‘Springtime in Florida’ or ‘Those Nuts are Mine’

I just ran across this pile of ridiculousness that I wrote last year for a website that no longer exists. It made me laugh and I hadn’t posted anything in a bit, so I thought I would post it. Of course, maybe this is why the site no longer exists. What the hell….after all, they can’t shut me down and it is a true story. Sort of.

It seemed a peaceful day. The air was still and warm. The sun shone unhindered through the budding branches of oak trees. The distant pitch of children’s voices sang at a neighborhood playground. It was February, the dawn of spring in Florida – the kind of day that assured many a tank top was being joyfully considered across this wacky friggin’ state.

I ambled up my driveway, my eyes cast skyward, not knowing what the day held and in no real hurry to find out. My feet shuffled across a bed of oak pollen which stirred thoughts of the seasons according to Florida. The five and a half hours of winter were over and the convection oven that was summer still had to wait. For a couple of weeks spring would nestle us into its hyper-allergenic bosom, giving the local news something to talk about in between stories of toothless strippers, lusty city councilmen and botched liquor store robberies. Springtime was, indeed, bringing life out into the open. Birds were singing, the strip malls were undoubtedly packed and, for the first time in a while, the squirrels seemed to outnumber Canadians.

I opened the side gate and stopped. There was an unfamiliar sound in the air, a rustling in the trees like an alpaca was leaping from branch to branch. OK, maybe not an alpaca. Maybe more like an antelope. Or some cloven hooved swine. Or maybe some kind of large marsupial. Hard to say, really, as I’ve never been to Ohio. Let’s just say that it wasn’t your typical Florida tree rustling and move on, all right?

Jesus.

Where was I? Right – stopped at the gate. So, I froze in my tracks, almost afraid to look up into the tree and see this heretofore unidentified rustler, and just listened. Right then the tremble of the leaves gave way to the much more ominous sound of bark being shredded as if a chainsaw was ripping down the side of the apparently strangely populated tree. My eyes darted around as eyes will do when you are trying to pinpoint the origin of a sound. I quickly realized, though, that I could probably find the source easier if I just went ahead and looked at the tree, as there was really only one near me and the sound of an antelope or a kangaroo or whatever in a tree fifteen feet from me is not really the distant kind of sound that the whole darting eye thing lends itself to. By the time my eyes finally fixed on this not so elusive tree, I realized it was too late. My tormenter was coming right for me.

It had run straight down the side of the tree and, without missing a beat, turned horizontally and began a dead run down the concrete walk directly at me. Still frozen, I looked right into its eyes as it barreled toward me and finally processed just what sort of creature had been responsible for all of this hullabaloo.

It was a squirrel. And it looked pissed. Fluffy and cute – yes, but pissed. And it was enormous. Well, maybe ‘enormous’ is a bit of an exaggeration, but it was definitely larger than average. I mean, he was two pounds if he was a pound. And ripped – his little shoulders rippled as he charged me down with his tiny brow furrowed. Did I mention how pissed he looked? It was terrifying.

The beast closed the gap between us before I had a chance to finish even a whispered “what the fu…?” With lightening speed his furry little ass was on top of me and, when he was mere feet in front of me, he sprang from the ground and hurtled himself crotchwards. Without a moment to consider the consequences, I did the only thing that seemed appropriate – I squealed like a girl scout and leapt into the air. Luckily, I had on my fancy flip flops so I was able to clear him by a good four inches, swinging his apparent targets just above his cute, but fierce, little ears. It wasn’t the most graceful evasive maneuver ever, but it was evasive nonetheless, and I only tweaked my ankle a little.

Thwarted, he turned on a dime and was back up the tree before I could this time finish a fretful “SERIOUSLY, what the fu..?” As I attempted to compose myself and fish one flip flop out of the bushes, I swear I heard laughter from up in the tree. I bet it was that goddamned alpaca.

Should be an interesting year.

