Have You Warshed the Venchtables?

Hello,

I have cute kids.

One of my favorite things about them is that they sometimes butcher words. My favorites include Mimi's pronunciation of the word also. If you could hear it you would become weak from the cuteness. I have no means of reproducing the audio on this blog. In fact, all I can do is type letters in certain specific orders to form symbol groups that we call words. Then you look at those symbol goups and interpret them into meanings, also called words.

So, in order for you to get as much of the cuteness as possible let me describe with symbol groups, I mean, words as best I can how it might sound. Mimi's speech is very juicy. Sometimes her S's sound like they are half s and half sh. So when an s comes mid-word you get that very slight slur--not a tongue thrust (which is another very cute speech thing) just juicy sibelants. Think of her as a five-year-old drunkard. All sloshed from a three-day bender. Got it? Ok, instead of also, she says osli (oh-slee). As in, "and we osli went to the chim ('chim' is Mimi for gym)." Bless her little booze-soaked heart.


Ike likes the prefix ig to start certain words. For example igleese means "at least" and ignoying means "annoying" and igloo means "igloo." He also drops L's in favor of Y's. You can hear it when he talks to Corky; often he'll say things like, "ah, sweet yiddle baby." It's not baby talk and it's not that he can't say L's (when he first spoke he used L's perfectly and still can) I think it's just that he's gotten lazy about it. After all, yiddle is a whole lot easier to form than "little." The only reason you don't think so is because you have had many years of practice. (Inappropriate joke alert!) If you ever have a stroke, you'll see what I mean (I appologize).

I like the world yiddle. It sounds like a goofing-off verb. As in, "our cat was yiddling around all day." I can also make it sound like a euphimism for urination. As in, "our cat yiddled." I'm not sure why it's the cat doing all of this yiddling.

Speaking of cats, Kitty our two-year-old says woorshwie for nursery. Good luck figuring that one out without some type of interpereter. If our baby was actually named Corky, she would probably call him Chorchie. She adds "ie" to everything she says, as if she is a sorority sister from the 1990s (e.g., foodie, jinkie (drink), pottie (potty), seatie, foonie (spoon), cuppie, et cetera-ie). Kitty is a funny little yiddler.

This may be my fault, because when I was a kid I thought that the words "this" and "morning" when spoken together were actually the smorning. I knew the word "this" and I knew the word "morning" and I knew that together they meant "this morning," but whenever I heard that phrase my brain aranged the noises comming in into the symbol groups of the and smorning, which in turn would cause me to say grammatically precarious phrases like, "what are we doing in the smorning?" That phrase only works if one were planning on doing something in (you know, evil wise) this morning.


That is all.

Corky

There is a new baby at our house. And, man, is he lazy and whiny. All he does all day is sit there, slug-like, doing nothing. He, we call him Corky (names have been changed) by the way, lays on his back squirming and grunting pretty much all day and all night. He refuses to move from point A to point B without someone carrying him. And, I am sorry to mention this in mixed company, he refuses to poop in appropriate places--in stead he poops where ever he likes. Peeps too.

Most of the time his eyes are closed as if to indicate that he does not care to look at you. You are hideous to him. You are not worth the effort it would take to unstick his eye-booger-glued-shut eyes.

Anytime he wants something, anything, he just starts yelling. He doesn't care if it's Wednesday at 1:00 in the afternoon or if it is 3:00 AM on a Monday morning. If he wants something he starts yelling for it and doesn't stop until he gets it. I won't even mention what he makes Buffy do.

Really, he is 8 and 3/4 lbs. of rude.

And, I can't help it, I love him.



PS  Corky doesn't work, so I've changed his changed name to Cubby.  --rm

Excerpt 2

Here is another excerpt from those essays I told you about. This one is also aimed at boys and is about how to understand girls.

Peace
Your girl is happiest when she is at peace. Peace comes to her when her safety is secure and when conflicts that inevitably arise are minimized. Think of yourself as your girl’s peacemaker. A peacemaker is someone who can astutely handle conflict. Peace making is a trait that, as a boy, you are not likely schooled in. Nevertheless, you actually can be good at this. But first, a little something about conflict styles.

War and Peace
Boys are warriors at heart. That is why you like swords, guns, clubs, large vehicles, contests of wit, contests of strength, contests of skill, and contests of machismo. That is also why you know how to sketch the rank insignia of an army sergeant.

You are basically wired to engage in conflict. That does not mean that you necessarily like conflict, it just means that you often handle conflict quickly and decisively. For boys, conflict is often short-lived. There is (a) a disagreement, (b) an altercation, (c) an airing of grievance(s), and (d) a resolution. This can happen quickly or take some time, but once it is over—and cooler heads have prevailed—it’s over.

Girls are not generally like this. To girls, conflict can be emotionally engrossing. Girls do not tend to air grievances in straightforward confrontations. In stead, girls quite often confine conflicts to psychological battlegrounds. Conflict for girls can be stressful and emotionally encompassing. Your style of conflict is probably different than your girl’s. Think of it this way, the military employs combat units to fight on the front lines. There are also men and women that gather intelligence—you are front lines, your girl is intelligence.

