Shocking!

I am rarely, if ever, at a loss for words. This is the brief story of one day when I was. . .

Elaine (name changed to protect the . . . um. . . well, her) worked in our IT department. She was in her late fifties. She had a round figure. By this I don't mean that she was fat, for although she was certainly overweight she was not fat. But she conveyed a sense of sphericity to an observer. I can't describe it. She just looked like a little ball. She was about 5'4" tall with an unruly mass of kinky, iron-grey curls on her head that vaguely resembled a brillo pad. She wore glasses and flannel shirts, and frequently sweated.  I know, we all sweat, but beads of perspiration seemed a fixture on her forehead (maybe all the flannel) . Her glasses slide down her nose when she was sweaty and she frequently had to push them back up to the bridge of her nose. When she spoke to you she repeatedly said "okay" while you talked to her, but you get the distinct impression that she was not really hearing what you were telling her because she said "okay" inappropriately, and too frequently.  I would find myself repeating things to her because she'd say "okay" in the middle of something I was explaining and I feared she missed my point in her eagerness to communicate the fact that she understood my point.  She had toadlike facial features.  If she were wearing an apron she would look grandmotherly.  She told stories and used the names of her friends and relatives without explanation or clarification even though you had no way of knowing who those people were.  She just assumed you knew what everyone who knew her knew.  She was completely harmless and very nice. She did an adequate job.

One day, Elaine came into my office (I was just remembering this recently) and asked me, "What's two in the pink, one in the stink mean?"

I gaped at her. I don't know that I've ever gaped at anyone before. I've heard about gaping, even read about it in books, but until that day, I don't recall actually ever ENGAGING in gaping.  My mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land trying to breathe the air. I started speaking then stopped abruptly several times mid-word.  No intelligible language emerged for several seconds.  In the end I believe I stammered something to the effect of, "I'm sorry, I can't help you. I'm not even sure what to tell you to do. Why are you even asking me this?" 

Her reply was, in essence, that she had asked Dave (a friend of mine also from the IT department) and HIS response had been, "You need to go ask Jim, he'll tell you." 

Yes. . . THANK YOU, Dave.

I have rarely felt as uncomfortable professionally as I did when Elaine asked me to explain what a shocker was, but I know the idea of calmly telling her that it's when someone puts two fingers in a woman's vagina and drops a pinky in her anus was very very amusing in hindsight. At the time however, I could not have been caught more off guard.

Imagine your grandmother coming to you and asking you what a "Cleveland Steamer" is and maybe you get the picture.

Upon hearing that Dave had put her up to it though, my response was, "You need to go ask Chris, he'll tell you." And sent her on her way. 

Chris kicked her out of his office unceremoniously and ultimately she got the information from. . .  her boss.  I called Dave and congratulated him while cursing his name.  It was funny.

Dora Ditty

"Gonna pick some juicy ones!!"

Barney and Dora are staples in my youngest daughter's life. My oldest daughter comes along for the ride despite having outgrown them long ago. She finds something to lose herself in regardless of what's on TV, so it's not a huge stretch despite her whining, because midway through the much-protested Dora episode that her younger sister is DEMANDING, i'll ask her a question and find her completely unresponsive, having devoted all her attention to thwarting that sneaky fox or helping Dora count out the books for the Octopus librarian (1 per tentacle. . . or 8 in all, if you care to know). 

Yesterday we watched Dora as she escorted the grumpy old troll and the giant to the barber to get them (Boots too) all hair cuts. Emma, the oldest, protested, preferring Total Drama, or Phineas and Ferb, but it was Lily's turn. I sang along to D-D-D-D-Dora!

"Don't sing pease," Lily commented, watching the screen.

"I'm an AWESOME singer," I responded, but I stopped. I turned to Emma. "Sometimes I make up my own words to Dora's songs, Emma."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well, you remember when she goes to pick berries and they have to go to blueberry hill where Swiper lives?"

"Yeah."

"You remember the song?"

Her mouth worked itself around as the wheels in her head tried to churn out the answer. "Huh uh," she replied at last.

