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comedy/cousins/family/funny/humor/kids these days/life/shame

Jun

My Home Turns Me into a Scavenging Hyena

And it’s all because of my parents. Since time immemorial, parents have been hiding the “good” food from their children. After the kids are asleep, they break out the ice cream and chips and gorge themselves – the food tastes better because it is their little secret. They made a promise to each other when they married, no, not that they would be married forever, but that they would forever deprive their children of junk food and instead, hoard treats for themselves. However, the children rose up in protest to their Machiavellian ways. They would not stand for their austerity and sought to bring sugar and salt back into their life in accordance to their God-given right to eat unhealthily.

But really, guys. My mom, who usually buys the groceries, is the one who buries the treasure. She has hiding spots around the house where she stashes chocolate, coconut macaroons, and whatever else you can find in the Organic/Fair Trade/Semi-Healthy Junk Food isle at Whole Foods. I am fairly aware of the hiding spots but even my mom, saucy minx that she is, has a few tricks up her sleeves.

For example, tonight, I woke up from a nap and went searching for something chocolate-y to fill the empty void in my stomach and heart. I tried opening a trusted junk food drawer in the kitchen but noticed that it wouldn’t open all the way. I knew this was a good sign. I figured my mom had purposely jammed the drawer because something delicious was lurking just behind the jam. After messing with the drawer for a few minutes, I got it to roll all the way out and lo and behold, a coconut bar was my reward. Had my mom purposely jammed the drawer to hide the food from me? Probably.

Even as a child, I remember rummaging through the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen to find chocolate. I was like Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I just needed chocolate. I tore apart the kitchen in search of my treasure and was usually rewarded with something. Occasionally, I was caught. But that never stopped me. During the Christmas holiday, my parents would give me an advent calendar that came with a piece of chocolate for each of the days up until Christmas. Of course, I would eat all of the chocolate on Day 1 and then carefully close each of the openings on the calendar and pretend that I was eating one a day instead of binging on the first day of December.

Of course, even with my adult ~~intellect~~ scavenging skills, it is not enough to always discover the junk food in time. My mother has the annoying habit of leaving a SPOON’S WORTH of ice cream in the tub. Literally, one spoon. I mean, what sort of person does that? I got very excited when I found a tiny container of ice cream the other day and opened it. Much to my chagrin, there was maybe a teaspoon left. I cursed the gods and ate the ice cream as a favor to anyone else who might have happened upon this paltry serving of ice cream.

What I have to do when I find good I want to eat in my house.

Sometimes, my house makes me feel like an animal. Nothing is sacred in my house food-wise. Nothing. And until we become more civilized, I will continue channeling the great scavenging hyena.

– Daughter

Family

chocolate/fail/family/funny/hiding/humor/hyena/junk food

May

Somebody’s Drunk in the Kitchen

I have a recipe that I hold near and dear to my heart. It was passed down for centuries in my family. It represents health, community, and spiritual well-being within my clan. Not really. I just found it this year on a Google search. But that doesn’t make for a very good story.

Anyway, during the last four months of college, this particular recipe has been a staple. It became comfort food. What is it, you ask? Kale and shrimp. It doesn’t sound impressive but this recipe is seriously magical. And, the best part of it is that it is impossible to screw up.

Unless you’re me.

I have made this recipe probably one hundred times. There are less than ten ingredients. It takes a maximum of thirty minutes to prepare and make. You’d think I’d have it down pat.

Mais, non.

I was so excited to cook this meal for my family because for once, I knew what I was doing. I confidently sauteed the kale and shrimp. I disregarded the directions a bit because I added more kale than the recipe called for. Ah, well, I should make more sauce to balance it out!! So, I added more vinegar to the sauce. Worst. Decision. Ever.

Immediately, the steam coming up from the pot turned into a noxious gas that made my eyes water. Well, maybe it’s one of those foods that tastes better than it smells!

Nope, it wasn’t. I put a small sample in my mouth and I might as well have taken a shot of vinegar. Now my mouth was burning in addition to my eyes.

Luckily, my mom came to the rescue and was able to water down the sauce to less terrifyingly-vinegary levels. Nobody died after eating it so I guess I made something edible. Checkmate.

– Daughter

Fail/Family/Humor

cooking/fail/family/food/funny/humor/kale

May

Unpacking < Packing

I felt very optimistic when I woke up this morning. I set up my mom’s juicer and juiced the sh heck out of vegetables and fruits indiscriminately. The resulting juice was the color of toxic waste but it actually didn’t taste that bad considering it was mostly kale and carrots. I felt like a hippie as I drank this disgusting-looking liquid but there are worse things in the world than feeling like a hippie.

This juice thing is supposed to replace my go-to beverage in the morning: coffee. I made the impulsive decision to stop drinking coffee and today is day 1 of what I foresee to be a very Poor Life Choice(tm). I already got a migraine-like headache from the lack of caffeine and felt distinctly less energetic and jazzed about life. To be honest, my will power is only so-so currently. We’ll see how long this lasts before I break.

After I was thoroughly juiced up and sans-coffee, I started the process of unpacking. It felt like forever as I opened box after box without any visible progress or improvement. I looked at the clock, expecting it to be a few hours later than when I had last checked, but no, it was only THIRTY MINUTES past when I had started. I dramatically laid on the bed with my hand on my head and re-enacted the scene from Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara says, “I’ll think about that… tomorrow.”

I didn’t realize I had so many clothes until I opened up those nifty vacuum-seal bags they were all stuffed in. Every time I broke open the vacuum seal I wanted to yell out, “RELEASE THE KRAKKEN!” Instead, I sighed as the small bag suddenly expanded with overflowing garments and sheets.

It was kind of like the OPPOSITE of Christmas morning: I didn’t want to open any of these bags or boxes and unleash the hellfire within. But, I persisted and now the unpacking is about halfway done. My room looks less like a storage locker and more like a room where somebody might sleep.

And tomorrow, the unpacking continues. As does my misery.

– Daughter

Fail/Humor

family/funny/humor/juicing/road trip/unpacking

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part V

Dad’s Version of Events:

Dante’s Inferno had nothing on us today.

I have seen The Apocalypse, and its name is Southwestern Texas. We awoke this morning to a cool breeze in Dallas, which lulled me into thinking the heat and humidity we drove into yesterday had broken.

Cruelly, that was not the case.

Not only did it turn out to be as miserably hot again today as it was on Saturday, a gale force wind worthy of The Perfect Storm reared its ugly head – in our faces. All day.

It was intimidating.

But let me return to the heat. How hot was it? I noticed several cars driving in the opposite direction (with the wind) with those heat-reflecting shields partially deployed in their windshields.

I imagined the associated conversation thusly:

“Good, God, the sun is burning my eyes through the windshield. Dear, please grab that aluminum foil heat reflector thing and pop it up on your side, would you?”

“Isn’t that going to affect your view? I mean, don’t you need to see out the front of the car?”

“Nah, it’s the passenger side. Not much happens over there and, besides, you’ll warn me if something’s about to explode or run into us.”

Yep. Something like that.

And I’ve never, ever seen people deploy their shield while driving. Parked; of course. Driving? Come on.

I am happy to reveal that I did not witness such behavior on our side of the Interstate but, then again, Daughter’s crap sh belongings pretty much obscured my vision anywhere to the back or side of us.

And the wind. My God, the wind!

Big rigs were weaving all over the place. Dust devils danced through the landscape around us. And occasionally a gust threatened to blow open one of our doors.

Well, not really on that last point, but it sure seemed like it, at times.

Prior to this leg of the journey, my trusty pickup was averaging almost 22 mpg. But today it plummeted to 17.5 mpg. Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s a head wind.

Out in the middle of nowhere, between the garden spots of Odessa and El Paso, there were actually two bicyclists laboring along the shoulder of the Interstate. They were clearly in the middle of some masochistic bike “adventure,” since they were festooned with sleeping bags and panniers. As we sped by them, I estimated they were tootling along at about 1.73 mph, with 24 miles to the next town of any significance. I thought it was illegal to bicycle on an Interstate Highway, so if there are any law enforcement officials reading this post, please note the location of these two cyclists.

Even though it’s been about six hours since we passed them, I figure they are still out there and have maybe managed to cover all of two miles in that time.

I’m telling you it was windy.

There were two essential highlights today. The first involved passing through an immigration checkpoint. When we realized what lay ahead of us on the road, it sparked a flurry of inappropriate comments from me to Daughter, such as:

“Be sure to turn the Spanish language radio station off when we roll the window down.”

“Remember to say ‘thank you’ instead of ‘gracias’ to the Border Patrol officer.”

Things like that.

The second highlight and, perhaps, the Tenth Festivus Miracle of the year was that Daughter was almost bright-eyed and bushy tailed for much of the drive, until she “hit the wall” later in the day and asked me why I wasn’t tired.

(Note to self: When traveling with Daughter, plan on a minimum of three coffee breaks before noon if there is any expectation of consciousness from her after 3:00 p.m.)

And tomorrow? If Allah and the Dust Devils are willing, we should roll up in front of our Home Sweet Home at some point in the afternoon, assuming:

1) We leave the hotel before 9:30 a.m.

2) The Tarpaulin Gods accept our sacrifice of Hampton Inn Shampoo and Conditioner.

3) We don’t get pulled over for an expired State of California license plate.

4) There are enough foo-foo coffee joints between New Mexico and California to keep us both focused and jazzed.

If all those things come true, we have a chance. If not, well, Hope Springs Eternal and Tomorrow is Another Day.

Or is that Tomorrow Never Dies?

I get it confused sometimes if I haven’t had any coffee.

– Dad

———–

Daughter’s Version of Events:

Miles and miles of… nothing.

I got up early for reeealsies today: 7am. Essentially the crack of dawn in my world. But I got up. My dad was probably pleasantly surprised that he didn’t have to drag me out of bed. Oh wait, nevermind. That’s never happened because I am the one always awake first on this road trip.

We made our way to Starbucks in the morning before hitting the road as per usual. I prefer local coffee places but my father has developed a taste for large corporate coffee with no personality. He loves to make fun of me for getting a soy latte which he terms “foo-foo” but I’m not the one who is constantly asking, “So, where’s the nearest Starbucks?” He is an addict.

I don’t love the coffee there but it’s drinkable and sometimes delicious if I use the powers of my imaaaagination. I like to call it Starbutts because it’s just immature enough to annoy my father. I don’t think I’ve actually said it out loud to him and to be honest, he probably wouldn’t notice if I did because he can’t hear most of the things I say.

Anyway, today I may or may not have angered the barista at Starbutts by asking if my drink was coming because it took longer than usual. I mentally berated myself because I was being the customer I always hated when I was working there. Sorry, hapless barista! I was just grumpy because the sun was waaaaay too close to the horizon for my liking.

After successfully acquiring coffee (I pray it was free of spit), we got back on the road and I fell asleep almost immediately. But then my turn behind the wheel came all too soon. It was incredibly windy so my usual multi-tasking was a no-no. I put my DJing, Starbucks-finding, and e-mail-checking to the side in order to keep the truck from blowing off the road. My Dad doesn’t know how to use my iPhone so I had to find Starbucks on my phone only at stoplights or slower portions of the road. Safety first!!!

Speaking of safety, my dad has avoided sleeping when I’ve driven the past four days because he doesn’t trust me or something. However, I happen to be a fantastic driver. I am the Danica Patrick of this road trip. And my dad is… he’s like the Ricky Bobby.

Well, anyway, today he stole my FaceTent(tm) and actually slept. Because of this, I had to rely on myself for two hours’ of entertainment. I sang songs with questionable content and used the opportunity of him sleeping to push the speed limit a bit. Not a lot but enough to feel like I was James Bond or something. Going three miles over the speed limit is definitely equivalent to how James Bond feels.

Dad, stealing my idea.

As the day wore on, I got more and more tired. My eyes started to dry up and when I went to rub them, I accidentally got sunscreen in them. So, they ended up being dry and also burned with the intensity of one thousand suns (ironic considering it was, you know, sunscreen that caused this). I decided the best way to resolve my temporary blindness was to pour bottled water directly into my eyes while in the car. Surprisingly, it sort of worked and I was able to both see and blink without excruciating pain – success!!!