Boys tend to think of girls as unschooled in conflict. This is stupid. Think of the difference between fisticuffs in the park and two kung fu masters battling for dominance—you are fisticuffs, your girl is kung fu master.

But, wait! you say, she gets all emotional and irrational when we disagree. How is she a kung fu master? Are you worried that your girl was called a master of kung fu, when probably she is simply a practitioner? Yes, you sullenly nod. Good point—it is taken back. See, conflict resolved. Boys know how to do this.

The reason kung fu was used as a metaphor to describe your girl is because of the amount of effort and attention to detail that girls put into a conflict. Your girl is paying closer attention than you are when you disagree. This means that she will notice, and remember, almost everything you say. Your instinct in conflict is generally to try to overpower. Your girl, on the other hand, will elude, counter, and eventually find and exploit your weaknesses. If you are sloppy your girl will… well, you cannot afford to be sloppy.

You and your girl want peace. Even when engaging in conflict, the eventual goal is to (re)establish peace. To you, as a boy, peace happens when conflict is resolved. The same is true for your girl, but the resolution of conflict from a boy’s perspective compared to a girl’s perspective is quite different.

Boy
Conflict is resolved when:
Grievances are aired
Challengers capitulate or convince
Conflict ends
Treaty is reached

Girl
Conflict is resolved when:
Emotions are aired
Emotions are purged
Challenger understands
Time passes with no further incidence.

Notice that you, as a boy, are focused on resolution of the conflict with some kind of tangible solution. You want some sort of action to be taken. Tangible solutions are important to your girl too, but they are not as important as being understood. In fact, to your girl the goal of conflict may not be to come up with a solution. Your girl’s goal may be to simply achieve understanding.

So, when conflict arises you should do your best to understand your girl. Say things that will help her to know that you are beginning to understand. Things like, “really? I didn’t know that” will save both of you extra effort and stress. Realize now, that this will take longer than you want it to take. But, rest assured, it will save time in the long run.

Also, realize that you should not feign understanding. She will quiz you and you will be exposed and she will no longer trust that you really, truly understand her. If she doesn’t trust that you really, truly understand her, she will have to take steps to rebuild trust. You do not want her to take steps.

However, there may come a time when you can’t understand. Imagine that your girl’s point of view on a particular issue is so very different from yours that you cannot possibly get it—ever. When it becomes apparent that this is the case, your only hope is to convince your girl that you love her and wish with everything that you are that you could understand. It might go like this:

Scene 1.
Girl: …but without eight new, full sets of china the Earth will be destroyed.
Boy: Huh? I don’t understand.
Girl: You’re not trying.
Boy: I am trying, I promise, I just don’t see how the destruction of the Earth is tied to our lacking a set of china.
Girl: If you can’t see it, then you are truly blind.
[Boy now realizes he cannot possibly understand]
Boy: You know I love you right? [He pauses as he waits for her reply]
Girl: Maybe.
Boy: I am trying to understand, but I am not sure I can. And, until I can understand, I’m just not comfortable committing that kind of money. I just feel like both of us should be completely on board. Do you see where I’m coming from?
End Scene 1

There is an off chance that she will see where you are coming from, because now you are speaking your girl’s language. Notice that this is not a resolution. The issue still persists. You, as a boy, will want to ask, so we’re not getting china, right? Do not ask this. The answer is that it is extremely probable that you are not getting china, but the idea of getting china (and saving the Earth) is still a possibility for your girl. Let it be a possibility. It’s not hurting anyone. Understanding is achieved, and that is what is important. At this point a tangible solution is not necessary. Let it go. If you do not let it go, you will get china.

Managing conflict well will help you provide peace for your girl. To effectively do this you must commit to becoming a peacemaker. Raise your right arm and take the following oath:

Oath 1.
I, (state your name), do hereby declare myself a peacemaker and defender of tranquility. I declare to all that I will make peace in conflict, keep peace in times of peace, and handle complaints, grievances, gripes, beefs, bellyaches, and dust-ups with care to ensure a quick return to peace. Peace.

You are now, officially, an officer of the peace. Note: this title neither grants its holder authority to arrest disturbers of the peace nor does it enable the foresworn to issue citations.

Now that you are a certified peacemaker, you can begin to look at places where peace should be made.

Category Five

I just read that a certain Hurricane Rick is threatening a resort town in Mexico. I am not sure how I feel about this. On one hand I like that my name is being referred to as "a category five." An opinion I have long shared. But, on the other hand, I am nervous that this hurricane could ruin my name for good.

Oh, come on, you say, who has ever heard of a hurricane ruining someone's name?

To which I reply, just ask someone named Katrina, Mitch, or Ike.

To which you reply, oh.

