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

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.