Best Dad Evar's Legacies #gbe2

Today Best Dad Evar can be found in the midst of blaring music, 20-somethings with bare shoulders and tight shorts, heavy breathing and the smell of sweat. Over the noise of his own pounding heartbeat, Best Dad Evar hears the soft voice of his conscience, er, personal narrator.
“Best Dad.”
Best Dad’s head shakes involuntarily at the intrusion. It’s as if he’s in his own little world, his zone, his… perfect elliptical stride. “Go away!” he mutters to the voice in his ear buds.
“But Best Dad, I’ve been thinking.”
“So what?!” Best Dad is exasperated now.
“Thinking about our last conversation, about religion, heaven and hell…” the narrator refuses to give up, continuing to butt in on Best Dad’s gym routine.
“All right, out with it.”

“In light of your beliefs-”
“Or lack thereof.” Best Dad intrudes, rudely.
“Yes, that. In light of that, you have a problem to think about.”
“Just one?” Best Dad replies, a bit nastily.
“One in particular.” the narrator goes on, undaunted.
“Yeah.” Best Dad replies, his sarcasm turned down several notches.
“Death.”

Best Dad Evar shifts uncomfortably on the pedals of his personal training machine, not saying anything for a long time. “Don’t remind me,” he mumbles finally.
“What are you feeling, Best Dad?” The narrator keenly identifies his pained expression and body language.
“When I think about death,” Best Dad replies carefully, “I immediately get a pit in my stomach, an uncomfortable sensation-”
“I believe you’ve just described paralyzing, debilitating fear,” the narrator.
“Well, that might be going a bit far, but when I have those thoughts, I get shaky. I have to change the subject. Take my mind away from it.”

“Every time?” the narrator wonders. Best Dad Evar nods.
“Wow.” The narrator pauses to assess. “So how do you deal with this fear?”
“I think about my plan.” He says with a quick, certain nod, the kind of nod that only those who actually lack certainty can manage.
“Your plan to cheat death?” the narrator responds in a tone that suggests a smirk, that is, if Best Dad could see the expression on his face, which he can’t.
“No, no. No one can cheat death. Even the religious know that.”
“So what are you planning?”
“I’m planning to use whatever time I have to leave a legacy.”
“A legacy.” The narrator says with no question implied this time. It’s as if he’s letting the idea sink into his head. “Your writing?” He finally wonders.

Best Dad Evar smirks himself at the thought. “My writing… hmph. I don’t know what kind of legacy that will be. It feels like a parody of my real life.”
“Well, even if it is, it’s something that could survive after you’re gone.” Best Dad scoffs. The narrator continues undaunted. “It could even last a long time-”
“I doubt it!” His scowl quiets the narrator, but it fades as he realizes that a blonde young woman, who was probably born after his hairline started receding, has looked at him with her eyebrows raised slightly. Best Dad looks back at her for a second, maybe a second-and-a-half, but just as quickly turns his eyes back to the green digital numbers that display how many calories he’s burned tonight.

“All right, Best Dad. What’s your legacy plan then?” The narrator’s question prevents Best Dad from dwelling on what kind of impression he’s made on the pretty young thing.
“Okay,” Best Dad’s mind is now completely back on the subject, “Number one is to have my DNA continue to live on in our species.”
“Yes, you have two children, so you’re off to a good start.”
“Uh, huh.” Best Dad’s face displays just a hint of pride as he nods.
“And you’re giving them a very strong foundation-”
“Of course it couldn’t hurt to have a few more.”
“What?!” The narrator is downright doubtful, “your wife has other ideas.”
“Yeah, but there are other ways…” he says with a slight smile. He sneaks a peek over at the young blonde nearby. “I have a lot to offer fertile young women, don’t you think?” He says with a devilish grin.
“Best Dad Evar!” The narrator scoffs disgustedly. “You’re going to sleep with other women just to pass on your genes?!” Best Dad peers over at the young woman again without answering, openly admiring her figure, at least as long as her eyes are turned toward the magazine in front of her.

Finally, the left corner of his lip turns upward and he slowly says, “Of course, I don’t have to sleep with them to pass on my genes, do I?”
The narrator makes a sound that’s akin to a pirates “Aargh!” as he realizes he’s been had.
“Gotcha!” Best Dad smiles broadly, showing off the crow’s feet aside his eyes.
“A sperm bank.” the narrator says in a small voice.
“I haven’t actually done it, but it’s a thought I had.”
“That seems ethically… ambiguous.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s something I have to think through before I do anything. I just haven’t had the time.”
“What else is new,” the narrator says knowingly.

“I have other legacies to pass on, though.”
“Right, your family trees.”
“Not just family trees. I’m also making digital copies of family photos, collecting and organizing our written history and I even have a digital audio project that I plan to work on.”
“Wow, now that’s a legacy you can be proud of.”
“Yes, I already am proud of what I’ve done so far, and I feel like I have a lot more I could do.”
“A life’s work.”
“Mmhm.” Best Dad replies.
“But one life’s work isn’t enough for you.” This is not a question, it is a statement of fact. Best Dad’s head drops a bit and he chuckles softly. The young blonde is looking over at him again, but he just smiles ever-so-slightly and nods at her while slowly turning his eyes back to his machine.
“Nope, it’s not enough.”
“Nothing is ever enough.” This is an accusation but BDE just smiles through it.
“No, but I’m not so dissatisfied that I’m going to jeopardize the good work I’ve done so far…” he cocks his head toward the pretty young thing without looking at her, “while I pursue my next project.”
“You’re wise beyond your years, Best Dad.”

