How to Handle Door to Door Fundamentalists

Honest to God Story!

Ever been hassled by well meaning religious fundamentalists? I had these guys at my door every Sunday afternoon for about four months. I didn't want to be mean, but after 12 weeks or so, I had had enough. I told my oldest and at the time only daughter, not yet three, to go to her room for awhile. I took care for her to know that she wasn't punished, but Dad had some business to take care of business, business I didn't want her to see.

The house we lived in at the time was an old Craftsman style with sheer embroidered curtains covering a large glass front door. It was difficult to see through from a distance, but as you approached the door, in the shade of the porch, the entire living room was clearly visible. As soon as my daughter was in her room and occupied, I promptly removed every stitch of clothing I had on and stood, legs slightly spread, arms folded, in front of the large glass door. I recall giggling as the team of evangelists approached and how I was breifly distracted by the mesmerizing patterns the rays of sunlight created on my naked body. A loud sound from just outside on the walkway to the house redirected my attention, "Oh Jesus! Oh Lord!" a fat well dressed Lady of about 60 shouted as she flailed her arms about. "What's wrong?" the others with her asked, extemely concerned, one even supporting her. "SCORE!", I thought "SHE SAW!" "We have to go!" the fat lady frantically demanded, gasping for air forcing her past the others in her retinue. "But he's a nice man" protested one of the team hell bent on saving me. "No we have to go!" she insisted refusing to answer why, when they demanded an explaination. She was apparently too embarrassed to tell them what she saw. Like clockwork, as I finished dressing, my daughter came out to ask if I was finished. I looked at the slowly retreating shaken evangelists and replied terribly satisfied, "Yep, I think I'm finished!" I didn't see them again.

Blue Haired Babe

My wife is Asian Indian with very dark wavy brown hair. Or at least it was until she started greying at 16 years of age. She's been dying it ever since the same dark brown she was born with. That is until the pharmacy she went to yesterday ran out of that particular shade of brown and she switched to black. Half an hour after returning home, a raven haired Daya emerged from the bathroom complaining her hair was blue. It looked black to me and I assured her it was. So anyway, hair done, at Daya's command, we headed to the gym, 'cause I said something about how we both had gained a few pounds this past week and she complained that she didn't and I said while pointing, "Yeah you did" and then she wouldn't talk to me... But to make a long story short, we're going to the gym right. And everything is fine, good workout and all. But as we're leaving the gym, the sun came out, a real shocker in New England, and when it hit Daya's newly dyed hair a gorgeous blue tint could be easily seen all over the front of her hair where the grey was peaking out from under a very thin veil of black dye. "Wow, that is blue" I said. Really?" a distraught Daya asked. "Yeah, really blue" I said. "Oh man. I told you!" she complained. "No it's kind sexy", I honestly told her. "Really? You think so?" Daya asked as she tossed her hair a bit and climbed into the car with me. "Yeah, it looks like that hot young gal that shows up at some event with a really old guy look. You know that man wish I could afford a date ;like that kinda gal look" "Oh so I look like a hooker?" Daya snapped at me. "No!", I paused and continued, "No. Hookers have a really bad hair with roots ands stuff look. Call girls are hot man, really hot." "Sometimes you just don't know when to shut up!" Daya seethed and continued, "You just couldn't leave it at - it looks sexy or great or whatever. You just had to keep talking, huh?" I attempted a recovery, "I'm talking Park Avenue call..." "Just shut up and drive, will you!", she shouted at me and demanded we head to the pharmacy". "Gonna get more blue dye?" I excitedly asked. "Just SHUT UP!" was all she said.

Advice to Young Men Considering Marriage

To Asian Indian Women
I've discovered a lot of books offering advice to expectant Dad's, Expectant Mom's, Mother-in-law guides, Newlywed guides and so on. But I've yet to find one offering advice from an experienced author for WHITE GUYS WHO MARRY ASIAN INDIAN WOMEN. So, I'm on it. I've already made my way through the first three chapters in their entirety and proudly offer them here as a teaser for the book when some lucky publisher discovers this blog and pays me 1.7 million dollars advance for the exclusive rights.

Chapter One: Considering
Don't Do It!

Chapter Two: Proposal
Dumb-ass. I told you not to do it.

Chapter Three: Preparing to Meet the In-Laws
Ok moron. You're gonna need to get into shape, work hard, build stamina and strength 'cause you're gonna need it. You have no idea what awaits you man. It's ugly, it's intense and won't stop coming at you, like a mongoose on a snake. That's right, you're a bog white snake (Ooo I just got that analogy) and they're vicious brown ass mongooses that don't eat meat, but will gladly chew on you and spit the bloody remains into little holes in the ground they call toilets. Oh and you're gonna Prilosec or something similar 'cause they're gonna attack you from the inside out with chemical weapons they call food. Seriously, stamina, strength and Prilosec. Only then will you ... no wait, bourbon and beer ... stamina, strength, Prilosec, bourbon and beer, and only then will you be ready to meet the future-in-laws.

Chapter Four: Meeting the In-Laws
Chapter Five: Meet the Family, All 6,000 of them
Chapter Six: What's a Foi, Fua, Gacci .....
Chapter Six: Meet the Community
Chapter Seven: The Wedding
Chapter Eight: Meet the Gods, All 6,000 of them
Chapter Nine: Who Owns the Kids?
Chapter Ten: Family Vacations

There are more chapters. But they, along with this post, will be added to a new blog dedicated to this topic. Link appearing here soon.

