She’s got Bette Davis eyes . . . and I have Telly Savalas Hair. The art of getting “olderish”

It’s hell getting old.  In fact, I refuse to admit it in the slightest.  Instead I have coined the phrase “olderish” as an apt description of my current condition.  Life is funny that way.  You spend your youth dreaming of the day you will be “old enough”.  Old enough to drive, old enough to vote, old enough to tell mom and dad to go to hell.  Our young lives are spent striving for these milestones of adulthood and our adult lives are spent regretting that these days went by so fast.  At some point, the milestones are lost and the grind begins.  A slow steady trudge toward the grave.  It is a hard thing to adjust to for many of us.  Living life in 15 week intervals is addictive and the constant change it provides makes life less tedious than it otherwise would be.  When you are eventually thrown out into the real world with a fresh face and moist ears you quickly find yourself up to your ass in mortgage payments, car loans, income taxes and all those other delights that you never thought about in your youthful dreams of how great it would be to be an adult.  

And then, as if this all isn’t insulting enough, your body begins to betray you.  Your hairline begins to recede and the lack of chia growth atop your crown is soon replaced by unwanted hair in other locations . . . the ears, the nose and the back, just to name a few.  Joint pain is a daily reminder of the battles fought and lost and the inability to remember your atm pin number is an inconvenience you could do without.  Sneeze and you look like a party favor, jump to your feet too quickly and you sound like the crackling on the fourth of July.  These realities are ever present in my daily routine.  A tweeze here and some icy hot there makes for a realization that you have in fact become as old as you thought your parents were when you were a child.  If age is the prospector, then marriage solidifies its claim.

All the courtesies of courtship slip away and you are left one morning wondering why the hell you ever married someone that farts in their sleep and snors like a locomotive.  Car doors are no longer opened in a gentlemanly fashion and this sentiment is replaced with a “get the fuck in the car or I will leave you in the damned parking lot”.  The wife and I love each other all the same.  Perhaps the blindness of lust has fallen away and been replaced by the all too keen observation that the slob you live with has left you with an empty roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, but it is our ability to see these faults and still find love that makes this sweeter still.  When the sun shines so brightly across my naked scalp she doesn’t say a word but simply pulls on her prescription sunglasses.  And when her flatulence clears a crowded room, I pretend I don’t smell a thing and blame the dog in her defense.  That is love for the aging.

These are lessons difficult to teach and one can only sit back and watch as our fledglings make their own way down the path we have already traveled.  We smile and nod when they say they will never be like us, all the while knowing that they too will one day look in their mirror and see our wrinkled faces staring back at them.  That is the justice of parenthood . . . to eventually give as good as you get.  At this particular age however, my boys still believe their parents to be superheroes and the parent hating angst of the middle teens seems a long way on the horizon.  They still desire to be old enough to cast off the constraints of being ruled by a King and a Queen, but they show much less spite in their display.  My eldest wears deodorant and my youngest, well . . . we will just call him the Samurai’s Apprentice, for it is his recent birth into manhood that is in large part the inspiration of this entry.  He has grown in leaps and bounds in just the first few days of his fifth year of life.  He knows well that he is far from being old enough to drive a car, or vote in a mayoral election, but maybe . . . just maybe he is old enough to wield the Wilkinson Sword?

These days, my children run around the house with a fair bit of autonomy. I don’t feel the need to be in the same room with them at all times and I have long since dispensed with any “baby proofing” procedures in favor of the “you live, you learn” model of parenting.  They are both old enough to know better than to stick a coin in a light socket or play with the steak knives, so how much trouble can they get into?  Right?  We have always treated their bedrooms with a great deal of respect and if they so choose to be left alone we give them their space and a respectful knock before entering.  The youngest will in fact go to his own room when he throws a decent tantrum or finds himself in dutch with the old man in an effort to “heal himself” as he once referred to it.  A sign of genius or a concerning mental condition, I haven’t figured out which yet.  He usually comes out of his room in just a minute or two with dried tears and a heartfelt apology when warranted.  It is also not uncommon for either of my two lads, being independent minded children, to simply slip off to their respective rooms to play for a bit by themselves.  I continue about my day in the kitchen or laundry room and will only occasionally make my way upstairs to check on them in the event things have gotten a little too quiet.  Silence usually means trouble making from my experience . . . not as a parent, but as a child myself.

This day was not an exception to that rule and as I helped assist the eldest in an endeavor, his younger brother became bored with the goings on downstairs and made a break for his room.  Within moments, he began to descend the stairs in a cautious manner and calmly announced . . . “I’m bleeding”.  Now I was a kid once too and boys are prone to injury.  I always had a scab or two about my body as my two young men do and I too liked to pick at them.  This calm proclamation about the production of blood was not unfamiliar territory.  I made my way to the stairs to admonish him for picking at a scab and lead him back upstairs for a Sponge Bob bandaid, only to find his face covered in blood.  It looked as though he had turned vampire or cannibal and feasted on the flesh of another.  He had smeared the blood to such a degree that his arms and hands were covered as well.  The amount of blood was astonishing and alarming to the point of panic.  Being a seasoned parent, I kept my cool and threw him up on the counter for an inspection.  He had a paper thin cut on his upper lip and after a quick wash up, it appeared to be his only wound.  


At first blush I would have thought that he had gotten devil may care with licking an envelope and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he had injured himself.  Keeping pressure on the tiny wound prevented him from talking, not that he was going to anyway, for I could tell something was afoot.  When the bleeding finally subsided the inquisition began.  All he would tell me was that he was in MY bathroom “making sure it was clean” and somehow injured his lip.  Clearly something doesn’t add up.  For one thing, he rarely goes in my bedroom and adjacent bath without invitation . . . remember the rule about respecting someone else’s bedroom?  Second of all, I know for sure that this kid wasn’t up there with housekeeping on his mind.  Now, here is a good tip for all you parents out there.  If you really want to get inside the mind of your child, make their sibling do the dirty work.  When I am playing Sherlock, my eldest is my able Watson.  At the age of 9, he can conceive of childish thoughts that would evade my aging intellect, things that I would dismiss as preposterous or inconceivable.