I Don’t Hate Valentine’s Day

I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.

I really don’t. Though, it would be pretty easy to muster up some negative feelings about it. Especially considering that its modern face is complete bullshit.

It’s not the weapons-of-mass-destruction, hope-and-change, give-me-your-bank-account-number-and-my-uncle-who-is-the-Prime-Minister-of-Nigeria-will-send-you-$712-million kind of bullshit, mind you. Rather, Valentine’s Day these days is bullshit because it, like pretty much everything else, has been co-opted to make a buck. (See also: Christmas, health care, water, food, air, etc.) And that isn’t to say anything about the story that is sold to women that they are loved if, and only if, they get a bunch of red stuff and the one sold to men that a quick trip to the mall will get her in the sack. (See: Zales – The You’ll Never Get Any If You Don’t Buy Some Shiny Shit Store).

But, honestly, that isn’t enough to make me hate Valentine’s Day. Such is the nature of the world and the nature of advertising. If I let myself get all lathered up (like I used to) about lies such as these then I would be a pretty miserable person to be around about 23 ½ hours a day (like I used to be).

I also could touch on the “Hallmark Holiday” angle and get all bunched up (like I used to) (ok, I’ll stop) about it being an invented holiday, created solely to sell shit for the aforementioned women to the aforementioned men. Then I did some research (Wikipedia counts, right?) and it turns out that it wasn’t so much the company that writes a bunch of inane blather in cards for people who can’t write their own inane blather that made Valentine’s Day the love-in/prerequisite dinner for two that it is. It was friggin’ Chaucer. Sure, The Canterbury Tales were beyond me in high school, too, but I’m willing to give Geoff more wiggle room than I would Hallmark.

(Apparently, there were something like three or four real Saint Valentines and not a one of them had anything to do with love – or chocolate)

So, where am I going with this, you undoubtedly are wondering? This all actually does have a point (despite the appearance that this is the work of a half dozen monkeys with a penchant for parenthetical phrases banging away at a keyboard).

I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because Valentine’s Day is about love.

Despite the empty promises and the 45 minute wait at The Outback and all of the other bullshit, Valentine’s Day is a reminder to consider love. Just consider it. Think about it.

Who do you love? And why? Now tell them.

This world is full of bullshit (See: election year) and always will be. If that is all you pay attention to then all you get out of it is a nasty outlook and dirty shoes. The world is also full of love. Just look around – it’s everywhere.

So, think of someone you love today and tell them how you feel. It doesn’t have to be your romantic partner – love is bigger than that. What about your friend or your mom or your neighbor or your classmate in mime school? The great thing about love is that it isn’t limited to people you are involved with or that have stuff shaved into their back hair.

Don’t do it because it is Valentine’s Day, do it because the people we love and who love us are all we’ve got and they are all that matters. Do it because today you are alive and you have the astonishing privilege to love. Then do it again tomorrow.

Just don’t go to Zales, for cryin’ out loud.

image credit: hellocotton.com, extremefunnypictures.com

Don’t Be Pretty – Be You

This post is part of The Write On Project
Topic: Communication

The blast of color and light causes her to let go of my hand as we walk through the glass doors that magically open when we near them. Inside the store there is more than her eyes can consume. Her pace slows then speeds up then slows again. Flowers and paints and pictures and puzzles and beads and balloons and glitter. Lemon darts forward, determined to see it all and calls for me to follow without turning around. Less than a minute in, she is sold.

I shepherd her off to the left with some difficulty, toward the aisle with art sets for kids. We need to get a present for one of what seems like a hundred birthday parties this month. When she notices the shelves and shelves of dolls one aisle over she drops any protest and accompanies me with enthusiasm. She becomes absorbed into the tiny world of little toy people and, with her still in sight, I step over to the paint section. Finding what I am looking for, I slowly trace my way back over to my daughter. And I watch her.

