DD in Seattle

I don't like being told what not to do. Generally, making some sort of reasonable argument as to why I should or should not do something will only encourage me to take the opposite tack. Call it a fatal flaw if you will, but more often than not, you will enable yourself to win whatever argument you have with me by just fighting vehemently for the polar opposite. For the sake of the simplest explanation I can come up with, let's say that Kim would love for me to find a job in Texas before we move in June. The best way for her to ensure that I find one is to make comments to me like, "Honey, you know that your job here isn't that bad. Now that you've put in a year there, it can only get easier. After all, you understand what the members are looking for and they trust you now. I would imagine that in the next twelve months, you would be able to really make your mark."
As soon as these words would leave her mouth, all of the hairs on my neck would stand up on end and I would be ruthlessly tearing through my resume and sending out cover letters to every possible job in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. Instead, she has inherited the incredibly honed nagging skills that I thought were reserved for Gramma G, and the search for the job that I desperately need in order to make this move a reality has stalled greatly and the stress level in the house has grown exponentially with each passing week. You would think that Kim would understand this dynamic, and truly realize how I am wound. She could play this up for all its worth, and I would believe that she is playing me in this case, but I know that she really does want to move. So I am forced to fight the good fight by not doing what I absolutely realize I should be doing because somebody is insisting that I follow a logical plan. 25 years from now, when my psychotherapists have all given up on me, I will figure this all out for myself, but for now (to my own detriment in most cases) I will remain stoically stubborn to the point of ludicrous, because I know no other way.
So my brother-in-law who alegedly reads this blog makes some off-handed remark to Kim on the phone tonight that he hopes he is never a subject of my venom, but if he is, he knows how to fight back (even if he has to lie). The gauntlet has thus been tossed, and I have no choice but to preserve what is left of my manhood by making Stevie F the focus of a posting.
In doing so, I could dredge up the past. I actually hired Steve as a dishwasher when he was 16 or 17 years old, before Kim and I were even dating I believe. To be perfectly honest, that period of time is still a little hazy as the remainder of the toxins I had poisoned my body with for a decade were only slowly seeping out my pores, but he definitely worked for me for a time, and I am certain I could come up with a dozen good stories that go back over 10 years. He turned 28 last week, and there is nothing like watching some kid you have known since he was a scrawny, scraggly, awkward teenager closing in on 30. It is pretty frightening to be certain.
Today, Stevie F works for the Air Force, and lives in Guam with his wife and two boys. He has his own little slice of island nirvana in the South Pacific, is an incredibly devoted father and husband. His two sons, Trevor and Tyler are among the best behaved children I have ever met, and there probably isn't a waking moment that his thoughts are not with the two of them. For the next month, he is separated from his family stationed in Seattle for a couple of weeks of training followed by filling in on the flight line for two more weeks due to the number of airmen currently deployed. It is the first time he has been back to the mainland since October 2004 and the first time he has been separated from his family for more than a week. Not bad for a guy in the United States Air Force during wartime. Conversely, Kim's brother Khris (also in the Air Force) has spent probably half of the past 10 years galavanting across the globe from Yemen to Anchorage, back to Diego Garcia and all the way down in Bogota. Again, I could utilize this avenue as my opportunity to tear into my brother-in-law, as this would be as simple a topic as anyone could imagine, but taking him to task for doing whatever he can to spend time with his family is not exactly a fair topic. After all, who can blame the guy for utilizing whatever means necessary to watch his boys grow up.
So instead of talking about the Little Dishwasher Who Could or the GI in paradise, let's focus on the here and now. It is more topical and frankly just as easy fodder for my pen. Stevie F is a 28 year old, with a month of freedom, where he can taste the lusty flavors of bachelorhood without guilt, remorse or fear of retribution. Let's face it, trapped halfway between Hawaii and Japan, Lindsay doesn't exactly have the access to Stevie's whereabouts, entertainment choices, debauchery or rondez-vouses (that must be the plural of rondez-vous--I took a semester of French, so I don't expect any kind of contradiction on that one). He has the opportunity to enjoy a month of his twenties before they expire completely. I am pretty sure he was married right when he turned twenty, so he has spent the best decade of his life trapped in a marriage with two kids. I am not for a second suggesting that he would change that for anything--he would be the first to tell you that he loves his life, and I would never question that for even a second. But come on, if you've got a month on your own to taste the freedom that you haven't experienced in almost eight years (he's never legally been to a bar as an unmarried man--digest that one for just a second), you owe it to yourself to take advantage of the situation.
Let's look at my own limited experiences in this arena. November 2004, there was a labor stoppage in San Francisco in the hotel industry, so we rotated out to fill in for the line employees over a two month period. I was called to duty so to speak at the tail end of the negotiations and my anticipated two weeks of slavery turned out to be a week of slow shifts behind the check-in counter, followed by a few days of hanging out because the work stoppage had come to an end. I was geared up to be working 18 hour shifts with no days off, cleaning rooms, working room service, cooking in the kitchen--whatever was necessary, but my timing turned out to be pretty damn good. Based on my good fortune, I could have taken a couple of different roads. I could tell Kim that they were working me like a dog; I was barely getting any sleep; my hands were writhing from scrubbing so many toilets; the out of work employees were hurling bottles at us as we crossed the picket line--whatever. It didn't matter because whatever I told her, she would have believed. She had no way of getting in touch with me. I didn't have a cell phone at the time, so I called her when I called her and to be fair, she was understanding of the whole situation and if I was able to only call once a day, she would have been fine with it. But I was in San Francisco--an absolutely incredible town, staying at one of the crown jewel hotels in the city right on top of Nob Hill, within walking distance to Fisherman's wharf on one side and Chinatown on the other, and there was no freaking way I was going to sit in a hotel and mope if I didn't have to. You just don't get opportunities like that very often, and you owe it to yourself to take advantage of it.
