Multiplication

Dhara asked me to help her with her math homework. I took a quick look and declared, "Ah multiplication!" "What;s that?" Dhara asked. "Well it's like when you keep adding the same number a bunch of times. Instead of adding 2+2+2+2 you would just say 2X4 and get eight" I told her. Then I added a real world example, "Mom gained about 2 pounds for each year we've been married. We've been married 13 years now. So how many pounds has she gained in total?"

Dhara stared at me emotionless for a second and stated quite matter of factly, "Mom says you're a jerk".

"I know you don't like math, but don't change the subject baby. Now how many pounds in total has mom gained?"

"Mom had two babies" Dhara defended her mother again.

"OK now we're talking algebra baby. Focus on the multiplication first." I then led her through the logical steps towards the answer, "So 2 pounds per year times 13 years is ......."

"You'd still be a jerk" Dhara flatly finished the sentence.

"Fine ask your sister to help you" I scolded her.

"She thinks you're a ....."

"Go to your room", I interrupted her and continued, "and tell your sister she's punished too!"

Big Spoons and Health

My wife, Daya, and I were talking about how eating salty chips, something we had just done but rarely do, made the corners of our mouths sore. We speculated that it was the salt. Dhara, aged 8 sitting next to us said, "Yeah I get that too. I just stopped using really big spoons".

Wedding Planning

I'm heading on over to the teapot yesterday when my determined eight years old daughter stepped directly so suddenly into my path that I almost knocked her over. I looked down at her big brown eyes looking back at me. It wasn't the daughter I tucked into bed the night before. She was serious man. It was like staring into Caesar Chavez's face during a tense negotiation.

"Dad!", Dhara began.

"Yes daughter" was all I could muster.

"When I get married", she continued, "When I get married, way in the future, can I have a wedding in the Spring?"

"Sure", I smiled and assured her.

"On a Saturday?", she continued.

"I guess so." I said.

"And in a garden?", Dhara added.

"OK" I answered with a shrug.

"Good!" she said satisfied but still a tad serious and turned and left the room.

"What the hell?!" I said as I turned to my wife for an explanation and continued, "She's 8 and wants to plan her wedding? Hell, I was in the woods looking for the bat cave after school at that age."

"She's a girl, George" was my wife's only reply.

Homework

My 12 years old asked me how to multiply exponents.

I sighed and said that as soon as the get into the country they do that all by themselves. You pack 12 of 'em into a rusty old Chevy wagon, a late night run across the border and 20 years later they want the country to adopt Spanish or exponish or whatever as the nation's second language.

My daughter stared at me for a minute than added, "In math, when you have one number raised to the power of another, how do you multiply them?'.

"Ohhhh. Well I wouldn't dear. Can't see any reason to attempt it", I assured her.

"Cause it's math homework, Dad", she said, using a bit more annoyed tone than I would have dared to take with my father.

I took a look at the math problem on her assignment pad.

"Jesus that would be a big number no matter how ya did it! Why would you do something like that!" I rightly exclaimed.

My daughter gently stroked my arm, took the assignment pad from my hands and asked when her mother was getting home.

I think it's important to take an active interest in your child's education.

Serious Writing

My wife tells me I should consider becoming a serious writer. "Don't write anything humorous or light hearted?" I asked and continued "'Cause I like the lighter stuff." My wife responded that she knew I liked the lighter stuff meant I should become serious about being a writer. I thought for a second and asked her if that could include writing the lighter stuff but with a serious expression. It was at that point she called me an ass and walked away from me. I kept talking, somewhat put off by the attack, 'cause it's a small house and there wasn't anywhere in the house she could go and still not hear me. "Well, that was uncalled for" I said a bit hurt. And she was all, "How do you get through the day without dieing you idiot?" "Oh man" I was like and "are you like having a really bad period?" I added a bit of the CT valley girl up=tick at the end of the sentence, which really went over well. She just kinda glared at me and I thought I really need another cup of tea and like magic she threw one at me. "My God, I have powers!", I thought. "I really should be more serious about what I write. My thoughts have powers!" "You have the power to annoy!" Daya shouted at me as she tried vainly to find a room where she couldn't hear me. "My God I can project my thoughts into other people!" I added. "You said it out loud you moron!" my wife shouted from another room. I didn't respond. How could she, with a normal mind, understand what was happening to me. But she was right, timid and primitive as her brain was, I should be more serious about what I write. I considered events in my life and made a list of what to write:
1. If a Pit bull has ya by the throat, try not to struggle and fight. It only intimidates them. Try petting and talking nicely to it.
2. Toasting buttered bread is a really bad idea. First toast THEN butter the bread!
There's so much more, but I need to rest.

