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".