Eventually Best Dad must leave the comforting, simple throb and beat of the gym and its music and embark for home. Home typically means a completely different kind of noise, and today is no different. Even from outside his front door, Best Dad can clearly hear the caterwauling of two … what, cats? No, screech owls, maybe? Oh, no, it couldn’t be crazed, hungry or injured animals, it’d have to be his daughters. He opens the door and is almost blown backward again by the volume from within.
“What are you two doing?!” He yells immediately upon crossing the threshold.
Two sets of eyes turn toward him and the noise stops. Then just as quickly it begins again as both run full speed toward him yelling “Daddy!!” and “Best Dad Eeevahr!” at the top of their lungs.
“Ooof!” he says as they both crash into him, giving hugs and chattering incoherently.

Shortly he steps back and looks at them suspiciously. “Why are you calling me ‘Best Dad Eeevahr’” he says emphasizing their deliberate mispronunciation, particularly eyeing older child, who is fond of the name.
“We’re making up a song, Daddy!” Younger child shouts loudly, then dances away, her feet pounding mercilessly across the stained carpet.
“A song about you, Best Dad Eeevahr,” older child says, while tilting her head and pouting her lips in that way that she only does when she’s proud of herself.
“A theme song for Best Dad Evar?” He asks, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
“Yeah! Yeah! A theme song!” They’re both shouting over each other again.

“All right, let’s hear it.” He says, shaking his head. Not knowing quite what to expect, but sure he will have to listen to it. Older child makes a huge production of setting up a stage, and moving (shoving) younger child into just the right position. It takes several moments until she’s convinced it’s just right. All the while younger child’s hands are wagging around and her fingers are dancing, so excited to get to perform their little song.
“Ooookay.” Older child says, waving her arms. This is her way of letting her audience know she’s ready to begin. She begins to sing in a style that’s reminiscent of a middle school cheerleading squad:
“Best Dad Eeevahr’s good, no, great!
Best Dad Eeevahr serves food on a plate
He’s so great that he makes me cheer
He makes me cheer right outta here!”

There’s a pause, and then older child turns and whispers into younger child’s ear. She quickly sings her part:
“A bootie too and a la la loo
Rallay loo to the foo lay roo!”

Immediately older child starts up on her next verse:
“The children are my sister and me
I like to copy his family trees
Best Dad Eeevahr’s hilarious, too
He helps my sister pee and poo!”

Best Dad waits to see if there’s more. But then the girls are both bowing and asking how he liked their song.
“Is that how we’re going to end my theme song?” BDE asks, his eyes questioning, but his lips making a slight smirk of distaste. The children are oblivious.
“Yes, Dad, that’s perfect,” older child beams. Younger child claps and laughs heartily.
Best Dad Evar can’t help but smile and nod. “You’re right, girls, it’s perfect.”

“You’ve got a lot of work to do.” The narrator comments after Best Dad has made his way back to his closet to change out of his workout clothes.
“Hey, don’t be insulting my legacies!” Best Dad Evar replies sharply.
“I was only joking, Best Dad, take it easy.”
“Ha! This time you got me.” He says with a chuckle, tossing down his sweaty shirt and sweat pants in an all-too-familiar heap on the floor.

Best Dad Evar's Shenanigans #dad #blog

It’s a Sunday, so, like every other weekend day for as long as he can remember, Best Dad Evar is in the midst of an endless string of chores, tasks and events for other people. In this case, he’s in the car, returning from a big box store with a lone box of very convenient, but very expensive “pull-up” diapers. “Day of rest, my ass!” Best Dad mutters to himself.

“Best Dad Evar,” the narrator’s voice calls out, as if on cue, “I want to ask you about something.”
“Yeah, what.” Best Dad Evar replies with lazy dread.
“Well, I was listening in on your job interview this week and I heard you say something.” the narrator’s voice has just a hint of a scold that’s about to occur.
“I’m sure I said a lot of shit, that’s what you do when you’re trying to get someone to hire you.” Best Dad rolls his eyes as if this should be plainly obvious.

“You mean a lot of bullshit?” the narrator replies sharply.
“Not necessarily.” Best Dad answers warily. “Just ask me your question already, what did I say that you objected to.”
“You said you’d been someone’s ‘right hand man’ in the past and you’d be happy to do that again.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, I don’t believe you,” the narrator lays it all out on the table.

“Which part don’t you believe, that I’ve been someone’s right hand man or that I’d be happy doing it again.” Best Dad Evar’s eyebrows are raised. It seems he might be avoiding answering the question.
“I know you’ve done it before. But I also know that you believe you’re meant for greatness…. That you have important things to do in your career.”
“And you think that I can’t do that without being the man out front, the principal, the big cheese.”
“No, I think you think you can’t do that without being the big cheese.” Best Dad pulls into his driveway and ponders the thought as he navigates a winding path through the toys, bicycles and random lawn furniture that inevitably park themselves on the concrete walkway leading to the front door.

