So I reached across the restaurant table and held her hand, matching my devil-may-care grin with her Don’t Even Think About It smile.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“…Please.”

“What?”

“Really, honey? Really? After eighteen years, you really don’t know how this goes? What I’m about to ask?”

[chuckling] “Oh.”

“Or would you prefer I came over there and got on one kne—”

“DON’T. YOU. DARE.”

Which of course meant that, before she finished the “DON’T” and was halfway into the “YOU,” I was already up out of my chair in front of the entire restaurant and down on one knee, holding her hand (very firmly because she was trying to yank it away). She was laughing. I was laughing harder. But I would have satisfaction and her hilarious embarrassment only made it all the sweeter.

“Will you marry me all over again?”

That’s the question I ask, the question I have to ask on every anniversary. I don’t know how I came up with it but it’s something like Contract Renegotiations, and it’s asked only after we’ve had enough adult beverages in us to glow a bit so we laugh more than we cry at the last leg of the journey. That is, the last year since our last anniversary. And there was din enough in the restaurant such that my explosive laughter at her answer (a Very Loud NO! lol) only added to the high spirits all around.

I sat back down, still laughing at her still laughing and noticed several smiling women in my line of sight trying to make sense of Did He Just Do Is What I Think He Just Did.

It was a great night. It was just between she and I. That is, the deeper conversation and the Honeymoon Is Quite Over And The Novelty Of You Wore Off Eons Ago…But Call Me Crazy, I Still Love Being Alone With You. (Or what I call Home.)

Go figure.

And the sweetness of all that is only fully appreciated if you pull back the camera and rewind several hours into our Saturday when we were cleaning the garage and wanted to kill each other outright.

I don’t know what it is in your marriage, but in ours? It’s the garage. If I had a nickel for every single time I went to clean the garage and it devolved into  WWIII, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, VIX and X, I wouldn’t be rich…I’d be paying someone else to clean it for me so I could avoid it altogether.

But God in His infinite wisdom (somewhere in heaven I think I hear a Voice going, “Oh get a load of this one. Nutjob’s pawning it off on Me.”) has so engineered the deeper lessons we need into the shape of a 30′ x 30′ arena, fitted with a million bikes, spilled paint, a drum set, a freezer and an extra fridge, a tool bench that looks like it sustained a direct hit and enough camping equipment for an army.

I won’t go into the details of how the argument started, how it peaked, how it exploded, imploded or resolved (but it did). I will, however, go into how, after it had simmered down, Cute Redhead poked her head into the garage, risking a whole other round, and said, “Could you come here? I really do need your help on something.”

So I drop what I was doing, head inside and follow the sound of, “…down here,” which was the laundry room. Which decided to imitate Niagara Falls in the form of a flow of water coming out from under the washing machine.

Which wasn’t even on.

It took Male Limbic Brain .087 seconds to register all of this and just .00000087 seconds to turn around and just walk out.

Unable to Make It Just Go Away, I maneuvered the washer and the dryer out of their positions to see what was Not Going Right and discovered something neither Cute Redhead or myself knew: that there was an actual working faucet with functioning hot and a cold handles…going full blast and dousing the entire wall behind both, the floor, the sides, the top, the splash splash splash [expletive expletive Very Bad expletive].

In a moment we realized that the leaking we’d been noticing over the last year or so was not an eventual and upcoming disintegration of internal parts requiring a new machine (which bums me out because we want a new set but can’t exactly justify it now), but Hidden Faucet getting turned on every single time Whirlpool decided to do the Charleston and dance across the floor because the spinning drum had all subtlety of an afflicted water buffalo delivering triplets.

Faucet off. Crisis averted. Mystery solved.

And then we looked down and saw where all the socks actually went and what Nature spends time concocting under laundry machines. Not pretty.

“You need to take a picture of that,” She said.

“What we need is to tie a chain to the back of this room and yank the whole thing into the street.”

“Well…I guess in the grand scheme of things, it could have been a lot worse.”

I looked at her.

I thought of the garage, the fight, the argument, and the eighteen years so far.

I had to laugh.

Happy Anniversary, honey :)

That’s from my favorite poem, In Memoriam by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and it was written in 1849 as a requiem for the poet’s Cambridge friend Arthur Henry Hallam. It took him seventeen years to complete.

I realize it lands a bit on the morbid side but there are parts enough that I think articulate perfectly some things about the photo up top and the ones coming after.

See those logs? There was, at least, two dozen broken, jagged limbs smoothed and razor-tipped by eons spent floating in that lake. Which meant they could, any one of them, impale the careless and bleed them out like a stuck pig.

Which, of course, meant the boys were irresistibly drawn to the danger and yelling for rope.

Rope.

How else are you going to tie together the water-logged timber to build the raft and cross the lake, hleewwww?

See the big guy in the back? That’s Professor. That’s what I call him because he’s the only kid I’ve ever met with whom I can talk tech with and who not only gets it, he…well…actually, I think he’s solved the mystery of cold fusion but isn’t going to share it with anyone because we’re mortal and he’s not. Anyway, Professor, like the rest of the guys came out of the proverbial woodwork and set themselves to the task of constructing the raft. A sight to behold because it took no explanation among them. Which might shock some of the ladies reading this, but won’t even register with a single man. Rope. Logs. Lake. You do the math.

This is Konnor.

And I don’t mean just in the photograph. I mean in what the photograph captured: an intention he seems rarely to be without. This raft was going to cross the Atlantic if he had anything to say about it.

Confederates. Compatriots. Camarades, all.

Don’t let the charming smiles fool you.

Nor the look of kind disdain. These mindless monkeys were in heaven. I couldn’t get enough of their fun or their built-in ability to tackle the task because it encouraged me all the more that they have, built-in, what it takes to tackle life.

Without a cell phone.

Or an iPod.

Or a Blackberry.

Or an Xbox.

When they walked they were looking up. Not down. Not scrolling down to check for a message, an email, or what William Powers in his book Hamlet’s Blackberry calls “a love pellet. I thought of you. How are you? This will make you laugh. Don’t break this chain. FYI, because you’re part of the team, the endeavor, the group, my life. Meet your new nephew—here’s the sonogram. You will like this YouTube clip. You will like this joke. You are alive.”

They were free.

And on their way to the other side of the Atlantic, guided by the Hands that reach through nature, molding men.”

Go, boy.

[text] “Is Pastor Jeff in?”

And by that, our own version of talking in shorthand to let him know I needed help. Now.

[text] “What’d you do now??”

When the phone rang I was still chuckling because regardless of what I had on my mind, big or small, he has this knack for coming up along side me to laugh me out of Too Serious or sober me up into Not Enough.

“Here’s the deal: you have two sons further into the Vortex of Adolescence. I’m wagering you’ve been where I am right now, and I…well…I’m not sure what I need. But let me just bring you up to speed, and you tell me what you hear.”

“Got it. Go.”

And he got it. So I went, ending with, “…so. There it is. I turned around and came back because I just need to be sure. I’m standing outside the place right now and wondering whether I go in. He’s already really ticked off. So. That’s it.”

“OF COURSE YOU GO IN!” (he practically jumped through the phone) “And when he sees you he isn’t going to just be mad—he’s going to go ballistic. And when he goes off, you look right at him and say, ‘Look, kid…it’s my job to keep you ALIVE. And you’ve got another three or four years of exactly this, so I suggest you get used to it.’ And then you leave.”

I laughed with the portion of my mind not already occupied with trying not to reveal the lump in my throat. Just the sturdy rail I needed when I needed it most.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that. I think I knew that…but…well. This is new territory. I think I needed to hear it out loud from someone else.”

“You’re doing fine, Todd.”

“Thanks. One more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever tell anyone I called anyone for advice I swear to God in heaven I’ll openly deny ever knowing you.”

“Lol bye.”

Inside the rec center I find the young lady at the front desk and learn that there is in fact a drop-in that evening. It wasn’t the first time she’d fielded the concern of a parent remembering their own 14 years young, so the smile and the “of course” directed me down the hall and to the right to…you know, just take a peek and make sure.

And on the way back to the gymnastics area, I see a little boy about the same age as Beta Male. And he’s sitting alone in front of a television. But he’s not watching it. He’s not reading a book. He’s not doing anything. He’s just sitting there. Alone. And my mind, clearly beating my brains out to get my heart on the same page, remembers the Time I Don’t Have Alex, Sorry when, earlier in the day, I found myself not at all wanting to give what needed giving in the form of another little boy wanting nothing more than to be with me. And for a moment I was moved, space out of time, and sent spinning, again, as I found myself with a whole new set of emotional plates to spin.

But not for long, because the condemnation going on inside my own head was interrupted by the sound of laughter. I crept over to the door of the gymnastics room praying every step of the way, God please let him be here. Please let me be overreacting.

And he was there. And so were his pals.

They jumped and they laughed and they dared and they risked life and limb, throwing themselves (I think) into They Have No Idea What’s Coming (Good. They shouldn’t know yet anyway.)

They bounced off walls and fell into foam pits. They swung on ropes and balanced on bars.

For a suspended luminal few moments they weren’t fourteen years. They were fourteen months and my throat and eyes joined forces with every intention of seeing I had trouble seeing at all.

He was there.

He jumped, soaring through the air like he was born to fly.

I watched him.

And he flipped.

* * *

I left, unseen and drove home, unhinged, careening between the pain of one boy who wanted desperately to be away from me and another who wanted nothing more than to hang out, but who found nothing more than a dad far too busy to go get ice cream.

Pulling in. “Dad!”

“Hey, boy. You busy?”

All smiles. “No! Why?”

“Let’s go get ice cream, kid.”

And he flipped.

On the way I marked the trail with the aid of a full moon and a falling star. If the heavenlies were leaning close to encourage, it was overture more or less lost on me, I’m sorry to say.

I was a mess.

All I knew was that the kids are growing up too fast and the wider world is doing a poor job convincing me that setting them loose is a good idea. I sat with Beta Male and ate our ice cream together while he pontificated, entirely unaware of anything besides himself and his hero.

We watched a batch of teenagers pose and jockey with one another. I smiled at their perfect and complete lack of consciousness. I wanted to insulate them, and my own, from so much.

And then I remembered how, at the same age, my parents wanted to do the very same thing. So, smiling now at what I didn’t know then, I put my arm around Alex and responded to his observation with, “No, buddy lol. I’m sure they’re all good kids. They’re doing exactly what they should be doing. And exactly what you’re going to do…and exactly what I did.”

“Well. I just know I wouldn’t trust them.”

“Lol duly noted, kid. Let’s go home.”

I used to sneak my dad’s Koh-I-Noor Rapidograph pens and draw cartoons. It used to drive him stark raving mad, being more the artist than I was and father to five kids with no sense of boundary line and no shame when it came to pilfering his favored tools of the trade. I suppose it was the professional precision in the pens themselves, the exactness of each line, the perfect pitch black of the india ink. Or perhaps the special casing in which they resided and displayed like some set of rare jewels. Whatever it was, I couldn’t keep my hands off the forbidden fruit and the only solution to keep him from locking them (or me) away permanently was to get me my own set.

Which he did, which I loved, and with which I proudly drew my cartoons with gusto. That is, until the day, many years later, I misplaced my entire collection never to find them again. Which happened to be the same day I found myself on a phone call needing to occupy my mind by doodling. Which found me reaching instinctively for a pen and grasping that pen you see up top. And commandeering the paper on the desk I happened to be sitting at—a very cheap copy paper. Into which the ink from this pen bled in a way that can only be described as conversational (let it go).

All that nonsense to say that, after having access to the best pens and the best papers, and demanding as much with no forgivenss, my world was rearranged in the space of five minutes and the pedestal on which everything enjoyed unchallenged status fell over with no ceremony and no effort. And all that nonsense to say that there is soon coming to WiP cartoons to accompany certain stories, perhaps (brace yourselves, those of you who have been asking me for decades for this one) an actual comic strip.

I’m still thinking about that one.

So. That pen up top? The company who makes them actually stopped making them several years back, and the only place I could find them was on eBay. Fine. Just last evening, while on the phone with the best WordPress coder on planet earth, it was suggested I bring to the blog my own illustrations. I met the idea with something embarrassingly close to a whine because I could no longer find my pen even on eBay. Tendering from him a perfectly aimed reprimand (one artist to another) (allowed) resulting in my scouring the internet to discover (joy of joys) that the company which manufactured the pen has brought them back into production. Something about a certain cartoonist out west stringing up the board of directors or something like that IForgetOkayThanksBye.

So I ordered a dozen.

Stay tuned for a return to the drawing board, folks.

As I mentioned yesterday, it’s been an odd summer as the kids, particularly Alpha Male, has expanded his horizons headlong into the teen years with not a little chomping at the bit for more and more freedom. Cute Redhead and I had not anticipated the lessons would come with no warning—and even less instruction; thrown in, sink or swim, all of us. But come they did.

I watched him carry on with several of his pals over by the diving board and smiled to myself long enough to appreciate the friendships he’s had since they were all barely out of diapers…only to feel the smile slide off my face with the slithering (and I mean slithering) entrance of a few young acquaintances I’ll kindly refer to as I Don’t Like Those Kids, which is DadSpeak™ for You Know Where Most Parents Will Restrain Themselves And Avoid A Lawsuit? Yeah I’m Not One Of Them.

I saw trouble. I saw fourteen years old. I saw myself.

*beep-beep-beep on the phone to his: “Come here.” Nothing like conveying That Tone even with the latest technology.

“Yeah?”

“Hey bud, listen. You see that kid over there? The one with the bandana and the hair from That 70′s Show?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like him.”

“Lol okay.”

“Ha ha yeah. Well, when you go back over there…I want you to point back to me. And then I want you to tell that kid, “See that man over there with the biceps? He doesn’t like you.”

(And then he did it which wasn’t exactly what I had planned but more on that later)

And (this will shock and amaze you, I’m sure) Bad Apples suddenly made themselves scarce. But. A little too quickly and efficiently for my tastes. And then Alpha Male bounced on over all happy happy excited and intoxicated on Summer’s  Freedom Nectar with, “Hey dad we’re going to to the drop-in at the rec center to play on the gymnastic equipment, okay?”

“A ha. Who’s taking you there?”

“Annie.”

“You mean Mrs. Smith?” (*approved)

“No, Annie Surname Indicating Teenager Not Adult.” (*not approved)

In half a heart beat my mind flew way back to my own Magic Summer (the one between Jr. High and High School, for the layman), and mentally ticked off all the things me and my confederates did and got away with.

So, “Lol um yeah no.”

He, of course, protested and pressed, so I went straight for the kill with, “Hey, actually buddy…I have to drive up to the store for something and ha ha! wouldn’t you know it?? I’M. GOING. RIGHT. BY. THERE! How cool is that?? I’ll drop you off, kid.”

*sad trombone

It had, obviously, all the marking of Tell Your Parents We’re Going HERE And Then We’ll All Get In My Car And Go THERE.

I think not.

The boy was not happy. At all.

In fact, he flipped.

And on the way to the rec center I scraped and clawed inside my head for the right way to start the conversation and address the discontent.

“Buddy…I’m not trying to be a jerk about this. It’s just tha—”

“—Look dad. You can not like anyone you want, that’s fine. But don’t ask me to tell someone you hate them!”

Two Things:

1) Impressed that he cut me off and asserted himself. Don’t want to encourage it, but I can’t deny the security to do so arrested my attention. Fine.

2) “Whoa. I never said ‘hate,’ kid. You’re right though…I shouldn’t have told you to do that. Honestly, I was sort of joking between you and me knowing you’d get my point. I didn’t expect you to walk over to him and actually do it. Still, I was wrong.”

And then

“…and for what it’s worth, though I don’t hate the kid…I don’t like him, I don’t trust him and I’m just fine with him realizing that I’m on the other side of the Crap he’s several times pulled at other people’s homes. Holding a very big stick.”

And though I thought I best be as firm in my parenting as I was humble in my error, he nevertheless bristled still from the embarrassment in front of his friends as well as being carted off by (horror) His Dad when everyone else got in the other car.

Arrived.

“See you kid.”

Door closes (a bit too loudly). Kid sulks off.

And I drove off. And out the parking lot. And onto the main road. And down the street toward home.

AaaaaAAAAAaaand then turned around and drove right back to sit, unseen, in the parking lot stuck between trying to learn how to figure out what trusting a teenager looks like and every fibre in me wondering why in the hell I wasn’t going inside to make sure he was really there and not already halfway to Mexico hopped up on crystal meth.

In tomorrow’s portion of this one, I’ll actually share with you all something I never share with anyone:

The phone call I actually made. To someone else.

For advice.

(shut up, Jeff.)

He Flipped Pt. II

It’s been an odd summer around here. One of new challenges and new territory as the kids fly through the house and out the doors on their way to their friends, dawn to dusk. And past dusk. Just as it should be.

I usually love the summer vacation for its absence of morning schedule and routines. A chance to breathe deeper and let the days unfold as they will without a heavy-handed regimen breathing down anyone’s neck. And though, by summer vacation’s closing act, I’m more than welcoming the return to routine and rhythm…

…this year, I’m less so.

There’s been something gnawing at me for about a week but it took the slow saturation of a certain song to wedge its way into my heart and mind, without me realizing it. But successfully…so that what needed to be lanced, could be excised and (they say) healed.

Next Monday, my eldest goes to high school.

And I’m ready.

And I’ve been looking forward to this watershed day almost as much as he has.

And I couldn’t be happier for him.

And I feel nothing but pride and joy and anticipation for him.

And for me.

And all of this is Me Lying In Front Of God And Everybody.

My son is going to high school?

I just changed his diaper.

How the hell did this happen.

* * *

I haven’t written much on WiP by way of funny stories this last month. But don’t worry. There’s been no recession in the hysteria and I’ve been keeping notes.

The reason I haven’t pushed through and written things out is because, to be quite frank, very little felt funny to me in the midst of several rough situations demanding our attention. And it’s taken a while for things to settle inside me and surrender a different vantage than the first time around.

There are stories coming. And the second book is late (I know) but underway. And every bit as difficult to write as I expected it. It being written more from the season we’re in now where…

…we’re no longer bone-tired

…and they’re a long time out of diapers

…and they can actually make their own lunch

…and it’s no longer strange to grab the keys and run to the store without making sure everyone and everything is secure, watched, taken care of and safe

…and they grow more self-dependent every day

…and they’ve minds of their own

…and friends all over the place

…and fun things to do

…

…and it really was easier when they were babies. And the grownups ahead of me, a bit further down the road, were right when they smiled at us years ago with, “…this is the easy time.”

* * *

The only pain you can avoid in life is the pain that comes from avoiding pain.

So…on Monday?

I’ll wake him like I always have.

And make him breakfast like I always do.

And watch him go to

high school

And try not to think of his first day of kindergarten and how the backpack was bigger than him.

* * *

I hate this.

And to tell you the truth, I’m as disappointed as I am impatient about this. Because though Cute Redhead doesn’t (sit down for this one) even like tomatoes, she does have in her illustrious repertoire a recipe from Mother Jane.

That’s Mother Jane right there. As southern a belle as they make them, and I’m not kidding.

And if you mean to say it right (“Muthah JaAYan,” that is) you have to recruit a very Southern drawl. Failing that, you better have some sort of peace offering at the ready. And when it comes to Mother Jane (who happens to be a Master Gardener and experienced enough to have had something to do with deciding where to plant the Tree of The Knowledge of Good and Evil, if you ask me), nothing arrests her attention like a good recipe.

Ever hear of Hot Tomato Pie?

Oh. Man.

You take a frozen pie crust and drizzle olive oil. Then you slice up home-grown tomatoes and let them overlap to your heart’s content; but don’t stack them so high as though you’re making an apple pie. You’re not. The thrown on some basil, some Mozzarella cheese and a bit of salt and pepper. Throw it in the oven at something like 375˚F or whatever seems to make sense to you as far as baking a pie goes. When it looks right (don’t ask because I don’t know), pull it out and dig in.

If there’s a better summer dish to accompany whatever else it is you’ve prepared for your brood…I don’t know what it is.

I love this recipe. I love Mother Jane.

But I’d run over her with a locomotive, right in front of God and everybody, to get to a plate of this.

I’ve a recipe that will change your life. And these little Romas, presented to me  just now by Beta Male (with no small measure of pride), will most definitely be involved.

And so will the basil.

So…if you’re finding the urge to head to your local farmer’s market or Whole Foods, or wherever you like to take a second mortgage out on your home, and if lunch is order, try this. You’ll thank me later:

Ingredients

• 2  1/4- to 1/2-inch-thick slices of artisan levain or sourdough bread
• 2  tablespoons  Basil Aioli*
• 3  pieces applewood-smoked thick-cut bacon, cooked
• 1  ripe medium tomato, sliced
• 1/3  cup  loosely packed arugula leaves
• 2  ounces  fresh mozzarella, sliced
• Salt and pepper

Basil Aioli Ingredients and Prep

• 1  cup  loosely packed basil leaves
• 1/2  cup  extra-virgin olive oil
• 1/2  cup  canola oil
• 2  egg yolks
• 2  cloves garlic, minced
• 1/2  teaspoon  each dried mustard, lemon juice, salt, and pepper

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Dunk basil leaves into the boiling water for 20 seconds. Drain and squeeze out as much excess water as possible.

2. In a blender, whirl blanched basil leaves with olive and canola oils. Empty into a measuring cup or small pitcher and reserve.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk together egg yolks, garlic, mustard, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Whisk in a drop of the basil oil; continue adding drops of oil, whisking until mixture thickens to a mayonnaise-like consistency. Continuing to whisk, pour in remaining basil oil in a very thin stream. Season with additional salt and pepper to taste.

Preparation

1. Spread one side of each piece of bread with basil aioli. Stack one piece with bacon, tomato slices, arugula leaves, and fresh mozzarella slices. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Top with second slice of aioli-laden bread. Eat with gusto.

Enjoy this—because we’re sure going to!

Enough said.

If you slice these and place them in a bowl of rice vinegar, I can promise you you’re never going to regret it.

I’m going to have to solicit a recipe for an award-winning sauce.

Anyone?

I prepared the soil, marked the territory, and waited for the ground to thaw and surrender the first opportunity to marry loam and seed.

I wanted green. An explosion of verdancy I find, for some hilariously amnesiac reason, new and New every time it happens.

I’ve decided Winter and Spring play this game, cyclically, every trip around the Sun…because Death and Life are immutably threaded into the Son. There is so much beauty in this cycle and I love and hate it all at the same time.

And it’s giving myself over to the patterns and the cycle, the give and take…the surrender and the relinquishing, the triumph and the ruin…

…that I love forgetting that I remember.

The garden is overflowing. It is in no way obeying the lines I intended and when I’m in it weeding, talking to them all (and I do), I’m saying things like, “I told you both to leave each other alone, didn’t I?” Because they can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves and I’ve had it Up To Here with having to clean things up because they can’t seem to puzzle out cleaning up their areas. (Read: they grow so thick that I have to get on my hands and knees to find the weeds that have grown unchecked.) (Read: I have no life.)

For the next few days I’m going to post a few pictures of what’s been happening. And of what remains to happen. Starting with this blazing Prospertiy: a squash blossom.

Here’s to Summer’s Final Act, as Carl in New Jersey called it (and he’d know).

And now you understand why I just don’t understand why people call me a perfectionist.