I'm like Mary!

We've already discussed this. My 8 years old, Dhara, came home from school with a note from her teacher stating that she, the teacher, wished my daughter would participate more in class. I wanted to rail on the teacher and say that inspiring the student would kind of fall into the teacher doing her job category. But I decided to play nice and replied, "I agree, but she hasn't been the same since the exorcism".

What we haven't discussed was that my 20 year old daughter, Emily, thought this was great and asked if she could go in for the parent teacher conference, which she was pretty sure would be requested. She would pretend to be Dhara's mom and when asked about the father who wrote the note would say, "There was no father", point to her self and continue, "I'm like Mary". Then she would look confused and say, "You know what that makes Dhara, huh?" with a wink. Then she'd look more confused and mutter to herself, "Kinda makes ya wonder why we needed the exorcism."

Sacrifices We Make for Our Children

My 8 years old brought home a corrected homework assignment from school yesterday that had a hand written note on it from the teacher simply stating, "I wish Dhara would participate more in class".

I could have gone all hippy over the note and had a long talk about participating with my daughter. I could have made excuses for her in a return note to the teacher. I could also have gone all Nazi-like in a return note that stated, clearly Dhara's work is just fine and perhaps the teacher should be concentrating more on the students and proper homework assignments.

But I didn't think any of these approaches was beneficial to my daughter. So, as per my usual mode of teacher to parent communication, I sent a return note that both appeased the teacher and generated a great deal of sympathy for my daughter. It at least got the instructor off her case.

I replied, "Yeah, she hasn't been the same since the exorcism."

I haven't heard back from the teacher, but I'm guessing Dhara is getting extra care, coming from a challenging situation at home or is being left alone out of outright fear. Either way, no more notes frm the teacher. Now that's good parenting!

Picture Day at School

Dhara, aged 8, walks into the kitchen this morning dressed in a sun dress and presented two pairs of shoes to me. Instinct is to say, "What?" But I'm like experienced man. It's picture day and she wants me to help her to decide which pair to wear.

Instinct says, "They don't photograph your feet dear, wear whatever is warmest or more comfortable." But I've been here many times before.

I tell her, "Both the white and gold look great with that outfit. But the gold sets off the gold in your brown eyes like a sunset on some distant exotic planet."

She smiles broadly as she turns with a slight dip and skips off to her bedroom to finish dressing. She returns several minutes later, completely content ......... wearing the white shoes.


  

Standoff

Emma, aged 20, was sitting with her back to me at the dining room table facing the french doors opposite her that led to a small backyard deck. She was quietly tapping away at her laptop when a rather large squirrel, or as Emma would later describe, a grizzly sized squirrel landed on the deck rail just feet away from the open door. Everything was mostly quiet except for a gasp from Emma as she instantly and simultaneously crouched down a bit and grasped the table top, it’s mere wood construction creaking under the strain of terror. The squirrel assumed a similar pose and tightly clutched his wooden perch as well. 

Very little was said, but from my vantage point, it was clear what was being thought:

Emma: “Oh my God he’s huge”, she thought quietly so as not to alarm the squirrel.

Squirrel: “Holy crap, it’s one of those big hairless ape-like things”

Emma: “It’s looking right at me! I think it’s gonna attack or something! They carry rabies, don't they?!”

Squirrel: “It’s looking right at me. Jesus, Don’t they like eat squirrels?”

Emma: “If I move slowly, maybe I can slam the door closed before it comes in for me.”

