Gifts Are For Getting, I Mean Giving

Two days to Christmas. Still trying to get into the spirit. Tried to kick start the season's magic this morning by surprising a few of the people I encounter during my everyday work routine.

First stop, the gym. I’ve been going to Gold’s in Southie for about six years. Up until Dave began working at the front desk, there’ve been a handful of stooges who never look up or acknowledge your arrival/departure. But my boy Dave is always friendly and chats if you engage him. Poor guy opens the gym at like 4 a.m. every morning. Hardworking kid.

Today, I was stoked to give a card to Dave with a bunch of scratch tickets. I walked in and sure enough, one of the original stooges was covering for him – of course with her head down reading her phone not saying a word to me as I passed by. O for one.

Next stop, the garage across the street from my office. There are two wonderful attributes about the garage where I park. Number one, it’s cheap. Twenty dollars a day. That’s pretty damn good for downtown. Tough to beat. Number two, this place looks like it could fall apart any minute. Customers aren’t even allowed in the basement anymore. It would be an absolutely perfect scene for a zombie apocalypse movie. The structure is so decrepit and creepy. Water dripping randomly from ceilings. The occasional rat scurrying from one dark corner to another. My spidey sense is always tingling if I’ve worked late at night during the dreaded walk to the car.

To access a parking spot in the morning at this place is a total shit show. There are about six men who simultaneously coordinate where to move your car. Usually, I park on the third floor roof. Generally, the handlers bark orders to you in heavily accented-English until you move the car to a spot where a different guy yells at you about why you’re parking there. When you tell him that so-and-so behind him told you to park there, an argument in a foreign language inevitably ensues. It’s awesome. Seriously, though, the guys work through all of the crappy rain in the spring and fall, freezing temps in the winter, and stifling heat in the summer. Their only refuge is a small shack with a desk, two lawn chairs, and a space heater or fan depending on the season.

So for the garage guys this morning, I bought six hot chocolates from Dunkins. When I walked the trays of cocoa over to the elder statesman of the crew, he shrugged me off because he was upset one of his underlings did not instruct another motorist to pull his car further up, thus leaving too much room between parking spots in one of the aisles. I continued on to one of the friendlier dudes and offered a cup. He looked at me slightly befuddled, not quite understanding what I was doing. I placed the trays on the desk in their shed and walked away. Merry Christmas. O for two.

Final stop, Boloco. I order a large “Truck Stop” burrito on a wheat tortilla with eggs, cheese, salsa, potato, and bacon with a large coffee every morning I work in Boston. And I mean every morning. I’m addicted.

Usually, I am greeted by the store manager Beatriz or my man Laz. Both of them wrap a mean Truck Stop. We’re at the point now that they start making my order before I’ve even placed it. We chat small talk as I pour my coffee and they work their magic on the goods. The crew is super nice. I look forward to the familiarity of our routine as we begin our work days.

The night before, I stuffed ten scratch tickets into a Christmas card. I wrote a note to Beatriz and Laz that they have full discretion to distribute the tickets as they see fit. Unfortunately this morning, Boloco was a little busier than normal because my stop to get the hot chocolates set the whole schedule back. Laz was not in sight but luckily Beatriz was present, and she seemed pleasantly surprised. I didn’t swing and miss this time, but it was more like a foul tip to stay alive. Alas, the Christmas spirit was still sputtering inside me. At least I have Christmas morning with the kids to look forward to, which is a good segue.

Greta watches this cartoon show called Olivia. (Damn, the theme song is stuck in my head now.) Olivia is a little girl pig who’s got a great imagination. Every episode, she takes a quick pause in the action to declare one of her rules in life. I’ll take her cue from there.

Rule of life number 700. Here’s my philosophy on gifts. Keep in mind, I freely admit I am a high maintenance pain in the ass when it comes to receiving a gift. But I try to apply these same rules when giving a gift.

A. As Paul McCartney so eloquently put it (at least I think it was Sir Paul), the best things in life are free. Homemade presents are almost always the best. They’re thoughtful. They’re creative. They’re cute. And, as is self-evident, they don’t cost anything. Translation: they don’t impact the Teravainen Family budget. While I may not have appreciated the “free” kind of gifts when I was single and child-less, I do appreciate a cost-free gift when it looks like THE WIFE has purchased enough toys to entertain a small village’s entire child population.