In the next post, I’ll tell you what a nightmare it was finding a coder who understood that when I say Pixel-Perfect, what I’m really saying is “The straight jacket isn’t for my safety…it’s for yours.”

You would not starve for vernacular when it comes to the arena of web design—hardly a distinction in the crowd of other professions. Nevertheless, terms like ‘naming architecture,’ and ‘pixel-perfect,’ and ‘cascading style sheet’ are very much part of the daily diet around here.

So when I decided I’d wracked my brain enough and excavated the concept I wanted, it came time to hand it off to someone with far more coding expertise than myself. I knew I was going to utilize the WordPress engine, and since I’d turned my back entirely on the available themes for the custom style I’d been working on, I knew also that I had to find someone with a skill set geared specifically toward translating everything I’d done to something with which WordPress could communicate.

I searched for professionals on Craigslist, on Google, in local papers and by reviewing other blogs searching for credit lines that might put me on the trail of someone I thought I could trust. Talk about overwhelming. And confusing. In dozens of providers I found very little separating anyone from anyone else, turning my very focused search into something like a game of darts.

I ended up contacting a vendor from a popular online service. I posted the job I needed done and in no time (read: less than one day) had several dozen proposals from vendors all over the world. At prices that both encouraged and concerned me. I don’t know about you, but if something is wildly inexpensive, my mind goes to Wildly Poor Quality.

But I found someone whose work I was able to review and determine was a great place to start. While interviewing this person and discussing the precise work I needed, he read into my language and in between the lines and offered, “…oh, you want pixel-perfect.”

“Did you just say ‘pixel-perfect’?”

“Yeah. Pixel-perfect. You know, where exactly what you’ve desi—”

“I know what it means, believe me. Can I marry you?”

He understood that I insisted, unapologetically, that what I designed in Photoshop should translate to a blog absolutely. Down to the location of each and every pixel.

“And, I’ll know.”

“Lol you’ll know what?”

“I’ll know if there is a single pixel out of place, off-center, or bumped out of alignment. I’ll know.”

He laughed but understood me.

The problem with this (I mean this very kindly) complete idiot, was that he didn’t seem to believe me. Long story short, I discovered too late that though he presented himself as the executer of the actual work, what he was really doing was collecting projects and farming out the actual work to coders offshore.

Which is a nice way of saying that someone with a very wanting command of the english language was allowed to dabble in the design I worked on for weeks and offer ways they felt improved it. Which in Toddland means they thought instigating a nuclear war between nations was time well spent. That’s all I’m going to say about this person and my first experience with hiring outside help.

Granted, I was further along than I was when I started…but no where near my original version. Which sounded like this:

Cute Redhead: “So. How’s the blog design coming?”

Mount St. Helens About Five Seconds Before Erupting: “Well. I’d call it about 85% there.”

Cute Redhead: “Hey! That’s great! You can live with that, right? Yay!”

Moody Artist: “Um. No. No, I can’t ‘live’ with that.”

Cute Redhead: “Oh. Well. Then what are you going to do?”

Insufferable Designer: “I’m not sure. I think a SWAT team repelling down the side of his house and AK-47s is a good wa—”

Cute Redhead: “—I meant about your blog, honey.”

Trigger-Happy Perfectionist: “Oh. I’m not sure. I’ll start blogging, I guess. I’m chomping at the bit. But until this looks exactly the way I see it in my head, I’m going to be impossible to live with.”

Cute Redhead: “Wow. That’ll be different.”

Smart Enough To Shut Up (almost): “Shut up.”

In the next, and final post, I’ll tell you what it’s like to (finally)happen upon a master craftsman. And how, so doing, grace and mercy flows throughout the heart and mind to save the lives of lesser ‘professionals’. And their hacks.

We loaded up the Beloved SUV and set our sites a mere six hours north to collect Alpha Male and take in a landmark, I’m ashamed to admit, we’d never before seen.

Making us jackasses like this one here.

Or wild burrows, to be more accurate. Which we happened to see off the side of the road and, naturally, felt compelled to put it in park and make our way up close and personal. Which the kids initially thought (big shock coming here) the Zenith of Boring. That is until they spied certain extra-curricular activities on the part of the beasts…

…garnering no shortage of hilarity and a chorus of, “Dad look! Take a picture of them doing that!”

No.

Getting back in the car, we continued our circuit around Custer State Park (a must see), at a pace as leisurely and bereft of phone signals as Radio-Free America could provide. Or not provide, as was the welcome case. And just when I thought our pace was as leisurely as could be, this fellow injected himself onto the road and afforded the driver of every vehicle a lesson in Oh You Want A Leisurely Pace, Huh?

The original photo begged, I thought, a certain set of Photoshop techniques to render something a bit more Way Out West. I love how that looks.

And that landmark we’d never visited before? There you have it.

Or, rather, there you have it and them. Them being Cute Redhead, Beta Male, and Charlie Girl. I’m not sure where Alpha Male was a this point.

I am sure, however, that Cecille B. DeMil had it right when, describing the Shrine of Democracy, remarked, “You don’t just look at them. They look at you.”

What an amazing place. The drive there and back all by themselves was worth the price of gasoline. And, to tell the truth, I didn’t expect any more than the large sculptures. Boy, was I in for it. Museums, tours, history, books, films and (Beta Male went crazy over this one) the opportunity to speak with the only living survivor of the team who wrested from the stone the faces memorialized.

If you haven’t been, go.

If you have been, I’d love to hear about it!

Okay, a few Firsts coming here.

First First: I’ve never posted a video on WiP but I’m about to. If the attempt breaks the internet (trust me, I’ve done it before), or your lights dim, or we lose power on the eastern seaboard….well. Um. Sorry.

Second First: I saw the most amazing thing in the world yesterday and I’m still not over it.

So there I was standing out front. Talking to my buddies Bill, who was about to see his whole flash before his eyes, and Herzog, who is the devil (more on him 1) later and 2) in an upcoming interview.)

Okay, see that kid up top? That’s Wyatt.

Okay. Now. Ladies? Take a break.

Men? I want your undivided attention. I’m certain you have all been wondering what in the world happened last night around 6:00 pm Rocky Mountain Time when you noticed the sudden disappearance of your testicles.

Didn’t see that one coming on the ol’ WiP blog, did you? (don’t even try lying).

Well. I can explain:

Your nuts (sorry ladies, but we are in full-on Guy Land and I’m not backing down even a little bit) were removed from your puny being by The Universe who decided that the little dude up there deserved every bit of Testosterone in the solar system.

So. There you have it. You are all now eunuchs. (But not me, Bill, or Herzog. We still have ours. Sorry. But don’t be mad. The only reason we still have ours is because we happened to be in the blast radius of Man Awe when that little dude did what he did right in front of God and everybody…and the gods of the Y Chromosome granted unto us, out of sheer unutterable joy, our nuts.)

And ladies, if this offends you. Well…I don’t care. You could be all ‘Okay Todd, that’s just over the line. The language. Please.’ And then you’d give me The Look or something or whatever. But I don’t care. For all kinds of reasons…including the fact that there are men the world over who are, right now, no longer real men because that little dude pulled into himself all the Real Man from all seven continents (and five surrounding counties).

Okay. So. There we were talking about Very Important Guy Stuff (meaning when you ladies ask us ‘so what’d you talk about’ we say, ‘nothing’). Which isn’t a lie. It really is true. But it’s not what you think it is. We could talk about curing cancer or cold fusion or where in the hell Jimmy Hoffa really is (I just dated myself bad), but it would all be wiped from our minds when something like What Just Happened happens.

What Happened:

We heard this scrape, screech, stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp (but like really, really fast stomping, right?), and then this sort of Barbaric Battle Cry. And then we stopped what we were talking about and, together, turned toward the sound of Something Amazing.

Something Amazing: about 25′ away, in the middle of the street was one of those ramps all the kids go over on their bikes and scare the living hell out of every parent worth their salt. All you moms who yesterday, right when all the dudes lost their nuts, suddenly and inexplicably stood up and yelled PUT YOUR HELMET ON! but don’t know why you did it?

That’s why you did it. Every molecule of ovarian whatever-it-is-the-runs-amok-inside-you-all turned inside out, flipped backward, divided, mutated and caused your uteri (that’s the Collective Motherhood thing) to hit Defcon -9000.

That’s what happened.

Okay. This actually gets even better.

When Bill (who is awesome) and Herzog (who is the devil but also still awesome) and I saw him do What He Did several things happened all at the same time:

First Thing #1: Bill had heart failure and went OH HELL NO!

First Thing #2: I realized there is a God and went OH HELL YES!

First Thing #3: Herzog almost snapped his neck right off his shoulders because he is the devil and locked onto The Presence Of Awesomeness.

Here’s what we saw:

…

…

…

I know. Watch it again.

…

Okay. I know, right? Words fail. (okay for most people, maybe, but I can’t shut up about this one lol).

Alright. Now.

As if this wasn’t already amazing all by itself…it gets even better. You may be wondering how in the world I got that on video when it all Happened So Fast, right?

Sit down.

The reason I got it on video is because IT’S TAKE TWO.

We. Lost. Our. Minds. Bill did the Dad Thing (and had five years shaved off his life), I did the Jackass The Movie thing (and yelled DO THAT AGAIN RIGHT NOW), and Herzog (the devil) saw a future athletic god pass by him in a blur of blond screaming underpants.

That is Wyatt.

Wyatt is the only man on planet earth (besides us three) (sorry).

Wyatt is a god.

Wyatt rules.

I am This Close to throwing a kegger in honor of Wyatt.

We cannot hide our joy. We cannot hide our pride.

So, mothers, hide your daughters.

…I grabbed the camera and catalogued a few shots before the sun rose high enough to burn things off.

Those are Martha Washington cherries. And if you like tart, you’re in luck.

Clematis. I think. It climbs up a drain spout and looks like kindling until, one morning, all those purple things pop.

The honeysuckle.

The raspberries Beta Male and Charlie Girl will fight over.

I see an apple pie in my future.

That image up top is, to the untrained eye of the layman, a fence post. A cedar fence post which, you’ll be happy to know, is “environmentally prohibited” in certain parts. More on that later.

I’ve been wanting to replace our makeshift and very rigged wired fence along one side of the yard to keep in the big, fat, Golden You-Know-Who. And make it so I didn’t have to constantly turn the camera away from such an ugly thing in an otherwise very nice backyard. So, weekend before last, Cute Redhead (who now openly denies all culpability in any of this) decided It Needed To Be Done Now. Which went off like this:

“I hate that fence.”

She said that. She actually, honest-to-God said that. She actually, honest-to-God said, “Honey…I need you turn the next three days of your life in to making mine a living inferno straight from the Devil’s Pantry.”

And so I did. I dropped everything I was doing and transmogrified (that’s for Holly, in Texas) into Cowboy Todd. Who is a desperado. Who is out riding fences.

Fences like that one. Which is bent all out of shape, knocked over, run over, walked over, impossible to mow around…and has all the structural integrity of wet Kleenex. Which got me all bent out of shape and wrapped around the axle.

Speaking of axels, this is the sort of photo one takes while steering with one’s knee (not recommended) on the way back from Stupid Home Improvement Store (for the fourth time).

The Humiliation I mentioned:

Cute Redhead CLAIMS she suggested I “really be sure about accurately measuring the 8′ between each post before you dig.” She is lying in front of God and everybody. She did not say this. At all. What she said was something like, “I think you’re a girl.”

Which is sort of how I heard every suggestion she made over the next several days after I royally screwed up the accurately measuring the 8′ between each post before I dug.

On Digging:

If you’re going to dig holes for fence posts, I’d like to suggest renting an auger.

That way you can one day sit with your grandchildren and share nice stories from Way Back When. Stories like, “Did grandaddy ever tell you about the time he was raped by a crocodile?” Because that’s all a one-man auger is designed to do as far as I’m concerned, and that’s all I want to say about that.

Those two posts right there happen to be the only ones properly spaced such that the pre-cut and notched 8′ cedar planks tucked themselves in just right, right?

Right.

And then everything went to Hell. There are some many things that went wrong on this that the only thing that kept me from losing my mind outright was the laughter. At myself. Because the only thing missing from my work was keystone cop music.

A few highlights, however:

1) When I stood up on the lawn chair with one foot on the saw horse with a chainsaw tearing a gash into the space-time continuum, I was doing so because I couldn’t reach the [not important and you wouldn't believe what I was trying to do anyway] and was wanting to do it before Cute Redhead got home at 3:30 and saw me doing something Not Wise.

2) Cute Redhead got home at 3:25 that day and saw the whole thing.

3) When I work around the house I am Marty Stewart.

4) When I tend to the children all by myself I am Marty Poppins.

5) But when I work in the yard, I put on my old Levis, my ropers, and my cowboy hat. And I am Cowboy Todd. Cowboy Todd cusses. A lot. He also scowls. A lot. And he never applies sunscreen. Ever. John Wayne didn’t do it so Cowboy Todd doesn’t.

The only reason I’m putting in this photo is to show you that it really was me screwing this all into Kingdom Come.

With a chainsaw.

And geek glasses. While cussing. In six different languages (our Cowboy Todd, while a stud, is very cultured).

6) If you walk into a Certain Stupid Home Improvement Store and answer Lumber Section Dude’s “…so, whadaya need?” with, “…a gin and tonic,” you will see Lumber Section Dude flutter his little eyes like he’d just suffered an aneurysm and hear him respond “Eeewwwkaaay,” as if the idea of men in lumber sections being pissed off enough to want hard liquor was beneath the little wuss. Who would be better placed working as a maître d’ in some snooty restaurant.

7) When you walk away from Not A Real Man and set off to find Other Lumber Section Dude who clearly knows what he’s doing and lead off with, “I need 9′ uncut cedar planks to notch in myself on a fen—” you will be cut off with: “Sorry. We’re environmentally prohibited from selling that.”

At which point your brain will explode inside your head, start oozing out your ears and accompany the fluttering of your eyes brought on by the aneurysm you just suffered because you just heard the dumbest thing in the world.

“—wait. What did you just say to me?”

“I said we’re environme—”

“Stop. I got it. YOU’RE. ENVIRONMENTALLY. PROHIBITED. FROM. SELLING. CEDAR. PLANKS?!”

“Yeah.”

“A ha. Okay. Who do I have to talk to to get this material?” (I didn’t say ‘talk to’ which rhymes with ‘truck’) (and I didn’t say ‘material’ which rhymes with ‘hit.’)

Which is what I wanted to do. Hit, that is. Something or someone. And bad.

I walked away before Lumber Section Dude got Cowboy Todd’s boot in his ass, and made my way to the only REAL lumber YARD in the city I will ever work with again. Because when I walked onto that place there were forklifts and beaten up trucks and old men who have been working with ENVIRONMENTALLY NOT PROHIBITED lumber since Noah walked his ass in looking for cedar planks (Cowboy Todd is allowed to mix cussing and biblical stories). And these old men don’t even wear gloves while they shake their heads and chuck splinter factories 9′ foot uncut cedar planks and tell them about the idiots over at Stupid Home Improvement Store who might as well wear big, pink bows in their hair and leave the real lumber to these old guys.

And Cowboy Todd.

Who, after two days of fixing what he screwed up (and all by himself for those of you ‘men’ who suggested he quit and hire out the rest of the job) (and you know who you are) (and I have a big, pink bow with your name on it), he finished the job.

Cowboy Todd finished the job.

And that’s one fine looking fence, if you ask him.

A sturdy, cedar split-rail fence he cut and notched in himself and muscled (yes, muscled) the already-set-in-concrete (don’t ask) posts enough to loosen them to make it work.

And by work, Cowboy Todd means keep the big, fat Golden You-Know-Who in the yard. Who actually, honest-to-God had this to say about getting his picture taken again…

“You really are a loser you know that, Cowboy Todd?”

Which, I later found out, was a technique achieved not by a special camera filter…but by her bridesmaids pulling her wedding dress up over her head.

Brilliant.

So, naturally, when I saw the Golden Recliner sporting the Cone of Shame post-minor eye surgery, I couldn’t help soothe the pup by sprinting for my camera and laughing my head off.

Looks like a Canine T-Rex. I should have named him Dogzilla.

I don’t quite know why he was at all cool with this…

…I think he looks like a satellite dish.

“Dude…seriously. It’s going to be okay. It’s not forever. I know how you feel. It’s just so you can’t gnaw at things. I know it’s uncomfortable because I remember my vasectomy like it was yesterday.”

And I’m getting a few things I need for other Important Things and remember that I’d had a plan to recruit the formidable energies of a few girls for some of the garden’s heavy lifting.

And there it was: the little refrigerator containing the little packets of the little lady bugs.

“I need one of those packets of lady bugs.”

“No problem. They’re sleeping right now. And don’t put them out until dusk. When you get home, put them in the refrigerator until you want them.”

“Would that worked on all women.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing.”

Last night also happened to be the neighborhood’s annual Fourth of July Float-Building party. Which happened to take place at our house this time. Which happened to have me sort of on the busy side, what with the surfboards, securing the trailer hitch to the Beloved SUV, and painting the waves and deciding you’re not really painting until you’re painting yourself too. More on that in another post soon.

So I enlisted the help of Every Little Girl In The Neighborhood with:

“Sweethearts, I have a job for you. I need you to go get those ladybugs and—”

*squeals*

“—okay, remember how Mr. Todd’s ears don’t like to bleed? Let’s not scream at that pitch anymore, alright? Alright. I need you to take these and put them in the vegetable garden.”

And then I was onto other things and forgot all about them. There was paint to roll around in half-naked, after all. Again, more on that in another post soon.

But this morning, during the second cup of coffee *sign of Cross*, I realized the girls were now in their new home and went out to see how they were doing.

Oh dear.

Did you know that 2,000 ladybugs sort of…well…completely take over and crowd out an 8′ x 24′ garden?

And did you know that they tend to huddle together to keep warm.

And did you know that made me laugh maniacally and run and get my camera to show you?

And did you know there are photographs on that camera of the paint I rolled around in half-naked that you’re never going to see?

(just checking)

Happy 4th of July everyone.

So how anyone in this season of life ever gets anything, really anything, done is beyond my ability to comprehend.

Most days we work double-time just to keep our heads above water. And most days we don’t even do that.

We learn to float, sort of, submerged just below the surface, and, there, we somehow learn a new Normal; sometimes rolling onto our backs looking up at a quicksilver ceiling, sometimes rolling over and looking down onto a world sunlit.

Or shadow.

In this way Life has always seemed, to me, like a whale. And we, its happy, dumb offspring.

Life…large and largely gentle in its wisdom, gliding along side us, and over, and under. Ever present and knowing just when to move only inches away to give us the illusion of Self.

And Life…large and hardly gentle in its wisdom, gliding along side us, and over, and under. Ever ready and knowing just when to breach us from our insulated Everything and push us up and out to take air, so that…

…we breathe, really breathe, and know that a whole other world, in fact, exists and rests itself right over our heads.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Ash Goodman…

1. Let’s get right off to a fascinating start. Where were you born?

London, England born… Virginia, USA raised.

2. Fascinating. And you live where now? (this isn’t usually a question I’d make a point of asking, folks, but get a load of this one)…

Manila, Philippines… Huh? Oh! You want the back story… ok. About umpteen years ago (I didn’t really track time when I was younger), somewhere around 21 or 22 I got this hankering to travel so I bought a one way ticket to England, worked there and in Europe for a while, got bored, took off to Asia about 13 or 14 years ago, and just kind of never left… Then after a while I met a girl (in the Philippines), got married, had kids and had to get all respectable and grown up and that’s what you see before you today. Me, as grown up as I know how to be….

3. Okay, and there’s just no way around this one (and we’re all thinking it anyway): anyone ever tell you you bear a striking resemblance to Nicholas Cage?

Short Answer: Yep. Long Answer: It’s funny you should mention that. My cousin and I used to do this thing and it went something like this… The Girl: “Has anyone ever told you that you look like…” Me (Cutting her off acting very upset and angry): [Enter favorite explicative here]!!! If one more person tells me I look like my younger brother I am going to lose it!” Girl:  ”You mean Nich…” ME (cutting her off again): “Yes, yes [explicative]!!!  Nicholas is my *LITTLE* brother. And I don’t look like him. He looks like me!!!” Of course after a few minutes I admitted it wasn’t true, but it made for a great ice-breaker!

4. What about a striking resemblance to Jesus? (don’t even pretend you didn’t know I’d go there). Dude! Way to rock the hair and the beard. So…a bit about your real life and work: what is it you do that lets you get away with reminding us the Grateful Dead are alive and kicking :)

It’s funny you should mention that….  just kidding! But yeah, I do get the Jesus thing as well. I work from home which means I get to pretty much look however I want, Living on tropical islands in Southeast Asia means most days it’s t-shirt, sandals and shorts. What do I do? I empower people by giving them the tools they actually need to manage their online presence effortlessly. Put another way: I build awesome websites that are as cool as my hair and a heckuva lot easier to manage.

5. Jesus pretty much loved everyone. Okay, he definitely loved everyone. But let’s be honest…you’re not Jesus. Anyone on your nerves who you’d like to send into the eternal fires of damnation? (I mean, in love of course)

Barney. I am convinced that purple dinosaur is secretly an alien with plans to take over the world. (Can’t argue with any of this.)

6. Seems like you’re having a pretty good day what with your new-found deity and all. Now that you’ve gotten eternal judgement checked off, how about a little Me Time? You get to change anything about yourself. So, what’s it going to be? Smaller thighs or a bigger brain? Go.

If this is a keeping it within the realm of possibility kind of change I would say more patience, better health. If it’s a ‘what kind of superpower would you want’? Wolverines healing factor, I mean how cool is that!

7. What was your favorite book as a teenage know-it-all?

Now that’s a tough one! I have always been a voracious reader since age 4. (Yes I am a geek, the long hair is just a disguise). When I was growing up my mother worked in a library so after school I would sit there and read everyday until she finished work. In my teens I was groovin hard on the scifi (ok, ok, I am still groovin hard on the sci fi) and was reading the Dune Series by Frank Herbert and the Well World Series by Jack Chalker. But my favorite would have to be HHGTTG. (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the best 5 part trilogy ever written)

8. What is your favorite book now?

My favorite book for 2010: Sandman Slim by Richard Kadrey. One of the funnest and funniest reads I have had in a while.

9. Time to tell our readers what it is you REALLY do. Waltzing in Perdition does what it does with a lot of power under the hood. Power you programmed from the ground up. Here’s where you plug shamelessly. The mic is on, Ash, so let’s hear it: tell us about your job.

[Cue lights, Sound] [Cue music from 2001: A Space Odyssey] [Cue cool announcer voice]

Imagine if your website actually did what you needed it to do. Imagine what you could achieve if only there were no limitations. Now stop imagining because it’s even better than that.

[Cue confetti]

I take WordPress from where it is to where it should be. When I am done working on your site everything you have ever wished you could do with your website and a few things you didn’t even know you could wishfor are all built in. Point and click baby, its all just point and click. While other developers make pretty designs, I make beautiful websites that function as well as I believe that managing your website should not require you learn even one line of code. And I don’t think a user should have to accept limitations on what they can or can’t do with their website. So over the last 2 years I have developed a framework for WordPressthat makes it… well… effortless really. And I hope more fun and empowering as well. Its built with the user in mind. Rule 1 is always, how can I make this easier to use. Everything, and I do mean everything is built in. SEO, search robot control, ad management, fine grained navigation controls, social networking, analytics, and a slew of other awesome features to extensive to list here. Your website should be the control center for your online presence and I ensure that it is.

