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Hope. Honor. Justice. Charity. Senility.

15 May

senility

The first four abstract nouns in today’s title are also names of kids I’ve heard my daughters speak of. Last night I noticed that my old, half-wasted brain groups these four people together into one general ultra-moralistic female student with a face I can’t quite keep in focus. Ten years ago I would have been able to pack them into my mind labeled with a face, what school they go to, and where the girls know them from (band, Girl Scouts, Soccer, Track, Volleyball, gymnastics, etc.)

Now, if Ainsley tells me that Justice got in trouble at recess on Monday and Chloe tells me that Honor ran the mile in seven mintues on Tuesday, Wednesday I’ll ask Jennifer how Hope got into a 2nd grade track & field program. On Thursday, Chloe might mention how Hope said something hilarious in Math, and I’ll be left wondering what she was doing at Ainsley’s school on Monday and what she did to get in trouble. This all leaves me horrible fearful of how I’ll keep anything straight another ten years from now. Every human being I know will become one rainbow-colored blob of a human named Bill Smith.

The latest example: Last night Chloe mentioned Hope doing something or another.

Me: Hey, I know where Hope lives. I saw her dad in this yard when I was on my way home from the cafe yesterday.

Chloe: How do you know it was Hope’s dad?

Me: It’s the guy who rides his bike all the time. We saw them both at Books-a-million that one day, remember?

Chloe: (blank stare)

Jennifer: Hope’s dad?

Me: Yeah, Hope’s dad.

Chloe: (blank stare continues)

Jennifer: (blank stare)

Me: (worried look as I ponder the possibility that they’ve spent significant time near some high voltage power lines and are slowly losing their mental faculties)

Then it hit me as I pedaled to town this morning that it was Honor I was thinking about, not Hope. I have no idea where Hope lives or what her dad looks like, but, really, if I can’t keep the girls straight it’s nonsensical to even attempt to categorize their parents.

Oh God, just set me down in a wooden rocker, cover me with a shawl and a cat, put on some old-time radio (80s), and don’t forget to wipe the spittle from my chin every once in awhile.

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The Adventures of Biking a Cat to the Vet

12 May

(Before I get into what happened last week, I’m going to get heavy and serious for a few words. Hang with it.)

Yeah! We’re winning! We’re winning!

We’re kicking ass in emissions from burning fossil fuels. The following is in billions of metric tons of carbon dioxide.

USA 95.4  (gold)
Russia 38.9 (silver)
China 33.9 (bronze)
Japan 24.4
Germany 22.7
UK 20.1
India 9.7
France 9.4

I’m not a scientist. But I do read. Here’s what’s going on in the atmosphere:

the concentration of climate-warming carbon dioxide in the atmosphere has passed the milestone level of 400 parts per million (ppm).

Here’s an excellent column from the same publication on this milestone.

Here’s why I care about this: I have two young daughters who might well have their own children. Their children might have children. And on and on. My life philosophy is based on fear that something horrible will happen to my descendants due to how we’re living today and how humans in the western world have been living since the industrial revolution.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead before the real terror begins, but I have a good imagination and I already love my great, great, great grand kids.

That’s part of the reason Ainsley and I used bicycles to take our big cat, Trouble, to the vet last week. We hooked the flatbed trailer to my recumbent trike, strapped a giant storage container to the trailer, and then lowered the cat crate into the bin and set off for Edwardsville Pet Hospital.

After he received his shots and we forked out $92, we had an unexpected adventure outside when we noticed a little black boy in ill-fitting clothes walking down the sidewalk, unattended. He was heading towards busy-as-hell Buchanan Street, so we pedaled over to follow him.

My heart pounded as he reached Buchanan and turned the corner around a building out of our sight. When we reached the corner he was approaching a particularly dangerous area where people drive too fast and where they enter and exit a busy little shopping center. I yelled at him to stop and, amazingly, he did. I motioned him over away from the road into the landscaping.

Where’s your mommy or daddy? 

Mom left.

Did you leave your house without telling anyone?

Yes.

Where are you going?

To find John.

How old are you?

Three.

What’s your name?

It’s all right.

I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What’s your name again?