Not that there was much to see…

Tomorrow is hopefully the last day of driving. 9 or 10 hours of driving left! My dad is already asking if there’s a Starbutts around here.

– Daughter

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part IV

Dad’s Version of the Events:

Fab Fam Time in Dallas today — the southernmost tip of the Great Plains, which has been converted into an endless landscape of concrete, heat, humidity, and cookie cutter McMansions. We declared a Unilateral Pajama Day, which seemed relevant, since I have been beset by restless slumber since the onset of the trip, and it really would be more appropriate for me to wear bed clothes since I’m half asleep most of the time.

The first attack of the Sleepless Nights occurred at Daughter’s apartment before we left. In her admirable zeal to pack and be ready to rock and roll down the road, Daughter’s remaining unpacked bed linen was seemingly sourced from a local Salvation Army Drop Box. That is to say, the pillow case on which I rested was made of near-burlap, and the covers had seen better days in the 1950s, from whence they came.

Subliminally or no, they put me in a restless stupor, which led to a funk, which led to an almost sleepless night — broken only by short naps where I dreamed I was in a concentration camp.

Fast forward to the wonderful abode of my lovely Spouse’s Sister, where we parked last night. We all love spending time together, but there are hidden secrets which lurk throughout her picture perfect home. For my part, I was looking forward to a quiet night catching up on some zzzz’s so that I could face the balance of the journey relatively refreshed and in sound state of mind.

Unfortunately, my attempts at slumber were interrupted on a continual basis after the lights went out. The culprits? A family of squirrels that was busy setting up a wi-fi transponder in the walls of my bedroom. They were running cables and wires for most of the night, and I swear they took a smoke break around 3:00 a.m.

Clearly they were Union Squirrels.

Still, we all had a great time together there, when not bothered by rodents (Are squirrels rodents?), while Daughter napped and ate and napped. For me, I managed to play some golf with Granddad — well, he really played, while I rode in the cart, hit some balls, and gave the appearance of playing. I did find four golf balls during the round, however, so I consider it a success.

We ended the day at Family Stop Number Two — my Bro’s house — with a Texas-size cookout and a house full of people I didn’t know, but who smiled a lot and reminded me, again, how dismal and sarcastic I really am.

We have truly been treated like royalty by our family here. Well, the kind of faux-royalty present in some minor dukedoms and municipalities, but royalty nonetheless, and we are very appreciative and thankful.

Almost thankful enough to extend our stay, but, no. We must attend and depart for our own Home.

So, kind of refreshed and somewhat rested (not really), we have committed to an early start in the morning on Sunday, and we are going to try to make San Diego in two days’ time, Allah Willing and if foo-foo coffee is available.

Time will tell if we can manage to stay on schedule, but the road beckons. And don’t forget the Tarp Zombie Wars. Sis-in-Law made a major Bungie Cord Investment, and we will put the new apparatus to the test in Southwestern Texas.

Yee-haw! I have high hopes!

– Dad

————

Daughter’s Version of the Events:

It felt good to stay off the roads today again for the sake of spending time with family. Well, I actually don’t know what I spent more time with today, my family or my pillow. I slept a lot. That reminds me, I should really look into Narcoleptics Anonymous. But then again, maybe not. I should probably just use that time to sleep some more.

Not the car.

What I realized seeing my cousins and other family today is that I’m really, really white compared to everyone else. (But also that I love my family! Of course.) You would never know that I’m second generation Persian. I look like any standard-issue European something-or-other. Spending all of winter inside because of East Coast Weather didn’t help matters; I have turned mostly transparent. It would be funny except I have realized the make-up powder brand I use does not make a “snow” color so I have had to make do. I now just rub flour into my face and call it a day. (And if I add a little yeast: PRESTO, bread.(?) I am not a baker, I don’t know.)

Also not the car.

Anyway, I woke up today at ten and then lazed around. I made some toast and “researched” classes for next fall. Looks like I’m going to be taking art classes! I guess my school is only going to give me my degree after I complete the college requirement of finger painting. Only then am I educated.

After such hard work, I was naturally tired. So I napped to rest up before we took a thirty minute trip down to Southlake, TX. (I didn’t drive, but believe me, navigating for my father is an energy-expending task.)

We left in the evening and as much as I wanted to withhold information while I navigated the roads, I knew that would be disastrous for both of us. (When I say ‘navigating’ you should know that I mean ‘reading MapQuest directions’). You would think that printing out directions instead of relying on my undependable phone and blindly following the print map would help cut down on arguing but we found a way to work in a disagreement nonetheless:

“YES DAD, STAY ON THIS ROAD”

“YES, THIS ONE”

“NO, NOT THAT ONE.”

“THAT ONE WE PASSED BACK THERE WAS ACTUALLY THE TURN.”

I was smug about being right about directions. Until we missed a turn. Even so, we got to my aunt and uncle’s house and I got to catch up with family I hadn’t seen and some family I hadn’t even met. The most entertaining family member is probably my aunt who is very Southern; the South seeps into just about everything she says*:

“Bless her heart, she is never going to find a man with that hair.”

“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”

“Y’all, it’s time for a hoedown! Grab the pitchforks and dancing partners!”

– Daughter

* My aunt didn’t actually say any of these things. I just like to think she did.

cross country/dad/dallas/daughter/don't mess with texas/family/funny/humor/just kidding mess with texas/road trip/texas/traffic/travel/trips/united states

Road Trip

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part III

Daughter’s Version of the Events (and the only version because Dad has gone to bed):

How being in the car makes me feel.

This morning, I got up before my Dad who seems to have absorbed the Southern pace of living: slow as molasses. Slower than Paula Deen trying to finish a marathon. Slower than a Southerner “driving.” Slower than a Southerner saying anything. I’m technically originally from the South so I’m allowed to make fun of it. When you are born in a Southern state, you get a set of rules along with your birth certificate that grants you permission to make fun of the South. And then, the ~~barn hands~~ hospital workers hand you a stick of butter and you deep fry the stork that brought you into the world.

But I digress.

Today, we left Little Rock, Arkansas behind. Of course, the trip started with trouble. The tarp covering all of my belongings was flapping around like an angry goose so we had to stop and adjust. The first time, I insisted that my Dad tie the tarp down tighter but he said, “No, let’s just go.” Well, lo and behold, not more than thirty seconds later on the interstate we were on the verge of losing the tarp again. Part of the problem is that the string my dad picked up is approximately the same thickness as dental floss. It turns out that dental floss is a less than perfect tie-down material.

My dad added another string, screwed around with the tarp, and then decided that his efforts were good enough. I was not convinced and took matters into my own hands, tying knots to secure more things as my dad sat inside the cab, leisurely sipping coffee.

After a shorter length of driving (5 hours) we made it to my aunt’s house in Texas. However, my father tested my patience by withholding navigational information purely to irritate me. I think he thinks he is somehow preparing me for the “real world” by refusing to communicate directions.

Me: “Did we miss the turn?”

Dad: “I don’t know, what would you do if I weren’t here?”

Me: “Well, that isn’t the case, so did we?”

Dad: “Yeah, and now we have to turn around.”

Me: “What? Are you serious?”

Dad: “No, you’re fine. The turn is not for a while.”

Despite the arguments about directions, we got to Texas in one piece. How I leave Texas, however, is another matter.

I went Razor scootering with my cousin who enjoyed the fact that he could bike a million times faster than I could scooter. Unfortunately, I did not wear shoes and when I went careening downhill and applied the brakes with my foot, the metal immediately heated to a molten lava level temperature and burned my foot. And then, after I realized I would be unable to use the brakes with my bare feet, I settled for using my foot to periodically hit the ground while I rolled downhill. So then I got road burn in addition to a metal-induced burn.

My grandparents came to join us for a home-cooked dinner of Chipotle and we spent time catching up while shoveling vaguely Mexican food into our gaping maws. My grandmother’s first words to me were, “Oh, you’ve gained weight!” Ah, yes. Grandparents.

After dinner, I played badminton with my grandpa and cousin until I messed up one too many times and sat myself down. At which point, my dad picked up a dead snake and chased me around with it while I screamed. Naturally.

Can’t choose your family.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

arkansas/dad/daughter/directions/driving/family/funny/humor/Little Rock/maps/road trip/texas/travel

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part I

Dad’s Version of the Events:

Let me start by saying that, though late to pick me up at the airport yesterday and forcing me to contort to a space in the truck’s passenger seat better suited to a Capuchin Monkey, Daughter did an exemplary job of preparing for the trip home. She had already packed 97% of her stuff and had actually loaded most of it in the bed already – with the exception that she allowed for exactly three inches of leg room for both the front seats, she done good.

However, because of said space restrictions, a quick reallocation of physical assets was called for. The criterion was simple: If Daughter could afford to lose whatever item or box we were considering, it went back into the bed. After all, for someone to steal some of the junk we’re hauling home, they clearly must be one step away from impending homelessness.

And, Presto! We suddenly had room to stretch.

The Next Big Idea concerned the weather forecast and protecting her crap junk belongings in the back from the elements.

“We need one of those covering things,” said Daughter.

“A tarp. It’s called a tarp.”

“But it’s 10:00 p.m. What’s open at his hour?”*

(*Not the verbatim dialogue, but pretty close to it.)

Target, of course.

I’ll spare you the details of finding the Target, finding the tarp, and finding rope/twine/string – “We don’t sell no string anymore at Target, sir.”

But we did manage to source everything, and after a mostly sleepless night, we started out tired and fatigued this morning at the crack of dawn about 9:30 a.m.

We managed all of five minutes down the Interstate before making our first stop to adjust and secure the tarp.

Sufficiently satisfied, we began again and racked up another ten minutes before pulling over again to screw around with reconfigure the tarp.

Clearly, we are better suited to interpreting spurious GPS displays than we are tying down anything. After all, I was given a choice between sports and Cub Scouts, and because I chose the former, I’m still paying the price in the “Life Skills Department, subtitle, Tying Knots.”

Our dilemma called for some real innovative thinking. I decided to put my suitcase on top of the tarp and tie it down instead. The only risk was that if anything went wrong, instead of losing a five dollar tarp, I would lose all my most valuable possessions in the bag.

“Dad. Isn’t your suitcase going to fly off the back?”

“Nope. And if it does, then the Universe needed it more than me.”

Whatever, it worked.

We wound up travelling nearly six hundred miles today, and I witnessed Daughter taking only one fitful nap.

I call that a success.

As an aside, many years ago when we first moved to Southern California, I asked a colleague at work about his experiences with the State’s law enforcement personnel on our local freeways. He compared the likelihood of being pulled over akin to being that one unlucky wildebeest in a herd of thousands, singled out and dragged down by a constabulary pride of lions.

I took that story as a license to be prudent, diligent, and speedy, when safe to do so. My last conversation with a policeman was sometime in the 1990s, and did not result in a ticket, so I guess the strategy worked.

I am happy to report that on the first day of our Father-Daughter (or is it Daughter-Father?) return journey to the Best Coast, we were not targeted by the pride. However, I experienced a smidgen of Schadenfreude when I witnessed an older couple in a Cadillac SUV (New York plates) talking to the Virginia State Police on two separate occasions not more than twenty minutes apart.

I would think they would have gotten the message the first time.

As for us, when you’re rocking down the Interstate on cruise control, with a zombie-like passenger who looks ready to pass out at any moment throughout the day, while constantly focused on a petulant tarp out back that is billowing so much you think there were zombies underneath trying to escape, exceeding the speed limit doesn’t even enter into the equation — finding the next foo-foo coffee place does, but we don’t need to speed to get there.

– Dad

—————

Daughter’s Version of the Events:

Well, I woke up at 7am like my dad demanded only to twiddle my thumbs for an hour while I waited for him to wake up. Eventually, I had to wake him up and he immediately said he didn’t sleep and that’s why he didn’t wake up at 7. Ah, well, neither did I. I guess I’m just, you know, DEDICATED and RESPONSIBLE.