He opens the front door, finding the nearest flat surface to toss down his box-‘o’-diapers; whatever end table, bookshelf or whatnot happens to be just past the doorway. He continues talking, oblivious to whether any of his family members happens to be in the living room he’s just entered, “Well, you know what, I do think I have important work to do, both in my career and in my life.” He thinks a little bit further, and then continues, “But at some point you have to figure out who you are as an individual and play to your strengths.”
“What does that mean?” the narrator is doubtful.
“It means that if being a support guy to someone else’s big cheese is the best role for me in the business world, I shouldn’t look down my nose at that role.”
“Hm.” It’s clear the narrator still doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “But will you be satisfied in that role long term?”

“Well, yes, I think I will, as long as I’m helping build something great for my team. At the same time, I need to find other outlets for my inner big cheese.”
“Like your family history and family tree research.” the narrator is getting it now.
“And my writing.” Best Dad says with a smile of triumph.
“And your writing.” the narrator murmurs in reply, as if considering whether these things could possibly satisfy Best Dad’s ambition. At this moment, a shadow appears behind Best Dad Evar. It looms behind him like a ghost emerging from the fog, but Best Dad doesn’t see it. The narrator lets out a gasp as the shadow seems to rear up out of the depths of the sofa and then….

“Bounce!” the shadow yells and leaps onto Best Dad Evar’s shoulders and back.
“Aaack!” Best Dad yelps like a girl, but he quickly realizes that the arms that are just this close to strangling him and the body that is draped onto his back are those of his older child.
“Got you!” the girls shouts directly into his ear, causing a ringing that will last for several minutes.
“Jeezus, you scared the sh-” Best Dad stops himself from using the expletive in front of the child, or perhaps even children. The other one may be around here somewhere if this one was sitting on the sofa listening to him talk to himself. Actually, it’s more likely she didn’t notice him come in at all, at least until she thought of jumping on his back.

“Piggy back ride!” She shouts again.
“Damn, you’re heavy!” He says, smiling now. Luckily she’s not old enough yet for a comment on her weight to sting. “Where to?”
But before she can reply, another shadow streaks out of a nearby hallway and immediately launches itself toward Best Dad Evar’s legs. “Oof!” the air puffs out of his lungs as the full force of younger child’s charge strikes. Somehow he manages to stay on his feet despite the blow.
“Hey, you can’t jump on me like that!” Best Dad says to the little one, but kindly. “You could knock us both over. Now, if you were to climb up onto the sofa, you could jump from there and balance out your sister-”

A head peeks around the corner from the kitchen. Best Dad’s wife’s face is countenanced with a scowl and eyebrows pinched together in the middle. “Hey!” She says in the unmistakable mommy disapproves voice that all mommies seem to have. Three sets of eyes turn toward her sheepishly. “You know I don’t like these shenanigans!”
Best Dad and both girls stand stock still, as if they’re not sure what to do now. Older child speaks up first, “They’re just pick up tricks, Mommy,” she says with just a hint of a pout.
“Yes, but someone could get hurt!” she continues, but softens just slightly, providing Best Dad just a little bit of an opening.
“Just one time around the house, okay?” He pleads with her, “I promise, no one will get hurt.”

Her lips scrunch up and her eyes roll just a bit as she gives in. “All right. One time.”
“Yay!” the little one shouts and somehow she’s already leaping from the sofa, launching toward Best Dad’s chest. Surprised, he lets out another gasp and barely gets hold of her as she bounces off of him.
He whispers to her, “I almost dropped you on your a-… on your butt.” he chuckles. “That wouldn’t have been good.” Older child laughs heartily in his ear, still clinging on tightly. The thought of her sister getting dropped is perfectly raucous humor for her. The possibility that the little one might be hurt doesn’t really enter her thinking, at least not until the crying starts.

Best Dad’s wife is still standing there with her hands on her hips but she doesn’t say anything. Her facial expression says it all.

Big Ideas - #GBE2

It’s just after bedtime at the Best Dad Evar household. Best Dad is in the family garage seizing a few moments of quiet. The remnants of a massive shoving-aside project are evident all around him, with boxes, books and piles of stuff stacked to eye level on every available flat surface on either side of the borrowed electric car and its charging station. The clearance on either side of the vehicle suggests that Best Dad will have to back the car out of the garage and into the driveway before loading anyone else into the car. Best Dad is also squeezed into place next to the car, which is far nicer than any of the stuff that surrounds it. He’s checking tonight’s charge-up.
“So, you’re analyzing how much this power-up is costing you, right?” the Narrator voice ends the silence.
Best Dad’s face displays its ever-present slight tinge of annoyance, “I always think about how much things are costing me.”

“So, how much?” the Narrator asks the next logical question.
“Huh?” Best Dad plays dumb, or was he just not paying enough attention?
“How much is this costing?” the Narrator shows the ultimate in patience.
“Well,” there is a long pause, “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
“So what are you really doing out here?” the Narrator asks pointedly.
Best Dad Evar chuckles softly, “Honestly?”
“Mm hm?”