It didn't hurt that Esch was out in SF with me the entire first week. Our trips overlapped, so he had a week to acclimate himself to the area, and we had another week to indulge in the offerings of the city. Needless to say, we enjoyed the experience. There were a couple of days that neither of us remember the last bar we went to or how the hell we got back to the hotel. We acquired tickets to The Big Game (Cal-Stanford) one Saturday. We ate out and partied after every shift. When we didn't go out on the town, we loaded up on scotch and beer from the mini-bars. Esch was in charge of that aspect of the hotel, so getting 30 or 40 mini bottles of Macallan 12 was not really too challenging. There was a hospitality suite set up for all of the managers from all over the country, so when the bars closed, we would often find ourselves playing poker late into the night with some of our counterparts or sitting in our hotel rooms with Ginormous Calzones from up the road and a six pack of Heineken, watching Napoleon Dynamite or Anchorman on Spectravision. It didn't hurt that I was working the front desk and could reverse any charges that made their way to our rooms. We were, after all, here because they needed us, and we weren't about to pay for booze, movies or hookers--did I say hookers, I meant booze and movies--how the hell could we charge hookers to our rooms? That just doesn't make any sense.
The point is, I didn't lie to Kim about any of this. I was going to be in trouble no matter what I did. Call it a Catch-22 or call it damned if you do, damned if you don't, but these situations are untenable when it comes to a marriage. If I did nothing but work like a dog for two weeks, I wouldn't have called enough and would have been made to feel guilty. If I worked like a dog for two weeks and went out once in a while to unwind, I would have been spending money irresponsibly and would have been made to feel guilty. If I worked like a dog for two weeks, spent time networking with managers from other hotels, I would be accused of spending too much time talking to women while I was away from the familiy and would have been made to feel guilty. If I had all the time I needed and stayed in my hotel room, following all protocol set out by the arrangement of my parent company, I would have been an absolute loser and would have insisted that Esch shoot me in the scrotum. Instead, I tasted the fruits of the city. I reached out and enjoyed the chance to experience San Francisco, because I didn't know when I would have the opportunity to do so again. Would it have been better if I had my family there? Well, carrying Lauren up those insane hills would have sucked worse than any hell I could have imagined at that point, because she would have refused to walk and nobody would have wanted to wait for one of those cable cars. But other than that, it would have been incredible to have the family there. I would relish the chance to bring Kim back there for a week to take in the sights, smells and sounds, but that is a moot point. I didn't have the choice of bringing them with me, and due to that fact, I was left with a different set of choices. I wouldn't have changed one of them, because it was one of the best weeks I can remember.
So this brings us back to Stevie F, trapped in Seattle for a month. When Kim talked to him tonight, he waxed poetic about being the designated freaking driver for all of his buddies for the month. What the hell kind of sense does that make? Do you think you get bonus points for hiding from your manhood? I have no problem with rotating the DD responsibilities over a month long period, but making March your Designated month seems a bit of a stretch of goodwill. Stevie, for the love of God, tell Lindsay to take your balls out of her jewelry box and ship them overnight (hell, I'll foot the bill) to Seattle. She may not think you need them there, and maybe you have been bamboozled by being trapped on Exile Island for too long, but you will never forgive yourself for toting the guys all over Puget Sound, only to get home at three in the morning, just in time to validate your husbandry and fatherhood to your wife 3000 miles away. Tell her whatever you want. For that matter, maybe you are already doing that. Perhaps you were just telling Kim what you want her to think, and if that is the case, I have all the respect in the world for you. But please, for the love of all that is holy, do not spend the first and probably last free month of your twenties in your barracks calling Lindsay at three in the morning without having at least enjoyed your self. You don't get this chance very often, and believe me, you are going to be in trouble no matter what the hell you do. You either won't call enough; will call too much; will sound drunk on the phone; she'll swear she hears girls giggling in the background; she tried calling you while you were playing Malik, the emerald city's finest Limo driver and nobody answered the phone; your flight home will get delayed; Tyler will need stitches and it will be your fault for not being there; you sound like you don't miss them enough on the phone; you haven't even made an attempt to see if they can all fly out to see you; she found out that you spoke to your mom before you spoke to her about how your classes were going (only because you didn't want to wake her at four in the morning--but it will still be your fault)---Hell, I could go on for days. Bottom line--YOU ARE SCREWED. Don't fly back to Guam wondering whether or not the rest of the guys had a good time. Lead the way. To quote one of my favorite bosses (and as your former boss, this should resonate well) "Ask forgiveness, not permission." When you get home, the balls go back to the jewelry box--you may as well see if they still serve any function.