Anyway, after briefly stuffing last minute items into the truck bed, I drove my dad to my favorite coffee shop one last time. He complained about the price, of course. (Am I surprised? No. This is somebody who brags about finding pennies like they’re buried treasure and he is Long John Silver.) I found it ironic that he complained about the prices considering he is a very regular patron of a small, independently-owned coffee shop. You may have heard of it… Starbucks. However, he didn’t see things my way and continued to grumble about the high price of the coffee. I helpfully reminded him that he could not put a price on my happiness.

What do all these shapes and lines mean??

After that brief breakfast, we hit the road. The GPS died despite numerous attempts at revival. CPR just wasn’t enough to save our TomTom. One less navigational tool is honestly probably better for us, anyway. Now, with the GPS out of the picture (R.I.P.), there are less contradicting directions. This is the sort of thing that happens when we have too many navigational tools:

Dad: “What highway should we take?”

Me: “Well, the GPS says to take the 83. The AAA map says to take the 77. My phone GPS says that this road doesn’t exist.”

Of course, our trip had a snafu or four. We had to pull over multiple times because the tarp covering the mountain of belongings in the truck bed kept flying up like a magnificent sail. Well, it’d be more magnificent if it wasn’t in danger of flying off and then landing on someone’s windshield and causing a fiery crash worthy of a Michael Bay film.

Sidenote/humanity-affirming moment of the day: because we were in the South, a guy stopped on the freeway when we were struggling with the tarp and in his deep Southern drawl, asked if we needed help. I forget that people care about other people in some places!! I’ve been in Philly too long, clearly.

Anyway, my dad and I took turns driving today but Dad ended up taking on the bulk of the driving because my eyes were drying up into raisins. I tried to bring back FaceTent ™ but without a heavy black coat to mask out the sun, it was futile. Other materials let in sunlight and therefore, blind you even with your eyes closed.

All in all, it was a successful day. Well, besides the barista putting a boy’s name on my Starbucks cup instead of my actual girl name. And my dad yelling at me to find a Starbucks faster on my phone that had no signal. And when my dad yelled at me for not being able to see a semi I almost merged into. And when my dad told me I was driving too fast. And when my dad told me that I am now in charge of making sure my sister is an upstanding citizen. (HEAR THAT, SIS? I know you read it, little one.) But yeah, besides all that, it was a good day.

Nope, that’s not my name.

Who are you trying to convince, Bristol, TN?

I bet you didn’t know there were castles in Tennessee.

– Daughter

driving/fail/family/funny/GPS/humor/maps/pennsylvania/road trip/tennessee/virginia/west virginia

Mar

City People

It’s spring break! Yay!

Sunshine and sand?

Nope. Try rain and gray and grumpiness.

Penn’s Landing

The redeeming part of this break, however, is that my aunt and little cousin have come to entertain me with their wit and various talents. My aunt’s specialty is educating me on the particulars of literature, art, and history and my cousin’s talent is shaming me for my ignorance in all branches of knowledge. Except my aunt and cousin manage to both teach and shame me in a way that is much less condescending than the way my father does it. (Love you, Dad!)

It is nice to have other people around the apartment besides the cats. Speaking of which, my aunt and cousin were horrified by the smell emanating from my room where they stay. I can’t even smell anything in there at this point. I think this is a bad sign. I must be slowly morphing into some human-animal beast, immune to all animal smells.

Independence Hall

Anywho, like any good host would, I am pretending that I know my way around this town but really praying to the GPS gods that my navigation voice person does not lead me into a river or through a building. The calming, soothing salve that is the GPS lady’s voice can only go so far in soothing me. Why? City people, that’s why. They are the reason that I cry myself to sleep at night.

City people are a certain breed: tough, intimidating, and individualistic. It’s every man for himself on the streets.

Crosswalk? Oh, you mean, the target range for cars to hit as many pedestrians as you can.

Puddles? Oh, well let’s just speed through this puddle as fast as possible to waterfall it onto passers-by.

Lost people who ask you a question? Let’s stare blankly at them.

Person who needs to merge into your lane? Hahahaha, good luck.

City of Brotherly Love? More like, City of Brotherly – MOVE OUT OF THE WAY OR SO HELP ME GOD.

#whatup

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

College/Fail/Family/Humor

city/city people/driving/fail/family/GPS/humor/lost/urban

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part VI – Conclusion

I didn’t know that your collar bones could hurt, but apparently, they can when you’re really tired. I feel like a sumo wrestler is sitting on my collar bones and slowly crushing them into a fine powder which will then be sold on the black market to a traditional Chinese medicine man. (Is that racist? Sorry.) It may have been a short driving day but it was a long day nonetheless.

We woke up in a wintry ice palace and I was the grumpy ice princess (HEAVY IS THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN). Even though I was in bad mood because I was tired, it was hard to be disgruntled when the outside world looked like a pre-teen has just bedazzled the crap out of everything. It was so beautiful; I just wanted to run around in the snow, being one with nature. But nature was too cold for that type of hippie nonsense.

Cold.

Dad took the first shift of driving and I stared outside the window, absorbed by the cows dotting the countryside. I decided that one day, I would like to have a pet cow. And I’d like to name it Big Mac. Not because I’d eat it, but because I think it would be hilarious. But maybe that’s just because I’m tired. Time to eat, Big Mac! Big Mac, come here, you silly old cow. Big Mac, you’re going to be a mother!!!! We shall name him: Happy Meal.

Anyway, once again, we got lost on our trek to find coffee which resulted in tense tones and loud sighs of annoyance. Coffee seems to be driving a wedge between us. Once coffee was acquired, we sipped in silence. My father occasionally quizzed me on US history and then shook his head in utter dismay at my many wrong answers. When I asked him to quiz me more, he said, “No, it’s depressing.” Or something along those lines. Whatever, Dad. I know that there were 31 colonies, a Silverware War, and this guy, Jefferson Airplane, who sewed the first American flag together with shoelaces. Those are the only important facts you need to know.

Hi, trees.

We got to my apartment up at school in the early afternoon and then I spent a long time unpacking which was horrifically stressful. Unpacking/packing is playing Tetris with your belongings but it lacks any incentive. I spent a long time flopping around like a dying fish before I gave up and pulled a Scarlett O’Hara: “There’s always… tomorrow.”

A trip to Trader Joe’s to stock up on groceries almost resulted in a panic attack. It was some combination of the lack of sleep, grumpiness, and anxiety for school to start that resulted in me hyper-shopping to get it over with. It was so crowded that people were essentially tackling me to get to the kumquats first. Very overwhelming. So much so, my Fight-or-Flight response kicked in under this duress and I had to physically restrain myself from assaulting people by hugging my Organic Fair-Trade Ethiopian Medium Roast Trader Joe’s Brand Coffee to my chest (obviously, the ‘Fight’ response won out). I made my dad stand with the cart so I wouldn’t have to maneuver around the crowds and embraced my hunter-gatherer roots. I probably resembled a meerkat in the way I burrowed through the crowds unnoticed and then popped up briefly for air to observe my surroundings, scanning the landscape for danger.

I iz a mountain.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip. I actually preferred driving over flying. And even though I was grumpy and my dad never did learn the appropriate angle at which to text so as not to blind me, I had the best time with Pops. Sorry, I was grumpy today, Dad! You’re the best. Even though you want me to be blind. Maybe because you’re losing your hearing you want me to lose my sight so that, together, we can be a mutant Helen Keller. Good job if that’s the case, you win.

– Daughter

————————————————————————————————————————-

Well, all’s well that ends well.

But I failed to mention that in yesterday’s severely snow-shortened drive, strange things started happening inside our truck on the penultimate day of our monster journey.

As may not be too obvious, I do occasionally try to be a law-abiding citizen while behind the wheel. And that includes using a Bluetooth earpiece for my cell phone. At some point, however, the hook device that holds the stupid thing to my ear became detached and walked away.

Not to worry, I thought. I just crammed the thing in my ear canal, and that worked just fine – until it popped out after about six minutes and disappeared somewhere in the crevices between the front seat and our Hoarders pile in the back. And to compound matters, while I was desperately scrounging under my seat for the bud, my new watch became entangled in part of the metal framework there and the band broke apart.

Okay. Blinding snowstorm. Manic semi truck drivers. A growing list of missing personal items. Unconscious Daughter.

Yep. Let’s pull off and re-group.

What I couldn’t figure out was why, apparently, hundreds of other motorists did not follow us off the Interstate. Things were that bad.

But we made the right call. After taking an early exit, we unloaded and watched the snow pile up all around us in the hotel parking lot. The only issue was my high-tech weather insulation device (black garbage bag from the Hampton Inn hotel) did not remain intact and my rolling suitcase became a little damp. Did I fail to mention that we had so much crap junk personal belongings in the cab that we had to throw some stuff in the pickup bed? That’s what poor planning will do for you. Fortunately, every article of clothing I own is fully weather-proofed (in other words, my wife is constantly trying to get rid of most of the stuff I wear), so a little moisture doesn’t really matter.

So, after a nice dinner, and six hours of the Weather Channel, we went to bed early dreaming of Sugar Plums (Daughter) and not another episode of Ice Road Truckers (me).

It became very clear to me this morning that Daughter’s selfless cuticle sacrifice along the way appeased the Highway Gods, and we were blessed with sunny (cold) skies and clear roads when we arose.

Hallelujah. I didn’t really say or even think that, but it seemed appropriate.

We proceeded to celebrate our good fortune with not just one, but two foo-foo coffee stops. And I even let Daughter drive.

“Dad. I can drive now. Okay? Okay? You need to wear the hearing aid in the ear closest to me.”

“But then I can’t wear my Bluetooth,” I replied. Very cunning.

As luck or good fortune or Weather Channel channeling would have it, the day was anticlimactic. It was an easy, short day (just a few hours), and we arrived at our destination 2981 miles and six days after we started.

The good news is that Daughter and I are still talking to each other. She is still napping religiously. And we carried about 500 extra pounds of unmelted snow in the bed of the truck for extra traction on perfectly clear roads.

Truth is, I began to realize a couple of days ago that this trip with Daughter was unique, and I tried to do a better job of focusing on the moment(s), just so I could remember for when I get old (say, toward the end of next week). For reference, Zen-me has just about finished reading the Dalai Lama’s Cat, and I have taken to heart that I cannot change those external forces beyond my control, but I can change that which I do control – how I think and react.

So, where does that leave me at journey’s end?

I’ve got a few more chapters to get through before I come to peace with the sh da assh semi-professional Truck Drivers of this world. That much is clear.

Sorry.

And finally, though I am concerned about Daughter (her errant driving patterns, some of her music, her fingernails), I think she’s going to be okay and I’m proud of her.

The question is, will she be able to get up early enough on Sunday to take me to the airport?

As if I didn’t already know, I think tomorrow will be a Pajama Day.

Shotgun!

– Dad

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Daughter-Father Epic, Part V

Welllll. We were going to try for Pennsylvania today but the weather replied, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS,” and snowed us right off the road. Not literally, luckily. My dad tapped out when the snow started to get serious – no more Mr. Nice Snow, as they say (?). My dad had been driving the whole day anyway, it was “too dangerous” for me to drive apparently, so he was glad to get off the road. I was glad to get off the road because I was sitting in abject terror for 3/4 of the drive today; semis were flying around the roads like they were in the Ice Capades. The remaining quarter of the time, I was asleep. Not driving is exhausting! I can only be in a state of pure, unadulterated fear for so long before my body poops out and resorts to its only defense: sleep.

Sneeeew.

We stopped driving early in the day and spent most of the afternoon lounging around the hotel room like we owned the place (we sorta do, right? Maybe it’s considered more of a timeshare). I was supposed to be picking my classes for next semester during the extra time I had today but sitting and looking at funny pictures on the internet won out instead. Clearly, I have my priorities straight. I’m definitely ready to be a Serious Academic again.