It’s all right.

Either he was telling me it was okay that he was wandering around downtown Edwardsville by himself or I didn’t understand what he was saying.

A truck pulled into the parking lot.  They had seen him walking alone too. A woman asked him the same questions. We learned his house was green.

We called the police.

We pedaled away shortly after they showed up and were stopped twice on our way home by concerned citizens in the neighborhood: a group of old men sitting outside at a donut shop who had watched the police arrive and then a cosmetology student around the corner who had heard a rumor of a missing child.

This was not a fun experience, but it made me think about our involvement and how it would have differed if we had driven our cat to the vet like normal people.

Would we have noticed the boy walking down the sidewalk? If so, would I have followed? Would we have been stopped to get the scoop afterwards? The answer to all three could be no, sadly.

Automobiles keep us sealed away from the real heartbeat of the community. We’re going too fast to notice much of what’s going on. We fly by all kinds of interesting and important things.

So, sure, we didn’t add to the pollution that day, but it turned out to be another example–it happens over and over–to confirm that there’s something special about exploring our community on bicycles, outside of the cage, at a comparable snail’s pace.

Note: I assume the police quickly figured out where the little boy lived, but I have a sinking feeling that there’s some less-than-optimal care and nurturing going on inside those walls.

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I Grew up with a Door Hole and Lived to Tell About It

4 Mar

Luke-Skywalker-and-Darth-Vader

In the early ’80s I remember lying on my bedroom floor simulating epic battles between my Star Wars action figures. Luke Skywalker was the ultimate warrior; he didn’t need a light saber to beat the heck out of Darth Vader. I loved my bedroom because all my stuff was in there, and because I could close the door to the world, inviting sweet privacy.

Of course, I couldn’t lock–or even latch!–my door; I didn’t have a door knob. Instead, I grew up with a door hole, which partly explains why I’m such a damaged adult. But I thought it was normal. For years I assumed it was illegal for kids’ bedrooms to have door knobs.

knob01

Eventually I figured out that my dad had a long list of things to do ahead of “Give son door knob,” one of which was “Drink one thousand beers and take one thousand naps before even thinking of giving son door knob.”

But my door hole wasn’t an issue until I walked home from school one day to find a baby in our house. That baby was my sister who quickly grew into a mobile, tenacious little thing whose main mission was pushing into my room, which, of course, wasn’t hard because door holes are notoriously inept at stopping babies.

“Dad, you know, this would be the perfect time for a door knob.”

He would pull out his list and show me that “Mike’s door knob” was right there at #237.

My only defense was to stack my heaviest possessions in front of the door. But, when determined enough, she would turn into Bamm-Bamm Rubble from The Flintstones. I wouldn’t have been surprised by her ripping the door from the hinges.

Even mighty Skywalker was helpless, turned from a butt-kicking beast into a Jedi Popsicle; I’m sure she would have chewed his head completely off if given enough time.

Now, when my kids are giving me a hard time I point to their door and say “You don’t know how lucky you have it; I grew up with a door hole!”

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Why I Don’t Play Video Games

23 Feb

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Jennifer’s been playing this game in bed on her tablet. She slides her finger around, mumbles, and becomes agitated and more vocal as a timer nears zero. One night I asked what she was playing.

Dropwords.

I’ve had my tablet for two months and I’ve yet to download any games. We’ve had a Playstation 3 for years and I don’t think I’ve played video games on it for more than a couple of hours . . . total.

I think I’m scared of becoming addicted. I played the hell out of Atari as a child. I played the hell out of Nintendo as a teenager. I played the hell out of a baseball simulator in my twenties. I don’t have time to become addicted to a video game in my forties. 

Last night in bed as I sipped on hot Sleepytime Herbal tea and read a New York Times op-ed, she urged me to try a game of Dropwords as we waited for the girls to finish a movie downstairs, so we could watch one of our own. It looked kind of fun and I noticed a bunch of good words she was overlooking, so I downloaded it onto my own tablet to quickly blow up her high score. I wedged my mug of tea between my legs.

I leaned over to see her high score was 1950.

I scored 175 on my first try.

“What the hell!”

I played again and again and again, scoring 350, 205, 250.