Editors Note--The balls references throughout this posting have nothing (repeat nothing) to do with any suggestions of infidielity. They are merely meant to represent Stevie F's bravado, joie de vive and youthful exuberance. Any supposition by anybody that the writer would even lightheartedly imply that Stevie should do something outside the bounds of his marriage are erroneous. Stevie--if you are confused by all the big words, no matter how much fun you are having due to my advice or in spite of it, keep it in your pants. That oughtta do it.

It's all Travelocity's Fault

This past weekend, we finally got around to putting our house on the market. We have about three months to sell the house before we are going to move to Texas, as most of you are probably aware. Selling the house is one of those "contingencies" that builders and/or mortgage folks require in order for us to close on our new house outside Dallas. You know, that whole paying two mortages and having nothing to put down on a new house sometimes might be construed as a hurdle to getting the deal done.
Over the past several weeks, Kim has been working like an absolute dog trying to get this house ready to sell. Unfortunately, the market has slowed considerably since last year, when if we even listed this house on the MLS, it would have probably received three offers prior to anybody even looking at it. Such is the life of the real estate market. So instead of naming our price and watching people trip over themselves to overpay for our little slice of heaven out here in suburbia, we actually have to market this thing effectively and keep it looking good every day in case one of those realtor folks decides to bring somebody out to take a look at our home.
There are several inhibitors to this reality. One is the tornado, we lovingly refer to as Lauren. For some reason, it is critical to her life that she removes every book, stuffed animal, toy, game, puzzle, instrument and art supply from its home every day at some point. This may be a symptom of her being three or just one of the many penances that I continue to be forced to endure due to my own youthful carnage, but either way, it never ends. Turning your back for more than three minutes is basically akin to setting off a pipe bomb in the dollar store. More crap than you ever realized existed sprawled out over a 1600 square foot minefield. Most likely, not the kind of environment that "sells the house for you."
The second challenge is Abby. Fortunately, she has fewer toys than Lauren does, but Abby has the propensity of relocting things througout the entire property. Generally, these are just balls and rawhide bones, but certainly they add to the clutter. Wilson was more apt to lovingly bring in dozens of rocks each day and leave them strewn about the house in whatever fashion he felt was the most aesthetically pleasing. Sadly he is no longer with us, but from a home marketing standpoint, a 108 lb Yellow Lab may force some potential buyers to hurry their way through some portions of the home tour.
Hunter is pretty good at this point of cleaning up after himself. Well that might be a stretch, but he doesn't make quite the same quantity or quality of mess as his sister. He is gone to school during the day and is less likely to get out dozens of trinkets and whatnots than his sister might be. When he has friends over, they are forced to go through every toy he has ever owned to get a full inventory of what hijinks can cause the most damage, but lately, we are sending him to their houses more than having his friends over here. He has a couple of science kits that can destroy an entire three acre area with all the junk he leaves around after starting his experiments, but I think Kim has mercifully already packed those items in boxes and hauled them off to storage--we can only pray.
More than Hunter, Lauren, and Abby combined, however, are my own slovenly ways. I really do try to make an effort, but 36 years of being a completely useless slob do have their way of endearing themselves. Leaving things strewn about the house is a learned skill, and my kids probably didn't come up with it on their own. Those of you out there who have had the extraordinary opportunity to live with me for any period of time will have no difficutly coming up with your own version of the attrocities that comprise my ability to endure living in a mess more than most humans could conceive. Kim continues to make progress with me, but let's not kid ourselves too much.
But in these trying times, and with Kim becoming more and more nervous and edgy about getting this house sold, we have all dug in deep to help keep the house clean and presentable. I think that our house will sell relatively quickly. It is in a beautiful, young community, the house is in great shape, great colors throughout, attractively landscaped and all of the things that I believe people look for when purchasing a home. I don't profess to be an expert in this arena, but my understanding is that there are probably a few do's and don'ts when it comes to selling one's home.

