Nose Whistle

So my 20 years old tells me that she's aware of my Wife & Four Daughters Blog and had a story for me. While watching television with her 8 years old sister, Dhara, she noticed Dhara attempting to blow a whistle with her nose. The whistle was tucked neatly into one nostril as she pinched the other and gently blew several times into the whistle. I say gently, as she was apparently aware that a hard blow would generate more than a whistle sound. After a few attempts, she pulls the whistle out of her nostril and disappointingly shrugs to her older sister.

This got me thinking about nose whistles. Can't be the first attempt! And I'm sure some third world, we don't care 'bout no snot community must surely have perfected the art of nose whistling. A quick tour of Wikipedia proved me right. Throughout Africa, China, Oceanea and India, nose whistles or nose flutes, if ya got aires y'all, abound. And they appear to come in two distinct varieties. There's the traditional looking three-holed straight flute popular in Polynesia and a more elaborate looking nose whistle from unknown-to-me origins. The Hawaiian version, the 'ohe hano ihu, can actually be heard at this site http://www.rangapae.com/Breathe%20in%20page.htm. The latter is designed to blow a sound into the mouth, and hopefully only that, and comes in an array of beautiful hardwoods and today, in a myriad of colorful plastics. Yes readers, you too can serenade your loved one with an authentic nose whistle. Or if your daddy's got money, a nose flute. I may actually make a commission off the sale of a few of these. 

  

White Dads

and the Daughters Who Love Them
I'm a white guy. My wife Daya is very dark skinned and produced two lovely dark skinned daughters 'cause God has a sense of humor and issues with me so He thought wouldn't it be funny if George got stopped at every freaking airport he went to 'cause really bored Homeland Security guys see us and think, "Hey what's this white guy doing slipping through security with those two Indian looking kids? Let's tackle him!" But there are other more interesting and kinda fun two toned issues. Sunburn. They don't get it much and the two youngest are totally freaked out by the way Dad turns red and then peels. Our typical trip to the community pool has, since they noticed dad's terrifying reaction to sun, starts off with the girls prepping for the pool and checking with dad to make sure he's put on his sunblock. While at the pool, they routinely pop out of the water, dry their faces and make a quick check of dad's face for redness. I'm usually asked to turn this way and that for a more thorough examination then they're back in the water. If there's the slightest sign of redness, I'm instructed to put on more sunblock and move into the shade.

It's nice to be loved.

Socks and Sandals

Remember those nerdy old guys in the neighborhood when you were growing up who wore weird shorts and black dress socks with their sandals? ........ Well it's freaking comfortable man! I can explain. I live in New England now, 'cause there was this hurricane and I was Hitler in my past life, and mornings are really cold here even in June and the floor never warms up no matter how warm it gets outside. So I've got socks on all day. And then I have to go outside occasionally for something like taking out the garbage and stuff. So one day, rather than go through the hassle of socks off and back on again, I just slipped into some sandals and jogged on out to the curb with a bag. It was like "Oh WOW!" This is so comfy man!" And then I got to thinking about the old guys from the old neighborhood. They weren't so much nerds as just didn't give a damned. And "Hey", I thought to myself, "I don't give a damned either! I'm gonna wear socks with sandals man!" And I did until my oldest daughter came up for a visit and the whole family wanted to take a walk to the local park. I was the last one out, shorts, the cool cotton jogging kind, 'cause I'm a rebel who doesn't give a damned and not a nerd man, and white socks, not the dark dress ones, 'cause I'm a rebel who doesn't give a damned and not a nerd man! You'd thought I was stomping on puppies the way my four daughters reacted. They refused to move until I removed the socks. But "cause I'm a rebel who doesn't give a damned man" appeals didn't work. I was physically prevented from leaving until I removed the socks. I still feel I'm a rebel who doesn't give a damned man. But I was outnumbered and crushed by superior forces, kinda like most rebels who don't give a damned go down.

4 years Olds Make Great Paid Informants

My wife, Daya, is a Physical therapist who operated out of our home in a New Orleans suburb for a few years. Visiting hours were scheduled for the interval when I was at the Indonique Tea & Chai Cafe in the city and Mina, aged 4, was at daycare. Things went swimmingly until one day when Mina was home with a cold. When I arrived home, she met me at the door and told me, before I could get out a 'good afternoon' or 'hiya Mina', that "a strange man was at the house to see mom and he took off his shirt!" She appeared concerned almost angry. I reassured her it was a patient and OK, then gave her a dollar telling her she was a good girl for telling me and there was a dollar in it for her every time she told me about a shirtless man in the house. By the end of the month, according to a suddenly money-conscious Mina, Daya was sleeping with every man in town.