A sub-paragraph to this section also includes the classic “This coupon is redeemable for a foot massage” et cetera that every lame husband or boyfriend will cut from construction paper and color with markers when they were light on funds and/or made it to the store just after it closed the day or hour before said gift-giving event was to occur. (Seriously, who doesn't like a foot massage?)

One other codicil in this arena is if the gift giver possesses a special trait for which they’ve received special training or education. For example, the guy who knows how computers work. If and when I ever win the big one, I will definitely hire a full-time help desk employee who is immediately accessible and does not begin our conversation by asking if I restarted the computer. At this time, I have an iTunes account on three different machines with overlapping but not universal databases of downloaded music. I stand a better chance of explaining the theory of relativity to a CVS cashier than I do of somehow consolidating all of the songs onto my current laptop. I digress.

B. “Things” are a dangerous hit or miss. I pretty much possess any tangible item that I either want or need. In other words, if there’s something I want, I go and buy it for myself. (Again, see the disclaimer above as to my pickiness.) By extension, I loathe trips to any stores that don’t sell either liquor or books. Consequently, a trip to a location with parking for more than 1,000 vehicles, long lines at a customer service desk for exchanges and returns, or decorations for a holiday taking place three months from now, is generally not what strikes me as a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

A sub-paragraph to this section would be how I detest clutter. If I was ever a contestant on Fear Factor, I could handle lying in a coffin full of snakes or centipedes (though it would be extremely frightening.) I could even endure standing at a very tall height, which gives me vertigo or initiates what I imagine the beginning of cardiac arrest feels like. So if you wanted to give me the bends and incite a severe anxiety attack, lock me in a hoarder’s bedroom. When television shows depict homes for sale and there’s hardly anything in the place except furniture and a token decoration, that’s my nirvana. Thus, fewer things means less clutter.

When applying this rule to children, you get a mixed bag. Greta will probably build a mound of all the toys she gets from Santa this Sunday, and roll around in them like she's just won the lottery. But Gus will probably enjoy rolling over bubble wrap with an equal amount of glee. Rule of thumb: go with your gut.

C. Edible/drinkable gifts are definitely appropriate. Presents that may be consumed can also double in the (A) category to the extent that homemade perishables can be considered free, if the ingredients are already lying around in one’s pantry or crispah (that’s Masshole for fridge.) Plus, a cake or cookies only take up space temporarily. Hence, no clutter - phew.

Bottom line, food and drink are functional. Alcohol and desserts are fun. They’re even better when others can share in the experience of enjoying the gift together. And if you can somehow combine booze with sweets, an orgy may ensue.

D. Here’s my blatant contradiction to section A above, which also carries the hit or miss risk of option B. The adventure-slash-experience gift. Vacations, tickets to a concert or sporting event, and insert your creative excursion, are cool and exciting. However, these types of cadeaux generally lean heavier on the checking account.

A further obstacle with type D gifts for married men and/or fathers, however, is the amount of coordination required to lock the event on the books. Military strategists have easier times planning an assault on well-defended targets than some males do when attempting to schedule events that do not overlap with their significant other’s rigid calendar of social appearances and family obligations. Let's face it, guys like to propose a "let's meet for beers tonight" by e-mailing each other at work around 3 p.m. and taunting those who might have problems getting clearance. Ladies prefer a six-month lead time, though one year's notice is better because it might be book club night and they're supposed to bring an appetizer on the night you want to get drunk with your stupid buddies you "see all the time."

E. When in doubt, cash is king. Yes, this option may be impersonal. Money isn’t fun to wrap, per se, but honestly how cool would it be to open eight boxes containing single bills in different denominations? Wait a second, I think I have a game show idea.

Cold hard cash also clearly undercuts all of the philosophical considerations that make the “free” gifts warm and fuzzy as explained convincingly in the aforementioned Section A. But everyone has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and rounds of mudslides to buy when you're lucky enough to meet with the guys at The Backroom, right?

By extension, gift cards are not a bad idea.

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While my tongue-in-cheek diatribe above may suggest otherwise, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. After a roller coaster couple of years, my family of four and a half has truly gained an appreciation for the important things in life like good health and happiness. My sincere love and affection to all of our immediate and extended family, which especially include those of you we are fortunate to consider as friends. I hope THE WIFE and I are able to give back to all of you in 2012 and beyond as much as you have given to us during our years together. Cheers.