“Goddamit!”

The girls came upstairs, brushed their teeth, went to bed. I played again (275). And again (300). I adjusted the pillows, leaned back, and got more comfortable. The cat climbed onto my crotch and curled into a ball as she so often does. I barely noticed.

I scored under 300 again . . . and again.

“How are you getting such high scores!” I roared.

]Then I learned the value of using the darkened tiles that score more points and awards extra time. My scores began to improve. She stopped playing and mentioned the movie. 

“One more!”

“Are you ready to go downstairs?”

“One more!”

“Movie?”

“One more!”

In the middle of my best game, I noticed wetness under my butt.

“Why I am feeling a wet spot; did I just pee my pants?” I asked.

Yes, for a second I thought I had become so engrossed in Dropwords that I had unknowingly urinated in my pants.

But I kept going because–like I said–I was in the middle of a game. “Did Kitty pee on me . . . what’s going on down there?”

Jennifer sat up to investigate and–ha, ha, ha, it’s so funny!–started laughing as she picked up the now-empty mug that I had forgotten about. My game ended. I had scored over a thousand points, which is the important thing, but by then the girls had been called into the room to laugh at me and my giant wet spot, the mark that anyone would recognize as someone who had just peed in their pants. (A circular wet pattern emanating from the “crotchal” area, visible from the front and back.)

And that’s why I don’t play video games. 

Not me, I swear.

Not me, I swear.

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Eww, Your Clutter is Touching my Sleeve

17 Jan

Every few years I go on a mad purge of my personal possessions. In 2008 I even counted all my stuff and blogged about what I kept and what I got rid of. I trashed my blog, but I got the idea here: 100 Thing Challenge. Once I whittled my shit down to under one hundred items, I quit keeping track. Then, like a well-behaved U.S. consumer I resumed accumulating stuff at a dizzying pace. Until this winter.

What’s behind this bizarre anti-consumerist attitude?

  1. I don’t like to walk into a room and feel the need to say “What the hell? Look at all this shit in here. I’m not living in a Hoarders house!”
  2. I’m done standing before my closet and seeing shirts I never wear. I once owned over thirty t-shirts. I’m down to three (not counting workout shirts).
  3. I refuse to buy a bunch of shit just because we live in a big house. When we moved in May of 2010 it was horrifying to learn that we “needed” to double our furniture.
  4. mnmlist.com

I’ve donated a shitload of books to the library and hauled a dozen garbage bags stuffed with random clutter to Goodwill. I’ve sold shit on Craigslist and practically worn out Freecycle. It all would’ve made for a helluva yard sale.

And I have more to purge: our second TV and Blu-Ray player, two area rugs, a dresser, crib, two dry erase boards, old  magazines, a broken printer, old paint, a camcorder, a small dog cage, redundant kitchen gadgets, a screwed up lawn mower, and maybe a domestic pet or two.

Of course, with kids, it all falls apart. We’ve allowed them to hoard too many toys and it’s difficult to pry them from their surprisingly strong little hands. Once in awhile I brave the bowels of the “play room” to weed out the scribbled on papers, broken toys, random puzzles pieces, doll parts, and the occasional rock-hard dog turd under the bed.

I hate to say they’re spoiled, but THEY’RE FREAKING SPOILED! Okay, maybe not. I don’t know.

We have the extra space so I’m kinda okay with their stuff because Chloe is twelve and outgrowing most of it. Ainsley’s right behind her. Oh my god it’s making me sad to think of them growing up. When Chloe’s sixteen I’ll grab her hand, give it a tug, and say “Hey Chloe let’s go play with your American Girl dolls, huh? Want to? Want to?” She’ll roll her eyes at me and say into her phone “Is your dad a frickin’ weirdo like mine?”

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We Saved Frosty Paws

9 Nov

Wednesday morning Ainsley and I broke up a real live cat fight on the way to school. I was ahead of her, pedaling my ass off, when she saw or heard something to our left in someone’s front yard. She said “Daddy, stop! Turn around!” We circled around and saw two cats making a loud fuss about something. (I think I heard one of them say something about the direction of the country and the other one was asking about “legitimate” rape. Weird.)