Then we look at each other all sad and you say, It was nice knowing you, Rick. You say my name with a lot of respect as if it might just be the last time. Somewhere in the distance a lone bugler plays Taps.

Scene.



See what I mean? Why do they have to give hurricanes human names at all? Is it because people weren't identifying enough with hurricanes and tropical storms? They had to some how humanize them? So when one destroys your village, you can cry out in wrath at the weather pattern Donald? Curse you Donald! I'm sure, before going with human names, they tried adding googly eyes, but it's impossible to make those things stick on what is essentially a severe storm.

Not long ago, they only used female names--or so I'm told by the comic strip I am about to plagerize. I think it was because they are called HURricanes not HIMicanes (bada bing!)*. After a while they depleted the supply of good female names. Of course, this was before people started making up their own female names like JaQuiah and De'Lynn and Thuthan* and Molarkie and Mary.

So, now there is a whole new crop of female names that they could choose from. Unfortunately, I doubt they would go back and change Hurricane Rick to Hurricane Ryertilldason though (I am also not sure what kind of hormone regimen it would take for a hurricane to change genders. The surgery would be expensive, and there aren't a lot of meteorologists willing to do it).

Maybe someday they will have to add last names to the hurricane names. I like this idea, because there is an off chance that the following headline could appear:

East Coast Besieged by Barbara Walters

The first line of the article could be, "Hindsight is 20/20, but the view from Raleigh is less than the most intriguing celebrities would like to see on an Oscar weekend special, ABC news reported."

Why Barbara Walters? I don't know.

Anyway, if you're listening, hurricane Rick, with your humanized category-five senses. I wish you no success as a hurricane. May you peter out in the end like all Ricks I know...

So, um, that's all.


_____
*Hurricane joke from a comic strip called Adam's Apples. Thuthan as a female name from Rochelle Hulme Woolston.

Waking the Neighbors

It was 8:30 AM on a blissful Sunday morning. I had come out of the church having finished a meeting and was heading home. I approached the Schmonda Schmoddessy that I had brought with me to the church. Normally, I would drive the Schmoyota, but earlier that morning I had forgotten my keys in the bedroom, and I didn't want to wake the Buffy. So, instead of going back into the bedroom, I grabbed the van's spare key off the key hanging thingy on my way out the door.

The meeting had been nice, but it was time to go home to help Buffy get the kids ready for the 9:00 AM church meeting. I gripped the van's door handle, which is what you do when you want to open the van's door. Locked. I reached into my pocket to retrieve the keys, and remembered that I had brought the spare. The same spare key that was not attached to a little remote control device that lets you in.

No worries, I thought. Keys must still open the doors of cars. Surely, we have not advanced so far in society that door keys no longer open doors. What's next donkeys and monkeys no longer opening dons and mons?

So, I tried it, and it turned out that this particular spare key would not open the driver's side door, nor would it open the passengers side door. So I tried the hatch. The recently repaired hatch (remember the Schmear Schmake episode?). It so happens that this spare key, along with not opening doors, breaks hatch locks. I don't feel like describing what that means exactly, suffice it to say, the hatch lock was broken. Nevertheless, not all was lost. The newly broken lock allowed me to open the hatch. One problem, though, along with letting me open the hatch, the broken lock, coupled with someone opening the locked van, set off the car alarm!

Remember, I had the spare key. No little remote control device. The very device that is used to unlock the car doors, open the sliding doors, and--incidentally--turn off the car alarm.

So, at 8:30 AM my van was honking at one second intervals. The hatch was open, but none of the other doors were. I had little time to react. I grabbed the spare key. I jumped into the trunk, pulled the hatch closed behind me and began climbing toward the driver's seat. Meanwhile, the horn was sounding every second or so.

When I got to the driver's seat I tried every conceivable thing to stop the alarm from sounding. Nothing doing. From the van's perspective, someone had broken its back lock; climbed through it's collection of seats, car seats, and Happy Meal toys; and was now trying desperately to silence it in order to steal it. Help! (pause) Thief! (pause) Murder! (pause).

Mind you, the Culpepper home (my house) is located in a quiet residential neighborhood. It's almost always quiet--especially at 8:30 AM on a Sunday. Our church is located on the opposite end of this same neighborhood and although my street went to church at 9:00 AM, most of the neighborhood between my house and the church attend church at 1:00 PM.

But the alarm was not stopping and I was not sure it ever would. I had no choice but to take the spare key shove it into the ignition and drive, horns ablazing, the several blocks from the church to my house.

So, I did it. I drove. Fast.

Careening though the neighborhood waking all neighbors, I thought about rolling down the window and yelling a warning of some kind so at least I would seem less of a jerk, The British are coming! Get your food supply! Only you can prevent forest fires! Bring out your dead! But instead I covered my face and drove as fast as the van would allow.

Just as I was pulling into my drive way. The alarm stopped.

Excerpt 1

The following is an excerpt from a series of essays I've been writing about relationships. This is a section on how boys can provide emotional safety for girls. Hopefully it is, at least, amusing, I'd like to hear what you think.