It should read "Free Your Skin . . . From Your Face"

I sent the eldest upstairs to CSI the master bath and he came down with a preliminary report.  “Dad, I think he cut himself with your razor.”  Elementary my dear Watson!  In his description of the events that lead to the blood bath the youngest mentioned two colors . . . white and green.  Any guess on the color of the Wilkinson Sword?  The stinging misery of a shaving wound is harsh enough, I wasn’t about to add any further discipline to the mix.  I simply gave him a well thought out lecture as to the dangers of household items and reminded him that anything that is in my room is off limits.  I am sure that the thoughtful words went in one ear and out the other, but the buzzsaw that is the Wilkinson Sword will remind him of the error of his ways every time he eats something even slightly acidic over the next several days.  

"Who Loves Ya Baby?"

Ultimately I am to blame.  I thoughtlessly left my razor on the sink where little hands could reach and for that I owe him an apology.  It is not in my standard operating procedure to leave it in this location and it is a heartwarming no-brainer that he would be enamored with this item.  What little boy hasn’t watched his father shave in envy and amazement?  Both of my boys have witnessed this with me and you can see the curiosity in their eyes as they watch each stroke wipe away the stubble from Superman’s aging cheeks.   They still want to be just like dad and unfortunately, with a face that looks like it was attacked by an ally cat thanks to the kind folks at Wilkinson, the youngest already is.  That is all I have for today. R

Joyeaux Anniversaire Part 3

Today we celebrate 4 crazy years of love and survival.  The whirl wind that we call our youngest son has officially turned one year older.  Based upon his outlook on life, I suspect he is attempting to live his life out in dog years, so perhaps it more apropos to place 28 candles on his cake this year.  Unlike the eldest boy (Even Steven), my youngest embodies both the Ying and the Yang.  Without dark you cannot appreciate the light, right?  It has been 4 years of trial and error and I dare say we still don’t have the formula quite right.  Either way, he is the ever vibrant pulse that beats throughout our home, and I can’t imagine our life without him.  To that end, we have celebrated his birthday Hannakua style.  Since we can’t have the traditional party as we would have back home, we have protracted the event into a weekend long celebration.  I only wonder what the fallout will be when the daily gift giving ends.  In preparation for his big day, it occurred to me that if our current travel schedule holds, the wife will never celebrate her birthday here in France.  Don’t know why that dawned upon me or even if it matters all that much, but it was one of my revelations for the day.  The marking of the youngest’s birthday also marks the beginning of the holiday season for us.  The children are on break for the next two weeks and over the course of the next few months, it would seem that they are on vacation a fair bit more than they are in school.  I believe this a blessing as their presence in the house will lessen some of the sadness inherent in the passing of this time of the year.  I myself am very fond of the winter months.  For me, life as a child was a blur during these joyous winter months.  From my birthday on, life was a delicious dance from one holiday to the next.  Halloween comes next and unfortunately it doesn’t seem that they trick or treat as they do in the West.  As this is perhaps one of my favorite holidays, missing it this year does bring with it an element of sadness.  Thereafter comes Thanksgiving . . . an American holiday which is obviously of no importance here.  Another milestone of loss and homesick sentimentality.  We have done Thanksgiving alone in the past however, so we will make the most of it . . . just the four of us.  The upside is that there will be ample left overs with fewer vultures at the dining table.  And then homeward bound once more to rekindle old friendships and lick our emotional wounds before the next installment of our adventure.

The fact that our first year here in France is drawing to an end brings with it a certain sense of accomplishment and a want for reflection.  The time spent has at moments seemed to stand still while the truth of the matter is, our first year here has flown by in the blink of an eye.  In mountaineering terms, it would seem that we have reach the false summit.  The steepest part of the climb seems to be over, but what would have appeared to be the top from our vantage point at the start was but a fraction of the total distance run.  In its simplest terms, we have survived and that in and of itself is worth celebration.  While perhaps not riding it into the ground like breaking a wild bucking bronc, we have managed to tame this beast a bit and are no longer afraid to get into the holding pen for fear our lives will likely meet with a most untimely end.  Baby steps they call it.  I don’t know that we will ever lay siege to our new lands like the Viking hoards as time is not on our side, but that is OK.  We have already grown from this experience on levels I would never have imagined and the initial goal of fully bilingual children seems attainable in the not so distant future.  Having recently resurrected the poetic words of Robert Frost, I am reminded once more of the sentiment in The Road Not Taken (La Route Non Prise):

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

                   -Robert Frost

The third little pig wore mukluks . . . paying homage to the Mayan Empire.

Well, in an effort to make this an accurate account of our daily life I decided it was time to rectify the calendar.  After a few hurried calculations,  it would appear that those times without internet connectivity skewed my dates a bit.  We now find ourselves on day 243 and a solid half of a month of activity seems to be MIA.  Truth be told, I feel it a fair accomplishment.  I wouldn’t have guessed at the start that this would have lasted for much longer than a week.  Further, the fact that there are a few that have not been insulted or alienated to the point of no longer following along is more amazing still.  If you are still out there hammering away the days with ole Jack Butler, your patronage is much appreciated.  At this point I could have churned out a solid college thesis or written the next great American novel.  I have done neither but given myself carpel tunnel syndrome and perhaps given my children something to remember me by.  I have meticulously kept this journal in soft copy on my laptop and have calculated the following interesting statistics.  In single spaced 10 point Arial font I have churned out roughly 52 8 ½ x 11 pages and when converted into a traditional 6x9 soft back that equates to roughly 331 pages so far.  Take that J.K. Rawlings.  I could break that into a word count, but it dizzies the mind to even think in such terms.  No, I will go ahead and do so.  My research indicates that the average first time novel ranges between 70,000 and 100,000 words.  Word says I am at 146,660.  I suppose I will continue to rattle away over the remaining days of our time here in hopes that perhaps someday it will be in some way noteworthy and I can sell it to some sucker in an effort to fund my children’s college education.  Lofty dream I know, but without some concrete goal in mind I feel like this is becoming a complete waste of time.  The odds of actually getting a book published is something akin to the odds of being struck by lightning.  It does happen on occasion, but it is rare.  To that end, if anyone out there knows a good publisher let me know and I will disgrace their desk with a hard copy of this turd.  While I await a response I will stand outside in a thunderstorm with a golf club in hand and see which is the more likely.