An Ode to the Ole Sweet Tooth

One last reminder. Special guest DJ appearance this Saturday, November 19, 2011 at 10 p.m. Tune your dials to 91.3 if you're in Easton. Otherwise, fire up your Internets and type in http://tiny.cc/wshl. THE WIFE will be broadcasting live for your entertainment.

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Eighteen days status post-Halloween. A few notes for the old file.

Greta was a strawberry. She participated this year more enthusiastically than her two whole prior halloweens. In the weeks leading up to the big night, she said over and over “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.” Once we actually made it to the front doors of our neighbors, however, Greta stood paralyzed and unable to say anything. The neighbor would say or try any of the old tricks, but my girl wasn’t budging. She would just hold out her bag without ever breaking eye contact, staring the treat giver into submission. Once she felt the thud of a candy, Greta was outta there. Well then.

Gus was a green dragon. He was a trooper, tagging along for the ride in a wagon. He was actually pretty tolerant of wearing the costume. Overall, his participation was very similar to Greta’s the year before: but for Mom and Dad dressing him up in a silly suit, he would have been happier just lounging at home. Maybe next year, Greta will actually say “Trick or treat” and Gus will be walking up to the doors next to her, while their baby sister squirms in a hand-me-down costume.

Before I go on, here is where I mention how freaking lame the people are who were home and just kept their lights off. Other than religious objections which I’m not talking about, who would be so lame as to not at least fill a bowl with the cheapest candy you can find on sale at CVS or Shaw’s and leave it outside on a chair? I was shocked by the number of non-participants in our neighborhood. And I’m pretty sure they’re not Jehovah’s witnesses. Anyway, whatever the Halloween equivalent of Bah Humbug is, that’s what I say to you non-Halloweenies. So there.

By now, THE WIFE and I have unsurprisingly done a number on the kids’ candy loot stash. Greta and Gus pulled in a good haul this year. They scored us lots of the old favorites. Some of our neighbors (the high rollers – definitely not us) even went so far as to give out full-size candy bars. No way we were feeding our kids that crap. Only we get to eat that crap.

Generally, we raid the bags after they go down for bed. THE WIFE and I definitely don’t go digging within ear shot of Greta. If she hears a candy wrapper crinkling, Greta will hunt you down and shame you into returning the candy to her stash. As we’ve been sniffing through what remains, it dawned on me to tally a list of my first round draft picks.

1.) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. C’mon, you didn’t expect anything else here did you? Seriously, though, the bar for me doesn’t go any higher than a Reese's. And, I swear the Halloween edition of the R.P.B.C.’s has something in them that make the cups better than at any other time of year. I know Hershey’s would never reveal if they mix up a different batch for the October editions, but they are my kryptonite. Best.

2.) Kit Kats. I don’t think KKs get as much street cred as they deserve on the Halloween scene. Very underrated. Chocolate over a crispy wafer. Pretty damn good.

3.) Watchamacallits. Truth be told, Greta and Gus didn’t score any this year. And I’m not sure they are even sold in Halloween snack size batches. But I love these candies.

4.) Almond Joy. Another candy that flies under the radar if you ask me. Damn good.

5.) Snickers. If I’m at a candy vending machine and I’m hungry, I’m buying one of these. I imagine these rank higher on the list for others because they always seem to go faster than anything else. As far as getting a good bang for the buck, Snickers are a solid choice in my opinion.

And that’s where the list ends. Milky Way, Rolos, 3 Musketeers, 100 Grand, and Hershey’s chocolate bars are all decent, but they don’t crack my top 5. Agree or disagree? Would love to hear you weigh in.

Now I'm off to the dentist. And the gym. After just one more Reese's.

On the Radio, Oh Oh

18 years ago, I was 18 years old. Back then, I was absolutely confident that I knew everything I ever needed to know. By the time 2011 arrived, the only thing that became certain to me was that I barely know anything.

