When Doves Cry

You may think you've had family game night, but you haven't had family game night unless you've squared off against wife and daughter in Disney Princess Spinning Wishes Game.

I was at a decided disadvantage before we even laced 'em up. Obviously, I didn't have the right equipment to play this game. Hey, guttermind, I'm talking about cognitive equipment! The game's box subtley states the only requirement for this game is that one has reached the age of four. It doesn't say anything to warn people who have glitter allergies, people who have an aversion to pink and purple blends, people who do not have a degree in quantum mechanics, or people who have mastered logic.

So the other night YHWH, Killer and I plopped down on the living room floor to play this soon-to-be-classic from Milton Br...er..Hasbro. When you play with Killer there are certain guidelines to follow when selecting a venue for game play: the play site must have an unobstructed path to the restroom to accomodate the frequent diversionary trips when it isn't her turn; the play site must be removed from the line of site of Barbies, Polly Pockets, etc. so as not to tempt her during the times when it isn't her turn (this also prevents cross-species interaction between brands; before long Polly Pocket would be introducing herself to Snow White and they would go to lunch to get to know each other better and then I would be called on to orchestrate the remaining three princesses and provide dialogue for their resentful vitriole at having been dumped for that little blonde b**** so that Polly and Snow could return and they would all make up and be BFF); finally, the play site must also be on the floor (this is so she can drape herself off the furniture or stand up and do a couple of karate moves when it isn't her turn.

The game requires extensive assembly, including a large sheet of small stickers which have to be applied to a number of small pieces. YHWH began reading the instructions while I placed the stickers on the die, markers and wish-spinner. The directions made no sense when read aloud. I assumed this was because I was distracted by the impossibility of determining where each sticker went or maybe the translation from Chinese was outsourced to India, but when I finally hit the wall and snatched the rule book from YHWH's hands, I realized the reason is that it was all written in princess lingo. Normally, I process rules with my left brain, but once I switched over it began to sink in. I just had no precognition of the Ray of Enchanting Light. Now I do.

One of the first mistakes I made was assuming that Disney Princess Spinning Wishes Game was in fact the same as Pretty Pretty Princess Game or any of the myriad other girl games I have played in which competition has been very carefully excised from the experience. Most girl games lead you on some labryinthine chase through a disorienting emotional...oh wait, that's real life. Therefore, I did not formulate a strategy to trounce my opponents. And let me just stop right here to announce I never 'let' anyone win. No quarter asked and none given. No victory is too cheap. Likewise, I also did not try and size up my opponents' strategies, although I knew YHWH would do what she could to enable Killer and I to somehow share a victory and Killer would cheat like a dog to win.

Here's how the game works. Four princes have hidden a gift for each of their princesses in one of four castle towers. Each princess leaves her Rapunzel-like encampment in a tower and parades Gideon-like around the castle wall until she accomplishes her task of getting her three wishes granted. This is done by spinning the wheel with a mesmerizing spiral lightning sticker until a wish lands within your Ray of Enchanting Light which emanates from below the wheel in the color corresponding to your princess' dress. The wishes are on little stands and they rise like pillars out cavities in the wheel. This is important because when you get down to the last wish or two, you have to understand centrifugal force (which I don't) in order to retrieve it because it always lands opposite you when the wheel stops. This fact adds about thirty minutes to the game. Once a princess has her wishes, she enters the castle and walks around inside it looking at all the presents until she finds the one intended for her by her prince.

I'm constantly criticized for thinking too much, and this was no exception. I still haven't come to grips with the unwieldy name. It seems like it should be Disney's Princesses' Spinning Wishes Game, but since the majority of the target market lisps from lack of front teeth, I guess I see why they sacrificed proper grammar for a less humiliating pronunciation. A lot of my overthinking, though, had to do with the lack of symmetry. That always bothers me. Take a gander at the game board:


You can see the Ray of Enchanting Light coming out from under the wheel, but only the blue light from Cinderella's ray bathes her castle in a glow. Also, the two gray miss-a-turn spaces are on the same half of the board and there are only three wish spaces on that side as opposed to five on the other, so Belle in her yellow castle has a statistically greater chance of going home empty-handed - probably because she was originally trailer trash unlike the high-born others. All the castle gates have spires, but only one set of towers does.

And then there are the philosophical questions. Why do your wishes have to be material objects? Why not an end to starvation, global domination, or a declining teen birthrate? Why are all four couples in one castle? Why is Snow White's gift from her prince an apple when the others get glass slippers, a gold crown and a rose? Hasn't Snow had enough of apples already? And if I'm anyone but Sleeping Beauty, I'm making off with crown. Screw the rose.

The good thing about thinking too much is that you can always find a way to rationalize. I finally just told myself it's only a game. It's not whether you win or lose, blah, blah, blah. After I relaxed, I then proceeded on two victorious marched through the magical kingdom. The first was a dramatic thriller in which Sleeping Beauty and I snatched victory on the final roll before Killer opened her prince's gift. Then Cinderella and I romped on the next game.

So here I sit undefeated in Disney Princess Spinning Wishes Game. I wish I could say the same for my college bowl pool. Makes me long for a glittery die roll.

You Say You Want A Revolution?

By popular demand, here is the communist incense... just follow the link - I'm too lazy to scan the box.

Disclaimer: Dear Big Brother, I am not nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party (I just like the Soviet Realist art).

So Fair To Be Seen

Merry Christmas every one!

I thought I'd post before my usual post-Xmas funk sets in. I just pulled the pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie out of the oven and put the ham in which gives me two hours. We're also having yam puff, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and hot rolls.

We've had a pretty good Christmas so far. Yesterday Killer was so wound up I took her out for a long walk to try and wear her down. It didn't help much, but we did get to see the Grandmother of Europe, resplendent in crimson holiday vest. Last night we all watched Holiday Inn and It's A Wonderful Life and then YHWH and I were up making preps until about 1:30am. There is some wack TV on at 1:30 Xmas Eve. There were all manner of cheesy choirs and even a really lame unmelodic Native American Christmas chant. Finally I switched over to QVC for awhile. I can't help it, I love watching QVC. I have never purchased anything, but I love the crazy personalities and the washed up celebs trying to hawk their wares to the shut-in set. Last night there was a middle aged guy and his perfect whitebread family sitting on the floor in front of a fake fireplace and Christmas tree on a set. He had a box of ornaments hidden behind his back and he pulled them out one at a time and gave the complete history of each little dowdy dangly. "And this was just after we moved to Huntsville from Montgomery," he intoned as he swung a cotton ball bedecked football player on a gold cord in front of his daughter. He trotted out First Christmases, great grandmas, ones he just liked, it went on for over an hour commercial free. It was a sentimental train-wreck and I couldn't turn away amidst the carnage.

We finally crashed about 1:30, but Super Giant Killer woke me up about 6:15 and said she just couldn't try and sleep anymore. C. F. Kats was ill, but she rallied long enough to unwrap. They cut a wide swath as depicted below. Here is the peaceful scene moments before (note it is still quite dark outside):


Click for larger to see the large coral-ish snake Killer got from Santa. Here's some of the carnage:



It's actually not as bad as it looks. Our girls are scarcely materialistic and didn't ask for anything big. So they got lots of books and art supplies and clothing staples. Killer got a Marie Antoinette doll from the fat man as well (click for larger):



I got some nice Communist incense and a box of exotic beef - er, well, jerky anyway. It's really stuff like emu and gator. I also got a nice cigar and some cognac. No sign of a smoking jacket, tho.

Off to finish lunch preps...

Merry Christmas!

Is Christmas Safe For Animals?

Well here's the layout (click for larger). Those are penguins, reindeer and hallelujah snowmen in the red and green shortbread; they look pretty tasty up close, just don't photgraph well. I couldn't fit the 8 loaves of pumpkin bread and 7 loaves of chai spice bread (Killer snagged one of those before I could stop her) in the picture. When she walked in and saw all the stacks she said, "Dad! It's a holiday wonderland of cookies!" I ran some stocking stuffer errands this morning so I didn't get to the CCD cookies or the pain d'epice. There's always tomorrow. I was pretty proud I only made two mistakes - that I know of. In one I put in 2 tsp of baking powder instead of soda, but I was able to spoon it out before it was mixed in and I was baking some pumpkin bread in a coffee can like mom used to and I inadvertently used a 5# can instead of a 2# can and when the top browned I pulled it out and it was a big soup inside. No prob, just poured it into a loaf pan and it came out alright, just ugly.

Since the breads took an hour each to bake, I had time to watch Santa Claus Conquers the Maritians with Killer while I waited. It's a classic, y'know. How can you argue with Pia Zadora's debut?

Merry Xmas!

The Boys in the NYPD Choir Were Singing 'Galway Bay'

I can't believe it's raining today and may be tomorrow. The magic of Christmas is alive! All December I've been singing, "I'm dreaming of precipitation this Christmas..." Ok, it's not Christmas, but I'll take two days of rain. And there's s'posed to be more this weekend.

