That's Your Brother

Whenever Charlie does anything crazy, inappropriate, obnoxious, etc., Grace and I have this thing where we assign blame to our respective poor influence on him. One of us will invariably shake his/her head and sigh, "That's your son"/"That's your brother."

Last night we had these monster green beans hand-picked from our local CSA (give me beans flown by leaky Lear Jet from Argentina 'cause the beans we ate tasted like the junkyard dog of skunk cabbages). Charlie decided to forego the eating, opting instead to remove the individual beans and use the remaining tube as his milk straw.

While I have put many fruits and vegetables up my nose, I have never used food of any type as a straw. Or at least as a straw for milk. Grace, on the other hand, has done so on numerous occasions, particularly with pasta.

Our children will never be allowed to eat at a non-relative's home.

39

The car I drive (when biking is not an option) is a Toyota Corolla wagon with 144,000 miles on it. We bought it new in 1994, paid it off in 1997, and never suspected we would still own it in 2009. Yet here it is, still ticking.

A few years ago it needed some work, so I took it to the town dealership where we bought it. They estimated about $4,000 in repairs and said it wasn't safe to drive. Always a fan of a second opinion (and NEVER a fan of dealer repair shops), I brought it to our neighborhood mechanic who said he could get it running good as new for about $800. He did it for $670. Since then he's done a couple of other repairs, like replacing the gas tank, with each one coming in around $200.

I can tell my parents are slightly ashamed of this car. Their financing of an Ivy League education wasn't supposed to end up like this. They drive Saabs and trade in their cars every couple of years. Two recent trade-ins have both had less than 10,000 mile on them (fewer miles than my bike). Their reason? "Oh, they were going to go off warranty in a year." I remember when thriftiness was a virtue.

Anyway, the impetus for this post was all the hoopla over the "Cash for Clunkers" program. I was curious if the Corolla qualified as a clunker (it doesn't) and then started tracking its mileage more closely. My last tank, with half of it spent on the highway coming back from Maine, came in over 39 MPG!

So while I get wistful at passing Mini Cooper Clubmen and Honda Fits, my materialistic cravings quickly wane when I realize their mileage is less than my 15-year-old Corolla's. If I could get the 700 lbs of matted dog hair out of the upholstery, it might even hit 40.

Thanks for Stopping By

Back in college, there were about 15 guys from my dorm who all tried to join the same fraternity. The official rush was a two-night affair with some guys getting bids after the first night. Those that did got to stay on the second night and have some input on the discussions/debates about the remaining candidates.

I did not get a bid after the first night, so the second night rush wasn't quite as fun as it was for the people who were already in. Like the guy who lived right across the hall from me. Whom I saw every single day for about six months. Anyway, at the end of the second night, all the borderline cases file out and the brothers and first-night bids line up to shake their hands and wish them luck. The guy across the hall from me grabs my hand and says, "Thanks for stopping by" in a voice reserved for game show hosts and creepy uncles from Wisconsin.

It's a line that has stuck with me for years. We gave the guy endless shit about it. Maybe even to his face, I can't remember.

Yesterday, I was leaving a client meeting when the president walked me out and gave me the same exaggerated handshake and overly insincere "Thanks for stopping by."

Made me want to go chug a beer and smear mustard down my underpants.

I've Been Coup'd!

On April 13--about a MONTH away, mind you--I will embark upon my 3rd season of coaching Charlie's soccer team. Yesterday I got the team roster and a reminder that there will be a coach's meeting on March 31 and then after that to contact your team about the schedule, what they need to bring, etc.

For my assistant coach, I was assigned my least favorite person in the whole program. This guy has been a loud problem in every 4 v. 4 game. Last night he emails me saying that if I want him to send out the team email, he'd be happy to. Then 5 minutes later, and before he got my response, he sends out the email--complete with his declarations about what snack he's going to bring for the first session and other symbols of power.

On the one hand, it's very nice of him to jump in and do this stuff. On the other hand, there are very clear delineations about what the head coach does and what the assistant does. I'm afraid it's going to be a very long season.

Two Months In

Now that February is in the books, I thought I'd report in on my resolution progress. You know, the resolution where I pledged not to buy myself anything in 2009. Again, I gave myself an out on digital music purchases, as they are not physically tangible objects that will clutter my house and one day, a landfill.

January went by like the frigid breeze it was. In February, however, my guitar tuner broke. I was resigned to using an old pitch pipe for the rest of the year when my wife came to the rescue. She reminded me that the tuner was used not only for my guitar playing, but also to tune Charlie's First Act guitar and Grace's violin. She painted a sonic portrait of 10 months of cat-screeching and said that a new tuner would be for them, not me.

I happily complied with a new $20 Korg tuner.

So, two months in and I'm pleased to report that I'm not suffering from any withdrawal symptoms. I can't even think of anything I want to buy. I must be Bernanke's worst nightmare.