Put simpler: My WordPress framework is what other WordPress themes want to be when they grow up. In schoolyard language: My WordPress kicks your WordPress ___! Bold statements? Perhaps. So I’ll just say this: Todd, I think your on version 1.5 of my framework. Go ahead and tell the nice folks what it’s like.

I want to marry him.

And version 2.0 comes out next month. It’s even better, easier to use, more powerful and just plain stuffed chock full of awesomeness ;)

(And have his children.)

10. And now it’s my turn: you know how uptight I can be about my design and blog, so you know I don’t trust just anyone (stop laughing, Ash, it’s rude). But I’m feeling magnanimous today and want to share your expertise with the world. How does someone find out more.

Well they can email me direct at ash@thinkinginvain.com or visit the business website at and email me through the site. Either way I’ll arrange a no-obligation guided tour of the custom backend so they can see what they have been missing.

11. What do you love about your work in general?

It’s a philosophical thing really. I believe in the founding principles of the internet, the democratization of communication and self expression. These are fundamental rights, not privileges. It’s what computing and the internet is all about. Every day I get to help make that process easier for people. My work both empowers and frees and I think that makes me a pretty lucky guy!

12. What do you…not love…about your work in general?

Well, I hate it when I come across poorly written code, but what really, really bugs me? Internet Explorer. I mean, come on!

13. Okay you just took an elevator 50 stories up. Only you and Steve Jobs. Naturally there wasn’t much to do finding yourself in the presence of the Fourth Person of the Trinity, besides falling prostrate and burning incense. BUT—it’s you and Bill Gates on the way back down and you’ve been given Temporary Deity Status. It’s high time he had a few Upper Management Spankies, so let him have it. Go.

Internet Explorer. I mean come on! Internet Explorer adds 20% more time to a project because of its poor standards support. Code that works perfect in every other browser breaks in Internet Explorer. And if support for earlier version like version 6 are important it can add as much as 30-40% to the project timeline and limit your options. Have you ever seen that film with Adam Sandler? I think it was called Little Nickie or something, you know the one where he is the Devil’s good son. Remember what they did to a certain German with the Pineapple? Substitute Billy Gates.

14. Alight, enough of that. Omniscience gets pretty knotty. Let’s step off the elevator and get under the hood a bit. Favorite meal in the whole wide world?

Well thats a 2 part answer, cause my favorite I can’t eat anymore. Used to be Italian food. Pizza, pasta etc. But extreme gluten sensitivity put that to rest. And Twinkies, I think I miss Twinkies the most. Now my favorite is Steak (ok, to be fair, Steak has always been right up there) But its very, very hard to find good steak over here. *sigh.

15. Children? (not to eat, I mean do you have children?)

Yes I have 2, both boys, both wild and precocious as children should be. The eldest is 6 and has already been hacking his toys for over a year now. Whenever I want to know where my screwdrivers have gone I just look for him. I’ll find him taking his trains and other toys apart and reassembling them his way, swapping parts making changes etc. My youngest is nearly 2 and a half, has no fear whatsoever, no concept of limits and believes anything his brother can do so can he. Which explains why my white hair count has gone up over the last year…

16. What did you want to be when you were 12?

A Grownup. No really, I never was one of those who knew what he wanted to be, I more of the “why do I have to be any one thing” kind of guy. My big goal in life was being old enough to make my own rules. Once I got there I had pretty much achieved the *BIG* ambition and after that I figured it was just a matter of keeping yourself open to what life tosses at you. And that’s kind of been my life story really. I took chances and opportunities as they have presented themselves and have had a great time along the way.

17. What did you want to be when you got up this morning (ha ha)?

21. Getting older sucks. I do have an ambition to be a writer though. I reckon I have 2-3 books stuck inside and one of these days I hope to dislodge them and get them on paper.

18. (Sorry, can’t resist this one) Saying you kind of sort of know your way around the internet is like saying the Pope sort of knows his way around the Vatican. Let’s say you get to design the whole thing from the ground up FOR. THE. WHOLE. WORLD Ash-style. Any bright ideas?

I won’t say I have the solutions but I will say there are 3 areas I would look at.

1) Search. Search sucks. Google is great, but still a far cry from where search needs to be.

2) Spam, something has to be done about spam. And not just spam email,spamming blog comments or worse still, blogs that are spam. Fixing this would improve thing #1

3) Free Access. OK, so its not feasible yet to have free blazing fast, high speed access for everyone, but everyone should have at least free basic access to the web. Its a right, not a privilege.

19. Good book in a chair beside the ocean or throw all your stuff on the sand and get in the ocean?

If it’s a good book its no contest, I’m reading.

Ten points if you know the song your parents called Their Song. Hit me.

I have no idea, at all. My mother was fond of Mel Torme, that’s as close as I can get.

20. Speaking of songs, play any instruments?

Yes, guitar. (Don’t tell me that’s a surprise, I mean just look at my hair!) I actually used to give lessons (before I started my travels).

21. Favorite movie?

Oh wow, That’s a hard one. I am gonna cheat and give more than one. Ordinary Decent Criminals, or the Usual Suspects. (Kevin Spacey rocks!) Firefly/Serenity yes, I am a browncoat and if you don’t know what that means: shame on you! Monty Python

22. Check it out! The Hollywood talent agent sitting next to you couldn’t help notice how enthralled you were. They’re remaking the movie and he’s giving you the role of your choice. Who do you play?

OK, so I really do gotta pick just one movie then. Ok Serenity, I play Mal of course.

23. Looks like you’re having a pretty cool day, what with the temporary omniscience, the music, and the starring role in the new movie. And wouldn’t you know it? John Lennon just stepped off the Space-Time Continuum elevator (you left the door open). He’s feeling musical (that crazy John), but doesn’t have a lot of time. Time to kick back and enjoy a song. Which one are we going to hear?

If its a Beatles tune: Eleanor Rigby. If its open mic: get the Led out.

My sister, Pam, has this knack for taking what I would call junk and turning it into what I would call Cool Junk (ha ha, kidding). Actually, she is really talented at rummaging through attics, garage sales, and back lots in God-knows-what part of town…so if you hear a bunch of scuffling and see strange objects flying up through the air, it’s not a big badger burrowing its way through the undergrowth. It’s my big sister burrowing her way through buried treasure.

She gathers all sorts of this-and-that and takes it back to her studio, grabs tweezers, a glue gun, and (for all I know) a Kirby vacuum cleaner hose. And breathes new life into the little misfits from the Island of Forgotten Toys.

Like this.

And this.

Now, I’m not one to where jewelry of any kind. I don’t even where a watch.

But—if I woke up one morning in my wife’s body (leave it alone) and decided I simply Had To Have something unique to complete the ensemble…well, I’d forego the attics, garage sales and back lots and find my way to Pam’s web site.

At least long enough so as not to mess up her art work, that is. And Charlie Girl along with her.

It was Tuesday and that means Miss Alma, once again, has something unique to pass along to the kids in the neighborhood lucky enough to have secured a spot in her ever-popular art class.

There is no telling what they’ll come home with but it’s always hands-on and always worth a frame or a honored location on the mantle.

Very. Hands. On.

Whether Miss Lucy likes it or not (and she didn’t, by the way). But her mom, Annie, isn’t new around here and knows the exact balance between Here Let Mommy Show You and FINE YOUNG LADY, DO IT YOURSELF! Which sounds more like a yell than Annie ever would. Annie, like Cute Redhead and I (and like so many other parents in our season are admitting more and more and more), is in the wrong decade altogether. Meaning we’re ten into the 2000′s and all of us are thinking that the 1950 through the 1970′s had it more right than they ever had it wrong.

Which plays out something like “Get out of here and don’t come home until the street lights come on.”

And if you’re a product of those decades you know exactly what I’m talking about.

(This isn’t a word I throw around at all — it’s just not a guy word, sorry — but when I said “face this way and smile, honey” and she faced this way and smiled, I couldn’t stop laughing and had to say The Word I Don’t Throw Around Because It’s Not A Guy Word: Fabulous!

Of course I’ll take a photo of yours, sweetheart.

Is it just me or does this beg a two-page magazine spread for perfume lol?

And this is Miss Alma showing off the more masculine approach to the handiwork, courtesy of Ian. He and his brother David Michael joined the effort and produced pieces of their own. Not bad.

And not bad for our street.

Summer is well under way and I just discovered there remains but one home still occupied by its original owner, just across the way. Another neighbor, Kitsie, who was a young mom back in the day, tells us that our block alone (and not the all-the-way-around-the-block block…JUST up and down this side of it) once had (sit down for this one) 100 kids on it.

And, nowadays, our house is in the middle of the street.

And in the middle of that street is a riotous number of new kids learning all the things you learn on your street. Including how to carve up the summer months by hauling it over to Chloe’s driveway and making something cool like Mexican Niche Shadow Boxes.

Oh, and this little dude is our Y-Y. Which is what we call him. And how it’s pronounced. But it’s short for Wyatt.

And he rules.

Just ask his grandmother, Miss Alma.

My brain split in two and I had to concentrate very hard to listen to her and take in the fine points of the article about the camera with the left side while, at the same time, do my best to hang on tight while the right side went on a joyride. In a split second (and I’m not kidding lol) I realized I knew now what I was going to do. And how.

I was going to blog.

I suddenly realized how and why and where and what I was going to do. My only problem was that the board meeting going on inside my head was…well…stuck inside my head. But in a split-second I more or less saw it all design itself and, immediately after my friend left, pulled out a pencil and a clean sheet of paper.

Which always surprises me. Pencil and paper, that is. Because it’s 2010 and no one is really expected to use a pencil and paper anymore. But I do.

Which also surprises me. Because it’s 2010 and everything is electronic and computer and Photoshop and email and Facebook and iPhones (*sign of Cross), but before I put pixel to Internet I still start with a pencil and paper.

So, line-rectangle-square-rounded-edge-divider-divider-divider-those things I draw when I mean dummy text areas-erase/erase/erase (no, that won’t work)-line-line-line-done. And then the thunderstorm sent a bone-shattering bolt of lightening from the open atrium at the top of my laboratory, and I raised my fists to the sky and yelled, “It’s aaaAAAAALLLLLIIIiiiive!”

And then I hated everything I just sketched and decided there was probably a job opening for me somewhere in a shopping mall food court. I decided I was a horrible designer, a hack, a charlatan (ha ha, no one says ‘charlatan’ anymore!), and had no right whatsoever picking up a pencil, let alone firing up Photoshop.

And then I realized how much fun Moody Artist mode was and how much more fun it’d be with a gin & tonic (not that I would) (at 2 in the afternoon), but (yes I would) there was work (and no I didn’t) to be done, so I took another shot at a layout sketch.

And was pretty ticked off.

Because I knew what I was about to put myself through over the course of the next several hours. Which was to try and un-see what I’d seen in the blog design that first rattled my cage and design something that spring-boarded itself off the finest parts of that blog yet didn’t completely bastardize everything within a ten-mile radius. Try as I might, I just couldn’t bring myself to deny the fact that, as design and purpose and communication goes, I was bought and sold the moment I laid eyes on it.

But I’m not new around here and I knew there was no way I was going to not land right back where I started. Because even though there’s only so much one can do with a given amount of screen real estate, I couldn’t escape the tension of settling for anything less than what I’d seen and decided was the Best I’d Ever Seen.

So I gave up, caved in, swallowed my pride, and made quick work of 1024 pixels wide by 800 pixels high.

I was in full I’ll Know It When I See It mode, which is ToddSpeak for “I’m going to be impossible to live with until I get it out of my head and in front of me.” I needed a proper home for what I wanted to write. And not just what I wanted to write, but how. I was working out in my head something that I could be proud of to not only deliver what I wanted to blog about, but make the experience of delivering it something I actually enjoyed. Which is way more complicated than the process right-out-of-the-box actually is. I mean, you can go to any number of blog creating web sites and start Right Now.

That is, unless you have something so customized going on in your head it’s going to take and Act of Congress to wrest it from the recesses of your freak brain.

It was time to find someone who could take what I designed and give it a brain.

And a very big one, at that.

I wish I had a way to open up every folder within a folder within a layer within a mask within a channel…and show you all that I decided Had To Be Done. But the best I can do is this meager screen shot of the actual source file of the WiP blog in its native format. See that Layers palette on the left? I actually counted the individual layers in the original design. Now, mind you, though a great many of them are merged in the final form, the number is a little lower than the actual…but, then again, not really. Because everything is created in—and remains in—layers so that I can go back at anytime and decide I hate everything.

To the tune of (brace yourselves)

357 different layers.

And now you understand why I just don’t understand why people call me a perfectionist.

In the next post, I’ll tell you what a nightmare it was finding a coder who understood that when I say Pixel-Perfect, what I’m really saying is “The straight jacket isn’t for my safety…it’s for yours.”

And if your kids complain every summer morning because they have to get up before God turns the air on and get in it for swim team practice, ignore them and tell them that Back In My Day I had to walk to summer swim team practice in the snow!

If your child is given to screwing up his champion breast stroke because, when he sees you watching him, he laughs…watch him anyway.

And when they hunt you down in between their events to beg, borrow, or steal a few bucks for ‘something to eat’ (read: candy), deny them outright…because this isn’t your first rodeo. They can, however, have some fruit.

Or, better yet, some vegetables. (I go for the vegetables)

If your neighborhood happens to have one of those Eternal Pillars of Mom-ness, like Laura here (who is not only an Eternal Pillar of Mom-ness, but also eternally cool), then thank your lucky stars. Because a neighborhood with a billion kids needs a Pillar on every perimeter if there’s to be even a scintilla of security and to keep an eye on the demonic horde (read: that billion kids I just mentioned).

And this is our neighborhood pool. And from Memorial Day to Labor Day it is, all by itself, the nucleus and heartbeat of our patch of heaven. Swim team practice every morning and swim meets every Saturday. All the mom’s running the show (dad’s, don’t even try telling me we do anything to make these things run smoothly. Because you know and I know these woman could run Congress with their eyes closed before we even have the guts to admit that, when it comes to the kids being corralled, carpooled, and organized, the most we got is a vague awareness that there are short people in the house.)

But it was a Saturday, and that meant another swim meet. And grills fired up (awesome). And hot dogs and hamburgers (win), root beer (after your last race), candy (no), fruits and vegetables (yes, and don’t roll your eyes at me), and some of the greatest people we’ve had the good fortune to call friends.

And then this little guy, catching forty winks while his mom did that Mom (or Dad) Sway Back and Forth that all moms and dads do instinctively whenever they hold one of these lil’ sack o’ potatoes.

Looks like a future breast stroke champion if you ask me.

[Translation]: The fiendish Galactic Empire found itself engaged in epic struggle against the rebellious onslaught of chiffon and satin gloves. And we, everyone one of us, discovered the real purpose of prayer.

That is, that those on either side of the battle lines would in fact wage their terrible campaign and conduct themselves duly within the rules of war.

Such as it is.

Defiant, our young battle chief (aka my nephew, John) throws down the challenge and arrays his lines with a bone-chilling compliment of:

Droids

Stormtroopers

and (wait for it)

Light Sabers.

It’s not going to be pretty.

But wait! What’s this?

It appears his would-be adversary (aka my niece, Mary) has comported herself with what, at cursory glance, appears a meager defense! Ha!

“I’m ready. But…um. What are your weapons?” he challenges in defiant and confident mirth.

And with equal confidence—and every bit of Right Always Wins—our Mary meets the recalcitrance with that most ancient and deadliest of salvoes:

“My weapons are karate…and Everlasting Love.”

No small counter-attack, we observe.

And no small job for the Referee (aka my sister-in-law, Lara), who found herself navigating the knotted diplomacy when our John argued, “MoooOOOOOOomm! That’s not fair! Then they’ll never die!”

Ah, the art of war.

I meant undress some cabinets. Which is what we found Kirsten (our wonderful neighbor) doing today when Beta Male came barging into my studio with, “Dad! Kirsten wants you to come see her project!” Which I did and right away, too. If there’s one thing I know about Kirsten it’s that when she takes on a project, it’s usually one I want to see.

This is Kirsten. And those are her cabinets. And that’s Kirsten on the phone refinishing the cabinets. While she’s on the phone. Which is because Kirsten is a mom of five. Which means Kirsten could change the oil and a diaper at the same time.

But not today. Today Kirsten is doing what she told me is ‘undressing’ the kitchen cabinets.

She knew I’d want to see this because our homes, built on the same block in the same 1960′s still sported the same Not At All Nice Looking cabinetry. And Kirsten had stumbled upon a solution that blew my mind. So, before she could say “here, watch me undress!” (ha ha she didn’t say that but it made me laugh), I ran home and grabbed the Rebel Force to get these photos.

That’s what goes on the woodwork first. No other prep in the world, if you can believe that. It looked like tacky dough like Bisquick is when you make those drop-biscuits. And if you don’t know what those are we can’t be friends anymore. (Policy. You understand.)

And then she lightly sanded down the surface to something smooth, which apparently wasn’t that difficult to do considering the texture you’re going for at the end.

Then she brushes on this stuff, and it apparently comes in all kinds of different colors. Do you see where this is going yet?

There’s a close up of one she finished. Bright sun made it a bit challenging to appreciate.

She had three tables set up outside. When this woman crafts, she does not mess around and I don’t mean maybe. Those are finished doors…

…and this is the finished result. If you could envision very plain, very ugly, very boring, very personality-less cabinets—that’s what these were. But now? Now they’re vintage and cottage and all kinds of other words that garner a look that looks On Purpose but not like you’re trying to fake anything at all. And I think that’s a fine balance. And Kirsten nailed it. I can’t wait for Cute Redhead to see them.

Because our kitchen cabinets are very plain, very ugly, very boring, and have no personality.

Which I wanted to discuss with Kirsten a little more. But…well. The phone rang again.

Did I tell you Kirsten can undress and talk at the same time? (ha ha I made myself laugh again).

I found it while examining the small pile of items I’d taken out of the studio during remodeling, and now sifted through to determine their worthiness (or lack thereof), and whether to return them to favored spots on the wall or on the shelves.

Two summers back he and several buddies left the confines of pre-pre-adolescence and, for one week, lived in loin cloths and war paint and bonfires over which they cooked the day’s kill. They chanted ancient ritualistic intonations, calling down on their enemies no small portion of Hell’s wrath and, to be sure, Heaven’s blessing upon themselves.

Meaning they went to camp and spent their days being boys and indulging in all manner of Boy Stuff, while rounding out the Whole Man with a fair measure of spiritual exercise, thought, and meditation. As you can see.

This is the only thing I found he’d written in his journal and I’ll treasure it forever.

John 3:16 and Proverbs 3:5-6.

What more could a father hope for his son? What finer wisdom could a child lean into, gather about himself, and equip his young heart and mind while, bravely, he steps forward into the world and ma—

…wait a minute…there seems to be more.

Oh dear.

I cleaned out the overgrown grass, liberated a dozen very healthy raspberry plants, and discovered several more hiding under the overgrowth.

But look at all that real estate! Woo hoo!! Cute Redhead has already transplanted irises and lilly from the front gardens so I better move quick if I’m going to have anything to say about the strawberries I’m thinking about.

This is right outside my studio window. Love this view. There’s full wifi coverage (*genuflect) and shade enough to explain why you’ll be finding me on a lounge chair with my laptop.

And remember the rhubarb I hated? I don’t hate it anymore. And I’m thinking that container in the corner is begging for some giant sunflowers.

Call me crazy.

And if you’re a married man, I might suggest you suspend the part of your Male Limbic Brain governing What’s Fair. Meaning, the part where you’ve been trying to get your wife on the same page with something for years…but which she never would…but which she finally up and pulls the trigger on all by herself, completely circumventing the fact that you’ve been willing to sell your soul for it all along.

Read: “It’s not a Good Idea until it’s Her Idea.” (whatever)

And what are we talking about today, my friends? What is it that has me riding the crest of a wave so joyous the smile on my face would pass for transfiguration?

Cleaning ladies.

CleaningLadiesCleaningLadiesCleaningLadies!

That photo up there? That’s the interior of the microwave.

And it’s white.

Did you know it’s white? For the life of me I thought it was a Jackson Pollack canvas. Or a murder scene.

But several hours after The Magical Elvitas left, I wandered around the Waldorf Astoria in a stupor. Inhaling large draughts of lemon-fresh scents and trying to figure out what those shiny, white things bordering all the floors were (answer: baseboards).

So last week Cute Redhead asks me out of my office to meet The High Priestess of Pine-Sol.

“This is [name withheld because I'm not sharing her with anyone] [ever].”

“Hello there. I’m Todd. Will you marry me?”

“Very funny, Todd. Go away.”

And I did. I went away. And the next day when The High Priestess’ team of Magical Elvitas showed up, I ushered the Spawn out the door (myself with them) and prayed to God Almighty in heaven that they wouldn’t take one look at the domicile and decide setting it on fire wasn’t the easier route.

And five hours later…

FIVE. HOURS. LATER which I’m embarrassed to calculate (lie. I think this is awesome.) equals out to fifteen man Magical Elvita hours of deep cleaning.

And why do I call them Magical? Simple. Ten minutes before they showed up I’d forgotten to unclutter the master bedroom and just shoved everything, five million pairs of HER shoes and all, into the closet and shut the doors. No reason to hoist that nightmare on them, right?

THEY. CLEANED. THE. CLOSET.

And all the shoes were matched, paired, lined up, and pointing in the same direction. Just like those little magical elves did in the fairly tale in the middle of the night. I’d detail more but I’m crying too hard to type.

I was on my way to run errands when I heard a crew of honey bees doing their thing. Caught that little guy and his wares making his way from one blossom to the next.

This is a portion of the yard I’ve not shown before. Not in full, anyway. And, as you can see, it’s an area better kept out of the camera’s eye. What you see there is an apple tree, too much overgrowing grass, and a fine batch of raspberry bushes.

Here’s the entrance to the patch. I took off the gate a few years ago and put it on another section of fence. I think the former owners used it as a dog run. I’d have kept it on for the Golden Recliner…but that’d require actually running and, um…yeah no.

I spent Memorial Day weekend attacking that area with a hoe and a favorite weeding tool, and one thing led to another.

A few hours later, I’d cleared the path, divested the raspberry patch of enough bind weed to choke a DC-10 engine, and uncovered patches of ground I intend for strawberries, sunflowers, and, I think, blueberries. That is, if I can hunt some down at the nursery.

I was pruning, digging, and throwing out all kinds of plants and bulbs and finding a great deal of satisfaction in being Judge and Jury. That is, You Grow There If I Decide You Grow There.

I happen to like that about gardening.

And I happen to like a verdant yard with enough going on to keep me not just busy…but deeply satisfied.

It was in the middle of a good hour and a half weeding the vegetable garden on Sunday morning that I realized my hands in the soil and my soul in the work is all the church I need.

Or want.

Amen to that.

Which actually is working just fine. The problem is we’ve misplaced the actual garage door opener. And by ‘misplaced’ I mean that somewhere in the wreckage of this household there lies hidden the garage door opener, one or two undiscovered Easter Eggs and the original plans for the Death Star.