That part actually irks me. My dad annoyingly wants us to drive to Tulsa on Sat nite for our family Christmas dinner. Since I'm currently in disconnect mode with them, I'm not het up about driving out there in a wintry mix for a 7:00 dinner and driving back at 9:00 at the earliest, arriving home at 11:00ish. Not the least, it's irritating to give up an entire day of Xmas prep.

I accomplished much on day one of holiday baking:
4 doz shortbread (1 red, 1 green)
2 doz minty middles
4 doz pfefferneuse
4 doz spritz
1 tray of peppermint bark
2 doz Russian teacakes
3 doz chocolate crinkles
8 maids a-milking

Tomorrow is chai-spice bread, pain d'epice, and pumpkin bread in a coffee can. Then packaging, then delivering, then I need to bake a few dozen for our annual Christmas cookie decorating (CCD) partay. And mebbe some Chex Mix.

We watched Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol tonite. It was a pretty accurate retelling - unfortunately. I'm simply baffled at why they had Mr. Magoo playing Scrooge straight. I mean the possibilities are endless (as they always are with Mr. Magoo). I can picture a scene where one of the spirits tells him to look over there and he can't see anything or he thinks the ghost of Christmas future is a wild bear and he beats him with his umbrella. Oh, well.

All the Lights Are Coming On Now

I spent the day with my mom's sister. She had a box of photos she salvaged from the house of my aunt who died a few months ago and we went through them together - I digitized them and she helped me identify who everyone was. This aunt was like Mary Poppins when my sister and I were little. She was a single mom and moved to our town because my mom and she were close. Even though she had a son my age, she kind of adopted us and took us on all kinds of adventures. Since we were all broke, she would come up with all this wild - but free - stuff for us to do.

One day we had a picnic in the grass as close as you could get to the airport runway. I was only about six so I'm not sure how close we actually were, the ear-splitting, chest-crushing sonic extravaganza was mind-blowing. The sandwiches weren't bad, either. She worked in the gorgeous NBT Building in Tulsa and one night she convinced the janitor into letting us go out onto some platform as high as you could go without safety gear. Pretty thrilling to a kid. Another time we were sitting around and she said, "I'm sick of this room. Let's redo the floor!" So we drove all over time and dumpster-dived behind carpet stores looking for sample squares and other usuable scraps of carpet. It didn't matter what color or pile it was, we tossed them in the backseat of her VW bug with us and away we went. When we got back to her house we put them all together into a crazy quilt carpet for the new look. We went storm-chasing, all kinds of stuff.

Today was great, too. She showed up at my door with a box of photos and a picnic lunch and we laughed and cried as we talked about my mom and all the stuff we used to. The most priceless treasure I pulled from the box was the only known set of pics of my mom holding Killer. She died a couple weeks after Killer was born and she was only strong enough to hold her that one time. I didn't know my grandma had snapped pics, so these were news to me.

Got new glasses, too. I look (and the girls say I act) like this guy now.

I finished the Aran winter set, but you'll have to ask the Grandmother of Europe if you want to see them. I gave them to her for Secret Santa and I forgot to take pics first. I was making them for her all along and then when she dissed me and quit carpooling with me I decided I wasn't going to give them to her after all. Then I drew her name for Secret Santa so I got to give them to her anyway. I Also finished a set of legwarmers for my yoga instructor sister-in-law. I stitched an 'om' on one and the sanskrit word 'namaste' on the other. Here they are (click for better view):













I made them from a vintage Jane Fonda-era aerobics pattern (except for the emblems - did those myself), and they are pretty bunchy. This gal I made them for is pretty toned, so I hope these don't just drop right to her ankles. I'm pretty proud of the design, though.

There's Been A Hoot-Owl Howlin' By My Window Now

cab·in fe·ver ('ka-ben 'fE-v&r), n, a condition in parenting which causes an increase in the child's energy level and a proportional decrease in the parent's patience. In extreme cases, the parent is given to horrifying thoughts, though rarely acting upon. These may include, but are not limited to: euphoria brought on by hopes that one will have to go to work (this requires professional treatment); search-engine lookups on the amount of time you can lock your child out in 12-degree cold without noticeable frostbite; cursing Laura Ingalls Wilder for not indexing her books while you look for guidance on what the hell to do with little girls who have cabin fever; taunting little girls as you trample them in game after game of Life, checkers, Mille Bornes, Payday, Trouble, and Parcheesi.

I'm still about 10 years old when it comes to snow days. I love any unscheduled day off work (well, scheduled, too) and all the attendant things like hot chocolate, fires, naps, bundling up and, these days, knitting. Did I mention not being at work? But then there's Killer to contend with. She's actually above-average in categories like attention span and ease of entertainment, but even on warm spring days in May (usually very early on a Saturday morning) she wants you to do whatever it is with her. Can you fathom the audacity?

When I woke up Thursday morning I just knew it was going to be a long one. I tried to mentally sketch out what to expect so I could be prepared. I thought I had a handle on it. I realized I'd have to entertain her all day. I realized she would start begging to go outside the second she got up; that she would underdress; that she had no winter gear like boots; that it would take 20 minutes to get her ready to go out; that she would actually be out about 5 minutes; that our wood floor would soon become a warped puddle of melted snow; and that no matter how many packages of Swiss Miss I opened, she would eat the marshmallows, and like Goldilocks, deem the chocolate too hot and skip off to do something else.

Early that morning, I wouldn't let her go out in the sleet. She had to wait until the snow started. So, we had some pumpkin bread and looked at catalogs while I drank my coffee and she ate the marshmallows out of her Swiss Miss. Then we started a game of Mille Bornes and she was being really good and hadn't even asked to go out. Then the death knell toned. The neighbor girl, Jasmine, rang the doorbell promptly at 9:00. I now had two of them to deal with.

A note about the neighbor girl. She and her sister are close in age to each of ours and they have a working single mom and a deadbeat dad. So the older is essentially raising the younger. The thing is Jasmine and Killer fight like they were sisters. Constantly. No matter how many times we split them up, they say they like each other and they are best friends, but from the moment they look at each other they begin an unceasing tirade of snipes and territorial scrapes. Jasmine has been coming over increasingly anyway (poor thing is looking for a family, I think) and with her mom at work, I realized she was going to be here all day. Hell had frozen over and I was in it.

I'll spare you the details, but it was 12 hours of misery. For one thing, Jasmine's mom 'went over to a friend's house' until 10:00pm and we couldn't send her back home because the 13-year-old caretaker had walked over to her boyfriend's house to watch a movie. Finally, it all collapsed around 9:00pm when Killer crossed the threshhold and went into one of her blind rages. She does this when she gets too tired and stressed and she makes these primal guttural howls and her face gets blood red and she wanders the halls pushing people out of her way. She literally 'isn't herself' and all we can do is put her in her room and close her door. It's over in about 10 minutes. I had to make Jasmine go in the other room and put Killer to bed.

Friday I was disgustingly glad to be going to work, but we were closed again. So when the doorbell rang again that morning. I told YHWH, "Let's go to the mall." So we let Jamsine stay an hour and left Killer with C.F. Kats and we walked to the mall. We had a great time together and we actually got a majority of our shopping done. At first there was no one there, but by time we left it was positively packed. We did get one call from Killer while we were out. She could barely talk because she was sobbing deeply that the snow was melting and it made her terribly sad and Sissy was making fun of her for it. I told her to watch Frosty the Snowman and tell me the moral when I got home. I was having too much fun being FREE!!

Didn't We Almost Have It All?

Apparently I clicked "save as draft" instead of "publish" last week, so here's my Thanksgiving tale.

I have dubbed this year's Thanksgiving as Thanksgiving Inchoate. I knew that if I squawked enough before my inevitable and involuntary attendance at the Rebs' Thanksgiving dinner, it wouldn't be nearly as bad as I had imagined it to be. I had imagined being set upon by Harpies, picked at for being a male knitter, or forced into a small corner with some other exile, compelled to discuss the weather and the Sooners' chances. So I was actually chipper that morning when I awoke to find that YHWH was fully ill with a cold. Surely she would be unable to endure a full afternoon of the Extended Family Plan.

That morning I took a pre-emptive three-mile walk through the neighborhood at a brisk pace so that I would be in a good mood. I hate to admit that, because a) I loathe exercise; 2) I loathe sunshine; and d) I'm really uncomfortable being in a good mood. But I thought it might help because I was resigned to go to YHWH's family gathering and I didn't want her to feel like she had to choose me or them. Even so, just before leaving the house I reached into the top cabinet and sipped a shot of relaxing cognac.

There were about thirty people there, but I was only related by blood to one of them. I just sat on a couch and watched the football game and simply nodded and waved to everyone when they came in. I didn't even have to converse about the Dolphins' defense or the Sooners' chances. No one asked how work was going or what grade Killer is in now. I just sat there with a nice relaxing grin on my face.