Bra Shopping with Rumplestilskin

So I'm out bra shopping with my wife, which isn't nearly as exciting as it sounds. Pretty much means baby sitting two younger daughters while an overweight angry store clerk shuffles off to a dressing room with the wife reappearing, neither terribly happy, after a month or two to get another size bra. So anyway, I'm on this plastic sofa outside the fitting room as Dhara, aged 8, is describing to Mina, aged 12, how someone in some story she heard in school wakes up older each day. After a few days, this fictitious character is, "as old as dad!", Dhara exclaims. I continue reading from my iPhone, minding my own business but still aware of what is being said. It's sort of like being in two places at once, a skill developed during years of parenting. The trick is to catch important phrases in a conversation then zero in with peak efficiency when appropriate, like the CIA listening to thousands of conversations that they're not suppose to and picking up the occasional hot phrase at which point they focus and record the whole thing, like they're not suppose to. So, like I said, I'm reading and skimming the conversation when I catch the catch phrase from Mina, "Look Dhara, that makes no sense", a sure sign of Dhara suggesting something dangerous or expensive to fix. I zeroed in, Mina continued, "You can't go from you to that" motioning from her to me, "in a few days!" "But he was asleep a long time", Dhara protested. "Dhara, you can't get those wrinkles, that bald and tired in a few days", Mina insisted. Dhara thought a minute as she examined THAT, as in me, and conceded, "Maybe he was asleep for 71 years". Mina glanced at me and also conceded, "Yeah maybe you could get that in 71 years".

We've Got Poletrgeist or a Family History

So we’ve got this poltergeist in the house or as my wife calls it, “George’s drunken delusions”. Daya’s limited faith in ole faithful aside, we’ve got a freakin poltergeist. You see I work at home and hear the damned thing all day some days and then not again for days weeks or more. But I do hear and experience it enough to have learned to live with it. It started shortly after moving in when the thermostat would turn itself up to 90 degrees in the middle of the night. Daya blamed a sleep walking mina. But I’m a light sleeper with Mina;’s bedroom feet away from ours. On moree than one occasion I lay awake, completely aware of what’s going on the fact that no one was wandering the halls on at least two occasions when the thermostat, an old rotary dial type wall mounted unit turned itself up to 90 degrees. Daya alternately blamed Mina’s sleep walking and my drinking, which I rarely do and some rude remarks about crazy Irish and haunted houses in New Orleans. She clearly doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about ‘cause my Irish relatives are the drunks and the Cajun ones are crazy. Both have, I admit, been known to spout off a few haunted house legends.

But anyway, back to us. So Daya and I are home alone sitting on a sofa opposite the porch door when we hear the very distinct sound of footsteps climbing the stairs to the deck outside. Not surprising as Daya’s Uncle and cousin live behind us and occasionally visit. We watch the window that is at the head of the stairs. The steps grow closer, all the way to the toip and nothing appears in the window. No sound of descending. Nothing. Daya shouts, “Did you hear that?”” “Yeah but I’m descended from drunken crazies” “Shut up and go check”, she demanded. She sits clutching a pillow. I obey the South Asian mistress. It’s broad daylight. No one is on the deck, the stairs in the yard anywhere. “You heard it right?” Daya demands of me. “Yep, all the time”

A few weeks later, home alone together, Daya decides to take a shower leaving me on the sofa reading. On her way to the shower, she lowers the thermostat on the hall wall, just opposite the bathroom door to about 65 degrees. A few minutes later, she exits the bathroom and shouts an angry, “George!” “What?” I answer not looking up from book reclined on the sofa I haven’t left since she headed for the shower. “That’s not funny. I just lowered this!” “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about dear”, my usual response to shouts of ‘George!’ “You raised the thermostat!” “I did not” I protested. “Then how’d it get to 90 degrees?” she demanded. She does a lot of demanding. The dead are cold and like it warm” I surmised with a shrug of the shoulder. “That’s not funny!” Daya, clearly nervous shouted back at me. It went on for a bit with accusations of crazy drunken prankster attached.

It was then that I learned that when George sees or hears something supernatural, he’s a drunk and crazy. When Daya sees or hears something supernatural, George is a drunk and crazy.

