Celebrating Men’s Day with a Broken Pussy

Happy Men’s Day to you all.  I was given a warm Men’s Day greeting from my wife this morning in response to an emergency call regarding animal health.  We will get to the medical tragedy soon enough, but first a word about Men’s Day.  The wife wished me well without a shred of understanding of the holiday, but I have done my research.  It appears that “Men’s Day” is a Russian holiday celebrating the formation of the Red Army in 1918.  During the Russian Civil War and on the heels of the Bolshevik revolution, Lenin believed that control of what was then known as Petrograd (St. Petersburg) was being threatened and in February of 1918 formed what became known as The Red Army.  After a defeat of the Nazi’s in World War II, the army was renamed to the more familiar “Soviet Army”.  Originally, this day was celebrated as “Red Army Day” but later received recognition as  “Soviet Army and Navy Day” and most recently “Defender of the Fatherland Day”.   The intent was to recognize those that had and were currently serving in the Russian Armed Forces. Think of it as a sort of sexist Memorial Day.  It seems that in modern day Russia and in many of the former Soviet States, the day has been popularly converted into a day of recognition for all men, not just for those that served in the Armed Forces.  Now popularly known as “Men’s Day”, it is common place for the women in Russia to give gifts to the men in their lives, especially husbands, fathers and sons.

Since my woman is currently a “woman in Russia”, I am thoroughly expecting a gift.  When in Rome . . . RIGHT?  Looking for nearly any reason to leave the house, the boys and I decided to go out for a little Men’s Day celebration of our own.  There were only two obstacles standing in our way.  First, a fairly temperamental automobile and second, an injured feline.  Both of these “cats” could have well ruined our festivities.  First, I needed to check on my Lion badged personal transport.  Everything looked OK.  She looked a bit haggard and tired from a day’s worth of medical intervention, but upon the first turn of the key, she fired right up and purred like a kitten.  Letting her warm a bit, I ran back into the house to help the youngest clad his feet in sneakers and grab my wallet.  As we were gathering ourselves to go out for a lovely Men’s Day lunch together, the eldest announced that the cat was injured.  Immediately I ran to the window to check.  Nope, all was well.  She was still sitting outside purring and shimmying just like she ought to.  OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, he means the REAL cat.  I walked into the kitchen to find what appeared to be a crime scene.  With a pool of blood here and a pool of blood there, it was hard to guess what had happened.  Tracking her down, I discovered that one of her back paws was bleeding.  Having a received an honorary veterinary training certificate by proxy, I assessed that the injury was not fatal, so it seemed time for a bit of lunch.

Once in the car, I began to become increasingly concerned that I had dismissed the cat’s injury too quickly and felt certain we would come back to the house to find that she had bled out on the bathroom floor in our absence.  The whole thing sort of overshadowed my Men’s Day festivities.  Concerned for my feline companion, we rushed back to the house after lunch and found that she was still alive and well.  It seems she merely tore the claw off of one of her hind feet, er paws . . . whatever.  Fortunately the severity of her injuries are not such that they will not keep until the regular on-call veterinarian returns to relieve me of my duty.  With that said, it is time to call it a day and wind down our Men’s Day celebration in favor of a bit of packing and laundry as the wife’s business travel always seems to place vacation preparation firmly on my shoulders.  That’s right, Old Jack Butler will be on vacation this coming week, so enjoy the break and catch back up with us when we return.  R

From Russia with Love . . . Death of my Beloved 206

доброе утро!   That is apparently “good morning” in Russian sayeth the fine folks at Google.  Damned glad we moved to France rather than Siberia.  As you know, the wife has spent the better part of the week in Moscow chasing down her career while the gents and I have held down the fort here in France.  Fearing that our emotional condition was wavering a bit, I had arranged an outing to visit some friends in the center of Bordeaux.  We were looking forward to the visit and each of us seemed overly excited to be getting out of the house for a bit.  I tended to the domestic chores during the early hours of our day in an effort to give us a relaxed afternoon and evening out and about.  With everyone dressed and fairly well groomed, I went to fire up the 206 for our journey into civilization.  FAILURE!  She whined, stammered, whimpered and wheezed, but would not start.  Eventually she stopped breathing all together and all that could be heard from the monitors was the ominous flat line.  Time of death . . . 4:01 P.M.

I called our friends and informed them that we would be delayed.  Based upon the autopsy, the cause of death seemed to be a failing battery.  I called to neighbor to see about a jump and they very kindly agreed to assist.  The lady of the house arrived in her Mercedes and a very delicate set of jumper cables that were surely meant to jump start a watch battery rather than my sickly Peugeot.  Without a moment to spare, I screamed “CLEAR” and gave the heart of my little lion a low voltage jolt.  Nothing.  Again . . . “CLEAR”.  Her instruments flickered for a moment, but she returned to defibrillation.  It was determined that our crash cart was not equipped with the instruments necessary to breathe life back into the failing lungs of my 206.  We would have to wait for her husband’s return with a sturdier set of jumper cables.  I phoned my friends and let them know we would have to reschedule for another date.  The boys were sad and we agreed to say a prayer and play a round of “Taps” for our fallen 206.

We went about the remainder of our day, occasionally giving a glimpse out the window at the now frozen corpse of our trusty 206.  Soon enough, a knock came at the door.  It was the neighbor.  He had the wild look of Dr. Frankenstein in his eye and insisted that he could bring our 206 back from the grave.  The ritual commenced and some chickens were sacrificed.  With the ritual fires burning and incantations murmured with delicate precision, we once again endeavored to re-animate the now mummified 206.  Like some unholy mix of hell hound and mechanical demon, she soon growled to life to await her master’s next command.  I am fearful for what we have done.  Perhaps our grief has overshadowed rational judgment.  What we have brought forth could surely be our undoing.  Quickly, my neighbor retreated and my 206 just sat their growling and grunting as if possessed.   At any moment, I expected her to regurgitate a stream of pea soup from her tail pipe as her headlights spun around in circles.

I decided it was best to let her marinate . . . to steep a bit in her evil juices.  I retreated into the safety of our home and left her grumbling in tongues out in the driveway.  When I returned several minutes later, it seemed she had calmed a bit and let me approach to lay her to rest for the evening.  I knew not what I would find come morning or what twists and turns the remainder of the week might hold.  I have, however, decided one thing for certain.  After all of the trials and tribulations, I believe the trusty 206 deserves a proper name and after much consideration I have decided on “Christine”.  Pray for me.  R.