I watch her study the shiny boxes and pretty packaging. I watch her step from doll to doll and examine their clothes, their hair, their eyes, their skin. She sees every one, kneeling and standing to be present with each as she passes, though never really noticing any above her 3-foot high eye level. Occasionally, she tells me (or maybe herself) about a detail or an accessory she has noticed, but mostly she just looks. Her intention and focus are notable, if for no other reason than their intensity is out of character. And a little startling.

I step forward and kneel down with her after watching for a while. Now I want to see what she is seeing. Our house and our world these days are full of imagination and dolls. My daughters role-play thousands of scenarios with dozens of dolls that have found their way into our house one way or another. I think often about the messages that my wife and I send to them about life and relationships and their place in the world. I wonder how clearly we are being received and how we are being translated onto the stage of their creation. We actively lace our messages with strength and possibility. We model equality and self-determination. We preach individuality.

We try to communicate depth and difference, but we are not the only ones communicating with our daughters.

At her side in that pantheon of plastic, my eyes set on the box with which my little three year old girl is currently enthralled. It is a Hello Kitty doll, packaged in essential girly pink and adorned with a pretty bow and an apron. I immediately think of several things I find wrong with what my daughter is being sold, but hold my tongue, as I often do now. Too much judgment from dad, I know, leads to the opposite effects than are hoped for. Then Lemon points to the little girl in the corner of the box, the one modeling the joy of Hello Kitty ownership, and says “she’s pretty”.

Holy shit.

The first problem here is obvious – a child who could easily be Lemon’s five year old sister has been sexualized to sell a product to other kids the same age. Here is the image you should aspire to, little girl. This is who you should be. This is beauty, little girl, wrapped in lipstick and a string of pearls. Blonde and blue and red and smiling. Look at her, little girl, and see yourself like this. If you look like this and buy this product you can be this pretty, too. You’ve seen all of those grown up women who look like this get all the attention, haven’t you? On tv and movies and billboards and magazines? They look pretty, don’t they? You can be pretty, too, little girl, just like them, all painted and smiling. If you don’t you are weird and different and ugly. Do you want to be different, little girl?

Lemon stared at this 6 year old painted up like a woman. She presumably stored in her swirling head that this is the norm, the picture of happiness, the gold standard. This and Barbie and princesses and brides. And here is where the other problem appears, that deeper message beneath the one that tells little girls – and then women – that their inherent worth is directly tied to their aesthetic value. They are being told not just to be pretty, but that being pretty means they will be liked and that being liked is the most important thing.

Be pretty, little girl. Be happy, little girl. Be liked, little girl. Be acceptable, little girl. And shut the fuck up.

This is not to say that being likable is necessarily a bad thing. But, if little girls are taught that they must first be liked then they are cut off at the knees before they have a chance to decide which direction they want to run. It is limiting. It is possible to be nice (and, thus, likable) and still assert your individuality, but it is not possible to assert your individuality if you are only seeking to be likable.

My greatest desire for my daughters is that they live a happy life. But I want that happiness to be a product of their choosing, not some affected, painted-on happiness meant to please someone else. Be happy, little girl, but be happy with yourself, for yourself. And let your voice be heard.

image credit: clker.com

After the Fairy Tale

“The fairy tale is over” she says to me with that smile that shifts just to the left, the one that tells me how much she loves me, the one where she is funny and beautiful and playful and clever all at the same time.

She says it and I laugh. I laugh because she is funny and beautiful and playful and clever. I laugh because she is getting in bed many hours before I will. And because she is getting in bed with our two daughters, both of whom are climbing on her head, doing everything they can to physically separate us.

I also laugh to try to hide, from her and from them, that a part of me feels like it sinks a little further down when I think about it.

“Yes, it is, my love. Good night. I love my girls.”

I shove a smile onto my face as I turn out the light and leave the room. I shut the door thinking of her and them and life and that picture of our feet jumps into my mind.