“I’m thinking.” Best Dad says, as if that answers the question.
“About?” the Narrator is now curious.
“Sometimes I have philosophical thoughts.”
“Really?” the Narrator is genuinely surprised. “Like what?”
“You know, like ‘What are we here on this Earth for?’ and ‘What does it all mean?’”
“And staring at this car and its charging station help you figure those things out?” the Narrator asks, with a bite of sarcasm.

Best Dad laughs, but not bitterly. “No, not really.” He sighs deeply. “Sometimes the ‘meaning of life’ questions are too deep and I end up thinking about random stuff.”
“Like?”
“Like, if this car could talk, what do you think it would say?”
There’s a long pause, which Best Dad could interpret as the Narrator taking a moment to carefully consider his response. “Well,” the Narrator starts, pausing for effect, “You know there are certain benefits to being an all-knowing, all-seeing Narrator.”
“What, you mean you can talk to cars?” Best Dad is incredulous, but clearly he’s going to press the issue further.
“If the car could talk, I know what it would say.” the Narrator says cryptically.

“Well, can it?” now it’s Best Dad’s turn at patience with the Narrator’s coyness. Best Dad’s not big on patience, in general.
“Hypothetically?”
“No, not hypothetically, actually!” Best Dad is annoyed now. Perturbed even.
“Well, I didn’t say I would tell you if it could talk.”
“You are a fucking tease!” Best Dad is shouting now. “Just tell me what it would say!”

“Continuous Power,” the Narrator says simply.
Best Dad’s mouth curls up into a puzzled smirk. “What does that mean? The car wants to rule the world?” Disbelief and disdain are evident on his face now.
“Think about it.” the Narrator leads.
“Not political power.”
“No.” the Narrator’s voice suggests he should go on.
“Power, as in electricity.”
“It is an electric car,” the Narrator now indicates that he’s caught on.
“It would want a continuous power source.”
“If it could talk.”
“Right. But that’s-”
The Narrator quickly cuts in, “Don’t say ‘That’s impossible’!”

“No, I wasn’t going to say that.” Best Dad has now caught the thread, his hand rests on his chin, rubbing it in the classic manner of a thinker. “I was thinking that’s not what this car was designed for.”
“Nonetheless…” the Narrator is going to let him puzzle this through.
“Huh.” Best Dad continues to think this over, he’s clearly interested in this line of thought. “How would you bring continuous power to a car like this one?”
“I know a lot, but I can’t see the future, Best Dad Evar.”
“Good to know,” he says, but clearly this conversation is going further.

“Okay, but you said you could speak hypothetically.” Best Dad picks up the thread again.
“No can do.” the Narrator replies. “It seems like a pretty simple problem to solve, though.”
“Simplicity isn’t my strong suit. I’m more of a big idea kind of guy.”
“Yes, you are, aren’t you. You’re long on big ideas but short on the nuts and bolts.”
“That’s me.”

“Well, maybe continuous power is another big idea that you’ll think about for a moment but leave to someone else to figure out how to solve the problem of actually doing it.” the Narrator says sadly.
“Maybe so, but you said it’s simple.” For once, Best Dad is going to play the bulldog and not give up on this one.
“It seems simple. An electric car that’s surrounded by appliances and devices that are continuously powered.”
“The seemingly simple solution would be to somehow connect the electric car to the same grid that powers that other stuff.” Best Dad is on a roll!
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“But the obvious problem is that the car is moving.”
“Aha! Yes, that’s the rub, isn’t it.”

“And that’s where I usually give up.” Best Dad says sadly but not dejectedly.
“You sure?” the Narrator nudges.
“Well,” there’s a pause as Best Dad convinces himself to take the next logical step. “There could be an electrified track that the car could connect to.
“Not an unprecedented solution.” The Narrator points out helpfully. “The buses in San Francisco still use a system like that.” There’s a pause. “Or?” The Narrator nudges again.
“Or, well, we have a wireless charger for that portable tablet thingy.” Best Dad holds up a finger as if to forestall the end of the discussion. “Maybe the technology will someday advance to a point where that kind of system will deliver enough power to keep a car moving.”
“Now you’re talking.” the Narrator sounds impressed.

“Yeah, but all of this is just idle chit-chat.” Best Dad throws in the towel.
“Why?” the Narrator sounds crestfallen by this turn of Best Dad’s mojo for the worse.
“Because I’ll never have the money or the position to even experiment with the possible solutions to these technical problems.”
“No, you probably never will. But every big advance starts with an idea, right?”
“So?” Best Dad clearly doesn’t see the point any more.
“So, maybe just having the idea is enough.” this smacks a bit of desperation.
“Not if no one ever hears of it.” Best Dad heaves himself away from the box labeled ‘Extension cords’, but which might actually contain Christmas dishes or ten year-old papers still left unfiled, and turns toward the door that will take him back into the maelstrom, er, the house.
“True, so how could we make sure at least a few people hear about continuous power, Best Dad Evar?” the Narrator shouts after him as he walks away.
Best Dad Evar throws up his hands but doesn’t turn around. “I have no idea.”