Insane in the Membrane . . . Gone Insane, Got Propane!

Whatever happened to Cypress Hill anyway?  Probably all working at a Quickie Mart by now and destined for an MTV Rockumentary of some kind in the near future.  The “where are they now” programs always illicit a hearty giggle or two on my part.  Nothing like seeing a woeful fall from grace for those one hit wonders that rode the ignorant pop culture wave into stardom.  Somehow they all seem to have the same back story.  They came from nothing, wagered their fame and income on some two bit agent and end up penniless and doing public service announcements on public access channels well after most sane people have called it a night.  The best of them seem to find their way to such epic programs as “Dancing with the Stars” and the like.  Clearly, they use the term “Stars” loosely.  None of them can sing or act for that matter, so what makes Americans compelled to tune in to find out if they can dance?  It still stuns me what some people will waste their time and grey matter on in the name of entertainment.

At any rate, the truly big news for the week is that propane has been delivered and the re-heating of our frozen lifestyle has commenced.  The cold has absolutely crippled us over the past week or so and to begin to thaw is a wonderful feeling that is bittersweet.  Like molten hot magma pouring from a volcano’s center after an eruption, our life has calmed significantly over the past year and things already seem to creep along at an agonizing pace.  As the lava has become chilled and the pace has slowed to that of molasses we find ourselves restless . . . bored even.  I hate that word by the way . . . “bored”.  I demand that my children never use it, but being confined to one or two rooms without an ounce of external stimuli has me completely frazzled.  We have become dormant.  Essentially hibernating as the bears do, re-awakening for spring is a painful process.  We are hungry.  Hungry for activity, for life to commence once more.

I keep trying to fire up the generator and bring life back to our house, but the flame seems to just flicker for a moment and then extinguish itself in utter defiance.  I only hope that removing ourselves from the house for a week and throwing ourselves down a mountain slope will break us free from this prison.  The paint has hardended on my palate and my pen has dried of all its ink.  It is frustrating and though my desire to break free is strong, it seems my will power has weakened from the chill.  I have refilled my pen and with this entry am attempting to clear my throat so I can speak again.  I refreshed my palate and threw some paint on a canvas with mediocre results.  Both projects seem to hang in the balance with my next move.  The new mix of color has me thinking that a re-paint might be in order and I feel compelled to start writing my next entry before this one is complete.  Perhaps this will be the turning point.  They say that if you find yourself stuck in quicksand, the worst thing you can do is struggle.  You will only sink faster that way.  Instead I will remain calm and attept to “float” my way to freedom.  Until next time.  R.

ProPAIN and Cellophane

I now suspect that propane delivery will be a sneak attack.  I have prepared armed sentries to keep a 24 hour vigil to ensure that the gas bandit doesn’t pass us by like a thief in the night.  I can think of only two possible scenarios.  The propane man is either a Ninja with ulterior motives or he has been hijacked by some gas hoarding loony somewhere between here and there.  Regardless of the reason for the delay, the inconvenience is starting to wear on my nerves.  We have kept as warm as possible and the increase in exterior temps is doing its part.  We have even been able to maintain our beauty rituals by utilizing our guest shower that is hooked into an electric hot water heater.  Doing dishes in the bathroom sink is sort of out of the question, so certain domestic chores are starting to become backlogged.  Despite the inconvenience of it all, the pause in action does allow one to address matters often left unattended.  For example, I thought it might be wise to open the refrigerator and have a peak.  In doing so, I began to dig toward the back of the shelves.  What I found was an appauling array of scientific study in varying stages of incubation.

How could I have not known that these laboratory cultures were lingering in the recesses of my refrigerator?  CLING FILM, that’s how.  Nearly as versatile as duct tape, the variety of uses one can find for cellophane wrap absolutely boggles the mind.  With good reason too, for the tensile strength of the product is like Spiderman’s web and its ability to absorb rancid odors is unparalleled.  For its intended purpose it works almost too well.  I have heard that there are those that have utilized it for toilet pranks as well as an alternative to pricey lingerie.  Hats off to those with such ingenuity.  It would seem that our ability to preserve left overs has become an illness.  Perhaps it is the whole “starving children in Africa” thing that makes us think that we will re-visit  a marginally prepared dinner (by yours truly) after it has become cold and soggy.  I can tell you that the swill I produce in our kitchen is barely palatable when it is warm, so it doesn’t have to lose a lot of luster over night to become completely inedible.  That being said, though we seem to be keeping the Rubbermaid Corporation in business with our unparalleled collection of stackable food storage containers, we continue to place our left overs in the refrigerator in their original serving receptacles under the watchful eye of our industrial roll of cling film.

I hope you don’t think badly of my decision to let sleeping dogs lie and immediately slam the refrigerator door shut in an effort to survive to fight another day.  Not having hot water means that the hazmat cleanup that will be necessary to rid my refrigerator of such toxins will have to wait for another day.  No worries though, just for good measure I gave each a second coating of cling film and that should last them another month or two.  Once hot water is restored, perhaps I will have the boys earn a little extra scratch by helping me with some dishes.  That should be good for a laugh or two.  They should have plenty of time for such projects as the coming week marks ANOTHER two week vacation from school.  Not a bad gig.  The first week will have us playing bachelor pad while the wife conducts a bit of business in Russia, and the following week she will rejoin us for a bit of skiing in the Pyrenees.  Not a bad late winter break if I do say so myself.  Our lack of skiing prowess has us opting out of the Alps, but if all goes well, perhaps we will brave the steeper slopes next year.

As is her usual way, the wife asked if she could get her boys anything on her trip and of course that didn’t get much of a response from the younger lads, but our recent plunge into the ice age got me thinking.  What better way to survive the brutal propaneless winter months than a great big furry Russian hat.  The order has been made and I will wear it proudly as I shuffle around the ice rink in our living room for the remainder of the winter.  That is all that seems fit to report and my fingertips are starting to feel a bit frost bitten.  Time to return them to the warmth of my mittens and bid you all a farewell for now.  R. 

