After the end of my sophomore year at the prestigious Universitas Viritis Montis, I was leaning towards staying in Burlington for the summer. During the school year, my parents had no objection to paying my rent. But once summer came, my dad said, “You have a free place to stay at home. If you don’t want to stay here, you pay your rent until the school year starts.” Fair enough.
Fortunately, I had G-money. G-money was going home to his parents’ house for the summer, but the room in his apartment on North Street was paid for already. He could have demanded that I pay him rent for the summer, and either pocketed the money or given it to his parents, but instead he told me to just pay my portion of the utilities for the summer and enjoy. Done deal. I was staying.
Meanwhile, my bartending job was only one or two nights a week. I needed a full-time day job to supplement the income. Enter Karen.
Karen ran a landscaping company as well as a horse and buggy service out of her home in Underhill, a small Vermont hamlet tucked just below Mount Mansfield. (The commute to and from Burlington to Underhill is still my favorite of all time.)
One of my fraternity brothers had been working for Karen already and told me she was looking to hire someone else. He introduced us. She asked what experience I had landscaping. I told her I mowed my parents’ lawn but not much else. She asked where I was from in New Hampshire. I answered. “Flatlander, eh?” she replied in her Green Mountain accent while sizing me up skeptically. She hired me anyway.
Karen is about ten years older than me. We haven’t seen each other in years but I remember her kind of like the big sister I never had. She was a strong and rugged woman yet unquestionably feminine. She was just as comfortable changing the oil and sharpening a mower blade, as she was getting gussied up for a night out with girlfriends. While she loved her horses and her pick up trucks, she also enjoyed making pretty flower gardens. One of my favorite Karen quotes was that she needed a husband so he could do the dishes and clean the house while she ran her businesses.
Karen had a wild and crazy fun side that showed up when the time was right. She’d throw a couple of us guys in the back of her truck as we drove around her pasture. We were supposed to be searching for missing horseshoes because the blacksmith was coming to shoe the horses. While we held on for dear life, she’d hoot and holler while accelerating the truck over hills all while honking the horn as horses galloped wildly around us.
Karen once arrived at a job where we had been working already to check on the progress with the customer. Like the idiot that I’ve always been, I avoided wearing a shirt whenever possible partially to fortify the tan but also to put any young ladies on notice that the gun show was in town. Karen preferred that we keep our shirts on whenever customers were present but she didn’t care if it was really hot or if our crew was working alone.
As Karen and the customer walked around, she flashed an urgent look in my direction. I couldn’t tell if she was mad or what. I was worried I planted a flower in the wrong spot or something. Or maybe it was because the shirt was off. Once the customer was out of earshot, I asked her what was wrong. “You’re damn pubes are sticking out of the top of your shorts!” she said while shaking her head but laughing at the same time. (I don’t remember owning much for undies in college.)
At the end of a summer work day, as the setting sun turned the sky orange-pink and stretched our shadows longer and darker, Karen would duck out for a short bit. A few minutes later, she’d reappear with a beautiful six pack of Molson, Moosehead, or Labatts (it was always an “Ice” brand of beer) to reward the crew on a job well done. That was the whistle ending our shift for the day.
After two summers, Karen and I logged in many hours together. Lots of laughs. Many great times. Before we met, I’d never operated a weed wacker, an axe, a chainsaw, a hedge trimmer, a rider mower, a tractor, or a truck with a trailer attached to it. I had never planted a flower, a bush, or a tree, for that matter. She was the first to teach me how to do any of that manly stuff. Of course, there were the occasional rough patches when I broke something expensive and we negotiated how much of it she’d have to take out of my pay. But we got over it and moved on. After all, she wasn’t just my boss anymore. We were friends.
A few years after I graduated college, I called Karen to tell her I was coming up to VT for a visit. I didn’t have a car and I was taking the bus. In classic form, she told me she’d leave a truck for me downtown with the keys on the tire. I tried to object but she wouldn’t hear of it. When I got to town, of course the truck was waiting for me. I had wheels for the weekend. That’s just how she rolls.
Now that the weather has improved, I’ve begun dusting off my own landscaping tools and oiling up the rusty skills. Not much has changed except that I’m more likely to weed with my shirt on. And I can’t help but think of Karen every time I either plant something nice, or break another rake.
Hey Karen, I know you are out there somewhere in the world working hard and enjoying life. If you happen to be in the neighborhood some time, I hope you swing by the casa on Gawaine Road. Just give me the head’s up so I make sure the lawn looks good before you come. Here’s a toast to you with an “ice” beer, and hoping this finds you well.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
The Huffinpuff
Before THE WIFE and I procreated, she had the reputation of easily logging in ten to twelve hours of sleep any night given the opportunity. Obviously, that dynamic has changed dramatically since February of 2009, and even before then for that matter, considering the preceding nine months of vacillating body temperatures and various extremities kicking and scratching from within the uterine confines.
As for me, I can’t deny that the occasional weekend morning sleep-in past 10 was quite enjoyable. Two kids later, though, my internal alarm generally alerts around 5:30 a.m. whether the clock radio is set or not and whether it’s Wednesday or Sunday morning. It’s some kind of cruel curse.
Fortunately, Greta and Gus take after their mom (knocking on many surfaces of wood around me) in the sleep department and crush it with day naps and uninterrupted night sleep. Currently, Greta logs in one afternoon nap every day from 2 to 5 and then she’s down at 8 until between 7 and 7:30 the next morning. Sometimes, Gigi will even pull an 8 to 8 such as last night. That’s some serious Rip Van Winkling.
G-man is a bit less predictable at least during the day. He goes down between zero and three times per day for naps that average between 30 minutes and two hours. At night, Gus is usually out by 8:30 and up between 7 and 7:30.
Irregahdless, THE WIFE and I realize we’re fortunate that both kids are pretty good sleepers and we generally can’t complain.
Keeping that in mind, there are occasions when one or both of the peanuts wake up in the middle of the night for a myriad of reasons. Every once in a while, it’s a diaper situation. But mostly, it’s totally random.
A few weeks ago, for example, Greta was crying. Each of us responded at different intervals. Both times, Greta said a butterfly woke her up. We calmed her down and she fell back asleep. Peace however was not yet restored in the master bedroom where a middle-of-the-night, loud whisper debate occurred as to whether a bat had been flying around in Greta’s room or not. (You can probably guess who thought a bat might actually be in there and who disagreed.)
This week, G-man woke up for no apparent reason at like two in the morning on a Wednesday. I was in a wonderfully deep and sober sleep totally oblivious to his crying but fortunately THE WIFE heard Gus and rescued him from the crib. She brought him into bed with us, which might not be surprising except that it’s a rule she’ll bend maybe as often as Jillian Michaels eats a quarter pounder with cheese.
From somewhere around the 5th sub-floor of Inception, my mind jolted my body to real life as a small finger poked multiple times into my eyeball. When my lid lifted, I saw my little G-man smiling back at me mischievously. I smiled back at him exhaling heavy hot sleep breath into his face. He politely did not notice as he lifted his legs at a ninety degree angle and pulled at his own toes, as if bragging of his flexibility.