For the time being, though, let’s suspend reality and travel together back to 1993. THE WIFE and I had begun our freshman years of college in Vermont, she at Castleton State and me at UVM. Heavy woolen sweaters, Birkenstocks, and flannel shirts were de rigueur. Kurt Cobain, Chris Farley, Jerry Garcia, and Tupac were still alive. Pearl Jam was still making music videos and absolutely owning the “Grunge Era.” The only reality tv in existence was Season 2 of The Real World. O.J. Simpson was still a free man filming Naked Gun movies and Miller Lite ads. I did not own a computer, mobile phone, Facebook account, blog, or an e-mail address. I did own a bulky camera with film that I wound after snapping a photograph that only became visible usually weeks or months later after dropping it off at the pharmacy for developing.

At school, I was officially “undecided” in my major, with a lean towards pre-med. Sports medicine, I thought. Or maybe gynecology. [Shrug and an eyebrow raise.]

THE WIFE, on the other hand, declared her major to be communications. She was going to be Veronica Corningstone, your trusted local female news anchor.

I made it through one semester of chemistry and two semesters of biology, before realizing that classes with labs really sucked and bullshitting measurements was really tough to pull off. Pre-law, it would be then.

THE WIFE, meanwhile, kept her original focus alive. Somewhere along the way, she got a gig as a part-time radio disc jockey at the local college radio station WIUV, 91.3. She divided her air time between The Lemonheads, Arrested Development, The Samples, Big Head Todd, Dave Matthews Band, and Lenny Kravitz, while discussing that night’s parties at the Rugby house or The Pickle Barrel. (I admit I just googled bars in the Killington VT area on that last one – I don’t know if it even existed back then. THE WIFE is asleep already and I don't think that detail is wake-up worthy.)

After graduation, we both left the Green Mountain State and headed to the Bay State. While my med school intentions were long gone, THE WIFE’s potential to be a media member was still alive. She took a job at a Boston radio station selling air time.

Eventually, the 90’s became the 00’s. Real World season 47 made way for Jersey Shore. E-mail, Internet, cameras, and social media of any kind all fit on one single, wireless telephone that fits in one’s pocket. Untalented people obtained their own television shows on E!, Bravo, or MTV by 1) making sex videos that go viral on the Internet 2) being a rich, dumb, and bitchy wife, or 3) pulling up your shirt to show abs a lot.

While all of this was happening, THE WIFE’S career had steered totally into sales and Internet advertising by the late 2000's. Her D.J. days were long behind her.

Then one day in 2009, Greta and I were about to pick up THE WIFE from work. I found a Memorex cassette while searching for car keys. We got in the car and pressed play.

I heard a voice. It was familiar yet it sounded different. A young woman and her girlfriend Mary were discussing how they were intending to spend Spring Break. Then, a song by Phish or The Pixies played. Hey, I knew those girls!

Greta and I picked up THE WIFE. I said Gigi really missed her, so she should sit in the back seat. With the ambush succeeding, I pressed play on the tape again. Shocked, THE WIFE laughed and asked me indignantly where I found this recording. We reminisced about the good old days. My brain took notes.

Fast forward to today. THE WIFE is knocked up with our third bun in the oven. We live in the burbs. We drive a fucking minivan. Our tunes in the car consist mainly of Yo Gabba Gabba, Bingo the Dog, or Are You Sleeping? 1993 is 18 years ago. We are suddenly Old Man and Old Lady Dinkins, cursing at kids that light fireworks in our neighborhood on the Fourth of July because it might wake up our babies! Obv, we're cool.

Fortunately, we stumbled upon a time machine where THE WIFE can be 18 years old again. Thanks to the power of Facebook, e-mails, and a very flexible music director in his sophomore year of college, THE WIFE will return to the air waves once again on November 19, 2011 from 10 p.m. to midnight. DJ Baby Mama will be broadcasting live that night and time from Stonehill College’s campus in Easton. For those within the 5-mile radius of the radio transmission, the frequency is (ironically) 91.3 FM. For those further away, THE WIFE will be streaming on-line at http://tiny.cc/wshl.

This is most likely a one-time event, so be sure to tune in. Orientation and a tour of the studio were last week. THE WIFE is ready to get it going. In the interim, feel free to e-mail her with some suggestions as to music. She hasn't heard about this new fangled thing called an iPod yet. Hopefully, you'll be along for the ride next week to see how it goes.

Greta and Gus, please burn the broadcast onto a CD so you can play it 18 years from now and we can talk about the good old days again!

