Tag Archives: children

Life this Week and 8 More Possessions

14 Feb

Here are some of the “goings on” this week.

Last night Sammie somehow squeezed into a small cardboard box full of clean socks and two of my jackets (looks like a pair of underwear too). She’s famous for occasionally finding hilarious spots to nap.

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We have a Blendtec “Total” Blender, a superhero kitchen appliance with a price that will make you sick to your stomach, which is kind of happening to me right now. I don’t remember paying $500 for ours. I think it was more like $400. Anyway, we use it almost daily. The digital screen keeps track of how many times it’s been used. We’re over 1,500. This month I added a Twister Jar, and I produced the almond and peanut butter pictured below. I added cocoa powder to the peanut butter on the right.

I went from a cup of almonds to creamy almond butter in 40 seconds thanks to the twister lid. While blending you twist the lid and it keeps your ingredients scraped from the sides of the blender.

Seriously, if you want to change your nutritional life, buy a Blendtec or a Vita-Mix.
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On Tuesday I turned on the wrong burner, so instead of heating pasta sauce I melted a container of chickpeas and filled the house with toxic fumes. The beans you see below are stewing in a puddle of melted plastic. Luckily, when it cooled, it peeled off cleanly.

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The next photo I added to show “the world” how amazing we are that we have a fridge full of healthy fruits and vegetables. Are you impressed? I would love to see what’s in your refrigerator. Ten years ago a photo of my fridge would have been much different, containing very little except cow milk, soda, ketchup, pickles and maybe leftover SpaghettiOs (Ick!). The only thing I see that isn’t healthy is a package of cheese tortellini that the kids demand once every couple of weeks and two small pizza crusts under the head of cabbage.

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After taking pics of Sammie in the box, Ainsley took some self-portraits.

AinsleyMonday before school I shoved some poly stuffing into Trouble’s collar. As you can see, Ainsley wasn’t impressed. I, however, found it hilarious.

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I’m still counting my stuff. See here and here. This is next to where I sleep. See photo below.

11. Alarm clock that looks like a phone.

12. Charger cord – Fits our four phones, four tablets, and three Kindles.

13. Ikea lamp

14. Marpac Dohm Sound Conditioner - I don’t think I can sleep without it.

15. Bedroom eyeglasses – You can barely see them in the pic.

16. Kindle Paperwhite e-reader – Maybe my favorite possession.

17. Google Nexus 7 tablet – Not far behind.

18. Table.

I’m not counting the cases because they nest. The way I look at it, if I were moving my stuff from one residence to another, it would be one bundled item. Consumables like facial tissues don’t count.

Bedside

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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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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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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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Being Married to Me Isn’t a Walk in the Park

2 Jul

Unless you’re always writing about it and putting it online.

Individuality (or selfhood) is the state or quality of being an individual; a person separate from other persons and possessing his or her own needs or goals. Being self expressive, independent.

I’m been thinking about how much individuality one is expected to give up in marriage. Last night I read George Orwell’s essay, “Why I Write,” and was struck by this:

The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class.

I’m part of a family of four people and I wouldn’t change that, this isn’t about the line between marriage and divorce, but I agree with Orwell here. I’m fighting to hold onto my individuality; my fingernails are dug in; my legs are wrapped around it, but I’m up against the limits. She has her ideas of what life should be. I have mine. But where do these preferences come from?

We learn how we’re “supposed” to live from the media, the government, our parents, just about everywhere we look we’re being influenced. It’s baffling to me that these things are considered normal nowadays: television as #1 free time killer, retail therapy, eating junk food, lethargy, obesity, and materialism. Lifestyle diseases–AVOIDABLE diseases– like heart disease and diabetes are now accepted as a part of life.

So my preferred mode of living is to question everything. If I ask why THIS has to be done THAT way and you say “That’s just the way it is” or “It’s always been that way” or anything in that vein, I’m going to–I don’t know–scream real loud on the inside. I might rebel.