Boys, is your girl sometimes crazy? Of course, they all are. Sometimes crazy is why boys and girls are opposite sexes. It’s sometimes crazy vs. sometimes lazy. Sometimes is not bad; you can handle sometimes. Because sometimes is not often. Sometimes crazy = normal. Often crazy = want to poke your eyes out.

Your girl, like all girls everywhere, needs an occasional meltdown. You do not understand this. It is okay that you don’t understand. You don’t have to understand the science behind nuclear weaponry to know that you don’t want to have one dropped on you. Your girl does not want to drop a bomb on you anymore that you want her to drop a bomb on you. But, if you are not careful, you will force her hand and she will feel that she has no choice but to destroy you.

Again, your girl will occasionally need to melt down. It’s not her fault, she has a lot of hormones and stresses that you do not understand. Again, you do not understand why nuclear weapons work either—it doesn’t matter. She knows she’s melting down, she wonders if she’s crazy (she is not), but she is powerless to stop it. Think of David Banner and his temper-triggered transformation into the Incredible Hulk. Side note: do not refer to your girl as “hulkish.”

Something inside her turns her into something she normally is not. Communication becomes difficult. Her attention to detail increases exponentially. If she were a cartoon, she would turn into a thermometer and her temperature would rise to the top and break the glass, then her eyes would bug out (aoogah!) and steam would gush from her ears like mini horizontal geysers. It can be threatening and scary.

Here’s where it gets dicey. Your instinct, what your brain is programmed to do, is to fight or flee when you sense a threat. Do not do either of those things. Do not ask why your girl is the way she is. A nuclear bomb has no idea why it’s a nuclear bomb.

Think of yourself as the first responder HAZMAT team. You are charged with protecting your girl’s emotional state and when it goes nuclear, you must work to ensure minimum damage and containment. Use the following procedures.

Do:Listen
Offer encouragement
Take her side
Offer your full attention
Take criticism
Adopt appropriate body language
Give her space
Be alert
Be engaged
Be gentle and loving

Don’t:
Offer solutions
Try to make a point
Laugh
Try to multitask (TV, eat, read, scratch)
Criticize
Get comfortable
Suggest she needs space
Fall asleep
Act nonchalant
Say, “you’re cute when you’re angry”

As you are surely aware, you will sense when sense has returned. It is at that time that you can begin to take off your HAZMAT gear. Be tentative at first, careful not to reignite the meltdown. Every girl is different so it will take practice to refine the skill set needed for your girl.

Your ability to facilitate emotional meltdowns at a high level will lead to increased happiness for your girl and for you.Also, your girl needs a safe place to feel things. Emotions like love, joy, sorrow, guilt, happiness, mellowness, peace, mania, fear, calm, excitement, giddiness, grumpiness, jealousy, pride, and passion to name a few. If you are very lucky, you might be that place. Your girl, if she chooses to, can share her emotions with you. She likely has the ability to feel things in ways that you can’t. Living emotionally with her will bring newness to your life.

If you can convince her that you are a safe place to reside emotionally, you will reap the benefits of feeling with her. Unsuppressed, appropriate, emotions felt unapologetically are the real spice of life and when shared they will take two individuals and make them one thing.

Loch Family

Our family, Ike, Mimi, Kitty, Buffy (with Corky, in utero), and I went to Loch Bruin as the Scots would say, Bear Lake to you, Schmear Schmake in this 'blog. We were on vacation. Vacation, for those of you that don't know, is what you do to test yourself to see if you will or will not kill your children when put under extreme stress. Oh, you've never heard that definition before, because no one actually says it out loud. And, although you are ashamed to admit it, you know it's true. Our kids are still alive, which means we've passed the test, at least for this year.

The trip started with lots of driving. Driving with little kids who were excited about the destination. And, when little kids are excited about a destination that is far away they tend to get impatient. When they get impatient they say stuff that is annoying. And, when they say stuff that is annoying, the person that is annoyed is forced to say things to stop the annoyance. These things that are said do not work. Even the ones that involve horrible consequences. Horrible consequences are not believed by my children--not only not believed, but ignored.

On a related note, did pioneer children ask, "when will we be there?" as much as present-day children do? If they did, I bet pioneer parents avoided threatening their children with horrible consequences, because of the reality of horrible consequences. "Timmy, you stop bugging Gwen or you'll only eat a cold, raw, potato for dinner tonight." Then, what would they say when Timmy leaves Gwen alone and Timmy still only gets a cold, raw, potato for dinner? He'd wonder why he stopped whittling her doll's head, or whatever Timmys did to Gwens in pioneer times.

Of course, Schmear Schmake was great. Buffy's family, the Pendergasts, have a time share there on one side of the lake and her whole family goes there every other year. We get to hang out at a couple of pools, tennis courts, play grounds, beach, and golf courses of various type (e.g. mini, and regular).