Mr. Fix-It #GBE2

We find our hero hunched over the sink in his bathroom. You’d think it was impossible for a standard porcelain sink to appear worn, but this one does. Best Dad Evar’s attention is focused on the mismatched faucet and its chrome handles. He tests one, twisting it gingerly clockwise, then back counterclockwise again. No water comes out of the tap.
Best Dad Evar sighs and lifts his head, looking at his own reflection in the mirror. His face is a blank mask showing through the flecks of whiteness that the brushing of four sets of teeth inevitably leaves behind on the mirror, but the lines on his face provide a hint to his disgust, in this case with himself.
“What’s up, Best Dad?” Our narrator’s voice arrives softly, not probing too hard.
“The sink doesn’t work.”
“I can see that.”
“Dad’s are supposed to have an instinct for this sort of thing, right?” Best Dad asks rhetorically, the disgust and disappointment now showing clearly on his face in the mirror.
“For fixing things?”
“Yeah, but somehow that instinct seems to have skipped a generation with me.”

“Your dad has the fix-it gene?”
“I don’t know if he has the gene, but when we were kids he always seemed to know how to fix things.”
“So what happened?”
“Actually, I asked my dad about that once.” Best Dad sighs again. “I said ‘didn’t you ever try to teach me to fix things?’”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Well, I tried to show you, but you never seemed interested in learning.’”

“What were you interested in as a kid?”
“Well, I did like destroying things. Like this one time, we had an old storage barn that my dad had built but which we didn’t need any more. My dad gave me a claw hammer and a crowbar and told me to go to town. I was happy as a clam tearing that thing down. I ripped off the roof with my gloved hands. I pried the plywood walls off the two-by-four frame with the crowbar. I whacked the framing boards with that hammer until they came apart. I even pulled out all the loose nails with the claw to make sure no one would step on them before we took all that wood off to the dump. Even tossing stuff out of my dad’s pickup into the gaping hole of the dump was fun for me.”
“Wow, it sounds like you liked destruction.”
“I missed my calling.”

“So why can’t you fix things?”
“I honestly don’t know. I suspect that part of it is because I’m always sure I’m going to break some little washer, bolt or tube or something and we’ll have to replace the whole damn sink (or whatever). That’s my instinct – that when you mess with things, they break.”
“So what do you do when something breaks at your house?”
“Well, first I stare at it for a minute or two. Then I see if there’s anything visible or obvious that I can fix, like a paper jam in the printer. If not, I loudly ask my wife something like, ‘Do you know what’s wrong with the dishwasher?’”
“That sounds like admitting defeat to me, Best Dad.”
“No, no, no.” He says, shaking his head and holding his hands up, palms forward. “That allows me to get her involved without directly asking for help.”
“Really?” The narrator asks, a clear sarcastic tint to his question.
“Yeah, yeah. Usually she’ll come over to take a look. Then I slowly back away, you know, to give her some space to take her own look at the offending appliance. I might even back right out of the room altogether if she’s not paying attention.”

“So after you’ve completely abdicated your responsibility as the man of the house, what then, Best Dad Evar?” Now the sarcasm drips obviously from the narrator’s voice.
Best Dad Evar chooses to ignore the insult and answers honestly, “Well, if we’re lucky, my wife’s tinkering is more successful than mine. If not, she usually calls her dad, who is unafraid of any challenge. He dives right in and can usually fix what for me seemed too big a risk to even touch.”
“You’re pretty lucky that you have at least one Mr. Fix-It in your life.”
“Yeah,” Best Dad says with relief apparent on his face. “I realize it every day. ‘Cause there’s pretty much always something broken around here.”

Best Dad Evar's Stash #GBE2

It’s Midnight at the home of Best Dad Evar. Our hero is tiptoeing down the shabbily carpeted hallway of his home. He chooses his footsteps carefully in the dim light of a small night light, avoiding that squeaky floorboard he knows is right… there. He’s carrying something under his arm, a box perhaps, but it is hidden in the dark shadows of the night.

“Best Dad Evar, why are you being so stealthy?” A voice whispers, as if it understands that discretion is required.
“I have to be careful whenever I go into my stash.” Best Dad Evar replies in a whisper of his own.
“You have a stash?” The narrator is incredulous.
“Don’t act so surprised. You know I have a stash.”
“I bet your family and friends don’t. They might be surprised.”
“Yeah, they might be. They might disapprove. Well, they don’t need to know about it, do they?”

“Okay, but what happens if someone finds your stash?”
“Yeah, that’s a real problem and I think about it sometimes when I’m accessing my stash.” Best Dad chews his cuticle, his brow knitted into a slight frown.
“You have to have it somewhere in the house.” The narrator prompts.
“But it can’t be anywhere the kids normally are or they could get into it.” Best Dad replies.
“No, you wouldn’t want them to find your stash, would you. You could keep it somewhere locked.”
“We don’t really have that many locks, though. And think of all the noise of all that locking and unlocking, you don’t want anyone to wake up due to the racket.”