When dinner came, it was a free-for-all seating arrangement spanning four rooms and I was somewhat taken aback by the number of people who made no effort to sit anywhere near their nuclear families. I immediately regretted not having eaten a hearty breakfast. Here it was 1:00 and I had only consumed a cup of coffee and a shot of 'yac and there was very nearly nothing I wanted to eat on the harvest smorgasbord before me. There were steamed whole green beans, not green bean casserole with fried onions on top; the dressing was not stuffing and looked like a large, full bedpan from a hospital influenza ward; there were thick cut roasted sweet potatoes rather than candied yams with melted marshmallows on top; the mashed potatoes were garlic-saged with the peels swirled in as opposed to the stiff white potatoes which can hold a reservoir for white gravy (of which there was none); and the Pillsbury crescent rolls simply paled in comparison to my sister's butterhorns. As I'd hoped, YHWH only held out through lunch and within a half-hour we were excusing ourselves to go over to her aunt's for dessert and then home to bed.

It all had the ethos of attending one of those dinners you get at a banquet or some other workplace function held at a hotel. No one wanted to be there. There was no enmity, no strife, but no affection or love or filial piety or desire to relate beyond the agreement to meet annually on the third Thursday in November. Definitely not Thanksgiving.

Forget, Hell!

I'm sure glad I have that History degree. A solid grasp of history and knowledge of the Zodiac can sure help explain a lot of everyday life's tribulations. For example, I'm reminded of the great War Between the States as our annual Thanksgiving skirmish unfolds.

Just after Halloween every year I literally feel the pall cast over the fun as we turn toward Thanksgiving. And like the portent of John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry, I can hear the distant rumble of cannon and the rippling of musketry along the picket lines: What are we going to do for Thanksgiving?

For starters, I have already given up on Thanksgiving. So Norman Rockwell were the feasts of my youth that to even try to recapture them invites domestic disaster. But like a dreamy abolitionist, I tried this year anyway. How about a cozy afternoon with our best friends? They would love to escape the clutches of their families as well, I'm sure of it. And so I was. I made up a menu - and even allowed cornbread stuffing to pass the threshold of my kitchen. We were going to watch the parades. Play football out on the street. Watch movies. Play board games. I and The Queen were even going to cook the whole dinner ourselves. This was all something new. If this thing went off alright, it could become the new tradition - we might even look forward to Thanksgiving next year (picture a tall, thin depressive guy with bad acne, a beard and a very tall hat).

A student of history knows that about this time the old line plantation families in the South were not going to let this happen. When the news hit Charleston about a week ago, it was made clear: if that tall sad sack gets elected there's going to be trouble. The politics began in ernest. At first shock was displayed that we would even want to do anything different. Then the smoky room stuff started. Attempts were made to use the children as leverage; a well-timed call from a sibling; a seemingly unrelated letter came with the salutation, "We will miss you at Thanksgiving."

A poll was taken. None of us wanted to have dinner with the extended family. I'm not going to run down the laundry list of reasons why, but they are sufficient to motivate anyone to look for alternatives. My declarative was, "Why would I want to go there?" But we have a Copperhead in our home and a Libra at that. For days, YHWH wrung her hands and bore the thousand-yard stare. She saw both sides of both sides, but in the end, like Robert E Lee ( "I have not been able to make up my mind to raise my hand against my relatives"), she couldn't shake the bonds of tradition.

It's all about the stuffing. In Oklahoma, I-44 bisects the state diagonally. If you hail from south of I-44, you're likely a Reb and you eat cornbread dressing; north of I-44, you're likely a Yankee and you eat stuffing made from bread crusts. If you're from OKC or Tulsa, you're likely to find both on offer. And there you have it. YHWH, with an honest to goodness Yankee pedigree (she actually descends from an in-law of Jonathan Edwards) and wife of a good Nickajack man (my ancestor stole over the Virginia border to fight for East Tennessee loyalists), supports the cause of her Reb stepfamily and their cornbread dressing.

I know you've pensively read this far with bated breath, knowing full well this analogous account leads to secession. Nothing so dramatic as that happens. In this scenario, there is no Gettysburg Address. We skip right to act III, scene 2 of Our American Cousin.

Finally finished the sweater for SGK...



And the om hat for my SIL. I made it a little too long on the top and not enough ribbing on the bottom, but I'm happy with the way the design turned out.

I Went To a Garden Party

Yesterday the family ventured out to Downtown with the intent of seeing the OCMoA's loaner exhibit from the British Museum's Egypt collection. Arriving on the scene, we found parking spaces to be at a premium and we had to park a few blocks over. I answered curious enquiries as to why by mentioning the peace festival, held annually in the Hall of Mirrors, was the likely draw. This was met with great interest, so we went there first.

If you haven't been, this is an event which features information tables and various wares offered by the deepest indigo blue-staters in the metro area. All the heavy-hitters were there including Amnesty International, Sierra Club, Green Party, Greenpeace, etc. plus a few local flavors. As I am in so many places, I was def a fish-out-of-water. I immediately had an allergic reaction to the whole place - mainly at the practitioners. I have struggled with this affliction for years. I walk into assemblages like these and I am bombarded by emotional responses I can't understand. It makes me appreciate the difficulties faced by SID folks.

It's frustrating because I can't quite get a handle on it and that annoys me to no end. I feel contemptuous, judgmental, confused, stubborn, schadenfreude; all these and more all at once. I'm confused because I agree with the sentiment of probably 80% of the people in there (in fact I knew three of the people manning the booths), and yet I'm compelled to roll my eyes and laugh at them. My initial analysis is that it's some sort of deep conditioning I got as a child growing up in a cult, going to gunshows, hoarding weapons, ammo, precious metals and pennies. But I have overcome so many other elements of that conditioning, it seems too easy an explanation. I've even wondered if seeing Vietnam War protesters and civil rights activists beaten up on the nightly news as a four and five year old somehow conditioned me to feel that way. I discount that because I don't and never have felt violent toward anyone in my whole life, but maybe there's something there.

Another thing is that it seemed like such a club. I always hate that. For one thing I don't really like any of the uniforms available (e.g. tie-dye, long scraggly hair, saffron robes). There tend to be a lot of intractable holier-than-thou positions to take, many of them hypocritical, and therefore not unlike those folks on the other side. The difference is those folks on the other side used to be my folks. I guess I've already picked and chosen from them and fought the battles so I'm either more tolerant or at the very least, not passionate in my opinions regarding them anymore.

I couldn't make it in the club because I would be paralyzed. The concession was selling Starbucks coffee and I felt like if I walked around with a cup the anti-globalization guy would get on me. I only hoped the socially-responsible investing guy and the Fair Trade guy would come to my rescue, but if the investing guy came to my aid, he would risk getting sucker-punched by the Socialist Youth guy. So I just went without coffee. And the ham sandwiches. Forget it. I mean, they put the vegan table right by the exit, how was I going to get out of there alive?

And then there was sort of a general disdain I picked up for America and American culture and a corresponding heightened interest in exotic cultures. There is def a lot of baby-bathwater tossing I think. Just because America may have been co-opted by robber barons again, doesn't mean we the people are bad people and doesn't mean we shouldn't make lionize the ideals of the white males up on Mt. Rushmore. I couldn't help thinking that if some of these causes started adorning their material with American flags and using words like heritage and freedom it might be a little more palatable to the great middle in this country. Maybe they don't want that. Maybe that would dissolve their raison d'etre.

In my defense, I want to remind you that I do not act on these impulses. I don't laugh at people I don't know. I don't treat them poorly when I interact with them. I picked up their pamphlets and read them. I engaged a couple of booth-manners on the issues. The fact that I'm there proves I'm open-minded. But why does it bother me so much? If you know me, go ahead, take a whack at me; leave a comment.

The funniest thing was when I turned the last corner and saw one of my best friends at the World Neighbors booth. She was shocked that I was at a peace festival. I was shocked that she was shocked. I said, "I'm all about peace. Fair Trade, non-violence, justice, unions, condoms, environmental protection; what's not to like?" She just smiled and said, "Just by yourself, right." She knows me all too well...

My Heart Could Use Some Glasses

Well, I just wrapped up a week of single-dadhood. YHWH attended a week-long retreat at a bucolic haven in western Oklahoma. I'm not sure I ever got a handle on the stated goal of the event and even though it featured two high-profile prophets, I think not being around the rest of us was the ultimate end of the exercise. So to that end, it was highly successful.

At first I was dismayed that such an event would be held for a full week and in the off-season, but later I learned that most of the attendees were pastoral types with irregular work hours. Pastors are quite acquainted with overlooking the well-being of their families for the needs of the flock, so I could see the rationale. It was pretty disruptive to the rest of us but we got a lot of help from Mimi, who came in from out-of-town, and it was only a week and you can do anything for a week. The greatest benefit was that Mimi now understands how complicated our daily lives are.