I said “Ainsley, you’re a hero! Let’s go break it up before one of them gets hurt.”

“Okay, let’s go!”

As we pedaled over, fur flew from the body of the tan cat. We said “Stop fighting, cats! It’s not worth it! Whatever you’re fighting over–will it matter a two years from now? One year from now? No, of course not! Peace, brothers!”

The cats didn’t even look at us. On a normal day they’d probably run from approaching strangers, but on this day of war they both remained in a low, defensive posture right next to each other making low, growling noises.

A car pulled into a nearby driveway and a woman got out. “Oh my. Come here Frosty Paws!” I asked which cat was Frosty Paws. “The one getting the tar kicked out of him.” Oh, the tan cat. The one who was a little less furry today. The one who looked like he was in the middle of a summer shearing.

I used my front tire to separate the cats. I said “Ah, the poor thing” as she scooped Sparkle Paws up into her loving arms and told the black and white challenger (Romney) to hit the road. “Shoo! Go on, shoo! Get out of here! Go!”

I did the same: “Go on you dirty flea bag! Crawl back into the hole you came from!”

The nice lady thanked us for being such good samaritans and we resumed out trip to LeClaire Elementary. As we left I looked at Ainsley and she smiled real big at what had just happened.

It’s one of the reasons I enjoy riding our bikes to and from school. In a car we’re cut off from what’s happening around us. In a car we would have driven right past this street fight, maybe not even noticing the cats. Even if Ainsley had spotted the fight from the back seat, I doubt I would have even slowed down. But now we have a story to tell.

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Some Randomness and then “Why You Should Use a Bicycle for Transportation”

2 Oct

Do you see the stuffed opossum finger puppet down there? Okay, how about the salad spinner down a little further? Everything between the opossum and the salad spinner I wrote yesterday. Unfortunately, it was giving off a “this all sucks” vibe, so I slammed my laptop lid and walked away from it. Today I wrote everything before the opossum and after the salad spinner. (And don’t think for a second that I believe what I wrote today is better than yesterday.)

Right now I’m in Sacred Grounds–or what we call The Coffee Shop. A middle-age couple is to my right, up by the window, arguing about something. They’ve been at it for an hour.  Papers are scattered on their table along with a laptop. It’s absolutely killing me not knowing what’s going on between them. I can’t make out a single word they’re saying. Why can’t they yell like normal couples? Are they divorcing? They’re not arguing over who’s going to mop the kitchen tonight, that’s for sure; it’s something serious. Am I too nosy?

Two couples at a table in front of me are playing bridge. They’re older than the fighting pair. They’re getting along just peachy. I can hear most of what they’re saying, but it’s all boring. They all look happy. Probably because it’s 10:37 in the morning on a Tuesday and they’re in a coffee shop playing cards. I know nothing about bridge. I suspect I’m too young for that game.

But I have been spending an inordinate amount of my time playing Animal Planet “Go Fish.” Ainsley seems to be carrying the cards around with her all day. We played two games before bed last night and two more this morning before we rode off to school.

Ainsley’s school is 1.5 miles from our house. To begin the school year she was riding the bus back and forth, but we’ve switched over to riding our bikes instead. Why you ask? Why go to all that trouble when I can walk a few steps to the bus stop? Well, there’s several benefits and I’m going to clue you in on a few because I want you to get on a bike too.