It is one of those pictures that is more than just a second of time caught, more than just a blink among a billion others. It is a picture of an era and also of a moment that I would never need a picture to remember.

We hadn’t yet been together a year and we were deeply in love. Our life together was fluid and rhythmic, fun and romantic. We didn’t worry about much of anything. We didn’t really have anything to worry about. I guess it was kind of like a fairy tale. And for my thirtieth birthday she surprised me with a trip to Amsterdam and to The North Sea Jazz Festival.

For a week we danced and floated and laughed through the streets and over the canals in Amsterdam. On Saturday we took the train to the festival in The Hague and we danced some more. We took that picture as we sat on a walkway directly above one of the main stages, our feet dangling over the crowd and Roy Hargrove. This is a song from that very show.

It was all like a dream in its perfection and surreality. I don’t think we stopped smiling or touching each other the entire week. Thinking of it now, it still feels like a dream.

—-

And, looking back, it feels like a different life and we were a different couple. I love our lives now, as maniacal and ridiculous as they seem sometimes, and I love my children and wouldn’t change a thing were I to have the choice. But I can’t say I don’t in some ways mourn the end of that fairy tale that we lived. Life was so simple then and we got to drink in each other fully and bathe in what we had become together.

I remember reading an essay a few years ago by Ayelet Waldman for which she caught a hurricane of hell when she said she loved her husband more than she loved her children. I understood it when I read it and had one infant daughter and I understand it now with two wonderful little girls. I love my children. I am in love with my wife – more now than I could have even understood as we took pictures of our feet many years ago.

But, all of that brings me to this – I am in love with my wife more now than I could have understood then because we started there and have experienced all of this and are now here. Together.

Our children are not a barrier between us or a hindrance to what our life together can be. They are us. They are here because we love each other. It is easy to say that I mourn the loss of what we were because, on the surface, that was easy and this is hard. In that life we had no parameters or obligations. We were the kids and it was about us. And we were in Amsterdam, for chrissakes.

In this life it isn’t about us at all. Now we have boundaries, rules and schedules. But now we also have two beautiful little girls to celebrate. The joy and significance that was just two is now four. It is easy to talk of mourning, but it is hard to understand that what we have now – what we are now – wouldn’t exist if we continued on that path, unchanged.

The details of that fairy tale are fun to recall – the grand piano in the park, the characters in the clouds, the picture of our feet. But ‘happily ever after’ is a lazy way to end a story and it probably leaves out the best part.

The Return of TWOP is Back, Part II

Like so many things, it began inspired. We were going to pen our names on the wall of history. We were going to Pied Piper the masses to the next evolution of blogging. We were going usher in a new dawn of writing itself. We were going to do no less than take over the world.

The proverbial ball began rolling, quickly gained momentum and before we knew it tens, nay, dozens of people all across the globe were pants-wettingly awaiting each new installment of The Write On Project, wondering, no doubt, what stupid shit these guys were going to write about next. Our boyhood fantasies were coming to fruition and the future itself was ours to write.

Then we decided to see what was on tv. And grab a quick shower. Maybe have a sandwich.

And with that, like so many things, TWOP fizzled out like a popcorn fart.

Well, my friends, the revolution is back. By ‘revolution’ I, of course, mean a couple of guys who like to write about stuff and want you to join us. And by ‘back’ I mean said two guys have gotten off of our lazy asses in order to sit down on our productive asses once again.

Basically, we’re firing up The Write On Project again.

So, here’s the deal – we pick one topic a month, a bunch of people write about it and we post all of it on the site. If I went too quickly through that or if you actually want to know how to participate, you can see the basic ground rules here. And if you want to know what all of this silliness is about, you can find that here (hell of a lot of good that will do you, though).

Everybody is welcome, blogger or not. We just want to read what you write. And we want other people to read it, too.

I’m a huge fan of beginnings (though, I also really like middles) and we are looking at this as the second beginning of The Write On Project, so I’m pretty fired up. I promise not to drop the ball again just to have a shot at another beginning. I think this one is going to take.