I was also reassured in my staunch belief that the Catholics are right to have an unmarried clergy, especially monks and nuns, of course. Ya can't serve two masters and all that, ya know. I had to work hard to not be jaded about the whole thing. It seemed really ironic to me that peace and harmony are achieved by disrupting the lives of so many other people. The girls really didn't understand it and were kind of disturbed by it. They got over it, but they just didn't get it. In the end, though, YHWH felt like she needed it, so I'm glad she found what she was looking for.

I was very careful to avoid letting myself whine about it and I tried to take the opportunity to observe and reflect while I was in the middle of it. A nice luxury since most times when your patterns are disrupted you don't have time to plan or you're so busy trying to cope you can't see the forest for the trees. The most powerful insight I gained was a better understanding of the single parent. I'm pretty empathic and Pisces (if you believe) are very good, dangerously good, at being consumed by role-playing and my only respite at times was knowing it would all be over in a week. Real single parents can't say that. The other thing I learned from that was the importance of one's social network. I found myself making contingency plans for contingency plans; if she can't pick up SGK, I'll call him, if he can't, I'll call... Thanks to Mimi I didn't have to use them. I'm glad because I also learned from this that I am very loathe to ask anyone for help. I guess I would get over that quickly if it were for real.

I also feel like I can better understand my mom and therefore my own childhood after this week. For most of my early life, my dad was in route sales and he would leave on Sunday night and come back Friday night. My mom had to be good cop and bad cop, make lunches, get us ready for school, and everything else alone. Some years she worked while we were in school. My dad came home to a hero's welcome every Friday night. I already knew all this, but I took the time to think about how she must have felt during those years; she was probably pretty resentful for one thing and I'm glad she didn't let it color her relationship with us -- too much. This also made me think a lot about the spouses and children of our soldiers, especially with so many Guardsmen having to stay in rotation. One of Killer's classmates has a father on active duty in Iraq and her mother's Guard unit was sent to a base on the east coast. This happened nearly two years ago. She's been living with her grandmother.

Despite all those things, I feel pretty good about saying I could do it if I had to. I guess you figure out something that works, get in a pattern and go with the flow. Build up your social network, don't be too proud to ask for (or accept) help, make contingency plans as best you can, and hold on loosely. Famous last words, huh?

Strike A Pose, There's Nothing To It

OK, OK, I won an award at work.

The thing is, I don't remember any of it. I remember dressing up and going to the banquet facility. I remember I had my lovely daughters with me. It was appropriately Oscar-night themed as I remember because we walked in on a red carpet and there were people greeting us and handing me things and then I stopped for my photo op and then my publicist swept in and ushered us over to our table.

I remember the director was reading off some introductory remarks about the winner and then everyone around me started prodding me and saying, "It's you. It's you, man." And I think I heard someone say, "Get up there, man." So, when my name was announced I zoned out and just focused on getting up to the front without tripping or anything. I picked up my oversized check and crossed the stage and while there I heard the director say, "Let me tell you a little about St. Fiacre." That's all I heard, so discomfitted was I. No chance of a big head here - I didn't even find out what I'd done to win it!

Super Giant Killer was mightily impressed with the gigantic check. On Sunday morning Molly, Nellie, and Kit reenacted the cermony and the winner made several large purchases befitting such a large check. Later that day, she observed that southern Europe and southern Asia have similar shapes and so she drew a map of Italy and neighbors and compared it to another she drew of the similarly dangling Malay Peninsula. Not exact of course, but I do see what she picked up on. These were drawn on the back of my check.

I Want To Be A Football He-ro

Adjective Queen likes to joke that I am her son Sport's Football Dad. Actually what she says is he is my Football Son. This isn't usurpation of Sport's bio-dad or an attempt at compensating for my having only girls, but rather a simple meeting of minds - he and I are the only members of our circle of friends who like football and sports in general. In our respective nuclear familial units, football is a bane of the first order up there with Dubbya and evangelicals.

I have never fully understood the loathsome regard blue-staters have toward football. I can name several reasons why I believe it to be, but I always come away feeling like I've diagnosed the symptoms rather than the disease. I think they don't like it because athletes are ascendant in most American high schools and the most dominant, almost iconically so, are football players and their female counterparts, cheerleaders and by contrast blue-staters, as individualistic, geeky, brainy, and largely unathletic, tend to be quite a bit south of there hierarchically. They prefer baseball because it has a solid literary tradition. They prefer soccer because they can comfortably root for the snobby Europeans or the noble post-colonial indigenous peoples' teams.
Probably most telling is they don't like it because 'everyone else' likes it, especially unthinking red-staters. It's also violent and there are those pesky cheerleaders to remind women of their eons of subjugation.

I'm confused because I think they should like it. In both the way it is played and the way its league is structured, it embodies the very community ideals and socialist economics they often tout in their ideology. In baseball, individual contributions are toted up to arrive at the final result. In football, everyone moves down the field together or not at all. The teams are made up of players with diverse skills and abilities. The professional league is structured so that revenues are split evenly among all teams, parity is highly desired and achieved so that all the teams and their fans have fair chance at glory, and players have both a minimum wage and a salary cap to prevent any one player or team too great a share of that society's riches. These seem like a blue-state dream, but I rarely see it celebrated.

I really didn't mean to go off on that tangent. It just occured to me as a thought about this post. I mainly just wanted to report that I took Sport to several local small college football games this year and he seems to have enjoyed it, as did I. We talked about plays and strategies and had some dogs and stuff. I almost asked him about the cheerleaders, one of whom looked like a dead-ringer for Kirsten Dunst, but I stopped myself because I thought he was probably too young to have checked them out and my own particular living arrangements have drubbed out any habit I might have of making public comments about a female's appearance - unless I am telling my three how spectacular they look.

I mentioned that Queen calls me Football Dad and I have to admit it makes me feel weird because it makes wonder sometimes how I would do if I had also had a son. I always wanted to have girl children because I knew how hard it was to grow up as a boy. Of course now I have the perspective that they both have their own brand of hellishness. The main thing I figured would be hard about raising boys is that they never talk. Girls talk constantly, so I figure I will at least know what is going on most of the time.

So anyway I was reminded of this during halftime at Saturday's game. We were sitting back shootin' the breeze and I started asking him stuff:
"So have you thought about where you want to go to high school?"
"Nah."
A plane flies over.
"Hey, that could be Lego Guy someday."
"Yeah."
"Do you think he'll fly someday?"
"I dunno."
"So, does he have a girlfriend?"
"Nah."
"What about you?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, yeah. Do you talk to her and stuff?"
"Some times."
"Is she pretty?"
Shrug.
"What's her name?"
"I'm not tellin' you!"
"You're not? I thought we were friends!"

That pretty well sums up my history with my dad, too. We would drive for two hours and not say a word and he'd say, "Enjoyed being with you, son." So, I hope I did OK this season, Queen, in my limited capacity as Football Dad. Oh, and by the way, he hasn't ever heard of Jim Thorpe. What the hell kind of family are you running over there, anyway? Never heard of Jim Thorpe, sheesh.

I'm All Lost in the Supermarket

There was one more episode about the New York trip that I forgot to disclose - mainly because I was hoping it was just a nightmare which would pass like bad gas in the morning. But it didn't. At LaGuardia getting ready to board the flight home, YHWH lost her organizer. Nothing big really, just her driver's license, health card, credit card, and other sparkling gems of the identity theft gold mine. She didn't realize it until the next morning, and so we weren't sure where it was lost - or stolen. I had just been to a short workshop on i.d. theft and so I was sure the prospects were pretty grim. So that first day back, YHWH cancelled all the cards and notified the credit agencies and got the defensive ball rolling. Meanwhile we turned every pocket, every bag inside out hoping it was stashed somewhere. All airport and airline lost-and-founds were called fruitlessly.

Everyone had a theory. YHWH's sister was sure that it was stolen from her purse at O'Hare. In fact, she recreated an entire narrative in which she selected a half dozen swarthy immigrants who worked in the food court and had been taking a break nearby as the perps in this crime drama of her own making. Sadly, this is a woman who doesn't get out much and her world view is largely formed by the local news. To me it just didn't add up. Mainly because they didn't have two key crime elements: motive or opportunity. And because I think profiling is really pathetic.

YHWH thought the missing piece was flung from the underseat nest of her purse when our tiny jet made a rather abrupt touchdown and overbraked to a stop on the runway at Will Rogers in OKC. As to its current whereabouts, she had no answer and by the end of the day I ruled that one out because the cleaning crew sweeping in after our departure would have picked it up and if they were going to turn it in we would've known by the end of that next day, they being local and all.