Life in HiFi

Arriving at the school house with a bit of time to spare I began dicking around with the EQ settings on my IPod and recently acquired car stereo in an effort to elicit the most pleasing tonal qualities from my favorite mix tape.  In doing so I ran across one of life’s great truths.  We all suffer from split personalities.  No one can deny that the person you are at work is far from a mirror image of that person you allow yourself to be within the security of your own home.  Beyond the comfort afforded in being surrounded by people who are less likely to judge semi-tragic behavior, there is a manner with which we conduct ourselves at our place of employment that our loved ones would likely find quite foreign.  There are those that split their demeanor even further.  They act a certain way depending on the social situation.  They act differently when they are with friends than they do in front of their own mother.  Be completely honest with yourself and you will find yourself agreeing with what I have to say.

I like to think of it in the same terms as the EQ on my beloved IPod.  I feel a compulsive need to change the settings depending on the variety of music that may be tickling my fancy at that particular moment.  From Acoustic to Rock, R&B to Jazz . . . it seems our relationships follow this same set of presets.  Even though I am seldom let out of my cage, even I have a different tone when I go about my day without a soul around.  I tend to shuffle the faders and crank up the bass.  Upon my arrival at the school to pick up my kids, I switch things around to Easy Listening.  Something mellow, calming . . . soothing.  When it is obvious they have had a tough day and tensions run high, I might even throw in some Classical to set them at ease.  A night out with the wife?  Time for something romantic, maybe even a bit of Salsa.  What preset I choose is influenced by her mood as well.  Knowing the correct balance of treble and bass for any set of circumstances is an art.  We don’t always get it right, but the more we pay attention to the need to adapt to the playlist, the happier we will find ourselves.  Get the balance right and life can be blissful.  Get it wrong and the highs become ear splitting while the booming bass beat will inevitably rupture your spleen.

From one moment to the next, the situation can change and the stereo must be re-tuned.  Rock and Roll might have been well received and invigorating to tired children one day while irritating and overbearing the next.  The same is true for your employer.  Some days you need to crank it up . . . head bang a bit.  Let them know you are coming from a block away.  Other days it is best to blend into the background like elevator muzak.  Life is complicated, no two ways about it.  So, my advice to you is this . . . next time you find yourself in a situation where the tune doesn’t fit, don’t get discourage, just flip over to the b-sides and try something different . . . Reggae maybe.  R. 

Jean-Claude Van . . . DAMN: Waffles, Schtroumpfs and a COLD Valentine’s Day

Color me mistaken.  With Smurfs on the brain, I entered into a weekend worth of social engagement on a mission.  Sharing the company of old and new friends alike, I was certain I would unravel the mysteries of the Schtroumpf.  I was not disappointed and I must now eat crow a bit in printing a slight retraction.  It would indeed seem that  the Smurfs, as I have always known them, are in reality Schtroumpfs.  They are the brain child of a Belgian cartoonist and the strip was originally written in French.  The term “Smurf” is actually a Dutch translation which we Americans picked up to presumptively not confuse the shit out of our children.  Cowards.  Sometimes reading the entire book isn’t enough if you forget the last page.  Should have done my research before running my mouth.  So, as it turns out, Belgium has provided us with tasty waffle treats, “The muscles from Brussels”, and SMURFS!   THANKS BELGIUM!

With that colossal weight off of my mind, I can shift my focus and share our latest misadventure overseas.   Despite a very vigilant watch being kept on our dwindling propane supply, it seems we miscalculated a bit and find ourselves beyond our reserves.  Now, with the coldest part of winter upon us, we are living without heat, a stove to cook on, or hot water to bathe our smelly flesh.  Yes, the dawning of Valentine’s Day did not find the wife and I sharing our hearts, but rather sharing our body heat in a single King Sized bed filled with our two young children.  How is that for romantic?  Actually, the wife was the only one sharing the warmth of our plush sleeping quarters.  Being the last to tend the fire and shut down the cold and dormant lower floor, I came to bed last night to find it well tended by three snuggled intruders in varying states of sleeping sprawl.  Old dad was relegated to a twin mattress on the cold hard floor.  Waking this morning with aching back and frozen extremities, I completely lost sight of any romantic gesture that needed to be offered to my loving wife of 12 years.

That is the way of things, I suppose.  As you become more and more settled into life with your partner, you become less and less concerned with complications arising from an annual flair up of VD (as a good friend of mine so eloquently referred to it).  Over the years, our VD has been well tended.  We have applied liberal salves and ointments by way of greeting cards, chocolates and the occasional bouquet of roses.  I have written poems, made dinner reservations and arranged weekend retreats, all in the name of curing our VD.  Having young children to raise and a lifetime worth of trials to face, you quickly realize that a singular day in the middle of February is not nearly enough to convey what your partner means to you.  VD comes and it goes.  Perhaps a day or so before and after you still feel the itching and burning, but eventually it is gone, and you go back to taking each other for granted.  A truly happy marriage requires one to treat the disease with much more frequency.  While not afforded an entire day throughout the course of the year, the cumulative nature of the moment or two stolen will amount to much more still.

We have always done that, she and I.  I keep her close to my soul with every moment that passes and she knows that a heart shaped trinket is not needed to know the depth of my love and affection.  An occasional moment holding hands as we walk down a city street, a momentary glance into each other’s eyes from across the room at a crowded dinner party, the words spoken without uttering a sound . . . these are the moments that make Saint Valentine willing to bless our union and that has NOTHING to do with February 14^th.  For now, we will be content to tend to the fire in our hearth rather than our hearts and dream of warmer days when we can once again steal a romantic walk by the ocean or candlelit feast in the park.  I wish you all a Joyeuse Saint Valentin and promise to write again soon.  “Until then, remember, we’re all in this together.  Schooner Tuna  . . . the tuna with a HEART.”  R.

Papa Schtroumpf’s Miraculous Metaphors

Schtroumpf.  This is the overly complicated French translation for “Smurf”.  Need there be a French translation for “Smurf”?  What can “Smurf” possibly mean in the French language that would make it necessary to utilize this moniker that more closely resembles the name of a bacterial infection than a jolly blue cartoon character?  “Oh my, did you here about poor John Smith? . . . (in a whispering voice) . . . He’s got the Schtroumpf”.  Could “Smurf” be a French euphemism for Vagina?  If you were to call someone a Smurf here in France, would they be terribly offended?  Schtroumpf could just as easily be mistaken for a working part in a German diesel motor.  This is not the first time I have run into odd ball translations when there doesn’t seem to be a need for one.  The French language is chock full of them.  Not a wonder I can’t wrap my head around this shit.  Smurfs are fictitious.  The name is made up to begin with.  Why make up another?  A Smurf is a “Smurf” for God’s sake!  Stop making things complicated! 