Trying to get an artsy angle… aaaand failing.

The Weather Channel was on for a good five hours straight because it turns out weather is an important factor for travel. (WHAT?!) Unfortunately, the main weather lady was making really inane comments and saying things like, “We’ll have Bob Whatshisface, the resident meteorologist, make sense of all of these pretty colors on the Doppler radar in a second!” First of all, I understand there is a limited amount of information and fluff you can work into Weather Channel programming, but those ‘pretty colors’? Yeah, no. That’s like looking at a tornado and saying that you like that little turny-twisty dance it does. Iago is no joke. Except for that name. That’s a joke. It reminds me of an iguana. And iguanas are not that scary. They need to start giving these storms more threatening names. THOR IS COMING, EXPECT ROAD DELAYS. ZEUS IS COMING, 400 FEET OF SNOW EXPECTED. ACHILLES IS COMING, STOCK UP ON EMERGENCY SUPPLIES. Nope. “Iago is coming, expect a shortage of flies and other insects.”

I want to go swimming.

Dad and I spend a good amount of time prancing around taking photos of the snow. In the midst of prancing, however, I discovered one of my boots had a hole in it because water began to seep into my boots and was immediately absorbed by my fuzzy socks – it was straight of a scene from a paper towel commercial, you guys. I might as well have been wearing sponges in my boots. My actual snow boots are buried in the Hoarders-style mountain of things stuffed into the cab of the truck, unreachable by any mortal. This means I’ll be in my holey boots until I get to PA. Such is life.

FOOD.

But to end things on a positive note, we did eat a delicious meal at a “fancy” restaurant. I say “fancy” with quotation marks because my dad had to put real pants on instead of wearing his shorts. They also had those baby forks and little plates – obviously upscale for us plebes. In my fog of exhaustion, I forgot to put my napkin on my lap and Dad decided to point this out to the waitress in order to embarrass/shame me. Cute, Dad.

– Daughter

————————————————————————————————————————-

Not only did we drive thirteen hours and lose yet another hour to time zone changes yesterday (what’s the deal with time zones?), I evidently failed to reserve a hotel room correctly while simultaneously texting, driving, and emailing. How could I screw up something so simple?

So, there I was at the front desk last night, without a confirmation number, but with lots of credit cards. Thinking fast (or as fast as my mileage-addled brain would allow), I winked at the front desk clerk, and she he magically discovered an available room.

Old School Tactic, Daughter.

But it was almost 11:00 p.m. by then, anyway.

And I already knew we could kiss today’s Early Start goodbye. And to add further insult, I was asleep before Daughter.

Yep. It was a long day.

As I anticipated, the Highway Gods exacted their revenge today, even while Daughter “mailed it in” from the passenger seat, the beneficiary of a modified (multi-layer) FaceTent (trademarked). That’s right, when the first driving shift (mine) was over, the second (mine) then started. And Daughter started her second nap stint.

To be absolutely fair, I felt the most prudent course of action was for me to handle the load. The weather absolutely sucked, and got worse from there. No more desolate landscapes with 80 mph-posted speed limits. We’re talking 60 mph max, heavy rain turning to snow, and semi tractor-trailer rigs as far as the eye could see (which wasn’t far).

Quite frankly, I don’t like experiencing life in the slow lane, off cruise control, staring at the butt-end of yet another freaking hideously large truck.

And to continue my rant from my last entry, many of these semi guys simply have no shame. At least that’s the way it appears to me.

Cut in front of a fast-closing vehicle (me) – no problem. Stay in the left lane forever – no problem. Unconsciously annoy Daughter – no problem.

You see, they’ve got it all covered.

But I was more worried about the deteriorating weather and becoming stranded, without access to foo-foo coffee and a semi-warm bed. The sum total of the food stuffs on board was two bananas, an apple, some hotel mints, and half a loaf of gluten-free bread (essentially a bag of cardboard scraps).

After assessing the situation and the possibility would could potentially be somewhat hungry by nightfall (not thirsty – I figured we could melt snow to drink), we pulled off the interstate early (only six hours today) and watched Winter Storm Iago on the Weather Channel, instead of through the front windshield.

Was it the right decision? I’ll know tomorrow if — we finally reach our destination (at least a day late) in one piece, before darkness falls, and Daughter spends more time driving than sleeping.

Hope springs eternal.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

dad/daughter/driving/fail/family/food/funny/humor/iago/road trip/semis/snow

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part IV

Before I start this blog post, I want to have a moment of silence to show respect for those we lost during this road trip. They have been with me for many years, close friends I’d even call them. But they have been wounded and killed in this great battle fought on the interstates of America. Rest in peace, we will always remember you, dear cuticles. Seriously, though. My cuticles are dead and dying. This is the winter of their discontent… literally. They are terrible and bleedy. Lotion does not assuage them nor kind words. I have given up trying to heal them and instead, I try not to look at them. Or I sit on my hands.

Mmm, I love the smell of industry in the morning!

We actually got back on the road today and palled around with some semi truck drivers! If “palled around” means playing a game of tag with huge tons of metal and the semi is always “it”. STOP TRYING TO TAG US, TRUCK DRIVERS. There was one semi in particular that really, really irritated me. So much so that I changed nationalities and transformed into an Italian. I did a lot of exasperated hand gesturing. I could be wrong, but I think this means I’m fluent in Italian.

I laugh at you, truckers in traffic. You deserve that misery.

After a successfully-completed quest to get coffee (bad things always happen when we try and find coffee, maybe we should consider switching to tea?), I hit a curb while turning because I can’t see out the right side of the truck and some coffee splashed out of my dad’s cup. No Big Deal, right? WRONG. Obviously, my dad has NEVER EVER so much as run over an errant piece of rubber on the road because he was so disgusted with me. How dare I accidentally run over a curb? HOW DARE I WASTE HIS TIME OFF-ROADING FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT. He actually asked me: “Have you ever driven a car before?” And then, later, a semi was drifting into my lane so I moved over and went on the rumble strip for three seconds. Not long, but long enough for my dad to yell at me, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” And I said, “THIS SEMI IS ON TOP OF ME, BRO.” Except I didn’t call him ‘bro’ because that’s weird. Good times. This is what father-daughter bonding is all about.

America.

The most exciting thing that happened today is when we got lost in Tennessee. Despite having a GPS, an iPhone, Google Maps, and old-fashioned paper maps, we got lost because there was an unexpected detour. We apparently drove on a road that didn’t exist in our world, it existed in some other dimension. The same dimension where all your missing socks go ~~and where I have friends~~. It was like the Bermuda Triangle of roads. I’m pretty sure I saw a chupacabra out there. My poor iPhone was heating up from its attempt to locate us, but its efforts were in vain. We weren’t in this world, or if we were, we had ripped a hole in the fabric of spacetime because… physics.

We made it back to our dimension, all parts intact but I have a feeling of deju vu… nope, wait, it was just a burp.

– Daughter

————————————————————————————————————————-

And on the fourth day, God created semi-tractor truck drivers. But I digress.

Yesterday was an unscheduled rest day, which presupposes one actually rests when given the opportunity. When I awoke and took stock of the thick blanket of snow outside, it wasn’t hard to quickly make the decision to hang tight for a day with our wonderful relatives in their immaculate mansion. Please note that, in comparison to our house, most other homes seem like castles to us – but theirs really is. It is wonderful.

One quick check on Daughter simply confirmed my decision – she was dead to the world. Two days in cramped confinement with a parent sucks the life out of children, evidently.

So, Daughter made an unconscious, slumbering assessment to replicate what is known back in our household as a “Pajama Day.”

It goes like this. In the spirit of calling “shotgun,” declaring “Pajama Day” is governed by approximately the same rules. Yep, all you have to do is say, “Pajama Day,” and, thereby, you eliminate the requirement to become fully attired and fully humanly functional for however long you want. Technically, Pajama Day could become “days” or even a week, in extreme circumstances.

Also, male members are not allowed to play, even though we completely and thoroughly understand the rules. Though hurtful, I am all right with the exception.

I knew we were in trouble this morning, however, because Daughter did not sleep well and was more tired than she had been before our rest day. Makes no sense, I know, but it’s nothing a foo-foo coffee usually can’t set right.

Unfortunately, Daughter’s fatigue manifested itself in many uncharacteristic ways. During her first driving stint, she inexplicably had no idea how she turned on the windshield wipers, but also couldn’t figure how to turn them off, as well. Not long after she ran over a curb exiting a gas station.

Her defense?

“I can’t see anything out of the right side of the truck, and stop yelling at me.”

Only one of us had her voice raised by the way, and it sure would have been nice to know you’ve been blind on the right side of the vehicle the past two days, Daughter.

And even though she deployed her now trademarked FaceTent early on, she had little to no patience for the truck drivers hogging the interstate highways.

Daughter using FaceTent ™

I have to admit, a little warning sign went off in my own pea brain when the landscape northeast of Dallas became littered with hundreds of the following road signs: “Left Lane is for Passing Only.

Let’s think about that, shall we? If you have to post directions to the multitudes about staying out of the left lane, there clearly must be a problem somewhere.

There was. And is.

We were blocked, hindered, slowed, and just plain annoyed by the numerous Left Lane Truck Bandits today. I’m sure they are all really nice people, but, geez, folks, let’s get with the program.

As you might have suspected, Zen-me wrestled with the situation for a few miles, but I eventually made my peace and counted my blessings.

For Daughter, however, it was a continuing struggle, no doubt fueled by her lack of rest during our “Rest Day.”

If we consider the eleven stages of Driving Consciousness, she never made it by Number Four: Annoyance.

Even if she had, we always have tomorrow. And if we don’t have tomorrow, there’s still me.

– Dad

QV5RTCKXKQE2

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part II

I did not want to be awake for this sunrise, but here I am.

Morale was low today. I woke up to complete darkness and weather in the 20’s. The only positive take-away from the morning was my hair – which is usually hay-like in texture – suddenly transformed into a blanket of velvet. Thanks, soft water! This new softness was kind of a big deal and I sat for a while petting my hair (first sign of insanity?).

Knowing that I would have to have something other than the softness of my hair to sustain me, I made my way to the lobby where food was rumored to be kept. The continental breakfast area was only an island and a counter but it seemed a great labyrinth to me. I finally understand how that one ancient Greek guy felt in the labyrinth with the Minotaur guy… I, too, know that fear of being lost and not knowing whether to expect a pancake or a half-bull, half-man creature around the corner. It might be because I’m an idiot but I’m pretty sure it was because I was still asleep and my eyes just happened to be open. I was conscious enough to know that food was in the vicinity but exact locations and things like “choosing what to eat” eluded me. After stumbling around for a while, we left with coffee from ~~a small, environmentally-friendly, and independent coffee shop~~ Starbucks in hand and got back on the road.

Once in the confines of the car, I wrapped my head in a to-go blanket burrito of sadness. Having no actual blankets in the car, I improvised with jackets and created a small tent-like structure around my head to block out the light so I could sleep. Unfortunately, we were driving toward the sunrise so my blanket burrito acted as a lamp shade instead of a blackout shade. My attempt to be the Benjamin Franklin of sleeping-pod inventions was valiant but futile. I’m sure SkyMall has a portable, one-person FaceTent ™, and if not, I’m going to work on the patent right when I get to school (and then drop out of school because FaceTent ™ is a million dollar idea). Anyway, sleeping was a no-go beyond ten minutes of drifting off and then waking up when a limb fell asleep faster than my brain could. I settled for staring out the window and naming the cows we passed.

Into the void we go!

Yesterday, my dad and I were optimistic and bursting with enthusiasm for the Southwestern American landscape. Today, we are hardened road warriors. The scenery has been abysmal with pockets of that weird, dilapidated beauty, like Steve Buscemi’s face (?). We drove through a lot of oil fields and I really, really wanted to say to my dad, “Wow, this sure is no country for old men…” but 1 ) I don’t know if he’d get the reference, 2) he probably wouldn’t hear it until I repeated it 4 times and then it wouldn’t be funny, and 3) I haven’t even seen that movie so I don’t know if it’s part of the Fair Use Policy for jokes.