I, however, knew what happened although I could not say where exactly the organizer was. When we got to LaGuardia we had to check our bags at the curb. The airlines now charge two dollars a bag for this. It was really chaotic at the checkstand, so I gave YHWH $12 for our five bags and her sister's and then took the girls inside the terminal to try and thin out the crowd on the curb. Apparently, the baggageman took the $12 and said, "This is for the airline. Now another $12 for me." YHWH didn't have it so her sister had to crack open her wallet; this was its virginal opening on the trip I'm pretty sure. I mention this because I think this was the first of a succession of mental distractions for YHWH, who is very easily distracted. So, after the bags are gone, her sister tells her we owe her $10 for the bags. OK, she stayed at our house, our friend took us to the airport, I paid the $12 in OKC to have the bags loaded, I bought her two drinks, she doesn't spend one dime on the whole trip, I had just paid the $12 to the airline and not only will she not get the tip, she prorates it. This took YHWH aback and rattled her a little bit. Understand, it's not the money, it's the principle.

We then proceed to the TSA line to get screened and all of a sudden the line gets really chaotic and some heavily armed dude shows up and starts rerouting people through other lines. And this isn't like three parallel lines. This arrangement looks like that universal symbol for USB ports you see on computers. Anyway, in a scene out of a Holocaust movie, before I know it, right in front of my eyes, Killer gets pushed into a line by herself and YHWH and I get pushed to another and the sister and C.F. Kats to another. I can't even see Killer from where I am and this SWAT-looking guy with a machine gun is in my way. I decided to just get through the line as fast as I can and keep an eye on that line. Unfortunately, the reason for the commotion is in our line. YHWH and I turn a corner and there at the conveyor belt are two young women with a baby and two freakin' cats. These idiots were bringing cats as freakin' carry-ons! And the cats were not having any of it. Do they not know people who can feed their damn cats at home? Mind you, they have shoes all over the floor, their bags aren't zipped up, nothing is in baskets - it's a g-d TSA training video is what it is. And all I know is I can't see my child. So, one woman carries a cat through the metal detector. She has to wait for the cat's bag to go through the scanner and then fights with the cat to stuff it into a bowling-type bag. Then she tries to go back for the other cat, but the TSA lady stops her and says you can't go back through once you've passed. The baby is, of course, crying it's head off by now. The TSA lady tells the other lady to come through with the cat, but she says she can't leave the baby!! So we're at an impasse. No way, they claim, will they put the cat through the scanner thing. And the TSA lady is stumped. So finally I say, "Just carry them both, lady! The cat and the baby!" Everybody just stopped and looked at each other. YHWH was not looking too good. Very frustrated. At that point I just walked up to detector and went through without looking back, praying I wouldn't beep. I grabbed all my stuff of the conveyor belt and frantically searched for Killer. There she was, sitting on a bench putting her shoes on like nothing ever happened. Looking back at the scene I'd left behind I saw that YHWH had cleared and then I saw another SWAT guy approaching - with a big German Shepherd on a leash. Wouldn't want to be there when the dog showed up.

So, I think she lost her organizer there because she had to get it out to show her ID to the TSA people and I think she got so frazzled that she left it around there. For the last two weeks we heard nothing about it and I was pretty sure YHWH was in denial about it. And then today she got a small, thick envelope with no return address and a postage due stamp on it. It was the innards of her organizer, apparently unmolested. Where it was found, who found it, where the actual organizer is, we do not know. Might have been one of those cat women. Might have been one of those boys at O'Hare. All we know is there are still good people around this country of ours.

Brandy, You're A Fine Girl

I am so queasy. I did really well at work and only had half of a Butterfinger from the Customer Appreciation stash. But when I got home the abdomenal onslaught began. I had a Frito chili pie. This is a long-standing Fiacre family tradition which goes way back as far as I can remember - FCPs on Halloween night before you go trick-or-treating. I am constantly dumbstruck by the number of people who don't know what Frito Chili Pie is, by the way, including Southwesterners like my wife and my neighbor. It is not made out of Wolf or Hormel or any other canned chili. You have to make the chili yourself. That canned stuff is gross. It is also not made in a pyrex dish in layers. It's simple. You make chili, you get a little bag of Fritos - you could use a Big Grab bag, but I wouldn't advise it - smash them up, pour a couple of scoops of chili in the bag, throw in onions and cheese, stir it up and dine exquisitely. These are especially good at high school football games when your hands are freezing and the warm chili bag keeps them warm. OK, so I had a FCP. Then a regular serving of chili in a bowl. Then a pack of Smarties from our giveaway candy.

By now Killer and I have hit the road t-o-t'ing. She's a unique version of Cleopatra. A blue dress with gold rickrack, and eyes decorated in the classic Egyptian way. But she's got much yellower hair and eyeglasses which I never saw on Cleo. But it worked for her and it didn't cost anything, so that works for me. Anyway, I had an Island Orange Mounds bar from her bag. I don't know why I ate this. I mean I like dark chocolate and orange, but why I ate this piratey looking thing with coconut, I do not know. I didn't detect any orange flavoring at all. OK, then a little pack of Skittles. After making a run around our block, we had to come back so that SGK could get a drink and we consolidated her booty. At this point YHWH handed me a tankard of hot cider spiked with a generous portion of Napoleon brandy to cut the chill of the night air. Then I took SGK and our neighbor out for another raid and upon our return we found our old neighbors had decided to drop in on us from all the way out in Edmond. They missed sharing our annual Fiacre family tradition Frito Chili Pies. So I had a Shiner Bock beer they brought along with them. Then I had an Oh Henry bar, a dark choclate KitKat, and a Twix - all tiny-size, mind you. Then I had two small bite size dark choclates to cap it all off.

I had to eat those last two things because they were the last of the good candy left and I felt like I had to horde. It was my own fault, really, because I sat each of the four kids in the living room floor and taught them how to bargain for candy they wanted from each other's stashes. That was always my favorite part of Halloween. So I got the kids started on that and then went into the kitchen with the adults (they let me hang with them) and when I peeked in on them a little while later, I saw that SGK had bargained away all of her chocolate for -- taffy. I have failed somewhere along the way. And what the hell are people doing giving out taffy at Halloween in the first place?

I'm going to pay for all this in the morning I fear.

Candy-O, I Need You

Ugh, I hate Halloween at the library. Unfortunately, it coincides with Customer Appreciation Month and a tradition has evolved here which involves leaving bowls of candy at all public service points. I will avoid rumination on the use of the word customer in a library context as I do value my livelihood, but many people (both customer and employee) are often confused about what exactly we appreciate in October. A brightsider might say that we appreciate the tax revenue tossed our way, and we certainly do, but the jaded would counter that the people who use our particular agency don't appear to be contributors to our millage coffers. Then there's the realist who would say that we appreciate your coming in for free internet and candy so that we can have jobs.

But that's all beside the point. The reason I hate Halloween at the library is the agonizing drip, drip, Chinese water totrture of giving out that stupid candy. Budding anthropologists need to come out and study this annual ritual. Normally, there's a mass of about 30 people waiting to get in when we open. The first bowl does not survive this initial ravishing by the sweet-starved locusts. And once it's refilled, the fun begins. Some people come by and grab as much as they can in one dip, supermarket spree-style. Others mill around the desk making small talk or proposing fake queries and for them I kindly turn away under the pretext of getting something out a drawer or dropping a pencil so that they can snatch a nugget of nougat without having to interact with me on the subject. Then there is The Addict, of whom there are many in residence, who cannot stop themselves once they have taken that first chomp on a Butterfinger. They take one and practically inhale it as they walk away. Seconds later, they are back, hands shaking as they try and hurriedly unwrap it. This goes on for several minutes or until we say, "Take a couple - for the road," and they move on. Then there are those, usually women, who very politley ask may they have one piece. And then may they have one for their husband? Son? Daughter? Niece from out of town? Invalid neighbor? I want to scream, "Just take the whole g-d bowl and have done with it!"

I'm not without pity. I know that most of these people live on wholesome, but tasteless, shelter food and what money they panhandle goes to meth and Jack. But it's really sad to watch these base human behaviors - like children - acted out over what I consider to be a trifle. Perspectivizing, I realize that many of them probably never were children or at least had a childhood approaching anything near that of my children. More than being broke, they are what my mom used to call "poor of spirit". I wish I knew how fix that. I really do.

Goin' to the Chapel

Finally, day three. Just a note, first, tho. I only have pictures of buildings and cityscapes. We are supposed to get a CD of the partypics which will have more pics of interest to those who commented their requests.

We split up on Sunday. At 10:00am, Mimi came for Super Giant Killer and they hailed a cab and whisked away to American Girl Place on 5th Avenue. Mimi had made a deal with her that if she practiced exceptional finishing school manners she would be rewarded with a spree there and she really was a sparkling little angel the whole time. She got to bring Kit with her and they got matching letter jackets and Kit got some Converse hi-tops and crazy socks. That is sacrilege to hardcore AG freaks because she is dressing 'out of time', but SGK doesn't care. Then they spent the day getting hair and nails done on Park Avenue.

Meanwhile, YHWH and I took C. F. Kats on the Uptown Loop of the sightseeing bus. We got to see all the ornate French Renaissance buildings and Harlem. It was a nice relaxing trip of about 2.5 hours. About the only thing we really did that day was visit the MoMA and we shopped in a couple of little boutiques and an international grocery. MoMa is pretty pricey at $20 each, but every work in there is by a 'namebrand' artist, and most of them are the biggies like Starry Night and the Campbell's Soup Cans and Persistence of Memory, etc.