  • Riding a bike everyday will become your Fountain of Youth. You might be old and creaky now, but after a month of daily riding, you’ll look and feel younger and you’ll probably weigh less than you did before. In 1513, Ponce de León went to what is now Florida in search of this legendary spring and didn’t find shit. Do you know why? Because he didn’t get there on a bicycle. Stop reading and go stand in front of a mirror. See how tired and pathetic you look? Mark the calendar and begin using your bicycle for errands. Get a rear rack and some panniers so you can carry some groceries. After a month of this, stand in front of the same mirror in the same light. See how much better you look? Yeah, you look decent now. Keep it up.
  • A bike ride obliterates bad moods. Today Ainsley was riding behind me when I decided to ride in some small, loose rocks on the side of the road. I came this close to losing control and eating pavement, but cat-like reflexes and balance saved me. I had planned to skid a little–a teeny bit–to provide some Monday morning humor for Ainsley, and it worked. She giggled as my heart pounded. It’s not that she wasn’t in a fine mood before. It’s the breeze on our faces. It’s our heart pumping faster, and our muscles working harder that provides an instant shot of happiness.
  • Every bike ride is an adventure. Friday on the way home from school, I passed what I thought was a piece of ribbon or rope. I didn’t even really look at it. Behind me, Ainsley yelled “There’s a snake in the road!” I said no way and she said “Yes,  turn around!” I said I didn’t see a snake and she said “Yes, turn around!” I stopped because I wanted to see this play out. If it was just a piece of black rope, it would be hilarious and we would laugh about it. We turned around and went back and there was a freakin’ garter snake in the middle of the road just sitting there all calm and relaxed. This was the first snake I’d seen all summer. (I guess I don’t hang out in weeds enough.) Anyway, this was a semi-busy road, so I used my front tire to convey “Get on over there in the grass before you get smushed little snakey.” On another day, Ainsley crashed into a hedge; it’s always something different.

I realize some people have less than two legs and are thinking “What’s wrong with this jackass, talking about riding a bicycle–like everyone has two legs.” And I apologize. For you I recommend a handcycle. Looks like fun. And I’ll bet you’ll have fabulously toned arms in, like, two weeks.

I also know some of you live out in the boonies where you’ll be mauled by a large animal if you venture more than ten feet from your front door. And if you live through the deadly attack, you’re looking at a twenty mile trip to Kroger. For you I suggest a Trek Madone 7.9. It’s light. It’s fast. And it costs $11,549.99. I know, that may sound a little high for a bike, but it’ll make the bear’s head spin and get you there and back so fast you’ll … I don’t know what you’ll do. Maybe you’ll just shrug, sit down, and drink some tea.

Ride on.

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My In-laws Are Trying to Kill my Future Grand-baby

30 Sep

On September 22, the day we celebrated our daughter’s birthday with a houseful of people, Jennifer’s parents pulled into our driveway with an old wooden high chair. My father-in-law put it in front of our garage. I was hoping this was all part of some temporary display for the party. Sort of like a short run in a museum. But three hours later, they left; the high chair stayed.

I thought this strange because we no longer lock our kids into kitchen chairs to feed them pureed vegetables–they’re eight and twelve. I learned that Jennifer sat in that very chair and threw pasta on the floor and chewed on mashed peas and other soft foods and probably shit her pants in it a time or two. Whatever. She’s now in her mid-thirties. I wondered why the hell the high chair was still around in the first place. Obviously, the old thing has been stored away in some dark, spider-infested corner for a long time. Nobody cared about the high chair.

And now we’re supposed to care about it?

Her dad wanted to trash it, but her mom thought it’d be better to give it to us. Maybe she expects us to store it for 15 to 20 years just in case Chloe wants to strap her first child into it, assuming she’ll want to have kids. Hell, it could be Ainsley in 25 years to bring forth our first grandchild.

I know the drill, the American way. If an item has a chance of being used in the next sixty years, I’m supposed to store it in the basement, attic, or garage. I’ll watch as stuff piles up and we lose track of everything. And we will be convinced we need to stay in an over-sized house to store all of it.

Just because a house doesn’t qualify for Hoarders–just not quite scary enough–doesn’t mean there’s not a problem with this craziness.

I’m not sure what Jennifer thinks about the high chair. Does she want to store it away for a couple decades? I’ll probably ask her today. If she’s ambivalent, the chair will be in the hands of someone looking for such an item right now. Maybe a single mother who would be thrilled to receive a free high chair. Hopefully, by Tuesday, a smiling baby will be sitting in it, squishing wet cookies between her fingers.

I know, I know, most people have a different view. They scream “SENTIMENTAL VALUE!” Keep this. Keep that. When Chloe moves away to college am I supposed to hold a tiny little jumper against my cheek and cry? I can cry and remember just fine without it.

In fact, besides photos and videos that will be stored on some future computer, I own nothing that I wish to still possess twenty years from now.

There will be no auction when I die, I assure you.

