Are You Out of Your Vulcan Mind?

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?"

I try not to paint that false picture of my wife and I as the perfect parents of perfect children.  I would like to think that most people, including fellow parents, would see right through that awful façade anyway.  You always stumble around those posts on social media of people bragging about their perfect lives and their perfectly behaved children.  Honestly folks.  Who are you kidding?  I have three of them myself.  I would say that most times, they are unreasonable, narcissistic mutants.  Rag-tag outlanders from a distant galaxy…where no appearance of reason, comprehension, or logic exists.  The anti-Spocks, if you may.

You know those posts.  Be it perfect grades on their report cards with little to no effort, their unwavering love and nurturing demeanor with their darling siblings, or the fact that they were knighted with the Lifetime Humanitarian Award for single-handedly rescuing a dozen puppies from the inner circles of Hell.  We got it.  You’re proud of your kids.  Hey, I’ve been guilty of the same at times myself.  This blog typically offers itself as a sounding board (or antithesis) of sanity for both my wife and I in many of those respects.

Let me make clear that I’m not saying it’s wrong for you to praise your kids.  That’s our job as responsible parents and your children should know that their Lifetime Humanitarian Award is something to be broadcast loud-and-proud.  It builds their confidence and life skills.  Even those grateful puppies would agree.    In other words, be proud of them and let them know it.  However, if you are just looking to seek out societal acceptance of your flawless parenting and child-rearing skills on social media, we’re on to you.  So, kids?  Hooray!  Fishing for public acclamations of your impeccable parenting on Facebook?  Well, a blight on you.

"Mother of All Creatures!"

For me personally, there are times that my children do things that leave me in absolute awe and almost make me believe that I’m not screwing this whole parenting thing up as badly as I think.  Then again, maybe it’s simply over-compensation on my part for those other stretches of time where my kids become completely unhinged sociopaths in a public setting.  Those times that better resemble the chaos of the Titanic evacuation rather than socially-acceptable behavior in a family environment.  Most days, you’re forced to leave it to the roll of the dice as to what side of the spectrum that you are going to get.

It gets me thinking though.  For every potential social media post that I want to make about my children doing some amazing and selfless deed, I find myself questioning another potential post about some of their truly embarrassing achievements around the house that may prompt inquiries from Child Protective Services.  Possibly Homeland Security.  Let’s be honest.  Life isn’t a sitcom and no one is by any means perfect.  At no time does this typically become clearer to me than when my wife is out of the house for an extended period of time.  When Dad is on-watch.

It starts out as that confidence-inspiring Dad moment.  They are all laughing and having a good time.  You know…the sun is out, the birds are singing, and you hear the Heavenly melodic hymns of nearby cherubs singing in serene lucidity.  Life is good, brother.  You got this.  Eventually though, the rowdiness inevitably begins.  And why not?  Mom’s not around.  Toys being thrown around the room to a barking dog, unabated sprinting from room-to-room with said dog in hot pursuit, and then body-slamming themselves full-speed into our couch.  This is typically the point where mom would put a squash on those types of festivities.  Dad though?  Hey, what could go wrong?

Bang, crash, thump.  All parents know that last sound.  That dull thump of a small human body hitting the floor with decent velocity.  That’s when you wait for that inevitable, post-disaster reaction.  Think proverbial calm before the raging storm.  Simon & Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence” morphing into Rage Against the Machine’s “Wake Up”.

"I'll have the squab, kind sir."

Yes, the sun has retreated, the birds are viciously attacking Tippi Hedren, and those doe-eyed cherubs are growling Motorhead lyrics.  From the other room comes the blood-curdling fusion of screaming, crying, and yelling.  Who didn’t see this coming?  Apparently myself and my inner-statistician.  Mind you, the same idiot that took Statistics three separate times in college…for a grand total of 21 days.  Three times.  Marinate on the stupidity of that for a statistical second or two.  Vegas was never my friend.

So, triaging the scene, I quickly scan the room.  No blood or severely mangled bodies on the carpet.  OK.  Check one.  The tears thankfully appear to be of sheer panic from a broken lamp rather than of blunt-force trauma or impalement.  Check two.  All kids currently under my direct supervision are accounted for and moving freely under their own power.  Check three.  Anxiety levels can now be lowered to DEFCON 4.

“Awesome.  So, what happened?”

The story goes, or at least the one that was quickly concocted and fed to me piecemeal by my oldest daughter, was that my youngest was standing on the couch and fell off onto the floor lamp next to it.  Which then obviously broke. 

 “Wow.  Intelligent.  And how did that happen?”