Then came the great hour. Time to get dressed for the Main Event - Wedding Part Three. The second iterations of the fancy dresses were donned and I put on my average looking gray suit, but I did wear a red tie with eyeglasses on it. Only later did I realize that I was to have worn a dark suit to a wedding. No one made a big deal of it, though. I made the fatal mistake of so many honest men and fell for the question, "How do I look?" No, actually, I was just trying to bring levity to the rather tense three-people-dressing-in-a-small-space scenario. So, I said that C.F. Kats' blouse made her look like a pirate and that YHWH's dress looked like something Mrs. Roper would wear. They weren't amused. But they were just ravishing anyway.

The third wedding was in NYAC itself, so we got there with no hitches. This ceremony was still not something to which I am accustomed. I don't know if it was because it was Catholic or Argentine or what. Evenso, I'm very tolerant of other cultures and customs - I even went to a lesbian wedding back in the early 90s before it was cool (or legal) - so I'm not judging it negatively. One thing I noticed was that there was still more speechifying. The father of the bride got up and read off a list of names of people who came all the way from Dubai and Argentina again just like the rehearsal dinner and then we all applauded. I was kind of thinking that if I wanted to know who was there, I would just go look at the guest book. Actually, we applauded lots of things at the urging of the priest. I'd never heard of wedding applause and it did make the solemn proceedings I'm used to seem a little riotous at times. Of course, SGK did a great job strewing flower petals around in the wake of the bride's steps. There were also lay readings by family members and I'm not used to that, either. That whole thing was pretty painless, though.

The hard part came when the ceremony was over and we had yet another open bar with cheese and hors d'oeuvres (I hope I got that right, I'm too lazy to look it up). I say hard because I was starving again having only had a knish from a stand in the street for nourishment all day and I was waiting in line for my gin and tonic and cheese when I was summoned away for family photos. Endless permutations of "now just the uncles", "let's have everyone over five feet", "all people born on Wednesdays!" were assembled for photos and each lineup was taken with about six cameras and two or three lighting scenarios each. So I had to endure all of that without alcohol assist. Speaking of which, once I had a drink in hand, I let C.F.Kats have a taste hoping that it would discourage her from partaking too soon. She was suitably disgusted by the taste, so hopefully it worked. The coolest part of this phase was when YHWH's uncle (the same from the previous night's speech) sat down next to the piano player, who had just played "Ode to Joy" and "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" moments before, and taught him to play "Boomer Sooner".

At this point another unusual development occured. We were all asked to sit down at our tables for dinner (again, most receptions I've been to do not have dinner). But the food was not forthcoming. And once again, it was about 7:00 and I was starving. So, we all sat down and the dj started playing some anthemic Kool and the Gang or Raydio song and he belts out these booming introductions of the parents of the couple and each of the flower girls. Kind of had the feel of one of those pro wrestling introductions. And then the dj takes over the whole reception and starts playing dance music and we're all supposed to dance. OK. We're starving. Doesn't the dancing come after the dinner? But I'm cool with that. I've had two drinks and some champagne.

Everyone knew I was shy and reserved and would mope over at my table with Big Time Book Editor, but since that was what's expected of me, I did the opposite. I grabbed C. F. Kats and we danced the odd tangoish dance of people who can't dance, then I goofed around with SGK, then I danced with YHWH's sister, then I danced with YHWH's stepmom, and finally I did a Saturday Night Fever routine with YHWH when "Stayin' Alive" came on. Killer was all over that dance floor and in fact, the whole night she wouldn't have anything to do with her family. She wouldn't talk to us or dance with us or anything. She wanted Book Editor and family to adopt her. We did get to see some tipsy dancers fall over, tho, and C. F. Kats got some sage advice from a disgruntled woman hiding in the bathroom from her husband.

We finally got to eat appetizers at 8:30 - shrimp on a bed of some really gross cold grey noodles. No thanks. Then the entrees came out at 9:30. Filet again! And still no bacon. It was ok, but nothing to write home about. Dessert was wedding cake and it was pretty standard fare, even though the couple was too prim to smash the cake in each others faces. Bad sign...

So that was it. Final thoughts - it wasn't that bad. Once I accepted the absurdity of the entire enterprise and just let go, it was fine. I got rave reviews again, this time from the top, so I felt pretty good about it. I even got a verbal invitation to the brother-of-the-bride's wedding in Minnesota in May.

Saturday In The Park

On Saturday, we didn't have any committments until 8:00pm when we were all to meet up at Tavern on the Green for the rehearsal dinner, even though the charming couple had already been married twice already and a rehearsal seemed a moot point. But we must do the proper thing if we are to do anything at all.

So YHWH and I decided to take the girls on one of the double decker sightseeing buses which prowl around the city. We weighed several activity options at first, but we thought this would be a comfortable, safe way for them to see the whole island and pick out things they liked that we could go back to. First we had to navigate our sortie from the NYAC. It is possible for one to wear humane clothing and still enter and exit the building. I called the day before we left to be sure that a secret exit passage existed and brought my tennis shoes and jeans for our daily activities. What you do is take the special secret atheltic elevator down to the third floor and then leave the elevator lobby and amble down a hallway until you find a stairwell marked 'C'. Then take the stairs down to the first level and you can go out the back door. They make it a hassle, but I was glad to have the option.

We had some good bagels to start the day and then made the short walk down 7th Ave to Times Square in order to catch the tour bus. It was very nice and crisp - upper 40s - to start out and we made a brisk walk to several tour stops in order to get the best spot on the bus. C. F. Kats appeared overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of Times Square, so we were reassured in our decision to go easy at first. It was almost like LA oddly enough. At Times Square we saw a car commercial being filmed. Then down by the Flatiron Building we saw Will Smith and crew filming (I later learned) I Am Legend. We got to see some burned out vehicles and trash and all around disasterish looking sets. We got to see a stunt as well where the crew spun a new Mustang around in the middle of the street; saw a bluescreen on the hood, tho, so I guess the zombies will be added later. And still further on we saw a 'model shoot'; some kind of ad I guess. Our only departures were a walk down to Battery Park for a view of the Statue of Liberty and a promenade around the South Street Seaport.

Finally, we got off the bus at St. Patricks Cathedral and walked up 5th Avenue. This walk was like the scenes you see in movies as it was just packed with people. C.F. Kats wasn't too happy with that either. After a quick lunch at Trump Plaza we went on up 5th to Central Park Zoo to see the penguins and polar bears. Finally, it was time to head back to NYAC to dress for Tavern on the Green. But, on the way there we passed Jennifer Anniston and a couple of friends. After their first day in NYC, SGK thought she could stay forever and C.F. Kats was certain she couldn't.

We got back to the room with about an hour to spare and began the frenzy to 'get ready' for the dinner. I wore khaki pants, a black dress shirt and a black and tan checked coat with a 15 cent skinny electric blue tie from a thrift store complete with my monogram in gold. YHWH and C. F. Kats had fancy party dresses and SGK had a pink and black velvet number. We did clean up good, I must admit. We were told to take a cab down to Tavern and not to be late. However, just before we leave the room, we get a call from YHWH's folks that 'you'll never get a cab'. We found this odd that the swankiest part of NYC would want for cabs on Saturday night, but we prepared to walk the six blocks through Central Park. So we get down to the lobby and the bellboy says there are tons of cabs (like we thought). But then we see YHWH's brothers waiting down there for their wives. YHWH mentioned we were going to grab a cab and see them there and they began scoffing at her for taking a '20 minute cab ride instead of a 10 minute walk'. It's pretty sad to watch that family operate. They must be pretty insecure if they think it makes them look macho to goad their older sister into walking through Central Park at night with her children in tow. So we walked. It was a nice walk, tho. Guess who we saw milling around the bar when we walked in? The brothers and their wives - they took a cab because the wives wouldn't deign to walk through the park. Pretty sad.

So it's 8:00pm and we have the open bar with cheese in the Rafters Room first. This was the mingle portion of the night and I was forced into small talk, which I hate. The room we inhabited was long and narrow and replete with mirors and twinkling chandeliers. It was quite tacky in an out-of-touch Victorian sort of way. Here also one of the odd phenomena of the whole weekend began to play out. For some reason, the whole weekend was focused on where everyone was from. Generally, I don't mind this and in fact, I put a lot of stake in where people are from. However, in this case, we practically wore scarlet panhandles on our shirts as all anyone could talk to us about was OU football and cows and flatness. The whole room was full of either New Yorkers or Argentinians and that's all they could come up with. And that is one of my lifelong peeves with New York and foreigners in general (frequently said of Americans abroad, no doubt) is that they purport to be so superior because of where they live (in the case of NYCers) or because they can speak 10 languages (in the case of the Argentines) and yet they are so insular and sadly ignorant of anywhere but where they live or where they vacation. It was like a quiz: "Where are you from?" "Oklahoma." "Oh. Football and oil, right?" "Ding! You got me there! Ten points for you!" I wanted to start saying, "Argentina - ass kicked in the Falklands, right?" or "200% inflation, right?" or "Gunning people down in soccer stadiums, right?" But you know, you can't win when you do that.