"Going on a berry hunt, (repeat), Gonna pick some juicy ones! (repeat), We're not scared, (repeat), What a beautiful day!" I sang.

"Don't sing pease," Lily commented again without turning.

"Well I changed it to, 'Going on a booger hunt, (repeat), Gonna pick some juicy ones! (repeat), We're not scared, (repeat), What a beautiful day!"

Emma giggled at this and we sang it together. Lily ignored us. She only tells me to stop singing. Not Emma.

Then I leaned in and told Emma conspiratorially, "best we not sing that song in front of Mommy, 'kay, kiddo?"

"Okay, daddy."

Tough Love

Emma does the least amount she can get away with.  I talked to her teacher about it, and she reassured me that every kid in her class shares that same trait.  That doesn’t mean I’m not trying to get her out of the habit of doing the least she can get away with, but at least I don’t feel like she’s “lazy”.  She’s just being a kid.

One morning she finished her breakfast and my wife told her she needed to put her shoes on.  Emma being Emma she’ll find whatever shoes are handy and put them on without regard for whether they match or fit the situation.  If shoes are near. . . THOSE shoes are the shoes her energy level dictates “match”.  We’ve learned to adjust our requests to limit the wiggle room.  For example, my wife’s actual words were not “put your shoes on,” they were, “Emma, you can either wear your black shoes or your black boots.  Neither of them are downstairs, so go get them on, please.”

“I don’t WANT to go upstairs.”

This is where I entered the fray with my unique and masterful parenting skills.

“Emma, what if this is all an elaborate ruse to get you to go upstairs to your closet because inside the closet is a NEW PUPPY!!!?  If you don’t go upstairs to get the boots, you’ll never find out about the new puppy we got for you.  Now, if that was the case, wouldn’t you want to go upstairs and find your new puppy?”

“YEAH!” she said excitedly.

“Well there’s no puppy, but you still need your black boots, so go get ‘em.”

Her mother said it was mean, but I laughed, and so did Emma.  She’s got a good sense of humor.

The Death of a Fairy

Almost a year ago to the day, this happened:

We sat down to dinner with our friends and talked about our children who enjoyed each other's company so much.  We talked about their schooling and their interests and their friendship, and then, because it was the season, we talked about the Great Lies we tell them.  I was surprised and not surprised at how important the Lies were for them.  Surprised because I thought they'd care less then they did, not surprised because i feel the weight of the lies on my shoulders too but am myself also reluctant to shrug it off.  I think because preserving the lies preserves our children's innocence and youth, and allows us to slow the passing of time that every parent agrees 'goes by too quickly'.  

A week later a second set of friends were visiting our house from out of town.  The kids sat at the table and started to chat.  Their oldest boy is in a 'bad' stage.  Everything is "STUPID" and he has forgotten the manners his parents taught him.  He knows how to do everything even if you have to help him do it, and he snatches things out of your hand without a word.  It's irritating.  I'm positive i was EXACTLY like he is at his age.  I'm positive EVERY boy is exactly that way at his age.

"There's no Tooth Fairy," he said, "that's STUPID."  He appeared about to launch into a dissertation about the subject.  He started to talk about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny before his parents jumped in, horror stricken and redirected and began damage control.  Emma sat, unfazed.

The following night as we decorated the Christmas tree, Emma pounced. . . on her mother, because i think she senses weakness.  She was very careful.  She knows we talk in circles.  She's picking it up.  She senses redirection and attacks when we temporize.

"I need you to tell me the TRUTH." (She really emphasized that word).  "I just want to know, once and for all, and I want you to be totally honest with me. . . "

We waited with baited breath, tension in the air.  I was hanging an ornament on the tree as she spoke, trying to "act naturally".  Santa was about to die.  My little girl was killing Santa tonight.

"HONESTLY. . . do you and daddy put money under my pillow when I lose a tooth, or is it a tooth fairy.  And please tell me the truth.  I really want to know."

There was a hush in the room, broken only by Christmas music, the Glee Christmas album, playing softly on my office computer.  Thank god thank god thank god repeated in an endless loop in my head. 

"I promise i won't be sad."