Squirrel: “Her legs are like 30 times as long as mine. No way I can turn and run. If I can just make the roof line. But the roof is towards the ape thing!”

Back in the unimagined real world, Emma, makes a slow move toward the door.

Emma:  “Oh God it came toward me. It’ so mean looking!” and freezes.

Squirrel: “Oh God, it moved toward me as I moved. What the hell!”

Emma: “I think I can make it if I dash to the door.”

Squirrel: “OK it looks somewhat intelligent. I’ll just use the international sign of friendship to mollify it and move on. Here we go.” 

back in real world,the squirrel raises its bushy tail straight and high, slightly twitching it.

Emma: “Oh my GOD! It’s threatening me, it’s gonna attack” 

Emma takes a cautious step forward.

Squirrel: “Oh my God! Oh My God! It moves towards me every time I move. I gotta make that roof. OK a moment’s courage and I’m on the roof!”

Again and again, careful slow advances from each until when in range, each made a dash for their respective targets. Emma slammed and locked the door, 'cause apparently she fears squirrels can unlock doors from the outside.  The squirrel leaped to the roof and scrambled over as if princess would claw her way up the roof with those nails. 

Door successfully slammed, rabies free Emma went back to her laptop. The squirrel went his way, all his nuts intact. Meanwhile, I crawled up behind Emma and grabbed her ankle under the chair while screeching like a wounded squirrel. 

We live in Connecticut. You get your entertainment when and where you can.

Later that night, Emma recants the story of the rabid grizzly-sized squirrel that nearly killed her as the squirrel, no doubt, at the squirrel club, breathlessly detailed how he, surrounded by seven huge hairless ape-like things was nearly eaten had it not been for his quick wits and olympian speed.

If I Won the Lottery!

My wife asked me what I'd do if I won the lottery. Well, if I won the lottery, I says to her, the first thing I'd do is call a wig shop to see if they have those colonial era powdered wigs 'cause I always wanted to wear one of them, but I was afraid of how people would treat me. But if I had a few million bucks, I think I could pretty much get away with anything. So, I'd also go to the local gym and hire me about eight female body builders, the kind with ripped abs and fake boobs, to carry me to work on one of those carriages people carried back in the day wearing tiny little gold lame bikinis... the girls would be wearing the bikinis, not me. I thin k wig is enough flare. And then I'd have 'em surround me as we walked around the place two or three times so everyone could see me in my wig and with the babes and then into the bosses office where I'd quit. But I'd do it in French and end with some rude nasally noises like french people do and then leave. And I'd have a navy blue tux with tails on too. And I'd probably also have a mediaeval band accompany me that would throw off their peasant clothes when we got outside and turn into a high tech Bollywood band. And everyone would go "WOW! Who knew the flute payer was a hot Indian actress man!" But I wouldn't kiss her, 'cause look at the crap that Richard Gear had to go through after kissing that Indian gal that day. So I'd probably bring along some non-Indian babes too with the band. You know for kissing.

Then on the way home I'd hit the Mercedes dealer and Soooo get the under-coating and extended warranty and sports package and Bose sound system. And in the back, seat stretched out on a couple of the laps of the body builder, while one peeled me a grape and another drove the car, I'd wonder, "Now that Michael Jackson is dead, what ever happened to John Merritt's remains?"

Then that night I'd throw a huge party and invite all the right people and some lawyers too. But when the lawyers got there, I'd have the bouncer, probably more of those hot body builder babes, stop them and tell them they're so not on the list and you're gonna have to leave sir or madam and make a huge scene. And I would so laugh and have people raise me unto their shoulders like I actually did something and I'd hit the disco ball, that I bought right after the powdered wig, with a bat and it would break like a pineada and iphones would rain down on everyone with one year free unlimited service including text and web. And they would text everybody from their new phones to tell 'em what a rad party they're at and how cool I am.

So then I asked Daya what she'd do. But she just sat there reading her book like she didn't hear me and it was real quiet for awhile and then we went to bed.