Write on.

(and I don’t care what Jared says, we were never cool)

Let’s Pretend My Brain Isn’t Tapioca Pudding

It starts so simply with four little words that conjure up big images of idealized family life like in a Rockwell painting or an ad for Lipitor.

“Play with us, daddy.”

I have burned through many a sentence fragment whining about pondering all of the challenges that come with being a stay at home parent. This often thankless job saddles you like a Peruvian pack mule with responsibilities that you feel you may never crawl out from under. But it isn’t all butt wiping and suds busting on the home front – there are times when staying home with the kids means your job is to play.

How friggin’ great is that?

The thing is (there’s always a thing) while Legos, Lincoln Logs and dominoes are themselves strong arguments for having children, those are not always what you get to play with. And never do you get to choose the game.

Lately, my girls’ game of choice is playing ‘pretend’. As you may imagine, this is an unstructured, open ended game that assuredly will never (and I mean NEVER) look the same twice. Generally, it goes something like this:

Let’s pretend that I’m a baby and Lemon is my mommy and you are the daddy.

And…..scene. Simple enough, right? From here the initiator (in this case, Bug) will pipe off a quick “waa!” in her best baby to alert the rest of us that we are now, in fact, pretending. Taking her cue, Lemon will go into mommy mode, which consists of a lot of nurturing, hugging and calling everyone “sweetie”, all of which, I think, reflects well on the real mommy around here (though, she doesn’t call anyone  “sweetie” as she isn’t 70 years old yet). I am a natural in my role and immediately begin muttering to myself while not showering.

Like I said, though, you never know what direction Pretend is going to take. And rarely do I get off so easy as to be the daddy.

Let’s pretend that I am 11 and you are my little brother and daddy is the dog.

Not such a stretch and with only minor role readjustments. But you can’t get comfortable – Pretend moves pretty fast around our house.

Let’s pretend that I’m 9 and you are my daughter and I am the back-up small
forward for the 1983 Washington Generals.

Another thing about Pretend is that you might not be included in every performance. Also, there might be some glaringly unrealistic details. I mean, seriously….9 years old AND on the traveling squad with the Generals already? Please. You’re not getting on the floor with the ‘Trotters until you are at least 12. Everyone knows that. I was glad not to be included in that one – it just seemed silly.

That’s a lot of the fun of Pretend, though. They can be anything they want to be and create an entire world out of thin air. And then another one eight seconds later. Watching my daughters’ minds invent is truly one of the greatest joys of being a father.

Let’s pretend that I’m Santa Claus and you are my mommy and I am daddy’s
grandma and he is a buffalo’s pancreas.

As they grow, they are just sponges for new information and Pretend can be a great tool for learning. Folk lore, genealogy, biology – it is an incredibly dynamic classroom. The lessons and the subject matter are truly limitless.

Let’s pretend that I am your baby and we live on a farm and Jasmine (our dog)
is a cow and you are the Deputy Under Secretary of Commerce testifying before
a Ways and Means subcommittee on burrito subsidies and daddy is the queen.

After being an intricate part of Pretend for a while now I have learned invaluable lessons about how children’s minds work and how they interact with and interpret the world around them. This life as a parent is so full of lessons that if I slow down even for a second then I risk missing an opportunity to understand my daughters just a little bit better, to get to know who they are just a little bit more. These moments make me feel so close to both them and to a world where burrito subsidies are real. It’s win-win.

Let’s pretend that I am the mommy and this pile of dog shit is the daddy and
you are a pigeon and daddy is a rickshaw driver and I am a piano tie and daddy
is Delaware and you are 8 years old and Jasmine is a head cheese sandwich on
toast and you are my daughter and the couch is Mitt Romney’s speech writer’s
cousin….