Having dispensed with the housekeeping as you know I like to call it, let’s get on with the show.  Like the smartest of the three little pigs, I live in a house made of stone.  The big bad wolf, nor any other force of nature is likely to make her crumble in the foreseeable future.  There is one thing that the third little pig failed to mention . . . It’s freaking COLD in here.  We seem to be fairly ensconced into fall type weather and the thermometer currently seems to prefer a day time high of around 15 degrees or so.  That is roughly 60 degrees Fahrenheit for those that don’t want to do the math.  We have been averaging in the 60s or so for about a week now, and even at this relatively mild daytime temperature, the house gets somewhat refrigerated when the overnight low creeps down to the 37 degree mark.  Radiant heat seems to do little to stave off but the harshest of the chill and we are left puttering about the house like Eskimos.  The key to a comfortable life is a good scarf.  I would wager one could run around naked in the cold of night so long as the neck was covered.  It is much more than fashion for folks here.  It is an essential piece of wardrobe that makes a profound difference on one’s comfort level.  The other day the wife remarked that she in fact witnessed a woman jogging while wearing a scarf.  Wearing traditional fitness attire from head to toe except that the outfit was set off by a jaunty scarf was enough to cause my wife a bit of a chuckle.  This she laughs at, but none of my jokes make it through.  What am I doing wrong?   Anyway, I have determined that I will purchase as many scarfs as I can afford and wear them all at once like the dance of the seven veils.  As the day warms up, I will simply peel one away and bat my eyes.  Brilliant!

And finally, the beginning of the weekend is a reminder that once again our little adventure is paying a bit of a toll.  Today marks the beginning of a marriage.  Unable to make my step-sister’s ceremony brings with it a bit of sadness as we truly wish her a wonderful life with her husband and would have liked to have been present to witness this joyous event.  That being said, I am sure she will forgive our absence as so many in our lives have forgiven it over the past 9 months or so.  I sent her a simple message of congratulations and shared a few words from the great Robert Frost.  Not being able to remember it all by heart, I ran to the Web to find the text I was looking for.  In doing so, I became a bit sidetracked as can often be the case in my life.  In my reading, I ran across another literary masterpiece on marriage that I would like to share with you now.  This sentiment is the reason my wife and I have lasted as we have and I trust my own bride feels the same about me as I feel about her.  We owe each other a lot.  I wish this new marriage the kind of joy we have created in our 11 years together.  Cheers.  R.

My debt to you, Beloved

Is one I cannot pay

In any coin of any realm

On any reckoning day;

For where is he shall figure

The debt, when all is said,

To one who makes you dream again

When all the dreams were dead?

Or where is the appraiser

Who shall the claim compute,

Of one who makes you sing again

When all the songs were mute?

-      Jesse Rittenhouse

A “potpourri” of musings

This post has been two days in the making and since nobody offered to handle the authoring for me, it shall be an eclectic mix of ramblings that will neither thrill the senses or rattle the nerves.  Forgive the hodgepodge of topics, but occasionally it doesn’t all go together as planned.  This place we live in is quite a two-wheeled culture indeed.  From bicycles to motor scooters, from motorcycles to mopeds, they can only be rivaled by those in the Far East who seem to use their two wheeled conveyances as anything from a family van to a moving truck.  That being said, I am a bit uncomfortable with the all too familiar “two up” configuration when it involves a pair of blokes (been watching a program about Australian lifeguards on the Teli).  Not sure on the spelling of either. Could be bloaks or Telly for all I know, but you get the point.  That’s UK television for you . . . suspect programming, but brilliant ad work.  To be honest, I watch it exclusively for the commercials, but I digress.  Back on point, if there is one . . . the juxtaposition of genitals to ass crack when two men are astride a Vespa is alarming enough, but where the second rider places his hands seems to be a matter of greater concern.  The fact is, in the motorcycle community back home, the second rider is often unflatteringly referred to as “riding bitch”.  This sexist terminology is a cast off from the outlaw biker days when a salty bearded fellow could be found terrorizing the interstate with his vile wench clinging to him off the back of his illegal tuned “chopper”.  Back then the two up seat was referred to the King and Queen seat and the bar holding the misses from falling off the back and skidding down the black top was the sissy bar.  None of these terms that have been forever burned into my mental imagery do any favors for the two MAN configuration I mentioned above.  To combat the obviously homosexual nature of this form of transportation, men seem to do everything they can to distance themselves from the man at the controls.  The difficulty seems to be how one keeps himself from falling off the damned thing without snuggling up and wrapping your manly arms around the driver’s midsection.  I have seen this done in a number of manners, some dangerous and some . . . well, some just down right uncomfortable.  Many scoots are equipped with tie down bars that one could use to tie a small parcel to the back of the scooter or in this case for holding yourself from pitching into certain death on a bend by holding onto them tightly behind your back.  It is a balancing act, but does provide the requisite space between genties and cheeks.  The most disturbing attempt at not hugging the man in front of you still has me scratching my head a bit.  The man on back seemed to believe it was preferable to simply smother his face between the shoulder blades of the driver there by keeping his ass well back into the second seat and in turn placing his hands on the back of the gas tank.  Now, if you are trying to maintain even the slightest masculinity about you when “riding bitch” as it were, I don’t think placing your hands in such proximity to another man’s genitals is going to do the trick.  One abrupt stop and you will be cupping the front man’s testicles in an unfortunate jail house scenario from which I don’t think any straight man can recover.  I think it far better to just swallow your pride and give the man a tight hug and hope to god the full face helmet you are wearing protects your identity.  I am not being homophobic in the slightest, just making random observations.