Now, the story begins to grow more elaborate.  Youngest standing on the couch, middle child standing behind the couch, and my oldest on the other side of the room throwing dog toys at them.  This, mind you, all for fun.  Folks, welcome to winter in the sticks.  My mind quickly began to wander back to the days of their infancies.  No, I can’t recall ever feeding any of them paint chips with regularity.

However, this prompts me to ask a more serious question though.  What in the hell happened to non-contact games like “The Floor is Lava” when we were kids anyway?  Unless you coupled it with some WWF Super-Fly Snooka antics, maiming and physical disfigurement were rarely an issue that I can recall.  Then again, there was that time when my little brother split the back of his head open on the pull-out couch frame while I was babysitting.  Never mind.  Scratch that sentiment.  Moving on.

"We are being detoured into the land of make-believe."

Now, sensing blood in the water, and thankfully not on my carpet, I break character for an instant and channel my inner-Horatio Caine.  “The verdict is in, Frank…but the jury is still out.”  Careening my head in the direction of the Wi-Fi router, “Alexa, play ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ by The Who.”

Under my intense, CSI-inspired questioning, she suddenly breaks.  Sort of.  “Well, I accidentally pushed her and she lost her balance and accidentally fell into the lamp.  Then, I fell on top of her and my teeth accidentally hit her arm.”

<Blink> <Blink>

I can only wish that I could make an admission of enlightenment like this up.  This was the dead-serious explanation that I received from one of my darling brood.  My own, apparently genetically-mutated, flesh and blood.  I have to admit, that certainly was a high number of accidents to have occurred in such a short period of time.  I hope this one never decides to go to work in a volatile biological research facility.   The End Days would most certainly be upon us.  Mayhem is coming.  Are you in good hands?

So, my dilemma.  Post that story about them volunteering, serving, and doing amazing things for the less-fortunate in our community or about a real-life saga of physical bedlam (and demolition of floor-based lighting apparatuses) on Dad’s watch?  Hey, at this point, none of my progenies has been seriously maimed while I was on-duty.  Personally, I believe that is something to truly brag about on social media.

Statistically though, what’s the over / under line on that last statement?  Asking for a friend.

Maturity Comes Alive

It’s no secret that I love live music.  Seriously, any kind.  It could be the thundering rock concert or small jazz trio at a local club.  Full Broadway orchestra or a simple street performer.  It’s the music, in-and-of-itself, as well as the freedom, unpredictability, and ever-changing improvisation of the live show.  I still find it amazing that you can be spectator in a stadium with 40,000 other concert-goers, and yet still make that personal connection to the performers and their music. 
 

One of the first memories in my appreciation of the live performance came early on, upon the release of the now-classic Peter Frampton album called “Frampton Comes Alive”.  Yes, it pains me to admit that I’m old to remember that release.  My friend and I used to sneak into his older brother’s room on a daily basis and listen to that magical revolving vinyl disk until the needle broke.  I was blown away by the roar of the crowd and the very public, yet very intimate, relationship between musician and audience.  He played a different guitar riff and the audience exploded.  I was hooked.
 

With the love of the live show firmly entrenched in my DNA, I found myself going to concerts and clubs on a regular basis from the time I was in high school.  If you were looking for me and my buddies on a Friday and Saturday night, you could easily find us in one of two places in the Washington DC area.  Either at the renowned Bayou or the original 9:30 Club.  Our homes away from home.  It didn’t matter the band or genre of music.  If it was loud and it was live, I was there.

However, as with life, work and the priorities of the adult existence eventually take precedence.  That was especially true with the responsibilities of being a father.  Potential concert and festival funds were subsequently diverted into boxes of diapers, battery-draining toys, “Wiggles” videos, and food.  Lots and lots of food.  Seriously, who would’ve thought it was so expensive to feed and care for these things?  Every 10 minutes, they’re hungry for another snack.

Hey Pavlov.  Get a paper route.  You’re literally eating my bottom-line.

However, with two of my healthy, well-fed children now entering their pre-teens, their music and favorite bands have started to become an important piece of their social identity.  I can wholly identify with that, as many shades of my own social identity are still stuck in their pre-teens.  That said, I also now see opportunities ripe for the harvest.  Much like mine, those same music identities ultimately turn into a desire to see their favorite bands in concert.  Live music?  I’ll happily be the cackling, old chauffeur of that lumbering gravy train. 