From my vantage point on the other side of the Christmas tree, i could see my wife, a proverbial deer in the headlights of the truck full of dreams my daughter was about to crash into her, but my daughter couldn't see me.  I gave her a head nod.  We'd been expecting something like this ever since the visit.  She floundered.  Though she'd not responded to my nod, I stepped in and said, essentially, this:

The tooth fairy is a secret that only very mature children are allowed to know.  Parents put money under their children's pillows to surprise and delight them, and when they're old enough that they can be trusted to keep the secret from their friends and little brothers and sisters and other children NOT mature enough to know, then they are told.  And the way parents know their children are ready, is when they ask, as Emma had, in no uncertain terms, for the truth.  I also told her, that knowing the truth didn't mean that she wouldn't get money under her pillow after her next tooth, just that she'd know where it came from.

She accepted this truth and promised not to divulge it to her friends/sister.  And we waited for the next hammer blow.  Because what IS Santa, but a wingless magical fairy delivering presents to good little boys and girls?  But it stopped there.  Is it wrong that I was excited she only killed the Tooth Fairy?  I was.

I think i've said this before.  I want her to hold on to the magic as long as she can, but I don't want her to be teased because she's the last one of her friends to know the truth.

To paraphrase a quote from the movie "Dave", "I can kill a fairy.  I can kill a hundred fairies."  Santa though. . . that's tougher.

Nonowrimo

I finally reached a decision.  I'm not doing it.  I started doing it.  I think I maybe made it 700 words in (or so) before I realized I just don't have time for it.  I'm doing a lot of writing for the other blog, and between that, and the kids, and just general housekeeping.  I'm stretched pretty thin.


I love the idea of writing a novel.  I think the concept of pooping X number of words per night in order to reach an arbitrary total number of words starting no earlier than an arbitrary month is . . . um. . . arbitrary.  And sort of equates to writing badly just for the sake of writing.


What makes Nanowrimo a good concept is that it gives folks a start time, pushing them out of inaction.  It gives them a target word count, getting them into the habit of writing.  And it gives them some support and additional motivation to get started and to keep going. . . twitter, the website, suggestions, ideas, and more.  It's a good concept (like I just said).  And I suppose to someone who has a good idea that he's just dying to get out of his brain and onto "paper" it's a great motivator.


Having said that, I have an idea.  It's an "okay" idea.  But it's not a 50,000 word idea.  At least not right now.  And while I'm sure I could inject it with words in order to ultimately get to 50,000. . . I have enough shit on my plate without adding that particular turd.

Trick-or-Treat

Recalling Halloweens long ago. . . 

The only picture I have available at posting (I'm the dude with the orange nose)

We went trick-or-treating.  It was a good time.  My wife and I take turns dressing up and accompanying the kiddos.  It was my turn to trick-or-treat that year.  My sister, dressed as a candy corn, brought a treat bag 'o beer and we walked the neighborhood.  I was the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.  My oldest daughter (then six) was a green grease-painted Elphaba (the wicked witch of the west from the musical Wicked) and my youngest (then almost three) was Dorothy complete with sparkly ruby slippers.  My niece and nephew were dressed as a banana and a rabid bat respectively.  My niece was disappointed because she kept getting called banana boy and Mr. banana.  My nephew was frustrated because everyone referred to him as a wolf.

Before the festivities began, however, we all met at my parents' house for pizza.  My youngest was fascinated by the bat mask, which was an sinister-looking latex and faux fur amalgam. When my nephew removed it, she'd steal it and clutch it to her chest like a teddy bear, toddling away with it.

After pizza we all marched up the hill to the neighborhood Halloween parade for pictures. Dorothy's ruby slippers kept slipping from her stockinged feet.  We later taped them on with clear packing tape.  Staples seemed 'wrong'.

When we left the parade for trick-or-treating it was still light.  My sister credited the Bush administration with his greatest achievement in office, namely not "falling back" an hour until after Halloween.  The majority of our evening out was spent in daylight.