Yep, encompasses everything we saw today.

We did have our first tense driving moment on our quest to find coffee today. My dad is completely useless when it comes to doing anything on my iPhone so he forced me to search for directions on my phone while I was driving on the interstate. He became impatient when I couldn’t find the right address and I said, “It’s a little hard to get directions when I’m also driving, Dad.” And he just nodded in agreement… or he didn’t hear me. Or he was just pretending not to hear me, you never know with this guy.

My dad ignoring me.

Directions to coffee were successfully procured after several “hold the wheel”s, but I was still confused and attempted to get off on two incorrect exits and corrected at the last moment. Then, Dad passive-aggressively grabbed the hand-hold insinuating that he needed the extra stability to not go flying around the cab because I’m behind the wheel. It didn’t help matters when I completely missed the right exit. Eventually, we ended the wild goose chase in the middle of Abilene, TX and got the stupid coffee. Twenty minutes of arguing and yelling at, “Make a right, no, A RI- YES, NOW,” I’m sipping a latte and treasuring it for all the trouble it took to get it. Mmmmm, the taste of frustration. My favorite.

The police, putting on a nice light show!

Also, my dad did not learn how to text without blinding me. STILL. It took at least 50 times of asking him to stop reflecting the sun into my corneal region, AND THIS IS THE SECOND DAY. I wanted to take his phone and throw it out the window but I restrained myself and instead said, “Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD. DAD. YOU’RE BLINDING ME AGAIN.”

– Daughter

————————————————————————————————————————-

When Daughter isn’t mumbling to me about directions, the southwestern part of the United States speaks to me. I have always loved driving through this part of the country, because it is so wide open and sparsely populated. I imagine, even today, I could load up my horse and head ninety degrees off the highway in any direction, and never see another human for weeks.

But then I figure the satellite reception is pretty crappy in the foothills, so I never really act on this notion. Probably the closest I will come will be a week at a dude ranch a decade from now, where I will pretend to drive cattle and will practice taking down bad guys with my Red Rider bb gun.

Yes. I’m looking forward to that.

But back to reality and today’s drive segment.

The exoticars of Southern California gave way many miles ago to a multitude of Border Patrol Suburbans and Jeeps. We were stopped at one checkpoint today and asked if we were American Citizens.

“Yes!” We chimed and drove merrilly away. It was all the agent could do to stay warm behind his barrier, with a light snow falling and thte wind chill in the teens. It’s a thankless job, made worse by those green uniforms they wear. I think a little touch of Downton Abbey might make a difference and raise spirits.

Probably not.

Though Daughter made a game of it yesterday and pulled her share of the driving duties, she bailed a bit today and took the first sleeping shift out of El Paso — which turned into the second sleeping shift a couple hours later.

Then she started complaining about her butt hurting. And then it went downhill further with the release of effluent gases.

For context, the girls in our family are incapable of doing anything untoward, including admitting to the existence of bodily functions that every other human has to deal with. To make matters worse, their first course of defense regarding same is to deny they did anything at all.

When that fails, and it always does, they start to laugh and then blame the whole thing on me.

It’s a pattern that’s repeated over and over again, with anything that’s even marginally amiss in our household.

Basically, anything and everything that goes wrong, is slightly suspicious, or doesn’t smell right (literally or figuratively), is all my fault.

Zen-me accepts that.

Moving on, then, I did come up with two really great ideas on the trip today.

The first was borne out of annoying Daughter. Apparently every time I texted someone, I inadvertantly aimmed the blackberry screen reflection in Daughter’s eyes (while she was driving — I didn’t have the problem while I was texting and driving). I thought I had the problem licked (I simply tilted it at a different angle – duh!), and sometime in the afternoon I said something that I believed Daughter found witty and wanted to high-five me about.

As I was trying to reverse high-five (or high-five a thousand angels guiding our way), I heard:

“Dad. You’re shining that thing in my eyes again.”

No wonder I was having a hard time hitting her hand. She was blocking the sun again.

So, Idea Number One: Non-reflective blackberry screen filter. I’m thinking that one has already been done, but I can’t confirm and certainly don’t use it.

The second (and better) idea originated with the number of miles we’ve been driving. I’ve always wondered how the travel times would compare in historical context.

Idea Number Two: iPhone app that converts miles travelled into time necessary to traverse same in a selected epoch of interest. For example, we drove seven hundred and fifty miles yesterday. How long would that same trip have taken in 1850, or 1450?

I thought it was pretty cool, and had merit. Daughter dismissed it out of hand.

Well, I know one thing. I’ve got an awful lot of texting to do tomorrow, while I’m not driving.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 9 Comments

dad/daughter/family/funny/messing with texas/road trip/texas/travel

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part I

I definitely did not take this while driving, NEVER!!

I woke up this morning 45 minutes past the set time we were supposed to leave and immediately panicked. DID DAD DIE OR SOMETHING? My dad is a punctual sort of man, while I am chronically late to everything so I assumed the worst. I walked into my parents’ room and lo-and-behold, my father is asleep and wrapped in blankets like a burrito of sadness. He briefly awoke when I came in the room because my dog got excited and snagged his tail on some plastic bags creating loud, cymbal-like noises every time he wagged it. For my dog – and I’m sure other dogs – a human in a standing position in the morning = food and walks. He sees me as a means to an end and feigns interest in my existence until he gets what he wants. Then he goes back to completely ignoring me and busies himself with chewing out the innards of his squeaky toys, probably imagining each one as my face.

I digress. I was so tired when I woke up this morning that it felt wrong and against nature to get up (more so than usual). I felt like a baby bear that had been woken up out of hibernation three months early. Starbucks staved off the caffeine-induced headache but not the familiar delirium that comes with lack of sleep.

I had to force my sister to say goodbye to me and even when she begrudgingly hugged me, she passive-aggressively brought up the time I got sick at college and used air quotes when she said, “sick”. I’ve apparently been rubbing off on her. Anyway, after forcing my sibling to show affection to me and saying goodbye to mom, we headed off.

The road trip has been uneventful for the most part. My dad temporarily blinded me from the glare on his phone but after saying loudly, “THAT IS SHINING RIGHT AT MY CORNEA, DAD” five times in a row, he figured out a good angle that allowed him to text and allowed me to drive without killing everybody.

Currently, my dad is drawing blood to see his blood sugar levels… while also driving. I’m not sure if this is safe, in fact, this seems like a not-great idea. This is worst than TEXTING and driving. This is drawing blood. AKA BIOHAZARDS ARE NOW FLOATING IN AND AROUND THE CAR. I don’t want to get some blood-borne disease from you, Dad. Put it away.

Oh good, he’s done now.

What else, oh well, he told me I was driving too slowly because I was driving the speed limit. He also criticized me for getting upset when a car cut in front of us, but I think that’s a bit hypocritical.

Other things that happened:

Me: “Dad, are you texting right now?”

Dad: “I could read a novel right now, we’re out in the middle of nowhere. In fact, I have done that. In a car without a radio. And I’m not texting, I’m writing an e-mail.”

…*times passes*….

Dad: “Hold the wheel, I need these eye drops now.”

– Daughter

————————————————————————————————————————-

So I had Daughter believing we were targeting a 0430 departure this morning, using the theory that, in so doing, we might actually leave by 0630. It was a solid deception plan while it lasted, but I made sure last night she knew we were going to shoot for 0700 instead.

I figured she was sufficiently scared with the earlier time that the later time would be a piece of cake, as it were.

Unfortunately, Dandy Dog had other ideas last night, as did my stomach.

I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I gave the Dog the remnants of the ham bone from our delayed New Year’s Meal (lest you think we tend to keep food that long). What can I say, his Mom was gone on extended errands in the afternoon yesterday, and he looked somewhat depressed. Plus, I wouldn’t see him for a week, and I wanted to plant a “Positive Vibe Dad Seed” with him since he will probably completely forget me after seven days’ absence.

Well, the piper had to be paid, and he came to call on me at about 2:00 a.m., when Dandy Dog woke me up with a reaching thump that translated means, “Dude, you’ve got about 23 seconds to open the back door or, I swear to God, all hell is going to break loose from my tail end. Understand? All hell. Need I say more?”

Dandy actually roused both Mom and me, because I soon as I was awake, whatever was bothering him was affecting me, as well.

Without revealing TMI, while Dandy was doing his thing in the yard, I . . . . (let’s just leave it at that).

The end result of all this middle of the night activity was a Crack O’ the Dawn departure at 0915 this morning. And this, after some debate about just blowing it off for today and attempting to begin anew tomorrow.

Nah. Let’s get some coffee and hit the road.

Within fifteen minutes of turning east on the mighty interstate, I had already seen a Ferrari and Pantera, and a couple of other classics motoring along. Nothing like SoCal roads mid-Sunday mornings.

And as the highway penetrated ever more deeply up into the desolate but beautiful Southwestern vistas, I strongly felt the urge to break out in a chorus of “This Land is Your Land.”

I didn’t, of course.

Rather, I punched up ESPN on the good ole blackberry and followed the NFL playoffs live, while driving, and emailing, and talking on the phone. The only thing missing was drinking and eating simultaneously.

I exaggerate. Never, ever text and drive. But don’t eat and drink if you do. Now that could be dangerous.

I’m not sure if Daughter expected erudite and witty conversation today, but I was more concerned about managing the possibility of making it to our intended destination (El Paso), while ensuring neither one of us became too irritated or tired.

I probably helped with the irritation part because I’m not wearing my hearing aids, which means I understand about every fourth word spoken, which necessitates frequent repetition.

Maybe that’s why Mom had a smile today when she said good-bye to me? As my eleven year old would say, “Hmmmm. . . .”

Unfortunately, much like Dandy Dog, I have been intestine-aly negotiating whatever is coursing through my system today, which means we have to stop every two hours (as opposed to stopping on the side of the road in emergencies – been there, done that. Can you say, “nature pee”?).

“Daughter, aren’t you hungry or tired?”

“No, Dad. I’m fine.”

“We’re stopping anyway. We need gas.”

“Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

Maybe tomorrow will be better. I’m sure it will be. After all, I’m foregoing Downton Freaking Abbey tonight to be with Daughter.

Now, that’s love!

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

arizona/burrito of sadness/el paso/family/funny/humor/new mexico/road trip/texas/travel

Jan

White Line Fever. . . .

“If I do this right, I will scare the bejesus out of that old dude in the Miata up ahead.”

Last year ~~Jere~~ an unnamed family member shared with me a theory of his regarding his take on a particular behavior he observed at stop lights. When he was buried ten or twelve cars deep in an intersection queue, he reckoned if everyone waiting in line collectively agreed to let off the brake and accelerate at the same time, then he wouldn’t then waste the odd 12.735 seconds sitting there until he could go.

Of course, the idea was that it made a difference anyway and would somehow improve all of our lots in life.

I didn’t want to spoil his originality of thought at the time, but I had been playing around with that same ~~stupid~~ ~~brilliant~~ ~~arcane~~ ~~worthless~~ idea myself for years, and had simply discarded it as unworkable within the current Muggle Conscript.

~~My God~~ Jeepers, if the Dog Scientists could not figure out the Perplexing Doorknob Principle, then how could we Muggles even hope to begin with this one?

Sorry, unnamed family member. I got there first, and it’s a freaking dead end!

Anyway, I bring this issue up since Daughter and I will embark upon our much-anticipated (for us), cross-country road trip in a couple of days, and I have noticed a disturbing up-tick in moronic driving activity over the past week or so that gives me pause that, perhaps, we may be destined to suffer together in the miles looming ahead of us as we traverse this great country of ours.

Or maybe not.

For example, please ‘splain to me, Lucy (note obscure, ancient TV reference, Daughter), the point in accelerating madly, in concert with darting in and out of traffic, in the midst of a standard SoCal rush hour commute when we are all advancing at the heady rate of approximately 7 miles per hour?

What’s the deal, man?