So, I had only eaten a dog from one of the street vendors all day and here it was 9:00. My two Tanqueray and tonics on an empty stomach were getting to me, but I stood fast. We finally were seated a little after 9:00. Blessed be, there was a roll there waiting for me. We were seated as a family plus YHWH's sister and a couple from -- Canada. Somebody up there likes me. No, really, they were about the only real people we met even though they didn't know anything about Oklahoma, except that Frank Keating was in the guy's law firm. I was sure we would get to eat then, but no, there had to be speeches made and apparently it's bad form to eat while people are speechifying. One speech was great, tho. YHWH's uncle was raised the son of a doctor in a medium-sized town in Oklahoma, went to military school, was in a fraternity, and has held high-powered jobs in Boston, Washington, and Los Angeles. He's no stranger to these things. So, after all these speeches about Argentina and French people from Dubai and on and on, he gets up and makes an unscheduled speech. It was awesome. To paraphrase, he said, "All this talk about foreign places is well and good. But the bride has chosen to become an Okie and we welcome her into our hearts and homes!" All us Okies (except YHWH's immediates) let out a, whoop and the bride's family got a big kick out of it. He really brought the house down.

So, we sat through about 10 trips down memory lane before the first course came out - at 9:50. It was a large bowl with three small raviolis in it that reminded me of our Franco-American lunches at daycare. We got to choose whether we wanted duck or filet mignon for our entree which was served at 10:30pm. I went for the filet which was definitely the right call because everyone who got the duck said it was horrible and could not even be cut much less chewed. I was kind of bummed about the filet because it came without the nice bacon wrap for added flavor. But hey, what do you want for $175? Later, our Canadian tablemate let on that Tavern isn't known for it's food. This I concurred with as I took my first bite of half-frozen strudel for dessert. But those gin and tonics were really, really good.

So at a little before midnight we got up to leave. After I paid the $8 to get our coats back, I noticed that there was a line of about 30 people to get cabs. So we decided to brave it and walk back, although we went down Central Park West (aka 8th Ave) instead of through the Park. We saw a few street people, but it was safe.

By the way I got rave reviews for my dashing look and charming personality. No, I'm not kidding. I just said I hate going to stuff like that, I didn't say I wasn't good at it!

And that was day two.

Gonna Take That Big White Bird

We are back, the home come heroes. As a small glimpse of how it went, let me first explain that I was not able to update because the luxurious climes in which we were perched charged 75 cents per minute for internet access and even if we'd brought our laptop, we would've been charged 1.00 per minute. I'm sorry, I simply cannot type fast enough to keep it under a monthly paycheck.

I know this is going to be a long post and reading it will be something like watching the much cliched slideshow of someone else's vacation, so you may want to stop here...

The day before we left, we were scurrying around trying to complete our wardrobes, but we finally got it together. Just as I was going to sleep on Thursday, I remembered my last post about my sister's wedding being a true community affair and I realized that this one was, too. Tex loaned me her garment bag; Mr. Tex graciously surrendered his overcoat; Rawdog offered loafers to smooth out the comfy flying attire/easy checkpoint removal/dress code approved footwear problem; Purple Bunny offered sturdy suitcases; Overcoat prepped us on easy airport transitions and transportation and Adjective Queen even gave us a ride to the airport on her day off! And everyone wished us well. So thanks, for being such a nice community everybody!

So, first thing in the morning on Friday, we reenacted the frantic family-to-the-airport scene from Home Alone, tho on a much smaller scale. We were packed the night before, but you still always have those little things here and there; it came off pretty well, tho. I jumped up and quickly got ready and heated some water for instant coffee and oatmeal. Then I helped Super Giant Killer get dressed - brown pin-striped suit pants with gold belt, brown spandex shirt, and pearls - and we just ate breakfast and watched the frenzy reach crescendo until -knock, knock - the Queen was at the door. We got all loaded and pulled away but before we got to the main road, I had to stop. I am in no way OCD, but I am a 'checker' (it's because our house was broken into when I was little and I have never really gotten over it). In all the flurry, I couldn't remember turning off the stove when I heated the water and I had to go back and make sure. The Queen was so nice, although I know I will never live it down.

We got there in plenty of time and got through security just fine. But it soon became obvious to me that I was now old and the times have a-changed. One of the first things I noticed while watching our plane being prepared was that most of the ground crew looked like they had just returned to work from shooting a Kid Rock video and still others may have been at an X-Games event. Where once I watched guys in smart service-type uniforms waving their fluorescent signal lights, I now saw dudes in baggy pants, dreads, and Phish t-shirts whipping around in baggage trucks and refueling planes. Biased on my part to be sure, as here I was complaining about the dress code to which I had to defer, but I still say I'd rather it look like Air Force personnel were prepping my plane than wiggers.

Likewise, I would like to think some former USAF guys are flying the plane. Our 'equipment' out of OKC was one of those Embraer RJ things (aka a flying pencil) and it was full and cramped. I hate those little things. So, we're getting ready to leave and our pilot gets on and he sounds like he's 15. He tells us he's Matt and our co-pilot is Chris. I'm sorry, 'Matt and Chris' sound like two dudes cruising around in a tricked out Mustang, not flying me to Chicago. I want 'Robert and Edward' or better yet, 'Walter and Jack'.

So we start our takeoff and just as we get airborne, SGK squeals, "This is awesome! I've never been this happy in my life!" So, that was worth it. Then the flight attendant announces snacks can be purchased, including cashews for $2. SGK is deathly allergic to cashews. So I turned to YHWH, "did you bring her epipen?" Neither one of us brought it. We sort of panicked because she could die before they could land the plane if she'd gotten a small whiff of cashew dust. So YHWH asked the attendant if she could refrain from serving them, and she didn't want to do it, but she said she would (she even admitted frankly that since they are something the airline makes money on, she isn't allowed to not sell them). It's American Eagle by the way, for anyone who needs to know that they still serve things that can kill people. When we switched to American Airlines in Chicago, we told the crew and they laughed and said they quit serving allergens a long time ago and thought it was stupid for American Eagle to serve them. By the way, on the last leg of our return trip we were back on American Eagle and we told them ahead of time about the allergy and the attendant refused to refrain from selling cashews and said, "We've already told people they can have them! We can't tell them they can't have them now!" Once again, folks that's American Eagle. So, we just begged people around us to not eat their cashews if at all possible and thankfully the three people who purchased a snack pack agreed not to eat their cashews.

Once in Chicago, we had 10 minutes to change planes, which was great. But upon arrival at our gate we learned that rain in the east had cause a ripple effect in the traffic pattern and we were pushed back almost two hours. No problem. You can kill a few hours in the airport. But then we get this phone call. YHWH's folks were letting us know to come straight to their room for a champagne and cheese meet-and-greet in their suite so that the two families can get acquainted. Excuse me, aren't we already going to two weddings, a dinner and a reception? Besides, we already had plans to take the girls to a theme restaurant like Hard Rock or Jekyll and Hyde that first night. So we kicked our dread up a notch there in Chicago.

Eventually, we get to board our flight to LaGuardia, but since the traffic jam still existed on the east coast and an arrival needed our gate, we got to sit on the apron for about an hour and a half waiting to taxi! In front of us was a middle-aged couple from Milwacky who were apparently making their first trip without the kids and their first big weekend getaway to New York. What great fortune befell them as they found themselves seated next to a blowhard who, though not a New yorker himself, knew everything about the city. The Gotham Bloviate regaled them with tales of the wonderous nightlife, rundowns on each and every neighborhood and what to do there. On and on for the four hours it took to get to NYC. All the while the corduroy sport-coated male kept insturcting his secretary/wife to "write that down" whenever the Gotham Bloviate imparted tell of a particularly shiny gem. The Gotham Bloviate was not actually that onoxious by nature, thankfully, and what struck me most was the apparent unpreparedness of this seemingly uptight couple. Do they not have libraries in Milwacky? Or bookstores? Was it that hard to find a guidebook? I thought they might have just been playing nice, but they seemed really uneducated on the subject.

We finally made our approach to LaGuardia about 2.5 hours late, but the remnants of that bad weather were still lingering and our MD-80 was thrown about quite a bit. Even I, who likes rollercoasters and flying, had to lean back, close my eyes and clinch my stomach. We had a glimmer of hope tho, because we were sure the delay made us too late for the soiree. I mean, it was 5:30 and we still had to get over to Midtown in the middle of Friday rush hour. Meanwhile the elite members of my wife's family were attending the only one of the three weddings that 'counted' - the ceremony conducted by the family priest up in Westchester County.