The second point for the day comes out of Brown Africa . . . I think.  While it would seem that much of what the French gather from our television programming make us (Americans) look like cross burning hillbillies, the truth is that they seem to be a fair bit more racist than they care to admit.  On more than one occasion I have heard the differentiation made between “Brown Africa” and “Black Africa”.  Essentially the North and the South for the uninitiated.  This, in and of itself, is of little interest to me as I am not racist in the slightest, but it bears witness to the strange things you learn along the way and leads to a more meaningful discussion on the importation of produce.  The real question is, where do your bananas come from?  You see, we are now far enough into our adventure here that any element of “culture shock” has worn away.  It is the little observations during the day that continue to fascinate and remind us that we are far from what we call “home”.  To be honest, bananas and their origin never really crossed my mind in my former life.  If asked, I would have told you that bananas come from the grocery store.  That is perhaps an over simplification as they are clearly not a native crop in the US, but knowing that they are imported from Central and South America was a long way out of my daily “need to know” list.  Bananas are different here than they are back home . . . shocker I know, but I find this very interesting.  Peeling one of these beauties is like wrestling an alligator and I would say around 90 percent of the time I half to throw 25 percent of the banana away as my 3 year old refuses to eat the part that I have mangled in an attempt to free the fruit from its peel.  At first I thought old age was catching up to me and felt certain I would wake one morning with James Coburn’s paws.  Fortunately, I am still the only member of the family capable of freeing the lid from a mason jar, so it must be something else, Right?  The peel seems as thick as boot leather and won’t go down without a fight.  I would gauge them to be roughly twice as thick as those I would encounter in the states and the difference warranted some further investigation.  Fortunately I didn’t have to look far.  The last batch purchased was adorned with a label that read “Ghana”.  Still not sure why I found the fact that the banana came from West Africa so fascinating.  Another “duh” moment for old Jack.  Clearly bananas aren’t indigenous to France either and the importation from Central America makes no sense at all when you can get perfectly acceptable bananas from right next door.  I preach to my children daily that this experience has done nothing but shrink the world for them and shape their perspective on where they fit in, but maybe it was I who needed the lesson.  I will clearly be the last to shed my “American” way of thinking.

From sexism to racism, I suppose I have covered the gambit so far.  Between gender bending scooter rides and “Mississippi Burning” bananas I seem to have lost my mind.  Let’s go out on a high note for you Seinfeld fans and bring things back down to earth.  As a parent, you have an intense desire to never see your children grow up.  We instinctively cling to their youth and in the deepest and darkest part of our hearts always see them as what they were around the age of two.  Time with them is so fleeting that it seems a bitter shame to let it pass without a fight.  This sentiment alone fuels an entire industry.  The home video camera makes its sales numbers exclusively from those of us that have the misguided belief that someday we will play back through them all to “remember when”.  It is also the reason I have terabytes of memory committed to the storage of digital stills never to be printed or catalogued.  For my part, it is just as well as I have never been that sentimental and failed to create a “baby book” for either of my children.  These antiquated home movies and unprinted pics are what we will have to look back upon many years from now . . . that is of course if I can find the technology to play them.  Anyone still have an 8 track they can successfully play in their car?  This is a very protracted way of saying that in reality, the best mode of storage for these moments is in our memories.  Sure you won’t remember the way you little one looked at the second pitch of the second inning of the second season of their baseball career, but you will remember the really important stuff.  There is a daily ritual in my life that will be one of those memories and to be honest neither video nor still camera either one would ever do it justice.  Mom drops off and I pick up.  That is the way we handle school transport these days.  One is certainly more stressful than the other and I certainly get the better of the two.  My youngest has taken to the idea of seeing life on foot.  To that end, as I turn into the long gravel drive a small voice from the back seat asks the same question every afternoon.  “When we get a little closer, can I get out?”  Of course his request is granted and at approximately the same place every day I stop the car and he gets out.  The race is on.  Can he manage a shortcut on foot before I can bring the 206 to a rest in the drive next to the house?  Try as I might, he always seems to win.  Go figure.  On occasion his elder brother has a go as well and it is a three man race.  I will never forget the view out of the side window of my French subcompact as my two little boys (I know one is 9, but he is still little to me) huck across the lawn as fast as their little legs will carry them.  I know at age 83 (if I make it that far) I will close my eyes and see it as vividly as I do today.  Now that is the “good stuff” . . . better than any 8x10 could ever be.

That about wraps up my thoughts for the day and despite wanting an early bedtime, this finds me a little further into the wee hours of the morning than I would like.  Speak to you all again soon.

Oh, and there is a prize for anyone who can tell my how many phrases I put in parentheses or quotation marks.  Don’t count them, just give a guess.  Kind of like counting gumballs in a dish for a raffle prize.  Have fun.  R.

Inspirational friendships and the conflicted life of a househusband

First for a bit of housekeeping.  I received a MadLibs email retort to one of my last posts from a friend and fellow writer and it got me thinking.  I have for some time now been threatening to make the wife author one of the posts as she is always fairly outspoken in her criticisms with regard to content.   Many of the comings and goings of our daily life don’t make the blog.  Often times she inquires as to why something that she felt was “blogworthy” didn’t make it to print.  The simple answer is that I write without a blueprint and whatever happens to be in my head at the time is what ends up on paper.  As such, I am sure I miss a pearl or two along the way.  To that end, I am extending an invitation to all those that wish to have a voice and feel limited by the constraints of the comment box.  I am able to open this project up to co-authoring upon request and will do so if anyone out there has a story to tell or anything they simply feel they need to get off of their chest.  While ordinarily I have a veritable treasure chest of topics for conversation floating around my cranium, I am more than happy to turn over the healm on occasion so I can get some much needed shut eye.  We have all heard of “writer’s block”, however I would take that one step further.  Given that the content of this project are the experiences in my life as I see them, what I can sometimes become afflicted with is what I would prefer to refer to as “life block”.  Sometimes the cat catches my tongue (I know, hard to believe) and I don’t have much to say.  I had warned early on that this would eventually be the case.  The hectic life of adaptation eventually yields to normalcy and nobody wants to read about normalcy.  So, if you would like to have a go, post a comment as such or send an email and I will make the necessary arrangements.  The process is not difficult from a purely technical stand point, so being a relative newbie to the computer age won’t be a problem.  The invitation is open to all and I have only one request . . . keep it relatively clean . . . this is a family program . . . sort of.

Now to the meat and potatoes . . . These days, I find my “job” (if you can call it that) somewhat conflicting.  You see, I have two responsibilities in life.  I feel both of these as important as the next in order to prevent the wife from considering a trade.  The last thing a bald guy approaching middle age needs is to be cut loose as a free agent.  The farm leagues are no place to make a living and it would be next to impossible for a geezer like me to compete with the young and upcoming talent.  Eventually I would blow out a knee or shoulder and my career would be over.  That being said, to please my lady, I have to manage the household affairs and still find time to keep myself the trophy she has come to expect.  My days as eye candy are slipping away and the time required to stay something less than loathsome and disgusting seems forever increasing.  I have realized that balancing these two interests is next to impossible.  Amongst the litany of ridiculous “Real Housewives” programming clogging up the air waves, I have come to appreciate that there is nothing “Real” about it.  Being able to spend several hours at the gym in order to stave off old man time means that you don’t pick up your kids at school, you don’t clean your own house and you don’t do your own laundry.  These are not luxuries that I can afford to hire out, and if the essentials aren’t tended to, I will likely find myself in the unemployment line.  As much as I would like to hang my hat on the whole “love is blind” concept, I imagine my bride would be none-to-thrilled with her immaculately kept home if her husband carried with him an extra buck fifty or so of fleshy man jelly.  So where does that leave me?  Dancing through my day like a circus performer trying to keep my spinning plates atop their posts.  Balancing them on my toes, fingers and nose makes short work of the day.  Package that with my desire to shuffle around the house like a semi-mad Picasso type and I find myself with a certain sense of defeat at the end of the day.