The issue with this particular garage door mechanism is that it’s Ancient. Though it still works, it seems to operate at a radio frequency now disallowed by the Government Office Governing Garage Door Radio Frequencies because, it would seem, that should we activate it, satellites would drop from the sky.

Whatever.

As it is, I’m not going to clean the garage until I’m sure I can open it from the outside.

(32 Hours Later)

Okay, it’s Sunday and I actually fixed the garage door. It was hell and I am not making this up.

There must be some theorem or primary law of thermodynamics saying something about a problem devolving into chaos the more attention and energy it is given because such was the case with the God-forsaken [very unpublishable word here] garage door opener. I basically rebuilt the entire mechanism along the way.

I cursed out my own father several times, solely because he was not nearby to take one look at the mess and say, ‘oh. yeah. you need this-thus-and-so-boom-you’re-done’, while at the same time grabbing the correct tool from that ancient olive green canvas tool bag he’s had since God was a boy. He’s like that (my dad, that is). He can tear down and rebuild anything. I’ve seen him do it. He can take a Q-tip and a can opener and build you a Pratt & Whitney jet engine. Yet, while I stood there anxiously waiting for that part of my DNA to kick in, the garage door hung askew mocking me all the while. Mock, mock, mock.

The garage door opener engine was a hissy fit of wires which I had to figure out. I could rewire the Space Shuttle after that. And, okay, I know there were only six wires involved but we’re talking about me, and in Toddland that equals the entire electrical grid west of the Rockies.

The gear head around which the chain moves, according to the manual, is described deceivingly as a ‘chained spreader.’ It does not, I might mention here, spread the chain enough to make a damn bit of difference. but I won’t go into that because there are all other kinds of things to go into. Like how the cable wiring that maintains the proper tension of the chain drive, and the weight of the garage door. Or the Golden Gate bridge.

I am, also, convinced that somewhere within a three foot radius of my work area (and by ‘work area’ I mean the area in which I could throw anything that made me mad during this freak show), there is a rip in the Space/Time continuum that causes cable wiring and garage door chain links to mysteriously multiply and then shrink for no reason.

There were so many stupid little detours to this pain in the rear end, it’s not even humorous.

The door opens perfectly.

The door closes perfectly.

That’s all that matters.

Well…okay, so it doesn’t close perfectly.

I don’t want to talk about it.

I’m still trying to figure out how to make all of this someone else’s fault.

This whole blogging thing is very much a love-hate relationship, believe it or not. More love than hate, but the tension is ever-present.

It has to do with the arena of blogging and the alleged rules ordering the frontier. It occurred to me yesterday while working in the yard and I thought a bit of How Did This Happen was in order…all the better to explain What I Love About Blogging and What I Hate, that is.

About a year ago, I self-published my first book: A Beautiful Hell – Book One of the Waltzing in Perdition Chronicles. It was a great experience and one that dropped me smack-dab in the middle of something I’d been putting off and hiding from for years: writing publicly. A few radio interviews, a few small speaking engagements, and not a few Wait…You Did WHATs and I realized I never should have waited as long as I did.

I love writing. I love words. I love wordsmithing. I live for cadence and lyrical expression and, though I am an obvious fan of what they call the ‘run-on sentence,’ I’m an even bigger fan of the lethal minimalism I occasionally come across (without feeling the pressure to imitate).

As writing and other creative processes began to whirlpool, not the least of which was amateur photography, I made mention to my friend and neighbor Kirsten my wanting a digital camera. A few weeks later she stopped by to show me a certain blog who’s author used the very camera after which we both lusted. I’ll never forget that day, because when she pulled up the specific article detailing the camera, my eyes glazed over and I went into an artistic catatonic state.

Because the blog’s layout and design immediately arrested my attention and hit me over the head. I see a lot of design. A lot. I’m a designer and web developer, so it’s part of the daily diet around here. To put it mildly. And I don’t care if it’s kind or not, it has to be said: 95% of the blogs out there are ugly as sin. A mess. A train wreck of article and advertisement and Google Ads, and, worst of all, unoriginal regurgitated articles in the form of lists.

But not the one Kirsten showed me.

My brain split in two and I had to concentrate very hard to listen to her and take in the fine points of the article about the camera with the left side while, at the same time, do my best to hang on tight while the right side went on a joyride. In a split second (and I’m not kidding lol) I realized I knew now what I was going to do. And how.

I was going to blog.

Such a funny thing the mind does…stamping onto young psyches something like hero worship and leaving indelible relief. I can think of so many examples, but chief among them are a photograph of my grandfather from World War II.

I recently renovated the studio and had to temporarily pack away the photos and memorabilia to paint, so by the time this article posts, I’ll hope to have excavated the photograph to which I’m referring and include it here.

It is a photo that, to this day, makes my back stiffen to attention when I look at it. Roland in his leather flight jacket, his hat cocked off to the side and a devil-may-care grin. The color is vintage but not Photoshopped. It’s the real deal because, of course, the photograph is that old.

What I love most about the photo is that he was only nineteen years old when it was taken. Nineteen. He was a Hump pilot, which was the name given by Allied pilots in WWII to the eastern end of the Himalayan Mountains. He flew military transport aircraft from India to China to resupply the Chinese war effort of Chiang Kai-shek and the units of the United States Army Air Forces based in China.

Nineteen.

But when I look at that photograph, I’m a little kid again and I’m looking at a god.

And then I remember what I consider the most meaningful conversation with him I ever had…

September 11, 2001.

Cute Redhead sat on the couch cradling our five-day old baby girl. I’d just stepped out into the room seeing the second plane do what it did, and stood there unable to absorb the momentum of what my mind could not imagine.

You remember the day.

And I remember the trauma leveled against myself and my failing ability to navigate what had happened, what it meant, and what was coming.

And then Roland was on the phone. And having lost the best of his hearing years ago, was yelling in the way I’d pay anything to hear again. Which never meant he was angry with you, by the way…but which certainly could; it took a certain understanding to understand that he never whispered. He never mumbled. He yelled.

I miss that yell.

“Hi grandpa. I can’t bel—”

“Is this Todd!”

“lol yeah, Roland…it’s Todd. I was saying that I can’t bel—”

“You listen to me boy…”

…and then he paused and spoke courage into me in a way that throttled me and punched a whole into my mettle.

“…we’re going to be fine, boy.”

And I lost it. I did my level best to be the brave private hearing the braver colonel’s Just Let Them Try, but for the first time in my life…I heard him not yell, but talk softly.

And over the miles, over the phone…he set his giant hand on my shoulder and emboldened me. And in the moment, in a flash, I was eight years old and wanted baseball games and days of deep summer and some way, any way, to not know anything about the world.

I’ll never forget.

I wish there was more like him these days. The curtain is closing on The Greatest Generation and it unnerves me because, no matter what we think we know, they know more.

They know that, no matter what, we’re going to be fine.

That’s what I remember.

That’s what I need to keep remembering.

I drew it back in 1991 or 1992, I think, and the character was a shot at a single-panel comic strip entitled Grizelda Kanarpfarkle (and summarily rejected by every syndicate it was sent to). The original caption was “Morning has broken.”

It’s been my plan to create videos of some of the process I employ on a daily basis—and I promise I will do just that. But I wanted to first try showing how things happen with some photographs of the craft.

I didn’t anticipate what happened though. Which was a bit of frustration with the coloring process.

This was rendered by hand, obviously. Or, perhaps, not so obviously: I use a Wacom drawing tablet, but never for actual drawing. All that is done by hand. And it always surprises me how many people, upon seeing the pen tool in lieu of a mouse assume I’m drawing on it and onto the computer monitor.

Never.

The reason, for me anyway, is that, when I draw I’m looking directly past my fingers holding the pen and at what it is I’m drawing. Using a pen tool and tablet means looking not at my hand, but at the monitor, which means there’s a gap in the process. Other brains might have adapted to that anomaly, but mine never will.

Ever.

What you likely don’t know, can’t know, is that it’s been an embarrassing number of years since I’ve actually produce any cartoon work for a client. And I mention that only to mention this: I never did it on the computer.

Ever.

I sketched, inked, and colored it all by hand. And loved it.

Always.

So, you’ll forgive the Moody Artist for his complete disdain for what I’m posting anyway. That is, a drawing I Don’t Hate (artist never Like anything they create…the best they’ll give you is I Don’t Hate It).

See that background? Photoshop.

And all the other colors? Photoshop.

Not a big shock.

But as I laid in the color using the tools of the trade nowadays, I found a frustration I’m none too pleased with:

It looks too perfect.

I used to draw on hot pressed watercolor paper and color with a certain brand of marker. Then I’d ink the final piece using the only pen I ever liked. And I used all those tools because of how they behaved together. The watercolor paper had a certain composition that allowed the markers to bleed in just such a way I came to love. Depending on how firmly I held the marker, or turned the paper or did whatever it was I did…well…the final piece looked Good.

Not perfect.

Good.  And I’m a big believer in Things Were Never Meant To Be Perfect…Just Good.

But this…

…this just doesn’t do it for me. I’m used to a whole different process, a much more organic and basic one. One that has my feet on grass, not in shoes on asphalt, if you get my meaning.

And, trust me, I know Photoshop. I’m a master with the program and I don’t mean maybe.

But it’s that the program has algorithms designed to exude the qualities and properties of the natural materials and processes that I find myself shaking my head at. More, I realize how unimpressed I am.

At the end of the day, there is just no substitute for doing it all by hand the old fashioned way.

So. There it is. I didn’t intend to not like this. But I don’t like it.

It’s too perfect.

Your friends are your most valued treasure.
So give them away.

I was in my younger twenties when I learned that one, and it arrested my attention for all its (then) counter-intuitiveness. But it didn’t take but one or two exercises in the practice before learning that there are few joys in life greater than seeing people you love meet one another and form a friendship of their own.

And that’s what happened the other night when, finally, my buddy Jeff flew into town. The stars lined up allowing my other friend Betsy and I to meet him for a bit of dinner, a bit of adult beveragating (today is brought to you by Beer and the letter ‘Ow My Head’), and a lot of Let’s Be Best Friends Now But Not Let Todd In Our Clique.

Which is just what they did because they both can talk music. I mean Talk. Music.

But I remembered my lesson and was not bitter.

Not then.

Now now.

*sob

I should have know how this was going to turn out when I saw that hand smacking the table. I love that look and that hand-smack because I know how he talks and when he’s in his element. That’s when he smacks his hand on a table lol.

Not to be outdone, our Lady B can toe-to-toe with the best of them. They started talking about church and church music and the music industry in general. And if there are two people more saturated in singing, song writing, and the music industry (read Jeff worked back stage at the MTV Music awards, among others) (Remember the David Spade ‘And You AAAAAARRE…??’ Yeah. That was Jeff.), well…they certainly weren’t at our table.

Oh geez. Another hand wave. This meant Lady B was now in her element.

And this was her going into what we’ve come to call Serving The Song, which is our vernacular for the essence of music and getting out of your own way and letting a gift come through you.

And this is Jeff letting me know that I can stop being Loser With Camera.

See those happy little faces up there? Full of hope and promise and joy?

Yes.

Those are faces full of gratitude throwing no small measure of Dad Awe all over the kitchen. Because I made five little hoodlums a proper breakfast, thank you very much. Which, if you throw your sleeping bag on my floor, is going to mean you wake up from the sleep-over to the smell of:

pancakes

thick-cut bacon

fresh strawberries

fresh milk (not kidding about that one)

and hot syrup.

That’s right. Because I am Marty Stewart.

Cute Redhead on the other hand, not realizing I was going to go all Short Order Cook on the place (what? you’re new here?), “set out breakfast for them already,” which summoned this response from the poor darlings…

Cold cereal? AND WE HAVE TO POUR THE MILK OURSELVES?? WHA–??

There, there, my little urchins. Fear not.

And so they turned their backs on Non-Breakfast and sang my praises.

And then I (get a load of this one) shooed them away from the table singing something that made them laugh (because I’m also Marty Poppins) and they flew out of the kitchen like sparks from an anvil to resume their…

…crafts (girls), and their…

…killing each other (boys).

Banner day.

Meaning, I love every bit of it. It’s Norman Rockwell’s Breaking Home Ties, and last week it shot across my bow in the form of my eldest on the last day of what they call Middle School—but which I refuse to consider anything other than what it is: Junior High. Which, in my day, was 7th, 8th, and 9th grade, and then thereafter, the demarkation between worlds we never understood.

That is, high school’s foyer and the threshold upon the wider world.

The painting is considered one of Norman Rockwell’s masterworks, as well as being one of the most widely reproduced.

The young man and his father sit on the running board of the family’s stakesided farm truck. The ticket protrudes from the son’s pocket, and the single rail visible at the lower corner of the painting, by which the trio sit, suggest that they’re at a whistle stop waiting for the train.

The son’s books are stacked on a new suitcase and bear a “State U” pennant. His tie and socks perfectly matched, he wears the pressed white trousers and matching jacket, signifying he is ready for his new life in college. The young man’s shoes are shined to a polished gleam, as, hands folded, and with the family dog resting his head in his lap, his gaze focuses eagerly toward the horizon, and on the next chapter in his life.

But.

The father sits slumped with both his and his son’s hats clutched in his hand, as if reluctant to let him go. The direction of his gaze is opposite to the boy’s. His watchchain dangles, near at hand, from his shirt pocket. There is a red flag and a lantern at the ready, near his right hand, atop a well-used trunk. With the son’s luggage unloaded and waiting next to them…

…there is nothing left for him to do but signal the train to stop, and his pose suggests that he is looking up the track, dreading the imminent arrival of the train that will carry his son away.

Though the two figures are not looking at each other, the sense of family ties is very clear.

I hate this painting.

I love it because, for me, 8th grade was a terrible year. Terrible. It began with my big mouth and ended too many years later with too many scars, none of which I’m interested in unearthing here.

But all of which were erased the day, last week, when I saw August stand when his row was called, walk confidently toward the stage, shake the hand of his principal, accept the document certifying he’d survived, and then walk off, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

And then I saw, years from now, the morning I rose to face the day I felt would never come and the one which, then and now, I’d sell my soul to turn back forever.

How will I handle, how will I truly handle, a house too clean, no longer proving the kid couldn’t pick up after himself if the fate of the free world depended upon it?

How will I not look Cute Redhead in the eye too closely lest she look right back and ruin my Holding It Together…because the Too Quiet is Too Loud?

How could I have been so stupid to think that a day would come when I’d be okay with my boy spreading his wings and tumbling out of my nest?

How on earth can I know that I know that I know that we did what we needed to do to get him safe?

Getting him safe:

A house on fire.

And that’s how I’ve always seen it. That is, when I had calm enough to get my wits about me and steady myself in spite of the tumult called Every Day.

A house on fire.

And it was mine.

Mine to do whatever it takes to brave the flames, suffer the burns, hold the child to me, and falling running falling standing running falling jumping

panicking

certain

horrified

undaunted

thankful

furious

finally

…getting him safely out of the house on fire.

I know, I know. Drama. But that’s how I see it. That’s how I’ve always seen it. And ever since the day I called his name for the first time…ever since the moment he stopped squawking, opened his own eyes to see my own brimming and looking into his…I’ll never stop seeing it.

I’ve said it before here, “Some would say I’m injecting far too much. I’d say they’re not seeing things as they are.”

And I hate that painting.

Because keeping

means relinquishing.

And holding close

means letting go.

and

“He is no fool
who gives
what he cannot keep
to gain
what he cannot lose.”

It’s Latin and it means, Dew of the Sea. And though it’s most closely associated with the cooking of the Mediterranean area, it blocked my way today while walking down the sidewalk.

Right there in front of God and everybody, a whole five foot by five foot display of what looked like a hedge I wanted to dig up and cook with right on the spot.

Which was not fair at all because I can’t smell Rosemary, without thinking of roast chicken. And I can’t roast a chicken unless the dinner I’m cooking falls between September and April. Which might sound stupid, but it’s sort of my rule.

Roast chicken is a cold season meal as far as I’m concerned.

And yet there it was right in front of me. Suddenly I wanted this:

Rotisserie Roast Chicken with Rosemary, Orange and Garlic

Ingredients
1 roasting chicken big enough to feed your crew
1 tsp salt
5 sprigs chopped rosemary (and no I’m not giving you mine)
zest from 1 orange
2 tsp garlic flake
rock salt

Method
1. Rub salt, rosemary and orange zest all over the chicken including the inside cavity. Leave in the fridge for a few hours or overnight.
2. Using a mortar and pestle, coarsely grind the garlic flake. (don’t even pretend you don’t want one)
3. Rub garlic flake over skin and sprinkle with rock salt.
4. Truss chicken and rotisserie at 180˚C for 45-60 minutes or until the juices run clear. (I think trussing is a pain)
5. Rest the chicken for 10 minutes before carving.

So there it is. That’s what flooded my mind when I ran into the Dew of the Sea. It’s no-nonsense, simple, and a favorite around here. And though I’m not cooking it tonight, I’ll break my rule and throw it in the oven the first time the temperature drops below 60˚.

Now…if anyone has an award-winning gravy recipe, I’m all ears.

It, quite naturally, fell to me to make sure the kids didn’t get blood on the walls were taken care of. And, quite professionally, I did just that, if I do say so myself.

I used to make cocky little lists of Things To Do while she was away. Things I can’t get to under normal circumstances due to Life insisting that Life be tended to 24/7. Things like: clean the garage…build the fence…finish painting the trim…go clubbing and dance till they pry my cold dead fingers off the pole. But things which, in her absence, I had more Me Time with which to go clubbing be responsible and focused.

All of that falls by the wayside, however, when it turns into All Hands On Deck and I find myself the sole-center of the Universe (read: Though I Am Fully Functioning Human With Opposable Thumbs, I Can’t Do Anything Without Pestering Dad First) and, worse, completely unable to recruit that most favored of phrases, “Go ask your mother.”

Everything went fine. The kids were alive, fed, clothed, loved, natured, nurtured bleah bleah bleah, right?

But the afternoon Wife returned I noticed she was moving throughout the house with a bit of Drawers Shutting A Little Too Loudly, etc., etc. After a good forty-five minutes of the heavy sighing I made my way to the kitchen to (finally) deal with the sink full of breakfast dishes, whereupon I made a huge tactical blunder that went like this:

[turns on hot water] [rinses plate] “Um…so. How’re you doing?”

“Okay.”

[loads dishwasher] “A ha. Well. You seem to be moving throughout the house picking up this, wiping up that…all with body language leading me to suspect your aren’t all that pleased with the state of things upon your return, yes?”

“Well. I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

[wipes counter] “Lol well. I would. I’m not new here.”

“Yes. Well. No. You did pretty well and I thi—”

“—I DID PRETTY WELL LOL??”

“Yes. I’d give you an 85%.”

[turns off water] “Wait…what? Did you just say you’d ‘give me an 85%??’”

“Yes. What would you have given yourself.”

“A frontal lobotomy on our wedding da—you know, shocking as this may seem, I don’t GRADE my performance like this lol.”

“Oh.”

“And what, pray, was it exactly that earned me this solid B?”

“The dishes were left in the sink.”

“The dishes in the sink.”

“Yes.”

*stares at Walking Grade Book “You’re kidding me.”

“No. It could have been a 92.”

Now, I don’t recommend such extreme maneuvers to you younger dudes fresh off the wedding altar. Things like this are not for novitiates, and I can’t be held responsible for any of you young bucks stumbling into potential minefields with all the subtlety of a clown car.

So, gather round, my young padawans and listen and learn.

It all began with the lawnmore we’ve had since God was an altar boy and how someone (NOT ME) left it out every year all winter long, subjecting it all the forces of nature, extreme temperatures, corroded spark plugs, pull mechanisms which pull-twang-snap-zip-slinged their way across the backyard and landed in a tree.

Okay, actually it was me but I don’t think that need factor into this story.

What does factor in, however, is how every spring time I’d have to heft the stupid thing into the beloved SUV and ambulance it to the local toy store hardware store for its annual Let Me Get This Straight…You Mow With This POS? Which is Hardware Store Boyspeak for “You Are A Loser And We All Know It By What You ‘Mow’ With.”

And then two or three weeks later (read: It Never Occurred To Me To Beat The Rush), I’d get a phone call from Hardware Store Boy telling me the machine had something like a new lease on life, albeit temporary. At best.

During that two or three weeks I’d borrow my neighbor’s lawnmower.  And this neighbor is my buddy Bill.  Bill is cool.  Bill is awesome.  Bill will hate anyone I hate and has never once failed to gripe about anything with me.  He is as dependable as they come, borrows all my stuff while I borrow all his stuff, and has mastered The Guy Look.

The Guy Look: The Guy Look is that look guys give other guys when there is no way they can (or want to) risk verbalizing what’s going through their head while every child ever sired is pecking them to death like ducks while their wives are off making more lists of Things They Must Do To Prove They Love Me And If They Don’t That Means They Don’t Love Me This Minute Anymore And Must Pay. Bill is a master at this look. We’ve passed it to one another across crowded rooms, packed backyards, at soccer games, in our cars when we pass on the street, and in the silent recesses of our Very Man Hearts where we live slowly trodding this mortal coil wondering how in the world we ended up where we are instead of where we thought we would (when we were nine) which was killing the bad guys.

And, yes, even though that nine-year-old perspective also had us in our underwear wearing swim goggles and a towel tied around our necks, it was cool. But rather on the wanting side, we realize that now…

…

…okay, I completely lost my train of thoug—

Oh wait.

Mothers Day.

So my Mothers Day gift to Cute Redhead was Servitude. I would be her drone, her slave, her minion, her cabana boy. I would garden, plant, move this, fix that, and hunt-and-gather whatever she deemed worthy the whim.

But then I decided the Amazon Rainforest doubling as my backyard needed a good trimming. And so I announced that I would lean into the task. And then she announced that I would likely do no such thing because the lawnmower had gone to be with Jesus.

*hands on hips

*scowls in the face of Very Manly Task (mowing the lawn)

And then I said (and here comes the professional part) (professional because of this):

Did you know that the human body undergoes, oversees, and experiences roughly 12 billion chemical reactions a second? A. SECOND.

12 billion. To give you a better appreciation of this number, consider this: if you started counting today, it would take you about 11 weeks to count all the way to 1 million.

And if you started counting today, with 1 billion in your sights, you would reach that number in

32 years.

That’s the scope we’re talking about.

Times 12.

12 billion chemical reactions a second.

That is beyond amazing and why no computer will ever achieve anything like Artificial Intelligence let alone Operating System Superiority.

Unless it’s a Mac.

Now…in that split-second where I realize the lawnmower had passed to the other side, one of those 12 billion reactions sparked along the synaptic byway of Male Limbic Brain. It’s very technical and I hope you’ve brushed up on your college physics because I don’t have time to break this down for the layman. Here is chemical reaction:

I Want A New Lawn Mower.

Which all by itself in no way results in Gets New Lawnmower if you’re married because it has to play out like a mutual decision. However, any mutual decision that leads off with Her Deciding It Must Happen transcends the pedestrian rules governing humans and is immediately ushered to the front of the line.

And it goes like this:

“Happy Mothers Day!” *kiss

*leans cheek toward Offered Kiss

“Thank you!”