We thought by arriving at our exclusive digs at 7:00 we would've missed the event, but no, they were just arriving themselves. I got through it OK because SGK kind of took over the event by regaling the Argentine Contingent (the bride's familia) with her knowledge of the Pampas and gauchos and also running through two of her karate workouts. As I said, we had promised the girls a trip to a theme restaurant, but YHWH's brother invited us to 'a little Italian place' for dinner and we were much encouraged to go along by the grownups. So, YHWH and I went with her sibs and the bride's to the home of the $30 bowl of spaghetti. In case you're wondering, yours truly did step up to the plate and charm the three people at the table previously unknown to him. He was quickly able to discern their passions and vocations and was able to converse across a wide breadth of topics. And dinner cost $454.

When you go to New York you learn quickly that you will be constantly fleeced of your cash. I'm really not a cheapskate, but it does get burdensome after a while. We had to pay to get our bags to the street at the airport. We had to tip the driver who took us to the New York Athletic Club, we had to tip the bellhop to take them in and the guy who took them to our room. At this 'little place' we had to tip the maitre d', then the wine guy and of course the waitress and the bathroom attendant and the coat check lady. I was constantly handing out dollar bills the whole weekend.

After dinner we collected the kids and returned to our little room. First let me say I am very grateful to the bride's family for putting us up for the weekend. The room didn't cost me a dime so I'm not complaining. But I was shocked that the rooms were so small. We had two double beds with about a foot on either side and a foot between them. There was not much decor to speak of and if I had been knocked unconscious out on the street and awakened in that room I would have guessed I was in a Clarion or Best Western. Not what I would've expected for something in the $400 a night range off Central Park. But like I said, the price was right.

So that was our first night. I'm shutting up now.

Fairy Tales Can Come True, It Can Happen To You

I felt obliged to say that the main reason this wedding thing is annoying me is because it's just so overblown. It's true we all tend to place ourselves at the center of the universe and assume that our way is best, and I am no exception. But I think my sister's wedding is the standard for how it ought to be done.

When she got engaged at 18, my parents weren't really prepared for it. I'm not sure how they felt emotionally, but financially, we were pretty well broke. We always were, but this was the high inflation, no jobs malaise Jimmy Carter presided over and it was pretty tough on the lower middle class.

But they were in love, and so it was going to happen. My sister visited a dozen venues to try and get the best possible value for the event. It was looking like it would have to be a dank church basement until, on a lark, she decide to try Tulsa's swankiest hotel - The Mayo. The Mayo had entertained Tulsa's oilmen and first families for decades and my sister didn't think she could afford it but she wanted to at least dream about having it there. So, she went in to talk to the events person there and after telling her story and chatting awhile, the hotelier said, "You know, Mr. Oilman just canceled a major event in our Crystal Ballroom and I'm really angry about it. I've been thinking about not refunding his money. If you can have your wedding on the 15th, we'll let him rent the Crystal Ballroom for you." And so it was that my sister was married in a place that looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast.

But that wasn't the only thing. We still had to produce this thing. My mom got a dress at a consignment shop and refashioned it into a wedding dress. My mom made the five-tiered wedding cake. She made the sheet cakes. She made the petit-fours and canapes. The groom's mother and sister hand made hundreds of fresh mini-tamales. They made five gallons of frozen margaritas with tequila they got from a guy who owed them a favor. The groom's cousin brought his mariachi band to play. All the young adults in the cult made and hung the decorations. We borrowed all the tables and punch bowls and everything else. Our whole community contributed something to this wedding. To this day, when I run into people from the cult they ask me if my sister's still married. They're relieved to hear she is and say, 25 years later, "That's the best wedding I've ever been to."

Sadly, I don't remember much of it. I spent the first half of the thing practicing heavy underage drinking and the second half curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor of the bridal suite.

So forgive me if I am grumbling about spending hundreds of thousands on a wedding for two people old enough to have kids in high school. It's just not my way.

By the way this will be Killer's fifth gig as flower girl. As you will see below, she is carrying on the family business. For I was a veteran ringbearer, having borne rings to at least a half-dozen nuptials (click for larger):

What I Need Is Everywhere

I just got a call that my aunt - my mom's sister - has died. And yeah, in case you're wondering, I would rather go to a funeral than a wedding.

I've written about my dad's family ties and the curse a couple of times, but my mom's family may really have one. There were eight siblings who survived to adulthood. The oldest has polio, the next died from multiple sclerosis, the third has spasmodic dysphonia (like Diane Rehm), the fourth has chronic back problems, the fifth (the aunt who just died) had cerebral palsy, my mom died of lymphoma, the next has Parkinson's and the last one has severe complications from the ravages of substance abuse. And let me just say they're all saints. I've never heard one of them complain. Never seen anything but smiles and hugs.

This aunt was really a piece of work, though. She was 68 and she wasn't even expected to live into her teens. She had cerebral palsy and lived her whole life in a wheelchair. What I remember from my youthful visits was her crossword mania, encyclopedic knowledge of all genres of music from 1960-1975, incessant smoking and moments when the quiet was punctured by a spastic shudder or kick. But her affliction wasn't genetic. It was man made.

My grandparents lived way out in northwest Oklahoma and medical care is scarce out there even now, but in 1938 with the Dust Bowl at gale force, there was, for all intents and purposes, none to be found. The midwives from a local church (which I will not name) made all the deliveries in their area. This is one of those off the radar type churches which hold among their tenets a refusal to seek medical care.

So when the time came to deliver, my grandpa summoned the midwife. When she arrived she got really agitated and said that God told her the baby wasn't ready yet. Some or another prophecy was at play. So she left the baby partially delivered in the birth canal - nearly a whole day by time it was all over with. I've talked to people in the medical know about this and most believe that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my aunt's neck or something rather common like that and the midwife was probably too inexperienced and panicked or something. My grandpa was so angry that he yelled at the midwife and told her to leave his house and he followed her down the road on foot screaming at her for what she'd done.

He swore he'd never enter a church again. And he damn well didn't. Every wedding picture I have of those kids shows them cutting the cake in the farmhouse kitchen. Which was all well and good because the elders of the church all got together after he'd let fly on the midwife and decided to curse him. Unfortunately, no one could or would tell me what exactly the curse was. All I know is that it really did scare him for the rest of his life.

Here's the clan, except for the yet-born last child. My mom is doing her Home Alone impression (hands on her face) and the aunt in question is the ragdoll in the foreground ( click for larger):












Also there was som discussion of wanting to see me in a suit. Here goes:

They Make No Mention of the Beauty of Decay

The wedding continues to dominate our lives for better or worse. We were scheduled to have an all day shopping junket on Sairdy. YHWH, Killer and C. F. Kats are all required to have small, black, formal clutches; I needed a jacket in which I can stroll around the hotel; everyone needed all-weather formal coats; I needed two dress shirts; and it was suggested I get a sweater and some 'nice' long-sleeved shirts.

So, like I said, it was supposed to be an all day affair. But on Sairdy morning, YHWH tells me to just get Killer out of the house all day - she wanted to clean the house. That's bad. That is an ominous sign. Cleaning has psychological implications. Where I have resigned myself to my fate and am now given to mocking the whole thing, she has obviously not gotten to that point.

So, I took Killer to the Zoo. We were there 4.5 hours. I have never been to the Zoo that long in one session in my life. It was great weather and Killer brought a blank journal and declared herself a naturalist. We had to stop and draw loads of plants, flowers, and animals. We read and discussed every plaque. Here's a page from the journal including some of our team work:



After that we decided to hit the northside thrift stores. I thought it would be a nice touch to wear thirft store merch to our snooty events. We didn't have too much success, but we had a lot of fun. We did find one small velvet clutch for 98 cents, though. Finally, we went to Big Lots to get some decent Halloween dex. YHWH tends to decorate with Fall things, but frankly SGK and I never found a cornucopia to be particularly terrifying. I find the glow-in-the-dark velvet skeleton hanging on the doorways of my youth (pre-cult, of course) to be the standard. So Killer picked out some stuff and here are a couple of examples of the result:


The strung-up skeleton has been dubbed Carl by Killer. He actually is very scary out there, especially when a slight breeze makes him sway a little bit.

No word when we'll actually get around to buying all that stuff...

We've also started our Halloween season movie-watching. C. F. Kats prefers the psychological thrillers to slashers, so we have selected accoridngly. We got our film critic friend with the exhaustive DVD library to hook us up with some good ones:

Experiment in Terror
Tale of Two Sisters
Cape Fear (original)
Black Sunday
Planet of the Vampires
Peeping Tom
Carnival of Souls
M
Cat People
Lady in White
Diabolique (original French one)

Cape Fear is still so creepy, among the few that consistently get to me. Talking about the Mitchum-Peck version, of course. One of the key components of it's success of course is in what it doesn't say or depict. They use semantics to lead you to a certain point and then allow you to define (ala 1984) what your own brand of hell might be.