Waving The White Flag

Well, it’s official. I’m a eunuch. The minivan has assumed its position as the T family truckster, at least for the next three years of our lease. I’m doing my best to avoid being seen near it - let alone in it - or God forbid, driving it.

In a minivan, I just feel emasculated. I’m a soccer mom. I’m swerving in my lane because I’m oblivious to any traffic around me. I’m trying frantically to play a DVD as the kids scream for Nemo as I schedule a parent-teacher conference on my cell phone. I’m yelling at my kids in the back seat to “stop touching your brother’s seat!”

Don’t get me wrong. I totally understand the functionality and the convenience of a minivan a/k/a the F.U.V. I will not debate anyone on those points. And as far as cost goes, it’s the most sensible decision from our budget based on the monthly payment and gas mileage. I get it. The F.U.V. totally makes sense from a graphs and charts perspective.

Just please don’t be offended when I decline the cup of pink Kool Aid (now) fellow F.U.V.ers who try to push the envelope by suggesting how awesome it is to have a Caravan/Town&Country/Siena/Odyssey/Astro, etc. Let’s just call it what this automotive transition is for me – another surrender to un-cool.

As for my car resume, it’s generally unimpressive to those with fancy pants tastes. But to the “cool” car enthusiasts, the history is rich. In order, they’ve gone like this: Toyota Corolla FX hatchback (used); Chevy Malibu Classic (used); Chevy Corsica (used); Dodge Aries K (very used and short-lived unfortunately); Ford Escort (used); Mercury Mariner (lease); Honda Civic (lease); Ford Ranger (used); and Chevy Malibu (work lease). Most of them had affectionate nicknames: Uncle Buck, the Bubonic, or Bu (original Malibu); T-minus Escrat (Escort); the Grand Marnier or Marinara (Mercury); and Ricky (the Ranger.) All of them hosted great memories and adventures.

Granted, most of my rides were not exactly hot rods that a bikini-clad woman might lay on awkwardly while a hip-hop star rapped about the rims during a music video. Nor were my wheels ever the kind of car that one would cruise in during high school to attract attention on Elm Street in Manchester on a Saturday night, by whistling at girls with (very) high bangs well supported by product.

But I’ve always loved my cars. The older, rustier, more dented, or otherwise shanked they were, the more I enjoyed being in them. I especially loved pulling up in one of my beaters at a stop light next to a car occupied by an attractive woman or women. I would flash the gap-toothed grin that said “Who is this mystery guy in a shitty car that’s still smiling like he’s thinking he’s all that?” As one might expect, the usual reaction was the other car driving quickly away from me as soon as the light turned green but you get the picture. It was all about my perspective.

Okay, after writing the last paragraph, it’s dawned on me that perhaps my level of coolness has never really attained Arthur Fonzarelli-like status. Or at least, it’s not the kind of car that dictates whether one qualifies for cool points or not. Sounds to me like it’s mostly about the driver’s state of mind. [Sigh.]

So where’s that cup of Kool-Aid anyway? It’s time to go for a ride.

Status Update

I haven’t captured much about the kids lately so it felt overdue to reduce a few recent trends to writing for the history books. I feel like [insert cliche] we’ve blinked and they suddenly aged like the curious case of Benjamin Button except just the opposite.

At two years and eight months old, Greta is fast forwarding into a mini-person before my very eyes. Her personality and disposition just blow me away.

I need to videotape our conversations more. When she wakes up in the morning, we always talk about her dreams. Usually, it’s a combination of butterflies, Santa Claus, Tinkerbell, lady bugs, ice cream cones, and how she doesn't need her diaper changed. I’d tell her my dreams about suddenly realizing I forgot to put clothes on before a court appearance, but it would only confuse the conversation so I just ask her to tell me more.

I love that when I come home from work, and it’s been about 22 hours since I last saw her when she went to bed the night before, but Greta just picks up conversation with me as if we were talking two minutes ago.

GRETA: Daddy, can I tell you a question?

ME: Of course. What is it?

GRETA: I saw the hummingbird today.

ME: No way. What color was he (already knowing the answer)?

GRETA: Purple. Daddy, do you know what would be really cool?

ME: What?

GRETA: If we go outside and paint. Or go on the swings.

She kills me. A few more tendencies that need to be memorialized, though I’m sure I’m forgetting something.