Camping With Daughters Part I

Nearly a decade ago I asked if the family would like to go camping in Colorado. I was really surprised by their reaction. They were so excited to go. So, during slow hours at the shop, I hit the internet and started collecting data on campgrounds and wilderness areas to hike. When I got home late that night, I discovered Daya and the older girls had also been doing their homework and were equally excited to show me what they had found, a long list of cabins with swimming pools and jacuzzis near trendy seasonal shopping areas. "But that's not camping!" I complained to a confused family. "Camping involves tents and pork and beans with spam and hot dogs...." Daya interrupted, "Spam!?". "Where do we go to the bathroom?" The girls asked. "There'll be outhouses, I checked", I proudly reassured them. "Outhouses! No way!" complained one daughter. "Where do we take a shower?" another asked. "Look in streams.", I was excited to show them in full color, as I pulled up a site on the PC. "Is there electricity for hair dryers?" one asked and the other two looked on hopefully.

In the end a compromise was reached. We camped in tents half the time, near small tourist towns that had a waffle house where the girls could use a flushing toilet before we headed out by car to a suitable hiking area. Suitable usually meant well-marked, nearly paved, stair-like trails. But it was fun just the same. We saw a lot of mountains, the great Sand Dune National park, dug for fossils, visited caves and ghost towns in between 5 star restaurants and fast food joints with flushing toilets. And those precious nature-filled moments at the break of Dawn when my 9 years old niece, pawned off on us by my stay-vacation seeking sister, would ask if I had a gun to kill the stupid birds that were waking her up. Oh the memories.

I particularly enjoyed the dramatic, "you work me like a slave" two-hour routine that ensued when unpacking the car at each new campground. And on day 6 of our 9 day vacation, worn down by their downtrodden expressions, when I announced should pack and head for home, how they shifted into another much faster time-space dimension dashing about me in frantic blurs and packed the car in 15 minutes. They immediately returned to my dimension and smiled at me through the car windows encouraging me to come along and drive. Oh the memories.

S'more Kit with Double Dark Chocolate Gourmet Marshmallows, Handmade Graham Crackers, and Valrhona Chocolate

Scorpions, Grey Meat and The Bloggess

OK, pretty good day so far. The Bloggess, my new blogging hero, has commented on this blog. SEE MOM, I HAVE FRIENDS! And this after posting one of the most profound comments ever uttered by man or beast,
Scorpions never fall out of the sky and land on the right people.
There's so much truth and beauty in a statement like that. My 11 year old asked me to email it to her so that she send it to the right people. Personally, I'm going out to get me a jar full of the little guys. I wonder if you can trace scorpions? There's no chance of a fingerprint. DNA off its little back? I doubt it. Really, it has to be the perfect weapon. It crawls away after the attack AND HIDES ITSELF!

Anyway, the profoundness of it all has me recalling other equally profound statements. The Bloggess has some competition! Like the time my wife made her first Beef Stroganoff. Mina took one look and asked, "Why would anyone eat grey meat?!" Profound, moving but not the smartest remark. Really quiet meal that night. And one from my best friend growing up, AND STILL CLOSE FRIEND MOM, "I try to be semi-respectable. I say semi 'cause if you're too respectable, people tend to expect things of you". Wow!

Just thought I'd share.

Where's Dharo?

Out running some errands with the kids and had a few minutes to kill before picking up the wife from work. Dhara, 8, wanted to go to the playground near our house, which we did. Mina, 11, and I sat in the car as Dhara scampered about the large play sets and amongst the dozens of kids around her. I soon lost sight of her. When I asked Mina if she could see Dhara, she squinted hard and confessed, "No, but I can't even find Waldo and he's obvious!"

It's How They Say It in France, Dad

Like most normal pre-teens, my 11 year old daughter, Mina, loves to order a coffee or chocolate milk in a national brand burnt coffee chain logoed cup and hang in the mall like she's all that (term I picked up from her). This has recently turned into, I need a mocco carmel latte decaf with skim milk etc.. etc.. etc.., which she asked me for the last time the two us were at the mall. Apparently cool kids around her could tell it was a kiddy chocolate milk in the cup and onkly the real deal would do. I thought it was some kind of joke. Who the hell sells something with a name as along as a paragraph? I perused the menu, there it was taking up two lines on the menu for $4.95. "No way " I laughed and added, "What moron pays $4.95 for a freakin cup of coffee?", perhaps a bit too loud judging from the raised eyebrows of all the indignant mocca crappy something chuggers in the room. If you have kids of your own, you can guess what happened next. Mina begged, pleaded and attempted reasoning why she should get a mocca yeddadi yeddadi something. Well, clever dad that I am, I decided to put an end to her and my misery and quickly. "Fine you can have one", I offered,"if you can order it in french". To my astonishment, she asked the gal at the counter in perfect french for the mocca something and more of a drink and looked at me along with everyone else in the room with one well earned take-that kind of raised eyebrow. I stood motionless and speechless for a minute then asked, much quieter than my what idiot comment, "Aren't you taking Spanish in school?" "That was last year, dad. Remember, you said we're french from New Orleans and should learn French?" I just shook my head yes. Mina continued, "So whadda ya think?" as she gestured to the more than entertained gal waiting at the counter. I muttered, just below my breath, "We own a tea company for Christ's sake!" and then in a loud clear voice, "WELL,I guess I'm the kind of idiot who pays $4.95 for that mocca crap." much to the delight of the patrons around me. A few even applauded.

Lose Weight and Points While You Sleep!