1. Don't point out any bodies buried in the back yard. Even if there is a perfectly good explanation, for that strange hump in the middle of the yard, do what you can to reduce the questions that might spring forth. Nobody who is considering purchasing your home really wants to know that Aunt Bess really wanted to live amongst the Bouganivillea for eternity, regardless of the video you had her make prior to her demise. For the sake of resale, I would recommend letting the purchasing family discover this treat many years down the line.
2. Any of those "funny-old" neighbors who tend to hang out at night shooting off rounds of live ammo at the passing coyotes are generally not the best representatives of what the neighborhood has to offer for an incoming young family. Let them find out the eccentricies permeating from the bong-stenched porches of the guy next door on their own time. It might even be a good opportunity for you to invite said neighbor to lunch (probably in his '79 Gremlin that usually is parked in the street) when the realtor gives you the heads up that he might be stopping by. Again, this is more of a guideline than a rule.
3. Things that are important to you, sentimental to you, remind you of happier times, may not necessarily translate into fantastic marketing tools for potential buyers. Frankly, some of the things that fit into this category, regardless of how they might have been acquired, can be the things that turn off potential buyers the most. Some examples would be shrunken heads, your son's first stool sample, a mole that you had removed (really any thing that has come from your body would probably fit into this category--those of you who have a placenta saved for posterity sake, should consider a short-term relocation), halloween decorations in February, and any lawn ornament.

The last of these don'ts is the one that has caused the most challenge in our particular lives. As I have been reduced through four plus years of marriage into a "yes, dear. Whatever you think, dear." waste of space, we have acquired a couple of Garden Gnomes that actually are on display in full gnome regalia every day. It is our own dirty little secret, and the main reason (in my estimation anyway) that we don't invite friends over to the house very often. We do get our share of family visitors and for rednecks like Krissy and the Boys, garden gnomes are a status symbol in a good way--sort of like moving into that double-wide. Kim insists on keeping these little freaks littered throughout the yard and I can do nothing but roll my eyes, make my sarcastic remarks and endure.

It isn't the gnomes I fear so much as what they represent as the long-term state of my life. Many years from now, the gnomes will represent that old comfortable friend to me. They will have been a part of our homes for generations and I will have grown to enjoy their company as Kim refuses to speak with me about my prostate health anymore. The fear that I have is the slippery slope that we are heading down at a relatively young age. It starts with a couple of little 12 inch freaks nesteled beneath the desert fauna. Before you know it, I have a fleet of flamingos welcoming every guest that darkens my doorway, ceramic frogs leaping each other down the driveway and thirty or forty reindeer each Christmas stapled to the roof. I have seen this happen, and Kim comes by it naturally. Meemaw is well on her way to having a nick-nack farm in Oklahoma and they are still rolling the junk out of Kim's Grandmother's house two years after she passed away.