“I shall mow the lawn for you! Yay!”

“Um. No. You left the lawnmower outside all winter again, Brainwave. It has breathed its last.”

“Wha–?? But…”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“But…I wanted to mow the lawn! For you!” (lie)

“I know you were, sweetheart. I love how you do these things For Me.” (lie)

*defeated “I suppose I should take it in. Or maybe I should just get a new one.”

Now, right here, I was on a razor’s edge. This next move was, I don’t mind saying, brilliant. It went like this:

“I bet [typical hardware store] has some good ones.”

“No. I’d go to Sears.”

*feigns subserviency “…Well. Okay. I mean, if that’s what you think makes the most sense.” *shrug

“Yes. Sears. You should go to Sears.”

And so I went to Sears and came home with the LawnMaven® 6000.

Okay, it’s not really called that at all but it is in the Party Inside My Head.

I love this thing. It has all kinds of cool features, all of which are eclipses by the (go up and look at the photo one more time) Little Blue Thing by the back wheel there.

Do you know what that is? This is hilarious and awesome and the feature Sears Hardware Section Lady almost got kissed right on the mouth for:

After you’re done mowing, you HOOK. UP. THE. HOSE. to that little blue nozzle—and turn on the water full blast while The Bunker Busting SodMonster™ XSi is ON—

And

it

cleans

itself.

Dude.

…only to find our newest family member I bit down in the dumps at his new home.

“Do you want to talk about it?” (and, yes, I really asked him that)

“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” (and, yes, I really said that too)

These are my little iceburg lettuce babies.

I love them.

White Lisbon Onion. How cute is that?

Ho ho HO! You can just stop right there, Weeds From Hell. And don’t think I put in railroad ties for my health. You even think of breaching the wall and I swear to God in Heaven I’ll call in an airstrike. (yeahyoubetterrun)

Okay…that lil’ nipper? That’s my Bloomsdale Spinach.

*tear

We talked a long time. We talked about organic seeds, and nutrients and minerals; we talked about crinkle-leafed rosettes and–

–were interrupted by mocking laughter.

Game face.

Yeah, don’t think I don’t know it was you, Bailey.

Yesterday one of the cars needed repairs costing way more than we expected.

Two days before that I yelled at my oldest boy for getting uppity.

A few projects are showing their darker sides and really getting on my nerves.

My baby girl had two teeth pulled  and suffered a really bad sore throat for two days after.

Every time we run the dishwasher, it makes a sound that convinces me some big round, greasy part is going to come flying through the front of it and lodge itself in the neighbor’s garage door.

I haven’t parked in my garage since 2008 because my son and his compatriots have turned it into a recording studio for their band.

Every morning I wake up, drag myself to the coffee maker (*sign of Cross) and sit down to either read, write, design, or try and get Something Done. And every morning I’m interrupted by kids needing this or that, breakfast, lunch money, a ride, a signature, or socks.

My life…all our lives…are made up of interruptions and a near-constant not-quite-a-rhythm of Three Steps Forward And Two Steps Back. Lately I’ve been irritated with it. And cranky. I can’t seem to get anything done and that makes me crazy.

It’s noisy, frenetic, and feels like the hub of some wheel desperately needs oiling. I wonder if I’m doing anything very well or merely keeping (barely) my head above water enough to keep my mind off what just sank below the surface.

That’s only some of what’s going wrong.

I could go on and on and on but it’d be a waste of time.

A waste of time because it’s a waste of time to write about death when there is so much life all around me. And, yes, I mean death…because, at it’s core, that’s what I think I’m griping about.

Surrounded by a whirlwind of What Happens Every Morning, I glanced up thinking I was going to roll my eyes at the clip-clop-clip-clopping going on over my head (Cute Redhead was up and well underway toward High Powered Day), when this arrested my attention…

“Though darkness lay, it will give way when the dark night delivers the day.”

I needed to see this. I’ll explain why in a minute.

And then I saw this. The rhubarb I promised to dig up and remove. I hate that plant. It’s not what I planned for that spot. But we’ve had late snows and some unseasonal cold, and through all of it…year after year…it thrives.

Absolved. It stays.

I decided I wasn’t looking closely enough at things, so I grabbed my camera and decided to find Everything That’s Going Right.

I didn’t have to look very far…

He’s thirteen now, but as long as I live I will never not see one tiny little foot peeking out of a bundle of newborn blankets.

Even when, being woken by the sound of a camera shutter, said Thirteen Year Old scowls at me.

Beta Male is on an overnight field trip with his class. Though this bed is always absent the little Unibomber by now, it’s empty now because he didn’t sleep in it last night. I’m glad for his adventures, but there’s still a part of me that much prefers all my babies in the nest at night. In fact, no matter how crazy it can get…no matter how bad the wheels have fallen off (and they do) (often), knowing they’re safe, fed, covered and at rest, rests my heart…

…making the duty of waking the Princess of Space, Time, and Dimension a task I do not enjoy. Particularly when she’s clearly spent half the night turning upside down and backwards and burrowing under every stuffed animal in North America. Still, pulling back her hair and whispering,”…time to get up, little calepitter” (it’s how she pronounced it and how I’ll say it forever) makes me feel like mornings were invented so that All Things New had their encore.

And, finally, I took the camera and followed the sound of Purpose and Intent and Professional Control and Decorum and Maturity (read: everything Todd is not lol). And though I was given an eye roll and The Look, I was allowed a photograph of that foot in those shoes.

My favorite part? When I said I wanted a photograph and she tendered me her signature and very exasperated, “…Todd.”

Why I needed to see the sunrising over the wooden fence:

I’m going to a funeral in a few hours. And though I hate Death, I happen to love funerals. In the same way I like weddings. And in the same way I love Births.

Because I believe that The Door swings open at these time-between-times, and, opening, Life (even cleverly disguised as Death) flows from There into our Here and reminds me…

…that all the Wrong in the world is but a live coal in God’s ocean.

Everything…

…is going to be just fine.

Tread lightly boys, and keep it down.

Ah, spring time in the Rockies and what all most of us know as wisdom enough to never turn your back on her. Her being Mother Nature, that is.

According to the natives (and the Farmer’s Almanac), you never plant before May 10th. After that, however, you’re in the clear.

Yeah, I don’t mean to be picky, but this doesn’t look clear to me.

Isn’t winter-into-spring supposed to be a smooth transition? I want to think so, but then I remember my cousin once telling me (we were talking about becoming parents) that there is no such thing as ‘smooth transition,’ and that the notion played out as well as ‘tasty vomit.’

Naturally, I pruned the lilac bush outside my studio in order to free it up, divest it of the dead growth and inhibiting limbs so that it could sway untethered and released. I’m going to lose my mind.

But I’m going to lose it in Maui because I’ve had it and I’m moving there today.

If you need me, I’ll be staring at the Pacific.

Goodbye forever.

So there I was minding my own business when all off a sudden I realized bacon and eggs are for sissies. If it’s good with those, then it’s got to be better with brie, hash browns and French toast, right?

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT?!

Here’s the recipe (and, yes, I’m making it…and if I survive the quadruple bypass, I’ll be sure and let you know what my children think of seeing their dad’s eyes roll in back of his head while he sings opera.)

The Ingredients:

• 6 eggs
• 1 cup milk
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• Pinch cinnamon
• Pinch nutmeg
• 2 large russet potatoes
• Salt and pepper
• 4 tablespoons canola oil
• 8 slices bacon
• 8 thick slices firm white bread
• 4 tablespoons butter
• 8 ounces Wisconsin Brie cheese, sliced
• Pure maple syrup, optional

The Method:

Make dipping mixture: Whisk 2 eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg in wide bowl. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Peel potatoes and cover with cold water in pot. Season with salt. Bring to a boil; lower heat and simmer for 5 minutes; turn off burner and let sit 15-20 minutes. Drain; rinse potatoes with cold water. When cool, grate with the large holes of box grater. Heat heavy skillet, preferably cast iron, over high heat. Add canola oil; heat. Spread shredded potatoes evenly over skillet bottom. Season with salt and pepper and cook for 5 minutes or until brown on bottom. Do not stir or disturb potatoes while cooking. Using a wide spatula, flip potatoes over and brown other side without stirring.

Fry bacon in skillet until brown and crispy. Remove; drain on paper towels. Return skillet to stove over medium heat and fry remaining 4 eggs. Remove eggs to a plate. Keep warm.

Heat griddle or skillet over medium heat and add butter. Remove dipping mixture from refrigerator. Rewhisk to blend well. Dip the bread slices, one at a time, in mixture. Grill one side. Flip. Brown second side. Top 4 slices each with 1 ounce Brie, a portion of the potatoes, 1 egg, two slices of bacon, and another ounce of Brie. Top with another prepared bread slice. Continue to grill sandwiches briefly to heat the Brie, being careful not to overbrown bread.

Serve with maple syrup on the side, if you have absolutely no shame.

So Dentist Lady fit her out with those little rubber band spacer things last week in order to prepare for what had to happen this week. As in today. As in about an hour ago. As in I’m not sure how much longer I have to live.

She’s that mad at me, in spite of that smile you see up there.

I apparently failed to mention to her that though she was getting pulled out of school early today (woohoo!!), it had nothing to do with Dad Rocks and everything to do with pulling teeth (wha–??).

And I don’t know what you’ve been told, but this ‘laughing gas’ thing they use does not render good humor in little girls. When Dentist Helper Lady came out and told me everything was done, Baby Girl held on her hand which held the tiny white treasure box containing the elephant tus—

“…oh my God in heaven, what are those?”

“Those are her baby teeth.”

“So she’s a baby vampire?! LOOK at those things!”

“No. Those are baby teeth. We had to take those out to make room for her permanent teeth.”

“Permanent for what, biting through kevlar?!”

“Yes, well. It went just fine and I’m sure she’ll be a little sore when the laughing gas [my butt] wears off. So you’ll want to be sure and…”

[all kinds of doctor-to-attentive-parent directions none of which I was listening to, because I know this child and I don't care how much gauze they stuffed into her jaw, she was going to let me have it IN STEREO on the way home if I didn't think fast]

“—yes, right. Got it. Okay, more importantly…”

“Yes? Do you have a question?”

“Well…actually, yes. I know there have been budget cuts but I thought I should check just in case. Your office is, I trust, in compliance with Federal Regulatory Dental and Orthodontics Oversight Committee’s Best Management Practices For The Tooth Fairy Fiscal 2009-2010?”

[didn't miss a beat] “Oh, absolutely. We’ve just updated our database with the main frame and cached all our server’s overflow to a portal to be sure to accommodate the expected heavier traffic.”

“You’re expecting heavier traffic, huh?”

“We are. Did you get a look at those suckers?”

“I did. I’m thinking the Tooth Fairy is going to be laying down some serious bank tonight.”

And that’s why the photo up top shows her smiling.

I better call the bank and take out a loan.

And forgot about it.

For two days.

And looked everywhere for it. There was touching up to be done, and I couldn’t find the little can. Or the brush.

In the interim, I’d made several meals, opened and shut, moved this and then that, and gone in and out of the fridge no less than the typical number of times just like in any given kitchen the world over.

This morning, I was on the hunt for Something Breakfast-like and realized it wasn’t where it should be, so I rooted around on that top shelf a bit more than I normally might, and, so doing, pulled on something that should have moved.

But didn’t.

Because it was stuck to the shelf and eternally galvanized to the molecular structure of the Frigedaire.

With paint.

But I didn’t realize this…or appreciate the abject absence of viscosity and the arid properties of our high-desert climate…

…until I ripped the box of what it was I was looking for and left that remnant.

* * *

Okay, I can’t keep up this lie any longer.

That isn’t paint.

It’s milk. *sad trombone*

How horrible is that?

On a lighter note, I figured out what that odor was.

“lol no, buddy, it’s n—”

lol

“…actually, yes. Yes, it is kiddo lol. Don’t forget to rinse out the sink”

(…and please don’t read any of this back to me in court)

You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?
Hannah Montana.  And her dad.  I know you said only one person, but in my head he was standing close.

You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Who will it be?
Darrell Evans. I know some of you love his music. But I don’t. Next?

Who would you really like to just punch in the face?
All the women on The View.  Except Whoopi.  I watched this show for five minutes once and realized I’d rather pour hot tar on my [censored] than listen to that screeching.

What is your favorite cheese?
You had to bring that up.  I can’t remember the name.  I had it once and I saw the Lord.  I saw Him.  I’ve been looking for it again ever since.

You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your immediate disposal. What kind of sandwich will you eat?
The BLT recipe from the August 2006 issue of Southern Living.  And I’m not kidding.

You have the opportunity to [go on a nice date] with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached [nice date] and it can only happen once. Who is the lucky celebrity of your choice?
Angelina Jolie.

You have the opportunity to [go on a nice date] with the music celebrity of your choice, who will it be?
Sandra Bullock.  (In my head she’s loving it so much she sings.)

Now that you’ve [had a nice date] with two people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. What do you buy?
Nothing. I walk up to the first down-on-their-luck person I see and give it to them.  And then walk away.  Sort of like Touched By a Todd.

You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?
Fiji.

An angel appears out of heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the beverage of your choice. It is?
Water.  Not very creative, I know.  But I love water.

Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anywhere in the PAST. Where do you go?
No idea who this ‘Rufus’ character is, so I’m going to say five minutes before my wedding where I’ll meet Past Todd and go, ‘…alright, I’m not supposed to do this, but here’s what’s coming.  You better sit down…’

You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?
“You do not talk about Fight Club Island.”  And that’s all I’m saying.  Because you do not talk about Fight Club Island.

You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it?
Hm.  I’ll call it Hug It Out.  It will be hosted by me, Jeff, and Jill.  We’ll shred people and make it real.  Then after we’ve brought them to The Real, we’ll hug ‘em.

What is your favorite curse word?
The Queen Mother of All Cuss Words.  It is.  Mainly because, I’m sorry to say, I say it REALLY. WELL.

One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, what do you do?
Ask them if they laugh as hard as I do at Brendon Frasier trying to be tough.

Your house is on fire! What do you do?
Get the kids. Then the photo albums. Then the Macbook Pro and the iPhone.

The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. Whatcha gonna do in that half-hour?
[go on a nice date]

You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and whats even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What super-power is it?
*yawn.  Flying.

You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?
The moment my first child was born.

You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?
Watching forty year old men on a giant swing yelling ‘frrrrRRRREEEEEEEEeeedoom!!!’  Yeah, my little girl has a swing too, you dorks.

You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who [goes on nice dates] with celebrities and has super-powers. But check this out:  you can move anywhere. Where are you going?
Oh whatEVER. Like any country can keep me out. I have super-powers and T.I.M.E. T.R.A.V.E.L. Hlewwww.

This question still counts, even for those of you who are under age, if you were banned from every bar in the world except one, which one would it be?
The Little Bear.  If you don’t know where it is we’re not telling.

Hopefully you didn’t mention this in the super-powers question… If you did, then we’ll just expound on that. Check it out… Suddenly, you have gained the ability to fly! Whose house are you going to fly to first, and be like “Check it out I can FLY!?”
Good Lord Almighty what are you thinking!  Nobody’s!  Are you mad?  I can’t afford to let anyone know I can do this or my cover is blown.

The constant absorption of magical moon beams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life?
John Candy.  I miss John Candy.

I’m happy to say that day has finally come. But before we celebrate the new, let’s take one last ghastly look at the old…

I’m genuinely sorry lol. See all that orange? I’ve tried to say it was supposed to be like a deep caramel-leather brown. But it behaved like orange. The laptop was sitting on top of the light table because I ripped out one wall-length shelf over by the window…thus the strip of non-orange.

Thank God all that is over. Good riddance.

And hello, new paint.

Water Chestnut and Olivewood. Very understated. By themselves very plain and possibly even boring, but thanks to the addition of several antique wood features, they do their job very well. That is, balancing some old with some new…which is just the way I like it.

Cute Redhead sent me, with her blessing, to a local market which I’ve passed through before.  But not looking for anything in particular rendering the time little more than Okay, Can We Go Now? It’s a whole different ball game when you’re on the hunt for something specific, however. And this time the goal was a table and chair for the new studio. It had to be just the right height, just the right width, and just the right depth. Too old wouldn’t work and too new would be passed over. I’d know it when I see it.

And I saw it. One solid plank of wood making the top, nails all over the place, and just enough history (built in the 1920′s) to satisfy me.

And a drawer with one divider making two compartments or seven of varying width should I decide to employ the available slots. I’m not one for drawers for some reason. What’s more, the height of the chair I found was ergonomically ideal for my lower back but completely disallowed my legs to fit under things. Not good. On closer inspection I discovered the single supporting piece of wood on which the front of the drawer rested surrendered itself with just a bit of encouragement from the hammer. No damage done and, I think,  a one inch by five foot piece of wood with which to dream up some new function.

What do do, though, with the drawer itself. A shelf maybe. On the wall or on the floor somewhere. I can’t decide. Any ideas anyone? The aged smell all by itself begs display.

Couldn’t be happier with this find. The couple I bought it from sold it for less than half the amount they paid for it. “The economy?” I offered by way of understanding.

“No. My husband just wanted to unload it. He doesn’t like tables.”

I could have kissed her.

Solid square legs. This table, by all accounts and purposes, should wobble. A lot. I mean, come on, at 90 years old I’m sure I’m going to wobble some. And you get a peak at the barn wood flooring installed yesterday.

On my way out of the market I spied this chair. I’d already written one check for the table and the college funds were precariously close to evaporating if I didn’t get out of there quick.

I took one look at the original plaque on the back and another at the tag. I realized immediately the vintage quality. And the price tag promised I’d find nothing with half the character in any store while paying more than twice what the gentlemen was asking. “When would this chair have been made?”

“Late 1940′s, early 50′s.”

Sold.

And here it is…the finished, newly remodeled studio. New paint, new (old) barn wood flooring, the perfect table, just the right chair and no more excuses for avoiding the stories I need to write…the cartoons I need to draw…the photography I need to touch up…the books I need to complete…the web sites I need to design…

A shot looking toward the light table. I removed the box from the base and set it atop the built in shelf. This is a garden-level room by the way, so that window looks out on the backyard, the cherry tree, the apple tree, the tree fort, the vegetable garden and, now and then, two or three noses pressed against the pane. Good times.

Also, time to get to work.

If you need me, I’ll be in heaven.

It’s the new floor in my studio. Which I used to call ‘my office’ and though I likely will call it ‘office’ again, ‘studio’ is much more given to creativity and inspiration.

So. Studio.

Cute Redhead and I decided last week that the old had to go. Meaning I had no idea the old had to go until Cute Redhead told me that we both decided it needed to go. Welcome to marriage, boys lol.

I considered taking a photo of the place in its current state but I’m afraid of a lawsuit because you reached for bleach to pour into your eyes.  It’s that bad. What was supposed to be something closer to a caramel-leather kind of color when the afternoon sun graced the hue, turned out to be more orange. And the white ceiling accented the deep chocolate brown of the table tops just enough to make me realize one day: I was working in a giant bowl of candy corn.

And the carpeting? You don’t even want to *cough*shag*cough* know.

I ripped out one wall-length table which was where my laptop and drawing tablet used to reside. Which forced me to move things along, like it or not. I eyeballed the Mayline light table sitting in the corner and grabbed the screwdriver to tighten up the wobbly legs and had a temporary workstation in nothing flat. The light table you’ll see soon when I fire up the cameras and walk you through a variety of design projects. Particularly cartooning. It’s an indispensable tool in my arsenal which I’ve had since 1993. Wasn’t cheap either, but you can’t even find them used nowadays for the price I paid. Worth its weight in gold.

Also too high to work comfortably. Enter the new desk. I found this online and unless Cute Redhead can smoke another out of the upcoming weekend markets, it’ll find its new home in the middle of the room as soon as I can get the place ship shape. Once that’s set up, the light table top will be removed from the base and set atop the remaining shelf on the other side of the studio.

I know you’re all atwitter with this information and can now go on with your life safe in the knowledge that my studio is coming together nicely.

(You’re welcome).

And it is coming along nicely. Paint, floor, new blinds on the window, just like Cute Redhead and I agreed on. Oh and a 53″ HD flat screen TV with Bose surround sound system and leather theatre chairs, which I haven’t bothered her pretty little head about. I see no need to mention the small things.

(Let’s just see how often Cute Redhead reads any of this, shall we?)

I was asked this again recently and reminded that I said I’d write a bit about writing at all. Now that the WiP blog is finally laid out and organized the way I envisioned it nearly eight months ago, I’m willing to start putting some of this out there.

Notice I said ‘willing to’ and not ‘able to,’ because I’ve been able to all along. Just not willing to. And that sort of brings me to part of how I work be it putting pen to paper to illustrate, or pen to paper to write (albeit proverbially since I do it all electronically). I used to want to think I held a purist’s mentality about that—writing with real pen and real paper. The fact of the matter is, however, I type blazingly fast and find that function far more adept at keeping up with the thoughts bubbling up.

Willing to. I won’t cook unless the kitchen is cleaned. Not scrubbed clean, just once-over-and-put-away clean. I mean, I don’t have that kind of time and we don’t have that kind of live-in maid. Nothing too out of the ordinary; I just won’t start a project until my studio is organized. Or the kitchen counter is cleared of the last project-meal it sustained. If this strikes you odd, I’ll never understand why. If you happen to know anything about Synesthetes, refusing to do anything in the kitchen until it’s cleaned happens to be a hallmark idiosyncrasy of the wiring—something I happen to find hilarious for its specificity. Also for its dead accuracy.

My studio/office can be, like anyone’s, a war zone of piles of paper, books, and all manner of All Manner. Mostly I know where everything is (it’s my mess, after all), sometimes I don’t. Big deal. But when comes the time to start a new Anything, I have to have the proverbial fresh sheet of new paper. Meaning I have to clean my studio and have it completely organized or I am not willing to start.

Notice I said ‘not willing’ and ‘not able.’ Of course I can sit down at the drawing table or the desk and puzzle things out. It’s just that I find myself obstructed and ensnared by everything out of place such that the whole creative process is rendered impotent. It’s the very same mechanism for me in the kitchen. And lots of other areas in my life. If the room is clear, my head is clear. I don’t know if it’s a symbiotic fact or mental illusion. And I don’t care. I just know that unless it’s right in certain parts of the world around me, it’s not right in my head.

The WiP blog and it’s new iteration has been that for me. I’ve wanted to introduce the WiP Chronicles, the WiP Journal, the WiP Studio, the WiP Mic, and the WiP Store for quite some time. But the site overall wasn’t organized to my liking. So I refused. Where some might lean in and deal with what Is anyway, I’d rather fillet the skin off my arm and write in blood. I just refuse.

And I happen to love and hate that at the same time.

What I love: that I do it that way for me, on my own terms, and have no category for what anyone else thinks about it. Big shock, I know.

What I hate: until it’s perfect (according to the Rules Inside My Head), I coexist with a low-level frustration and anger very few understand. (Hint: most think they do understand but they don’t. I just smile and nod when they say they understand and don’t disabuse them of their presumption. The ones that do understand — and you know who you are — never comment on it or remark on it because it’s entirely inconsequential.)

“How do you write?”