While we were there our pet fish Hadley Dickamore Riches died. His baby-sitter called to break the news. She gave him a proper burial at sea. I still quite miss the little guy. Ike drew him into his family portrait for school and has been writing a series of spy stories starring the fish in an Indiana Jones hat.

Also, while at Schmear Schmake our lap top's hard drive died. Buffy did it. It brings me great pleasure to know it wasn't me. Our computer is only about six months old, we have sent it back for repairs twice. I hate twice.

Also, also, while at the Schmake as our van, the Schmanda Schmodessy, sat innocently in the parking lot it was backed into and dented in the rear by a 16-year-old girl who had just gotten her driver's licence that very day. She left us a hand-written note complete with the following emoticon :( . I was nice to her, and she learned much about responsibility and how insurance works. Unfortunately, the back lift gate, hatch, trunk thingy would not open any more. So I had to load the van by going over the back seat with all of our belongings.

After these three bad things happened, we wondered if there was anything else coming. Perhaps the horrible consequences we had predicted about our children would come true. We shuddered and repented.

I took the opportunity to spend one-on-one time with each child. Ike and I mini golfed. In his six-year-old mind he kicked my trash. He told everyone so in those very words. In reality, he kicked my trash. Ike also picked up chess somewhere and we spent a few hours playing computer chess (before Buffy broke the computer).

Mimi and I went on a walk together one night. We wished on the wishing star. Talked about starting Schmee Scmool. Walked on the beach. Collected "she shells." Sat on a park bench and chatted until it was way past bedtime. On the way back to our condo, she sang me a song:

"I wish I had a little red box to put my mommy in.
I'd take her out go, "smooch, smooch, smooch"
and put her back again.

"I wish I had a little red box to put my daddy in.
I'd take him out go, "mmm, mmm, hug."
and put him back again.

"I wish I had a little red box to put my good friends in.
I'd take them out go, "how do you do?"
and put them back again."

Kitty--like kitties do--pooped a lot. So, we changed her a lot. A whole lot. Waaaaay more than usual.

Corky, as he will be known on this blog, just sat there floating in his ambiotic fluid, gestating while distending Buffy's stomach region.

All in all, it was a great time.

Sugar, Spice, Steel, and Ice.

What am I made of? I am about to find out. Starting this week I will begin a four-month stretch that will include me (1) teaching evening classes at two universities, (2) welcoming child number four, (3) acting and singing in a show that runs for six weeks, (4) working my regular job, and (5) nearly dying from sleep deprivation.

I believe that this next four months will prove beyond any reasonable doubt what, exactly, I am made of. "Gelatinous substance" is no longer specific enough. Am I part vinegar and part pee pee? Or am I a wussy-filled weenus? I will soon know for sure.

Maybe I'm sugar and spice. Of course, the spice in this diad is oregano, which makes an awful sweetener. Conversely, sugar is not good on a pizza.

Maybe I am made of rubber AND glue, both bouncing and sticking.

Maybe I am all tied up in buttons and bows, with no shortage of fastening possibilities.

Maybe I am all shook up. Oh, uh huh.

Maybe I am what I ate: Zucchini bread.

Maybe I am pretty and witty and gay. If I am pretty and witty, then gay is probably right.

Maybe I am Spartacus. See above (two gay jokes? That's interesting).

Maybe I am glad to do whatever it takes to provide for my family.

Up and Doing

According to the comments section of this 'blog there are now between two and four people reading this thing. That pentuples (times by five) the readership of this blog. There used to be just two negative people reading it(Get it? Negative? Is this thing on? I know the math still doesn't work out. *adjust tie*). Thanks for reading, family and old friends.

If you're interested, here is a link to a website called ReverbNation where you can find five of my original songs posted. If you don't mind lower-than-you're-used-to production values then maybe you should take a look. I played all instruments, sang all vocals, recorded all recordings, edited all edits, and mastered all masterings. In other words if you hate them, it is my fault alone. If you love them, it is also my fault. If you say, "meh," after listening, well, that too would be my fault. If you experience heart palpitations, shortness of breath, or frequent uniation, that is not my fault. See a Doctor.

Oh, about the music stuff, I'm not really asking for feedback on how to improve them. They are as good as I can do under my current circumstances and any suggestions for improvement will only lead to nothing. Feel free to make gereral comments, however.

Also, I have been writing a book on relationships. I am a couple of chapters into it. I believe I will post it here as I go. On this one, I would like whatever feedback you might have. I'm using the same style that I use on this 'blog--you know, somewhat satirical and silly. I think it works, but I'm not sure.

That's all. Oh here's the link: www.reverbnation.com/rickmurdock

Mimi's Party Dress

So, the other day, Saturday, I think, (too many commas--I will improperly start a new sentence). My four-year-old daughter Mimi (if you read this blog, you know Mimi) went with me to the bike store to buy a new intertube for my bicycle. On the way home she started asking how to spell a lot of her friends' and cousins' names. I told her and she apperently wrote them down.