This is the fate that awaits me. The cruel fate of this gnome army and all of his minions. I look forward to the day that I can relate and my senses have left me for so long that I am numb to the absurdity of such things. Until that time, I will continue to bite whatever is left of my tongue as we remain in this house for the next thirty years. The echoes through the halls of the house for the next several months will resonate with oohs and ahhs about the color scheme, the open spaces and the lighting that embrace each couple as they enter the front door, only to be followed by the scared, confused and repulsed responses as they rush out the same door after escaping the freakishness of the back yard and the stump-like statuette that assaulted their once enthusiastic senses. The only thing I can count on at this point is Meemaw shipping a boatload of flamingos my way after reading this. Life is sweet bliss

Editorial Retraction

I am not really sure what happened over the past week or so. I have been mired in the absolute insanity of five children living under one roof, and I am certain that my once sound judgment has been somewhat obscured by the constant screaming, fighting, chasing, whining, tattling, complaining, laughing, shouting, running, eating, staring and general acting like a kiding. To say that I have been shellshocked would be an unfair understatement along the level of DJ was slightly pleased when the Steelers won last Sunday. Writing has been an impossibility until yesterday when in the distance I could barely make out the Dakota lugging Uncle Khris' motorcycle behind it and the five of them made their way back to California. I believe that they are staying the night in Anaheim and going to Knotts Berry Farm today, but we have probably seen the last of them for the immediate future.
We knew what we were getting into, and Kim handled it like a trooper. I had the good fortune of working most of the week, so she had the brunt of the daily grind. As I wrote in an earlier post Severe Torture Test, our expectation for this week was to experience the kind of hell that our friends in New Orleans are just now trying to get beyond. To be fair, the kids were just being kids. They acted exactly as a nine year old girl, an eight year old boy, a seven year old boy, a three year old girl and a six month old girl would act when they were trapped in a 1600 square foot house and were interacting with one another. The physical and mental strain that this combination causes those who are exposed to it, however, can not possibly be accurately quantified. Suffice it to say, we are thrilled to have our house back. Looking back at the Severe Torture Test posting I realize that there was an additional component that we feared more than even the kids and that was the impending visit from Grampa G.
Somehow--and I am going to get to the bottom of this because there is nothing I hate worse than being wrong about such things--the guy who flew in from Tampa last Thursday night, was not the same person I described in my previous post (or honestly, from any of my previous posts). This Grampa G who showed up was actually (dare I say) pleasant. He was great with the kids (not just Hunter and Lauren, but all five of the little freaks), was courteous, fun to be around, immensely entertaining, understanding, didn't complain about anything, didn't once mention a calendar, utilized only about 1/4 of his usual nap quotient, and if I am not mistaken, he actually had a good time being here. Even when he came to see me at work, he was gracious, polite and dressed as if he belonged in the place (no small feat). He took the three older trolls to the movies and the three of them acted as if they had never been to a movie, never been around an adult, never had to follow any directions, didn't have to observe any of the rules that they live by daily in their homes and he still managed not to leave any of them buried under a concession stand--more than I would expect of myself or Kim. He even let them watch the entire movie with their deplorable behavior. Now, he dropped them back at the house afterward and was noticably shaken by the experience, but he managed not to take it out on the kids or Kim. And even more amazingly, he let it go. The next couple of days, he didn't broach the topic and continued to play with and enjoy the kids company. Grampa G not holding a grudge? I couldn't believe it either, but mine eyes have seen the light.
Kim, who was dreading dealing with his abuse for the past month was actually sorry to see him leave (I am not making this up). It was far and away the best visit we have had with the crazy old bastard, and the circumstances couldn't have been more challenging for him. As long as we kept him fed, he was completely enjoyable to have around and I believe that I owe him an apology for my previous posting. Usually, I will try to hide these retractions deep in page 13 at the bottom of the Metro section of some obscure publication, but until I find a periodical who is willing to publish my rhetoric, I have to put this sort of thing front and center for all to experience.
There can only be a couple of reasonable explanations for his modified behavior, and as I said earlier, I will get to the bottom of this:

1. The guy who visited was actually a stunt double--let's face it, there is no way that Grampa G (at least the guy I have known for the last 36 plus years) could pull off a change in personality to such an outrageous degree. He got out of medicine so he wouldn't have to be around obnoxious kids anymore--do you really think he would willingly trap himself into a movie theater with three kids from the ages of seven to nine on purpose? He found a way to pay some guy to bulk up to 260 lbs, slap on a Groucho moustache and memorize a couple of kids names, load him up on a plane and record the entire trip for America's Funniest Home Videos--the joke is on me.
2. He is so loaded up on anti-depressants that he couldn't possibly realize what he was doing. You don't just go 63 years of creating a personality for yourself that is so completely overwhelming for everybody with whom you come in contact, and then suddenly in one weekend, you pull back the reins and can relax and enjoy the moment. Maybe for a three hour respite, but not for four days. He can't pull that off without significant doses of something powerful. (By the way Dad, I may want to borrow some of whatever it was--I'll get back to you later on that one).
3. He saw that Seinfeld episode where George did everything the opposite of what he normally would do just before leaving Tampa and decided to give it a whirl. Hell, if it could work for Costanza, why not Grampa G? If this is the case, keep it up--this seems to be the best possible route for all of your future decisions.
4. The desire to prove me wrong was so powerful that he found a way to control every impulse in his body for four days. He reads this blog and has had several weeks to figure out the best way to make me eat my words. This is nothing new--proving me wrong has always been a powerful motivator for Grampa G, but I didn't think he had it in him. Way to go, Dad.
5. This one is the most far-fetched of the bunch, but since you have made it this far, please indulge me one more thought. Maybe, just maybe he actually took some of the sarcastic and generally inane BS on this blog to heart. Perhaps some of the not so subtle references to his historical behavior resonated a little too true for comfort. Look, I realize that this is probably a stretch, but there may be a slight chance that he recognized that some of the things he does (without intending it to be so) has a profoundly negative effect on those around him. There exists a miniscule possibility that he is trying to allow others to enjoy his company.

The toughest week of our winter visitors is behind us. We have Krissy and the Boys coming out in the middle of March and Gramma G arrives the day that they leave, but there is no overlap like this week. Gramma G will be staying at the resort, and at least Krissy isn't dropping her three monsters off and running off to Hawaii. She'll be here to endure the torture with the rest of us. I can't wait for the road trip with all of them to the Grand Canyon. Maybe I can convince Grampa G to tag along.