The Buddhist appreciation of time is a concept that I too can appreciate if not fully understand.  I once shared a class with a gentlemen that when asked what he would define as his love/passion/desire, he simply said TIME.  I didn’t fully understand at the time what he meant and still don’t have much more of a clue, but I do know that we as mammals are only given a limited amount of it and it slips by in a big damned hurry.  Blink and the day is gone . . . take a nap and your kids are off to college (or prison . . . depends on the kid).  Time is a gift and a curse.  It goes by quickly as an adult, but seems to linger in childhood like the weightlessness of space.  Like the desire for sleep, I haven’t been able to determine at what age the switch is flipped, but at some point the seasons blend from one to the next and the years jumble together like a deck of playing cards thrown carelessly on the table.  One day I will figure it all out, but for now I just wish I had more time.  On that thought I will bid you a farewell as I have to be on to my next project for the day before I have to go and pick up the kids at school.  Au Revoir.  R.

The wife loves to snuggle like a fat kid loves cake.

I am doing everything within my power to refrain from a second post regarding the decline of our youth, so I will only include a vague reference to fat kids in the title of this entry.  Oh, what the hell, let’s go for it.  Why not, right?  I have offended those with ailing children, so why not piss off those that can’t seem to feed their children anything other than a steady diet of Mc Burgers and the Colonel’s finest.  The interesting thing is that I think many are of the opinion that my last post pertained only to my experience here in France.  The truth of the matter is, most of my commentary comes from my experiences back home.  In an email response from a friend, I recently found out that you could in-fact be allergic to pork.  Until hearing that bombshell I had really only feared two serious physical conditions in my life . . . the colostomy bag and goiters.  Sign me up for both if it means I can avoid the lasting effects of life without BACON.  I joke, but some allergies are serious business, the ramifications of which are deadly.  My eldest has a handful of lads back home that he runs around with that have allergies on the serious side that require the usage of an epi pen upon exposure.  There is nothing more terrifying as a parent than hosting a sleep over and having another parent hand you the pen and provide instructions in the event little Johnny goes into anaphylactic shock.  It is sort of like they just dropped off a ticking time bomb at the house and my luck is such that there will bound to be an explosion on my watch.  So far I haven’t had to juice a kid in the thigh with one of these devices, but my life as a parent of young children ain’t over yet.  Enough about allergies though, let’s return our focus to fat kids.  That too is a pandemic that is all to American in its formulation.  In fact, all those that have visited us from our homeland have been quick to note the difference in waist lines between this society and our own back in the States.  I could go on for hours regarding the difference in the way I was raised and the parenting methods for the youth of today.  I could write about summers spent in the outdoors rather than in front of “The Great Flickering Babysitter”, or how we as a culture are supersizing our way into extinction, but I will take the high road in favor of a different topic.  A topic that is much closer to home.  My children are neither fat nor allergy afflicted, so I will leave well enough alone in hopes that the bitch who calls herself Karma doesn’t catch up with me in the end.  I want to return my focus to something I myself know a fair bit about.  This topic, my friends, is just as serious as anaphylaxis or obesity induced hypertension could ever be.

You see, there are two basic types of people in the world.  Snugglers and Non-Snugglers.  I am in the latter camp, but my wife . . . oh boy . . . my wife is a card carrying member of the former.  This leads to much tension in the Butler household.  There is a big difference in the restorative nature of sleep for the Snugglor and the Snugglee.  The Snugglee spends a sweaty night of discomfort while their partner wheezes a jet stream of hot breath in their face and drowns them in a frothy puddle of coma induced drool.  There is nothing romantic about being treated like someone elses mattress pad.  Somehow the wife believes this to be an affectionate act and has a misguided belief that I too should enjoy the activity.   If you consider canings and ritualistic scarification as affection, then I guess I will play along.  Before you ask . . . No, I don’t have boundary issues, nor am I claustrophobic.  On the other hand, I am not in the habit of seeking out sweaty masses of humanity and would sooner walk 100 flights of stairs than share a crowded elevator with 20 or so smelly strangers.  I don’t enjoy cramped public transit and I would prefer to spread my wings in the nosebleed section rather than be crammed up against the stage at my favorite concert.  There is a crowd surfing story in there that I will one day share which ended in a trip to the emergency room to have my brow stitched back together.  As the Snugglee, I have dreamed of ways to show the Snugglor in my life the error of her ways.  Out of the dark comes my knight in shining armor.  As obese as they come and as smelly as landfill, he is my hero.  The wife finally got to experience life as I know it and I have been free ever since.  The eldest was on a sleepover a night or so back and his usual sleeping partner was looking for a place to land.  He chose to keep my wife and I company on this particular evening.  STUPID DOG.  Rather than wedging himself between us, he chose to assert himself in the real estate just on the opposite side of my bride’s face.  With his rotund body half on and half off of her pillow he “snuggled” his fat mush into the crook of her neck and began is usual night time routine of lip smacking and profuse snoring.  With the cacophony of nasal sounds in her ear and the stream of hot slobber running down her shoulder she didn’t get a wink of sleep.  BRILLIANT DOG.  He snorted and farted his way through the night in a defiant example of what a Snugglor is really all about.  As the Snugglee, the wife didn’t fair so well.  Pinned in a hopelessly uncomfortable head position and unable to move, she was forced to suffer in silence.  This paralysis is not unfamiliar for those that know what it is to live their life as a Snugglee.  The fingers start to tingle under the weight of the others body and soon the entire left side of your body goes numb.  Eventually you are unable to move at all.  Your extremedies . . . dead and useless.  It would be a lie if I said that there weren’t several nights where I seriously envied Aaron Ralston for his possession of the leatherman tool that he eventually used to sever his own arm, there by freeing him from his precarious perch and most certainly saving his own life.  You can’t truly understand the primal instinct for survival till you have been trapped.  It is why wild animals don’t think twice about chewing their own leg off to release themselves from a poachers trap.