If the “We have no room!” argument falls flat, I’ll point out the design flaws inherent in a 70s model high chair. Let me call it what it is–a death trap. No air bags, of course. The legs are too close together which means it will tip.

“Jennifer, do you want are first grand-baby to smack her soft little head on the kitchen floor?”

Also, it seems to be designed especially for smashing tiny fingers when the  eating surface is lowered. What kind of animal would put a child in a high chair that was manufactured by cretins back when Carter sat in the White House munching on peanuts?

Besides the safety concerns, I would be ashamed–no, appalled!–to give this to my daughter and have to say:

“Oh, I’m sorry about the Frisbee-sized eating surface on this antique piece of furniture. Just know that you’ll be spending most of your day cleaning food from the floor. Also–and you may  even remember this–I tried to get rid of this piece of firewood back in 2012. And you might remember the subsequent attempts in 2014, 2018, 2022, and that final valiant effort I gave back in 2028. I realize you can’t walk into a thrift store without tripping over modern, practical, safe high chairs available for five bucks, but you’re Granny, bless her soul, wanted us to store this for a large portion of our lives so you could–in twelve minutes–realize its many faults and hazards. You might have better luck duck-taping this precious baby to the wall. But still, enjoy.”

Note: If you were wondering how I could hand over such a hazardous chair to a stranger, you’re right. The best thing I could do for this world is to burn this high chair immediately. 

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Murder! A Drill to the Head! (or my daughter’s first cavity)

21 Sep

I took the girls to the dentist on Tuesday. Usually, it’s “Oh your teeth look great. What flavor of polish would you like. See you in six months.” Not this time. Dr. English told me a remnant of a bite ramp in Chloe’s braces had caused a pinhole cavity. He lost me at “bike ramp,” which is what I thought he said. What the hell’s a bite ramp? He told me but I still don’t know.

Shit. Her first cavity. I thought of the drill, the horrifying sound of that goddamn drill. And the smell. And–Jesus!–the shot to the gums.

“Oh, you can fill the cavity today? You mean right now?”

I stood behind Ainsley as she dug through a box of toys rewarded for surviving another checkup and cleaning. In the hall I could turn right and sit in the lounge with a magazine, or I could turn left and sit in on Chloe’s drill’n'fill. A moral dilemma.

I thought I should least check on her. I left Ainsley at the box because she couldn’t decide on what to take. (After ten minutes she settled on an eraser.) I searched Chloe for signs of anxiety, but found nothing as she sat calmly watching TV, waiting on Dr. English. I decided to sit in the empty chair in the corner. I mean, what kind of father would I be to abandon my oldest daughter during her first major surgery?

I was especially worried about the numbing shot that might be in store for her. That was sure to bring tears. Holy shit, I can’t handle that, I thought. I looked at the five-foot-tall black and white poster of some guy’s head and his humongous, freaky-white bright teeth. Why do dentists hang these god-awful prints? I don’t need to see a model’s brilliant four-inch tall teeth to know I drink too much coffee and tea and could use a bleaching. At least it was taking my mind off of Chloe’s impending torture.

The next thing I know there’s the dentist and his drill. No shot! Yes! But then the drilling commenced. A cloud of tooth detritus exploded from Chloe’s mouth. Her legs tensed. Oh my god I have to get out of here! My toes twisted and scrunched in my shoes. I crossed my legs and rubbed my chicken-skinned arms. I watched her face knowing pain would be visiting her any second. Oh my god he drilled too deep! And no anesthesia! I’m going to kill this monster who calls himself English! He’s probably not a real dentist anyway! The quack orthodontist caused a cavity and now the maniac dentist is trying to kill my daughter. I admit: some irrational thoughts were bombarding me, but then–just like that– it was all over. The room was quiet. Chloe was alive and seemingly uninjured.

Next time, this father is staying up front with a magazine and ear plugs.

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This Post Smells Like Salmon!

4 Sep

Note: This post was written LAST week. Saturday morning, actually. I tell you this because today it’s sunny, dry, and hot and the remnants of Isaac have passed. Not that this matters, but that’s just how honest I am. I would never lie about the weather. That’s, you know, like a SIN … or something. 