To be clear, these occasional sleep interruptions don’t bother me at all. It’s part of the parental package. I get it. You just find that extra gear in the heat of the moment and deal. It’s the same impulse that fuels a Clark Griswald to continue driving in the middle of the night while everyone else is passed out in the family truckster.
Now segue to the distinctly different dynamic of spousal bed-sharing. I’ve heard many a nightmare story of wives enduring husbands who aspire in their sleep to chop down Sequoias and Redwoods with rusty axes. These boys try to suck all the air and furniture out of the room through their nostrils and mouths followed afterwards by some bizarre exhalation of gurgling and/or whistling noises escaping back through the mouth and nose. In defense of these wives, I’ve unfortunately experienced many a drunken weekend away with these boys who sound like a symphony of log czars chainsawing their through an Amazonian forest.
In sharp contrast, I sleep more like a mime or a ninja - virtually silent (barring the occasional fart) with the exception of whatever sound the sheets make as they rise and fall with my inhalations and exhalations. To enhance sleeping conditions even more, I’ve slept with a fan, humidifier, or other pleasant white noise-maker almost every night since I was about 14 years old.
Admittedly, there are two, very infrequent exceptions to the example of my asleep-in-space-like patterns. One, if my allergies are bothering me and/or I have a cold, there may be a snore or two during the night if I’ve turned onto my back. Two, if perhaps I’ve had one or two more drinks than I should have consumed, a snoring incident may occur. Those isolated instances result in what THE WIFE eagerly calls the “disgusting, open-mouthed snore.”
About two weeks ago, I experienced the rare double whammy: I had a cold and one too many beverages before bed. I vaguely recall being elbowed in the vicinity of my thoracic spine about two or three times as I slept otherwise peacefully that night – until of course, the dreaded huffinpuff came out.
The huffinpuff is a technique created and patented by THE WIFE that she employs when she is annoyed that I’m sleeping and she’s awake. Ironically, the huffinpuff is its own loud and distracting sound of exhaling in a distinctly, complaining manner often accompanied by pillow punching and thrashing around in the bed so the vibrations jolt me out of my position. The huffinpuff has about a 99% success rate of ruining whatever peaceful sleep I may have been previously experiencing.
Naturally, THE WIFE huffinpuffed me awake during the hybrid allergy-drunk snore I exhibited last week on a Saturday morning. After I couldn’t fall back asleep, I went into the kids’ playroom, wrapped a holey afghan around me, and surfed the web until the family finally woke up.
The huffinpuff situation would be fine, except that every once in a rare while, the kids and I will still be asleep when THE WIFE wakes up. Due to her particular sensitivity to any noise at all, one may think she’d considerately exit the bed and go downstairs to be quiet. But no. Instead, she pulls the Blackberry into bed and starts Facebooking/Googling/e-mailing away. Clickety-click-click-click. Clickety-click-clack-clack. Then, quiet for like ten seconds. Then, clickety-click-click-click.
It’s an ever-so slight noise but it’s so effective in ruining for me what was a previously peaceful late morning snooze. When I hear this noise, I want to smash her phone with a baseball bat into a thousand pieces. The double standard drives me nuts.
But yet, what do I do? Absolutely nothing. I’m too cowardly to complain. Plus, I’m on my third glass of vino tonight and a second bottle could be opened before bed tonight. Perhaps I'll have my revenge after all...
As for me, I can’t deny that the occasional weekend morning sleep-in past 10 was quite enjoyable. Two kids later, though, my internal alarm generally alerts around 5:30 a.m. whether the clock radio is set or not and whether it’s Wednesday or Sunday morning. It’s some kind of cruel curse.
Fortunately, Greta and Gus take after their mom (knocking on many surfaces of wood around me) in the sleep department and crush it with day naps and uninterrupted night sleep. Currently, Greta logs in one afternoon nap every day from 2 to 5 and then she’s down at 8 until between 7 and 7:30 the next morning. Sometimes, Gigi will even pull an 8 to 8 such as last night. That’s some serious Rip Van Winkling.
G-man is a bit less predictable at least during the day. He goes down between zero and three times per day for naps that average between 30 minutes and two hours. At night, Gus is usually out by 8:30 and up between 7 and 7:30.
Irregahdless, THE WIFE and I realize we’re fortunate that both kids are pretty good sleepers and we generally can’t complain.
Keeping that in mind, there are occasions when one or both of the peanuts wake up in the middle of the night for a myriad of reasons. Every once in a while, it’s a diaper situation. But mostly, it’s totally random.
A few weeks ago, for example, Greta was crying. Each of us responded at different intervals. Both times, Greta said a butterfly woke her up. We calmed her down and she fell back asleep. Peace however was not yet restored in the master bedroom where a middle-of-the-night, loud whisper debate occurred as to whether a bat had been flying around in Greta’s room or not. (You can probably guess who thought a bat might actually be in there and who disagreed.)
This week, G-man woke up for no apparent reason at like two in the morning on a Wednesday. I was in a wonderfully deep and sober sleep totally oblivious to his crying but fortunately THE WIFE heard Gus and rescued him from the crib. She brought him into bed with us, which might not be surprising except that it’s a rule she’ll bend maybe as often as Jillian Michaels eats a quarter pounder with cheese.
From somewhere around the 5th sub-floor of Inception, my mind jolted my body to real life as a small finger poked multiple times into my eyeball. When my lid lifted, I saw my little G-man smiling back at me mischievously. I smiled back at him exhaling heavy hot sleep breath into his face. He politely did not notice as he lifted his legs at a ninety degree angle and pulled at his own toes, as if bragging of his flexibility.
To be clear, these occasional sleep interruptions don’t bother me at all. It’s part of the parental package. I get it. You just find that extra gear in the heat of the moment and deal. It’s the same impulse that fuels a Clark Griswald to continue driving in the middle of the night while everyone else is passed out in the family truckster.
Now segue to the distinctly different dynamic of spousal bed-sharing. I’ve heard many a nightmare story of wives enduring husbands who aspire in their sleep to chop down Sequoias and Redwoods with rusty axes. These boys try to suck all the air and furniture out of the room through their nostrils and mouths followed afterwards by some bizarre exhalation of gurgling and/or whistling noises escaping back through the mouth and nose. In defense of these wives, I’ve unfortunately experienced many a drunken weekend away with these boys who sound like a symphony of log czars chainsawing their through an Amazonian forest.
In sharp contrast, I sleep more like a mime or a ninja - virtually silent (barring the occasional fart) with the exception of whatever sound the sheets make as they rise and fall with my inhalations and exhalations. To enhance sleeping conditions even more, I’ve slept with a fan, humidifier, or other pleasant white noise-maker almost every night since I was about 14 years old.
Admittedly, there are two, very infrequent exceptions to the example of my asleep-in-space-like patterns. One, if my allergies are bothering me and/or I have a cold, there may be a snore or two during the night if I’ve turned onto my back. Two, if perhaps I’ve had one or two more drinks than I should have consumed, a snoring incident may occur. Those isolated instances result in what THE WIFE eagerly calls the “disgusting, open-mouthed snore.”