 

 

 

For me personally, the concert bug started back up again last Fall.  I went to see Motley Crue with some of my closest friends from my youth.  It turned into a bizarre time warp before I even realized what had happened.  I sang, screamed, and threw my fists in the air just like I had back in the era of my first driver’s license and the beginning shadows of facial hair.  The mild-mannered business professional had  suddenly transformed back into a raging, teenaged metal head.

 

“Anarchy!  Anarchy!  But only until 10 pm because it’s a week night and I have to lead a meeting at work early tomorrow morning.”

 

Shockingly during the show, and around the magnificent locks of my imaginary mullet, I saw kids at the concert as well.  Kids around the same age as my son, attending with their screaming, equally embarrassing, middle-aged fathers.  My memories of the Crue concerts of yesteryear had easily prevented me from even thinking about bringing my son to this show.  The fights, the drugs, the language, the lack of clothing on women.  Although perfectly acceptable to my teenaged-self at the time, these were apocalyptical ingredients that make up father nightmares.

 

“Hey dad.  Why is she wearing a napkin instead of dress?”

 

“Whoal!  You can see right through her shirt!”

 

Oy...

 

However, the patrons that night were fairly tame.  No fights, little language, and thankfully, an adequate amount of fabric.  Nothing like the accumulation of a couple decades of physical and mental wear-and-tear to help shave off those hormonal, teenaged arrogances and insecurities.  With that same swirling caldron of the alpha-male testosterone and pubescent conceit now left safely 30 years in the past, dare I say that a Motley Crue concert could now be considered a “kid-friendly” event?

 

So it began.  I started taking my son to some of this summer’s staple of outdoor concerts.  Well, the ones that I assumed were somewhat tame nowadays due to the similar “mature statuses” of the expected attendees.  Myself included.  We started with his favorite band, Rush.

 

That show was outstanding and, overall, was pretty tame as well.  There was one instance where a few guys, revisiting their 20s, stood up to dance for a good part of the show.  There were also some of those same old, testosterone-fueled expletives hurled from a couple of people sitting behind said “Dancing With the Stars” contestants.  However, no fists, walkers, or dentures were thrown amidst their cranky, “get off my lawn” hullabaloo.  I consider that an overwhelming success for the boy’s first rock concert.

 

Next up in our summer concert series was Van Halen.  A slightly different crowd, but I was expecting a similar result.  Partly cranky with a chance of mellow.  We went with a buddy of mine and his son, so I would now also be able to introduce the tailgating experience to the boy.  Oh how I missed the rock concert tailgating atmosphere…  Again, we’re not talking about the whole uninhibited bedlam and running from cops kind of tailgating of year’s past, but a calmer, gentler, less cardio version…with kids.

 

Cheese???

As we stood in the parking lot reminiscing about the insanity of those old metal shows, I happened to glance over at the crowd that had gathered next to us.  They had a table with a table cloth.  Neatly organized and decorated.  With brie, baguettes, champagne, and chardonnay.  Oh the humanity!  I’m rarely shocked, but one is never fully prepared to witness the universal, unrepentant Four Horsemen of the Yuppie-Zombie Apocalypse to appear at an event like this.

 

What were wine and stinky cheeses doing at MY rock concert?  What happened to the afterthought bag of Frito’s and the cheapest swill you could buy from the local 7-11 on the way to the show?  For crying out loud, they even had wine charms on their glasses!  This wasn’t Preakness!  This was Van Halen!  When I said that I expected tame, I didn’t expect this kind of anti-rebellious blasphemy.  It really was more than I could stomach…and it wasn’t the result of the craft IPA in my hypocritical mitts.

 

Hypocrite and Boy

I looked up and down the line of parked cars jammed into the lot.  I then looked at my own mode of economical, family-friendly transportation.  Minivan, Lexus, minivan, Volvo, minivan, BMW.  As it dawned on me, I felt my shoulders slump in one final encore of defeat and defilement.

 

What happened to my generation?  We were Generation X.  The supposed cynical and disenfranchised societal caste.  The slackers.  Somewhere between the job promotions and the specter of professional accountability.  Between the avalanche of bills and mortgage payments.  Between the kids’ soccer games, swim meets, and band concerts.  Mother of all creatures!  When did we get mature?  And yuppie?  None of which, by the way, is the result of the shine from my hair-resistant scalp or the salt in my post-modern goatee.  Apparently, I slept through the “Responsibility Revolution” of my 30s.

 

Once inside the venue though, there was at least one semblance of those familiarities of yesteryear.  Slumped forward in a lawn chair directly in front of us was a woman about ten years my senior.  At first, I thought she was merely privately checking her cell phone.  But alas, I then saw what was likely her dinner on the ground in front of her.  Wine and cheese aside…or on her shoes…I guess some things don’t change after all.  Although I fully expect that the pain inflicted by that hangover the next day probably hurt her a whole lot worse than it did some 30 years ago.