I can certainly appreciate the need to translate English titles for popular programming so that the viewing public knows what to expect.  Even here, however, things easily get way out of hand.  “Bob l’Eponge” for example. . . any idea?  Sponge Bob, of course.  That one actually makes a great deal of sense.  So too is the case with La Petite Maison dans la Prairie.  I don’t even need to translate that one for you.  But, what about “Papa Schultz”?  Anyone . . . Anyone?  That one is Hogan’s Heroes . . . not even close!  Yet somehow they leave “American Dad” completely unmolested.  What gives?  Did they really think no one would notice if they just started making shit up on their own?  It would seem to me that when a word doesn’t have a solid definition in any native dictionary, there shouldn’t be a need to Frenchify it. Better yet, why not stick with the original English title?  You don’t catch us throwing The Miserable Ones on the marquee for a performance of Les Miserables.  I know what you are thinking.  How can I compare Victor Hugo’s masterpiece with Hogan’s Heroes?  Fair enough, but you get my point.  If the show is entitled “House”, why do they need to add the “Doctor”?  That’s right . . . Dr. House is how it is affectionately referred to here in France.  Oh well, I guess some mysteries in the world are better left un-decoded.  I will just grin and bear it.  I don’t watch that much French television to begin with, so not knowing how to tell what time "Docteur Quinn, femme medecin" is playing isn’t going to kill me.

Finding myself with a bit of time on my hands and little interest in re-visiting a lost episode of Les Simpsons, I decided to read back through this project and noticed a remarkable theme . . . aside from frequent discussions relating to bodily functions . . . the wife doesn’t love those.  No, there seemed to be a crap load (that one is for the wife) of metaphors and analogies packed into these dysfunctional pages.  It seems I am completely unable to describe a set of events without drawing some comparison to a completely unrelated topic.  Unable to simply describe the way in which my car pleases and displeases me, I choose to liken it to a relationship with a woman.  The more I read, the more I became digusted with myself.  Starting to think it is an illness of sorts.  Could I be addicted to the literary slight of hand?  Perhaps it is a need to disguise the disappointing and mundane details of my life with frilly prose that compels me.  Or perhaps, I simply spend too much time alone and my higher cognitive function is finally beginning to unravel.  Either way, I am going to make an effort to drill down on this overuse of analogy and metaphor in hopes that the end product will be something more than really compelling reading material to be left next to the toilet (another one for the wife).  For now I bid you a good evening and will catch back up with a much more literal piece as soon as time permits.  R.

Me and my 206: This year’s love revisited

She has seen me through good times and bad.  She has overlooked wrong turns and poor judgment.  Many months have now passed since I chose my date for the prom.  I looked passed the athletic physique of the cheerleading squad and turned my ear away from the captain’s siren song.  I ignored the gentle curves and tempting advances made by the homecoming queen.  In a sea of possibilities I chose the girl at the back of the room.  Quiet and reserved, she sat there casting judgmental stares at the other contestants.  It seemed she questioned my motives.  After all, she had better things to do.  Chess club, band practice . . . college entrance exams.  With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she had little interest in making a scene.  She didn’t want to be noticed and had no intention of attending the dance.  She was classy and timeless.  Self-confident, though her exterior said otherwise.  And just like that, I asked her to be my date.  Reluctantly, she agreed.  She was young, but not too young.  In her Junior year perhaps.  After that first date, we fell in love.  She has remained my low maintenance companion and able taxi for my young.

She has blossomed from an awkward kid into a beautiful young woman.  We know each other better now, and the honeymoon phase is over.  She knows my faults and I know hers, although I am surprised daily by the twists and turns along the way.  She is spry and nimble, the perfect companion for long trips down winding vineyard byways.  Then, with no warning at all, she becomes unfaithful.  Cheating on me with an ice skate.  The attributes that had made her so gleefully agile and my automotive soul mate, lift her ass like a plastic surgeon when the roadways get the slightest bit glossy.  Her personality splits and I see a side I have never seen before.  Insecure, questioning my every request.  Swinging wildly from one extreme to the next.  Attempting to end my life in a single bend, then apologizing profusely at the next.  What gives?  Is the romance gone?  How could she betray me like this?  I have given her everything.  I have bought her nice things.  A symphony to fill the hole her prior suiter had left behind, a personal assistant to make certain she is always on time and never lost along the way.

And so it goes, with loves sweet sting.  Our trust has been shattered.  When she is not looking, I watch as other more attractive options pass us by.  I turn my head to watch their shapely rear bumper and soft red taillights fade into the distance.  She pretends not to notice, but we both know she does.  So, now we are forced to share our lives for the sake of the children.  We agree to co-exist till they are grown and no longer need us to transport them to and fro. The breakup will be difficult and custody will be left to the courts.  Reconciliation seems impossible and one day I will trade her for a younger model . . . a Volkswagen maybe.

Parent-Teacher Confrontation and Why Eskimos Don’t Have Sex

Bienvenue a hiver!  The weekend brought with it a rare visit from old man winter and more than just a dusting of snow.  So much more, in fact, that school has been cancelled and the wife is returning home with the children after a failed attempt at our usual morning commute.  Our home is proving to be more igloo than tropical hut as the temperatures plummet below the sub-freezing mark.  Getting oneself ready for bed and experiencing daily life in a frontier manner is an eye opener.  I have always been fascinated by programming about polar expeditions in which scientists spend months at a time in the polar extremes of our planet.  I have a new appreciation for what life must be like in such a climate.  Tucking myself into my bed in sweatpants, sweatshirt, mittens and hat seems out of the ordinary to me, but we are slowly adjusting.  We have sealed off the back half of the house and live in essentially the kitchen and living room only.  We are in our bedrooms at night, but aside from that, we are never too far from the fire.  It all sort of screams “The Day After Tomorrow”.  We aren’t burning books yet, but it seems only a matter of time.  I say this with tongue in cheek, but the age of our home (with all of its romantic charm) comes at a certain price when personal comfort is at stake.  The cold quickly reminds us that we have chosen to live in a 13^th Century horse stable, and the escalating price of propane has us praying for an early Spring.