Straight Answer: Very mechanically. I sit down with either a formed thought I want to articulate, or an idea or concept I want to struggle with. I have only two or three times in as many years actually pulled out a real sheet of paper and suffered very dormant penmanship. In fact, the last time I did that was to write “Beautiful” from “A Beautiful Hell.” And the reason I did that was because that particular story practically wrote itself. It was a matter of capturing it as quickly as I could and my laptop wasn’t handy at the moment. I saved those sheets too. They’re somewhere around here in some file. I’m a far less nostalgic than people suspect and normally do not hang on to such things. I’ve thrown out more cartoons (sorry Andrea lol) than people would believe. But those sheets I saved. Something about a story about my daughter written in my own hand. Of all the stories in “A Beautiful Hell” it’s my favorite. As much for the topic as the way it happened as the way it flowed from my pen. And if anything I write were to ever land snugly in any category deemed worth any sort of fame…well, I like the idea of keeping those sheets for my baby girl and someday giving them to her with, “…as far as I’m concerned…it started here.”

More Straight Answer: You’ll often find me with earphones in but rarely playing music. I will listen to white noise and though I will listen to some melody, it has to be bereft of lyrics and entirely unobtrusive. All that is just shutting out the world around me to excavate the words inside me.

Another Answer (Not So Straight): You’re going to have to bear with me on this one. When I have a story in my head it is less a composition in verbiage than it is in tone, tenor and (brace yourself) shape. I mean physical shape. I mean I see its physical dimensions and color(s) in my head. The animators at Disney have a storyboarding process I once saw provoking in me thrill and horror simultaneously. It was, if memory serves, the story of The Lion King on one long wall. Made up entirely of color. Not a single word. Just colors conveying the storyline as it unfolded. It was brilliant. That’s sort of what I’m talking about. So the actual process of actual writing is more like chipping away at base rock to bring forth the form in my head. It’s composed not of stone but of words, color, cadence, meaning and other physical sensations I’m not able to articulate to your satisfaction.

Notice I said ‘your satisfaction’ and not ‘my satisfaction.’

Until I feel the story to my satisfaction—in the process of writing, refining, holding, conversing, etc, etc., etc., bleah bleah bleah—it’s not done. And in this particular way, so I’m told, I’m insufferably incorrigible. That is, as far as Im concerned, I’m judge and jury. I write, draw, design, and (bigger shock coming here) speak with impunity. Meaning I refuse to try and second guess an audience. Meaning I couldn’t care less what they may approve or disapprove of.

And believe me, this creates more than a little friction. At times.

And believe me, I couldn’t care less. At all.

If there’s one thing I find *RCA Dog Head Tilt coming here* odd, it’s the idea that I should worry overmuch (read: at all) what anyone else may or may not like when it comes to creating. Many people do, I know that. I just have no category for it and do not at all see its ultimate value. So, no.

By the way, this has been cathartic..I’m articulating things I never — and I mean never — think about. I just do them. You’ll appreciate that fault when and if you ever watch one of the upcoming WiP Studio videos where I’ll stumble walk you through creating a cartoon start-to-finish, or a Photoshop technique. I’m not used to speaking aloud what I do naturally everyday. I’m sure it will be a humiliating mess until I edit it to something helpful.

So. That’s a bit of a look into how I write: sometimes it’s inspired and intoxicating, sometimes it’s rooted out and maddening. All the time, though, it’s for my pleasure and mine alone. I’d say I hope that doesn’t offend you but lol we’ve already covered that lie.

Creating, writing as much as any other medium, is very much its own reward.

Next time I’ll write about how several books developed to the point where I would finally start working on them.

Oh, and one last thing:

The photo accompanying this post? Well…I can’t resist it. I’m hiding at a favorite place only a handful of people know about, and one I’ve returned to when I’ve needed its familiar comfort. It’s been a maniacal couple of days so I completed some other tasks, packed up my laptop and camera and made my way to a favorite bolt hole, Sherlock Holmes style. And, yes, that’s a jet.

And, no, I’m not where you think.

I learned a long time ago (and I still believe it) that the most treasured thing you can give a person is your friends. So if this interview with my great friend, Betsy, lands in any of you something like a new friendship…well, I’ll be happy.

Betsy and I go back over twenty years. We’re both artists and, as such, get each other on a lot of levels. Music moves into, over, and through her the way other mediums move into, over and through me. That’s probably why I seek out her artistic vantage point and trust it more than others.

And can she sing? Let me put it this way…I consider the very first time our dear friend Korey introduced me to her vocals the very first time I considered my own talents flat out boring.

She is a true inspiration to me on more levels than I can describe. So—welcome back to the WiP Mic, grab your coffee and enjoy a few minutes with one of my favorites. And when you’re done, crank up the speakers and listen to Lady B give us what for.

1. List four different ways or roles by which people know you — and you can’t say ‘singer’ (too easy and we’ll get to that later).

A lover. A fighter. A do-er. A giver.

2. If you wanted people to know you as only one of those, which one and why?

A lover…..because that’s all that really matters.

3. Do you have any superstitions?

Nope.

4. Ocean or mountains?

I love them both but if i haaaad to pick it would be water all day baby!

5. You get to spend one whole day with any person past or present, living or dead. Who is it and what do you do?

My birth father. I’d introduce myself, give him a shot of tequilla to help him get over the shock, ask some questions, hopefully get some answers, and hear his side of the story.

6. Alright, a few on music. Betsy ‘the singer’ is the easy one. Does it ever bother you being identified with that?

No, not really. what bothers me is when someone doesn’t acknowledge me until I become Betsy ‘the singer’ and then all of a sudden, I’m somebody they want to talk to or work with. I know we all have a tendency to do that with each other but there’s more to all of us than one dimension.

7. Describe the perfect gig.

Last year, my daughter asked me to write her a song for her 10^th birthday. She thought I had forgotten or didn’t have time to work on anything. But I did. Once the party-goers had all gone home and the house was picked up, I brought her to the piano and in the quiet of the late night, I sung to her. she cried. I cried. daddy cried. Brother fell asleep on the couch and could’ve cared less. To me, there are no perfect gigs, only perfect moments where you somehow find a way to get out of the way and serve the song.

8. Tell us about the first time YOU realized and believed you had a musical gift.

Yeah, I don’t really know. I mean, music has always felt more like an appendage than a gift. It’s always been there. It’s what helps me breathe. Early on I knew that singing and playing the piano made me feel better and eventually, I discovered, that when I did it for others, it made them feel better too.

9. Does anything about your talent scare you?

Hahhhhh! Yes. All of it. Despite the fact that I present as confident, the truth is, insecurity runs rampant among artists. Vulnerability just comes with the territory. In order to sing or write a song that means something, you have to connect with feelings and experiences that are not always easy or comfortable.

10. Would you trade singing and song writing for anything else?

Guh, you are sooooo dinner theater…..why must you always be so dramatic? (HEY! lol) Outside of saving someone’s life, no.

11. Tell us something you’ve learned about being married you never expected.

Oh geez, here you go lol.

I have had the fairy tale…anyone who knows us, knows this. Bruce and I have been married for 17 years (18 in july– this is important to anyone married because we all know that every single day in ‘this beautiful Hell’ counts). We fell in love hard and fast. What I never expected was that there might actually come a time where it wasn’t easy. sounds naiive I know, but after being so good for so long I thought, ‘we got this’! There came a point when I realized that, like everyone else in the world, we had to start working for what mattered.

I have learned two things about being married. The first is that the daily grind is where the love settles. It’s when my husband gets up with the kids or when he makes the coffee or holds my hand that I see he’s still in this. Similar to the ‘perfect gig’ question, it’s in the small moments that I see and know we’re going to make it. The second is that you don’t get to quit. you might feel like quitting, you might not like what’s happening, but you have to press on….you promised you would…..and in doing so, you reap the benefits like you would from weathering a storm, practicing the piano, seeing a project to completion. if you jump ship, chances are, you’ll drown. If you stay the course, you’ll get there. It might take awhile, but you’ll get there.

12. What about being a parent?

Good lord. I never expected to be THAT interested in the poop of another human being, to ever be THAT tired, or to ever fall THAT much in love at first sight. Having been adopted, giving birth and being a parent has certainly stirred up some things for me, but more than anything, it has helped me to reconcile my past and bring my focus clearly to the present moment. In many ways, when I gave birth to my children I gave birth to myself. It was like going from black and white to color, from analog to HD….life has become sweeter, richer, clearer, harder, easier…more. More of everything.

13. The Lottery Question: You’ve won 150 Million dollars. What do you do now?

-the happy dance.

-pray for wisdom.

-turn off the phone.

-tell my husband’s employer to ‘take this job and shove it’.

-take the fam to Glenwood and soak in the hot springs so I can just think for a flippin’ minute

-get my ‘financial-advisor-wannabe-hat’ on and do my thing (pay debts, invest, help relatives and others, etc)

-buy a farm house in South Dakota with a wrap around porch, a loft in New York, a beach house in Florida, and a casa in Mexico.

-make music (repeat)

I read a brilliant quote about this a long time ago but i can’t remember who said it….’money doesn’t change you, it just makes you more of what you already are.’ I’m guessing that’s probably true.

14. The Dinner Table Question:  Big table, four guests, no holds barred. Who and why?

Easy….. Bruce. Selah. Zion. And me. Because at the end of the day, family dinner is where all that is wrong with the world is made right, and all that is right with the world is sitting in front of me. But as an aside, if it really is a big table as you say, then we can always fit extras…which we often do. So then i’d have to say, the extra spots would be filled with any number of real friends and family…who bring wine.

15. Better Dinner Table Question:  Small table, one guest, no holds barred.

This might sound silly, but I think my ‘guest’ would be a great book. I don’t have nearly the time i used to for reading. I’d love to sit at a beautiful table, with amazing food, a beverage, and uninterrupted time to enjoy getting lost in a story.

16. Name one thing that genuinely makes you happy.

Lazy sundays with the fam.

17. And one thing that genuinely scares you?

Any harm coming to my children.

18. Anyone you miss right now?

I grew up with 3 older brothers (feel free to feel sorry for me anytime now) and I miss not having them in my daily life.

19. Favorite book as a child.

‘Where The Wild Things Are’ -Maurice Sendak and ‘Mike Mulligan And His Steam Shovel Marryann’ -Virginia Lee Burton

20. Something about you nobody knows. (Don’t panic. Like this: when I’m alone? 9 times out of 10, I’m singing.) Go.

But everybody knows that’s what you do. (Very funny) Sigh. Ok. I talk to myself. I mean conversationally. My husband worries, but I’ve assured him it’s what keeps me from becoming the unibomber. There, I said it, now leave me alone.

21. You get one hour with your least favorite political figure. You get to ask anything you want and you’re guaranteed straight un-spun answers. But…you never get to repeat or publicize any of it. Still interested? Who and why?

The list is too long, there is no such thing as an un-spun answer, and you and I are are finally in a ‘politically nice’ holding pattern so I’m not going to play this one. Nice try. (Hadatakeashot)

22. Something about yourself you really do like.

I like to laugh, (mostly at myself)…I think that’s a good thing.

23. And (big shock coming here) something about yourself you really wish you could change.

Sometimes I can get a little dark and twisty, I think a little too much.

24. Last question…your next CD. What can you tell us?

I have done a lot of work in the background for the last several years (singing, writing, arranging, recording), and have really enjoyed doing so, but it’s time to get back out front. I can tell you that I feel like I’m onto something, you know? Finally feel like I have something to say in a way that I feel really good about. While I’ve recorded and written a lot the past few years, it’s been almost 15 years since I’ve done my own project.  I’m excited to get to the point where people can actually put these songs in their iTodd, i mean ipod, and go. (No, you were right. It’s ‘iTodd’)

If you like Amos Lee, Erykah Badu, Chrisette Michelle, Allison Krauss, Jill Scott, Joni Mitchell, Laylah Hathaway, Ledisi, or Dakota Staton, then you might like my work. if you like Bonnie Raiit, Bruce Springsteen, Mint Condition, The Who, Tuck & Patti, Koko Taylor, Raoul Midon, Nancy Wilson, or the Doobie Brothers, you might like my work. if you like Patti Labelle, Dylan, Sade, Kim Burrell, or Petite Blonde, you might like my work. My influences are vast, eclectic, and are often hidden in the shadows of what I write and sing.I’ve been asked time and time again to describe my music and my sound. I think it sounds different to each listener. I am a singer-songwriter with a soulful bent. Beyond that, I leave the labeling and marketing to others who find that kind of thing important.

All I really know for sure is that my season is not over. People are afraid of their age, afraid to speak their age in this line of work…I know the music biz loves youth so I get it, but I’ve earned every one of my years and I’m not ashamed. I might be a wife, a mother, and a woman of 43, but when I’m singing my own work or work that I’ve collaborated on, I’m just me…that’s something I think a lot of women, mothers in particular, have to work hard to find again and hold on to.

I believe my season, like spring, has just begun.

Well…wouldn’t it make explaining the concussion to the police officer that much more enjoyable if you we’re sipping the elixir of Life from your very own WiP coffee mug? (thought so).

Now you can! Waltzing in Perdition mugs are now available starting at $13.95 (+ shipping)! If you’d like one (or two, in case one breaks) (upside someone’s head), just click here and you’ll find a variety of options to choose from.

Drink up…and remember: Todd loves you and has a wonderful plan for you life.

But there’ll be shelves and tables getting ripped out, new paint, furniture, flooring, area rug, lighting and blinds brought it. Very much looking forward to it since the WiP blog is in the last stages of a new iteration and I’m chomping at the bit to lean into all the new projects related to it.

Not that I couldn’t start some of that now (and I have) (some). But I have this thing about starting new anything, be it something in the kitchen or something in my studio: I can’t start it until everything is cleaned first. Sort of like a fresh sheet of paper inside my head and all that.

Anyway, before I head to the paint store to pick up the new color, I thought I’d show you all a little more of what’s happening in the yard and making up some of our Sunday.

This apple tree hangs over part of the garden in the back. I wish it flowered like that all season.

That’s the compost so far. Do you have any idea how excited about this? In fact, that reminds me…I need to pick up a pitchfork.

Cute Redhead planted these little fellas. Pansies. Did you know they’re edible? I know because they came on a salad I ordered once. But they’re bitter. I don’t know why you’d eat those things.

One of the raspberry bushes. Quite a popular feature in the yard every summer. Beta Male and Charlie Girl usually see who can be the first to snag the ripe ones each morning.

This is the other apple tree, just outside my studio window and in the same area as the raspberries. A much bigger tree than the one by the garden, but always a good week and a half behind.

Here’s the vegetable garden again. Between you and me, I’m surprised the lines have stayed intact. I thought for sure the Golden Recliner or Stupid Cat would have shredded them by now.

And these little ladies, Ella, Mackenzie, and Chloe…Emma’s sorority pals, were busy digging next to the rhubarb. I don’t know why, but I managed a quick shot.

That’s some of what’s happening around here.

Happy Sunday everyone!

Oh no.

I quick grabbed the beloved Rebel Force and high-tailed out to the back fence where he had been whooping it up for the last fifteen minutes. “Hold on, Monkey!” (that’s what I’ve called him since the day he was a newborn) “I want to get this on film!”

“You mean for your blog?”

“No, for evidence when I take you to get your cast.”

And the set-up…

Up you go, boy.

And over.

And back down agai—wait. Dude, what lol? Nice boxers, kid.

How happy?

Very happy.

That’s my baby. My firstborn. That’s the Recalcitrant Teenager about to enter high school next fall. That’s Monkey Head. And he actually has a great sense of humor and a tenaciously fun-loving spirit. Love that kid, heart and soul.

And then I turned around, headed back to the kitchen…

…and stopped. dead. in. my. tracks.

Because there at my feet was the winner of this little contest I’ve been having in my head. The Who Will Sprout First Contest.

Here’s my new baby.

Oh, and if you’re wondering what vegetable that little sucker is, just know that so am I.

Because I can’t find the garden map I made telling me where I planted what.

But I think it’s a White Lisbon Onion. The only reason I’m not sure is that I wasn’t expecting that dude to show up for another three days.

Which tells you that I either know the life of my plants, or I have no life.

Check back soon for updates as the newest videos start rolling out.

I wasn’t kidding.

So yesterday Cute Redhead came home with the twine I asked for and I made my way out to the garden with a hammer and  a few nails.

I measured the 24′ length and hammered in a small nail every 12 inches, and on the 8′ width section I hammered one every 6 inches…but on the upper corner of the railroad tie so that no one stepped on it barefoot and hurt themselves. Also, that way, I can leave them in all year round and use them for the very same thing next year.

Reading several of the seed packets, I noticed some want to be planted every 1 to 2 inches and others every 4 to 6 inches. I figured setting my lines this way would give me all the reference I needed.

I know, I know…it’s on the obsessive side. But can you blame me?

Because you know I’m going to wake up tomorrow to find all this string in one big giant knotted wadded up mess in the middle of the garden with Stupid Cat in the middle of it.

The crabapple tree always surprises me. One day, dry and brown and brittle. The next, seemingly ahead of schedule with small leaves. In a few weeks, midwifing color we all thought long-forgotten.

There there’s the Martha Washington cherry tree. And that little guy who apparently hung on for dear life through the winter. The photo is blurry; I like the colors, though. The wind kept things moving, but I caught just enough to make me want to show you.

The honeysuckle outside our bedroom window. If there’s a more graceful grace than the fragrance of that flower of a summer’s evening coming in through the window after One Of Those Days, I’m sure I don’t know what it is.

It is said that when you enter “the” home, you just know. And it’s true. When we happened upon this house nine years ago, it was after touring the backyard (where the previous owners had over twenty years of Every Plant Planted On Purpose), that I turned around to Cute Redhead when the realtor wasn’t looking and mouthed, “I want this house!” I think it was the grape vines that sealed the deal. I love the twisted ancestry of a grape vine and every metaphor it suggests.

I pruned it way back this year, for the first time since we’ve lived hear. I thought I’d be bundling up the elder parts and putting them on the curb. But then I realized I had what had to be an outstanding batch of kindling for next winter’s fires.

And see the sorry excuse for a fence behind it? In a few weeks I’ll employ the young strength of Alpha Male and his compatriots to install a wooden split-rail fence.

The lilacs on the east side. They have relatives way over on the west side but these three trees are for some reason favorites of mine. I remember growing up in Michigan and mom sending us to the neighbor’s backyard to pilfer theirs. Next to Lily of the Valley and a fragrant tea rose, they’re my favorite.

There’s this one Forsythia right off the back patio that heralds Spring when, as E. E. Cummings said so well, “all the world is puddle-wonderful.” I love that line. We haven’t yet seen the skies surrender the rain, but it’s coming. Right now, March is as windy as is fitting to wrest from winter’s grasp the cold that’s kept us indoors and over Monopoly boards and chess boards and Man, I’m Bored!

And then I come around the other side of the house and see this one doing that thing that flowers up in the high places of the world do: blossom and present back to the Creator the best they have.

Whether human eyes ever behold it or no.

I love spring where the season is a hard, clear distinction from winter. If you’re going to throw down cold and ice and snow and pain, then give me sun and light and wind and rain! (I just made that up lol)

Which reminds me of one of my favorites:

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.

Good Timber, by Douglas Malloch

Love that one.

And I love it when all the world is puddle-wonderful.

My daughter.

Or, as I like to call her, the human formerly known as “What do you mean your tummy feels funny?”

It’s late in the day and I had every intention of writing this one down first thing this morning. After the dust settled. Except that it never did. But, about one half hour ago, the sun broke through the clouds, the barbaric battle cry was sounded, Gandalf on his white steed, and the war host with him, came crashing through at the last moment and saved Middle Earth.

I mean Cute Redhead got home from her three day business trip and saved my life.

I don’t know what happened between the last time the Cat Was Away but let me tell you: this time? Yeah, no play. I was chauffeur, cook, maid, referee, nurse, doctor, dad, daddy, Hey You, and bathroom attendant (note that one). And, trust me, a billion years into all this, this is hardly my first lap around the track. I’ve done and been all that and more more times than I can count. So I’m not complaining.

I’m actually confused.

Confused because, like I said, I’ve done this and changed a diaper and changed the oil all at the same time. And if you’re a parent, so have you. So, again…not complaining. Or bragging. It’s just that somehow, this particular round around the track saw all the wheels fall off.

But not at first.

At first everything was going along fine all within normal operating parameters. Children were alive at the end of the day. Meaning I’d done my job and everything else was pure bonus. In fact, the first night Cute Redhead was away was (is) always a special treat.

Because I get the bed to myself.

Which I love.

A. Lot.

It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. It’s not that I don’t want to snuggle. I do.

It’s just that the darling cherub pictured up top has this sneaky little way of niggling her way into our bed in the very predawn hours (none of which are Teachable Moments, if you ask me). And, after falling blissfully asleep, her subconscious mind decides she’s in the middle of the exercise room at 24 Hour Fitness and it’s time to Tai-Bo kick her way to the tune of A-Ha’s “Take On Me.”

The techno remix.

All over my back.

Not a fan.

And it typically sees me give up, throw back the covers, grab my pillow (shut up), and eek out what is left of the night in her bed. Which is something hilarious all by itself when you consider that her bed is a covered in more stuffed animals than Toys R Us, covered in pink pink pink Everything, resides under a giant pink mosquito happy happy flowers canopy net thing and is basically the Vortex of Femininity.

This is usually where you’ll find me come morning, I’m sorry to say.

Except not the other night. Nosiree. I concocted a brilliant plan to have a daddy-daughter man-to-man talk about this Sneaking Into My Bed thing. I had an argument. A response for the expected rebuttal. I had graphs, slides, video and statistics galore. This was going to be a Reason-a-thon.

With an 8 year old girl.

Who just put out her lower lip.

And turned out one little 8 year old girl leg, jutted out one little 8 year old girl hip.

And then…

…crossed her arms.

Oh dear. I’ve seen this very thing before. Except this other Very Thing stands about 5’4″.

My plan was backfiring so I recruited pure parental authority and control that went like this: “Okay then, well what if I buy you candy?”

Success.

Two nights of the bed all to myself. And before I had the chance to really decide if that’s all it’s cracked up to be (it’s not), Baby Girl comes into the room at bed time with what I know is Not Faking.

“What do you mean your tummy feels funny, honey?”

“My tummy hurts.”

And she has That Look which needs no other description than Every Parent Knows When They’re Faking (because we invented Faking). And she wasn’t faking.

*sigh

“Come here, baby girl. Hop up here and lie down; daddy knows how to take care of little girls with tum—”

And then she made

That Sound.

Okay, let’s pause a second.

There’s a story in A Beautiful Hell titled “Perfect and Cool” and it covers a story in which this little girl covered my back with vomit. It was hilarious (from where I stand now), not embellished even a little bit, and the standard by which all other Oh There Is No Way You’re Throwing Up On Me is measured.

Meaning after she made The Sound my freak male limbic brain tripwired back to that night I just mentioned and zipTwanged into 24/7 Red Alert.

But she’d already fallen asleep.

Out like a light.

*whew

So I read a little bit more of my book, wrapped up a chapter, turned off the light and set my sights on dreams involving myself and poor Sandra Bullock who should have known better but there’s nothing I can do now, honey, I’m married…you have to move on.

And about thirty minutes later, Miss Child made That Sound (this time for Very Real) and I shot thirty feet straight up. Just like that one cat in the old Merry Melodies cartoon did when that yapping maniacal puppy came around the corner and barked it into the stratosphere. That was me.