Perhaps you think I am being overly dramatic?  Don’t judge me until you have been there yourself.  This evening when you go to bed, try stacking a layer of heavy books down the length of your arm.  Focus a majority of the weight between the shoulder and bicep.  When you wake in the morning, if you have slept at all, go ahead and try to tie your shoes . . . or button your shirt . . . or . . . I can’t go on, the tears are starting to blur my vision.  The truth is, you learn to adapt.  Living life like an amputee for the first half of the day is a small price to pay for freedom, and by dinner time the tips of your fingers will no longer carry that bluish hue.  My wife has finally seen the error of her ways and I have begun my life anew.  Like a new born baby, I greet each morning as though it is my first.  A deep breath of fresh morning air and a long stretch with BOTH arms above my head.  BRILLIANT DOG.  That is all I have for now.  Stay tuned for the next installment coming to a theater near you.  R.

Peanuts, Tree nuts, Strawberries and Corn . . . calling bullshit on the boy in the bubble.

Ok, this one isn’t for the weak of heart, so if calling names and wounded puppies make you cry you might want to look away.  Remember, I lack an edit button and have been frankly irritated for most of the day, so hold on tight for my next emotional outburst.

What the hell has happened to the children of the world?  Why suddenly is little Johnny so afflicted with allergies?  These days you can’t send your child to school with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for fear its mere presence in the lunch room will afflict grievous bodily harm to the weakling across the table.  Ok, ok, compassion is perhaps not my strong suit, but something has to give.  In a “ I used to walk to school uphill both ways without shoes in the middle of winter” moment, I lost a bit of my lady like demeanor and let the eldest hear a salty dissertation on the perils of childhood that doesn’t include lactose intolerance.  There are children all over the world that are afflicted with truly horrific medical ailments.  Diseases that would make your toes curl.  I have been fortunate enough in my life to volunteer for a few years at a children’s hospital and the triumphant spirits of truly ill children will be something that I carry with me for the remainder of my days.  Feel sorry for yourself for a split second and a truly ill child will put you to shame.  That being said, I find it very hard to concern myself with the plight of neophyte parents whose biggest concern is that the ingestion dairy products makes little Timmy a bit gassy.  I just don’t recall this being a hot button issue from my childhood.  Perhaps it was because all those children so afflicted had suffocated from a closed windpipe before the age of 5 or maybe their parents simply didn’t care enough about them to seek medical treatment for their “condition”.  Either way, I don’t recall special concessions being made to facilitate the hypochondria that seems so rampant among today’s parental scene.  The more shocking ailment in my mind is this generation’s allergy to solid parenting and a hard day’s work.  They seem to prefer to blame everyone but themselves for their children’s behavior and pseudo medical needs and then ask themselves why their child is so unfortunate.  Here is a novel idea Sparky, spend some time reprimanding your spoiled shit of a child and quit coating their filthy little fingers with anti-bacterial gel.  When I was a kid we dressed our wounds with dirt and ate bugs.  We damned sure didn’t run to the doctor for antibiotics every time we got the sniffles and you had to have damned near lost and appendage before a band-aid was applied.  So, what in the hell has happened?  Has reverse Darwinism become the norm?  If so, I want off of this train.  We are somehow managing to work our way down off of the pointy tip of the food chain.  I dare not ask “what’s next” because if this trend continues future generations will most certainly be lost.  I think of only one real solution.  This weekend, take Jr. out on the town and let him lick the floor of a city bus.  After a nice picnic lunch made from whatever semi-edible items you can find out of the closest dumpster let them freshen their breath with a little sidewalk gum.  That should fix them up new again and we can all get back to the more important childhood issues, like  . . . oh, I don’t know . . . literacy.

To be honest, tonight I must stop while I’m ahead, as my dissertation on childhood obesity is likely to alienate whatever readership I have left.  If you want to hear it, by all means let me know, but I think I have said my final words and counted to three.  Oh, and for those of you that are wondering, the title of this entry was inspired by a child my eldest went to school with back home that was apparently allergic to all items listed.  I didn’t even know you could be allergic to corn.  I always wanted to ask if it was just off the cob or the popped variety as well.  The latter would sure make movies a drag.  I myself like mine with extra butter and have been known to eat the pieces I accidently dropped on the theater floor.  See you all at my next sensitivity training.  R.

Green Grass and Purple Nail Polish: The Ballad of “Hand-Me-Down” Kid.