I know what you are thinking . . . this seems like an aweful lot of complaining coming from a hearty Eastern Kansas kid.  We are, afterall, used to fairly cold winters.  All of this may well be true, however, what we aren’t used to is having nowhere to retreat from said cold.  The relentless nature of the exposure has my bathroom breaks and daily showers held to a minimum.  The insult of exposing my delicate man bits to inevitable frost bite is more than my equally delicate psyche can take.  It then begs the question, how do Eskimos procreate?  I don’t care how well bestowed an Inuit woman might be with womanly gifts, there wouldn’t be a chance in hell of me getting nekkid in an igloo.  I would not remove my bearskin pantalonies and expose my gentleman parts for any reason that wasn’t essential for daily survival.  That being said, this cold snap has given us the opportunity to test out our recently acquired ski pants and I am pleased to say that they seem to work quite nicely.  We spent a good portion of Sunday outside, since the temperature differential between the exterior and interior of our home seems negligible at best.

The snow also provided an opportunity for me to injure myself as is often the case when I find myself trying to keep up with the younger crowd.  My eldest has found great joy in using a sled that was left behind by a prior tenant in both fair and foul weather.  Riding down a dirt hill next to our home has ravaged the bottom of his little blue toboggan, but it still seems to serve its purpose now that the ground has turned white.  The folly was easily resisted when the weather was warmer and the payoff for the ride was a dirty pair of pants.  Now that the snow is upon us, however, the impulse to relive my glory days was too much to resist.  Teetering at the top of the hill, I began to question my sanity.  No time for second guessing.  “Give me a push son” was the last thing I remembered when I regained consciousness at the bottom of the hill.  The ride was a blur and the shot of pain through my left ass cheek quickly brought me back to my senses.  The run is quite short and ends abruptly at a ditch, which those with a slighter stature seem to skip over like a stone.  Not so for those with a more sizable build.  The trusty blue sled nosed into the ditch with a great deal of force and sent me hurdling onto my face and eventually into a broken heap at the bottom of said ravine.  There is a pictorial sequence that proves this story, but my bruised ego is unlikely to allow it to see the light of day.  The photo taken at mid-journey is priceless, though I don’t remember the scream I let out which was thoughtfully captured in the snapshot taken by my wife.  Nursing a fairly bruised left cheek, I feel a fair bit of trepidation over our upcoming ski trip.  I will be sure to have my wife pass along the information for the hospital I will be staying at.  I would appreciate some flowers and balloons to lighten my mood.

The snowy weekend somewhat overshadowed an eventful Thursday, the end of which had us scheduled for parent-teacher conferences with both of the boys’ teachers.  Thinking ahead, we brought an interpreter.  This feels like an insulting crutch given the time we have spent here in France, but is still a necessity as our Freshman year French skills aren’t strong enough for an argument.  I call them parent-teacher confrontations rather than conferences, as I usually lose my cool at some point in the proceedings and begin to question the educators qualifications and credentials.  An ugly habit, but one I can’t seem to shake.  Don’t get me wrong, I know my kids are far from perfect, but I have a very low tolerance for mindless criticism when their grades reflect stellar performance.  I will worry about their inability to stay quiet or follow the “rules” when their grades start to suffer.  As I am sure I have noted in prior posts, I rather prefer my lads to be a bit out of the ordinary and do not want them turned into khaki panted drones.  I won’t get on my soapbox today as there is really is no need.  The “conferences” were pleasant enough and nothing came out in the open that I found particularly surprising.  The eldest is flourishing and working ahead of the expected pace.  His intelligence is inspiring and despite the language gap, his mathematics are at the top in the class.  No surprises here.  The youngest’s report wasn’t filled with twists and turns either.  He is well behind the rest of the class, though I don’t believe he deserves a dunce cap.  The language barrier is more formidable for him and being a product of the American educational process means that he had not yet been exposed to organized education until we moved to France.  Most of the kids in his class have been in “school” for the better part of two years and it shows.  At a very young age, the French educational system kicks the shit out of its American counterpart, and as such my poor youngest has some catching up to do.  Luckily, the better part of the educational process at this young age is in the arts and that is something  I am well adept at assisting with.  And so, we draw and draw and draw, honing his artistic talents and building his vocabulary with daily lessons and reinforcement from home.

This is, sadly, the biggest hurdle that my two kids will have to cross.  With two immigrant parents at home, there is very little reinforcement given for language skills learned throughout the course of the day.  All things being equal, I would say they are both prospering and will certainly be way ahead of the curve when they return to the US.  That is about all I have for today and it is about time to tend the fire once more.  So, for now, I bid you a frozen farewell and wish you a warm and brief finish to your winter, wherever you may live.  R.

My Cat the Art Critic and How I Met Your Mother

I desire to revisit the past, but I absolutely hate how dry chronological history can be.  So, with that in mind, we are going to skip around a bit.  The real purpose of this is not to outline a story of my life, but rather to define my life by those things that are important about my past.  A short list of those things which have led me here and what it is I can learn from them as I attempt to take educated and enlightened steps into the future.  I will write a great portion of this entry as though it were a conversation between my young sons and myself.  Written in the same manner with which I speak to them.  I think it will carry more meaning for them if I approach it in this manner, so bear with me.  Before we take our walk down memory lane, I want to take a moment to catch you up on our day to day experiences here in France.  The weather has finally turned quite cold and there is even the promise of snow in the forecast, quite rare in this part of France.  Snow would seem an inconvenience, but given our current plans for an upcoming ski trip, we welcome the promise of precipitation.  The word through the grapevine is that, as of yet, there isn’t a bit of snow on the ground at the mountain resort where we are meant to stay.  I would imagine that a ski trip isn’t a ski trip without the . . . well . . . skiing.  Here at the house, we are doing what we can to stay relatively healthy.  Having battled a variety of ailments over the past several months, it appears that everyone is on the mend.  It would certainly be an insult to injury if I had to nurse the flu alongside my soon to be broken leg received by way of snowless skiing.