 

Never to miss a productive teaching moment with the boy though, I pointed out the Public Service Announcement conveniently unfolding in front of us.  “See boy?  She was stupid and missed the entire concert because of it.  Don’t be that person…ever.”

 

This Spring, I am taking my oldest daughter to see her first concert, Fall Out Boy.  Or as I refer to them, “Fall Down Boy”.  Sometimes it’s fun pretending to be the absent-minded, old crow.  Other times, I’m not pretending so much.  Honestly, I can really only name one of the band’s songs.  That’s only because the song name was an actress from the movie Pulp Fiction.  Yes, that Gen-X thing again.  Regardless, as long as she enjoys the show…and the music is loud…I’m positive that I will enjoy it as well.  It is live after all.

Besides, I can’t wait to see the horror on her face when she sees me transform from mild-mannered dad back into that screaming, metal head without warning.  Unfortunately for her though, she’s at a distinct disadvantage.  She’ll only be able to mentally visualize this magnificent mullet of mine.

 

 

 

Shark Attack, Baby!

 “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear…and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” – H.P. Lovecraft

Our yearly summer vacation was nearly at hand.  A full week of surf, sun, and sand at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  It’s an event that our family looks forward to every year.  An opportunity for long, lazy days on the beach and quiet evenings filled with fun and local food over the Fourth of July week.  No worries of work, school, or schedules.  Previous trips have resulted in tropical storms and a magnificently brutal sunburn that wreaked havoc on said relaxation plans.  Not this year though.  This year will just be a complete application of decompression and stress reduction.  I earned it.

In addition to that stress relief, it was also the time for me to ditch my pallid vampire complexion and actually fit in with my family.  They may spend all summer perfecting their Caribbean-like features at the neighborhood pool, but my office’s fluorescent lighting doesn’t do much to help transform my pasty-white Nosferatu features into that healthy golden glow of summer skin. 

Unfortunately though, I would not be the only Great White hitting the Carolina beaches that week.  Just prior to our departure, several of those same Carolina beaches decided to reinvent themselves into a leading national news headline…eight separate times.  Really, the timing was impeccable and more than a little unnerving.

Multiple shark attacks were reported in the general vicinity of where we were going to vacation.  Not just shark attacks, but horrific shark attacks.  Sharks in knee deep water taking limbs, chunks, and everyone’s complacent sanity with them.  You usually hear of one, maybe two, over the course of a summer.  But eight in two weeks?  Something was off-kilter.  That natural balance within the confines of Davey Jones’ locker had tragically gone askew.  Mama Nature was clearly incensed by something and was now raining down fear, terror, and Sharknados on our vacation plans.

“There’s no such thing as a ‘shark attack’.  We live on the land.  Sharks live in the water.  You get caught down there, you trespassing.  That’s they living room.  You know what a real shark attack is?  If you somewhere you supposed to be and a shark shows up.  Say you in the crib taking a shower and feel a tap on your shoulder.  ‘What up, playa?  It’s shark attack, baby’.” – Comedian Ian Edwards

As always, my own fears and paranoia wrestled control and took charge of all of my faculties from there.  All of those Jaws nightmares from my childhood that I had neatly tucked away in the dark recesses of my dented melon had now suddenly swam back to the surface.  How could I protect my children from something that I can’t even see or even know that’s there?  Always the obvious epitome of rational thought and level-headedness, I declared that our children would not go swimming when we got there.  There would be no swimming, no boogie boards, no inflatables, no nothing.  “I hope you enjoy a full week of sand castles, kids!”  I mean seriously, who doesn’t like eight hours of paddleball and being buried in the sand every day?

Children always find ways of pushing those limits though.  Over time, and with little reluctance, they eventually made it to the water.  First, up to their shins…then to their waists.  Eventually, they found themselves up to their mid-torsos busily, and thoughtlessly, enjoying the waves.

As for myself, I found myself on high alert standing knee deep in the surf like David Hasselhoff’s stoic Mitch Buchannon.  Stone-faced and undeterred by mere petty tourist distractions.  There was no time for relaxation and stress reduction on this vacation.  I had to monitor the shark’s living room for impending danger.  When they were in the water, I was in the water busily scanning the ocean for fins and fast-moving dark shapes.  I scrutinized all playful shouts and screams and checked all tides and sandbar depths.  And yes, I probably even fought some bad side-stories of beach crime as well.  Make no mistake about it…I was doing The Baywatch.