Painting the Zoo

or How Snakes in Air Conditioners Can Get You painting in the Zoo

Last night as Daya and I lay in bed the air conditioner, a window unit, made a loud scratching noise like a bird flapping and walking on it. Daya sat up, alarmed, and asked, “Did you hear that?” I was going to offer a rational explanation but considered saying, “Might be a snake trying to get in the house through the unit”. But then she’d say something like, “Oh shut up. You’re just trying to scare me”. And then she’d say something like, “Oh, speaking of snakes, did you see they’re looking for a painter at the zoo?” And I’d be like that was really random, but not like totally ‘cause they have snakes in the zoo and I’d say, “No I didn’t.” And Daya would say, sounds like a cool job. Thought you’d be interested.” And I would like say, “Like what would one paint in a zoo?” and Daya would say, “I dunno, maybe like the fake rocks in the gorilla cage. Kind of cool, huh?” But then I’d look all concerned and say, “No thank you ma’am. I’m not getting all ripped to shreds by some irate gorilla”. And of course Daya would say, “They’d lock ‘em up when you painted it stupid”. “Yeah right”, I’d say, “I’m picturing a 600 pound gorilla waking up to discover someone locked his bedroom from the outside and he looks out at some pale hairless 165 pound primate redecorating his living room. I mean if that was me ain’t no Qucikset pad lock gonna keep me from shoving that paint roller up someone’s behind” And Daya would be all, “You’re so stupid. What if it was the fish exhibit that needed painting?” Then she’d has my interest and I’d say something like, “ The one with the sharks in it?” and Daya would smile an she matter-of-factly shook her head up and down. And I would ask, “Can you like paint under water?” And Daya would call me another name ands tell me, “Hello, they’d like drain the tank, got a big plug at the bottom.” “So what would they do with the fish?”, I’d ask and daya would respond, “I dunno, maybe put ‘em in those little plastic bags?” “What about the big-ass sharks?”, I ask genuinely interested. “Duh,” she’d say, “it’s the zoo, I’m sure the have really big plastic bags.” “That would be cool. Do you think they can like roll the bags around by colliding with the inside of them and chase people around?”, I honestly asked. “I guess”, Daya replied and added, “I think the bag would break when they tried to bite you and they’d end up flopping about on the ground.” “Oooo, maybe I could lure one of the sharks over to the gorilla cage...” I started to imagine aloud and Daya interrupted, “The one that tried to shove the paint roller up your...” “Yeah that one” I would say and continue, “and let the gorilla deal with the shark. It would be like Kong versus Jaws” We both gazed forward imagining the spectacle. But I was really tired and didn’t want to get up and print out a resume for Daya to mail in the morning and zoos really smell bad and I don’t even know how to paint fake rocks so I said, “I think it’s water in the unit getting splashed up by the fan”. Daya said, “oh!” and lay back down. The unit made the noise again and I added, “Or a snake.”

Wife and I had an Argument

OK, so the wife isn't talking to me at the moment, or for the last three days. Why? Well it may have been my fault, but that's not important. Result, blessed quiet for three days. But I have to admit that it's getting a bit lonely. I mean I married her 'cause I like her, not just because of the way she walks, which is pretty amazing, but that kinda wears after awhile. Not yet apparently, but I'm told it will one day and you're left with the like or not like bit. But I do see some hope of eventually talking again. Just today we exchanged a few words. And I think it'll advance even further, beyond the name calling and grunting she makes as she passes me. Our sleeping arrangements too have shown a slight improvement.

First night, the night of the fight, I lay down next to her in bed for a few minutes, eyes closed and relaxed when suddenly, sensing something just wasn't right, opened my eyes to discover Daya staring at me like I imagine snakes look when stalking a small rodent. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I didn't see. No sense in provoking the reptile. Again, an innate sense of self preservation shouted, "Open your freakin' eyes you moron. A SNAKE!" I opened my eyes cautiously. The snake was still there, staring emotionless, waiting for me to fall asleep. I slept, out of fear, on the living room sofa that night.

Second night, the snake appeared quite tired and more chipmunkish. Didn't hurt that I spent about three hours making her dinner. At bed time, I carefully lay down beside her. It was a bit cold and I slowly crept closer to her for warmth. She grunted and edged away. I was like, "Fine I was just getting comfortable and didn't want to touch you anyway", to myself, 'cause you don't want to provoke an angry snake. And Daya, being Indian, I'm thinking angry cobra snake. The kind that flare out their heads and stand as tall as a man and spit poisonous venom kind of snake.............. We both edged away from each other to our respective sides of the bed. But it was really cold that night and as the hours passed, I rolled to face her. She was facinging the other way. "So far so good", I thought to myself and moved ever so closer to her until maybe a centimeter away? I dunno, didn't have a measure with me nearly that small, no bragging intended. By morning I'd managed to get as close as possible to a spooning position without actually touching.