The big issues are where we choose to live, what we do with our time, what we do with our money, what kind of work we do. I can’t cover the biggies right now, but here’s some small stuff from recent events or conversations. And keep in mind that I’m not saying I have it all figured out and my wife is stuck in “conformity hell.” She would (and I encourage her to) write about her own life philosophy.

Food presentation. We had some family over last night. I pulled roasted asparagus from the toaster oven and grabbed a glass bowl to put it in. I was going to put in on the table. No, not the right way to do it I learned. Leave in on the baking pan in the kitchen. What’s really important about sharing a meal with family or friends? It’s the experience, the togetherness. Sure, the taste of the food fits in there somewhere, but it’s not nearly as important. And everything else? Pshaw! I think it would be neat to sit in a circle, cross-legged to eat a big meal … just for fun. I don’t care what kind of bowl the salad (or asparagus) is in. I don’t care if Uncle Barney likes to rub his food against his bald head before eating it. Husbands, if you’re “helping” in the kitchen and you feel like your wife has her eye on what you’re doing, remember, there are no “real” universal rules. Hold onto your individuality.

No playing ball in the house? She grew up hearing that, and so did I. She tells the kids the same thing maybe just because that’s what she learned growing up. It’s important to question everything you learned as a child because our parents are human and they certainly didn’t have all the answers. I “play ball” in the house with the girls all the time. Kids grow up and leave, so I need to have those moments with them now. I’m not going to squelch a game of “tackle monkey in the middle” over a rigid, inherited rule.  Husbands, are you going along with this rule? Stand up for yourself and put the issue to a democratic vote.

Landscaping. We’ve been talking about this a lot lately. Some people enjoy pulling weeds and planting flowers and digging holes and jumping on every stray leaf. That’s great, it’s good exercise and it’s a million times better than sitting in front of the television. Some see it as a neighborly competition (not good). I wanted to buy a condo where the outside was maintained by someone else. If I’d rather jog or go for a bike ride or read or write or study or learn or think or meditate, what are my obligations towards helping my wife with her idea of acceptable lawn aesthetics? I agree, if she needs help, I should be available. But should her priorities supersede mine? Should she get angry because we care about different things? If I give up my individuality to keep my wife happy, am I being “smothered under drudgery”?

Bed. We sleep in normal, American-style beds. Why? I guess because that’s what we had as children. In Japan they sleep on special futons that they roll up and put away during the day. Since before I knew about what they were doing in Japan, I rebelled against the American bed. What the hell is the box spring for? Why do I have to be up off the floor? I happily slept on the floor for years. If my individuality ends up costing me my married status, I already know that I’ll be rocking Japanese-style sleeping arrangements. During the day I’ll do yoga, push ups, jumping jacks, meditation, basket weaving, playing ball, or any number of activities IN MY BEDROOM. Space saving! (This leads to another issue: how big of a house does a family need? I definitely don’t have time to get into that now.)

Couch. I know I’ve talked about this before, but it brings me much joy. Jennifer bought a set of small couches that she tries to protect with much energy. She bought them knowing we had cats when we moved into our current house. Well, the cats have shredded the couches. If you want to put Jennifer in a bad mood, whisper “shredded couch” into her ear. Not that I do that. My wife has said (loudly) something like “Girls, don’t climb on the couch” over a hundred times in two years. I remember my mom was similarly protective of furniture.

Can you picture your childhood couch? Where is it now? If you climbed over the back of it did you add to its demise? Does anything having to do with that couch MATTER now? To me it doesn’t even matter now. If the kids are getting along and having fun, I’m good. More importantly, I don’t want them stressing over material possessions when they have their own kids. I tell them this: when you have your own kids, encourage them to play on the couch, but now, listen to you mother.

This scene in American Beauty sums it up for me. IT’S JUST A COUCH!

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Daddy, There’s a Dead Opossum Riding Your Bike Around the House

18 Jun

I was sitting in Panera Sunday and there was an older guy and a teenager sitting 14 feet from me. Their conversation didn’t grab me until the man got louder and more animated. I couldn’t tell if the older guy was a father or grandfather.