With a beer in your hand you feel less ridiculous dressed as a Scarecrow.  I held that and a flashlight.  After every house I asked Elphaba if she'd said "thank you". Each "yes" became more and more exasperated.  This pleased me. Eventually disgusted "yesses" turned into pre-emptive "don't say it, YES".  I would stop asking for a few houses before dusting it off again later.

When it got dark, i would scribe a path of light on the pavement with flourishes of my maglight brand flashlight, each path punctuated with a sci-fi-esque noise.  Elphaba began giving me dirty looks and shaking her fist at me, promising violence if I didn't stop being "weird".  Eventually I ran out of new sounds to make and my niece said, "you already used that one."  I told her I was recycling for the environment.

Halfway through the evening (trick-or-treating from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m.) I offered to carry Elphy's bag.  It was heavy. From within my rope-belted pants, i drew out an empty plastic grocery bag, and she used it for the second half of the evening.  By that point my two beers were gone and stowed safely in my sister's "treat bag".  I carried a bag of candy in one hand and the flashlight in the other.

I don't like giving out candy (when I stay home), and I'm sure I'm not alone.  We stopped at a house.  The lights outside were off, but we could see someone was home.  There were lights on inside, and the TV appeared to be on.  The kids rang the doorbell.  Nothing.  They rang it again.  I don't know how long we stood there, not long, but I was just in the process of telling them nobody was home, when a woman answered the door long enough to tell the kids that the lights weren't on and that meant that they weren't giving out candy.  The kids took it MUCH better than I did.  The lights inside WERE on.  There were several houses just like it along our route and each of them WAS participating.  Later on I threw a rock through her picture window. Cause fuck her.

Not really.  I mean, fuck her, that much i mean, but I didn't really throw a rock through her window.  Anyway, after commenting loudly about egging her house we moved on.

Brief Sidebar - 1) if you're going to hide from kids on Halloween. . . then hide.  Don't come out of the house to tell them they're stupid because you don't have lights on and that means you're not home. It makes you look like a dumbfuck.  2) if you aren't participating for some whacked out religious kook reason, then leave a sign saying "no candy".  I think that's a pretty universally understood sign, and the kids don't have time to waste knocking on your door and annoying the shit out of you.  OR hand out religious nut job toys or candy instead.  You know. . . spread the Word of the Lord instead of candy.  Believe me, word will spread and the following year nobody will bother you.  (end of sidebar)

At the end of the night we trudged up the hill into our familiar cul-de-sac and trick-or-treated the one last house, our own, and went inside to rest our feet and wash off our makeup.

After cleaning up, the kids took their sacks of candy into my family room and dumped them in heaps on the floor.  They organized them according to preference or flavor or whatever category suited their cute little heads.  Then the trading began.  This has since become one of my favorite parts of the holiday.  I needed to help my daughter a little with the concept.  She was giving away all her candy.  She was bartering like an Arab merchant by the end of the evening.  Laffy Taffy for Nerds, Nerds for Hershey bars, Hershey bars for pixie stix.  The kids all had their favorites and for the most part each kid's favorite was unique.  So they all ended up with what they wanted.

There was a brief period of disaster as Dorothy re-entered the house and panicked rebagging of the candy piles ensued. She plowed into the middle of the piles with her ruby red slippers of death and began scattering Clark bars and Butterfings pell-mell before they were recaptured and rebagged by their respective owners and stowed in safer locations, unreachable by Dorothy.

When the bags were stowed, the makeup and costumes removed, jammies donned, children stuffed with candy, and Dorothy asleep in her field of poppies aka crib, we watched E.T.  I Netflixed (in those days it was called Netflix. . . ) it.  We borrowed "a cup of popcorn" from the neighbors, and I pan popped it and soaked it in butter.

We lay in the family room on couches and chairs, or sprawled across the carpet under warm blankets in the dimmed lights and watched E.T.  The words "Penis breath" and "shit" caused me to close my eyes tiredly amidst the laughter of the children, but it's still a great family movie despite that.  My daughter got scared and sad and a little panicked when E.T. "died" and I stayed close to her and whispered, "just wait. . . keep watching. . . " and stroked her hair.  She liked it in the end, except "the scary part".  My niece fell asleep on the couch.  We all got a little misty.

