her whole life with little baby girl dolls that did little baby girl doll things like cry. And leak. Even better than that, she knew exactly what to do with the postage stamp they tried passing off as a diaper for Little Baby Girl.

Now, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d already changed eight billion diapers thanks to Alpha Male and Beta Male. I’d even been hosed down on in the dark in the middle of the night. Which is not enjoyable. At all (another story for another time). And changing a diaper on a boy is not the most challenging thing in the world. I mean, this is Plumbing and Fixtures I just get, right? Right. And that goes like this:

Infant Boy: [not at all fragrant]

Me: “Ew.”

And then, because I’m One Dad To Rule Them All, I change the diaper, the carburetor, the world, blee, da-blah, yada-yada-yada, one hand tied behind my back, right? Right.

Okay. Now.

About three weeks after the Princess of Light and Splendor arrives on the scene (I am so not making this up), Cute Redhead decided it was high time I pushed myself to the outer limits. And that went like this:

Wife: “Seriously, are you ever going to change your daughter’s diaper?”

Me: [thinking if I don't move a muscle, she won't see me] [standing right in front of her] “Um. No. But-thanks-for-asking, that-was-sweet-bye!”

Wife: “Why not?”

Me: “Because. I don’t know how.”

Wife: [conveying in one very slightly raised eyebrow and indicating, by the child's existance, that I'd somehow puzzled out enough of the mystery] “Nice try.”

And then she handed me a very teeny, very tiny, very soiled infant baby girl. And a postage stamp. And then she watched me as I walked back to the nursery where all the diaper-changing accoutrement resided. And then that went like this:

Infant Girl: [to herself] “This loser has no idea what he’s doing. That stork could’ve pushed me through a car wash and I’d be better off.”

[passing of way too much time]

Me: “Wait! A! Second!”

Wife: “…what?”

Me: “Are you telling me you all are completely [not writing the word] front-to-back?!”

Then Wife came into the nursery where I had just Learned Something I Have To Admit I didn’t Know. I am not kidding.

I said I ain’t kidding.

I said I taint kidding.

(With me? A’ight.)

Okay, flash forward about four years. By now I’m a pro. I can change any diaper…little boy, little girl—I’m on it. I’ve walked the halls with this girl who cried all night long. I’ve sat at the dinner table begging BEGGING her to eat her one molecule of chicken. I’ve navigated the shark-infested waters of little girl emotions and little girl attitude and litt—by the way…did you know that when little girls are born THEY. COME. OUT. OF. THE. BOX. WITH. EVERY. SINGLE. EGG. THEY. WILL. EVER. (this so doesn’t seem like the right word but I’m going with it) LAY?!

EVERY EGG THEY WILL EVER LAY.

That brief tremor you just felt? That was a collective shudder from every male on the planet who just read that line.

EVERY EGG?! Hell, boys don’t even come out with every brain cell.

So, anyway…there I am one day coming into the the master bedroom for something and happen to glance over toward the bathroom to see my four-year-old thirty-four-year old daughter.

Preening.

And…well…it sort of made me take pause and survey the situation a little bit closer because she seemed to be fully aware of what she was doing. Fully aware of her four-year-old shot at wooing the little four-year-old boys. At seductively tilting her shoulder this way. Then that. At brushing her four-year-old hair back like she’d been in front of the camera all her life. At elegantly presenting all her tiny little womanly virtues.

While wearing her mother’s bra.

Okay, here’s the scary part: she didn’t once look in my direction. Not once.

She didn’t glance, nod, acknowledge, regard or anything like that to let on that she was aware I was even in the room. Or so I thought. And there I stood, sort of marveling quaintly at how cute, teeny, tiny little girls are just cute, and teeny, and tiny and Oh Man Do I Wish I Had A Camera Because This Is THE BEST Stuff To Laugh About At The Rehearsal Dinner And—

And then she sighs.  And, still not looking at me, and says, “…daddy…I will have [not writing this word either] someday.” She stood there, hands on her little hips, completely resigned to the inevitable development, almost forlorn. Just like I’ve seen Cute Redhead stand in the same exact spot and resign herself to other inevitables. Also forlorn.

Okay [the word I'm not writing]: it’s not a bad word. Not by a long shot. ItR