Our four legged friends seem to be faring well and the Stupid Dog hasn’t done anything as of late to maintain his title.  The cat however, is a different story.  Going through growing pains of her own, her personality seems to evolve daily.  From schizophrenic one moment to placid and mild the next, she seems to finally understand her reason for being.  With cold temperatures at our doorstep, the smallest of woodland creatures seem to be seeking solace inside the warm walls of our 13^th century domicile.  With no way of keeping them out of our drafty retreat, we are pleased to see that our feline companion has fine-tuned her instincts and become quite the VERMINATOR.  “I’ll be back”.  All she needs now is a leather outfit and dark sunglasses to complete the persona.  This, however, is her only saving grace.  Being fairly deep into two different paintings, it is not uncommon for a canvas to be lying about in varying states of reflection.  I made the mistake of setting one of my projects on the dining room table to make a run at some detail work that I found difficult to tackle with it standing upright.  I was called away from the project long enough for the cat to decide that I must have left it there as a very comfortable feline dormitory.  When I returned, I found her curled up in the center of my canvas resting quite peacefully.  I “gently” suggested she relocate and found that her weight had creased my pre-stretched canvas and added some unwanted furry texture to the piece.  As a note to all you “would be” artists out there, one can iron a work of art back to its original shape and cat hair lends a certain Je Ne Sais Quoi to what might have been an otherwise bland depiction of your subject matter.  A wise man once said “I believe that if life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade.   Then try to find somebody whose life has given them vodka, and have a party.”

Now, let’s board our time machine and reset the clock back to the late 90’s, where two naïve youngsters were on a collision course with “love”.  Sorry, that shit just makes me laugh.  I had barely begun my legal education when I ran into an old friend.  He and I had attended undergraduate school together, but had lost touch when he graduated a semester earlier than I.  We both had aspirations of becoming the next great trial attorney and had seemingly chosen different paths.  He was interested in an out of state institution and I, being a hometown guy, decided to attend the same institution that my father and my uncle . . . and their father and their uncle had attended many years before.  Third generation liar . . . er . . . . lawyer.  By now, the blood had run thin and I had set about to disgrace the family name.  Caring much more for extra-curricular activities than my education soon found me in hot water, but we will save that story for a later date.  It was orientation day and as I aimlessly roamed the halls of this institute for higher achievement, I recognized a familiar face in the crowd.  We sort of re-introduced ourselves and I soon found out that he was a hometown guy as well and the plans to attend an out of state law school turned out to be less attractive than first believed.  We went about catching up and found that we had been assigned to the same class section and would have all of the same classes over the course of our first year.  Misery loves company, and no better company to keep than someone you are already familiar with.  Our “bromance” blossomed over the course of our first semester and we soon spent most of our days together pursuing alcohol, wiffle ball, women and on occasion a legal education.  The world was our oyster as they say.

Early on, I was made aware that this friend of mine had a Niece who was attending her first year of undergraduate school at this same institution.  The prospect of a pipeline into the female undergraduate population seemed too good to be true.  It was time for a housewarming party.  At the time, I lived in the Taj Mahal by student standards, and it was agreed that we should host my friend’s Niece and some of her Sorority sisters for a little get together.  Being the host for this event, I thought it wise to start the festivities a little early and was fairly obnoxious by the time our guests arrived.  In walks the Niece with a fairly unattractive entourage.  Finding my lemonade and vodka, I decided to make the most of the evening despite a disappointing turn out.  My friend’s niece was a notable exception.  With flowing hair of remarkable crimson and eyes a sea of blue in which one could find themselves completely shipwrecked, I found it hard not to stare.  Reminding myself that it would surely be a faux pas to try and bed down with my friend’s niece, I kept my distance.  The more “obnoxious” I became (you can read that as inebriated if you would like), the closer I crept, eventually taking up post in the seat right next to the niece.

It was clear that this young lady had her shit together and was not impressed in the slightest with my witty banter.  In fact, we quickly got into an argument over the value one receives from entering into the Greek system.  To say that she hated my guts by the end of the evening was probably an understatement, and rightfully so.  All things remaining the same, we likely would have never crossed paths again except in uncomfortable passing at her Uncle’s apartment.  As fate would have it, however, I lived with two other gentlemen and one of these lads was in undergraduate himself.  It was not uncommon for him to bring home a study partner or two and one evening he did me proud.  Coming in from a long run with my other roommate, I was re-introduced to none other than “The Niece”.  They had already made the connections and she was there to study Chemistry and use my kitchen to make a birthday cake for her Uncle.  Of course I obliged, the guy is after all, one of my best friends.  Sweaty, but very sober, I was back to my usual charming self and believed it was time to make amends for my prior obnoxious behavior.  My roommate, however, had plans of his own.  It was obvious that he was interested in this young woman, and how could I blame him?  She was even more attractive than when I had met her the first time.  Based upon the study conversation, she was a great measure more intelligent than my roommate, and when viewing her without beer goggles, she was an absolute stunner with a very athletic physique.

Now, how to wedge myself between this gal and my VERY eager roommate?  What to do, what to do.  Remembering that there is no honor among thieves, when it came time to bake the birthday cake I decided it was also time to put my roommate in his place.  Being more advanced in years and having already lived out the shy and awkward freshman years of college, it was not hard to let self-confidence win the day.  I happily offered assistance in the cake making department and just like that, my roommate was dismissed from the kitchen.  Retreating with his tale between his legs and nursing a bruised ego.  He was young and resilient and would soon forgive any indiscretion on my part.  The baking commenced and flirtatious conversation ensued.  Very quickly, I knew I was out of my league.  She was clearly smarter than my roommate and, unfortunately, smarter than I as well.  I was not going to wow this girl with my education or intellectual prowess.  Time to turn on the liar . . . er . . . lawyer.  Plain old fashion charm and charisma were going to be the cards I would have to play.  Over and over again I reminded myself “you could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman wearing white gloves”.  In fact, I said it so many times, I actually began to believe it and she didn’t even seem to notice me uttering this mantra under my breath.  I am not going to lie, I was nervous.  I had already ruined first impressions and needed to think of something to warrant another meeting and I needed to think of it fast.  With the cake nearly frosted, I threw out a feeble ploy, hoping she would take the bait and agree to see me again.  I told her I only knew the law school and was not all that familiar with campus.  Since she was more familiar with the university, would she be willing to give me tour?  LAME!  I can’t believe that came out of my mouth.