When the movie ended, we bundled up sleepy children and sent them home or to bed and then went to bed ourselves.  It couldn't have been later than 9:45 but it felt like midnight.

It was a happy Halloween.

I'm an Excellent Driver

So. . . last night I left work early to go to a 5:00 meeting on the Southside.  I left the office at about 4:25 ish. . .plenty of time.  On the way, I missed my turn and ended up in Oakland, trying to turn around and get back to where I came from.  It was a stupid lapse in my brain that I can’t adequately explain except to say I’m getting elderly and instead of taking Grant Street (if you don’t know where these streets are, just let the words wash over you soothingly and enjoy the ride) I took 376W.

There is no convenient way back once you've gone that far except to go through the city of Pittsburgh, which I did.  Did I mention that the meeting was at 5:00?  Don’t answer that, because I know I did.  It was 4:48.  I snaked and through the snarl of roads and exits to find a way to cross the Smithfield Street bridge for the meeting.  I was coming at it from the East (see map).

Yesterday was the Penguins home opener, so traffic downtown (where the Consol Energy Center, home to the Pittsburgh Penguins NHL Hockey club, is located) was brutal (but not quite as brutal as that sentence).

My wife, coming from the North (see map), called me to say she was going to be late and to hold them over and discuss Lily's future until she got there. . . except I could see I was going to be late.  We discussed this.  I was stressed out, pissed off, and she offered some helpful suggestions about things I could have done differently in order not to have gotten myself stuck in downtown Pittsburgh traffic, which I reacted less than ideally to.  (I had a minor tantrum that I did my best not to direct at her, but failed moderately before recovering later).

Cars moved at a snail's pace if they moved at all.  I finally oozed my way through Pittsburgh, curling up north as my wife turned and headed east into town.  It was 5:25.  We’d called ahead and the meeting was on hold until we arrived.  But that didn’t make it any less stressful since we were already a half hour late and getting later every minute.

Map of Pittsburgh and our routes. . . "ish"

I turned east onto the street that was going to take me to our meeting. . . and my wife crossed at the light behind me from the other street.  She pulled in directly behind me and waved cheerfully.  It was so absurd that it made my stress disappear.  Our timing couldn't have been any better.  Quite literally there’s almost no way we could have said, “okay, you come from the north, I’ll come from the west and we’ll meet at the intersection at 5:30. . . GO!” and made it work within 10 or 15 minutes of each other.  The odds of her pulling in immediately behind me from another street in the midst of that mare’s nest of roads and traffic are astronomical.  It was sort of cool.  Except that we both arrived at the meeting at 6:00. . . an hour late.  They told us under no circumstances could the meeting go past 6:30.  They had to be out of the building by 6:30.  We left at 7:15.

----------------------

This morning on my way to work I was impatient with the traffic going through the tunnels and took a short cut to the West End bridge, which sort of parallels the Fort Pitt Bridge, but further down the river. . . then the road joins 376 on the other side of the river, past the tunnel.  (Again, if you’re unfamiliar with the roads, just let the words wash over you, the message amounts to the same thing.  Just insert your own road names.)

 

It takes slightly longer, but sometimes the traffic on the Fort Pitt Bridge makes it worth it.  A guy in front of me was going so slowly we were barely moving, so I jumped ahead of him and tried to get back in the lane to take the ramp to 376. . . and couldn't.

So I said. . . fuggit, I have a GPS. . . I’ll just drive a little further and then cut across.  Only there's no cut-across, and what I didn't realize is that I was almost heading in the opposite direction from work. . . my short cut was going to end up being longer than the commute itself.

not to scale and stuff

So I turned the GPSs on, and ended up driving through neighborhoods I'd never heard of before, and some that I had heard of but never seen, until eventually stuff started looking familiar.

I had already started the commute a little late.  After I dropped the kiddos off and left the daycare an urgent call of nature forced me to stop at home first before I continued to work.  I got started on my commute about 10 minutes late.  I usually get to work around ten minutes to 8, so, no biggie right?

I got to work at about 10 after 9.  About an hour late.