The local television stations only made it harder for me to shake off my inner Hasselhoff in the evenings.  It just so happened to be Shark Week on the Animal Planet network and the local news was busy feverishly covering and re-covering every attack in painstaking detail.  You couldn’t get away from it.  No matter where you were or what channel you were on, someone was getting chased or bitten by a shark. 

Finally though, I reached that crescendo of paranoia.  One evening, the local news reported that Portuguese man o’ war were now washing up on the beaches of North Carolina and that some irresponsible alligator was spotted cruising the ocean waves just north of our location.  Mannies, gators, and bull sharks?  Oh my!  The three horsemen of the vacation apocalypse!  May as well change my name to “Pharaoh” before they sprinkle a few more biblical plagues on me for the remainder of the week.  I’m sure someone could muster a couple hundred-thousand locusts up on short notice.

“Well, if we're looking for a shark, we're not gonna find him on the land.” – Hooper (Jaws)

As the week progressed, however, and without any more “shark-maims-tourist” episodes in the area, I found myself starting to relax.  Although I was still full-time Hasselhoffing it as a daily routine on the beach, and although it may have been tough to see on my anxiety-chiseled face, I had actually started enjoying myself a little bit. 

That was until the boy decided that he wanted to try parasailing.  Nothing says relaxation quite like signing a Release of Liability waiver on behalf of my adolescent son, cruising high above the shark’s living room a mile out from shore, and then airmailing ourselves to the vicious predators below like cheap Chinese take-out.  Egg drop soup, order up!

From the air though, we saw nothing but jellyfish. No mannies, no gators, no lurking dorsal fins, and no locusts.  Nothing but fair winds and following seas…albeit from 200 feet in the air and attached to a speeding boat by nothing other than a single strand of rope.  By all accounts from the local news reports though, parasailing appeared to be the safest thing we did that week.  Like I said, relaxation and stress reduction.

Eventually, the week came to end and it was time to head back to the real-life trepidations of work, new school year preparations, and jam-packed schedules.  Thankfully, there were no shark sightings and we were returning with all of our digits and appendages intact.  Even the quintessential Mitch Buchannon would sign off on that one as a successful Baywatch episode.  Even better, I may even eventually have the feeling in my neck tendons return at some point over time.

Plans are already in the works for another Myrtle Beach vacation at those same Carolina beaches next year.  Preparations have already begun to ensure that complete application of decompression and stress reduction.

Don't Make Me Angry

It was another fun-filled morning percolating with the daily trade-offs of verbal barbs and sparrings between father and son before heading out the door for the school day.  My son, the epitome of stubbornness and self-proclaimed, all-worldly adolescent enlightenment, and me, the obvious irrational voice of clueless parental reasoning.  Even at eleven, the boy clearly knows everything and I’m just an overly-cautious fossil.  My diatribe evidently mere background noise for an otherwise quiet morning.

Barking from our front porch, I hear a rebellious voice answering my growls from his bus stop within the darkened, frozen stillness of the arctic tundra.  “I don’t understand what the big deal is.  It’s not even that cold out!”

My typical over-the-top, glass-half-empty response soon followed.  “What…are you kidding me?  It’s five degrees out here!  People die in this kind of weather!  You better pray the bus doesn’t break down!”

Our neighbors are obviously well-entertained on school mornings…

Try as I may, the seasoned words of wisdom tumbling out of my cryogenically frozen face were falling on deaf, likely frost-bitten, ears.  For once, however, I wasn’t exaggerating.  It really was five degrees outside.  Beyond stupid cold.  Even the dog, who usually follows me onto the porch as an early morning farewell ritual to the kids, had bailed because of the biting temperature outside.  Through the frosted front door, she stared at me blankly like a box of freezer-burned microwave lasagna in the frozen food section.  “Better you than me, pal.”

In addition to our parental capacities being judged by his bus driver, his teachers, and nearly every commuter driving down our street that morning, I was also anticipating an obligatory visit from Social Services as to why we would send our son to school in five degree weather without a jacket.  Word of lax parenting and social deviances typically travels quickly within our neighborhood’s gossipy sewing circles, so we would likely be the quilting club’s lead story for the foreseeable future.

Really, the answer was quite simple though.  It had gotten beyond the comical debate as to whether or not it was cool for a middle-schooler to wear a jacket.  I remember those debates rather vividly, much to my parents’ dismay.  This discussion wasn’t whether or not he wanted to wear one though.  It was more whether or not he could actually find one.