What was Hurricane Isaac has reached Edwardsville. It’s dark and ominous outside where my bike is locked to a light pole. I’m sitting in Panera Bread with a mug of decaffeinated coffee. I know I’ll be rained on this morning, but I’m semi-prepared; I have an extra set of clothes. Also, I brought the lids to my kitty litter container panniers. So while I might get soaked down to my skivvies, the laptop, phone, iPod, clothes, and backpack will be dry.

I’m drinking “decaf” because earlier this summer I realized I was drinking more coffee than ever. Each day I held my hand up in front of my face and watched it vibrate. My mind raced. I jumped over cars. Not really on that last one, but I felt like I could. Caffeine is a socially accepted drug. It’s mostly harmless, of course, but I realized that I’d probably be better off without it.

So here I am, like a newborn baby: drug and alcohol free. No smoky, no drinky, no caffeiney. And yes that does include a ban on all caffeinated soda. Boring, right?

There’s nothing better, some would say, than a roaring drug habit to fuel my need for writing topics. You know, interesting stuff. Last night I could have been out on the streets of St. Louis selling myself to score some crack, but I was in bed at 8:30 reading Junie B. Jones to Ainsley. I can’t remember the title, but it’s a Halloween story where Junie dresses up like Squirty the Clown.

After I don’t know how many chapters, Ainsley left and came back with a handful of stuffed animals and her blankey/pillow combo. I grabbed a plush dog named “Delgado” by the back of the neck and made it talk and move around for a few minutes before Ainsley told me to stop. She wanted to play by herself. Offended, I said fine. I thought I was hilarious with that dog; Chloe would make me animate her toys for hours. I remember I could do it while napping on the floor. Something like the following was was common when she was around the age of four.

“Daddy! Wake up!”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. (in a high-pitched voice) Why yes Chloe I would love to come over for dinner, but what about Moo Cow, can she come too?”

I get a kick out of asking the girls “Who PLAYS better, mommy or daddy?” With no hesitation: “Daddy!” I got all warm and fuzzy inside and that just made me want to “play” even better. Yes, my talking animals were a hit.

Since they’re 7 and 12, my puppeteering days are pretty much over. This morning that fact is making me sad and teary. Right here in Panera I’m going to cry. There’s nothing better, nothing harder, than having kids to raise. But then they grow up.

Ainsley wants to live at home with us forever. I told her that’s fine and I would love that. I also mentioned that she’d probably change her mind when she’s fifteen. She didn’t believe that for a second. She then asked how old I’d be. I guess she was thinking that since I’m so damn old I’m not going to be around very long for her to live with anyway.

I brought extra clothes because I might bike over to The Y to exercise. Some say exercise is like a drug. I’m one of those people, but the hardest part is the crossover moment between “not exercising” and “exercising.” It’s the getting started part that kills me. Once I leave here, the deciding factor will be the direction I point my bike. If I head towards home, I’m screwed and I won’t make it to the gym. If I point my front wheel towards the gym and start pedaling I’ll reach the safe drug and my self-esteem will tick upwards.

We live two miles from one YMCA and four miles from another, larger, nicer one. On Thursday I biked to the nice one and realized when I rolled up to the bike rack that my back tire was flat. I dug a piece of brown glass from the rubber. I momentarily thought about just forgetting the whole damn plan to exercise. “I should just go home and take a nap; nothing’s going right today!” But I stayed.

Then I walked the bike a mile and a half to Target. I went in and looked around for 20 minutes until the next bus came along. The bus was crowded and the girl next to me smelled like salmon, but I didn’t mind. Not that I like the smell of salmon; I don’t. Even when I used to eat meat, I didn’t like salmon. I guess I was simply in a high mood where salmon people can’t bring me down. I love seeing the bus crowded, but that’s for political reasons I won’t go into today. I heard a guy behind me talking to his little boy. He said “A guy kissing his son is the only time it’s right for two males to kiss. But a guy kissing another guy–I’m not having it.” It’s always interesting on the bus.

Well, the sun is peaking out and ducking in–over and over–so I’m going to unchain my bike, hammer the pedals, and see where I end up.

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