Fortunately (or not, depending on your perspective), Zen-me is in control most of the time these days, and I usually just turn up the radio a bit louder trying to figure out the lyrics to whatever song I happens to be playing.

I have found it to be a solid coping mechanism.

Zen-me, however, has a tendency to get pi upset, if startled. And to make matters worse, Zen-me currently drives one of the lowest visibility, low-profile vehicles currently on the road in Southern California — a very faded silver 92 Miata.

I simply do not possess enough fingers and toes to count the number of times I’ve almost been merged into, run over, or rear-ended by the scores of SUV Uberleuten patrolling our local freeways (using that term extraordinarily loosely, BTW).

It’s an E-Ticket Ride, all right (google it, youngsters), driving my car.

So, to compound the plethora of mindless extra short distance speed-demoning (MESDSD-ing) going on lately, I also have to deal with motorcycle “lane-splitting,” which requires a bravery all on its own (for the motorcyclist) and an acute perceptive awareness (for the automobile driver) in order to safely and sanely drive our roads.

Just google “motorcycle lane splitting” as I’m too lazy to explain it here.

To compound matters, over the years I have lulled myself into the delusion that, should an expected situation arise on the road while driving, I will have both the experience and adequate notice to deal with it.

Of course, that’s a complete crock of sh crapola.

And as if you couldn’t predict it, on the way home tonight some daring cycle rider split lanes in the middle of a steeply banked turn that requires many cars to dramatically slow to navigate. The guy was crazy.

And I was completely unprepared when this biker made his move, and Zen-me let loose a torrent of language that would make a sailor cringe (and I’m a sailor).

All from a guy who is currently reading The Dalai Lama’s Cat, no less!

Many apologies, Your Holiness.

Soon, however, Zen-me recovered, and continued the long trek home.

Surely, our 2800-mile journey next week will be one of enlightenment and contentment, with the sharing of ideas, hopes, and dreams.

Nah. There are morons everywhere. Let’s Motor!

– Dad

Dalai Lama/family/funny/morons/white lining

Jan

Old(er) People’s Writing Habits: Observations

Since my dad and mom were first introduced to the internet back when there was that terrifying alien mating call that dial-up made, they have been sprinting after technology but never quite getting to the finish line (the finish line being technological literacy). To be fair, Dad is the one who knows his way around a computer. It’s more my Mom who has the problems, which she will vehemently deny while asking me how to turn on the computer. I bought a book for so she would know how to use Facebook for her birthday. (I’m going to have to do a book review on that sometime.) She’s way better now than she used to be, she even has an iPad that she pretends to know how to use! Just kidding, my little sister taught her how to use it.

Anyway, here are a few things I’ve noticed old(er) people use in their writing:

Ellipses ……………
They love them. They eat them for breakfast. They’re married to them. Seriously, for every title my father writes, there is a 75% chance an ellipsis will sneak its way in there.

My dad’s posts featuring ellipsis marks:

When is Enough Enough? Probably Best Not to Answer. . . .

San Diego — We Have a Problem. . . . Probably Not

What I Didn’t Accomplish in 2012 and Other Random Thoughts. . . .

Wow! It’s a Little Nativity Scene. . . .

Has It Really Come To This? Really? Please. . . .

Cars Cannot Fly . . . .

For reference, I have only ONE blog post title with an ellipsis: Pale is the New…Nope. So, I win.. or something.

My mom likes to ellipsis the heck out of everything as well. These are some pearls she’s left on my Facebook wall:

“………….ahhhh michelle,,,,,,,,,,,,,,” <<<< Notice that she used commas on the second half because she thinks of herself as the e.e. cummings of Facebook, or she just wasn’t wearing her reading glasses.

“My shelly………” <<<< Don’t leave me hanging, Mom!

“Miss u………moved all my books and paraphernalia back into your room :)” <<<< Translation: “I miss you, your room is now the main storage facility for all of my things. <3”

Capital Letters
My dad loves a good CAPS lock button. I’ve noticed that his handwriting often veers into PERMA-YELLING with caps too. I actually had to instruct him not to write the titles of his blog posts in all CAPS because, who writes in all CAPS all the time, Dad? It’s the internet, you don’t have to yell. Use your inside voice.

Weird Emoticons
My mom dreams up these fantasy creatures from the interwebs that no self-respecting tween would ever come up with.

Samples:

:>}

:>(

:>)

: > )

Despite all of this, I love them. Even when I’m explaining for the millionth time how to upload photos.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Family/Humor

CAPS/ee cummings/ellipsis/Facebook/family/funny/grammar/humor/old(er)/olds/parents/what/writing habits

Dec

Wow! It’s a Little Nativity Scene. . . .

Yes. Those are cat stockings. We have lost our minds, but we don’t want to disappoint the cats, after all.

Contrary to Daughter’s Christmas Day post, no one gave up on the holiday this year. Just look at the stinking photo at the top of this blog.

Could anyone seriously label us as active non-participants when we hang up tiny little stockings for the cats, for crying out loud?

True, we didn’t get the tree up until three days before the event, and Yours Truly simply could not get motivated to drape the lights outside this one time. I know that Baby Jesus will surely exact his revenge on me at some later point (known only to him) for this transgression. It will happen when I least expect it, probably in August, while I’m digging around for yet another misplaced tool in the Clutter Zone known officially as our Garage (which has never, ever had a car parked inside of it).

I’m okay with that, as many of our neighbors have more than made up for our darkened yard.

What does that mean, you ask?

For context, this year our traditional post-Christmas-meal walk around the ‘hood with the dandy dog revealed that multiple other families in our semi-tidy suburban enclave (like me) completely blew off outside decorations. In their defense (and mine), this past month has been somewhat wetter than normal — “I see a few clouds over there this afternoon. Probably not a good idea to hang up the lights today.”

Yep. That kind of thing qualifies for an 80% chance of rain in SoCal.

But I also noticed that the hardy few who did manage to get things done — really, really got things done. This year’s contest revolved around not the amount of wattage you plastered all over the house and grounds, it was how much crap you could cram into the front yard, side yard, roof, entrance way, driveway, etc.

Now for us, when I’m on a roll, I usually set up the standard Nativity Scene, a couple of (slightly rusty) lighted deer, some rope lights, and if I’m feeling really ambitious, a lighted spiral tree. I generally am able to assemble and place everything during the course of an entire Saturday, and then I spend the balance of the next 45 days re-anchoring various bits and pieces about a thousand times since even the vibrations from the dog walking in the yard tend to knock most of the stuff down.

And you read that right. Once everything is semi-firmly planted, it stays there through most of ~~Februrary~~ January. I figure if I’m going to devote eight hours to rig it, the expected return on investment is about six weeks.

Comments from passers-by turn from, “My, they certainly keep the Christmas spirit alive,” to, “Do these freaks have no shame? Why hasn’t the HOA sent them a letter? For God’s sakes, it’s February. But I do like the Baby Jesus algae halo.”

But back to the reality of this season and our afore-mentioned neighborly displays. I’m generally fine with a few Costco/Target/Wal-Mart inspired inflatables/animals/trees/Santa’s/Anime Nativity scenes/candy canes/snowmen/etc., but not all piled together, desperately vying for attention as they sway to and fro, blinking on and off, with the faint danger you might lapse into a synaptic fit if you stare too long.

It can be nauseous.

These yards are the artistic equivalent of those empty gas station lot sales filled with Velvet Elvis portraits/carpets/shawls/flags/etc. Actually, that gives me an idea . . . .

So, I suppose in some respects we did celebrate the holiday in an understated way this time around. But we didn’t mail it in, as Daughter suggests. It was just different this year, because of circumstances beyond our control. Though I have missed one or two Christmases over the years because I was overseas somewhere, this was the first year one of the kids was not able to make it home. That was the real change this time around.

Everyone is also growing up — which means that almost everyone in the family can legitimately drink alcohol at dinner, instead of Martinelli’s Cider! (I had both.)

And we did have lights.

Early one evening last week as darkness fell, Mom crept outside in her bathrobe (it was a pajama day for her — I never have pajama days, BTW) and carefully wove a small string of solar-powered lights into the branches of our half-dead dwarf apple tree in the front yard. It was quite appropriate, because this pathetic little string of bulbs was about as half-dead as the tree they adorned.

Most nights they light up for about twenty minutes, if we’re lucky.

I was ashamed for us initially, but only momentarily. The more I thought about it, I became convinced these lights were somehow fitting for the tenor of our celebration this season. And it was kind of funny, too, but not in a Home Alone sort of way. Home Alone was a lot funnier.

I also dutifully placed the luminarias on the sidewalk on Christmas Eve, and most of them dutifully extinguished themselves within an hour of lighting (while many, many others up and down the street lasted all night). Note to self: buy longer candles or go electric.

But I still counted the whole luminaria thing as a success for us, since none of our bags caught fire this time around as they had in years past.

And that Little Nativity Scene I mentioned in the title? It’s from an old episode of M*A*S*H, where Radar is performing an examination of Colonel Blake’s ear during a physical. As he peers into the murky depths of the Colonel’s ear, he exclaims, “Wow. It’s a little Nativity Scene.” It’s the second funniest line of the entire series.

The first? Colonel Flagg (the CIA agent) sits down next to Klinger, looks at him, and says, “Hey, up close you’re a guy.”

Klinger responds, “Far away, too.”

So, Daughter, take a break from your post-apocalyptic Bauhausian sculptured perspective of Christmas at home. It’s all around you; it’s just not the same.

And don’t forget to clean your ears before New Year’s.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 5 Comments

Christmas/family/funny/lights/luminaria/MASH

Dec

My Family Gave Up This Christmas

Regarding yesterday’s post: my mom, aka the Arbiter of Justice, told me I was being “mean”. Because there is nothing worse than a parent shaking her head slowly in utter disappointment at your actions, I feel it is necessary to say this regarding SheepPeople (officially BlackSheep/BlueSheep): the music video is great, the song is great, and the people in it are [put synonym for ‘great’ here]. I’m actually friends with one or two of the band members, depending on your definition of “friend” (my definition is exchanging cat photos and we aren’t on that level yet sadly). I’m a Judgey McJudgerson when it comes to things that smell of hipster pretension, but this isn’t that ~~said the Cat in the Hat~~. The only thing that really gets my goat (or sheep?) is that the band isn’t part of a secret viral marketing campaign for a mattress company… but I digress. If you haven’t watched it yet, watch BlackSheep/BlueSheep’s holiday music video now.

————————————————————————————–

Every year, right around Christmas Eve, my mom threatens to not “do” Christmas next year. It usually happens when we are expecting guests and the house is still in a state of disarray. Not Hoarders-level disarray but cluttery and un-Martha-Stewarty. In spite of her threats, Christmas spirit finds a way to permeate our household; the garlands come out, the lights go up, the creepy Santa sculptures are placed hither and thither, and the stockings that play eerily high-pitched Christmas music are hung on the mantle. The animals in our house usually acquire a holiday-themed bow or two. It’s a precarious process but a few scratches and yowls later, they emerge as furry Christmas angels… intent on destroying me and their fashionable accessories. They care nothing for the sanctity of Christmas and only seek to annihilate anything that has string-like parts, appears to be furry and squeaky-toy like, or smells vaguely of cat-nip – aka every Christmas decoration in our house. This year though, there wasn’t much for our pets to destroy because my mom followed through with her threat and didn’t “do Christmas”. Our home is an empty cave, devoid of Christmas spirit save for my sister hoarding miniature candy canes in her room.

We actually did put up our Christmas tree… a day before Christmas Eve… but still, it’s up! And my mom didn’t have that Christmas-induced crazed look in her eyes when I asked if she was stressed out so maybe not doing Christmas should be our new Christmas tradition.

My dad also threw in the towel this year. He is the one in charge of writing the family Christmas letter and it usually gets a few chuckles out of me and our nearest and dearest. He didn’t “get around to” sending out the letter last year so this year, he recycled last year’s and then put bullet points at the end with small, one-sentence updates that allegedly encompass an entire year. I feel sad because my accomplishments during this year could encompass an entire book but I got a one-sentence blip instead. I’m kind of a big deal, Dad. Get with it.