I woke this morning to discover my wife already on the deck with a cup of coffee and a cookbook catching some early Spring time rays. I made my way there through the kitchen where I discovered a cup of Black tea, like I like it, indicating she kind of still likes me. "Good morning babe", I say to her as I joined her on the deck. "I'm not talking to you!" was her reply. I honestly didn't know what that was all about, but didn't react as it wasn't all that out of the norm. Around here Good morning, Good afternoon and Good evening are often replace with I'm not talking to you, I'm mad at you and my favorite I should have let my parents arrange me. She's South Asian and caused quite a stir by introducing my white ass into the millennia-old routine of we know a nice boy with good parents from the town we come from in India. But that's another blog. I take my seat and asked, "Yeah, why's that?" "Because you wouldn't dance with me!" This kind of threw me for a loop. I couldn't actually remember the last opportunity for dancing with my wife event. There was that wedding about a year ago, when she had a few too many and lost her footing on the stairs and landed on her butt. Doubtful she has much recollection of that event, a future blog I'm thinking. Then there was the Superbowl party when the Saints won and I don't recall leading a second-line, but she was probably in it anyway. "If you order the windows for the kitchen and bathroom, I can get started this weekend.", was all I could respond with as I surveyed the exterior of the house. It was quiet for a few minutes except for the bird calls around us heralding in Spring. "You know crows really got the short end of the deal when it comes to bird song, didn't they?", I casually noted. Daya, still brooding, responded with, "In my dream last night, you were just talking and socializing with everyone and refused to dance with me.", then went back to her coffee and cookbook. I took a sip of tea and said, "I'll install the sink and cabinet before I do the window. Should take two days at most." "Ooo, ya want some coffee cake? There's a recipe here!", Daya giddily threw in. "Sure, I'll help you", I responded and we headed for the kitchen.

Better Moms and Dads Mandate

Charles Darwin was said to have been really depressed in his old age. He lamented that the human race was doomed as the less intelligent tended to reproduce faster and money seemed to find its way into the hands of an equally uninspiring bunch.

This got me to thinking. To save humanity, hospitals should make circumcision optional but vasectomies a required procedure for new-born male children. If the child reaches the age of say, 25, 'cause that's when brains are suppose to be fully developed, they can have the vasectomy reversed, but only after passing two tests. The first test is knowing where babies come from and that you have to have the reversal procedure. We can weed out a lot of ignoramuses that way. The second would be a general intelligence test. I'm not talking advanced calculus, just common sense stuff. Here's an example:

Question: Your standing naked in an ice field and notice a polar bear rushing towards you. You would:

a. Stand perfectly still 'cause polar bears can only see objects in motion.
b. Pick up a piece of frozen excrement, oh trust me it will be there, and throw it at the bear as white polar bears can't stand the thought of being soiled
c. Do nothing, 'cause ain't no way in hell I'd be caught naked in a hungry-polar bear-infested ice field.

Clearly only those answering "C" should be considered for a reversal. Likewise, I feel an additional test and psych profile is in order when applying for a driver's license to determine if your smart or stable enough to have a horn installed in your car. I've a good feeling there'd be a whole lot of hornless autos without car seats if implemented. Politicians and lawyers, most of whom would never had been born if these recommendations had been implemented decades ago, would be barred from public office or the practice of law unless having first passed both the general intelligence test AND produced a child, here's the limiting factor, WITH THEIR WIFE.

Inspiration from the Scottish Highlands

Was a little bummed last night. Feel like I have to blog pretty regularly to get followers but couldn't for the life of me think of anything to write. Then as if a gift sent from heaven, bagpipes. "Damned TV was picking up another channel!" I thought. No wait, we don't have TV and were watching an episode of LOST, or as we like to call it "Head Trauma" through the PC. Daya looked at me and asked if heard bagpipes. When you suddenly hear bagpipes coming out of nowhere, it's always a good thing to discover you're not the only one. It reminded me of the time, shortly after Katrina, while waiting for a school bus with my 2nd grade daughter when a lady walked by with two Llamas. I watched for a moment and sheepishly asked my daughter if she saw two Llama's. She did, I told her she was such a good girl and watched them walk by. Back in our living room, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and said "Yes. I do hear bagpipes!" We searched the house for a radio or alarm clock that had gone off. Nothing. The pipes were sporadic, making it difficult to zero in on. We waited, quietly. Again the pipes called, we rushed to the rear exit onto the deck. That's when we discovered that bagpipes can really play hell with the ears. They stopped just as we hit the deck. Again they played, our 8 year old rushed from her window to declare they were coming from the front yard. We all rushed to the front porch and waited in the dark. Barely visible, across the street a figure sat on the steps to the front door. Suddenly, bagpipes. "Is this like a caroling thing for the Irish - a day after Saint Patrick's day New England thingy?" I asked Daya. "Is he hitting every house on the block? Do we have to tip him or something? 'Cause if we do, I'm heading in." "Nope.', Daya said "I was raised here and have never seen anything like this." Mina, nearly 12, asked if bagpipes were Irish, being the day after St Pat's Day, or Scottish. Mostly Scottish I shrugged, somewhat unsure. "Can we go over there dad?" Dhara aged 8 asked. "No baby. He might be nuts." I honestly said to her. We were quiet for a bit waiting for the next round. We weren't disappointed. It was kind of nice. Always liked the sound of a bagpipe. I was still a bit afraid of the guy on the blowing end but liked it just the same. "Got a lot of Irish here. Thinks that's it?" Daya speculated. "Dunno. Got a lot of Cajuns back home, but no one ever serenaded me with an accordion" I reasoned back. "I can't make him out" I complained, "is he wearing a kilt?" "You know tomorrow is Mismatch-Day at school" Mina speculated, suggesting some sort of tie in. "Works for me" I laughed and we went back inside and off to bed. The pipes ceased replaced by the drone of our iphone sleep machine app. Can't wait for tonight!