About two weeks ago, I experienced the rare double whammy: I had a cold and one too many beverages before bed. I vaguely recall being elbowed in the vicinity of my thoracic spine about two or three times as I slept otherwise peacefully that night – until of course, the dreaded huffinpuff came out.
The huffinpuff is a technique created and patented by THE WIFE that she employs when she is annoyed that I’m sleeping and she’s awake. Ironically, the huffinpuff is its own loud and distracting sound of exhaling in a distinctly, complaining manner often accompanied by pillow punching and thrashing around in the bed so the vibrations jolt me out of my position. The huffinpuff has about a 99% success rate of ruining whatever peaceful sleep I may have been previously experiencing.
Naturally, THE WIFE huffinpuffed me awake during the hybrid allergy-drunk snore I exhibited last week on a Saturday morning. After I couldn’t fall back asleep, I went into the kids’ playroom, wrapped a holey afghan around me, and surfed the web until the family finally woke up.
The huffinpuff situation would be fine, except that every once in a rare while, the kids and I will still be asleep when THE WIFE wakes up. Due to her particular sensitivity to any noise at all, one may think she’d considerately exit the bed and go downstairs to be quiet. But no. Instead, she pulls the Blackberry into bed and starts Facebooking/Googling/e-mailing away. Clickety-click-click-click. Clickety-click-clack-clack. Then, quiet for like ten seconds. Then, clickety-click-click-click.
It’s an ever-so slight noise but it’s so effective in ruining for me what was a previously peaceful late morning snooze. When I hear this noise, I want to smash her phone with a baseball bat into a thousand pieces. The double standard drives me nuts.
But yet, what do I do? Absolutely nothing. I’m too cowardly to complain. Plus, I’m on my third glass of vino tonight and a second bottle could be opened before bed tonight. Perhaps I'll have my revenge after all...
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Two Years Later
Two of Grandma Kirk's three leprechauns, above.
My Grandma Kirk passed away two years ago, this Wednesday. In that time period, she has assumed a celestial watch over three great-grandchildren, not just the 4-week old peanut she met shortly before her passing.
Since she's been gone, there is a lot about my grandmother that makes me reflect.
On the deeper side, I have just one major regret. The last time I saw Grandma, she was in her hospital room smiling and laughing with other family members. Even with her health ailing, I couldn't believe that she might not pull through. She always came out on top before. It dawned on me for a second that I might not see her again. But either due to denial or naivete or haste, I neglected to tell her exactly how much I loved and cared for her before I left. Even though I know she knew then and cosmically knows now, my failure to seize the moment still haunts my insides a bit today.
On the lighter side, I can still hear in my head the exact way she said my name. Even though I asked my relatives to stop using my nickname when I was too "old" for it at about 12, I never minded when she continued to call me "Denny." She just pronounced it in her way. Perhaps the thought of hearing her pronouncement of my name induces some type of a Pavlovian response that anticipates imminent spoiling, or grandmotherly love and affection.
There is so much more about which I could write, but I'd rather just post what I wrote back then because it still rings true and reading it makes me feel a bit better. Love you Grandma!
"Ireland's Gift to my Family" - March, 2009
My Grandma Kirk used to call me "pet" when I was a little boy. The memory warms my heart. If something made me cry like my brother breathing on my side of the back seat, she might say, "What is it pet?" in a sweet voice that still hinted of her Dublin roots. Obviously, I wasn't the only pet of her seven grandchildren, but I relish that I was first.
Grandma's wit often escaped me as a child such as when she'd say "You're in the will!" after I did something to amuse her. I always thought it was some kind of Irish saying that meant "Good job!"
Even as a 20 year-old, Grandma's humor flew over my head. We were on a vacation together (known as "Kirkfests") when I was off socializing with some ladies. At some point later, I rejoined our family and Grandma asked innocently "Chasing the birds, Denny?" My literal interpretation of her comment must have been apparent in my facial expression because she politely explained that she wasn't talking about the birds that fly.
Grandma and Grandpa never miss a birthday, a Christmas, or any other important event without at least a card and a gift. Never. Ask Grandma if she's ever attended any of her grandchildren's graduations and she could probably lead the band in "Pomp and Circumstance."
Recently, my aunt relayed a story to me that she and Grandma were at the beauty salon when a conversation arose about whether she had any great grandchildren. If I remember correctly, her lighthearted response was something like "Why do you think I've been holding on?"
A few hours after Greta Jane was born, I called Grandma to tell her that her new title was official: she was a great grandmother. She gleefully exclaimed that our little Gigi would have to call her "G.G." It was a special and private moment for me.
Pauline Cullen Kirk passed away peacefully yesterday in the warm company and thoughts of her loved ones. My grandmother's warmth, wit, thoughtfulness, and generosity are only a few of the indelible impressions she left on me just by being herself. I will miss her dearly. But rather than dwell on the sadness accompanying her departure, I choose instead to focus on the happiness of her presence.
Two weeks ago, we shared our last special moment when I introduced Grandma to her great granddaughter. On any given day, the situation may not have been particularly significant from the perspective of a passerby: an elderly woman holding a newborn child. But in those precious few minutes, I didn't care about anything else in the world. And for that, I am so grateful to G.G. that she waited to see us before she moved on. We love you Grandma. Rest in peace.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Two Reasons to Shop On-Line
Before I get to the typical stuff, I have a brief public service announcement. Two married friends of mine from way back in the day, live in New Hampshire where they are raising two great kids. Their oldest is a beautiful, sweet, smart little lady named Taylor.
Not long ago, she was diagnosed with a lesser known autoimmune disorder known as PANDAS. To raise awareness and help educate those who are unfamiliar with the condition, her dad asked me and his other buddies to forward information about PANDAS. And here we are.
Take a look at http://www.pandasresourcenetwork.org/about-pandas.html. The site is worth a glance by parents and non-parents alike. I never heard about PANDAS until her diagnosis.
And for those wondering about Taylor, she is fighting the fight and making her parents proud every day. Send some good vibes their way - we are proud of you, too, Taylor!
___________________________________________
Walking into the supermarket the other day, I spied three or four attractive twenty-year olds sitting at a small table outside the entrance. They were Stonehill students raising money for some kind of charity trip to Central America. They smiled as I approached. A rusty, creaky part of me formerly known as "game" suddenly cranked into gear from a chamber buried deep within my bodily archives, probably next to the boiler room. I smiled and smoothly exclaimed how I love their radio station. Was that a wink I just saw from the cute blond, my kryptonite? Did the pretty brunette just blow me a kiss? Suddenly, my inner Barry White was dusting off like Chester Copperpot's cobwebbed boat sailing out to sea. I smoothly pulled three or four mangled singles out of my pocket (it was a miracle I even had cash) and dropped them casually into the coffee can. You know, like I was wealthy and the money was worthless to me. Just as I was preparing to say "Sorry ladies, I'm married. I couldn't possibly accept your invitation for a pillow fight in our undies back at your sex dungeon," the blondie said "Thank you, sir." The impact of that last word landed like an overwhelming thud. All machinery ground to an immediate, noisy stop and I walked defeated through the automatic doors to pick up milk for the house...