Last night I made contact. It was limited but successful. And I think some of the progress was on her part as well. We each took turns casually tossing and turning about until just the faintest contact was made. Maybe an elbow here or a foot there, but contact without grunting and fits was made. By morning we were still facing away from each other but in full cheek to cheek contact.

I dunno, maybe I'm a snake/chipmunk charmer, maybe she just thought, "I've got too much invested in this dumb ass to bail now. I need some returns damned it!"  Whatever the reason, she said I could visit her at the office for coffee this afternoon. Keep ya posted

Got Rid of the Stinking Turtle

My 12 year old wanted a turtle which her grandmother bought for her Christmas a year ago. They need a lot of care or they'll stink like hell. As expected, our daughter grew tired of cleaning the tank and found a friend to take it. Kind of easy to part with mind you as reptiles make lousy pets that cower when you approach.

Anyway, friend's mom arrives and the wife and I give her instructions for care and feeding. Thought I'd compare and contrast our approaches.

Other mom, surprised the turtle needed water in its tank asked how much?

MOM: It needs just a little bit so he can swim and a thing that sticks out of the water for him to get on. Enough so that he can stick his head up (She demonstrates to concerned other mom) and get some air. There's the kind that floats and sticks to the side.

DAD: About four inches. I'll get you the ramp.

Other mom asked what do you feed it?

MOM: You can ffed him some lettuce or carrots or some other scraps. An he eats fish and stuff from pellets. He likes to eat it a bit soft so you can just sprinkle it in his tank. Or you can take him out and put it in another bowl with a little water to soften it.

DAD: Turtle food from the pet store.

Other mom confirms the four inches of water and soft turtle food. Mom adds

MOM: When you change his water, you'll need to add some dechlorinator to it, just a few drops and it'll be fine. You should keep him out when you do it until it dissolves in the water.

DAD: I usually clean it and just use tap water.

Other mom said our daughter mentioned other kids might want it if they decided it was too much trouble.

MOM: There are two place that we were gonna take it, the Audubon Nature Center on Route 17 and the Children;s Museum will take it if you don't want it. And two of Mina;s friends are interested, she looked to Mina for their names.

DAD: Just call us and we'll give a friend's name.

Later that evening, the other mom called to ask the name of the other friend interested in the reptile.

Spider Names

Perhaps only a parent can appreciate this one. My 8 year old came home with three colorful drawings of spiders she made in class as a part of an exercise. She named them "Bob", "Nick" and "Greg". Only daughters can make your day like that.

Magical Dad Makes Family Disappear!

I've discovered that I have amazing magical powers recently. All I have to do is pull out a tool of any sort and my wife and daughters disappear. Freaky cool thing. If I actually start using the sucker I can make them reappear at a mall somewhere, far from me and whatever work is at hand. After that, it's beer and cigars on the porch. Only down side is that if I don't actually do some work, the trick stops working.

Recently I diiced to take the trick to a new level, magically transportuing tha wife and daughters to another state!  I was thinking a HBO special or something at the time. I began remodelling the bathroom. Bad idea. Turns out it's a lot of freaking work man. Been at it for days. The drywall is the worse. Half way through the tear out I was thinking, "wouldn't it be great if I found a body in the wall?" That would stop all work for days, cops are like that, and keep the family miles from home for maybe weeks. I hit the drywall with renewed vigor as if wishing made it possible. Then I thought, whoa what if I found MY body in the wall. I'm sure they've been trying to kill me. Maybe this is a "Sixth Sense" kind of thing where I'm actually dead and I need to be convinced to move on. You know it might not be such a far fetched idea. The wife and kids do ignore me a lot... mostly... all of the time. And things I own tend to never be there when i look for them, like I don't matter any more. maybe I'm actually dead and finding my body would explain a lot. And it might get that creepy sweaty kid who keeps following me around off my back for awhile. I hit the wall so hard with the hammer that I nicked a bit of the wall in the next room. No more hair cuts! No hangovers!  "HEY!" I though to my self. "They don't even look sad!" I knelt before the wall motionless for a bit, sweat making tracks as it running down my plaster caked face. "They can make their own damned breakfasts tomorrow morning!", I murmurred to myself and resumed the demolition. Just a little more wall left and I'm home free! Crash........................... No body. a trcikle of blood ran down my arm reinforcing the fact that I was indded still alive. "Damned!" I said aloud, "Now I gotta replace this damned wall!" I wonder who that creepy kid is?