Alfa Romeos and Salad Spinners

I have a hard time looking at much less talking with young husband's to be. They're just so damned happy and completely naive. I mean really, the stuff that comes out of their mouth. Every single one of them talks about traveling with the wife for a few years and then settling down. Brother, you are settled, as soon as you bought that ring. The only packing your gonna be doing is a diaper bag just as soon as that bag of hormones, I mean lovely wife, places the first feather in her nest", is what I want to say, but instead say something like, "How nice. Congratulations" and mutter a "You schmuck" under my breath. How can you possibly make them understand that they're only weeks away from owning a salad spinner. Yes a salad spinner! Why the hell do I own a little plastic device that spins dry my lettuce. Honestly, can't we just toss it into a colander, the same colander that we strain spaghetti in? And then there's the rice cooker and the crock pot. I don't even know where they are now for God's sake. But I guess it could be worse. I have a friend who renovated his kitchen to the tune of what most houses cost and then had us over for pizza. Speaking of, I have to give him a call. He isn't looking so well these days. Then there was this one newlywed. He and his wife had just bought a new house and had a baby on the way, they'd put off their world traveling scheme until the kid is older, which is gonna be much older 'cause he didn't think maybe there'd be another kid or two or about school and how summer travel is 2-3 times as expensive as during the school year and when the kids ARE older he wouldn't dream of leaving the teen monster son(s) alone with his house or his teen daughters out of his sight for one freakin' minute, especially with what she's been bringing round the house lately. But I digress. He told me that he didn't like a mess and therefore had a playroom arranged so that all the kids stuff would stay in one place and not all over the house. What I wanted to do was grab him by the collar and yell, "I use to have long hair and drive an Alfa Romeo Spider. Now I'm balding and drive a mini van!". But it wouldn't do any good so, instead I warmly smiled and said, "Yeah, right, good plan", and handed him the house-warming gift my wife had picked up and added, "It's a salad spinner!"

Pillow & Blanket Maid

I've worked alone since 1987, first as a paleontologist, just me and the dead things, and now running an internet company from home. It affords me plenty of time to think. Perhaps too much time. So recently I've been thinking about what could make my life easier and more productive. The first thing that comes to mind is sleep. I'm an insomniac and suffer many a useless days for lack of sleep. I've done nearly everything possible, new pillows and warmer blankets to start with - really helped. And there's the drone sound from an iPhone app that both Daya and I think is the bomb. But I really think there's one item that needs addressing. Daya disagrees.

You know plenty of people have maids to clean their houses, gardeners for their yards. They save time and allow for more work and family time. I work at home. I keep up with the house and refuse to have a gardener, Use it or lose I say - Need the exercise.

My needs are simpler. You know how, when turning over at night, how a little space is formed behind your neck and upper back, how cold it feels and how you have to roll back and forth to get the blanket tucked back in there and how you're mostly awake by that time and can't get back to sleep and your wife sits up and scowls or makes rude remarks about, oh I dunno, whatever. Well what I, we, need is a blanket and pillow maid, someone who tucks the blanket behind your neck and back when you roll over. I honestly think that this is the last item required for a full nights sleep. She would sit there with a little book light reading or whatever while we slept and spring to action only when needed. Easy job. Of course, as Daya inquired, she would have to be young and pretty and female, 'cause otherwise it would be creepy and have the opposite effect of a good nights sleep. And she'd have to work exclusively for me so that there'd be no conflict when deciding what to do when Daya rolled, pulling covers off me nearly completely and tucking them in under her on both sides so deep that a John Deere product couldn't free them. She would quietly sneak off to the bathroom where she'd wet a waiting hand towel and just as quietly sneal back into the bedroom raise the dripping towel well over her head and slap it down hard on Daya's head, preferably face. She'd also be instructed to calm a shocked Daya with, "Oh Mam (with a British accent, I forgot, a British accented, attractive young woman desired) you seem to have had a rather awful night mare mam. Yes you do. Look you're all wet and sweaty,(long pause) .... mam", as she tucked the covers around me and fluffed my pillow. She wouldn't cost anymore than a hose cleaner or gardener.

Ask a Stupid Question and...

At dinner this evening we were discussing the Eiffel Tower and other engineering feats when the Chunnel, a tunnel under the English Channel connecting France and England came up. I wondered out loud, "How far under the channel does it go?" Mina immediately and with a sense of wonder informed me, "ALL THE WAY DAD!"

Death Bed Memories & Filthy Popcorn

There are many moments in life that stick with me. Nearly all of them involved at least one child and extreme anxiety. I suppose it's the anxiety that imprints the memory. So this morning when my wife asked what I was writing today, I blanked out, couldn't think of a thing. She suggested I write whatever came to mind. The large tin of flavored pop-corn triggered an old and very well imprinted memory.

The incident occurred in the dinosaur exhibit. It's a round, depression-era building featuring an animated robotic veloceraptor display in the center. The walls all around had educational kiosks and various displays. A low, glass wall served as a divider between the displays and visitors. It was this low, glass wall, about four feet high, that caused my memory imprinting anxiety that day.