I immediately turned to exit the kitchen in the same manner my roommate had just one hour earlier.  Thinking to myself that I would have to chalk this one up to experience, I heard a softly spoken “sure, when do you want to meet”.  No shit!?  When the noose closed around my neck and the rope grew tight, somehow the knot broke and I fell to the ground . . . ALIVE!  Back in the game and with a renewed sense of purpose, I made the necessary arrangements.  Now, I can’t say as I had a lot of hope for this next meeting.  I had made up some ground, but she was clearly just doing her Uncle’s friend a favor at this point.  She wasn’t raised to be rude.  It was clear that she didn’t see a spark here as the arranged meeting was to be mid-day in between classes.  A short timeline with an easy excuse and escape.  Like a homeless guy raiding a dumpster for a loaf of bread, I took what I could and was glad to be getting fed.  By the next meeting, I had convinced myself that she didn’t “HATE” me or she wouldn’t have agreed to the meeting . . . rude or not.  We met at her dorm and went for a long walk under a warm autumn sun.  She pointed at this building and that, telling me which departments were housed where.  Honestly didn’t catch a damned word of it.  Still probably couldn’t tell you the name of her dorm . . . wait . . . HUDSON . . . that’s it!  HUDSON!  Damn, I’m good.  I simply walked along giving a goofy “uh huh” every now and then so that she would think I was soaking it all in.  We eventually stopped along the way and sat down in a common courtyard to have what I thought would be the conversation that caused her to think I might be “date” worthy.  Right then, I had an overwhelming desire to kiss this girl.  Not wanting to push my luck and still quite concerned with the Uncle scenario, we bid farewell without promise of ever seeing each other again.

“Strike Three . . . You’re Out!” screamed the umpire.  And just like that, we disappeared from each other’s lives.  She had done her Uncle’s friend a favor and had not disgraced her raising, while I had gotten to spend the afternoon with an angel.  Sometimes it is better to be lucky than good.  Weeks had gone by, and I had convinced myself that even if things had gone well, it would have been a bad idea to date my friend’s niece.  What was I thinking?  No damage done . . . life moves on.  My friend was hosting a gathering at his apartment, which I am not even sure I was to be a guest, but since I was as permanent an addition to the place as his easy chair, nobody seemed to notice.  I quietly watched T.V. while a room full of people began to mingle.  Eventually a knock came at the door.  A latecomer.  The door was opened and in walks the Niece with a cute friend at her side.  Uncle informs me that he is to be attending a sorority function with the friend and I congratulate him on the effort.  I continued watching television as if this show on bass fishing was the most captivating experience of my life . . . LAME.  Soon, the seat next to me became wonderfully filled.  The niece.  God she smelled good.  She advises me that her friend is taking Uncle to a sorority function and I acknowledge that he has already shared the good news.  I went back to watching Bill Dance cast his lure.  I just sat there . . . quietly . . . uncomfortably.  As if possessed by a demon spirit, she turns to me out of the blue and says “so, you are going to go with me to the sorority thing, right?”  Great . . . another favor for Uncle.  Since her friend is taking my friend to this function, the last thing this beauty needs on her conscious is the thought of his lame ass friend sitting around watching another bass fishing program.  Nothing like a pity invite!  What do I say?  She certainly has a line of Fraternity shit heads that she would rather be spending her time with.  Why say yes and ruin this girls evening?  And yet, as if having been passed the same demon spirit, I hear myself say “sure”.  What are you, an idiot?

After weeks of no communication and this lightning strike of an invite, it was time to figure out what’s what.  I ask if she would like to go for a walk as the party at Uncle’s place was starting to get a bit noisy.  We set out and very quickly I go for the throat.  Why, after so many weeks and what I thought was a lost cause, had she invited me to this social function?  After some uncomfortable side stepping, it was clear that I wasn’t going to get the answer I was looking for.  I allowed the subject to be changed and we carried forth with very pleasant yet meaningless conversation that eventually eased the tension I had been feeling subsequent to the invite.  We agreed that we would double date with Uncle and that we would all have a nice dinner before the event.  Double date . . . that answers the question . . . this IS a pity invite!  Looking forward to it, about as much as root canal surgery, the day finally arrived and my friend and I readied ourselves for a night out.  We took our “dates” to a romantic local spot with a smoky atmosphere and upscale cuisine.  It was immediately obvious that we were not going to be able to finish this meal and still get to the sorority function on time.  We ordered and told the waitress to make it “to go”.  With food spoiling in the trunk, we drove to the sorority house to meet up with the remainder of the attendees.  We were being bussed to another location, so people quickly began queuing up for the festivities.  Without saying a word, the niece took me by the hand and began introducing me around.   Immediately, I was recognized as “law school” Ryan.  You see, these sorority types define their catch by Greek association and since I didn’t have one, I was “law school” Ryan, while my counterparts were given names like Lambda Lambda Lambda Gilbert.  There is a Revenge of the Nerds association there for those that are paying attention.  And just like that, it was clear.  This girl had been talking about me.  By some miracle, the tide had shifted.  This wasn’t a pity date, this girl actually intended to invite me all along!  And just like that, our demeanor toward each other shifted and our worlds became forever intertwined.

Now I would like to say that this was the happily ever after moment, but the truth is, our first several dates were specled mix of romantic beauty and unfortunate mishaps.  Not the least of these being an evening in which I returned to the obnoxious (again read intoxicated) state I was in when we first met.  I finished the evening by trying to pick a fight with a cowboy, then proceeded to vomit on my new girlfriend in the back seat of her mother’s pick up truck.  Sorry mom-in-law!  Eventually I grew up and our courtship went merrily on its way.  Some 14 years or so later, we are still quite in love, though I don’t think she has yet to forgive me for that last bit.  At least she has a story to tell at dinner parties . . . Right?  And now for the bit directed at my young sons.  Eventually you will want to know, and I prey I am around to ask, how do you know when you have found “The One”.  Tricky subject that one.  Obviously your mom didn’t swoon to love at first sight.  I took a bit of getting used to, but you both know that by now.  The truth is, if I have one piece of advise to give that would be to look for your “better” half.  What I mean by this, is that you will inevitably run across a woman in your life that is your “other” half.  Someone that is everything you are not.  Someone who is strong when you are weak and who seems to complete you in every way.  You will be quite tempted to presume that she is “The One”.  Though this sounds ideal and surely the mark of the perfect spouse, it is not.