Religious Education ... or Lack of

In the eyes of the faithful, any faith, I really suck as a Dad. To illustrate, last night my 8 years old asked, "Remember when Jesus...", I interrupted to inform her that I wasn't that old. She laughed and rephrased, "You know the story about Jesus when they had that picnic and the black guy left early?" Having educated her in the Catholic faith via the movie "Jesus Christ Superstar" and a kid's bible, I immediately knew what she was talking about. "It was the Last Supper baby and the black guy was Judas, probably not really a black guy, just played by one in the movie". "Yeah", she replied and continued, "Did they eat white bread and was it the kind we had at Subway?" "You mean wheat bread?", I asked. "Yeah, wheat", she repeated. "Yeah, pretty sure it was wheat", I replied.

Daughters and Sex Education

Recently my then 11 years old daughter, Mina, asked her 19 years old sister, Emma, about sex, prompting the 19 year old to immediately phone 22 year old sister, Erica, in New Orleans for help. Erica's response was, "Look. Mom told me, I told you, you tell Mina. Mina tells Dhara. That way, no one has to do it twice!"I now have the greatest respect for my oldest daughter. A simple plan that alleviates pain and DOES NOT INVOLVE DAD AT ALL! A few weeks later, during a game of telephone at the dinner table turned my contentment into concern.

During the game, the phrase, "Spring Flowers" four family members later became "Stripper Showers". "My God"! I thought, "What will Dhara be learning three sisters later!" I had mom arrange for a sex education course through the local school system, immediately.

A month later, as instructed by mom, I dropped off Mina at the designated course location and asked what time to pick her up. The instructed chuckled, "Oh no. You stay!", and handed me diagrams of various genitalia to color in. Mina grinned at embarrassed dad, much like her oldest sister did during her "It's a penis" conversation 19 years earlier (See previous post for details). I promptly telephoned Maureen, I mean Daya, to leave work early and attend class, 'CAUSE THAT'S WHAT SEAN THORNTON WOULD HAVE DONE, DAMNED IT! (see previous post if you don't know who Sean Thornton is). Daya, like a good Mrs Thornton, did arrive a few minutes later and I left for home. Two hours later, mom and Mina arrive home with a rainbow colored penis. I pulled mom aside and asked her to instruct Mina to neever touch a penis that looked like that, EVER!

How Did I Get Here?

"Go ahead and laugh", I languidly thought to myself as yet another woman, one of at least six, passed me grinning. Two even emitted a barely audible giggle as they confidently plucked a box from the shelf and strolled by the hopelessly loss middle aged man as he, I, stared in bewilderment at the incredible range of products I was to choose from. I peered down at the note my wife had scrolled in barely legible pseudo script/print a form of hieroglyphics, maybe sanskrit. I dunno, typed it would still read like a dead language. "Let's see", I said aloud as I attempted a rational scientific attempt to decipher and apply the note to the task at hand. "I need", I continued slowly and hesitantly, "I need a box of Tampax tampons" (I thought that was the same thing) "Super - green and blue box, plastic app". I joked to myself, "Before the rains or autumn pick?" There was a everything but that particular product! As a kid, I pictured myself at this age a Don Corleone type or maybe a Sean Thornton character played by John Wayne in the movie "Quiet man". No way William Poweel would have shopped for this crap in "Life with Father"! How did I get here was all I could think? My mind raced back 20 years.

My oldest daughter, Erica, now 23 and 3 at the time, was home from daycare and wrestling with me in bed. Apparently, I learned that day, sex education starts in daycare. She stood up hovering over me and asked, "What's that long thing here?" drawing an imaginary line from her crotch down her thigh. Like any responsible father, I immediately called to her mother, 'cause it was her job and really Sean Thornton would have yelled for Maureen O'Hara damned it. There was no response from Maureen and Erica, sensing Dad's discomfort, pressed him. Giggling she asked again and added, "I know what it is". I shouted louder for her mother to no effect. Laughing hard, Erica said, "It's your penis". "Arghhh!!!!!!", was pretty much how it ended. But those few minutes pretty much set the stage for the rest of my life. Each daughter works hard to make Dad uncomfortable, so much so that I can't feel anything at all. But now that the joke is over, the pattern has been set and personal hygiene products are now just another grocery item for Dad. That's how I got here!

I was making my third pass along the long line of products when a small voice from a small woman behind me asked, "Wife or daughter?" "It's not fair" was all I replied. "Ah wife and daughter" the elderly woman smiled. I raised my eyebrows and said, "Wife and four daughters". "Oh my. You should be a pro by now", she joked. "they keep changing the particulars", I defended myself. I offered her the note. She took a quick look and handed me the appropriate box. I thanked her as she carted away and made her laugh by adding, "See you next month"?

On the way home I rented a copy of Life with father at Blockbusters. I can till dream, can't I?