While I was looking at the animated, screeching raptor do its thing, Emily slipped between and lay down on the filthy floor of the 9 inch space between the glass divider wall and a display. We were in a zoo for God's sake, couldn't be all that clean down there. "Emma, come here!" I demanded, drawing the attention of a crowd of giggling on-lookers. Emma ignored me as tried to reach over the glass partition to pull her up. Emma lay flatter to the ground, just out of my reach. The gathering crowd was laughing at frantic dad and the super flat emotionless Emma. I stretched hard as Emma lay flatter. More laughter erupted then suddenly turned to gasps as the color left my face and Emma obviously began eying a popcorn strewn on the floor. "NO Emma, DO NOT..." Emma reached out for a kernel, women gasped, teenagers laughed, others held their breath, the crowd around us swelled. Emma pulled the kernel close to her mouth. "NO, NO Emma do not put that in your mouth!" Emma hesitated then moved the popcorn closer to her mouth staring directly at me as she did. "I swear Emma if you.." closer the popcorn came to an open Emma mouth. "EMMA...!" Another hesitation and and a quick toss to the mouth. "AAARGGG!!!!" was the only sound I could and was appropriate to make. The crowd went mad from other "Aaarrgs" to outright laughter. I fell to the floor on my knees to get eye level with her and pleaded with her to stop. I tapped hard at the glass. Emma just stared back, determined, chewing. I reached even further over the partition, bordering on falling-in and managed to grasp a bit of her curly hair. I twisted the few strands I had until a two-finger grip was achieved and pull Emma, now on her third kernel, up just enough to get a grip on her collar and hoist her above the partition.

It's been 17 years since that incident. The dinosaur exhibit has long since closed . But, to this day, I can't think of anything else when I see or smell popcorn. Emma has ruined popcorn for me. And so, in my will and last testament, I've requested popcorn be served at my funeral 'cause I want Emma to experience her children eating popcorn from the floor of a funeral home.

Death Benefit

I want to leave everything I have to my mother-in-law, because all I have is a lot of debt and I just want to imagine the look on her face.

Devil Eyes, Forced Labor & Reincarnation

OK so I find myself with my brother-in-law on my day off, cause it's like I got nothing better to do, in Brooklyn at the high rise apartment of a cousin, let's call her Priti, cause that's her name. I just want to get this over with. So I briefly make with the nice talk and head straight for the damned television. It's as big as Priti's apartment. "She's a chick!" I think to myself, "What the hell could she be compensating for?" "Let's go" I tell the brother-in-law and attempt to lift the Titanic of televisions. It doesn't move. We look at each other with amazement and give it another try. Nothing. Turns out it weighs as much as the Titanic as well. I give a glance, a glare, no I attempt to kill Priti with a cold stare who offers a sympathetic, "I took four really big guys to get it up here when I got it."

I'm not the superstitious believes-in-reincarnation type, but something came over me the minute my eyes met hers. Priti's a good looking woman, tall slender, cover-girl face with almond shaped eyes that most men fall into. But, I'm experienced baby. I've looked into eyes like that. I fell in. I've wrestled with the devil, married her, got my ass kicked, ended up moving a TV from a high rise apartment in Brooklyn. If you look, not into their eyes, but beyond them, deep inside, a rotten core of a soul lies laughing at your misery. I'm not superstitious and not making any accusations. But I'm just saying that I'm certain Hitler didn't die in that Berlin bunker in 1945. He slipped off to linger in some Peruvian jungle until death took him at the exact moment Priti was born.

I couldn't decide who I hated more; my tight-ass 140 pound muscle-lacking brother in law for dragging me down there or the gender shifting Nazis of a cousin. Honestly, she could have called to tell me something like, "Look George the damned thing is as heavy as the Queen Mary with a full contingent aboard. I'm just gonna tell your in-laws that I accidentally broke it and have some big guidos haul it out of here." But she didn't.

We decided to roll the big behemoth of a TV onto the luggage cart we commandeered from the lobby. Did I mention it was a high rise apartment? The doorman told us we had to use the freight elevator at the end of the hall. We used the nearest elevator and slipped off to ground floor and onto the street. Priti followed and we both waited at the curb while my brother-in-law got the van. At least I waited in shirt-sleeves as the temperature plummeted. Priti, on the other hand, after 30 seconds, decided it was too cold, bid me farewell, turned and headed back inside. I couldn't get my hands out of my pocket quick enough to physically express my one-handed sentiments. The van arrived and we struggled to roll the set into it. The piano-like-weighted set fell over on the entrance ramp to the interstate and broke the case, but miraculously not the tube. We arrived at chez-in-laws two hours later and struggled again to get the set inside. My mother in law complained it was too big, it was broken, it should go up stairs...". I'm not superstitious and I'm not making any accusations, but my mother in law was born in 1945. A lot of fascists died that day.

Isn't Martha Stewart from Connecticut?

I want the best for my kids so I choose to live in safe communities with good schools and clean yards. Unfortunately I'm not the regular Safe-Community, Good-Schools, Clean-Yard type guy. Don't get me wrong, I'm educated and value a good education, keep a well-kept yard and I'm the first guy to call the cops when I see something out of the ordinary. But I tend to be a little on the liberal side of social life and seem to lack the capacity to keep my mouth shut when faced with almost any situation where keeping my mouth shut might benefit - everyone. The neighborhood we lived in, in Louisiana, the town of Mandeville, just outside of New Orleans was very conservative and quite religious. Our first teashop was actually boycotted by narrow minded right wing fanatical creationist idiots, I mean upstanding conservative religious citizens, when we had a Buddhist Rinpoche speak there. But there were enough level headed folks to counter them and we lived comfortably. It was still a nice place to live and good for the kids. And so, after our Hurricane Katrina evacuation, we settled in a similar neighborhood in Connecticut. The neighbors are a mix similar to what we found in Mandeville, mostly a cross between the righteous indignation of mother Teresa and snobby I never wear white before labor day Martha Stewart types. And the women are even worse. Even had a boycott of sorts when we posted our first video commercial that featured two women kissing. Personally, I can't get enough of that vid. But on a whole, I'd have to say the vast majority are OK and even tolerate me. Some have even befriended me and even bring me out from time to time. Of course I have this mouth and usually say something that I consider quite humorous but is received with gaping jaws and confused stares. My friends immediately offer, "He's from New Orleans." Which is received with "Ohhhhh!" from the shocked friends of my friend. Rather than learn from these mouth gaping experiences, I've discovered that they're a really useful tool for gleaning out like-minded individuals, albeit ones that usually have the sense, unlike me, to keep it to themselves. Last week, for instance, at an ice-skating birthday party that my 8 years old attended, I was told by a mom and guardian there that I could just leave the kid and do whatever you want until pick up time at 4:30 pm. I just shrugged my shoulders and offered, "Ahh, it's illegal in this state". The mom, a very conservative polite mom, laughed out loud, really loud and gaudy-like until noticing the line of gaping-mouthed moms. Laughing mom immediately regained her composure and said to them, "He's from New Orleans." They all gave an audible, "Ooohhhhhh!!!!" I hear there's a couple from Las Vegas in town. can't wait to meet.