“OhNoHoneyDaddysHereAlrightSweetheartLet’sGoToTheBathro—”

Too late.

All over the floor. Wood floor, thank God. And after I consoled the poor kid whilst she divested her tiny little tummy of every meal since Thanksgiving last year, I laid her back into the bed.

And cleaned up the floor.

Okay, all that? Repeat it two more times.

Then insert any sound into every 20 minutes for the next three hours such that every time I heard Any Sound, I did that cat jumping straight up and clawing the ceiling thing again.

By 2:30 in the morning I realized nothing was going to go as planned for the rest of the day and gave myself over to Yes I Know This Wasn’t In The Brochure But It’s Too Late To Sell My Children I Don’t Have The Receipts Anyway.

Somewhere in the night, she stopped stirring and stopped throwing up. I got up according to the alarm, got Alpha Male moving, got Beta Male his breakfast, and made my way back up to the infirmary to check on my darling little sweet precious baby gir—zip Zip ZING!!—and stepped in what didn’t see from last night and slid across the floor and hit the dresser.

At which point I recited scripture.

Very. Colorful. Scripture.

Okay, no scripture but, trust me, I let out a string of curses that’d send the devil and his demonic horde running if they were in earshot.

After vacating the part of my brain in charge of sensing and then describing the contents all over my foot. And in between my toes. And half way up my shin (because I fell and then slid even more into it), I got up, looked at her sleeping there peacefully and threw the alarm clock at her head thanked God she was resting.

Then I heal-step-heal-step-heal-stepped to the bathroom to wash my foot.

Okay. The bathroom. New bathroom, remember? New tub, new fixtures, new curtain rod, new this, new that, new new new, right? Right.

Back burner this for just a second.

You know how you go to sleep in a strange place and you’re wiped out tired, exhausted, traveled, whatever, bleah, bleah, bleah, right? You throw yourself onto the bed, burrow under blankets and pillows and drift off. Then you know how you wake up the next morning but before you open your eyes, your mind takes a mental inventory of your world and (because it likes familiar patterns) places you squarely in the middle of your familiar surroundings? Like your own bed? But then you open your eyes and you’re all, “…whoa.” because you’re not in your familiar room. At all. But it’s okay and you level out.

Okay, bring the bathroom up to the front burner again. And crank the burner all the way up to Burn Down House.

I sit on the edge of the bath and turn on the water. I sort of close my eyes, pinch the skin between them, and try to decide whether to laugh or laugh harder at this lunacy. Then I open my eyes and see that the kids had gotten grime all over the new tile  and there are hand prints (a pain, but normal) foot prints (okay…wait what?) and a few paw prints (we have the only cat in the world who thinks the bath tub is the office water cooler). I roll my eyes and remember there’s a sponge on the back rim of the tub.

And I reach back to get it, still looking at the tracks that look like some kind of migratory pattern. And, right here, my brain does that bait-and-switch thing and calls up the OLD bath tub.

Which was smaller. And not nearly as deep.

And which had dimensions well within the extent of my outstretched arm.

Which was outstretched and seeking purchase in the form of the edge of the bath tub. And the sponge.

But finding open air instead.

. . .

Leverage is a funny thing.

So is being inside a bathtub, on your back, fully clothed, your one foot covered in vomit but sticking out of the tub, splashing and sputtering around and pulling down the curtain rod and the curtains with it and crying out to God and Jehovah and Buddha and Tom Cruise and Whatever The Hell He Worships and any other deity I can think of because I figure I’ve pissed off all of them and might as well cover all the bases.

And, yes, I laughed. A lot.

While I washed my foot.

And the tile.

And the shower curtain.

And my clothes.

And I was laughing. Because it was funny.

Really funny.

*sob

Dark, rich soil.

Raked, weeded, raked again, weeded some more, tilled, amended with nitrogen-rich, aged compost, tilled again.

And again.

And once more just to make sure it new I was serious.

Very. Serious.

I fought with the land. I fought and (so far) I won.

“You know…this garden could be a great thing for our whole family!”

“Um….what?“

“Yeah. The whole family, Todd. Remember them?”

“You’re telling me you want to see me twitch and writhe in frustration while others violate the supreme demarcations of the 8′ by 24′ parcel of land God and His angels have bequeathed to me and me alone? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You’re really a [not publishable] sometimes, you know that?”

“Oh and you expect to be welcomed with open arms into my garden with a mouth like that?”

I fought with the Cute Redhead. I fought and (so far) I have not won.

But the next two days have her traveling on business, leaving the planting of the stronger plants to me. And the addition of my new toy.

I’m going to call him R2-D2.

…you pour the coffee and tell your spouse something only the two of you understand. Like, “..mm.” Which in SpouseSpeak means, “I see you barely slept all night. I know this because I barely slept all night. Because you tossed and turned and whipped around enough eletro-magnetic energy to trigger something up on the international space station and keep me amped up like a hamster hooked up to jumper cables.”

Then you stand there as she gets up out of bed two minutes before her alarm goes off. Meaning 4:58 a.m. And even though she tries to act like she hasn’t been up all night long, you know it’s a big fat giant lie. So to blow that construct to smithereens, you slip a finger through the blinds and take in what Mother Nature decided was a good idea. You know this will totally ruin her act and rip off the layer of I’m Calm. It’s on the cruel side but you do it anyway. It’s for her own good.

“Hm. It snowed.”

“It did?!”

“Yes.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s going to be fine, honey. You know how to drive in this.”

And then she gets up, dresses herself in the outfit she laid out the night before. The very same outfit I assured her (three times) was Absolutely Perfect. And then she sort of did her morning thing getting ready for the two-hour drive where she would be speaking to a few hundred other professionals in her field. Which is selling secrets to Russia or something like that INeverReallyPayAttention.

And try as she might to hide it from me (fail), I can tell she’s got enough This Makes Me Nervous to reshingle the roof before her second cup. But there’s nothing we can do about the snow, and inasmuch as she’d rather sit on the porch with a shotgun across her lap, her scientific mind slaps some sense into her and she makes her way to the door to leave.

And (this is the cute part) she goes, “Okay. Well. Alright. I’m going now.”

“lol okay, honey.”

“Alright. Well. Okay goodbye.” And then she gives me a kiss.

A kiss, people.

Okay, giving you this information alone is enough to have me offed by the Mafia, so if you never hear from me again I want you to know that it’s been fun and I love you all.

Cute Redhead isn’t entirely bereft of affections, but let’s be clear here: Public Displays of Affection are strictly forbidden. Strictly. Forbidden. It is only one half a degree above Admit Husband Was Right. About Anything. And even though this wasn’t exactly public it nevertheless was a complete and total breach of Cute Redhead Morning Protocol.

Cute Redhead Morning Protocol goes like this:

1. Wake up.

2. Throw covers off and stomp around room because there is no one else sleeping in the house anyway.

3. Open bathroom door.

4. Slam door shut because there is no one else sleeping in the house anyway.

5. Initiate Female Beautification and Reanimation Sequence.

6. Throw things around bathroom so that you sound like you’re taking out a wall, it doesn’t really matter because there is no one else sleeping in the house anyway.

7. Emerge from bathroom Beautified and Reanimated and go get coffee. Open dishwasher, cabinets, the refrigerator, the garage, the Ark of the Covenant, a bank account, the dryer, the front closet, whatever. Just make enough noise to wake the dead, it doesn’t really matter because there is no one else sleeping in the house anyway.

8. Clip clop clip clop clip clop around the house in high-powered girl shoes.

9. Initiate Full Professional Considerations. Active System-wide Core Dump of 1) Humor 2) Emotion 3) Patience

10. Leave house.

That’s how it goes. Every morning and in that order.

It’s actually very cute.

And that’s how it went today. Except that there was an 11. The kiss.

And you have to understand: this does not happen.

But it did and I know why.

Because she thought she might die. And if you think you’re going to die, you have to give your spouse One Last Kiss. It’s policy.

You see, it snowed last night and she had to drive south two hours to her high-powered meeting.

In her car.

In the snow.

And, friends, it has never snowed before in the history of Colorado and there were bombs and terrorists and plagues and pestilence and wild dogs and meteors falling from the sky and nuns and orphans held at gunpoint and houses burning down and cats and dogs living together and—

“Well. Okay. Alright. Here I go.”

*kiss

“lol you’ll be fine, honey.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“I know. But think of it this way: if you do fly off the highway in this 2 inches of snow and careen into a ditch and die? At least the cold will preserve you until we find your body.”

“Shut up.”

“Play nice with the other scientists.”

Two days prior, I placed a phone call to Mr. Cute Redhead’s Dad and asked him for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He was more than a little caught off guard. He can’t very well be blamed, though: we’d met face-to-face only two weeks earlier. More, the poor man had no idea it was coming. So, before going any further he informed me he’d have to speak to her mother and “can I get back to you?”

“…Um. What?”

“Can I get back to you about this?”

“Um. Certainly, sir. Um…*cough*…could I ask when?”

“How about Sunday evening.”

The next two days were a blur. But, come Sunday evening, at precisely 6 o’ clock, I rang her parents.

The phone got off maybe half a ring before her Mother answered it half out of breath and nearly out of her nerves as well. “Todd! Todd, I’m so glad you called. I want you to know I’ve been looking for your number all weekend.”

And in that brief sentence, without having to say another word about it, I realized she knew I was losing my mind having put my neck on the line with her father and then been told…well, nothing. Unlike Cute Redhead’s Dad, Cute Redheads Mom saw it coming a mile away. In fact, the day we met she knew I was probably the one.

The rest of the phone call was a blur. I do remember drinking a bottle of beer for the duration, just to make it through. And when I made it through, when her parents did give me their blessing, I thanked them, got off the phone and went in search of my girlfriend. I had all kinds of plans for a proposal and scrapped every single one of them after suffering the last two days. I found her studying in a room all by herself and learnt that she’d just lamented to one of her best friends that “he’ll never propose (boo hoo hoo) he’s just not organized about things.”

Little did she know I’d been drinking with talking with her parents for the last hour and had the ring in my pocket. So, finding her alone, I got down on one knee and held out the ring box.

And she opened it.

And it was empty.

On purpose lol.

Because I took the ring out and had it on my little finger. Then I held it up, laughed because I was privy to her conversation with friend and said, “You have got to learn to trust me. And I mean it.”

And then I popped the question.

And then she popped the answer. And cried.

That was eighteen years ago.

Several months later, we vowed Forever And I Mean It.

And we’ve seen a lot.

I’ve seen that face happy

and angry

and sleeping

and sad

and all the rest.

And I promised I’d stay through all of it, and I meant it.

I’ve seen her get up and make the coffee

Get sick and throw up out of her nose

Get tired and cry

Get an idea and get out the sewing maching

Get furious and threaten me. Bad.

But I promised I’d stay through all of it, and I meant it.

I’ve seen holidays

and birthdays

and off days

good days and bad

I’ve seen all this and more…

…I could go on and on.

Except that she got Annoyed with all the shutter clicking and told me, “Get the camera off of me, and I mean it.”

So I did. And then wrote this a few hours later, laughing. Laughing because if I had a thousand dollars to bet with, I’d turn it into a million. That is, if I were betting on whether Cute Redhead even realizes the date. Trust me, she doesn’t. But don’t feel bad. She doesn’t even remember my birth date (I am so not lying). But don’t feel shocked. I have to remind her every single year of the birthday of her mom…

and her dad…

and her brother.

Okay now you can feel bad. And shocked.

And I mean it.

“The Witch knew the Deep Magic.

But if she could have looked a little further back…

…she would have known

that

when a willing victim

who had committed no treachery

was killed

in a traitor’s stead,

the Table would crack

and

Death itself

would start working

backwards.”

- The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis

That guy right up there? He’s one of them. That’s Jeff Graves and he and I met a long time ago through a great mutual friend of ours (MaryKay WHO I’D LINK YOU TO RIGHT NOW IF. SHE. HAD. A. BLOG.)

Jeff gets it. Jeff gets me. Therefore Jeff gets IT. He’s a great speaker, an incredible teacher, and can tell you stories out of scripture leaving you convinced he knows the Author (he does). He loves Pei Wei, movies, and music. And by ‘loves music,’ what I mean is this: we play this STOOPID game that he started several years ago. It went like this: He sent me a text of an obscure line from a song. I had to, of course, name the song.

I hate this game.

Not because I never guess the songs, because I do. Lots of times, in fact.

I hate this game because I have never stumped him once. Not. Once. He’s that good. He’s so good, in fact, that once he—well. Let me just put it this way: he worked backstage at the MTV Music Awards.

Yeah. You do the math.

Anyway, meet Jeff. My buddy and the first of the Waltzing in Perdition interviews coming your way.

1. Let’s get right into the meat of things, shall we? Tell us something about yourself either nobody knows or nobody would believe (and remember, the kids are listening)…

That’s a hard one…I’m a pretty open book.  It would also depend on which circle of people I’m hanging with.

Um…
I have a tattoo
I can sing
I cry when appropriate (whether emotional or sentimental)
I have Tourettes Syndrome (not the swearin’ kind…that’s just me)
How’s that?

2. If you could go back in time to witness any one event, which would it be and why?

Not to get too deep too quickly…but I’d go back to the day Martin Luther King Jr. stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and delivered his “I Have A Dream” speech.

About 6 or 7 years ago I was heavily involved in a religious institution that really went overboard on it’s insistence that a godly life was one that had no grey areas (everything was black and white), choices you made were made with the express purpose of advancing the kingdom (where you eat, what you wear, who your friends are, what you talk about), and stressed that you missing any scheduled time for the gathering of the saints (Sunday a.m., Sunday p.m., Wednesday p.m…..pick 2 or 3 other days), meant you were obviously not serious about your relationship with your savior.

Where those sentences can be delivered in a number of ways, they were delivered in an accusatory tone that made you question every move you made.

Then I got ahold of a message that preached freedom.  Freedom to understand that we (humans) are made from the dust of the ground.  Freedom to pursue that ache in your heart that says “somethin’s just not right…I need to make a change”. Freedom to be encouraged, and be an encourager.   Freedom to be able to start from where you are…not fix something supposedly broken, and then start over.

I began to hear the Gospel delivered as a “Hey! It’s ok. I get that you’re not perfect. Let’s figure you out together.” (red text on purpose) Instead of a corporate-meeting-bullet-point-presentation list of do’s and don’ts that never really answer the question on your lips and offer completely unattainable rules and regulations.

When I came to the realization that I was actually a slave to the master that lead this institution, I just had to break free.

It was then, I heard Martin Luther King Jr.’s words differently than I had ever heard them before.

“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

Gospel believer or not.

“I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.”

“And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

I don’t for one minute think that my struggle was as hard or as abusive as the African-American community of the 60’s.  Or that I can actually equate my master/slave relationship to that of the master/slave relationship in the cotton fields of Georgia not so long ago.

But this I do know: everyone deserves the right to find the savior on their terms.  He’ll meet you right where you are.  There is no condemnation.  And how dare we, the community we call Christian, ever turn up our nose to someone in need.

3. Okay, now that you got the Publishable Answer out, which would it be really?

The day Elvis and Pricilla moved into Graceland.

4. Anybody you hate right now?

Nah.  Overly annoyed with numerous types of Anybodies.

5. You have been given $10,000. You have 30 minutes to give it all away. What do you do?

Man, that’s hard.  I’d give it to friends of mine that need it.  Maybe 10 friends get 1k each.  I love giving stuff to people .

6. Describe for us the perfect day for Jeff.

Probably awake from a great nights sleep (actual uninterrupted sleep)
Eat pancakes (I love pancakes)
Drink coffee (I have an affair with coffee)
Smell fresh air
Go to the beach with my wife (the quiet one…not the one with all the tourists…and she’d be happy about it)
Come home late afternoon to a flank steak, baked red potato and green salad dinner cooked by my Mom and Dad.
Hit a movie with the whole family
Watch something hilarious on tv before bed…
*clears throat
Fall asleep

7. Ginger or Maryanne?

Maryanne!  Shah.

8. Martha or Mary Magdalene? (not so funny now, is it?)

Mary.  She knows how to let it go and enjoy the moment.

9. You see two guys beating each other up. It’s pretty bad. Do you: A) Jump in to break it up, B) Call the police, or C) See if either sucker has an iPad they’re not watching and steal it right in front of God and everybody.

A) LOLOLOLOL
B) Hmmm
C) Um…no.  See, Uncle Steve called and wants me to try out iPad v2 (the one with the camera)…so I video it and put it on YouTube with a tagline that says…“Look at this clarity!”

10. Alright, alright—enough tomfoolery! Tell our audience what it is you do. Don’t worry if it sounds boring. It is boring.

You mean work-wise? Actually it’s not boring.  I do a few things.  I’m the National Trainer for a company of independent reps that do book fairs in large corporations, hospitals, YMCA’s and other businesses.

I train these reps on how to run a successful book fair.  Sounds weird…but conducting a book fair should really be like throwing a big party. With that, there’s computer systems to learn, display techniques to master and just plain business sense to acquire.  I train them on all of that, and provide technical support to them when they hit a snag with their computers (which is often…repeat after me….Viiiiisssstttaa)

I also do creative work for this same company.  Newsletters, video direction and production, create marketing materials, produce training videos and stuff like that.

Oh, and I’m a licensed and credentialed Pastor that teaches at my church.  I officiate weddings.  Co-lead a regional mens ministry…and….wait for it…sell swords.

All of this from the comfort of my home office in my garage under the glow of a 24 inch iMac blaring “Club Tropicana” by Wham!.

11. And a bit about your blog, Gravesland? Let’s say you have just stepped into the elevator with Ellen. You have twenty stories up until she gets off and she wants to know what you’re going off about. Chances she mentions it on her show are high. Go.

Well, Ellen, Just like my friend Todd started…it’s the idea of a blog that intrigues me more than actually executing it. (floor 2) He’s managed to stay consistent.  Me?  Not so much.

(floor 5) But, currently, I’m going off on the idiocy of people in airports.

(floor 9) I’m amazed at the complete lack of respect people have of others (floor 11) around them…and mostly annoyed by personalities (floor 15) that are different than mine. (floor 17).

I try (18) to find humor in it all, but mostly (19) they all just rub me the wrong way…

*Ding (20)…andIlovethewayyoudanceonyourshow!!!!!!!!!

“Please welcome my first guest…completely annoyed with anyone but himself, Pastor Jeff Graves…..”

12. You have a chance to win a roundtrip ticket anywhere in the world. But. You have to fly in First Class. There and back. With your mother-in-law. Naked. Where do you go?

First, who’s naked? Me, or my Mother-In-Law?

Me naked, big whoop…I’d take first class to London Baby!

Her naked, first class, close door, back up jet way, put jet way back, open door.

13. You get to take away one thing from every American for one hour. No one will die or anything like that. What do you take and why?

As much as a technical geek I am, I am more than willing to turn it all (phones, computers, tv’s, music) off for an hour.  I know it will completely freak people out…but hey…it will all be ok.

Even in my love for all things gadgety…I get tired of them and need a break.

14. Here it comes: the super power question. Let’s hear it.

Ooooohhhh…I would fly.  It just seems cool.

15. What was the last book you read.

I’m reading a few…(which I hate to do)…and have a couple on deck.

Love and War – Eldrege
Have a Little Faith  – Albom
Narcissistic Leaders – Maccoby
The 4 Hour Work Week (updated and extended version) – Ferris

16. What did you want to be when you were twelve?

An entertainer/rock star/comedian.

17. After question 16, how depressed are you right now?

Not depressed at all.  I did the rock star thing in the 80’s, I get to entertain when I train people. And, I get to use the same jokes over and over and over again with each new training class.

18. Name what you think is one of your best qualities. And don’t act humble with me, Graves, because I will out you so fast it’ll knock your name right out of the phonebook.

I’m brutally honest with people.  Some (the woman he gave me) think it’s just rude…but I don’t.  And some actually have thanked me after I’ve said “You really want to know what I think?  Ok…here we go…”

And, I’m friggin funny.

19. Last one:  you’re on your deathbed. It’s been a fascinating life and people all over the world are racing to your side. How many women are fighting each other because they just found out your someone else’s husband too?

“Someone else’s husband too”?  None.  But many women would be there to tell me how much they wished they had snagged me first, before the one that snagged me 24 years ago.  And they would tell me how their lives were just not as complete as they could have been had they realized years earlier what they were missing.

LOLOL  HA, I kill me!

Actually they would be running to my wifes side to sing “Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty…she’s free at last.”

(that’s called a “call back” people!)

And by that I mean the night, last night, in the garden when he wanted out.

I’ve always felt we jump too fast to the “Not my will but Your will” part. We are ushered quickly into that, and there I am looking out the window backward to where all my attention is arrested with, “…wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘is there any other way?’”

He wanted out.

I’ve always liked that.

Because it’s human.

I like this too (don’t recall where I heard it):

“Everything will be fine in the end.
If it’s not fine…it’s not the end.”

That this day ever got tagged as Good is as much artistic license as ever I’ve come across. Everything gone wrong in every conceivable way. Smack dab in the middle of the most furious tension played out on the world’s stage…and exactly where God wanted him to be. Where He needed him to be. Beaten to a thing unrecognizable.

My good friend Bob Beltz happened to be involved in the making of The Passion movie and once told me that “though the onscreen portrayal of the crucifixion is indeed brutal…it is actually only about 75% (at best) of what it was really like. ‘We just couldn’t put the real thing on screen and hope to see it hit theaters.  It was, after all, murder. And not a very clean one.’”

Words fail.

And as my pal Jeff over at Gravesland posted this morning on Facebook, “It’s Friday…”

Good Friday.

Good?

Really?

Yeah. Really.

Because it’s Friday…but Sunday’s comin’.

Okay, that really is Cute Redhead and that really is one of her molecular models (don’t ask).

One evening, about a hundred years ago, Cute Redhead and me sat at a table working on our separate projects. Each one focused and preoccupied, we nonetheless made efforts to have conversation and get to know one another better. I wish I could have a photograph of that moment because it was, I realize now, a template of sorts for what was coming:

I sat on one side with pens, paper, pencils and paints. She sat across from me with her (not making this up) (at all) BioGeoPhysioChemical Cycles textbook…and her molecular model. Just like the one you see up there.

I remember parts of the conversation but they’re not particularly meaningful to anyone but she and I.

I remember, too, the friendliness and genuine interest in one another’s work.

I’m glad, too, that a hundred years later, we are actually still interested in one another’s work. Which has always sort of fascinated me. That I’d remain interested in her work, that is. Because her work, for all accounts and purposes, should bore me (the artist) to stone.

STONE.

But it doesn’t. I don’t know why it doesn’t, but it doesn’t.

My work is any easy Hey That’s Cool! because it’s design and cartoons and zipTwangPopSizzle cool web stuff, right? Not a big leap.

Over the years of our marriage, I have heard countless stories of engineering-type issues that, altogether and laid out end-to-end, probably puzzled out the original plans to the Death Star. I just didn’t know it. I was too busy drawing something or concentrating on All The Pretty Colors.

Three children and every typical eventuality between that night and this day, you’d have thought I’ve heard it all.

And I have.

Almost.