The proverbial foliage is always a bit greener on the other side of the fence.  That is a lesson not lost on my eldest son.  He has come to an age where the discrepancy in parenting between he and his brother can be a bit of a sticking point.  It is true, the expectations placed on the behavior and achievement of a 9 year old is a bit steeper than that which we place upon our youngest at the tender age of 4.  Being twice as old, he carries twice the burden.  Fair?  Perhaps not, but nobody said life was going to be fair.  There is a reverse side to this coin.  As the eldest son (and eldest by a fair bit, I might add) he has some inherent advantages over his younger tag along.  An heir and a spare, as it is referred to in the Royal family, means that often times the best is poured upon the eldest and the youngest is left with the scraps.  We do our best not to allow for this discrepancy, but it is inevitable to a certain extent.  The reality is that each of their stations in life have influenced the way they look at the world.  The youngest is in a constant pitched battle to gain the eldest status while the eldest dreams of being treated with kid gloves.  Our eldest has a want for things . . . an expectation of reward for his hard work.  He doesn’t get without giving.  As such, the lust for material possession is much more prominent in his life.  The youngest has inherited much.  He has little interest in material possessions.  Most of his inventory is a hand-me-down, right down to the clothes on his back.  He is in fact next up in line for birthday celebration and when asked what he desired he listed but one item.  When asked what else he would like, his reply was that he only wanted the one thing.  The eldest however has already accumulated a mass of Christmas wishes.  The youngest is quite happy with what his elder brother has outgrown and doesn’t feel compelled by the carrot approach.  Unfortunately he is not persuaded with the stick either.  I think he learned that from his elder brother.  Both are as tough as nails and a swat on the rear end is unlikely to produce even the slightest of whimpers.  The age appropriateness of the eldest’s psyche means that parenting is a bit of a cinch.  The younger being a big boy in little boy clothes means that when it comes to parenting, life becomes a bit of a chess match.  Making that clear to the eldest complicates things even further.  What works with one child will not always work with the next, even within the same family structure.  This constant balancing act is, to be quite honest, exhausting for the wife and I.  We are by no mean perfect parents to either of our lads.  We are flawed and for that we certainly owe them a hearty apology.  In the end, the best we can offer them as parents is simply our time.  And that my friends, makes all the difference in the world.  It isn’t always so easily given and at times is lost along the way, but generally our time is given freely and without restriction.  My dad once said that the worst thing you can do for your kids is being no influence at all.  A bad influence is better than none.  I think there is some truth in that.  Doing our best to generally be a beacon to guide themselves toward the good we make our way through the days, the weeks, the months and the years.  In the end, I hope they look back without resentment and know that we did our best.  Our best is perhaps not “THE” best, but giving them everything in our hearts, minds and souls will be our lasting legacy.  Their job will be to sift the bad from the good and take with them the parts of their parents that truly sing and leave behind the spoil and the waste.  There isn’t a parent alive that gets it all “Right” and those that think they have are fooling themselves.  So, we will do our best to right our wrongs, buy the youngest his own identity and let the eldest see the rigors of life as a spare.  One day, I promise, we will make them proud.  After all, in the end it is I that will be seeking their approval, not the other way around.  That is the cycle of life.  Like bookends, we begin and end life in diapers.  Children become parent and then parents become children.  I only hope they offer to buy me a new toy once in a while when I am soiling myself in the retirement home.

The final revelation of the day is this . . . my recently devastated pinkie toe is now on the mend.  That being said, the nail remains a lovely dark violet that unfortunately seems to match the paint upon my wife’s flintstone digits.  This was not lost on my youngest who quite astutely inquired as to why I had painted my toe like mommies.  Not wanting to show weakness by tearing up when he began poking and my wounded soldier, I simply said, “because purple is my favorite color”.  I am going to screw that kid up yet.  Stay tuned.  R.

I can’t get no . . . “job” satisfaction.

Life around the Butler estate gets a bit depressing when momma bear has a difficult day at the office.  It is after all, the reason we are here.  It becomes hard to take the tough times in stride when the underlying mission seems in jeopardy.  Truth is, I think the wife struggles the most out of us all with this new lifestyle.  The persistent homesickness is hard to keep below the surface when the daily grind becomes unbearable.  The thought creeps in and you can’t shake it from your head.  I gave up my life back home for THIS?  It is at this point that a funk sets in and all perspective is lost.  Unfortunately, being the spark plug that keeps our engine running, my wife’s temperament can take a monumental toll on the whole crew.  The lads and I love her tremendously and only want the best for her.  We would endure the fires of Hades if that is what was required for her happiness.  I think most women would agree that it is a lucky thing to have one strong man in their lives to love them unconditionally.  My wife has three.  Truth is, the wife has tremendously broad shoulders.  And no, I don’t mean that she looks like a linebacker and can’t find a blouse to fit properly.  I mean that she is a tough chick with a whole shit load on her plate at any given time.  She bears the weight of these responsibilities with a smile and it is sometimes easy to take that for granted.  That being said, as she carries this tremendously heavy load, I pray she remembers that she is carrying this load sitting atop my shoulders.  The load can at times be too burdensome for the two of us, fortunately I have a mini mule team at my side that are capable of carrying a fair burden themselves.  I think ultimately this is what we came for.  Sure, it is great to further my wife’s career and it will be a wonderful advantage in life for the boys to be bilingual, but the true pearl is that we are close as a family.  We have learned to depend on each other in good times and bad.  We push ourselves daily and through these trials, we have all gotten to know each other in a way I don’t think we could have anticipated when we started this adventure.  It is easy for my wife and I to be in tune with each other, but the children’s sense of when we as adults need a pep talk is uncanny.  Not to seem selfish or insensitive, but as a child, I don’t think I ever took my parents emotional wellbeing into account in my day to day activities.  Our children however, have learned to read us like a book.  They know when days are good and when they are difficult despite my wife and I doing our best to put on a happy face for them to witness.  Some would say that letting the children see these moments of weakness would lead to instability and uncertainty on their end.  I have discovered that the opposite is true.  They have learned a great deal from seeing their parents face and overcome adversity.  It seems they have embraced this adaptive personality and in turn don’t feel so alone when they have a rough day themselves.  They know we are all in this together and that our family will remain strong and supportive no matter what the odds.

Sure, the last day or so have been tough, but in every life a little rain must fall.  As it always does, the storm will pass and the sun will once again shine on our shoulders.  It takes some a lifetime to learn this lesson, and some don’t learn it at all.  I am thankful for my little tribe.  There are days I hate them and love them all at once, but through it all, we are together and moving forever forward as a unit.  A band of brothers, bound to each other by blood and fire.  When I am old and grey, I will look back on this brief period in our history and be thankful for the time I got to spend with each of them.  To share in each other’s victories and defeats had been a joy and I wouldn’t change that for the world.  As for my wife in particular, if you are reading this, please know that we are behind you and that no matter how many times you fall down, one of your “boys” will be there to lend you a hand back to your feet.  As for me, I have learned to live each day as my last and do my best not to get bogged down in the details.  Truth of the matter is, none of us can see the future and I wouldn’t care to cast a glance at it even if I could.  That is the adventure of it all.  Not knowing what tomorrow will bring.  The one certainty is that life will change.  It will evolve and the dark times will often be a fading memory that is soon forgotten.  The big picture has a way of becoming a beautiful painting despite those times when you only use a palate of black and white.  We will soon return to our home land to recharge our batteries and I would bet that by the end of our trip, we will be missing our life here abroad.  Strange thing how life can change so dramatically in a matter of mere months.  I don’t know that any of this makes much sense to anyone else out there, but I hope it brings light into my bride’s day.  Misery loves company you know.  I too know the feeling of job dissatisfaction.  Did you know I have three bosses?  That’s right, three!  All of them make a mess around the office and expect me to make it all right again.  Not a single one of them could find their freaking stapler without help and none seem to care for the food at the Cantina.  And so it goes with life as an Indian rather than the Chief.  The cold reality of any “job” is that shit rolls downhill.  The best you can do is let it wash over you and do the most you can with what you have.  That is all I have for today.  Gotta get back at the grind so I don’t get fired at the end of the day.  The bosses don’t like it when I just sit around and handle personal business on company time.  Has anyone seen the cover sheet to my TPS report?  R.