I have been blessed to find in your mother my “better” half.  She is the opposite side of a coin more favorably traded than my own.  She is what completes the man I HOPE to be, not the man I am today.  We both know I have a long way `left to travel, but she loves me enough to wait for me to catch up.  Like the pieces in an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, the woman that is your other half resembles the four pieces around your own that hold you in place.  Your “better” half is but a single piece, without which the bigger picture is lost.  She quite rightfully will expect you to create your own four pieces that hold you in place.  That is not her job.  Her job is to push you to be better than you are today.  She will push you to finish the puzzle.  She will watch you from afar as you put all of your pieces in place.  When you have reached the bottom of the box, she will appear and place that final piece.  That is what it is to have a “better” half.  I am not talking about finishing your education and getting financially settled before looking for a spouse.  What I am saying is that when you have sorted out who you are and who you want to be, she will find you just as mine found me.  Until I find a better way to phrase it, this is all I have to give.  Enjoy the ride, and whatever you do, for God’s sakes don’t puke on the girl!  R.  

Social Indignity: Manscaping your Network

Depressed?   Get a haircut.  Perhaps it is nothing more than the natural consequence of being folicly challenged, but getting what’s left of my hair cut has a profound effect on my emotional wellbeing.  I woke this morning in an absolutely foul mood.  A feeling of deep depression had me pinned to my cot.  The warm blankets seemed my only protection against the cold realities of my day.  Up with the sun on a day I need not be, forced to face another day of domestic plentitude.  More laundry than one man can fold, dishes with an unspeakable crust of a scientifically unknown origin, and two children deep into the planning stages of their next misadventure . . . this was my day.  I grudgingly peeled myself from my pillow and went about tidying up a bit.  Once a preliminary sweep of the house was complete and the matches had been hidden from the children, I felt comfortable in taking a break for a quick shower and shave.  After a quick and painful pass or two with the Wilkinson Sword, I looked in the mirror and realized the pin sized orb atop my shoulders (my receptacle for these random thoughts) was beginning to show signs of the male pattern baldness that I keep hidden by keeping it regularly shaved.  Time for a haircut!  Fortunately, this project no longer requires the assistance of a beauty technician and the self-serve manner with which I keep myself groomed agrees with my “do-it-yourself” nature.  As the brownish confetti began to accumulate at my feet, I realized with every piece that fell, a portion of my ill temper seemed to dissipate.  I was grooming myself into a brand new man, both inside and out.

With a head and smile to rival Mister Clean, I went about my day with renewed vigor.  No need for expensive counseling sessions or self-help books, just give yourself a haircut and watch your worries melt away.  With a clear, and now clean, head I was able to focus my concentration on other pursuits.  As I busied my idle hands, my mind wandered to a recent conversation with an OLD friend.  Now, I have made it quite clear that I have a general disdain for the terribly popular social networking sites of the computer age.  On occasion, I am proven wrong and am man enough to admit it when I am.  The six degrees of Sir Francis Bacon principle (or Kevin Bacon if you prefer) cannot be better expemplified than bearing witness to the marvel that is the world of Facebook and the like.  I ordinarily pay my account about as much attention as a red-headed step child, but a recent contact changed my attitude.  Ordinarily, and very sporadically I use the account to post pictures of the kids for family members to see since our current longitude is such that frequent visits are impossible.  I keep my “friends” list relatively small as it seems the broader you cast your net, the more “friends” seem to crawl out of the woodwork.  I keep a small group of “friends” as there are many people in our lives that are merely acquaintances.  I am old enough to know the difference between a friend and an acquaintance, so the list remains small.  “Befriending” old “acquaintances” leaves little time to foster true friendship and what a mere passerby had for breakfast is of little interest to me in my daily life.  That being said, I was contacted by one of my oldest friends, who, despite now sharing a profession with, had slipped off of my radar for a number of years.  This was a fact that I now lament greatly, having had a chance to re-kindle this old friendship.

As he pointed out, we have known each other since we were 12.  Shit, has it really been that long?  It seems we lost touch after college, when life has a way of leading you in different directions.  We each went our own way and seemingly found ourselves at the same destination several years removed.  Strange the way life works.  We couldn’t be further apart on the map, and yet a few conversations with him had me thinking of old times I had forgotten and the ease with which we communicate made me feel as though we had never lost touch at all.  Falling back into familiar vocabulary and a time tested rhythm, we set about catching back up.  We indeed share a profession, even though I am on Sabbatical, and are still in the process of realizing the dreams we had from our youth.  None of it has turned out as we had planned, but that is the way of things and I think we have both been better for the diversions.  We have matured a bit, I am proud to say, and life lessons have grown us into men where young boys once stood.  The bond we share is one built from anxiety.  Holding each other up through our formative teen years.  Like a band of brothers who have eaten the same dirt, the bond someone shares with you from your youth can be the strongest you will ever have.  They REALLY know you.  They know the childish portion of your current self.  That part that is pure and true.  The part you are embarrassed to admit, but has made you who you are today.  Sure, we have missed some landmarks in each other’s lives and that can’t be observed without a bit of regret, but renewing a lost friendship has its advantages as well.

I don’t know that absence makes a heart grow fonder, but your appreciation for a friend’s life comes without as much judgment and prejudice when you experience it years further down the road.  When you spend your daily lives intertwined, you sometimes lose an appreciation as to why you were friends to begin with.  Life will get in the way, one way or another, and I think it often better to do so in the form of absence than a common insult that drives people from each other’s lives when perspective is eventually lost.  I look forward to continued communication from afar and one day we will meet again on one continent or another.  In catching up, we obviously passed on the usual vital statistics . . . Kids . . . Wives . . . Jobs . . . Pets etc.  In relating these stories back and forth, I was reminded that I haven’t shared some of the important stuff through the limited content of my blog.  Things such as how I met my wife.  Important stuff that, if this is going to be of real value to my children one day, I certainly need to share.  In coming posts I hope to describe such landmark events and reflect on them as I haven’t endeavored to before.  As someone who prides themselves on his own self-awareness, I have ignored and left out some truths about myself and where this is all heading by not revisiting the past.  So, a big thanks to my OLD friend for helping me remember the importance of those things we let slip into our past that deserve a spot in our present and our future.  Take care for now.  R.