__________________________________________
This morning, THE WIFE was expecting some of her GFs for a play date at the Gawaine money pit otherwise know as our house. Like a good team player, I volunteered to help with the frantic effort of making our abode look decent before anyone arrived. She was appreciative and mentioned that she actually needed to go to Target. I told her I'd handle it.
Now, let me interrupt by saying that I think I'm a humble man or at least I intend to be. So I say the following only for purposes of explaining my perspective.
I've managed to survive law school. I've passed a couple bar exams. I've tried a couple cases. I've even taught some college courses in my life. To some, that would be sufficient proof that I'm capable of at least putting my pants on correctly in the morning. But judging by the way THE WIFE explained to me what she needed from the store, you would have thought I was Australopithecus or wrote "tiger blood" on our grocery list. Or maybe I'm just over-sensitve. Anyway, here's a brief re-cap:
Her: (with total shock and/or disdain) "Why are you offering to go to Tar-jhay?"
Me: "Um, because it's two minutes away, you only need baby wipes and milk, and I will get it done much faster than you."
Her: (shrugging with almost zero confidence) "Okay."
Me: (quietly wondering if I was missing something)
Her: (suddenly worried about my anticipated product selection) "Well, make sure you get 2 percent organic. We're done with whole milk now..."
Me: (eyes rolling)
Her: "And double check the date before you buy it. Remember that time when you..."
Me: (annoyed and biting my tongue because I've got a morning free pass coming in one hour)
Her: "Hmmmm, did we need anything else? Make sure you bring your phone in case there's something I forgot."
Me: "Okay."
Her: "So when you walk in, the wipes will be on your right in aisle-"
Me: (scoffing) "Um, Shell, I think I can figure it out, okay? I'm on it."
I arrived there about ten times as fast as it would have taken Old Lady T to drive at ten and two with an inevitable stop at Dunkies. Grocery aisle was well marked with the gigantic "Grocery" sign that was visible from 5,000 feet away.
Selecting the milk wasn't an issue. But then there were like 80 varieties of products to wipe a kid's ass and I started to sweat a bit. Do I get the sensitive Huggies or the extra thick Pampers? Do I get a 3-pack, an 8-pack, or a 47-pack? Damn, I needed clarification! No way I was calling home though. How could there by so many options? Defeat was not an option.
Even with 2 customers at 8 in the morning, of course red shirted, khaki pantsed peeps were nowhere in sight. I went with the 8-pack. Pampers. Conventional. No bells and whistles.
So it's been about twelve hours since I got home. So far, so good. I stashed the wipes in our downstairs bathroom next to the changing station. Anytime I had to change the kids, I did it upstairs so as not to bring any attention to my selection. Hopefully, I can keep it going tomorrow. Duh - winning!
Not long ago, she was diagnosed with a lesser known autoimmune disorder known as PANDAS. To raise awareness and help educate those who are unfamiliar with the condition, her dad asked me and his other buddies to forward information about PANDAS. And here we are.
Take a look at http://www.pandasresourcenetwork.org/about-pandas.html. The site is worth a glance by parents and non-parents alike. I never heard about PANDAS until her diagnosis.
And for those wondering about Taylor, she is fighting the fight and making her parents proud every day. Send some good vibes their way - we are proud of you, too, Taylor!
___________________________________________
Walking into the supermarket the other day, I spied three or four attractive twenty-year olds sitting at a small table outside the entrance. They were Stonehill students raising money for some kind of charity trip to Central America. They smiled as I approached. A rusty, creaky part of me formerly known as "game" suddenly cranked into gear from a chamber buried deep within my bodily archives, probably next to the boiler room. I smiled and smoothly exclaimed how I love their radio station. Was that a wink I just saw from the cute blond, my kryptonite? Did the pretty brunette just blow me a kiss? Suddenly, my inner Barry White was dusting off like Chester Copperpot's cobwebbed boat sailing out to sea. I smoothly pulled three or four mangled singles out of my pocket (it was a miracle I even had cash) and dropped them casually into the coffee can. You know, like I was wealthy and the money was worthless to me. Just as I was preparing to say "Sorry ladies, I'm married. I couldn't possibly accept your invitation for a pillow fight in our undies back at your sex dungeon," the blondie said "Thank you, sir." The impact of that last word landed like an overwhelming thud. All machinery ground to an immediate, noisy stop and I walked defeated through the automatic doors to pick up milk for the house...
__________________________________________
This morning, THE WIFE was expecting some of her GFs for a play date at the Gawaine money pit otherwise know as our house. Like a good team player, I volunteered to help with the frantic effort of making our abode look decent before anyone arrived. She was appreciative and mentioned that she actually needed to go to Target. I told her I'd handle it.
Now, let me interrupt by saying that I think I'm a humble man or at least I intend to be. So I say the following only for purposes of explaining my perspective.
I've managed to survive law school. I've passed a couple bar exams. I've tried a couple cases. I've even taught some college courses in my life. To some, that would be sufficient proof that I'm capable of at least putting my pants on correctly in the morning. But judging by the way THE WIFE explained to me what she needed from the store, you would have thought I was Australopithecus or wrote "tiger blood" on our grocery list. Or maybe I'm just over-sensitve. Anyway, here's a brief re-cap:
Her: (with total shock and/or disdain) "Why are you offering to go to Tar-jhay?"
Me: "Um, because it's two minutes away, you only need baby wipes and milk, and I will get it done much faster than you."
Her: (shrugging with almost zero confidence) "Okay."
Me: (quietly wondering if I was missing something)
Her: (suddenly worried about my anticipated product selection) "Well, make sure you get 2 percent organic. We're done with whole milk now..."
Me: (eyes rolling)
Her: "And double check the date before you buy it. Remember that time when you..."
Me: (annoyed and biting my tongue because I've got a morning free pass coming in one hour)
Her: "Hmmmm, did we need anything else? Make sure you bring your phone in case there's something I forgot."
Me: "Okay."
Her: "So when you walk in, the wipes will be on your right in aisle-"
Me: (scoffing) "Um, Shell, I think I can figure it out, okay? I'm on it."
I arrived there about ten times as fast as it would have taken Old Lady T to drive at ten and two with an inevitable stop at Dunkies. Grocery aisle was well marked with the gigantic "Grocery" sign that was visible from 5,000 feet away.
Selecting the milk wasn't an issue. But then there were like 80 varieties of products to wipe a kid's ass and I started to sweat a bit. Do I get the sensitive Huggies or the extra thick Pampers? Do I get a 3-pack, an 8-pack, or a 47-pack? Damn, I needed clarification! No way I was calling home though. How could there by so many options? Defeat was not an option.
Even with 2 customers at 8 in the morning, of course red shirted, khaki pantsed peeps were nowhere in sight. I went with the 8-pack. Pampers. Conventional. No bells and whistles.