New Dad's & Old Doctors

I always joke that the first child stumbles, but never falls. Dad's are always there, hovering, pensive and alert, to make sure their little butts never hit the floor, as if the 6 inch drop onto well padded behinds would cause any injury. Four daughters and 23 years later, my youngest will sarcastically ask if I could look at an injury she sustained, "You know Dad, when I fell, right in front of you, and you looked around me at the TV and yelled at me for for whining." Poor kid. At least she's spared the regular trips to the pediatrician that the oldest endured. I was once, 23 years ago, handed two prescriptions for Benadryl by a pediatrician. He said the first was probably not needed, but if my daughter had trouble sleeping I could give her a teaspoon full. "And this one here Doc, what's it for?" "Oh", he said, "That's for you. You look like hell, it'll help you sleep." "But I'm not really having that much of an allergy issue", I stated firmly. "Neither is your daughter, but you both need the sleep." the doctor replied I did tend to wake every other minute to check on her. But that wasn't the end of it. A few weeks later my then wife returned from the same pediatrician with a new prescription. I had insisted they go as I saw what looked like white spots on my daughter's throat when examining her with a flashlight. The prescription read, "take the flash light away from your husband".

Biceps & Mosquito bites

I'm 50 years old now and work out fairly regularly with modest results. Turns out that I'm that body type, the type that just can't bulk. But we can get into a sort of good shape, flat bellies and lean cut albeit smaller muscles. So work out I do. Rather enjoy it actually. But I can't lift a dumb bell or press a machine without my mind racing back 22 years to a time when I first attempted something like muscles.

I was a young energetic dad with a renewed desire to bulk up some, that being 2 years old daughter that would eventually grow up and have boyfriends who would desperately need their butts kicked. I hit the gym everyday, ate as much bulking foods as I could and jogged every night. And after a about three months, a miracle happened, the faintest bulge of a muscle offered the slightest bit of resistance while putting on a shirt. I raced to button up the shirt then roll up my sleeves (they look bigger that way) and slowly flexed my biceps. There it was, if you looked at just the right angle, a bulging bicep. Arnold, only an actor in 1988, was still safe. The muscle wasn't tearing the shirt, but it was a bulge just the same. I moved about in the small hallway between my bedroom and my daughter's trying to catch just the right shadow to enhance the marvelous sight. Relax, flex, relax, flex. Yep it was an authentic, gym made bona fide bicep. "Look Erica", I said proudly, "look at dad's muscle." Erica toddled closer wearing pullups and tiny T-shirt and said sympathetically "Ahh, skitter bite you?", kissed my flexed bicep, rubbed it with her tiny little hand and asked, "Better?", then toddled off to play.

Wrinkles

There are two types of people out there; those, like myself, that iron and those, like my wife, that look like frat boys the morning after a long road trip to Vegas. But, if you're in the latter, you don't even notice wrinkles unless they're large and sharp enough to cut yourself on. That said, last night, Daya and I were teasing each other about her wrinkles. She insisted she never goes to work wrinkled, more inquisitively than insistently. Then asked, "am I wrinkled now?", as Mina, our 11 years old walks in. "I looked down at her wrinkles on wrinkled shirt, lingered a moment ar two at the plunging neck line and replied, "You are soooo wrinkled!", and made my way back to the plunging neck line. Mina piped in, defending her mom, "Well she is 41 Dad!" Slightly confused I asked,"You have to wear wrinkled shirts when you're 40?". "Oh her shirt!", Mina, embarrassed, nervously giggled and put a few feet between herself and mom. Dhara, aged 8, got up to count wrinkles on mom's face as I asked who was more wrinkled. Daya snapped her fingers near hert eyes to draw my attention back upwards and asked me if I thought that was funny as Dhara offered mom, "At least you make beautiful children!"

You can't make this stuff up.

They're Everywhere

There are 13 different hair and body wash products in my shower!

Sleeping with My Wife

... so eventually we fell asleep and Daya, my new girlfriend at the time, curls up really close and nestles her face into mine. It's a bit chilly and the blankets are heavy and everything is really nice until it happened. You know how it is, like that song you where this guys wins a lottery and takes a trip and the plane crashes and another guys gets a reprieve 10 minutes after the execution. Well the perfect girlfriend, after a couple of perfect dates on a perfect night, nestled into my perfectly contented face started snoring like a buzz saw right in my ear. It was annoying, it was painful. "I remember saying out loud, "Oh Boy!" This was gonna be a big one to get over. I'm not picky, but this was Hiroshima-loud and right in my ear. So I slowly pulled away, just a bit. I wasn't leaving, she was the perfect girlfriend. I just wanted a buffer-zone large enough to relieve the pain. Daya grumbled and nudged herself back into place. I tried to roll away, slowly, gently so as not to wake her. Alas, mid-turn, she pulled me back hard and buried her face even deeper into mine. This time I scooted down a bit hoping the pulses of ultrasonic waves emanating from her throat would shoot past or at least bounce off the top of my head.