“You could keep it up high somewhere.”
“Yeah, but what good is a stash if you can’t get to it when you want it.”
“So there is a small chance that someone could go where you don’t expect them to and discover your stash.”
There is a long pause, and Best Dad appears to be simply staring at the carpet. “Damn it!” Best Dad says through gritted teeth. He stands up suddenly and disappears into the back room. When he returns, he is carrying a much larger box and his shoes. His keys jingle in his pocket and atop the box sits a small padlock.

“Well, what now, Best Dad Evar?”
“Look what you’ve done, now I have to find a new place for my stash.”
“So you’ve decided to go for the lock, I think that’s a good choice.”
“And I’m not even sure the lock is to keep my children out!” Best Dad says, trudging toward the door.

Best Dad's Bakery #GBE2

Our hero, Best Dad Evar, stands in his kitchen on sore feet. The tiles below his feet were nice once, but now many are cracked and the grout between them is crumbling badly in spots, leaving gaps to collect crumbs, paper clips and glitter. Best Dad is preparing to bake a meal for himself and his children, as tonight his wife has to work. Well, perhaps “bake” isn’t the right term. He’s tossing chicken nuggets and tater tots on a cookie sheet and heating them up. Despite his aching heels, Best Dad prefers to stand in the kitchen to dampen the high-pitched singing emanating from his children’s dutifully educational television show. He actually looks thoughtful rather than tired. This is atypical.

“Best Dad Evar, what are thinking about?” our narrator interrupts him.
“It doesn’t matter.” Best Dad replies disgustedly. There is a long pause. It seems the narrator is considering his next words carefully. But Best Dad replies instead, “I was thinking about a system to capture rainwater that falls on or around our house and use it to water the plants or flush the toilets.” He pauses for a moment, but continues. “But it doesn’t matter, because most likely I’ll never install any system like that.”
“Why not?” the narrator asks, innocently.
“Well, I can say that it doesn’t happen because we don’t have the money or the time, or because we don’t own the house...”
“But?” The narrator correctly deciphers the inevitable ‘But’.
“But the real reason is that I’m not a doer. My mind cooks up these ideas all the time-”
“Like a bakery!” The narrator butts in. Best Dad Evar just glares into the space where the narrator might be if he was visible to him.

“Yeah, like a bakery. Give my mind a couple of ingredients and it will cook up an idea like this one. I have them all the time. I just never do anything to make them happen.” Best Dad Evar frowns, fiddling with his wedding ring absently and leaning his upper body over the counter to take some of the weight off of his feet.
“Well, you must have had the idea to have children, and you made that happen.”
“Yes, but my wife was involved in that, too. She’s more of the planner and doer around here.”
“You also decided to get involved in the mortgage business and you made that happen, too.”
Best Dad Evar pauses to think. “Yeah, I guess I did. Fat lot of good that’s doing me now.”
“Still, you can’t say that you never make your ideas happen. I am aware of several other ideas you’ve made into reality.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” Best Dad replies, brightening a bit, but still showing his disappointment in himself.

“What you’re really saying is that you lament those ideas that you’ve cooked up that you’ve never been able to make real.”
“Yes!” Best Dad exclaims. “My god, I’ve had so many great ideas. So many things that would have made my life great or even changed the world if I’d been able to bring them to fruition!”
“I know, I know. But Best Dad, you’re just one man and you only have so many resources at your disposal to make these ideas real. Can’t you appreciate it when some of them come true?”
“That’s always been a problem for me, being satisfied.” Best Dad opens the oven to reveal lightly browned, sizzling patties of breaded chicken and spuds.

“Wow, how did you know it was time to take those out of the oven, Best Dad?”
“I cook using my senses. I have an internal clock that tells me about how long these babies take to cook and I can smell when they’re close to done.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Maybe I should have been a baker.” Best Dad says absently as he slides a pair of oven mitts onto his hands that are so badly blackened and torn that the narrator gasps, sure Best Dad’s hands are about to be burned. Instead, Best Dad gingerly pulls the cookie sheet off its rack and quickly plops it down on top of the range. The smell is wonderful, in a processed food kinda way.
“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you spend more than fifteen minutes in the kitchen at a time.”
Best Dad laughs and smirks. “You know me well. That’s one idea that I won’t spend any time fretting over.”

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The Things a Dad Never Thought He'd Say - #GBE2

We catch up with Best Dad Evar at his dining room table. He sits in a baby food-stained chair at a table covered with a plastic table cloth. The table is piled with mail, partially sorted. In fact, our hero is doing the sorting. "Junk, junk, bill, junk, bill..., that goes in the wife's pile (probably junk, too)."

A child scoots past him and pulls on the handle of the sliding glass door that leads into their small back yard, causing the door to careen against the door frame with a thud. She runs through the now open door and skips merrily away, leaving the doorway open and exposed, no door, no screen, just cool air rushing in and warm air rushing out.

Without even turning his head to look at the offender, Best Dad Evar shouts, "Close the damn door!" There is no reply. He grips the table with whitened knuckles, pops out of his chair with a surprising sprightliness.