Beastmasters

Nothing like a day hanging out with our fellow animals. Last weekend we went up to the Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary, mostly to get out of the house and our town and see something--ANYTHING--new.

We hop on the first trail we encounter and right away, 5 deer go trotting past. Very furry deer with longish tails. They didn't look too afraid as they clearly were aware they could easily beat us up.

Further along the trail we met a XC skiier who told us about some beavers she first heard and then saw. We followed her directions in search of a new hat. We saw lots of chewed-off trees, but no beavers. After 15 minutes or so of searching and exploring, one finally popped up through some ice and started chewing on a stick. Orange teeth.

For the grand finale, I found some bird seed on the ground and joked to Grace that I could get a bird to land in my hand and eat some. I was wrong. I got FORTY birds to land in my hand. Grace and Charlie and Alice all took a try and though not AS successful, still got to feed some birds. I think they thought Grace's hand was too clammy.

What a Difference a 150 Years Make

Wife in 1859: Doc just left in his buggy. Charlie has strep and Scarlet Fever.

Husband: I'll go get the shovel.

Wife in 2009: The nurse just called with Charlie's test results. He's got strep and Scarlet Fever.

Husband: Can he go to school tomorrow?

USS Salem

I spent a good portion of the last weekend aboard the USS Salem in Quincy, MA. Just little old me and about 200 cub scouts and their dads (or in the case of three, their poor, poor mothers). I found myself wishing that David Foster Wallace were still alive to document the proceedings.

It started with getting yelled at by Chief Tate, an old submariner who looks a little like Clarence in It's a Wonderful Life. This was to get us in the Navy spirit and was largely effective. We then went on a tour of the ship with a very nice young woman from Quincy. Who told us some things. But couldn't answer any questions like how far could the 8" guns shoot, or what was the difference between a battleship and a heavy cruiser.

Then the activities. It started with a cold water survival session where we had to put 15 items in their proper order of importance for the lifeboat (shaving mirror #1, more important than water, who knew?). Then came "hoisting" where a 12-year old junior ROTC recruit yelled at our children to "man the line", but then screamed "don't touch it till I tell you." Over and over. And over and over. Next up was a game like Simon Says where more teenaged camouflaged youth yelled out things like "starboard" and "port" and "torpedo attack" and "hit the deck," etc. If your child failed to do the right action upon each command, they were kicked out of the game. The parents looked at each other and nodded, "yes, this is a good way for the boys to burn off some steam." At about the 4th time the game was played, I actually saw the clock move backwards. Parents were gripping their own thighs as if their feet were being amputated.

The penultimate activity was a session on steam propulsion where yet another teenager explained the rudiments of a steam engine and then we went down to the engine room to be harangued by Chief Tate. He teaches by the Socratic method and parents were visibly shaking. I actually liked the Chief and was psyched he was giving night terrors to some of the wayward scouts. We finally wrapped up with something about emergency medical treatment where 5 scouts bundled up a sixth in a canvas stretcher. Everyone was exhausted and we almost left the last kid cinched up.

Dinner was pasta and meatballs and salad. For us vegetarians, it was PBJ and salad. Starving, Charlie and I raided our secret snacks and got ready for National Treasure 2 and then bed. Did I say "bed?" I meant "racks." 60 of them packed three high in our room. Filled with coughing, sneezing, gacking kids and their snoring fathers. Cold, damp, and lit by red emergency lights that made the sleepless night seem like the actual hell it was.

I'll skip the morning activities and just say that getting in the car was a very happy moment. And to be just: Chief Tate and all the other activity leaders were volunteers. Neither the Navy nor the state goverment nor the federal goverment gives any funds to the USS Salem. These people give up their weekends for free because of their love of the ship (Chief Tate) or they can't wait to become 18 and join the real Navy. The kids all had a blast. The parents endured.

The Secret to Life?

I was reading this meditation book the other night when I came upon the following passage. So simple, so clear, but most times really hard to do. Too often we react, as if that gap did not exist. A present from Bodhipaksa on the principles of mindfulness (pg. 27):

1. There's a gap between stimulus and response.
2. There is a choice in the gap.
3. The choices we make matter.
4. We can only choose if we have awareness.

The narrative describing each of those principles is really well done (as is the whole book). I was tempted to include more here, but Bodhipaksa's Mama probably needs a new pair of hemp sandals. So buy it. And the next time your child spills his/her chocolate milk all over your brand new shorts? Try to remember that gap.

Hippo -> Catfish

When Charlie was small, the first teeth he got were the two top ones. They were perfectly square and had a nice gap in between. We dubbed him the "Happy Hippo."

Within a week, these same two teeth fell out. The first one hung by a thread for over a month and spent time flopping up, down, left, and right. Then he fell on his face and the flopping was finished. The second removal was much smoother.

Now he looks like one of the Hanson brothers in Slap Shot, or, as I prefer, a catfish. He has an awesome lisp now too.

"I thaw thomething thmall thlip under the thliding glath door."