Greta finally includes the number ten when she counts now. Before, she jumped immediately from nine to eleven. And if we’re ever up to the teens with her numbers, “eleventeen” always makes a candid appearance somewhere after twelve.

Oh, and Greta has named her baby sister in mommy’s belly “Boya.” No clue where that came from, but Baby Tiebreaker is only Baby Boya during conversation in the house. Done.

What else? Her favorite instrument is the "titar." Augey and Daddy have a "peenus," while Greta and Mommy have a "gina." And her grandfather "Ukki" is in every plane that flies over our heads.

At the same time, however, Greta is vigorously resisting using the potty. We have tried every trick in the book. A poop and pee chart in the bathroom with a crayon and stickers taped next to it for the next time she goes. A bag full of tantalizing prizes within eye shot of the changing station. Promises to bring her to the store if she just sits on the bowl. Big girl panties with cool characters. But no, she doesn’t budge. Her response is “I’ll try it next week.”

As for my G-man, he has gone from crawling backwards into crawling forward in a frog-hop/breakdance worm. You gotta keep an eye on him, or he’ll suddenly be heading out a door towards whatever attractive nuisance is in sight.

Gus has had a few other milestones lately of his own. Holding and drinking from a sippy cup. Blowing kisses when you only ask him, instead of doing it in front of him first. Waving hi. He has even just started to pull himself up to stand. THE WIFE picked up G-man's first high tops to help with placing his feet down flat.

When people talk about appreciating the little things, Gus seems to remind us of that with every new discovery.

Yet, Gus is no little angel either. He is known to grab Greta’s hair by the handful and yank it out much to his sister’s chagrin. He’s also not afraid to rake his little fingers down into the eyeballs of whomever is holding him. I had a nice little scratch on my face courtesy of the G-man recently. But it's all good.

Meanwhile, THE WIFE and I still find ways to lovingly annoy the crap out of each other. For example, she hates that I don’t push the bathtub switch all the way down when I’m draining the bathtub.

WIFE: You’re doing it wrong.

ME: Don’t tell me my business devil woman. I know how to drain the tub best.

WIFE: Your way takes too long to drain the water.

ME: But I like hearing the noise of the water going down the drain.

WIFE: (audible sigh/groan and accompanying eye roll)

My biggest gripe lately is the constant state of laundry that our house is under. There are always a pile of folded clothes on the couch in the living room and a basket on the floor. When you go into the kids’ rooms, multiple piles of shirts and pants are organized in a sporadic manner that only she knows why – but they never seem to make it into a closet or drawer. And forget about our bedroom. It’s just a minefield of clothes that might be clean, but most likely are dirty, yet I don’t dare say anything out of fear for the sigh/groan and eye roll. (I will never understand why we can’t just spend one day every two weeks washing the clothes all at once and putting them away.) What can I say? It’s paradise over here.

So there you have it. A quick little snapshot of the state of affairs from the T-family abode. Anyone want to tell me any questions? Come on over so you can fold some laundry with Greta and I…

Hyphenated-Ramblings

Turns out that Baby Tiebreaker is a … girl! The most recent ultrasound showed a healthy and rapidly growing little lady. Far and away, the baby’s health was our paramount concern, so the good news to date is obviously encouraging.

As far as the baby’s gender tilting the balance of power at Casa de Ts in favor of the girls, I’m still digesting. My brain is still a bit in denial that we’re having a third. Any thoughts beyond that have been scattered and still under development so we’ll have to circle back in a future post when my mind is more clear on that front.

I confess, though, that one thought keeps popping up and I’m almost ashamed to admit it. I can’t help thinking how I will not be passing on my last name.

Granted, for my last name not to “carry on,” I’m assuming: a) my girls will be straight, get married, and go traditional by assuming their husband’s last name; and b) August doesn’t have children. For today, we’ll keep the tone light and address only assumption “a” as assumption “b” is a deeper and more loaded topic.

I suppose the other caveat to assumption “a” coming true is that my daughters opt out of the whole hyphenated last name thing. But given the option to hyphenate versus adopting their husbands’ last names, I honestly hope that they would go with the latter.