The boy had lost…now count them with me…three jackets this season alone and it was just January.  My days of donating to the warmth and toastiness of the school’s or the swim team’s practice facility “Lost and Found” box had reached their max...much like the balance on our Kohl’s card.

In true fascist junta format, it had been publicly decreed rather loudly in the kitchen just one week prior.  “You will either find them, buy one for yourself on your dime, or you will freeze.  Your choice, buddy.”

Siberian tough love, Inuit gangsta-style. 

Hey, the boy had some leftover money from Christmas.  He could easily buy that coat or something resembling one.  At this point, just teaching the boy some responsibility was paramount.  It’s not like I’m asking him to head into the barren Arctic wasteland and harpoon a seal in order to make one.  He will finally put two-and-two together in that snowstorm and realize that it’s the jacket that keeps him warm…not the new XBox 360 game.  That responsibility gene should kick in any day now, right?  Any.  Day.  Now… 

After the bus had departed, I stomped back into the house for much-needed warmth.  “That boy can be so ignorant sometimes!  It’s five degrees out there and he’s arguing whether or not it’s cold outside!”

That’s when I heard a giggle from my wife.  I knew instantly where this topic was headed. Diverted, hijacked, commandeered, rail-roaded.

“OK Hulk.”

I winced.  I must be slipping in my old age.  How did I not see that one coming from a mile away?  My own adolescent “responsibility” neatly decorated and mashed back into my clueless, frozen pie hole.

“No.  That was different.  It was like forty-five degrees out that night.  Not five!  It’s not even remotely the same thing!”

Although I wouldn’t admit defeat out loud and accept a public turning-of-the-tables during one of my soapbox rants, she was dead-on.  The boy out there that morning was me thirty-something years earlier. 

It was October.  I was probably seven or eight at the time.  “The Incredible Hulk” was one of my favorite TV shows of the late 1970s.  The one with Bill Bixby as “Dr. David Banner” and Lou Ferrigno as the huge, imposing green “Hulk” creature.  I never missed an episode.  When the idea had hit me several weeks earlier, I made sure to study the hair, the make-up, the mannerisms, and most importantly, the grimace and muscle-flexing.  After a serious session of admiring myself flexing in front of the full body mirror, I was convinced.  I could pull this off.  I was going to be the Hulk for Halloween and I knew exactly how I was going to do it.

Let’s just conveniently forget, for a moment, that I was 60 pound skinny kid with the muscle tone of a dryer sheet.  Ribs fully visible, spindly arms and legs, the whole pathetic illustration of everything un-Hulkly.  I would go so far as to say more Invisible Man than Incredible Hulk.  Yes.  Sometimes, what we see in our head, is not necessarily what materializes in front of others.  Hell, I still have that problem…

The Incredible Hulk

What I pictured in my mind, however, was a complete representation of the Marvel Comics anti-hero.  The black wig, ripped shorts, no shirt, and green body paint from head-to-toe.  Anybody with a pulse would know exactly who I was when I came to their door on Halloween.  My friends would surely be green with envy and talk about my costume for decades to come.  Legend status.

As I assembled my costume (or lack thereof) though, I was dealt a harsh blow of reality to my envisioned get-up.  Because it was late October in northern Virginia, my mom had bought me a green sweatshirt to wear out for my trick-or-treating activities.

Wait…I don’t get it.  A sweatshirt?  Why on Earth would I want to wear a sweatshirt over my “costume”?  No one would know who I was supposed to be and I would look like some random, green-faced moron in a sweatshirt wearing an awful, black wig.

“Hulk no wear sweatshirt!  No one know who Hulk is.  Hulk mad!”



The slightly less than Mediocre Hulk

The topic was not open for debate though.  I was told that there was no way I was going out in ripped shorts, no shirt, and no shoes in October.  Either I wore her idea of a Hulk costume…or “Hulk no go trick-or-treat”.  Curses!  Diverted, hijacked, commandeered, rail-roaded.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is.  It’s not even that cold out!”

Oof.  There it was.  Who says genetics has no sense of humor?  It was nearly the exact same punchline served up several decades and one generation later.  All the result of stupid parental responsibility.  This time, I was supposedly the responsible one and my son was irrational one.  How and when did that happen??? 

All the same, I was crushed.  However, as expected, I chose the lesser of two evils.  I wore that ridiculous sweatshirt in order to get a pillow case full of candy.  Unable to accept defeat publicly though, I still maintain to this day that it wasn’t the sweatshirt that kept me warm that night.  It was anger and humiliation.  I’m sensing a theme here.  Hold a grudge much?