We were conversing during that ride. She would say stuff like, "blah, blah, blah."

In reply I would say with fieghned interest, "Yep! Sure Honey. Hmm. Sounds good."

In my defense I don't care about the ramblings of most four-year-olds. Even those that I genuinely love.

Later that day Mimi asked if she could drop something off at her friend Schmireland's house, our next door neighbor. That kind of thing happens regularly, so I allowed it. She came right home after the drop off and started working on creating musical instruments out of paper. She made a drum and a "kitar," which I assume is a guitar-like instrument. Then she started filling little plastic bags up with stuff.

When I asked her what she was up to, she again said, "blah, blah, blah," or something like that.

Later, at about six-thirty the doorbell rang. It was Schmireland. Behind her, Schmaris and Schmayden, other neighbors.

"Hmm," I thought, "what are all of these people doing here?"

It turns out that what they were doing here was showing up for the party that Mimi had invited them to.

It turns out all of the blah blahs that I had been so enthusiastically responding to were Mimi's asking of my permission and telling me all about the party she was going to have that night.

So we had a party.

Why, In My Day...

My son, Ike, has two trophies for his participation in a community soccer league. Trophies for participation. He is very proud of the trophies, as anyone would be. Mimi, his sister, is very jealous of the trophies and longs for the day that she too will have trophies for participation.


The weird thing is that the teams that Ike has played on have never won a single game. Not one. I have been to all but two of the games he's played and his team has never won. I know, I know, they don't keep score at his age. But, it's not like both teams scored so many goals that it would be impossible for me to keep track of the score. So, I guess that the trophies are for learning and growing in the sport. But, it seems to me that part of learning and growing in a sport is learning to lose gracefully, because in the real world you don't always win and it's not always fair.


Which brings me to my next point. My kids are snooty. A few weeks ago, while I was mowing the lawn, Ike and Mimi got into a water fight. I didn't mind, it kept them occupied while I worked. They were each using an empty plastic water bottle, you know, the kind that are ruining the universe. They would fill it up in the house, run outside and splash each other. I was only slightly worried about them dripping on the kitchen floor. No big deal really (Buffy wasn't home). After about twenty minutes I noticed that there were a couple of empty water bottles sitting on the driveway. Ikers and Meems still had theirs--chasing and splashing each other like Hannah and Mags at beet harvest time. My thought process follows:

*Why are there two emptys on the driveway?*
*I'd better pick them up*
*What? Why are there more emptys in the garage?*
*One, two, three...ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve empty water bottles?*
*Doh!*

I realized Ike and Mimi had not been filling up their bottles at all, but had been raiding our water storage. They had been supplying their water fight with Dasani water that had been bottled and shipped from the Alps, or Canada, or the Rocky Mountains, or a tap Down Town, or somewhere. I could not believe the snootiness that must have gone with their decision to use bottled water.


Mimi: Ghastly, what tap water does to my skin. Harrumph.

Ike: Yes, yes. Can't stand the smell of the stuff. Tut, tut.

Mimi: Of course you know I intend to drench you with this bottled water.

Ike: Of course. Proceed. Charles, bring me seven bottles for my response.

Charles: I am the butler and therefore I will bring you what you wish for.


So, Ike and Mimi have been paying off the water bottles. About three weeks worth of allowance ought to do it. Meanwhile, I have forced them to bathe themselves in regular tap water, minus the gold dust.

Newby

So, today we go in to find out which flavor of baby we are having (mmmm...baby flavors). I am going to ask for baby-shampoo-flavored baby, Buffy probably will ask for lavendar-scented-lotion-flavored baby. We, of course, will not order a maconium-, placenta-, or vomit-flavored baby, but we'll probably get one anyway.

But, whatever the flavor--or gender--one way or another we have another family member coming in October. Excuse me for a moment while I have a panic attack (shove it down... shove it down... breathe, breathe... good). Ike is not quite six. Since he was born we have had at least one person in our family who regularly poops his or her pants. I suppose that trend will continue for the forseeable future (I am getting older after all). I also suppose that my suit jackets will continue to have various body fluids staining the sholders. And bedtime will continue to be a four-hour chess game that starts at 5:00 PM and involves all the cunning negotiation skills of both the hopelessly outnumbered parents and the ever more confident children.

I guess it also means we'll have a new face to kiss. And new bum cheeks to pinch. And a new mind to fill. New fears to calm. New hands to hold. A new stocking to hang. New portraits to hang. Songs to sing. Laughter to hear. And new love to give.

I can't wait to meet this kid. I'll let you know what we find out.


UPDATE: 'tis a boy.

My Debut

Last week I got a call from someone who had gotten a call from KJZZ TV, a local television station that was created as the broadcasting home of The Shmutah Scmazz. They were looking for a couple of vocalists to sing a song on a locally produced show called the Joseph Smith Papers. It is a religious program that examines the writings of the Mormon founder Joseph Smith. I have noticed the marketing and therefore the existence of the program, but have never watched it.