So it's been about twelve hours since I got home. So far, so good. I stashed the wipes in our downstairs bathroom next to the changing station. Anytime I had to change the kids, I did it upstairs so as not to bring any attention to my selection. Hopefully, I can keep it going tomorrow. Duh - winning!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Messy Messes of Emesis
I'm in a funk, there's no other way to put it. The frequency of my blogging kinda reflects my recent moods. I think the combination of my undiagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder and the kids being sick since earlier in the month have given me a case of the poopy pants that I just can't kick. February always makes me consider why the hell I live in New England because I.fucking.hate.winter. I don't like being cold. I don't like being indoors. Snow is cool for about 3 days and then I'm all set. I much rather prefer to go commando and wear flip flops every day. I want tan lines near my eyes where my sunglasses should be. I want sand in my scalp, not dandruff. I want to work on my new garden, not snow blow the driveway. I know, I know, "weah, weah, weah" but let me vent. I feel better already. Just a bit more complaining and I swear it's done.
To re-cap the infirmary chronology, Greta got sick before G-man. First and only (knock on wood) ear infection of the winter for her. I forgot how awful those are. She got over it in about a week and a half. (Just realized I forgot to administer her dose of antibiotic tonight - sweet, now I'm preoccupied.) While it sucked to witness her in pain and discomfort, it was just as bad to see her personality totally morph from mood swing to mood swing. If puberty is anything like that, I'm relocating to a tent in the backyard.
Gusto is still fighting some mystery illness. He has an awful cough, but he hasn't had a fever at all. He's had a boogie nose for like two weeks. His mood fluctuates a lot and he mostly just wants to be held. He's not himself. He's also been puking about every other day. It's weird because it doesn't seem like a flu per se, but it's not just a little cold either.
By the way for those keeping score at home, this winter, the over-under for cumulative pukes between Greta and Gus is somewhere around twelve and a half. And how many of those landed anywhere near a toilet or sink, you may ask? Absolutely none. I'm not talking about little, formula spit-ups by Gus either. I don't even flinch at those. He and I will be mid-sesh with a bottle, I'll pat his back, he'll spit up a bit, a stray burp shrapnel will plop into my eyebrow, I'll rub it in to straighten out a few of my renegade brow hairs in the vicinity, and we continue. That's nothing.
When August actually vomits, on the other hand, the projectile spray encompasses an area greater than a fire extinguisher. For most of those explosions, THE WIFE was the unfortunate bystander. Last night, though, he got me good. My guard was down. When that ominous cough started, I shoulda been sprinting immediately towards a toilet, a trash can, a boot, anything. Instead, I half paid attention and patted his back. Next thing I now, warm thick formula exploded in waves over my shoulder and on my neck in varying directions of our entryway to the house. Think Lard Ass and blueberry pie a la Stand By Me. We stood there for a moment. Me dazed, he triumphant. Eventually, I shrugged and stripped the both of us down on the spot. Post-puke, he was all smiles and giggles as we ran through the house - white diaper/undies only.
Moving on. Feeling better. A couple bright spots and discoveries lately, truth be told. First: WSHL 91.3 FM. I stumbled upon the Stonehill radio station, a few weeks ago. What a pleasant surprise. Of course, there are the occasional, inevitable, embarrassingly immature broadcasts by awkward nineteen year-old know-it-all dee-jay tandems discussing private jokes that seem hilarious only to them, but overall, the music selection is consistently original and most of all, enjoyable. I'm listening right now on my bedside clock radio, as a matter of fact.
Speaking of the clock radio, Greta's arsenal of new moves, combined with her increasing confidence to dance unabashedly in front of her circle of trust (me, WIFE, Augey, Nana, Pep, Mimi, "CC", cousin Sophie, cousin Johnny, and Auntie Steph), is one of the highlights of the day for me. Generally, we jam out as a family of 4 at least once per day: before dinner in the kitchen, after dinner in the kitchen, or before bed in mummy's and daddy's bedroom. The shoulder shimmy, the Nana a/k/a Elaine move, the jump around on tippy-toes, and the newly-added, spin around on the floor like Marty McFly channeling Hendrix - I wish you could witness just one of the moves but G-sizzle's sight of anyone outside the circle watching is enough to paralyze her for hours without speaking, unfortunately.
One other note on little Miss G - and I have no idea if this is early, late, expected, right on time or what, but it made me so proud irregahdless - earlier this week, we were getting ready for her bedtime. Typically, that means she'll run around in the hallway between her room, her brother's room, and our room in a last ditch effort to procrastinate going to bed for however long she can pull it off. During this time, she also often hides in my closet. So that night, I decided to don the headlamp and read books together under my ties, suits, and dress shirts hanging just above our heads. We closed the door. I switched the spelunking gear on. Meanwhile, Greta had snagged a bunch of flash cards that are bent and torn and beat up from weeks of circulation, to go along with Good Night Moon and Oink or whatever else I had brought in to our hideaway. Anyway, out of nowhere, she started to count the number of cars in a flash card. One, two, three - all the way up to nine! Totally unprompted. I was shocked and very impressed. I didn't know what to do so I hugged and kissed her and told her she was "Gorgeous Greta the Great Genius!" like I used to chant when she was a baby. (Sorry, but normally every number is 2, every color is pink, and every letter is L-M-N-O.) Whatever annoyance or frustration that was leftover from a dinner of "NO!" to every question or request just evaporated in an instant.
And, like Kaiser Soze, "as mysteriously as he arrived, he was gone," my poopy pants seem to have disappeared. Thank you all for being my therapist. Check's in the mail. My parkah (or park-er for you massholes) is retiring for the season. Good day and good night.
To re-cap the infirmary chronology, Greta got sick before G-man. First and only (knock on wood) ear infection of the winter for her. I forgot how awful those are. She got over it in about a week and a half. (Just realized I forgot to administer her dose of antibiotic tonight - sweet, now I'm preoccupied.) While it sucked to witness her in pain and discomfort, it was just as bad to see her personality totally morph from mood swing to mood swing. If puberty is anything like that, I'm relocating to a tent in the backyard.
Gusto is still fighting some mystery illness. He has an awful cough, but he hasn't had a fever at all. He's had a boogie nose for like two weeks. His mood fluctuates a lot and he mostly just wants to be held. He's not himself. He's also been puking about every other day. It's weird because it doesn't seem like a flu per se, but it's not just a little cold either.
By the way for those keeping score at home, this winter, the over-under for cumulative pukes between Greta and Gus is somewhere around twelve and a half. And how many of those landed anywhere near a toilet or sink, you may ask? Absolutely none. I'm not talking about little, formula spit-ups by Gus either. I don't even flinch at those. He and I will be mid-sesh with a bottle, I'll pat his back, he'll spit up a bit, a stray burp shrapnel will plop into my eyebrow, I'll rub it in to straighten out a few of my renegade brow hairs in the vicinity, and we continue. That's nothing.
