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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 28, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
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
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
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