Adding insult-to-injury was the fact that nobody, and I mean zero people, knew who I was supposed to be that night.  “Are you an elf?”  “Oh, a scary zombie!”  “Look, I think he’s an angry alien!”  Oh, I was angry alright.  In fact, Hulk wanted to pound these puny humans and their oblivious observations.  Finally though, there was the ultimate insult.  A slur unmatched by all of the other brain-dead simpletons that apparently resided on my street.  “Are you that cute little ‘Sprout’ character from those ‘Green Giant’ commercials?”

Blasphemy

Sprout???  Sprout???  Seriously!?  Is Sprout an angry superhero that lays waste to his enemies every Friday night on TV?  What’s the matter with you people?  Don’t you own a television?  Do you live in a box in a closet? 

“Look lady, I’m the Incredible Hulk.  Don’t make me angry.  You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.  Now pony up the goods before I smash you.”

In the end though, we wound up buying the boy a new jacket.  Some tough love gangsta, huh?  Even as an adult, I wind up having to cave to that sense of parental responsibility.  On a positive note, he’s been able to retain this one for a solid month now.  Excuse me while I consult Guinness on the matter…  However, if he loses this one, I believe that I have found a way to both motivate the boy to find it quickly and heal old Halloween scarrings of years past at the same time.  Just don’t call the police when you see a green, half-naked grown man sprinting around his bus stop on a cold winter’s morning.

Parlez-vous Parfait?

As my kids continue to grow and thrive, I have noticed that some of that “me” time that I used to enjoy has become harder and harder to acquire.  You know, that twenty or thirty minutes of absolute solitude where you can accomplish one or two of those personal necessities for your sanity.  Really, I’m not complaining.  It is intentional that we try and keep our little spark plugs happily firing away and heavily involved in various activities.  Keeping them favorably occupied and off of each other’s nerves is step one towards retaining said sanity.  However, sometimes it seems that the calendar doesn’t let up.

Outside of the nightly homework routines and pinpointing a reasonable time to eat dinner together as a family, the recent school year samplings offer up a pretty compact schedule with overlapping obligations.  Obligations typically in completely opposite geographical locations from each other.  There is our son’s drum practice, swim team practices, and youth group, older daughter’s piano lessons, soccer practices, and youth group, younger daughter’s dance and ballet, wife’s bible study, and finally, my band rehearsals.  You get the idea and likely know the drill all-too-well.  Finding a half hour to get anything done for yourself in the evenings is an exercise in utter futility…that is, until the kids go to bed anyway.

Speaking of exercise and futility, as my age continues to barrel along and my waistline continues to resemble one, I have also found my personal workout opportunities dwindling as well.  Again, not pointing  fingers.  I know that I could easily get up at 5 am to do it or get in a good workout after 9:30 in the evenings.  Honestly, who am I kidding though?  A 5 am alarm setting would result in a broken iPhone and 10:00 pm is reserved for the sleep-deprived, ceremonial head-nodding ritual performed on the couch nearly every evening from an insanely busy work day.

One evening, however, I found myself with an empty calendar at 7:30.  My wife was out with our youngest and my two oldest were upstairs getting things ready for the next day’s festivities.

This was it!  My twenty minutes.  I could get in a quick workout in the basement and have the rest of the evening to do as I please.   With a few minor interruptions, I found myself getting in a much needed session of weights accompanied by a deafening dose of heavy metal music.  A formula rich in success and hearing loss! 

A feeling of accomplishment washed over me as I emerged from the basement that evening.  Dinner?  Kids’ homework?  Workout?  Check, check, and check.  Looking around the house with my fists still clinched in a fit of adrenaline and achievement, I decided to take the initiative to clean up the kitchen and knock out the dirty dishes as well.

Take note and respect.  This was “Overachieving Husband of the Year” criteria that I was flirting with here. 

However, as I opened my hands to wash those dishes, I felt a painful tug tear through my middle finger, followed by the spiny tingles of numbness settling in.  This was certainly an odd twist of events for a simple domestic routine!  I literally tried to shake off the numbness, but to no avail.  In a matter of seconds, I watched my finger swell up like those vintage, time-elapsed Pillsbury Pop-N-Fresh commercials…then turn a deep shade of purple right before my eyes.

The mind is a curious thing.  For me personally, when a medically-induced panic begins to set in, the mind goes from the epitome of democratic decorum to the streets of San Francisco after the Giants win the World Series.  I’m talking the whole flipping burning cars and Molotov-tossing type of rioting.  Complete cerebral anarchy.  My brain immediately fast-forwarded itself to me coming home from the hospital, less my middle finger.