My brother couldn’t even come home for Christmas because he’s on-call for work. I guess since he didn’t really give up he is exempt from being a Christmas failure. I’m sad he won’t be home to collect my gift to him: two entire cases of beer. 48 beers, each one individually wrapped. Hah, not. They’re still in their cardboard homes. I plan on throwing a bow on top of the cardboard boxes to make it more festive. It is Christmas after all.

Merry Christmas. I got you booze.

Little kids can’t really “give up” on Christmas because it is not in their nature. But my sister pretty much did. And she’s not even old and jaded like the rest of us. Well, maybe she is now. When I asked her what she wanted for Christmas she said, “money,” without even looking up from her tv show. Another Grinch moment happened when I opened a little present on Christmas Eve that turned out to be money. The first thing out of my sister’s mouth: “I NEVER GET MONEY.” I viewed this as a “teachable moment” and tried to tell her about the meaning of Christmas and holiday spirit and she gave me the equivalent of a pre-teen middle finger: rolled eyes.

And then there’s me. I love me a good, strong holiday season. But work has been both a time-suck and a little bit of a joy-suck. It’s hard to feel festive when customers don’t understand how lines work. Or when they insult the displays of food you put up. Or when they are grumpy because they have candy canes stuck up their butts. (I guess I would be grumpy too, if that were the case.)

I finally, finally felt holiday joy yesterday morning when I tried on new boots. Thinking back on it, it could have just been the boots. I like to think it was holiday spirit taking hold of me and not the thrill of participating in capitalism. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t smell or hear anything because I was so congested, I HAD BOOTS. And also Christmas! Of course. Christmas.

After I got my boots, Christmas spirit/capitalism was running through my veins. Or maybe it was the aspirin kicking in so my headache was less distracting. Whatever. Regardless, I harnessed my newfound holiday joy/freedom from my headache and used it to wrap presents. I imagined each present as an art piece – simple yet elegant – but the execution went terribly wrong and resulted in some truly heinous paper travesties. I cut the paper too short in many instances and had to use a patch of scrap paper to cover up the holes. I’m sure a blind orangutan could wrap better. But it’s the inside that counts. Or so I’ve been told.

“Yeah… nevermind, I don’t want that present.”

I got my Dad two presents this year: 1) some random car book he wanted and 2) animal hand-puppet temporary tattoos. I’m way more excited about the second one and I think he is too. Seriously, I never have to draw a face on my hand again to make a hand puppet!! I can just temporary-tattoo that sucker right on and use it to talk to customers at my job: “GO AWAY.”

I wasn’t joking.

– Daughter

Family/Humor

booze/Christmas/fail/family/funny/hand-puppet/humor/presents/public apologies/redneck Christmas/sick/wrapping

Dec

Christmas Shopping with an Eleven-Year-Old and Other Lessons in New Age Economics

Yep. I think we have enough for a shiny new pencil.

When I was just a tike many years ago, my Mom would take me to Woolworth’s so I could do my Christmas shopping. For those of you unfamiliar with the name, Woolworth’s is now situated nicely in that big Heavenly Mall in the sky, kept company by Montgomery Ward, Mervyn’s, and many other large American retailers that have shuttered over the past few decades. But in its heyday, it filled a special niche for the adolescent shopping crowd with $1.67 burning in their pockets with which to buy gifts.

As an aside, Mom used to take me for lunch at the S&W Cafeteria in the same shopping center as Woolworth’s, where my entire meal consisted of a dinner roll and a pat of butter. On really special occasions, we would stop at a proto-fast food joint called the Golden Point. I don’t remember a single thing about the fare. I do recollect, however, that the neatest thing about the whole experience was riding in our old Studebaker because the glove compartment door had two indentations molded in where you could place a soda!

How cool were these ur-cup holders? Not very. They were only useful when stationary. Developing real cup holders would take many years of effort by the dog scientists to perfect. Thank God we beat the Russians to it.

Well, back to our story. Woolworth’s was also known as the “Five and Dime,” and it was quite possible for the “young me” to purchase Christmas presents for the entire family on my limited budget of meager allowance savings.

Of course, back then I had to boil it down to the basics. I could easily convince myself that one of my siblings would truly appreciate a new Bic pen, or some bobby pins, or some such. My focus areas in the store were solely in the (cheap) stationery and beauty aids sections. I even tried to leave myself at least a nickel left over so that I could buy a pack of baseball or, I guess, football cards at that time of year. We then went home, where I completed the process with my crappy adolescent gift wrapping efforts.

Ah, God Bless Us, Every One.

Today, I spent a couple of hours (otherwise known as “Quality Time”) shopping with Daughter’s Little Sister. She possessed a grand total of ten dollars to spend on Christmas presents, and she waved the wad of rolled up cash in her hand like a magic scepter, until I made her give it to me for safe keeping.

I figure, with inflation, her ten bucks was roughly equivalent to my $1.67 back in the day, so I was curious about how far it would go, secure in knowing that I was the financial back-up should our mathematics go wildly awry.

After making an initial sweep through the store, we roughly calculated where we needed to spend our time looking — in the Clearance Section. That meant almost 97.6% of the store was too rich for her budget. But even the Close-Out aisle wasn’t exactly affordable, so we made another round to look for specials.

It’s an interesting way to buy presents — it’s completely driven by price and not necessarily by what someone wants. In fact, the attendant reasoning goes something like this: “Wow. That’s only $1.99. I think (fill in the sibling name here) might like it.”

The goal is to buy something first, and then mentally convince yourself it will work somehow with the intended family member.

My typical response: “I haven’t seen your Mom wear a nose ring for quite some time now, but it’s probably worth a shot.”

And so it went. With a little imagination and a couple of BOGO’s, Daughter’s Little Sister managed to secure gifts for everyone and had about two dollars left over for good measure. She tried to spend it later on a toy for the dog’s stocking, but the “squeekies” were too expensive at the pet supply store. However, Dad came to the rescue later with the purchase of a bag of dried lamb lungs.

I don’t know about you, but I start salivating when I’m looking at Christmas stockings over the fireplace filled with slaughterhouse extras.

Somehow in the midst of the shopping drama, Daughter’s Little Sister managed to pick something out for Dad, as well. She hid it in her purse until we reached the check-out register, and I thought I’d save the talk about potential shoplifting charges for another day. In terms of total time spent, we tallied approximately 13 minutes of shopping, and almost 25 minutes standing in line to pay.

Never make someone wait to give you money, but that’s another blog.

So, after our big outing, we stopped for a Frosty at Wendy’s, where we congratulated ourselves on a successful expedition.

It doesn’t seem so long ago to me now, but I suppose it was, when Daughter and I made a similar trip when she was at a slightly younger age. The destination was Wal-Mart, and even as a little girl Daughter was always fairly good about not asking for toys or candy. (Nowadays it’s a different story, of course.)

On the way out of the store, Younger Daughter and I took a short-cut through the Toy Section. Prominently featured was a large Batman display, surrounded by shelves and shelves of accessories. I didn’t think much of it as we passed by, but I did ask Daughter what she thought of it later while we sat outside in the car.

Her reply was a classic that will remain a Christmas memory in our family forever: “I don’t like Mean Things. I only like Pretty Things.”

Well said, Daughter. Well said.

Have another pat of butter with that gluten-free roll.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 5 Comments

Christmas/daughter/family/father/funny/humor/Wal-Mart/Woolworth's

Dec

Lyrics and Other Things I Can’t Really Hear

Dad, do you have your ears on? Dad? Dad?

Outside of some bad school pics posted elsewhere, I’ve got terrible hearing.

When I relay this malady to people, I try to make the very particular distinction that I can actually hear just fine — I simply cannot understand much of what’s said to me. It’s an important difference — and one that I cherish.

My family is under the misconception that my poor auditory abilities are directly related to a lackadaisal approach to (hearing — let’s make sure I’m clear here) protection from my younger years. You see, I spent a substantial amount of time working in the vicinity of jet aircraft, and my audiology charts from that era detail a steep decline over multiple frequencies. Well, maybe there’s some truth to that version (okay, a lot of truth), but there’s more to the story.

What wasn’t so apparent, especially to me, was that I really hadn’t clearly heard many elements of meaningful communication details over much of my life. I found this out quite by accident when I was fitted with my first hearing aids. It was like watching the Wizard of Oz — you know, one minute the world is in black and white and the next, well, it’s in Technicolor. Except the analogy applies to ears.

When I was outfitted with aids, I suddenly could hear birds singing, children laughing (or screaming in our house), and musical lyrics (wow, ColdPlay is pretty clever, Daughter, but I don’t find Chris Martin all that cute — what’s with his teeth?).

In fact, I could hear sounds I never knew existed previously.

What’s that annoying clicking sound, I wondered? My damn ankles, it turned out. The chirping and honking? Our zebra finches (geez, those stinkin’ birds are loud). That roar? How long has the exhaust on this car been broken? Believe me, the list goes on. . . .

You see, my earliest hearing aids were simply amplifiers, and they made everything louder (and not necessarily more distinct). As you might imagine, I quickly grew tired of my new, disturbingly noisy world, and my tiny ear devices were soon relegated to the nether regions off the bathroom soap drawer.

Well, that was many years ago now, and I am now currently in possession of the latest Phonak noise cancelling devices on the planet. But my hearing is decidedly worse these days, so it’s about even, I suppose.

Though many sounds are within my range, plenty are not. A short list would include: most alarm clocks (especially wristwatches), cat meows, and, most importantly, the clearly enunciated words eminating from most of my family.

Oh, I can hear what they say just fine, I just don’t understand most of it.

This situation has led to multiple incarnations of the following conversation:

“Mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble, goobley-goo.”

“What?”

“Goobley, boobley, mumble, mumble, poo.”

“What?”

“Dad, do you have your ears on? Mumble, MUMBLE.”

“Okay, I’ll take the trash out.”

“That’s fine, but I wanted to borrow twenty dollars.”

Things like that multiplied many, many times a day.

On the one hand, I have no shame in turning on Closed Captioning for many television shows these days. On the other, I’ve become a constant source of annoyance within my immediate household. While I don’t mind annoying my closest family members (I really don’t actively try to, anyway), I generally try not to embarrass them in social situations (outside of my attire, that is).

In order to appear socially engaged means I have to nod mindlessly while pretending to listen to Daughter’s friends recount their latest clubbing episode. (“Gee, your Dad really gets it. I could never tell my Dad that! How does he know so much about shoes?”)

Or, I stare blankly. “Dad, are you going to answer?”

I didn’t know there was a question.

Out of sheer necessity, I have become a good lip reader, but that ability actually requires me to focus on the speaker. I am still working on that part.

But in one of those (not necessarily cruel) twists of family fate, when Daughter was slightly older than a mere babbling baby, and certainly before she could talk, we taught her basic sign language for communication purposes. She knew how to sign for “please” and “thank you” and “more,” but her favorite was “milk.”

The sign for milk in our house was to mimic the motions of milking a cow. Daughter’s siblings mastered this sign easily, if I remember correctly. But somehow, Daughter reinterpreted the motion as climbing a ladder, or scaling a mountain. She concocted such an exaggerated gesticulation it would have made Marcel Marceau blush.

Rather than correct her, we just “went with the flow.” Not a big deal.

It was hilarious, and is an often forgotten memory during these hearing-challenged days of mine.

And regarding my hearing deficiencies, we all need to remember what goes around comes around.

I remember those years of changing my kids’ diapers, for instance. Daughter, payback is coming and it is ~~hell~~ not pretty.

– Dad

annoying/ColdPlay/family/funny/hearing aids

Dec

A Picture of My Dad in Grade School

I love digging around in my parents stuff because I imagine myself as a stalker; a stalker of the past, if you will. I’m also just nosy and enjoy knowing personal tidbits I can bring up when wine is flowing at a family function. ~~Also, I like finding out their flaws so I can one day usurp them.~~ Once I read my dad’s end-of-the-year yearbook entries from high school and quite a few of them were from the lady variety. Take note, Father.