Now before any neo-Feminists out there start burning push-up bras and penis effigies, I’ll be the first to admit that the tradition of assuming a husband’s last name is most likely rooted in an antiquated system when daughters were often treated like chattel and fathers sold them off in marriage like baseball cards or used cars to perhaps not-so-deserving grooms. I get it. But that’s not how at least most of us roll these days.

The wife’s adoption of the husband’s last name, it seems, is a compromise masquerading as tradition that no one seems to really know why but we just do it anyway. Perhaps an analogous comparison could be drawn to a fiancé spending thousands of dollars on a silly ring as “consideration” to lock in the engagement with his prospective fiancée. Most of us follow tradition, well, because that’s just what everyone does and we don’t want to rock the boat. Conformity is just plain easier.

But somewhere along the way, I assume, a crafty young woman with a desire to honor her original surname invented a hybrid of last names by combining her maiden name via hyphen with her married name. I appreciate the innovation. I respect the loyalty to her roots and family. I understand that overall, it’s not that big of a deal. But I’m still not a fan.

Hear me out. I’m not a fan of the “Baxter-Birney” because I’m chauvinist or old school or anything like that. No, my beef with hyphenated last names is much simpler. Where does it end? Allow me to illustrate using random NFL players’ names.

Let’s say Mike Sims-Walker and his wife have a son named LeDennis Sims-Walker. Meanwhile, Maurice Jones-Drew and his wife have a daughter named DaMichelle Jones-Drew. Assume LeDennis and DaMichelle get married. Is DaMichelle going to follow her mom’s lead and go hyphenated as Mrs. Sims-Walker-Jones-Drew? Let’s imagine she does.

Now assume BenJarvis Green-Ellis and his wife have a son named Dneywa (pronounced “Da-Wane” even though spelling suggests otherwise), while Dominique Rodgers-Cromartie and his wife have a daughter named Lashofanda. Next thing you know, Dneywa and Lashofanda are getting hitched and sure enough, we have Mrs. Green-Ellis-Rodgers-Cromartie.

You see where I’m going right? If we take LeDennis’ and DaMichelle’s son and marry him to Dneywa’s and Lashofanda’s daughter, basically their children are screwed. They’ll need to wear a XXXL-size jersey when playing sports just to fit half of the last name on the back. Their driver’s licenses will have to fold out like an accordion. They’ll need extra sheets of paper on every standardized test to fill in all the circles of their last name in number two pencil. You get the picture.

As for passing on my last name, what really is the big deal anyway? It’s not like my buddies call me “Teravainen” the way we refer to Noonan, Parker, Erwin, Oster, Martell, Fallis, or others who regularly answer to their last name. And to be honest, my last name was a pain in the ass for so many years. It’s been mispronounced and misspelled my entire life. I don’t think I was able to even write it until some time in junior high school. Plus, it’s not like my last name will end with me – I have plenty of relatives with the possibility of passing on Teravainen as a last name.

The truth is probably twofold. First, I have come to treasure the uncommonness of my last name. It’s kind of a badge of honor for me. I like when people recognize its Finn roots. I don’t even flinch when I hear someone say “Ter-uh-vay-nee-in” because it happens so frequently. So I suppose the second part is I always envisioned sharing that pride with my kids who would in turn similarly enjoy passing Teravainen on to their children.

Like I said earlier, I’m ashamed to even admit that this thought process has gone through my mind. When looking at the big picture, I could have much bigger problems. Thank you for just bearing with me and playing the part of therapist for a little bit. Much appreciated. I’ll move on now…

On second thought, maybe Teravainen-Johnson doesn't sound so bad after all.

Groans and Greetings for Gray Balls

My first high school crush Carla dumped me during our sophomore year. A few weeks before the break-up while we were still on summer break, I nearly maimed myself biking home from her house on my 12-speed when the brake handle became detached and lodged itself in the spokes of my front tire as I coasted down Union Street near Crescent. I’m pretty sure this is the second time I’ve blogged about the bike accident of 1990 – what can I say, I’m apparently still traumatized by either the crash, Carla breaking up with me, or both.

The reason I bring this event up again in the first place is that my buddy Chad was with me when Carla delivered the news to me by phone. I was in my bedroom using a phone that was not cordless. In other words, I couldn’t leave the room and Chad got to witness the drama firsthand. Anyway, after comprehending that the break-up was irreversible, I asked Carla what was wrong with me in my pathetic state of sorrow. Upon hearing my question, Chad began to smirk and opened the space between his thumb and index finger while placing it on his forehead. He then mouthed the words “your hairline” or something to that effect.