The song was to be a duet, me and another guy, of a hymn penned by Eliza R. Snow. They sent me the music the night before the taping. It was a photocopy from the 1844 edition of the LDS Hymnal. They told me to wear a dark suit and tie and to come to the Assembly Hall at Temple Square at 1:00 PM the next day. That night I learned my part (the upper line).

When I got there they told me that I was no longer singing a duet, but a solo. And they had another song for me to do, A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief. They said, "we want all seven verses, a cappella. Oh, and here is the music. It is the original tune, not the one you find in the current hymnal, but one that is sort of like it, but completely different. We will start taping in .03 seconds, so please learn the music and ... action!" (I may have been paraphrasing by the end of the quote).

Anyone that knows me, knows that much of my musical talent is faked, ur... I mean...natural. I am very good at following musical lines. Singing with a piano, or in an ensemble, no problem. But, I am not a particularly good sight-reader under pressure (not horrible, but definitely not perfect) . Those that know me also know that I have very poor eyesight.

Those same people that know me, if they know anything about TV might also know that squinting and looking panicked as your withered and myopic eyes dart from the fifth, sixth, and seventh verse texts (printed neatly in stanzas at the bottom of the page) to the unfamiliar music lines is not an ideal TV look. In fact, I don't think they like you covering your face--even if it is so that you can see the music and lyrics.

I felt a bit like a 98 year-old man trying to read a cereal box, then sing the words from the cereal box to the tune of the theme from Murder She Wrote while trying not to think of theme from Matlock.

After two attempts at the second verse, I said, "I am not going to be able to do this today."

They said they understood and that they would call me back after I'd had time to learn the music.

I'm not holding my breath.

The Eliza R. Snow song was ok, but just ok. Therefore, I will not let you know when they air the episode.

We (Buffy and I) just got back from San Francisco, where we attended the broadway touring musical Wicked. Wow! What a show, what a town. We saw sea lions, and trolleys, and girl scouts (oh my!).

The girl scouts were in town, I suppose, for some sort of cookie convention. Billions of pre-teen girls all talking at the speed of sound, with emotions changing and the speed of light, and bodies growing at the speed of weeds. Bless their hummingbird-paced hearts.

We flew into (and out of) Oakland, which means that we started and ended our trip in fear. No offence Oak Towners. It's just that your town scared me. I have a theory that the rainbows of San Fransisco are created and sustained by the storm clouds of Oakland. It's not that San Fransisco doesn't have its share of the scary, what with the Tender Loin, old people heading for the cruise departure pier, and the Ross Dress for Less on Market Street.

The show was everything we could have hoped for. Patty Duke (the 60's TV star) was Ms. Morrible which was fun. Elphaba rocked and/or rolled on all of her solos and Glinda was perky/cute/funny.

Pier 39, the cruise under the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, and chowder in a sour dough bread bowl were highlights of our touristy activities. Public transportation is so easy and afordable. I highly recommend a trip there if you haven't recently been.

Baby Names

Buffy is expecting. Due on St. Hallow's Eve. So we're just getting geared up. The other night I asked Mimi, our four-year-old daughter with hyper-active bees residing in her head (my thanks to Eric Snider for that joke), what she thought we should name the new kid. With out any hesitation, she spewed forth the following 45 names (I have tried to spell them in such a way that they are fo-net-ik-lee pronounceable, but still name-like):

Glacka
Bookrita
Button
Boxah
Jake
Jacob
Julie
Glassy
Lippie
Stairie
Eerah
Leeba
Slopper
Kaker
Flotter
Jake
Bonka
Stinka
Frilla
Kanga
Jyka
Schtypa
Slobber
Fyrus
Klyber
Fyker
Spitty
Dora
Quako
Julian
Caykah
Cake
Caleb
Scarfalla
Lucebert
Brushalla
Jykin
Plykin
Twisty
Blow-up
D'Wacko
Eerah
Chanka
Lanka, and
Blow-up.

She repeated a few.

Honestly, I have never witnessed such absolute, hilarious, creativity in my lifetime. Buffy and I make funny ones. I can't wait to meet Lucebert. Oops, I mean, Twisty.

Twenty-five Random Things About Me (from facebook)

1. I have read a bunch of these and have liked every one of them. However, I am not one to share 25 random things about myself. So I'll do 27. With that as introduction, I give you my 25, excuse me, 27 random things about me. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

2. I like Facebook because it makes interacting with a computer seem like interacting with actual friends. Boom, roasted!

3. My legs are not attached like normal human legs. The knees point inward and the feet point outward, which makes me believe that they were attached by Hannah Barbara animation studios circa 1975 (think Shaggy). They are good for donning a mermaid tail, which has never come in handy.


4. The other day I referred to my five-year-old son Ike and my four-year-old daughter Mimi (names have been changed) as "Human Capital." My son replied, "We're not human, capital. We're human, lower-case. You and Mom are human, capital." He's a genius.