"You! Child!" Best Dad Evar's teeth are gritted. "Come back over here!" His eyes burn with fire. The little girl slinks over, peering up at him with her face downcast. Her pupils peek up at him as if her eyebrows were protecting them from his glare.

"You're heating up the whole god damned neighborhood! Close this door now!"

“Okay, daddy,” she says, still peering at him with those puppy dog eyes. She reaches up and slowly, carefully slides the door closed. She bounds off again, a bit slower and a bit less joyful than the first time.

“Best Dad Evar,” our narrator’s voice pierces the now empty room, “don’t you think you’re being too hard on the kid, she’s only three years old.”

“I know,” Best Dad says, his shoulders slumping a bit, “I never wanted to be the dad that said ridiculous things like ‘would the starving kids in Africa leave so much food on their plate?’ or ‘money doesn’t grow on trees, you know!’”

He now has that faraway look he often gets these days. “But I never realized that you don’t just say those things as a dad, you feel them... deep in your soul.”

“In your soul?” Our narrator’s tone is understandably incredulous.

“Wherever you feel your emotions.” Best Dad says, brushing off the narrator’s semantics. “And wherever that is, the strongest emotions I have these days all result from these ridiculous situations. I walk into the bathroom and some child has left the faucet running after washing their hands... and just left the room! Wouldn’t you be angry, furious even!”

“Well...”

Best Dad continues as if no one has spoken, “And the worst, the thing that sends me past the boiling point angry, when I hear that furnace click on and the front door is wide fucking open!! It’s all I can do to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs, ‘I have to work all day to make the money to pay the god damned power bill and you’re just letting that money float out the door!’”

“Have you actually said that to your children?” The narrator asks, clearly dreading the answer.

Best Dad gets quieter now. “Yes. They don’t understand. How could they? They have no concept of how money... works. When I say those things, the only thing they understand is that I’m angry. And it’s over something small, like an unrolled roll of toilet paper on the bathroom floor, or a refrigerator left open. But it’s all wasted money to me. Money that didn’t just grow on a tree. Money I worked for. And that makes me angry. They should know that, get that.”

“I think they get it.”

“Maybe, but it still doesn’t stop them from leaving the door open the next time.”

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Best Dad Evar on Control

We have to jog a bit to catch up with our hero today. His two children are running ahead of him at what for them is running pace. The threesome are on their daily "walk". It's nice that it's summer and the sun is out later in the evening, but these walks are not kind to Best Dad Evar's forty year-old knees, especially when the two kids decide to run, run, run.

"Please stop running!" he shouts at a volume that would, for any reasonable person, indicate that he's really, really serious. The children give no indication that they've heard him. They don't turn around or pause their chugging legs. Luckily the girls are only six and three and they're not athletic enough to get very far away. Still, Best Dad Evar increases his pace to a run and catches up with the pair, grabbing each by an arm.
"Didn't you hear me say stop?!" He shouts at the two girls. They glance sheepishly at him ... but the look doesn't last. He let's go of their arms, feeling guilty himself for getting physical with them. They continue on their merry way, now skipping, as Best Dad Evar continues to walk behind them.

Mercifully, they soon arrive at the driveway of the family's suburban home. The girls run ahead, shouting "We're home!!" so loud that Best Dad Evar immediately thinks of his wife's tender ears, knowing they will be aggravated by this outburst and thus she will be annoyed by the time he opens the front door. So he lingers, leaning against the corner of the garage, his body and eyes turned toward the small, grassy yard. The yard bears a vague resemblance to a remote island beach ... in that it is littered with plastic bottles, plastic toys, trash, shoes and random lawn furniture.

He hears a voice, "Best Dad Evar, how do you control your children?"
"Control?!" he guffaws loudly. "You've got to be kidding me. They have little minds of their own, you can't control them."
"Okay, how about discipline?"
"Vince Lombardi couldn't discipline these two!" he says, chuckling softly at his own little inside joke, twisting the use of the word 'discipline'.
"Seriously, Best Dad Evar, how do you get your kids to behave?"
"Well, it all goes back to a Dr. Phil I happened to watch a few years ago. In it he said 'find their currency'."
"What does that mean?"
"Find the thing that is as important to your kid as money is to you, and then take it away if the kid doesn't do what you ask them to do."
"And that's what you do?"
"That's what I do. My parenting style is: threaten and take away."
"Does that work?"
"Well... yes, but..."
"But what?"
"What Dr. Phil didn't warn me about is that this method doesn't help your children recognize and properly respond to the tone of voice and actions you use to warn them when they're doing something stupid or dangerous. It also doesn't help them respect you enough to do what you ask without the threat."
"So you always have to threaten them."
"Bingo. Asking nicely does no good at all. I have to start with the threat and ramp up the intensity of the threat from there." He pauses, thinking. "Oh, and counting works."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I still can't fathom why. But when I say '1... 2... 3', they seem to instinctively know that when I get to three, I'm going to take a toy or a TV show away from them."
"Well at least you have that."
"Yes, but that still leaves the dangerous. The stupid, I can roll my eyes and deal with. The dangerous I'm still struggling with."
"So what have you come up with?"
"Tall fences, safety gates and keeping stuff waaaaaay up high."