Returning a kindness and the unconditional love of a STUPID DOG.

My semi-aching back serves as testament to a hard day’s work in the company of friends.  A true friend is one that will be there for you on moving day.  We are fortunate to have made some very dear friends since we have been here and one family in particular has gone above and beyond the call of duty to help us when we need it most.  Day 218 would be a good chance to return the favor and assist them in the beginning phases of a monumental project.  They are renovating an apartment they have recently purchased in the center of the cultural mecca that we used to call home.  Once completed, it is clear that this will be a charming home with a location second to none.  I was pleased to offer my meager assistance in moving some of their furniture and construction debris throughout the day.  As I have commented on prior occasions, I am dumb as a sack of diapers, but not afraid of a hard day’s work.  Strong of back and weak of mind, I consider myself to be a good companion on moving day.  A group of six made short work of the project and at the end of the day, it was nice to see the blank slate that the apartment had become.  The possibilities seem endless.  I remember this phase in my own renovation project back home.  With all the demolition complete, replacing the old with the new makes for light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.  I look forward to watching this project unfold even though the toil makes me a bit homesick at heart.  It was a great day, and I was appreciative to have a bit of a break from my usual routine.  It seemed to have gone off without a hitch and I had a chance to meet some new people along the way.

That has really been one of the things I have enjoyed most about the transition in our own lives.  Meeting new folks and extracting the beauty and wisdom from their lives is something I have become somewhat addicted to.  The people I have met along the way have been some of the most fascinating people I have ever known.  Perhaps it is my American way, but I find myself trying to hold back an intense desire to really dig into their lives to get to know them better.  I was once given an analogy to help understand the difference between the American and the French social order.  It was said that Americans are like Oranges and the French are like a Coconut.  I may well have explained this in prior posts, but I think it worth repeating here as I am not sure I fit into either category.  Americans have a soft exterior when it comes to social interaction.  Like an orange, the outer surface is easily pierced and we are generally very open to new people and will quickly call them a “friend”.  What we mean by “friend” can be quite different from the French.  While it is easy to get inside the orange, it is a segmented affair.  We compartmentalize our “friends” into categories.  I suppose, that is true to some extent.  We tend to be a generally gregarious lot and separate the people in our lives by relation.  We have “work friends”, “best friends”, “neighborhood friends”, and even acquaintances that we still refer to as “friends”.  The French have a bit of a different approach.  The coconut has a very hard exterior and it is terribly difficult to get inside.  Once inside however, there won’t find any compartments, just a sea of very sweat juice.  That too seems to hold some truth.  From what I have experienced, those that I consider to be our “French friends” (see, we segment) would give you the shirt off of their back without question.

For my part, I feel that this experience has made me a bit of a hybrid and perhaps a bit more American than I had been before.  I would say that throughout my life, I have been a bit more “French” in my social interactions.  People are generally not classified as “friends” in my book unless they have been allowed full access to my life and are the kind of folks that I would lay down in traffic for.  I of course would expect the same in return.  Now, that isn’t to say that I myself am not guilty of the classification of all other acquaintances in my life.  As such, I have had colleagues and associations throughout the years, all of which were pleasant relationships, but none that I would elevate to the level of “friendship”.  These days however, my desire to meet new and interesting people make my exterior a bit more citrus than before.  I really want to get to know all the people I encounter and being a person who equates friendship with unconditional kinship makes for a full dance card.  As I indicated in my prior post, my wife would argue that I am a bit of a hermit when it comes to social engagement.  She is good for me in that way.  She forces me out of my comfort zone and once out, my need to get to know people better gives me an opportunity to make many new and meaningful friendships that have added greatly to my life and personality.  I am glad to have known each and every person I have encountered since I have been here, and getting an opportunity to really get to know them has been a privilege.  People can be thick headed and narrow minded, but they can also be poetic and inspirational.  We all have some great things in us and being able to extract these pearls from the people we meet in our day to day lives is what makes life rich and colorful.  So, in the end, if you are looking for a friend . . . I am your guy.  I would be glad to get to know you and will always be there whenever you are in need.

Unconditional “love” or “friendship” is typically a trait that we only find in man’s best friend.  Perhaps in the end I am becoming a bit more canine in my temperament.  The example of this sentiment around our house is carried forth in a wheezing and farting pig of a creature by the name of “Chomper”.  He is my eldest’s dog and as loyal a friend as my son will ever have.  Fragrant, but loyal.  He serves his master well and is only distracted from his watch by the other companion animal here at the house.  The cat has met with some mixed reviews.  I believe we should have named the cat Hyde, for when the clock strikes 2 a.m. she loses her fucking mind.  In a Tazmanian fit of epic proportions, she spins around the house destroying everything and everyone in her path.  I once had a friend that asked me a very candid question.  Since my wife is a veterinarian he wanted to know if there was a way to determine if his cat was mentally retarded.  At the time I thought his question was in jest, but I now realize that mental retardation could well be the reason for my cat’s bizarre behavior.  Perhaps it is a symptom of inhalation of the atomic waste that the dog emits from its hind end on a daily basis or perhaps it is one too many falls from precarious perches.  Either way, the cat has a screw loose.  I am a firm believer that animals have a way of taking on their owner’s worst character defects.  It is these maladjusted traits that the animals choose to make the center of their universe.  If that is the case, perhaps the cat is simply a litmus test for the storm that is raging in my cranium on a daily basis.  Bad news for my son though, it would seem that the deepest darkest recesses of his mind are filled with gas and asthma.  STUPID DOG.  An on that bombshell I bid you all a good eve and will talk to you all again soon.  R.

As an aside or perhaps a P.S., it was brought to my attention that the new format for Jack 2.0 is not terribly friendly for the sight impaired.  As such, I am going to make every effort to adjust the formatting to be ADA compliant and perhaps I will even add a special page for AARP members.  That's right father, I am talking to you.  Bye again.  R.