With priceless experiences such as these it is a complete mystery how I ever struggle to understand what is going on in their heads.

photo credit: wix.com

The Tao of the Undateable 24 Year Old Me

I was probably twenty four years old and a class-A directionless goof. I had gone to some sort of reception with my dad at a local museum and saw her serving hot dogs, if my meaningless detail cortex is firing. She was taller than me and strikingly beautiful and probably out of my league. I decided I needed a hot dog. I watched her retreat from the room with an empty tray and return replenished. And as she walked back toward the crowd, I seized my opportunity and walked away with tubed meat and her phone number. I still think it’s funny that I hit on the hot dog girl.

A couple of days later I picked her up at what seemed like a nicer apartment than I would have expected a dog slinger to have, but my aged and rusty Honda and I didn’t think twice about it. I remember being giddy about the possibilities. This was a beginning, I was sure of it. We hadn’t spoken for more than twenty minutes prior to that night, but in my naivety, idiocy and (probably) paisley shirt (not kidding), I had grand plans for the two of us. That always works out well, right?

We went to some Italian place and then some other place with a view. I was funny. And deep. And sensitive. And then funny again. I dropped her off late and we kissed at her door. It was the most staggeringly inspired date in the history of awkward goofs in their twenties with weenie cars and no style. I think I Fred Astaired it back to the ol’ Honda and belted out whatever was in the tape deck on the glorious drive home. Possibly Sublime. Or Marcy Playground. There may have been some fist pumping involved.

A couple of days passed (there are rules, of course) and my expectations never found limits. I wrote poems (which I still have) and told friends about her and thought of little else. Finally, I called her. Then I called her again. And again. And maybe one more time. And never heard from her again.

I was pulverized. I couldn’t imagine what had happened and couldn’t find the bottom of the pit it dropped me in. I wrote poems (which I still have) and moped around and drank a bunch. I was sure that the real thing – perfection, as I had painted it in my mind – had just slipped past me.

And I honestly loved every second of it.

As ridiculous and adolescent and not entirely sane as my reactions to it all seem looking back, I walked out of that week absolutely assured that I was alive. What a gift. I remember talking to a friend about how grateful I was to have experienced it. I was actually happy that I had been so completely un-call-back-able because through that I was given the opportunity to really feel. To feel elation, to feel loss, to feel it all. Granted, it happened in a smaller time frame than it might have for a well adjusted and romantically capable person, but I got to feel it all, nonetheless. Hell, I even eventually capitulated that I might have imagined the whole thing (not her, just the emotion part of it – I had at least a couple of toes still in reality) and I didn’t care because that didn’t make it any less real in terms of how I vibrated as a result of the experience.

—-

It seems like a long time ago now, and in many ways it was.

Life was different then, and much simpler. Responsibilities were few and time was infinite and I ate hot dogs. I remember being sad and frustrated a lot at that time in my life, struggling to find myself though I’m not sure I even knew that I was looking. But I also remember being very happy and laughing hard, probably much more than I do now.

The thing that sticks out to me, though, is that I remember an ability to accept all of the emotions just as they were without tethering them to the weight of my world. They weren’t met with labels or consequences – they just were, whether they were rooted in reality or some hot dog girl related fantasy.

Those feelings were all beautiful in some way then, the joy and the pain, the sunshine and the rain (keep it goin’, now). They were nothing more than evidence that I was alive and I was grateful for the reminders.

I seem to be taking things much heavier now, attaching weight to them that maybe doesn’t need to be there. And with that I seem to have lost that ability to see past the gravity of moment, whatever it may be, and just remember that being here in that moment is the gift.

Life itself is heavier now in the sense that I have kids and responsibilities are many and time is limited, but maybe all of the much deeper emotions that come along can just be a greater reminder of the wonder of it all. Maybe all of these moments now that seem so hard can lead me back to the time when I just marveled at the miracle that I am even here.

Besides, my wife is way hotter than the hot dog girl was and she calls me back every time.