When August actually vomits, on the other hand, the projectile spray encompasses an area greater than a fire extinguisher. For most of those explosions, THE WIFE was the unfortunate bystander. Last night, though, he got me good. My guard was down. When that ominous cough started, I shoulda been sprinting immediately towards a toilet, a trash can, a boot, anything. Instead, I half paid attention and patted his back. Next thing I now, warm thick formula exploded in waves over my shoulder and on my neck in varying directions of our entryway to the house. Think Lard Ass and blueberry pie a la Stand By Me. We stood there for a moment. Me dazed, he triumphant. Eventually, I shrugged and stripped the both of us down on the spot. Post-puke, he was all smiles and giggles as we ran through the house - white diaper/undies only.
Moving on. Feeling better. A couple bright spots and discoveries lately, truth be told. First: WSHL 91.3 FM. I stumbled upon the Stonehill radio station, a few weeks ago. What a pleasant surprise. Of course, there are the occasional, inevitable, embarrassingly immature broadcasts by awkward nineteen year-old know-it-all dee-jay tandems discussing private jokes that seem hilarious only to them, but overall, the music selection is consistently original and most of all, enjoyable. I'm listening right now on my bedside clock radio, as a matter of fact.
Speaking of the clock radio, Greta's arsenal of new moves, combined with her increasing confidence to dance unabashedly in front of her circle of trust (me, WIFE, Augey, Nana, Pep, Mimi, "CC", cousin Sophie, cousin Johnny, and Auntie Steph), is one of the highlights of the day for me. Generally, we jam out as a family of 4 at least once per day: before dinner in the kitchen, after dinner in the kitchen, or before bed in mummy's and daddy's bedroom. The shoulder shimmy, the Nana a/k/a Elaine move, the jump around on tippy-toes, and the newly-added, spin around on the floor like Marty McFly channeling Hendrix - I wish you could witness just one of the moves but G-sizzle's sight of anyone outside the circle watching is enough to paralyze her for hours without speaking, unfortunately.
One other note on little Miss G - and I have no idea if this is early, late, expected, right on time or what, but it made me so proud irregahdless - earlier this week, we were getting ready for her bedtime. Typically, that means she'll run around in the hallway between her room, her brother's room, and our room in a last ditch effort to procrastinate going to bed for however long she can pull it off. During this time, she also often hides in my closet. So that night, I decided to don the headlamp and read books together under my ties, suits, and dress shirts hanging just above our heads. We closed the door. I switched the spelunking gear on. Meanwhile, Greta had snagged a bunch of flash cards that are bent and torn and beat up from weeks of circulation, to go along with Good Night Moon and Oink or whatever else I had brought in to our hideaway. Anyway, out of nowhere, she started to count the number of cars in a flash card. One, two, three - all the way up to nine! Totally unprompted. I was shocked and very impressed. I didn't know what to do so I hugged and kissed her and told her she was "Gorgeous Greta the Great Genius!" like I used to chant when she was a baby. (Sorry, but normally every number is 2, every color is pink, and every letter is L-M-N-O.) Whatever annoyance or frustration that was leftover from a dinner of "NO!" to every question or request just evaporated in an instant.
And, like Kaiser Soze, "as mysteriously as he arrived, he was gone," my poopy pants seem to have disappeared. Thank you all for being my therapist. Check's in the mail. My parkah (or park-er for you massholes) is retiring for the season. Good day and good night.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Just Hibernating
It's a lame excuse but whatever creative bones exist in my body have been dulled by the seemingly unending shitty weather. The past few weeks, if I muster up the strength to write even just a personal e-mail, it's late at night after the kids and the wife are in bed. The house is finally calm and quiet. No tantrums, no television blasting noise, no domestic emergencies. I treasure those few daily minutes of tranquility so dearly that I usually toast to myself with a glass of wine or whiskey. But lately I've either bypassed those moments and went directly to bed, or my brain was too fried to write anything half interesting.
Irregahdless, here's a brief re-cap of the recent happenings in our neck of the woods other than clearing snow from the driveway and staying cooped up in the house every day. We've experienced leaks of varying amounts in basically every window of the house, which explains why one may see half-soaked and half-frozen beach towels laying around random sills on any given day. We were shrugging it off and hoping for the weather to improve but things got worse before they got better. One day, we found water dripping through our kitchen ceiling, which was sweet. I reported the damage to our insurer. The adjuster recommended a company that clears snow and ice from roofs. After I spent a couple hours dangling from a ladder with a shovel and hammer in my hands, I opted for the professionals. A few days later, as two guys chipped and shoveled icicles and pieces of shingles from our roof, they broke one of the sky lights. More sweetness. At this point, I'm just waiting for a pipe to burst or a tree to crash through the living room. No sense getting all worked up about it, so I segue to the kiddos instead.
Gigi is turning two next week and I scratch my head at the speed in which that's happened. She is going through a phase (at least I hope it's only a phase though we're going on two or three months now) when she either says absolutely nothing or cries when anyone other than me, the wife, her grandmothers, or her babysitter walk into the house. It bothers me partially because I fear she's painfully shy but mostly because the people who don't see Greta often don't get to witness her constantly expanding personality and vocabulary. For example, Greta is big into "hiding" right now, which she announces to us before doing it and usually amounts to one of four situations: 1) kneeling under the kitchen table; 2) in my closet sitting on my safe (you know, for our jewels and stacks of cash) below the shirts and ties; 3) under a desk in our kitchen; or 4) she's closed her eyes and thinks she's become invisible. It never gets old to me.
She also loves to walk around on her tippy-toes before and after her repertoire of dance moves and shoulder shimmies. When she wakes up from her nap, and I ask what she dreamed about, she says almost every time "Frosty, Santa Claus, and Mrs. Claus" a full seven weeks post-Christmas. She sings "kinkle kinkle little stah." She even gives kisses and hugs unsolicited every once in a while. She even tilts her head and looks at me with a convincing charm when she's trying to get out of eating something usually. She has me wrapped around her finger already. I could go on and bore with every detail, but I'll close out the topic with one last story. A few weeks back, the wife and Gigi had a girls' day out shopping complete with a restaurant lunch. Thinking she had Greta thoroughly impressed, the wife asked who her best friend was and she answered correctly, "Daddy!" Yes! Score: Me (1) Shell (O).
As for G-man, he's kicking ass and taking names. He's rolling around like a tumbleweed, sometimes ending up unhappily against a chair leg. His head and neck strength are improving every day. We torture him constantly with tummy time, but he takes it like a champ until he's exhausted face down on his belly screaming for someone to come get him. The nice part about Gus being able to keep his head up (aside from not using the N.G. tube!) is he can sit in a high chair where he's still trying to decide if he likes cereal yet. And G-man also had his first co-ed tub while sitting in the bath seat this week. He smiles at anyone who hugs, kisses, or cuddles with him. He babbles "da-da-da-da" every once in a while, which Greta likes to imitate. We are constantly encouraged by his advancement, which still seems to be very consistent with a typical kid. We're grateful.
Meanwhile, I'm getting a little older, fatter, and wrinkled in my large forehead every day. I know I can't beat the age thing. As for the spare tire, once the temp creeps up over 20, I'll don the running kicks and get back outside. Regarding the wrinkles, do guys really put lotion on their faces? Or should I just accept that my dome is morphing into a raisin? These are the things I think about when I'm stuck inside waiting for the snow to melt. If it snows again, and you see me on the roof with a hair dryer and blowtorch, please tell me to get down. The hibernation is almost over.