Apparently I'm Mean

My wife tells me I have the reputation of being mean. That is, I say mean things. She can never actually recall a mean thing I've said when challenged, but is sure I do it all the time. My daughters feel the same way about me and also can't seem to recall specific mean things I've said. In reality, they think I'm mean because they fail to recognize a very significant and real difference between men and women. Men say what they're thinking, women beat around the bush, allude to things and make communication impossible even between themselves.

For instance, Daya and I are going to yet another family function when I ask her, "Is that what you're wearing?"

She responds, somewhat panicked, "What? Is it OK?"

I attempted to reply when interrupted by a now incensed Daya who asks, "Does it make me look fat? Thanks a lot. I don't go criticizing you every time you get dressed do I?" and storms off to the bedroom to change.

I just wanted to know if I could go dressed as I was in blue jeans, for God's sake. I mean I didn't ask "Are you gonna wear THAAAAT?!" Anyway, even if I did think the damned thing made her look fat, or even notice, I would have said .... well nothing. 'Cause that's a no win situation and I don't wanna be the mean one. And let's be honest folks. Clothes don't make you look fat. Cheesecake and four hours of TV a night do that.

So anyway, I've got this mean reputation and nothing to lose. So Daya returned, changed into her slimming clothes, strikes a pose and looks at me with one raised eyebrow, femaleese for "How does this look? And I dare you to not answer correctly" and holds the pose until I react.

So, I raise one of my eyebrows even higher than hers as if to say, "Oh my now THAT looks wonderful and SO SLIMMING!" but I don't actually say it as it would probably come out kind of sarcastic.

So anyway, we both smile and head for the car. As we pull out of the driveway, I look her up and down, to which she alarmingly asks, "What?!" I shrug and say, "Ahhh the other outfit looked better".

So Why Does Mom Have to take Your Last Name?

While camping in Maine with the family and my oldest daughter's best girlfriend Dhara, my 8 years old, asked me why mom had to take my last name? It was an EF Hutton moment as all eyes focused on me. My answer requires soem background.

The previous night, Daya and I lay in our little two man tent just across the camp site from the family sized tent that Erica, 24, friend Anna, 25, boyfriend Jeff, 25, Mina, 12 and Dhara slept in. We were woken about 2am by a loud crash outside that sounded like garbage being thrown about. I grabbed the flashlight, unzipped the tent port and took a look. directly across from me were two bright green eyes peering back at me from scattered garbage from a bag we forgot to secure. "What is it?", Daya whispered. I hesitated and whispered back. "I think it's Alice Cooper?" "What?" Daya responded and suggested that it might be a racoon. ""Way too big to be a racoon. Way too big to be Alice too", I whispered back. As we spoke the pair of bright eyes slowly receded slowly into the darkness and faded away. I turned the light off, waited a second and turned it back on. The glowing eyes had returned and stared back at me unflinching. Slowly they receded again. "Ok must be a racoon. Alice wouldn't have slunk away like that. Probably shout something like, 'Dude, the light I'm eating man!'" I sighed and said, "I gotta go run him off and pick up that garbage." "Not afraid of the racoon?", Daya asked a bit cncerned. "No, I'm afraid of Alice Cooper, not racoons", as I searched for my sandals. "Racoons got rabbis ya know. i'm gonna need someone to kep an eye out with the flashlight while I pick up ther garbage. I'm gonna be down at racoon level and this one's as big as Alice Cooper. I think I heard Jeff in the other tent should I get him", I quietly asked Daya. "You don't think I'm going out there do you?", Daya responded not so quietly and a tad incensed that I would suggest she go with me. "Yeah" was all I said and stepped out of the tent. I hesitated and stuck my head back into the tent. Doesn't Steven King live in maine?" "he's not scary", Daya reassured me continuing "he just writes about scary stuff." "Yeah,", I whispered back, "but he thinks of that stuff and he's somewhere nearby and..." "Raccoon!", Daya snapped at me pointing into the darkness. I mustered courage and hoped for a racoon. "Jeffery", I called to the other tent and asked for help. Anna mustered her best feminine voice and sang, "I'm so glad I'm a girrllll!", moching Jeff as he joined me to clean up.