For the next 10 minutes I listened and watched while pretending not to.

He repeatedly emphasized the word “responsible.” I assumed the kid did something dumb like teenagers tend to do, but I quickly learned the man was talking about being responsible on the baseball field.

“You guys have to be able to TRUST each other!”

“You’ve got to be RESPONSIBLE!”

The man was overweight and ugly. (I feel bad writing about his physical appearance, but it seemed to be an important part of the overall package–rough looks and rough speech.)

Then he said something like this:

I noticed something yesterday with you guys. When someone makes the third out, nobody picks him up. Do you know what that means? When I played ball, when a guy makes the last out, we’d bring him his glove and hat. Pick up Johnny! Hey, pick up Larry! That’s what we called it, Picking a guy up. You guys don’t DO that.

He was perplexed with “kids these days.” It’s fine, I guess; aren’t fathers supposed to have intense conversations with their sons? But it was one-sided and the man was just so goddamn SERIOUS and gruff about it. About baseball. Baseball is a fun game (double emphasis on both fun and game). The boy was silent and sullen.

(Below is a sad attempt at a graphical representation of what I saw. I got bored and didn’t want to create a “cartoon” teenager, so this poor kid (an actual high school baseball player) got pasted in. Those are cockroaches on the man. Don’t ask me why. Sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Oh, and the guy did have shoes on.)

When Chloe is participating in volleyball, track, soccer, or whatever, I like to put her in a headlock, throw her down to the ground, and then drag her to the car by her hair. And that’s after she’s plays well.

No, really I put my arm around her, pull her tight, and ask if she had fun. Then I ask her questions, but not critically like “Why didn’t you blah blah on that one blah blah play?” I try to get her talking about her experience, even if that means playing dumb about the rules or about what I saw. It’s seems a good policy to NOT pretend I have all the answers. And If something funny went down, I’m definitely going to talk about that.

But I’m one father in a world of–well, I was going to estimate the number of fathers in the world, but I don’t want to look a fool, because, really, I have no idea. Point is: there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Though it feels … wrong to even type those three words: skin a cat. Eww. I can’t type it without picturing it. Speaking of cat, this morning on my bike I saw a pile of roadkill near our house and ’bout had a heart attack, because I thought I recognized it as a friendly neighborhood feline. Then I saw it was an opossum. Not that that didn’t make me sad though.

Up in that last sentence I wrote “this morning on my bike I saw a pile of roadkill near our house.” Obviously, I could have worded that differently. The pile of roadkill was NOT on my bike and my bike was not near our house. In other words, a dead opossum was NOT riding circles around our house, because that’s just weird.

But the opossum died under questionable circumstances. Our road has a 35 mph limit and this bloody scene was 10 feet from a stop sign! Oh man, I’m getting worked up like I did about that poor turtle. And this poor turtle. I need to take some deep breaths.

At that point in the street a normal driver is moving at, like, 5 mph. (I’m going to picture a man in a large vehicle as I rant.) I like to think HE was operating with brakes, steering, eyeballs, a brain, and a conscience, but obviously something was missing.

“It was just an opossum!” he might dare to say.

Oh, no you didn’t! (Oh no you di’int!)

That creature probably had a family and could have been a father like me. And even if this father opossum liked to bite his opossum kids (and I mean hard) for not keeping the burrow entrance swept, he was probably a decent marsupial just trying to make his way in this crazy world. And on the day after Father’s Day!

OMG! Read the paragraph below from Wikipedia; it’s exactly what I do when Jennifer wants me to work in the yard.

When threatened or harmed, they will “play possum”, mimicking the appearance and smell of a sick or dead animal. This physiological response is involuntary (like fainting), rather than a conscious act. In the case of baby opossums, however, the brain does not always react this way at the appropriate moment, and therefore they often fail to “play dead” when threatened. When “playing possum”, the animal’s lips are drawn back, the teeth are bared, saliva foams around the mouth, the eyes close or half-close, and a foul-smelling fluid is secreted from the anal glands. Their stiff, curled form can be prodded, turned over, and even carried away without reaction. The animal will typically regain consciousness after a period of between 40 minutes and 4 hours, a process which begins with slight twitchings of the ears

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Rock ‘n’ Crow: Pausing to Look Around

6 Jun

Slow down. Look around. Be “present” and “in the moment.” I read this stuff in books about Buddhism and mindfulness. But it’s difficult. So I draw symbols and words on my wrist to help me remember.