Except that this morning, on her way out the door, she called back to remind me, “Oh, hey—remember how I’m the Co-Chair of The Pathogen Committee, well I need to—”

*stops sipping coffee* ” —wait. What?”

“Co-Chair. Pathogen Committee. Remember?”

“Sweetheart. I forget a lot. I admit it. In front of God and everybody, I admit it…”

[here's she's loading her computer, a box or two of paperwork (I never know what it is but I think John Grisham probably would), her lunch, and looking all professional and cute and refusing to smile back at me when I say so]

“…but I’m positive I’d remember you telling me you were dealing with biohazards since you made dinner the last couple of nights.”

“Well. Yes. I’m the Co-Chair of the Pathogen Committee.”

“A ha. I see. Well…play nice with the other freaks of nature today buhbye!”

*The Look

And it brings me great pleasure to announce that our pH levels are ideal. It brings me untold happiness to tell you that our Phosphorous levels are also outstanding. More, I am fairly carbonated with joy to tell you, one and all, that our Potash reading couldn’t be better.

But.

(please sit down) Our Nitrogen levels are

(someone hold me)

DEPLETED.

Now, I’m not going to try and slip this one by. Try as I might, tempting as it is, I can’t. I just can’t. And by that I mean I had no idea you could hook up tanks of Nitrogen to your garden and crank out 25-pound cucumbers, but I can’t wait to try this.

Kidding.

(sort of)

I have just returned from the yard and had the final say on the weeds and overgrowth that have mocked me three summers in a row. In the form of a weed killer and pesticide and a little something I like to call in Agent Orange.

Kidding.

(sort of)

I’ll give that a few days to simmer and let the lesser plants breathe their last before I do the one thing I’m so excited about I can’t see straight. Which is to drive up north sometime next week and get a

(wait for it)

(waaaaiit for it)

PICKUP TRUCKLOAD OF COMPOSTED HORSE MANURE!! YAY!!

It’s not fresh (which is very important, in case you didn’t know) and free. I hunted down a ranch owner who told me I could have all I wanted seeing as how they’re “in constant production.” I thought that was hilarious.

And since the kids go back to school this week (*sign of Cross), I’m going to take a morning and haul back enough to turn this soil into something to be proud of.

Because I’ve had it up to here with three summers in a row and more weeds than produce.

This is war.

Open. War.

Across the yard a garden grew,
And bent among the flowers,
A spare old man stooped to his task
Or he sat and dreamed for hours.

- Frances Strawn Livingston, from The Garden

The first time I turned fallow ground to make a garden was almost twenty years ago when an elderly woman chided me — right there in front of God and everybody — chided me for overlooking such a fine, albeit small, bit of ground.

We spent the next hour talking about What Could Be and I fell in love with her cantankerous spirit and the idea of watching something, anything, grow. Later that same afternoon, I returned from the local nursery with big plans and an equally big dent in my checking account.

But it was love.

That first garden was right outside the studio where I worked and provided me daily respite when I needed a distraction and some manner of pause. It was a flower garden, that one. I learned a lot tending it. I honestly don’t know how one can’t absorb all kinds of lessons in working soil, but believe me, the notion escapes a great many.

In fact, one summer morning in particular, I was visited by a friend of mine, a pastor, who found me weeding and chastising a rose bush too timid too bloom (it worked too). This friend arrested my attention with, “…why in the world are you gardening?”

I couldn’t believe the question. From a pastor no less.

[staring] “…are you kidding me?”

“No…I mean *chuckling* ‘gardening.’ Really?”

“Hm. I would have thought the Genesis poem, and All Things starting in one, would have dawned over your mind by now.”

And that arrested his attention.

Today we’re having the first, true, warm Spring day of 2010. And I couldn’t be happier. It’s Palm Sunday too, and I happen to love that. Easter is, without rival, my favorite holiday of the year. And for all the reasons with which you can infuse the very obvious: All Things New (not All New Things). All. Things. New.

I commemorated the blue sky and sunshine with a spade in hand and a soil testing kit in my back pocket (I’ll update you all on the results in the next post). Even though there remain patches of snow on the ground, protected only by the shadows the sun can’t reach, it felt downright triumphant to stand on the edge of the garden and survey what’s coming.

I dream of dark, rich loam (and I’ll have it)

neatly spaced rows (and I’ll them too as long as I get to plant them and not Cute Redhead) (don’t get me started)

breaks from every day where I’ll walk across the yard and spend a few minutes, every day, weeding this, thinning that

colors

onions and

tomatoes and

beans and

broccoli and

carrots and

squash and

cucumber and

pumpkins and

corn and

herbs and

marigolds (keeps the rabbits if you plant them on the edges)

And I think of…

…Veronique, in New Zealand, who’s infectious spirit and her love of walking in the outdoors gives tribute to There Is No Better Way To Spend A Sunday. She’s an inspiration to me.

…John, in Wisconsin, who’s This Close to trading it all in to grow blueberries and spend his days Slowing Very Down.

…Carl in New Jersey, who happens to be a fine gardener and landscape architect, and who’s promised me all the advice I want.

…and Jill, in Los Angeles, who is one of the bravest people I know, and who’s setting out to defy her past in order to write her future.

Here’s to Spring, everybody.

And to All Things New.

A few years ago, Cute Redhead and the boys managed some weekend away (skiing, I think) leaving myself and The Princess of Space, Time, and Dimension to fend for ourselves and see how high we could stack the dirty dishes in forty-eight hours. At some point I announced that we’d do Something Special, just she and I, to commemorate the all-too-rare time together, just the two of us.

And we did. I don’t recall exactly what it was we did because it was several years ago and we’ve had quite a few of these days since. What I do recall, however, was the way my purchasing for Her Majesty something special galvanized the experience in her little heart and mind as an opportunity to have daddy buy her something *rolls eyes*.

Thereafter, every Special Day is (not my first rodeo) another chance to see how deep daddy’s pockets really are.

This one started with breakfast together at our favorite new hangout. That’s Miss Girl watching some other kids. Boys, I’m sorry to announce. See that stainless steel travel cup there? Me and my buddy Bill stood in line at FIVE A.M. the morning this bakery opened for the first time and won them. Not particularly worth standing in the falling snow at five a.m., is it? Didn’t think so. What if I told you we get free coffee for a year, though? (Mm hm. Thought so.)

“Daddy, I have a list of things you could buy me. You can pick two.”

This was when I told her I thought we’d just browse the hardware store instead (kidding).

We waited outside for the candy shop to open. She came up with a “Great Idea, Daddy! Let’s Play Tag!”

But not until I’m done watching those boys over there.

Okay, not going to lie to you…this face killed me. Something about the mix of curiosity and caution, doubt and intrigue all wrapped up into one. I’m not sure. What I am sure of, though, is that I wanted to protect her from every boy, every date, every heartbreak and every tear in the world.

Good thing those boys left soon after that.

There’s an old 70′s song called Sweet Life, by Paul Davis. It starts out “She’s got your eyes…she’s got my nose…” And she does. She has her momma’s eyes and my nose. Great in the eye department, rather wanting in the nose department. Sorry about that, child. Daddy’s got a smallish nose.

Actually, it looks better on her than it ever did on me.

We had breakfast, hit a few shops, bought her a certain something she’d been wanting for a long time, played tag in the middle of the park, visited an antique store, and then made our way to one of those ceramic shops where you get to choose your ware and paint it yourself. The boys had ones of their own and Emma, being the last in a series, seemed to have gotten overlooked. Such is the misfortune of the baby in the family. At times.

Time to right that wrong.

I love this picture. I love that face.

She is very much the artist among the three. Which is quite a big deal when you consider that I come from a family of artists going back several generations. Alpha Male is our musical genius. Beta Male is our primary athlete. But Charlie Girl quite cornered the market on the artistic mediums. I am, of course, immensely proud of all three of them.

And, again, I love this picture. I know what it is to sit straight up and tilt the head and consider that last stroke of the brush. Judge and jury, that look.

Finishing touches.

Back outside for a few more shops, a stop at the library and seeing how high she can toss the pillow for her bed I bought her. “That’s pretty high, honey.”

And in all of this? All the stores, the ceramics, the antiques, the breakfast, the conversation, the boys, the purchase…

…as she recounted the day (half a dozen times) to whoever found themselves in earshot?

Do you know what she loved the most?

…when we played tag in the middle of park.

That made my heart glow. And when I took this photo, giving her a head start…

…Time Froze again, and all I could think of was how kids grow up and fly away. And how little by little, day by day, my baby girl is making her way out of the nest and into the wider world.

And that made my heart bleed.

Parents, remember the very first time you took your infant to the pediatrician for the first time to get that first round of immunizations? If you haven’t blocked it out of your mind entirely, it might cascade over your brain this very moment and reacquaint you with what was probably an experience you’d rather not be reminded of all over again (so, sorry about that).

It happened to me yesterday with Alpha Male but led up like this:

About two weeks ago I stepped into his bedroom to wake him. On my way over to the bed where one leg stuck out form under a mountain of blankets, I stepped over a mountain of laundry. Having long lost track of what was actually clean and not put away, I started picking up clothing to look for another place to set a new pile and establish some sense of order. And failed, of course. Welcome to the lair of the teenager.

I set the pile back down onto another, sighed heavily I’m sure, and reached out my hand to grab his 13-year-old ankle and rouse him.

At which point, looking up to open the blinds, I saw those little boots.

So. One hand on the kid’s foot…the other on the top of the bookshelf right next to those tiny kicks, time goes Way Back:

“..Are you okay?”

[crying] “I’m never doing that again.”

“That bad?”

“I’m not kidding. I can’t ever do that again. From now on, when he has to have shots, you’re going to have to take him.”

“Lol, okay honey. I’ll take him.”

And I did. Every doctor’s appointment thereafter which involved a shot of any kind, the task fell to me, the hardened, stone wall that I am. And, believe it or not, it wasn’t that difficult. The way I saw it, I’d rather endure the temporary crying of a wee bairn poked with a needle than suffer the Unthinkable because something Unthinkable befell him.

That’s just how I categorized it. A little pain now versus a potential Lots Of Terrible later? No contest.

And all that was just fine and I sort of took a bit of pride at being able to be all stoic and everything.

And I was.

Until.

Until he started talking. Because the last time I took him for a round of boosters or whatever they are, he fit into those little boots up there. Which meant he was about three. Or maybe four. Or something like that (read: I’m a dad and, unlike Mom, I do not have a complete working tally of every time he’s gone to the doctor. And, yes, she does. In her head. To this day.) (I will never figure out how moms do this, but they do).

On that particular visit to the pediatrician for that round of immunizations, he was laying down on the examining table doing his level best to be brave. I stood there next to him with that Knowing Smile you wear when you know a lot more than they do and, in spite of their narrow vision, have all the room in the world for their limited understanding and perspective.

And everything was going along just fine.

Until.

Until he looked up at me with Complete Trust governing his little eyes and asked me, “Is it going to hurt, Daddy?”

And.

I.

Lost.

It.

Because it was going to hurt. Not terribly and not forever. And not the end of the world.

But it was his question and the way his eyes searched my face for I’m Not Entirely Sure What. I just realized in the moment that it was mine to do something I didn’t anticipate. Which was choose between a glossing over something small to me but gigantic to him, or meet him with what I thought was an important first step together.

So I took his hand

(there is nothing like a little hand wrapping all of it around three of your fingers (four, tops)

So I watched his face negotiate whether to fall This Way into relief or That Way into fear

So I held it together as best I could and said to him what I truly realized was the beginning of the end. Of the separation. The separation that keeps the hard realities of life safely outside the insulated preserve in which we place our kids.

“…buddy. It is going to hurt.”

I will never forget that face.

Ever.

“…okay, daddy.” And he was braver than I was because he didn’t hide the Scared. More, he trusted anyway.

“But, I’m right here. And it will only last a little bit. And then it will be over.”

And then the doctor gave him the shot.

And the shot hurt.

But it lasted only a little bit.

And then it was over.

And about ten years later, that little kid isn’t so little any more. In fact, last night, he walked past me almost eye-to-eye. He’s getting that tall. I stood there with my arms crossed as he made some 13-year-old-type comment. And then I smiled and rolled my eyes and looked at his mom.

And he walked by.

And I realized I haven’t looked down into his face in a while. And I didn’t really like that, to tell you the truth.

The next day I had looked everywhere for my shoes and couldn’t find them. On a hunch, I abandoned all they places they should’ve been and chanced an investigation elsewhere. His room. And guess what I found? Yeah. My shoes. Now he’s wearing my shoes.

But I didn’t have time to agitate over this latest violation and breach of contract.

He was waiting for me to take him to get his physical.

“Is it going to hurt, dad?”

“Lol I hope so STOP WEARING MY SHOES AUGUST!”

About a month or so later, my friend and neighbor dropped by to show me a web site that had more detail on it, and she wanted to be sure and tell me before both of us forgot about it again.

So we pulled up the web site. And she started clicking here and there and there and here, hunting down a particular post in this particular blog.

And I completely lost all sense of space and time because my Designer’s Brain had click-trip-whiz-banged into overdrive and my cerebral cortex dropped its jaw. Because there on the screen in front of me was, without rival, the best blog layout and design I’d ever seen. Period.

When she found the post she was looking for and telling me more about this particular camera, I was struggling to stay focused while also directing the traffic in my head that had suddenly clogged the interstate of my mind and caused a thirty-car pile up. And right during rush hour, no less, because the kids were due home any moment and that meant that the house was about to transmogrify into All Hands On Deck.

That was back in August of 2009. And it was the start of what has since become the bane and blessing of my life for all its moving parts, promise, and insufferable artistic moodiness (shut up). (See? There it is again.) And all that because I realized, in about thirty seconds,  that what I really wanted to do was create a blog that could serve as ground zero for everything else I was already doing and enjoying the most.

That began my researching and deconstruction of other blogs out there, as well as outlining something like a plan for what I wanted to do. Which is really saying A Lot considering that I’m an artist and plans don’t actually surrender themselves to our type very well. Let alone rise to the level of At All Important.

By researching I mean that I knew I wanted to create a blog, but wanted more information before deciding what to design. No template for me. I’d create this from the ground up and call it my own or have nothing to do with it. And by deconstruction I mean that, having decided that the blog my neighbor showed me had raised the bar on layout, design and presentation…and no matter where else I looked, I could find nothing—NOTHING—that, in my experienced opinion (and it is lol) came close. And now, having landed on a style and presentation philosophy all my artistry and design uppitiness could respect, I spent about one week in source code enough to make The Matrix look like Tinker Toys.

And I’m not lying.

So, I swallowed all my pride and right in front of God and everybody, designed my own blog based on the design brilliance of this other one. Which, you have to appreciate, I absolutely hated doing. But there was simply no getting around the obvious: there was no way I could have seen the best and settle for any less.

So.

I started with a clean sheet of paper, the web design parameters of height, width, and layout, and married it with my own graphic standards and color pallet, to lean hard into making Waltzing in Perdition a reality.

It’s been a love/love relationship ever since. I’ve blogged everyday (save about ten) since it launched last September and have been enjoying cultivating the process and fine-tuning everything about it.  In fact, thanks to finding an outstanding WordPress wizard in London, I’ll be launching the second iteration of WIP™ on April 8th.

A great deal is coming down the pike and I’ve been working on whole new sections for the blog to round out what has come to the surface over the last several months. That is, a section devoted solely to the stories…one devoted to the process of writing the books…one for photography and cartooning (I’m going to be creating how-to videos for both)…one for some kitchen-type topics…and one I’m still sort of trying to decide on.

In addition to the blog’s upcoming New and Improved, there’s the second book in the Waltzing in Perdition Chronicles: On Flying Blind. I’m up to my neck in getting that one together, and, to be honest, you should be up over my head. But, Life being what it is, getting to it means getting past everything else jockeying for attention every single day. Like everyone else. Not easy.

Oh…and the camera? Got it. And with it the final piece to producing, I hope, a blog worth enjoying full of good storytelling and good pictures.

And, let me be the first to say it: if you ask me, all the WIP™ posts in the last month or so have been rather on the anemic side. It’s just that I’ve been rewiring and reorienting where this whole thing is going based on everywhere it’s been. That said, forgive me what I’m sure has come across as lazy. I have pages and pages of stories I’ve been collecting and ear-marking and keeping in the wings until things around here got a little more ship shape.

So. That’s what’s up. Or what’s been up. Stick around, folks.

The Waltz is going to get even better.

And then pulls the rug out from under our feet and knocks us into last month with ten inches of snow. Like an old record needle ripping across an album, we’re reminded, once again, that It Ain’t Over Yet.

You’d think we were new here. You’d think we forgot that March (and April, I might as well report) are our snowiest months.

And I’m over it.

That is, until Beta Male comes running to the window of my studio with eyes lit up like the Fourth of July asking me to come take a picture of his statue (above).

Until Charlie Girl comes and begs me to get the camera and take a photo of the icicles. Which I do. In spite of asking myself, “…how interesting can an icicle be?” But I don’t ask that out loud. The wide-eyed thrill on her face is more photogenic to me than any icicle…

…although that was pretty cool, I had to admit.

And, spying this little guy on the way back into the house made me smile at how forgetful I can be. Because no matter how cold it gets, the snows will recede and give way. They will.

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

The sizzle-pop-sizzle of thick-cut maple bacon.

The crinkle-melt-nuclear fusion of plastic containers that weren’t designed to be heated in the microwave.

Now, I don’t know what it is you make for breakfast at your house. I do, however, know what had darn well better be on the table at ours. And it better be hot. And it better have something to do with eggs on toast, or waffles, or pancakes, or bacon, or fresh-squeezed something-or-other, or Beta Male and Charlie Girl will have no qualms about serving me papers and showing me the door.

That’s how things run around here and I know my place.

Which is all over the kitchen conducting what I think is finely tuned precision in order to get them up, fed, clothed, and hustled out the door. And then piled into the beloved SUV. And off to school.

And all of this was happening like it does five days of every week of every school year.

I was going from whip-pour-flip that to stir-cut-slice this to CrinkleTwistPop-POP!-Crinkle tha—okay, what the hell was that?

“Dad. This doesn’t look right.”

“It looks fine. You want hot syrup on those pancakes or not, and don’t give me tha—wait. What’s that smell?”

“I think the plastic is melting.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why in the world would the plastic be melting? It’s not like it can’t go in the microwave, Lawd!”

Okay, so there it is in letters even I can read first thing in the morning. That is, if I’ve had the requisite two cups of life support coffee (and remember folks, the straight jacket isn’t for my safety…it’s for yours).

“Dad, this syrup tastes funny.”

*rolls eyes* “You think you kids never digest raw military-grade plutonium! Ingrates.”

But at least there’s Charlie Girl’s favorite and ever-ready Most Important Meal of the Day: cinnamon toast and stawberries and bacon and orange juice and “baby doll did you read your book like you were supposed to?”

“Yeah daddy, did you read the label like you were supposed to?”

“Very funny.”

You know how at the beginning of a movie, you’ll sometimes see a very quick, seemingly random clip of something that doesn’t make sense until later in the film? Okay, that’s what the photo right up there is meant to serve as, so take a gander but back burner it for just a minute.

The bathroom renovations.

Things are going along swimmingly, which is Toddspeak for “We’re paying someone else to do it.” If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, let me assure you: it has not been anywhere around this project.

Things are going so well, in fact, I’m told both bathrooms will be completed by this Thursday. Which is Lifespeak for “Friday,” which is due to the fact that Handyman Man came down with the stomach virus. Which I am pretty certain we gifted him with earlier this week, and which I hope he doesn’t hold against us and decide to re-plumb the plumbing he’s already plumbed and switch Hot with Cold or something like that.

I had plans to document the whole project but that idea seemed to pivot on my being around here while the project was underway. And…well…that’d mean that I had to suffer hammering and banging and sawing and all manner of interruptions to my Normally (believe it or not) Very Quiet Day.

So no.

I’ve been holed up at all my favorite coffee shops and working away as far away from this construction site as possible, ever since Handyman Man asked me (on Day One), if I had a box or something into which he could throw (I assumed) (incorrectly, I might add) trash.

Yes. Well.

Later that afternoon when myself and Cute Redhead returned to the scene at the same time to survey the Awesome Work I Didn’t Have To Do, I was all Starry-Eyed And Wooowww and didn’t at first register her Displeasure.

Regarding the stuff you see in this photo right here…

…which is her stuff.

And by “her stuff” I mean you better keep your grimy paws off of it if you know what’s good for you — and don’t think for one minute this new bathroom means anything like Welcome To Our New Bathroom. Because it doesn’t. But it’s not only that the master bath happens to be Ground Control for the things she does to get ready every morning. Which, all by itself, is enough (trust me) to keep me cowering in the corner of the downstairs bathroom holding a washcloth and a comb and crying like a little girl.

That’s the old reason I stay out of that bathroom.

The new reason I stay out of that bathroom is because when Handyman Man asked for that box and I couldn’t find a box, but instead grabbed one of the trash cans from the side of the house (it was empty and made perfect sense to me)…

…it wasn’t to dispose torn-out walls and plaster or old fixtures or moulding or tiles.

No.

It was, apparently, to empty out her vanity.

Which Handyman Man did.

And which I didn’t (still don’t) see what the big deal was.

Cute Redhead, you’ll be surprised to discover, had two (not one, but two) aneurysms.

Aneurysm #1: Handyman Man touched her stuff

(okay…even I don’t touch her stuff)

Aneurysm #2: Handyman Man put it all in a garbage can and set it in the middle of the bedroom.

(big mistake on the part of High Powered Man coming here)

I thought this was hilarious, but only after the fact. That fact being that in one Look I realized she possessed enough energy to stuff my dismembered body into that very garbage can and leave it on the curb.

The other morning I had to change out the laundry and keep up with the whirlwind that is Every Single Day. So, opening the washing machine to load it up with the next load (I was in full Marty Stewart mode), I saw that it contained the plastic shower curtain liner thing which Cute Redhead obviously intended to recycle.

*grump

The economy being what it is, I decided a rejuvenated and newly-cleaned shower curtain wasn’t going to kill anybody, so I wrestled it out of the drum, threw it into the dryer, made a Big Giant Mental Note to myself to NOT forget it was in the dryer (heat, plastic, Male Limbic Brain…you do the math), and promptly forgot everything I just wrote.

And went upstairs to usher Alpha Male, Beta Male, and Charlie Girl off into their days, right?

Bad.

Somewhere in the morning’s salvo, I suddenly jumped thirty feet straight up, cursed something awesome terrible, and ran downstairs, taking three at a time, and come flying — FLYING — into the laundry room.

To open the dryer.

And discover the plastic shower curtain…

…was gone.

And by “gone” I sort of kind of in a way mean that it was just out of sight.

Also this: ‘member those Shrinky-Dink things from way back when in our innocent soft-focussed childhoods?

Yeah.

Back to the picture up top. That’s the shower curtain. After I

PEELED

IT

OFF

THE

DRYER

WALL (that’s why I didn’t see it)

and then pulled and kneaded and pulled some more and stretched and stepped on this end while pulling this end and basically injecting into my morning something I hadn’t planned. That is, wrestling with a giant strip of Saran Wrap.

And then I thought of that scene in Fried Green Tomatoes where Kathy Bates’ character opens the door to husband holding a martini and wearing nothing but Saran Wrap.

And then I thought Aneurysm #3 would be a total blast.

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 nigh