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Best Dad Evar on Career

We catch up with our hero on a break from his job. He stands outside the door of a quiet warehouse, a corrugated metal structure with only the smallest of windows and the occasional door in a two story high building that is a bland tan color. The parking lot Best Dad Evar stands in is similarly quiet with only a few cars and delivery trucks to suggest how many people work inside. He's enjoying a bit of fresh air and natural light, though he's a bit annoyed because a truck (no doubt filled with pallets of "product") has just passed in front of him, spewing filthy smelling black smoke from its exhaust pipes into his general aura.

Best Dad hears a voice, with which he's now familiar, "Best Dad Evar, what are your thoughts on the word 'career'?" the narrator asks, taking our hero's mind away from the stink.
Best Dad Evar snorts with disgust. "Career, what career? I drive a forklift. I work in a warehouse."
"But Best Dad Evar, you have a degree in Economics, what happened?"
"Well, a degree in Economics doesn't pay the bills. It doesn't buy diapers. It doesn't make your car payment or pay for groceries. It certainly doesn't pay medical insurance premiums. As it turns out, driving a forklift and moving boxes around in a warehouse does." He smirks.
"Still, shouldn't you be able to find something that pays the bills that uses your degree or your previous job skills more?"
"You mean, like my last job as a loan officer for a mortgage company?"
"Oh..."
"Yeah, oh. Not too many good jobs for us, are there?"
"No, apparently not."
"But an old boss got me this job here after the shit hit the fan in the mortgage biz, so here I am."
"Not exactly what you had planned."
"No, not at all. Maybe some day I'll be able to find a job where I can use those skills again. But for now we're surviving, and that's got to be enough."

"Weren't you expecting to 'make a difference in the world' when you got your degree Best Dad?"
"Yeah, but that was a long time ago when I was young and idealistic."
"You don't fool me, Best Dad Evar, I know you still think you could 'change the world'."
"Yeah, I guess," he says, his head hanging in shame. "It's just that I'm so tired and I don't feel like I have time to *do* anything. Once I get home from my job I have a few hours to be with my kids each night. Those hours are often jam-packed and stressful so afterwards I'm completely worn out. Weekends are typically filled with chores and maybe a few hours of relaxation. When am I going to do something so big it will 'change the world'?"
"But Best Dad, I hear about parents who are changing the world every day, despite their busy schedules, why can't you do what they're doing?"
"I guess I'm just not as good a person as those folks." Best Dad Evar says with a fiery look in his eyes. Is this anger directed at our narrator or himself? One can only guess.

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Meet Best Dad Evar

We meet our hero in his living room. The only light in the room emanates from a small table lamp and the flickering of the television. Best Dad Evar reclines on a couch that has seen better days, its cushions sagging, its arms misshapen and hard. He is dressed in a loose, faded t-shirt and unfortunate sweatpants with loose threads framing the hems and waistband. Best Dad Evar has lost most of the hair on his head, and what hair is left is peppered with gray. His eyes are mostly closed - no, scratch that, his eyes are closed. The drama on the television is not stimulating enough to overcome his most common feeling: exhaustion.

"Best Dad Evar!"
"Wuh...?" Best Dad Evar replies, startled, but still half asleep. He looks around suspiciously, but languidly. He's slightly annoyed. He pretty much always looks slightly annoyed.
"How did you come to be known as 'Best Dad Evar'?"
"What are you talking about? No one calls me that. And who are you?"
"I'm your narrator. I'm like Jeff Probst on Survivor. I see everything and I'll call you on everything you do or even think."
"Oh, shit." Best Dad Evar shakes his head, trying to clear it or to wake up. He thinks he's been dreaming. Maybe he is.

Best Dad Evar grunts as he gets up off the coach. He always grunts or groans or squeaks or says "ouch!" when he moves from sitting to standing. He wanders into the kitchen to get a drink of water. "Damn it!" he says quietly.
"What's wrong Best Dad Evar?"
"I forgot to wash the dishes again." He stares at the sink and the piles of dishes for a long moment. "Guess I better do them now. Better than in the morning when everything's crazy." Best Dad Evar often talks to himself. He believes he's doing that now, sort of.

"Best Dad Evar!?" Best Dad Evar scoffs. "Where did you get the idea that anyone calls me that?"
"Your daughter called you that this afternoon."
"She did? When?"
"This afternoon. I believe she was sitting in the living room watching television."
"Ah, that explains it. I said 'yes'. That's just about the only time she says anything nice to me: when I say 'yes' to something she wants."
"Oh, come on, that can't be true."
"Maybe I'm exaggerating. But why don't you call me 'Worst Dad Evar'? I'm sure she's called me that at least as many times. And certainly with far more emotion and conviction than when she's called me 'Best Dad'." His voice dips to a low grumble, "Just wait till I say 'no', Mr. All-Seeing Narrator... then you'll know." Best Dad Evar muses all this as he scrubs the plastic plates and sippy cups. Next are the pots and pans, each one associated with a different person in his small family.
"How many dinners were cooked here tonight?"
"Exactly." Best Dad Evar says with a wry smile, drying his hands finally with a towel.

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