While walking the dogs this morning, I stopped to spot the crow that was “Caw! Caw! Cawing!” at me. I stood still and searched the tree tops while the dogs sniffed around for scents of dogs long gone.

What I first determined to be a big black bird was an odd branch crooked in two sharp right angles. I looked higher in the tree right above me and took a few steps.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

I stopped and saw the bird right above me looking around like birds do. He didn’t look down at me. I thought about the odds I’d get pooped on. 5 percent? Probably lower. I walked from underneath to get a better view and wondered if I was the cause of his anxiety (like I was out to steal his blackness) or if I had taken a different route the bird would be sitting in the same spot making the same cries. How much did I change the order of the universe by walking down Buchanan Street?

Dexter whizzed on some weird bush. Sammie tugged the leash–almost out of my hand–wanting to move on. A crow on the ground would get the dogs’ attention, but not the cocky crow way up in a tree. The bird flew away to caw at someone else and I walked on.

I paused again before a Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bar wrapper on the sidewalk, considered picking it up, but stepped over it. The dogs sniffed at it. I wondered how it came to be here at my feet. I pictured a young male–anywhere between 8 and 24–ripping the paper off and tossing it over his shoulder, something I might have done at that age. But not at this age.

I imagined a boy littering, not only because I know myself, but I know my own girls. They occasionally carry sacks around the neighborhood picking up others’ trash. Our street is heavily traveled by pedestrians and bicyclists; we’re on the edge of downtown, so it’s common to find liquor bottles and a variety of food packaging in front of our house.

When we’re together, all trash gets handed to me. To them, my pockets are the most useful thing ever invented. Unlimited trash and storage capacity.

Of course, females litter too, and maybe my girls, whom I’m bragging on, will grown into litterers before growing back out in their twenties. I’ll say “Remember when you used to PICK UP trash?” God, I’m getting emotional thinking about Chloe at 17.

I approached the intersection of Buchanan and Hillsboro and heard the hiss of sprinklers. The drenching of decorative plants against an office building made me think of my own yard, in need of attention. I thought I heard more flowing water across the street at the Episcopal Church. Its impressive landscape is so abundant, extending so far from its walls, that hidden sprinklers deep within the foliage wouldn’t have surprised me.

In front of a fourplex I saw a gray rock half-buried in the dirt. It was smooth, the size of a sensible cookie, probably displaced from a nearby sea of rocks. It looked like a rock Ainsley would dig up and slide into my pocket. I almost did myself. But I’ll wait for a future walk and I’ll say “Whoa, look at that awesome rock.”

I’ll be sad when she stops sliding “treasures” into my pocket.

So, yeah, the drudgery of life, reexamined, can be more fulfilling than carrying the metaphorical bag of feces.

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When You’re on the Seat for Hours and It Doesn’t Smell like Flowers

24 Mar

What a crappy week. My youngest daughter missed four days of school. Not only was she sick, but she was lethargic, crabby, and bossy. I guess I should say that it was nice to spend all that extra time with her, but it wasn’t nice at all. It suuuuucked.

It began with a Tuesday morning vomit on her bedroom floor. The rest of the day was vomit-free, so she had me thinking she’d be back to school the next day. But on Wednesday she couldn’t keep anything down. It was horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE! Really, the first time I rinsed her barf-bucket was enough. I was like, whoa, I hope she doesn’t throw up anymore today.

Well, I rinsed her barf-bucket another fifteen times. I’m over the trauma of that day, but the real bummer is that the barf-bucket was formerly my favorite salad bowl. My wife gave it to her. We have two big mixing bowls, similar in size. She uses the other one for popcorn.