Irregahdless, here's a brief re-cap of the recent happenings in our neck of the woods other than clearing snow from the driveway and staying cooped up in the house every day. We've experienced leaks of varying amounts in basically every window of the house, which explains why one may see half-soaked and half-frozen beach towels laying around random sills on any given day. We were shrugging it off and hoping for the weather to improve but things got worse before they got better. One day, we found water dripping through our kitchen ceiling, which was sweet. I reported the damage to our insurer. The adjuster recommended a company that clears snow and ice from roofs. After I spent a couple hours dangling from a ladder with a shovel and hammer in my hands, I opted for the professionals. A few days later, as two guys chipped and shoveled icicles and pieces of shingles from our roof, they broke one of the sky lights. More sweetness. At this point, I'm just waiting for a pipe to burst or a tree to crash through the living room. No sense getting all worked up about it, so I segue to the kiddos instead.
Gigi is turning two next week and I scratch my head at the speed in which that's happened. She is going through a phase (at least I hope it's only a phase though we're going on two or three months now) when she either says absolutely nothing or cries when anyone other than me, the wife, her grandmothers, or her babysitter walk into the house. It bothers me partially because I fear she's painfully shy but mostly because the people who don't see Greta often don't get to witness her constantly expanding personality and vocabulary. For example, Greta is big into "hiding" right now, which she announces to us before doing it and usually amounts to one of four situations: 1) kneeling under the kitchen table; 2) in my closet sitting on my safe (you know, for our jewels and stacks of cash) below the shirts and ties; 3) under a desk in our kitchen; or 4) she's closed her eyes and thinks she's become invisible. It never gets old to me.
She also loves to walk around on her tippy-toes before and after her repertoire of dance moves and shoulder shimmies. When she wakes up from her nap, and I ask what she dreamed about, she says almost every time "Frosty, Santa Claus, and Mrs. Claus" a full seven weeks post-Christmas. She sings "kinkle kinkle little stah." She even gives kisses and hugs unsolicited every once in a while. She even tilts her head and looks at me with a convincing charm when she's trying to get out of eating something usually. She has me wrapped around her finger already. I could go on and bore with every detail, but I'll close out the topic with one last story. A few weeks back, the wife and Gigi had a girls' day out shopping complete with a restaurant lunch. Thinking she had Greta thoroughly impressed, the wife asked who her best friend was and she answered correctly, "Daddy!" Yes! Score: Me (1) Shell (O).
As for G-man, he's kicking ass and taking names. He's rolling around like a tumbleweed, sometimes ending up unhappily against a chair leg. His head and neck strength are improving every day. We torture him constantly with tummy time, but he takes it like a champ until he's exhausted face down on his belly screaming for someone to come get him. The nice part about Gus being able to keep his head up (aside from not using the N.G. tube!) is he can sit in a high chair where he's still trying to decide if he likes cereal yet. And G-man also had his first co-ed tub while sitting in the bath seat this week. He smiles at anyone who hugs, kisses, or cuddles with him. He babbles "da-da-da-da" every once in a while, which Greta likes to imitate. We are constantly encouraged by his advancement, which still seems to be very consistent with a typical kid. We're grateful.
Meanwhile, I'm getting a little older, fatter, and wrinkled in my large forehead every day. I know I can't beat the age thing. As for the spare tire, once the temp creeps up over 20, I'll don the running kicks and get back outside. Regarding the wrinkles, do guys really put lotion on their faces? Or should I just accept that my dome is morphing into a raisin? These are the things I think about when I'm stuck inside waiting for the snow to melt. If it snows again, and you see me on the roof with a hair dryer and blowtorch, please tell me to get down. The hibernation is almost over.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Playing the Field
Bare chested and dripping wet, he stood by the pool. "Come here often?" he asked quite un-smoothly.
She was crouching with her back to him. Her skin glistened beneath the sunlight passing through the natatorium's opaque ceiling. So happily focused on patting her little girl dry with a towel, she did not hear him advance. Once realizing the presence of someone behind her, she turned around quickly and asked "Oh I'm sorry, did you say something?"
He hesitated. "Uh. Nothing. Just, ah, see you next week," he said nervously while hurrying away holding his own daughter's hand. And ... SCENE.
No, that was not an opening from Danielle Steele's most recent paperback featuring a shirtless Fabio lookalike on the cover. It was a re-enactment of me with Greta at the pool trying to pick up a married mom last month. (The audience laughs.)
Seriously, a couple weeks ago, I tried to ask out one of the moms at Greta's swim classes. But I couldn't muster up the guts. (Nervous laughter now.) What can I say, I'm rusty. I haven't blatantly hit on a girl since I tried unsuccessfully to french THE WIFE in the Seapoint parking lot back on St. Patty's Day, 2005. (The audience fidgets. "Is he drunk?" someone whispers.)
What? Oh no, it's not what you think. I'm not Tiger Woodsing pre-Thanksgiving/Escalade/golf club-through-the-window. Not at all. THE WIFE put me up to it. I swear. (The audience begins to buzz with gossip. "Do they have pink flamingos on their front lawn?" "Oh my god, that's why they drink Menage A Trois!" The crowd begins to riot.)
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Please, folks, settle down. And... SCENE.
Okay, so the real story is Greta has a friend that she met at a playground in town named Ashley. I met Ashley's grandmother, who watches Ashley on Mondays when I do my Mr. Mom thing. Anyway, whenever Greta went to the playground, she always asked if we'd see Ashley and oftentimes, she happened to be there. Fast forward months later to G's swim classes at the Y and sure enough, Ashley's parents have enrolled her in the same class. THE WIFE and I rotated every week who took Greta to class. I happened to go to the last class of the session. Before I left, THE WIFE told me how she really liked Ashley's mom and wanted to see about hanging out sometime since we haven't really made any friends since we moved to Easton so I should ask her about getting together some time. (That's the truth, I swear.)
When the moment came at the end of class to ask for Ashley's mom's number, I just couldn't go through with it because it felt so, well, weird. I was suddenly transported to junior high again, with my jeans pegged, trying to muster up the courage to ask a girl if she wanted to go out with me for the first time. Except this time, I was 35 and 80 pounds heavier, asking another married couple with a daughter to go out on a play date with me, my wife, and our kids. Enter, the married with kids, living in a new place dating game.
Shell and I are fortunate to have different, great circles of friends. Of course, the tightness of each circle varies but we've both got our own besties from home, from the schools we've attended, from our jobs past and present, etc. - basically wherever we've left a print somewhere. In most all of those instances, we were not yet parents. Those bonds and friendships naturally began as we became drawn to those with similar interests. Granted, some of our friends experienced similar paths as us at their own pace, but none paralleling the exact dynamic we currently have in terms of having kids period, the same number of kids, or the same ages of kids.