Wrapping my hand in a cocoon of ice packs, I instructed my daughter to call her mother immediately.  Out of sheer dumb luck, she was on her way home at that point and was able to hijack a friend to come over and watch our kids while she took me to the ER.  Through all of the mayhem though, it was my kids’ consolidation of collected reactions to me leaving for the ER that left me questioning my dad-status and prominence as the home’s breadwinner.  Simply put, no sympathy or panic on display for their folliclely-challenged super hero.

With my hand still pulsating a shade of purple that would have made the artist-currently-known-as Prince blush, my son was insistent that I see the fort that he had constructed on Minecraft before we left.  I could have articulated my Minecraft enthusiasm at that particular moment, but privately, that particular finger was already swollen in the upright position.  Then, there was our oldest daughter sobbing.  Not fearful for the digitary well-being of her dear old pop, but because she insisted on knowing exactly when we would be home from the hospital.  Finally, there was our youngest.  Our dear little Pavlovian test subject busily picking out DVDs to watch…simply because she knew there was a “babysitter” coming over to mind them.

Condolences noted and appreciated.  Oh, and you’re all out of the will.  I will donate my priceless collection of zero balance ATM receipts to the Louvre.

Honestly, I didn’t fare much better at the ER.  The questions from the doctors persisted on detailing exactly how something like this could have possibly happened.  I stated “intense weight-lifting session” followed by “opening my hands up to wash dishes”.  They merely paraphrased “injury occurred while washing dishes”.

Wait.  No.  Stop.  You can’t put that shiny badge of ineptitude into my permanent medical files!  What would the other doctors and nurses think?  For that matter, how about the NSA moles after hacking in and data-mining that little gem from your electronic files?

I will admit, though, that I found a dark, self-loathing amusement in watching them try to locate an applicable “injury code” on their databases.  “Dishwashing injury”.  Good luck with that one, pal!  It’s likely located somewhere near the “Poked Self in Eye with Own Nose” code.  Eventually, they settled on employing  the same “none of the above” practice that I found eerily reminiscent to the answer election process used on my high school SATs.  “Unspecified”. 

Insult-to-injury, the dishes that I had started to wash were parfait glasses that my mom and youngest daughter had used to make Jell-O the day before.  Yes…parfait glasses.  The crooked old crone of European dishware.  The annoyingly elitist matriarch of the snooty dessert glass family.

From weightlifting and testosterone-fueled heavy metal music to gently scrubbing a couple of parfait glasses.  Could the scenario get any more unmanly than that?  I guess it could…if you threw in a few John Tesh songs.

Of course it couldn’t be something more primal and grunt-worthy like a giant beer stein stained with Guinness residue or a moon-sized grilling platter full of red steak juices.  I had to physically injure myself attempting to wash French dessert ware that most American men should not be able to pronounce correctly.

The only way that I could think to save face at that point was to macho it up and banter on about it like a failed American Ninja Warrior contestant.

“Mentally, I toughened it out and rallied through the quiche and soufflé portions, but the parfait glasses were just too physically demanding on my upper body.”

The following week, a locally renowned hand specialist was sought out and surmised that I had ruptured one of the smaller ligaments that helps hold the main middle finger ligament in place.  Although I received the same blank expressions when I explained how it occurred, there would thankfully be no surgery required. It would eventually heal itself with time. 

Although I found myself out of commission on the guitar for a couple of weeks, the injury did have its share of advantages.  For one, the swollen finger did come in particularly handy for those choice transportation situations.  No additional effort was required on my part to properly extend and maintain those non-verbal lines of communication while driving.  Hey, let’s not kid ourselves.  You can take the boy out of the city, but not the “city” out of the boy.

However, for every advantage, there was also a host of disadvantages as well.  With my entire hand covered in varietal hues of purple, green, and yellow, coupled with my wife’s timely development of a double pink-eye infection, I also found it a matter of cautionary necessity to hide all of my white tank tops from erroneous public perceptions.

Although my hand has since “healed”, further attempts to resume my workouts have been met with some intermittent, residual pain and discomfort.  There is always that “try, try again” mantra echoing throughout my head.  But, so are the images of my hand getting squirrelly during a bench press…only to have the barbell drop from my girly, lavender-colored mitts and severely dimple my empty cranium. 

As that waistline continues to expand, I am reminded of the lifestyle trifecta offered up and theorized by one Dean Wormer of “Animal House” fame.

“Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.”

Ah…fat and stupid ain’t so bad.