“Why didn’t you give her your bowl to barf in?” I asked.

“Yours is bigger,” she said.

It might–I say might–be a teensy bit bigger.

Anyway, I’ll wash it hard today. That means I’ll really put some force into my washing maneuvers. But I think it will be impossible for me to throw vegetables into that bowl until the memories fade.

If that’s not enough bodily fluid-talk, I have to write something about my own recent issue: the Big D . . . diarrhea. Read on after the cartoon. If you dare.

I almost decided not to mention it, you know, to avoid embarrassment. I’m easily embarrassed y’know? So like if we were all sitting around a big table, I certainly wouldn’t stand up, get everyone’s attention (I pictured myself clinking a fork against a glass), and talk fifteen minutes straight about my diarrhea.

But I can’t see you and–for the most part–I don’t know you. So . . .

In the past I though of diarrhea as something temporary. Once or twice a year I would come out of the bathroom and think–or say–wow, I just had major diarrhea. Then we would joke about it. We would sing the diarrhea song. Ha Ha Ha. Then I would forget about it and everything would be back to normal.

Well, it’s all fun & games until your stool activity turns into some sick version of Groundhog Day. Seriously, my ass has never touched porcelain this much in any two-week period of my life. My hamstrings are like iron. My wrinkled right hand (wrinkled from washing, along with my left) is cramped into a deformed wiping position. You should see me typing this. It’s just sad.

Now, if someone laughs I say “Hey! People die from diarrhea every day y’know?”

But I don’t live in the Congo. It’s my fault I haven’t visited the CVS diarrhea aisle. It’s my fault I haven’t seen a doctor. But it’s something that has always worked itself out–you know, a ONE-TIME thing. Jeez!

Yeah, I’m pissed at my body.

It’s time I go on the offensive up in here. It’s time to fight back.

And I’m going to win dammit!

Who’s with me?

Anyone?

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Turtles Make Lousy Speed bumps

23 Feb

This morning before school I got down on all fours in the dining room to demonstrate to Ainsley what the turtle looked like the moment before we picked it up off the road a couple of summers ago. I tried to stretch my neck as far as would go and I looked at her with fear in my eyes and looked left and right like “Holy shit, where am I and how did I get here?”

We both laughed. It was one of those successful moments of parenting that fills me with this feeling that I won’t even try to describe. I try to pile those moments up to the roof. We all want to be awesome parents. Even the great parents want to do better. It’s the hardest “job” in the world.

Unfortunately, I’m not an awesome parent all the time. I get crabby. Patience drains. Silliness vanishes. In dark moments I might believe they caused my bad mood. Not true. It’s in the self-help books: happiness is a choice, right? A foul mood builds on itself and shields you from reason. That’s why I’ve been thinking more about mindfulness lately.

Mindfulness is important enough to spend time on every day, but winter drains me of this along with of other important stuff–basic stuff. As March approaches, though, I can sense some improvements. The color is coming back into my life. After two such winters I wonder how long I’ll continue to live in this climate. I can’t afford to trade in 25% of life.

Unfortunately, our turtle talk reminded me of a another story, one  without a happy ending. Luckily, I was by myself when I stopped in the middle of a busy four lane divided road to rescue a hapless turtle. I jumped out and waited for two cars to pass over the top of the turtle that was right in the center of the inside lane, plodding towards me. The first car whizzed by. My eyes were on the second vehicle, a pickup truck. At the moment it passed I took a step towards the turtle, six feet away.

For a second I was confused by the disgusting crunch. What the hell? The anonymous driver of that truck is the only human being I hate at this point in my life.

Let me look at this through his eyes. The speed limit is only 35. There’s a guy standing in the middle of the road waiting to enter his lane and there’s something large in front of him. Couldn’t he have slowed down, switched lanes, stopped?

I jumped back into the van, devastated, disgusted, and angry.

Mindfulness would have saved that turtle.

*

Update: Of course, not ALL parents aim high. What can you say about the sickos of the world?

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