The next morning, Dhara asked why girls take husband's names when they got married. I answered, " 'cause when you and mommy hears a noise in the middle of the night, who gets up and checks?" erica added, "And kills roaches", "and spiders!", Daya added. Anna pointed to the woods and added,"And Raccoons!". Erica looked at Anna and said "Sounds like a deal to me!" Anna replied, "Glad I'm a girl!" Dhara just said, "OOOhhhhhh!"
 

Wife's Broken Bra

I Swear I'll Divorce You!

“Look at this!” my wife demanded of me as we drove down our street, her hands at her side and chest raised towards me.

“Well Ok” was all I could muster.

“Look at this!” she demanded again as she pointed to her chest.

I was happy to comply. Daya’s expensive bra had a hole in it right over the left nipple, which protruded.

“Can you get the other one to do that too?” I half laughing asked a rather annoyed wife.

She was tearing through the center console of our minivan as I drove on.

“Maybe you could put a tissue or something in the bra to hide it” I offered as she happily exclaimed, “Here it is!” pulling a roll of packaging tape from the console.

I was lamenting the fact that I had run out of stories to post moments before Daya pulled the tape from the console. It was like the sound of Mozart’s oboe rising above a chorus of strings like a bird perched above a garden wall.

“You’re gonna tape your nipple?” I honestly asked.

“NO! I’m gonna tape the bra”, she said as she tore a small square piece of clear tape from the plastic applicator.

“It’s gonna hurt ya know”, I cautioned her.

“I’m not taping me, I’m taping the bra!” she snapped at me and worked her way into her bra with the piece of tape.

“I know but it’s got edges and’s gonna hurt after awhile”.

“Damned!” she shouted.

The tape had folded over and stuck to itself. She tried a second piece and told me to watch the road. It seemed to work as she smiled broadly pointing her chest at me for my approval.

“Kinda like the way it was”, I said.

“Shut up!” was expected and received.

“Still think a second hole over the right nipple was a better option” I murmured.

It was quiet for another moment when I said, “Ya can’t make this stuff up. I mean I was frustrated that I couldn’t think of anything to post and then you...”

“If you do, I swear I’ll divorce you”, Daya interrupted.

“But you taped your bra!”, I laughed.

“I swear the papers will be in the mail the moment I read the blog post!”, she slowly anunciated for me.

I'm taking my chances that a woman with a scotch taped bra won't leave me.

  

White Daughter Brown Daughter

I'm probably going to get some flack from my brown daughters for putting the white daughter first in the title. But I can't win anyway, so I'm gonna leave it.

From the day my third and first half Indian daughter was born, I worked hard to make sure the two older white daughters were close to her. As they grew, I corrected them every time they mentioned color or ethnicity in anyway. It was a lost cause and a pointless one. My daughters couldn't care less what color the other sister was. They treated each other like any other siblings would, with love, con tempt, cruelly and with care. I was the one with an issue. It's natural. I want to protect them all. They just don't need it, I soon learned. Some instances:

One afternoon, Dhara aged 6 asked to do something not practical at the moment. I, of course, said "Not now." She, of course, whined, "Whyyyy nooooot dad?" White Emma, aged 19 touched the top of Dhara's head and matter of factly said, "Cause you're brown." Dhara punched Emma in the leg.

At a party at the in-law's house last year, I sat against a wall with my two older white daughters as the Gujarati speaking party revolved around us. Mina, half Indian and aged 11 walked up to us noticing that we were isolated and a bit uncomfortable and sang, "Hello white people."

Daya arrived home from shopping with the two little brown daughters and entered the house with a "Hello White people" again.

Yesterday, I had my two brown daughters sit in a small boat I had built from plywood to test. After shoving them off into a small pond near the house, Emma remarks sacrastically, "Dad's a racist. He sent the brown daughters out to test the boats safety". I told her I didn't like her pointing out the color difference in her sisters. Emma responded by shouting to her little sisters, "Let's test it on the brown people!" Daya and the kids laughed. Mina laughingly added, "We're using it before it gets weak and falls apart on you!"

I guess I'm the only one with the issue.

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?

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