Daya claims not to remember any of this and that I exaggerate. But I swear it happened just this way. You can't make things up like this and you damned sure don't forget any of it when it happens to you. Before I could get my ear past chin level, easy and gently as I tried, Daya raised her groggy self onto her left elbow and delivered three quick heavy blows to my chest with her tiny fists and shouted, "Stop it!", then re-assumed the face nestled into ear position, sound asleep.

Next morning, she said, "You look tired baby. Maybe you should get us some coffee."

Princesses and Allergies

Ever experience a really funny something, especially with kids and there's no one around to share it with? I had this happen to me last year and have been telling everyone about it since. Now it's your turn.

My 7 years old daughter, Dhara, was playing on the sofa with her five years old cousin, Shyam, a rather quite boy. Dhara stands on the sofa. "OK", she says, stands, and continues, "I'm the Princess that likes animals." Shyam stands, at attention, hands to his side and with closed eyes and a slight bow states, "And I'm allergic to monkeys."

Survival Instincts and Women

I once heard a Jeff Foxworthy joke, "What's the last thing a redneck says before he dies? Hey Y'all, watch this!" Funny, often true and very intuitive. I'm pretty sure this joke applies to most men, only the accent changes. Men die younger than women, have a higher mortality rate due to stressed out lives and accidents from dangerous activities and being just plain stupid sometimes. Women, as my daughters have taught me, are survivalists.

I recall, as a child, being distraught that I wouldn't live long enough to see interstellar travel. More than anything, I wanted to boldly go... oh you get the picture. So when watching a shuttle launch, years ago, I was shocked at the response from my oldest daughters when I asked them if they were going to be astronauts. "No way Dad, it's dangerous! You know there's no air up there!" was the 9 years old response. "And no one can come get you if you breakdown!" the 6 year old added. Apparently they had just seen the Apollo 13 movie. Likewise, when I asked my third child at age 8 if she'd like to take soccer lessons, she politely said, "No, you get kicked and dirty, I'm more the mall and makeup kind of girl dad." Camping for all daughters included cabins with hot-tubs and a view. If we tented it, as I insisted, it had to be near a town with shopping potential, flushing toilets and nice restaurants. Dad had to sleep near the tent entrance.

There was one macho move by my oldest when she was about 12 years old. Her 10 year old cousin was bragging about his deer hunting skills which really annoyed my daughter. Our family had hunted for generations. I had abandoned it shortly after discovering wine and women.She immediately pulled me aside to demand that I take her hunting so that she could kill a deer and one up the cousin. I asked if she could actually kill an animal. She stiffened up and said she could. I could see her nerve failing beneath her toughened stance. OK but they have big brown eyes that look just like Alex's you know. Alex was our terrier. You can shoot an animal with eyes like that? She thought for a second and said no, she couldn't do that. We were both relived. OI gave her a hug and she went off to play. You can't do that with sons. Kind of like the all daughters thing.

My Indian Princess and Wife

I kept running into her, young Indian gorgeous. We kept making eye contact, but briefly, as she always looked down and turned away when we did. My mind, over several weeks of seeing her in various New Orleans music venues, began to race and conjure images of this little Indian princess. The whole lowering the eyes and the demure attitude were a real turn on. So call me a chauvinists. I liked it. I wanted to get close to her but had to tread very carefully, not too aggressive, so as not to run her off. At one point I even turned to Ramesh my Indian friendly to break the ice or maybe translate, if needed, who promptly hit on her. I should have seen that coming. Fortunately for me, she sent him packing without a word.

This whole demure tease went on for some time until I and Mr. Jack Daniels finally got the courage to just ask her to dance. I wasn't feeling too confident having, up to this point, only made momentary, very momentary eye contact. I made my way across the room towards my Asian princess. She was engaged in conversation with a friend, her back to me. I took a deep breath and touched her shoulder. She turned and smiled, a first for us. "Would you like to dance?", I asked and anticipated her response, probably a polite heavily accented decline and a quick look away. I was prepared. This was first contact. I had a plan. It might takes weeks or months before she relented. But she didn't turn or look away. She looked deep into my eyes with hers, so dark and absolutely mesmerizing, smiled broadly and said, with a heavy valley girl accent, "OK, but you're gonna like have to excuse me 'cause I'm like totally drunk." And with that she placed her arms around me, one to my shoulders and one to my waist.

Homework and Focus

Late afternoon and I'm at the kitchen table helping my 7 years old daughter, Dhara, with her home work. To her right, her 19 year old sister is on her laptop with headphones on bopping up and down to whatever is playing on it. Dhara is successfully counting by twos. When finished, I praise her as she takes a deep breath and says, "It's almost impossible to do that with odd numbers." "Yeah, I guess it is" I laughed. I attempted a "So let's get onto math problem number two", when she interrupted by telling her older sister, "You smell good, like you had too many baths". Older sister responds with, "you smell good too. Are you wearing perfume?" "No", Dhara replied, "I just washed really extra good last night". This time, I interrupted, "OK lets get this over with. There are two fruit bars, A & B, that cost the same amount of money. But fruit bar A is twice as big as fruit bar B. Which one do you buy?" To my and her sister's astonishment, she picked the smaller bar. I asked her to explain why she would do that when she could have twice as much for the same price. She replied, "I don't like fruit bars. If it was chocolate, I'd definitely pick the bigger bar." As I attempt to continue, mom walks in and complains about the condition of the oldest 22 years old sister, Erica's shoes. "Yeah, I know she really beats up shoes" the 19 year old says. Mom agreed and walked out. I finish reading math question number three as Dhara asks, quite baffled, "Erica beats up shoes?" "Ask your mom to help you with this", was my reply.