But now, having relocated to a totally new community, we've started our most recent chapter of our life together, which obviously includes the kiddos. The four of us are, in the truest sense, the new kids on the block. So by extension, the courting process of meeting new friends has officially begun. And I can't help but notice how much the experience resembles - well - dating. Hear me out.
When one dates (and I distinguish from simply being out on the prowl barhopping for you virile, adventurous singeltons), one generally seeks a mate with similar interests, similar values, similar roots, similar goals, etc., right? The match one seeks when single all transcends to the match a couple seeks when married with kids. You want someone who seems like you. You also don't want someone who pursues you too hard and by the same token, the other side won't be into you if you're too interested. It's almost a game that borders on arrogance because one obviously has certain "standards" for lack of a better term, but at the same time how the hell do you ever meet anyone if you think your shit don't stink?
Am I really this serious or selective about just making new friends? Of course not. To me, it's never too late to embrace a connection I've made with someone new. That's how everything started with my oldest friends in the first place. We've just had the benefit of meeting earlier in our lives and sharing the crazy experiences that help to mold our bond together.
The reality is that dating - fortunately - is separate and distinct from the genesis of a friendship. In the search for your life partner, spouse, whatever you want to call him/her, everyone carries around the scars and/or baggage of failed relationships past. Maybe that ex cheated on you, broke up with you in a text message on your birthday, or you could never get past that Seinfeld-ian tragic flaw that all your friends laughed about after you broke up. There's a million reasons why old relationships never worked out. So you left the ex behind, the ex left you behind, or you both went separate ways.
Luckily, when the opportunity arises to begin a new friendship, you don't have to ever give up your old pals. You're just looking to add to your posse. And if your entourage remains as is, so be it because it's probably a pretty damn good one.
So I guess that's where we Ts find ourselves currently. (Thinking.) Hmmm, maybe there's a social networking web site lurking here. I think I'll friend request Mark Zuckerberg and see what he thinks.
Well, until we figure out the match.com for married peeps with kids, THE WIFE heads back to the Y tomorrow for a new round of classes. Perhaps she'll have more balls than me and ask out Ashley's dad...
She was crouching with her back to him. Her skin glistened beneath the sunlight passing through the natatorium's opaque ceiling. So happily focused on patting her little girl dry with a towel, she did not hear him advance. Once realizing the presence of someone behind her, she turned around quickly and asked "Oh I'm sorry, did you say something?"
He hesitated. "Uh. Nothing. Just, ah, see you next week," he said nervously while hurrying away holding his own daughter's hand. And ... SCENE.
No, that was not an opening from Danielle Steele's most recent paperback featuring a shirtless Fabio lookalike on the cover. It was a re-enactment of me with Greta at the pool trying to pick up a married mom last month. (The audience laughs.)
Seriously, a couple weeks ago, I tried to ask out one of the moms at Greta's swim classes. But I couldn't muster up the guts. (Nervous laughter now.) What can I say, I'm rusty. I haven't blatantly hit on a girl since I tried unsuccessfully to french THE WIFE in the Seapoint parking lot back on St. Patty's Day, 2005. (The audience fidgets. "Is he drunk?" someone whispers.)
What? Oh no, it's not what you think. I'm not Tiger Woodsing pre-Thanksgiving/Escalade/golf club-through-the-window. Not at all. THE WIFE put me up to it. I swear. (The audience begins to buzz with gossip. "Do they have pink flamingos on their front lawn?" "Oh my god, that's why they drink Menage A Trois!" The crowd begins to riot.)
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Please, folks, settle down. And... SCENE.
Okay, so the real story is Greta has a friend that she met at a playground in town named Ashley. I met Ashley's grandmother, who watches Ashley on Mondays when I do my Mr. Mom thing. Anyway, whenever Greta went to the playground, she always asked if we'd see Ashley and oftentimes, she happened to be there. Fast forward months later to G's swim classes at the Y and sure enough, Ashley's parents have enrolled her in the same class. THE WIFE and I rotated every week who took Greta to class. I happened to go to the last class of the session. Before I left, THE WIFE told me how she really liked Ashley's mom and wanted to see about hanging out sometime since we haven't really made any friends since we moved to Easton so I should ask her about getting together some time. (That's the truth, I swear.)
When the moment came at the end of class to ask for Ashley's mom's number, I just couldn't go through with it because it felt so, well, weird. I was suddenly transported to junior high again, with my jeans pegged, trying to muster up the courage to ask a girl if she wanted to go out with me for the first time. Except this time, I was 35 and 80 pounds heavier, asking another married couple with a daughter to go out on a play date with me, my wife, and our kids. Enter, the married with kids, living in a new place dating game.
Shell and I are fortunate to have different, great circles of friends. Of course, the tightness of each circle varies but we've both got our own besties from home, from the schools we've attended, from our jobs past and present, etc. - basically wherever we've left a print somewhere. In most all of those instances, we were not yet parents. Those bonds and friendships naturally began as we became drawn to those with similar interests. Granted, some of our friends experienced similar paths as us at their own pace, but none paralleling the exact dynamic we currently have in terms of having kids period, the same number of kids, or the same ages of kids.
But now, having relocated to a totally new community, we've started our most recent chapter of our life together, which obviously includes the kiddos. The four of us are, in the truest sense, the new kids on the block. So by extension, the courting process of meeting new friends has officially begun. And I can't help but notice how much the experience resembles - well - dating. Hear me out.
When one dates (and I distinguish from simply being out on the prowl barhopping for you virile, adventurous singeltons), one generally seeks a mate with similar interests, similar values, similar roots, similar goals, etc., right? The match one seeks when single all transcends to the match a couple seeks when married with kids. You want someone who seems like you. You also don't want someone who pursues you too hard and by the same token, the other side won't be into you if you're too interested. It's almost a game that borders on arrogance because one obviously has certain "standards" for lack of a better term, but at the same time how the hell do you ever meet anyone if you think your shit don't stink?
Am I really this serious or selective about just making new friends? Of course not. To me, it's never too late to embrace a connection I've made with someone new. That's how everything started with my oldest friends in the first place. We've just had the benefit of meeting earlier in our lives and sharing the crazy experiences that help to mold our bond together.
The reality is that dating - fortunately - is separate and distinct from the genesis of a friendship. In the search for your life partner, spouse, whatever you want to call him/her, everyone carries around the scars and/or baggage of failed relationships past. Maybe that ex cheated on you, broke up with you in a text message on your birthday, or you could never get past that Seinfeld-ian tragic flaw that all your friends laughed about after you broke up. There's a million reasons why old relationships never worked out. So you left the ex behind, the ex left you behind, or you both went separate ways.
Luckily, when the opportunity arises to begin a new friendship, you don't have to ever give up your old pals. You're just looking to add to your posse. And if your entourage remains as is, so be it because it's probably a pretty damn good one.
So I guess that's where we Ts find ourselves currently. (Thinking.) Hmmm, maybe there's a social networking web site lurking here. I think I'll friend request Mark Zuckerberg and see what he thinks.
Well, until we figure out the match.com for married peeps with kids, THE WIFE heads back to the Y tomorrow for a new round of classes. Perhaps she'll have more balls than me and ask out Ashley's dad...
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