5. With the flick of a finger, I can flip my eyelids inside out; I can also turn my feet around just shy of 180 degrees. This has never come in handy.

6. The first thing I ever remember saying to Buffy (my wife—names have been changed) is, "Elizabuff Pendergast (names have been changed), will you marry me?" That, obviously, was followed by awkward silence. Then, nearly two years later, we went on our first date.

7. I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to find a rhyme for the word orange. The closest I have come so far is syringe. That is pretty darn close, you've got to admit. Honorable mentions: porridge, core binge, torn fringe, and spore flange.

8. I enjoy teaching. I have taught secondary grades, college-aged students, post grads, white- and blue-collar workers, and people of the collar (religious). My day job is in leadership training for the state of Utah, but I also contract with a couple of companies and teach one night a week at the Marriott School at BYU as adjunct faculty.

9. I like to write songs. There are dozens of them, little pop songs and ballads. I rarely share them with people, just family and close friends. It's just for fun. I record, mix, master, and print them on my little BOSS 1600 self-contained recording studio (with a compass in the stock).

10. Last week, I had the unfortunate opportunity of holding a meeting with an employee to explain that his zipper is down a lot (nothing indecent, he's just not a detail guy). And how, if he can't keep it zipped up, he will be subject to formal discipline. Awkward.

11. My first car was a Plymouth Reliant K. We called him Don. I broke Don's axle in a medium-speed car chase with Schmaleb Schmohnson's Grandma's car. I ran into a curb on Main Street, which broke the axle; it also caused all of the passengers in the car to hit their heads on the ceiling. Except me, who hit my head on the windshield, which caused the windshield to break. The next morning, my Dad had me go to the Police Station, file a report with an officer, and get the car towed to a wrecking yard—alone and on foot. I can't wait to make my kids do something like that.

12. I love gardening. This is because of my Dad, a trained agronomist, who was always trying to grow some crazy, not-in-this-climate-you-don't plant. My favorite was his foray into peanuts. I keep it simple because of limited space—peas, corn, tomatoes, squash, and a couple of spices.

13. Quaking Aspens: love the look; hate what you've done to my yard.

14. My kids are funny. A while ago they were making up jokes using the following formula:
Q. What do you call a (something 1) next to a (something 2) ?
A. A (Something 1) (something 2)!

My favorite is,
Q. What do you call a roast beef next to a baby?
A. Roast beef, baby!

"Coffee table" and "book" worked well as somethings 1 and 2, respectively.

15. Most days, my singing voice range is three whole-steps away from three-octaves. This has only come in handy once at the Pendergast (names have been changed) family Christmas concert, 2007.

16. My first job out of college included teaching leather crafting. I didn't know how to craft leather at the time, but I sort of learned. I still use the wallet I crafted. It has a Viking's head tooled on its cover.

17. I learned how to drive a forklift in college. This has never come in handy.

18. I am the eighth of nine kids. My oldest brother is 19 years older than I am. I was an uncle before I started Kindergarten. Oh, Mormons, you and your twenty years of having babies.

19. I have 75 first cousins on my Mom's side—not including spouses. I do not know most of these people. I think this could be the subject of a game show called, "Are You My Cousin!?!" Throw in the spouses, seconds, and once-removeds and you've got nine seasons worth of episodes right there.

20. I don't get easily embarrassed by dumb things that I do, but I am quick to be embarrassed for other people.

21. Every year in February, I give Buffy (names have been changed) what I call Valentine's Week. It is a full week of Valentine's Day stuff. The tradition started back in 2001 before she and I were engaged. Each day of the week surrounding Valentine's Day is given a theme, like "flower day" or "candle-lit day." I like it because I find that it is easier to get into a restaurant or to get flowers on days that are not Valentine's Day. My favorite day is "death by chocolate day" where I fashion weapons out of various candy products.

22. I don't keep in touch with old friends very well. Again, that's why I like Facebook—It keeps in touch for me. What's next, familyreunion.com? I hope so.

23. In college, I had a regular gig doing voice-over work. I was one of three voices that would record the monthly audio version of Executive Excellence Magazine. I also did a number of commercials for Salisbury Homes. It was fun because it paid fairly well and the skill set you need for it—reading—is learned in first grade.

24. I have grown a full beard twice in my life. Both times were for a show I was in. Both times I looked horrible. Both times people treated me differently. Once, I went to the LDS temple fully bearded and a worker, assuming I was recently activated, with tears in his eyes took me firmly by the hand and with a husky voice said, "Welcome back, brother." To which I cheerily replied, "Thanks." Ironically, the show I was in was written and presented by the priesthood department of the LDS Church.

25. I wasn't joking about not stopping at 25. I see this as a positive thing proving that I am committed.

26. I am out of things to say.

27. I assume that this 25 Random Things idea was started by someone who was hoping to get personal information from trusting folks to use for less than honorable purposes. So, I will close with my social security number 879-68-7752 (numbers have been changed).