Last Night's Conversation

My wife had a song stuck in her head from the radio and started singing, "Shorty's like a melody in my head...". My 20 years old daughter interrupted her, "It's Shawte". Daya looked surprised and asked, "It's not shorty, cause I'm short and I like shorty". "Yeah, but it's shawte, S-H-A-W-T-E, shawte. It means girlfriend". "Really?" Daya asked. "Yep.", Emma said and continued, "You know what they say today, Old man and Old lady for boyfriend and girlfriend!" I was pleasantly surprised and added, "Hey that's what we said when I was a teen in the 70s". Daya looked up from a magazine at me and interrupted with "Don't even think about.", pasued and then continued, "You can call me boss."

Opportunity for Improvement

My 11 years old daughter and her friend were making a list of kids from their school and assigning percentage points for how much they (daughter and friend) liked them. Mom and Dad said that it might not be such a good idea as someone with a low score might see the list and have their feelings hurt. Before my daughter could  respond, her 20 years old sister piped in that it would be OK, as they could see where they stand and where they could improve. They all nodded in agreement and continued working on the list. 

My youngest daughter at age 5 had a similar list. It started one day when she created a rather nice piece of art and presented it to mom and dad. We, of course, encouraged her, to her delight, through praise. Later, however, the artwork took a sinister turn. When scolded by her mother, she dashed off to her room to pout. Then, about 20 minutes later, with leveled angry eyes, she returned with the artwork that was the object of so much praise earlier and asked mom, displaying it as she did, "Do you like it?". "Of course we do honey", mom said. "Do you really like it?" she asked again. "Yes, I really do", mom said again. And with that, my daughter bared all her teeth and ripped the picture to shreds yelling, "That's what you get when you make me angry"! The shocked looked on all of our faces was justification and encouragement. A few days later, my 5 years old upped the ante and created a long piece of art that included drawings of the entire family. When angered, she'd slowly, calmly rip a family member from the picture with each infraction.
I just can't come up with a moral or lesson learned from this experience. 

No Respect

My second oldest daughter, now in college, accompanied me to the Three Rivers Festival in downtown Covington, Louisiana a few years back when she was eight years old. It was a small festival in a small town that closed one of the main streets for the event. We walked past the line of booths that offered a variety of local crafts and deliocacies from local restaurants. Nice affair. At the end of the strip, we passed a small cemetery, the Louisiana kind with many above ground tombs.

"So how do you want to be buried dad?", my daughter asked. "Well I'm dead, don't really care babe.", I honestly offered. Do you want to be above or below ground?" she asked, as only a Louisiana native would ask. "Really, I don't care, whatever you guys want at the time." I offered again. "How bout we burn you up?" she then asked. "I hate to sound like a broken record", I again seriously offered, "but I'm dead, whatever you guys want." The conversation was serious to me. I knew that I would someday die. That my family would, might hopefully would be upset. I wanted offer guidance while alive to assist them in that hour of need. So, I took advantage of her interest and expressed my true desires - to let them know I was cool with whatever they decided. "OK, so we'll burn you." she decided. "What do you want me to do with your ashes?" "What do YOU want to do with them?", I asked her this time. She though for a few moments then with a satisfied smile said, "I know what you want. I'll throw them on Madonna." I laughed out loud and said, "I don't think Madonna would like that very much. Do you?" Her face reflected serious thought for a moment and then she offered, "No. She'd probably brush you off, " then smiled really big and continued, "alive or dead".

Johny Depp

While we're on the subject of Johnny Depp, my entire family is completely smitten with the old man. Yes he's an old man, nearly my age, I pointed out to my oldest 23 year old daughter. "So what happened to you?", was her reply. No respect. But that's a conversation for another post. As for Johnny, the same disrespectful daughter sent a full life-sized poster of Johnny to my youngest 5 year old daughter for her birthday. It's hanging in her room still, 2 years later, along with numerous other magazine pics of him. Our entertainment cabinet contains a DVD of every film the guy has made as well. The guy gets a speeding ticket and it becomes dinner table conversation. But one incident really sticks out in my mind when Old Johnny boys is mentioned that indicates this guys reach where women, of ALL ages, is concerned.

My youngest daughter at age 5-6 really resented being told what to do. Clean your room was the worst offense you could offer. When confronted with such egriciously inconsiderate demands, she had the habit of declaring she hated everyone, even innocent bystanders and people not in the house at the time. So when one evening her mother asked her to clean her room, when will we ever learn, she threw her crayon to the ground and stormed off to her room only to return a minute later to list the unfortunate people on her hate list. "I hate mommy!", she declared with leveled eyebrows slapping her right hand into her left and rightly so as mommy was the slave driver who made the ridiculous demand, and continued with a hand slap for each name, voice quivering with anger, "I hate Daddy and Erica and Emma", then a moment of reflection followed sweetly by, "I like Johnny Depp." then back to scowl and, "And I hate ..."

Julie, Julia and Wife

Wife and I went to see "Julie and Julia" awhile back. Better than I expected. I've seen so many "not so bad" chick flicks in my life, not to mention every damned Johnny Depp film ever shot. I understand John boy just bought a new Yacht. he should name after me! But I digress. The film was actually quite entertaining and had the added benefit of creating a gourmet chef of my wife. Seriously! I'm eating stuff I've never heard of and can't wait to eat again. I had no idea you could do that many things to a chicken. All this because of a movie. WOW!

Can anyone tell me where I might find an adult video store in the Hartford area?