Back then, due to the size of my forehead and the high location of my hairline, my buddies and I were fairly certain I was going to be the first bald one of our crew. Fast forward twenty years (that’s right class of 93, our sophomore year in high school was that long ago) and I still have grass on the green without assistance either from Rogaine or Maury's wigs. Even better, I have yet to discover a gray pūb in the Chewbacca wheat field.

While I acknowledge this fight against aging and vanity is futile, there is one particular trait I earnestly look forward to acquiring as the years accumulate. It's actually a badge of honor in my opinion. Three words. Old. Man. Strength.

When I think of Old Man Strength, three people immediately come to mind: the father of William Wallace’s best friend in Braveheart whose character was named “Campbell”; Julio Franco; and my old next door neighbor in Hooksett whose true identity I will protect by simply calling him Mr. V.

Campbell (portrayed by Scottish actor James Cosmo) is a paragon of Old Man Strength. Campbell’s not as svelte or handsome as he probably was in earlier years. The beard is gray. The hairline has receded. He needs to sit down for a rest a little more frequently than he used to. But he’s still a total badass and answers the call of duty when pressed into a fight. For chrissakes, he gets his hand chopped off in one battle, then comes back to the next one with a swinging mace attached at the severed wrist. That’s the medieval version of Old Man Strength, I believe.

Julio Franco was a professional baseball player who played for something like 100 years. He retired in 2008. I know little about Julio except that he was super ripped well into his 40’s and could still probably tear Dustin Pedroia into several pieces with his bare hands. Just trust me, Julio’s an appropriate spokesperson for Old Man Strength.

As for Mr. V, he is quite possibly the best example of Old Man Strength I can conjure in my brain. First, Mr. V's had bulging biceps that have intimidated me since I was 6 years old. Second, he is a master carpenter, plumber, electrician, and builder of anything. Third, he hunts animals and eats his kills – I believe a mounted boar’s head hangs in his garage (or at least I imagine one in there) as affirmative proof of his fearlessness. Fourth, he is the nicest and sweetest guy you’d ever know. Put it this way, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I’d definitely seek refuge at his house.

[While we’re on the topic of Mr. V, I feel the need to confess that I used to climb up onto the bumper of his silver utility work truck when it was parked and no one was looking, so that I could peak in through the back window at a Playboy centerfold taped on the back of the partition between his front seat and the rear back area. (The Internet was still a whole decade away.) Furthermore, I also apologize once and for all about the snow ball I threw at his brand new car around 1984. Once I saw Mr. V jam on the brakes and get out, I booked it into the woods and didn’t come home for a couple hours. Although I may not have known then what to call Old Man Strength, I was smart enough to understand it was a force not to be messed with. Anywho, where were we?]

Old Man Strength is almost like a consolation gift for men as they advance in years from young buck to grizzled veteran. While they may require the assistance of Lipitor, Flomax, and/or Cialis, a seasoned pro with Old Man Strength can still answer the bell and rise to the occasion when necessary. It’s a kind of phenomenon whereby this reservoir of youthful testosterone remains stored in a reserve just waiting to be tapped in case of situations that may vary from a simple “rub some dirt on it if it hurts” to an outright challenge of one’s masculinity.

He with Old Man Strength has acquired the skills to sniff out a bluff in poker. He with Old Man Strength can both drive and navigate the [station wagon/minivan] towards the destination while the rest of his family sleeps during the road trip. He with Old Man Strength can go shirtless at a family cookout without shame, even if his moobs could really use a manssiere. Perhaps most importantly, he with Old Man Strength has learned how to conserve his energy for the witty back-and-forth that precedes a fight until the very last second when he gets the first punch in and lets all of his buddies jump in to prevent the exchange of any more punches.

As for me, I still cry whenever The Notebook is on. Unopened boxes of furniture from Ikea make me shudder with fear and loathing. I watch Project Runway enthusiastically. Not only do I rarely wear a tool belt, but I’ve never changed a spark plug. Hell, I can't even grow a respectable mustache let alone a beard.

Clearly, I have a ways to go before attaining Old Man Strength status. But at least I’ve got a hairline that might be receding....