A Tale of Two Babies

I have had the privilege of being the Best Man at two weddings in my life. I think that is a pretty good number, and I don't expect it to increase too much in the coming years, but you never know how circumstances will foist you into strange situations. My first chance to enjoy this honor was with Mike M and it must have been almost 11 years ago. He got married in Alabama (one of two weddings that I attended in that state) and my fondest memory of that wedding was the preacher or reverend or priest or whatever he was that married them that day. He was an absolute riot and for two days during the rehearsals and the ceremony, he just absolutely cracked me up. He used to be an offensive lineman for the Buffalo Bills during the OJ era (yes, that OJ) and I can just remember the absolutely ridiculous size of his hands. He shook my hand when we first met, and my arm suddenly stopped at my wrist--my right hand just disappeared into the abyss that was his grip.
When Dan D got married a couple of summers later, we went to Scotland and they wed in a tiny chapel in St. Andrews (those of you not familiar--the birthplace of golf). Now, while it was no Alabama, it wasn't a half bad place to get married either. I had lots of memories of that trip, but probably the thing that sticks with me even today (aside from trying to get a ball out of Hell's Bunker with a pint of Guinness, a Cuban Cigar and a sand wedge at three in the morning in an absoute drunken stupor) was forgetting to mention Dan's mother in my toast, pretty much ensuring that both he and I would be left out of the will. I don't believe she has forgiven either one of us still--I really am sorry, Ma.
Both of these guys have been close friends of mine for the better portion of my life. I have known Mike since third grade, and as our lives have gone in different directions for the majority of those years, we have always kept in touch and have always shared in the key moments of each other's lives. He is a regular contributor to the comment section of this blog, and his postings are among the most entertaining feedback that I enjoy. I met Dan on the first day of 9th grade. He was actually the first person I met in High School, mostly because it seemed that he was in every one of my classes. You keep seeing the same goofy blonde guy over and over again and sooner or later he starts to stand out. Dan has been my roommate on several occasions, and our lives have been intertwined for the most part for over twenty years. Over the last few years, he has gotten more and more difficult to keep in touch with, but there is nobody I have ever known who has been more influential in helping me make life altering decisions or whose opinion I value more.
While I have been on writer's sabbatical for the past two weeks, both of these guys decided to go off and have a son. I find this to be an incredible coincidence, Dan's kid Matthew was born on January 25th and Mike's son Aidan popped out the next day on January 26th. For Mike and Lori, this was their second child, and Dan had the chance to experience childbirth for the first time. For the record, Lori decided to forego the epidural (I have no idea why on earth anybody goes this route, by the way. Kim had Hunter without an epidural--fear of the needle, I assume, and then had Lauren with the epidural. I remember her in the birthing room when she got the damn shot in her spine and the Anaesthesiologist--wrong spelling, I know, I know--said "Now, you'll feel some pressure" and the next thing you know he is taping the damn thing on and Kim is still sitting there clenching her teeth waiting for the needle to penetrate her spinal column, not realizing that it was already done and that the lower half of her body would soon be numb to any pain. She dropped Lauren out like she was lubed up with Crisco. Hell, she was cracking jokes until the last push. Why the hell would anybody go through the absolutely most excruciating pain known to woman instead is beyond me, but Lori decided to do so. Hats off to you, but in my opinion, you are a freaking massochist) and I don't know if Danielle did the same. The information was not offered to me, and etiquette requires that guys don't ask each other those types of questions no matter how close the friendship might be. Aidan was born in a hospital in Jacksonville, Florida and Matthew was born at some undisclosed location in the New Hampshire woods by a midwife.
We knew that Aidan was on the way for a good six months. Generally, people don't share the "We're pregnant" news with others until they have gotten through the first trimester. Too much can go wrong in that time and there are few things more difficult than telling people who were so happy for you that you have had a miscarriage. This has happened to a number of my friends, and it is just an awful thing to experience. Over the course of the past six months, every conversation that Mike and I shared at least touched upon how Lori was doing and how the pregnancy was going--how was Andrew going to do as a big brother--you get the idea.
Dan also didn't tell me about the kid on the way during the first trimester. You know, now that I think about it, the information didn't exactly come during the second trimester either. I'm going to have to recount the way it works (and I may be completely wrong here), but I'm not certain he even shared the fact that there was a bun in the oven in the third trimester. I'm no rocket scientist, but I am almost positive that most gestation periods represent three total trimesters. I mean a Tricycle has three wheels; Trident is delicious gum, but I believe that in Anchorman when Brick killed a guy with a trident, it had three prongs; Triathletes compete in three regimens; Triples represent three bases, so it would stand to reason that Trimester has three mesters (whatever the hell a mester is). Because once the kid is born, I believe it is actually too late to mention to somebody that you are pregnant. I don't think that you can be retroactively pregnant--once he's out, he's out. The phrase changes from "Danielle's pregnant" to "I'm a daddy."
So when I was speaking to Matt D, Dan's brother and off the cuff, he remarks that he is going up to New Hampshire to see Dan's son, I found it rather difficult to comprehend. In fairness to Dan (far more than that weaselly prick deserves by the way), I haven't spoken to him too often in the last nine months. He has been busy, I have been busy and getting more than a ten minute conversation in during this period has been nearly impossible. Somewhere in one of those nine minute chats, however, I am quite confident that he could have piped up with some comment like, "Oh yeah, we're due at the end of January." or "Do you know any good boy names?" or "We're almost done decorating the nursery." You know, some kind of hint that there was this child on the way. Instead, I gotta find out like some kind of shmo.
Either way, it was a pretty awesome week. Dan is Dan and I think it amuses him to keep the world in the dark--better shock value that way. I couldn't be happier for him and I couldn't be happier for Mike either. Both babies are healthy, and while I know that this is critical information to all of you out there, I don't generally care a whole lot about their stats--length, width, height, weight, time of womb exit, etc. Is the kid healthy? Is the Mom doing OK? Are they sleeping at night? Pretty much beyond that, everything else is pretty much just chatter. For the record, we'll say that both of them were somewhere between 7 and 8 pounds and seem to be acclimating to life pretty damn well. I probably won't get a chance to meet either one of them for at least several months and probably close to a year. During that time, they will both go through incredible transformations and Dan and Mike are going to be the lucky bastards who get to enjoy every moment.
I sent Dan this blog site recently, so he may actually check it. I know that Mike comes on with some regularity to check out my blather. If any of you have any comments for them, I am sure that they would love to read them here. For my sake, congratulations to both of you (and probably more so to Lori and Danielle). I can't wait to meet your boys and they are both incredibly lucky to have you as their dads. Someday down the road, many years from now on a lazy Jacksonville afternoon on Dr. M's driveway, there's going to be one hell of a game of one on one. I just hope that I get a chance to watch it. I love you guys.