I decided to post another classic photo of my dad because it makes me feel like an archaeologist when I find this sort of beauty just gathering dust (the tooth gap, the side eye = brilliance). My dad is a quiet, more introverted dude so you really have to annoy him to get him to talk about his childhood. Even then, he will usually pretend to ignore you or say “WHAAA..? ~~GET OFF MY LAWN!!~~” in his old man voice. His hearing issues can fill an entire blog post – but, I’ll save that one for later.

Anyway, this picture reminds me of when I was in 7th grade, otherwise known as the peak of my awkward transitional stage, when I had lost a canine tooth. It was quite late into 7th grade when this happened and I’m certain everybody else had lost their baby teeth by this point. Not me though, the universe had special plans.

Just imagine, a little mousey 7th-grader with a gap-toothed smile, freckles, and enough social anxiety and meekness to be passed over by bullies because she was too easy of a target, mere child’s play.

Now, there’s a narrow period in a person’s life where he or she can look cute missing teeth but I had passed that point. Cuteness gone, I was the human equivalent of a jug of expired milk disgusting the public with my hockey-player smile. I resembled a pre-teen drug dealer. Not that I was cool enough to be one. (Old news.) I don’t know how I didn’t implode from awkwardness. God knows I gave public speeches that put my holey grin on display but people politely declined to comment. Thanks people of the 7th grade!

Gap teeth on little kids = “AW!”

Gap teeth on 7th grader = “That poor thing, already on drugs at such a young age.”

– Daughter

Childhood Trauma

awkward/dad/dugs/family/gap teeth/growing up/humor/me/vintage photo

Dec

Things I Said in Bars — Are You Kidding Me?

That looks expensive. Don’t you have anything in paper cups?

Senior Editor’s Note: This post and its contents have not been verified for their veracity. Furthermore, I am very conversational, just not with losers, Dad! I don’t waste my wit on the weak and ineffectual. I make fun of the people who are asking for it. And at the very least, my goal is to make people laugh in bars and steer them away from the usual, “So, come here often?” Because in what boring world is that ever a good way to start a great conversation? (Never, Dad. Never. Maybe you would have dated more if you complimented girls on their doll-like hair. Don’t be a hater, Dad.) – Daughter

It was with a slight sense of bemusement that I reviewed Daughter’s post recounting her random bar-hopping, anti-social, non-conversational interaction activities during a recent evening out with “the crowd.”

Trust me, I frequently witness the endless prepatory steps that eventually lead to her departure into the dark Southern California night for places not frequented by me and, quite frankly, I’ve never seen so much effort exerted by someone who seems to increasingly resemble Bettie Page, no matter what she wears.

In contrast, whenever I head out for a “special evening,” the usual critique thrown in my direction is, “You’re really going to wear that, Dad?” Well, I figure I can get away with almost any outfit if I’m covered with my Trusty Turkish Friend.

What interested me most about Daughter’s post-modernistic tale is how dramatically different it is than my own experience at the same age many years ago.

Though not destitute, I think it would be fair to characterize my financial situation in college as dramatically challenged. No, I didn’t walk four miles through snow in my bare feet to go to school, but I was known to make surreptitious after-hours sweeps through some of the academic halls to grab empty soda bottles so that I could return them for the deposit money. I did have a car (the actively rusting shell of a Chevy Vega), but I never remember having a full tank of gas. I do remember, however, asking my soccer teammates to pitch in for fuel on Saturday mornings before heading out to the field to play. Between the four of us, we usually managed to scrape together something in the neighborhood of $1.37, which bought enough gas to transport us out and back with about ten cents to spare.

Many times I skipped the team lunch at McDonald’s because buying a meal there was a huge deal for me financially. It was tight.

So, work with me here. Given that sort of draconian revenue situation, Daughter’s “modern clubbing” was never a real option back then. It would have required both self-confidence and shekals — I possessed neither.

Instead, a big Friday night consisted of getting together with a couple of my friends (no girlfriends yet for us losers), walking over to the Student Union, and bowling a couple of games, maybe augmented with some foosball (look it up in Wiki, children). I seem to remember the cost per student in the bowling alley was all of 25 cents per game. I could swing that.

There were a couple of key elements, however, that made the night more enjoyable and less costly. First, we always designated a “beer frame” in each game, the loser of which was on the hook for a round later. So it was especially important that one of the friends in the group was more pathetic than the rest of us at bowling — usually not too hard to orchestrate.

Second, we walked everywhere. Remember walking, kids? No car, no ga$, no DUI, no problem. It made things infinitely easier.

Third, our favorite pub sat just off campus, and was usually fairly empty since it was primarily frequented by graduate students and other assorted freaks of nature. I would never describe it as popular. Homely, yes. Typically no girls, bummer. But it was a jewel.

Why? The main attraction was 32oz draft beer served in wax-lined paper cups. These drinking vessels apparently went the way of disco in the early 80s, but they were common back then. No, it wasn’t actually the cup itself that was attractive. But every successive refill cost ten cents less than the previous drink. What an absolutely marvelous marketing idea, and we took full advantage of it. Plus, this place had a small grill behind the bar, and they could cook up some good eats cheaply. To order anything, small pads of paper were strategically scattered on the bar, and you wrote out what you wanted on a slip (using a real pen or pencil) and then handed it to the barkeeper.

No iPhones, no texts, no Twitter, no Stinkin’ Facebook, no menus (a blackboard above the grill listed the available fare), no iPads — just a lot of “no’s.” Real basic.

So, for about three bucks and change (I usually split the cost of food with a friend), it was a full night out, and I would wander home in the wee hours with a full (and slightly queasy tummy) and a warm buzz.

Today, I spend about the same amount during a typical visit to Starbucks, even without buying one of Daughter’s favorite “foo-foo” drinks (that I have no idea how to order).

True, these nights of yore featured little of the bar-scene give and take that, apparently, makes up the bulk of Daughter’s forays into the night. But I also avoided the resulting contretemps such ventures seem to generate for her.

In comparison, my experience was somewhat boring and never, ever featured Lesbian Christmas Bingo Dancing (LCBD), but it suited me just fine and reinforced that all-encompassing maxim of my life: Never be ashamed of what you can afford.

Believe me, I’ve got plenty of other things to be ashamed about, but I’ll keep those secrets between me and Bettie Page.

– Dad

bars/college/family/funny/lesbian/money/poor

Dec

I Have Met My Match, and He is 15 Years Old

I am a money pig. Feed me!

I dabble in project cars.

Much like “gardening” (in our yard it’s pulling weeds, actually), this hobby provides great therapy for me, as it takes my mind off the stress of work and paying bills — and it’s usually cheaper than what I imagine a ~~shrink~~ psychiatrist probably costs. Of the thirty or forty some odd vehicles that have passed through my hands over the years, I generally break even or even make a bit (usually a pittance) after the final tally.

And I’m still sane, sort of.

I prefer using the term “investment” when I speak of this automotive pursuit — that lends it an air of legitimacy within the household and generally prevents closer financial scrutiny. Actually, we have something of a compromise going in our home — I won’t scrutinize the Target bill or squawk about whatever “Real Housewives of . . . .” episode is airing, if you don’t mind me parking a derelict in the driveway now and again.

It seems to work for the most part.

However, the latest installment of my own “Monster Garage” concerns itself with the relatively recent purchase of an older Alfa Romeo GTV. Understand that I have owned a succession of Alfa convertibles, but I have always desired a coupe. In the parlance of cardom, its condition is known as a “driver” — runs okay and looks okay, but needs about $10K to get to the next level. Probably more, to be honest. This point becomes important later.

Even better for me, no one currently living at home is capable of driving a manual transmission, and the Alfa has an old school five-speed.

Sidebar driving story: Daughter, like Son, learned to drive in my old Ford Ranger pick-up, with an automatic transmission. She then graduated at some point in high school to the consummate SoCal young girl ride of choice — a VW Cabrio. Of Daughter’s two or three non-childhood meltdown crying episodes I can remember, one was specifically associated with a learner’s permit driving incident during which she almost killed both of us (not really, but it was nearly a wreck). Of course, I made her stay behind the wheel and get us back to the house afterwards. After all, developing the ability to see through tears when on the road is an important skill to develop. Yes, Dad can wield the cruelest cut.

Anyway, before my last business trip, I answered an electronic bulletin board ad for someone looking for exactly the type of Alfa I have sitting in front of the house. You see, since Daughter has been readmitted back into her Lesbian Cult College, I have been trying to figure out how I can have my cake (cars) and eat it, too (take care of children, shelter family, buy food, fund college tuition, etc.). My Plan B is to sell the Alfa, and buy another piece of less expensive cake in the future, once Daughter has degree firmly in hand.

Plan A is to have my cake and eat it, too.

So, almost immediately after sending an email to the potentially interested party, I was bombarded with electronic inquiries about the condition of the car, where it was located, how much I wanted, etc. I was a bit unprepared for the sheer volume of responses, but did my best to accommodate.

All the emails I received were sent from an iPhone. The prospective buyer seemed somewhat sophisticated.

Since I was dealing with this while on the road, I finally just told the guy where the car was parked so that he could go by himself and check it out. I didn’t think much more about it until a couple of days later when my wife called and said some kid knocked at the front door and said he was there to look at the Alfa. The whole time I never mentioned anything to her about any of this, because many of these car folks are Kooks and rarely show up, much less with actual legal tender in hand.

But when my wife said “kid,” she really meant it. She said the tyke she talked to looked like he was about ten years old. I just figured he was there with his father and, again, kind of dismissed it. Further emails followed, asking about a test drive, when I would return from my travels, if I could leave the key with someone — that kind of thing. I just told him to swing by on Sunday, when I would be back in town.

As luck would have it, I was able to return a day early.

While I was on the phone in the front yard early Saturday afternoon, a little kid walked up the sidewalk and approached me. He was there to see the Alfa, he said. He’d been emailing me, he said. He was very interested, he said.

“How old are you?” I said.

“Fifteen. My Mom’s parked up the street a ways.”

Really? Shouldn’t you be riding around on a Razor or something, I thought.

This was, indeed, weird. But I figured, what the he heck, I’ll roll with it.

His mother was standing by the car, and I wasn’t quite sure if I should be talking to her or to Junior. On the one hand, I didn’t want to discourage a young man (term used very loosely here) who clearly was somewhat knowledgeable about classic cars. On the other we were talking about laying out about $7K for this particular example.

I asked him how old he was.

Fifteen. Yep. That made me feel better.

Whatever. I explained to Mom that the Alfa wasn’t really a suitable teen car, that it would be finicky and difficult, and in the end would definitely not be trustworthy or reliable.

Turns out, it was just what they were looking for.

I told them I hadn’t actually decided to sell, and they said they would tally everything up and get back to me in a few days. But they were definitely looking for a project car, and they definitely wanted an Alfa.

You see, “back in the day” when I was fifteen, I could afford any type of “work in progress” car, as long as it was around $100. That was the reality of my financial world back then. Heck, if you factor in inflation over thirty years, it’s probably not all that much different now. So, I contextually I was kind of incredulous I was even having this conversation with a ninth grader.

That was yesterday.

Today, I received an offer.

From the kid.

He wrote he was prepared to give me $6700 cash today, and could come by this afternoon to pick up the car. Then came the kicker: “You yourself said you didn’t have the time, energy, or funds to bring it back to its former glory.”

Snap! And he does.

I replied back that I would let him know something by Tuesday, as I hadn’t yet made up my mind to sell.

Not too long ago this entire affair would have made me somewhat melancholy. Now, I am merely bemused — at my own circumstances, at the kid’s, and at the reality that, in the end, he’s probably right.

I’m thinking I’ll probably just hold onto the GTV for awhile, since Plan C for Daughter’s tuition is to write a best-selling book on Lesbian Christmas Bingo Dancing. The world needs something like that, I feel, just like it needs old cars which will never regain their youth.

Like the GTV, I’m a “driver.” And I’m okay with that.

– Dad