Peeking out from below the unfamiliar car in the driveway of Best Dad Evar’s suburban home, we see one grown-up foot. The foot flexes on top of weeds that have found a permanent home in the cracks that run unevenly across the cement. There is a grunt and a curse. Then another curse.
“Where the fuck does this thing go?” Best Dad Evar scowls at a latch thingy.
“Having trouble with that car seat, Best Dad Evar?” The narrator asks with a drip of sarcasm.
“Yes!” His yell reverberates inside the small, crisp vehicle (all the windows are closed and only the rear passenger door is open). “Well, I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
“There’s a hook back there for that latch, isn’t there?” the narrator asks helpfully.
“Where...?” Best Dad asks, looking around the entire backseat frantically.
“Right there on the back of the seat.” The narrator says, slightly impatiently.
“Wh-? Oh.” Now Best Dad looks completely sheepish. “I didn’t see that there.” He peers at the icon on the back of the seat. It’s an anchor with a cars eat next to it. Next to the icon is a metal bar that’s just the right size. He latches the hook into place, then goes to work threading the seat belt through the seat. He looks at the receiving end of seat belt.
“This is nice.” Best Dad says. “There’s only one receiving seat belt latch.”
“Why do you sound so relieved?” the narrator replies.
“Usually there are two. Both my car and my wife’s have two, right next to each other. So instead of just latching it in, I have to use the process of elimination to find the right one. You know, try the male end of the belt into the first female receiver. ‘Nope. Guess it’s the other one.’”
“Yeah, but that just takes an extra second, doesn’t it?”
Best Dad rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore the narrator’s biting question. “Now let’s see if this car has that zipper sound that means the seat belt’s going to lock into place.” He extends the belt as far as it will go. Yes indeedy, the belt lets out a pleasing zipper sound as it reaches the end of its length. Best Dad Sighs with relief.
“Don’t you read instructions, Best Dad?” the narrator asks skeptically, as Best Dad tugs on the belt to test it for tightness.
“Sometimes,” he responds, while raising his eyebrows, giving himself away. He obviously doubts himself.
“Never.” The narrator corrects him.
“No, no, no, not never!” he protests weakly. “Rarely?” he wonders.
“That’s closer to the truth.”
Now Best Dad is tugging strongly on the top of the car seat itself to see how much play it has. It moves about an inch and a half before the locked belt stops its forward progress.
“Is it supposed to move that much?” the narrator asks, concerned for the safety of Best Dad’s littlest one.
“Yeah, that much play is normal.”
“Is that what the manual says?”
“No, that’s what my judgment says.”
“What about your wife’s judgment?”
Best Dad is sheepish again. “She’d put her entire body weight into tightening that belt until it didn’t move a millimeter.” But he perks up. “You know what, though, it’s not her car, it’s mine and I’m driving the kids today. So it’s my judgment that matters this time.”
“Well, now, it’s not your car, is it?” the narrator scolds.
“No, not literally. This is the car I was telling you about, the one I’m babysitting for my brother.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Yes, well, it’s new.” Best Dad still sounds completely unimpressed.
“It’s not just new, it’s newfangled.” The narrator is at the opposite end of the impressed spectrum.
“Yeah, one of those all electric jobs.” Best Dad says with a smirk.
“I thought this car would appeal to your environmentalist streak.”
“I’m sure it will impress me. Once I figure out how to turn the damn thing on!” As usual, Best Dad is nonplussed and annoyed.
“Didn’t your brother give you the keys?”
“’It doesn’t come with keys,’ he tells me. Just this remote thingy.” Best Dad holds up a palm-sized black electronic gadget. He looks at it disgustedly. “What if I just-“
“Start pressing buttons?” the narrator is concerned.
“Naaah, I wouldn’t-” Best Dad says with that shrug that says, ‘yeah, I would’.
“You wouldn’t?” the narrator interrupts doubtfully. “Mr. ‘Doesn’t read the directions’?”
“Well, this one looks like an on-off button. It’s got the right icon.” Suddenly the air conditioner hums to life in the small vehicle, and the video display on the console blips on like a television. “Progress!” Best Dad Evar shouts triumphantly.
“I don’t hear the motor running.”
“Hm. Yet another button to find. I think I remember my brother telling me about this one. It’s gotta be…. this one!”
“Are you sure?” the narrator asks doubtfully.
“No, but if I don’t try it, I have to spend twenty minutes locating the manual, so, here goes!”
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The Dream #GBE2
Our hero, Best Dad Evar leans against the doorway into the living room of his in-laws’ home peering across the room. It is evening and the rest of the family is clearing dishes and food from the table. Best Dad’s oldest daughter sits at a dusty but well kept grand piano carefully picking out notes on the white keys and singing a tune quietly, while he watches her quietly. Though he’s in plain sight, his posture indicates that he’s melting into the shadows, so as not to disturb the youngster. His eyes shine with approval despite the occasional, obvious sharp notes.
The narrator quietly interrupts his enjoyment of the moment. “Best Dad Evar, do you have a dream?”
“Do I dream? Of course I dream” Best Dad says with a smirk.
“No, I don’t mean the dreams you have at night. I mean a dream. Dream with a capital ’D’.”
“Oh, that kind of dream. Like my daughter’s dream to be a famous pianist and singer?” He looks at the child, still playing quite nicely and singing not quite in tune. “Yeah, I had a dream like that once.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I had a dream to be the next Jack Sikma.”
“Jack Sikma? Who’s that?”
“Well, in the late 1970’s and through the 1980’s, Jack Sikma was one of the top forwards in the National Basketball Association. He was six foot ten, had a very consistent shot and played well on the boards getting rebounds. When I was younger, I watched all the big sports, and I thought if there was any player that I could be like, it would be him.”
“So, Sikma was your favorite player?”
“No, no. My favorite player was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. So of course, I practiced my sky hook, too. But Jack Sikma was a white guy like me. He had a shot I could emulate and a rebounding and defensive style I could work towards. He wasn’t my idol, but he was my model.”
“There’s just one problem, Best Dad Evar.”
“I’m getting there. When I was twelve and thirteen years old, that dream seemed realistic. I had two uncles who were pretty tall. Nowhere near six foot ten, but still, there’s always that hope in the back of your mind that you’ll be the exception. Especially when you’re in the middle of puberty and everything’s changing.”
“And when you reached fourteen?” the narrator asks knowingly.
“Yeah, at fourteen, my teammates were starting to tower over me and I stopped growing at just short of five foot ten. Nothing close to Jack Sikma‘s height and size were in my genes.”
“And by sixteen?” the narrator prompts him further.
“At sixteen I found myself competing with the little, quick guys who were great ball-handlers and whose feet moved at lightning speed defensively. That just wasn’t my game at all. When I finally got a little playing time that year, I hurt my knee and spent the rest of the season in a flexible cast. The next year I decided to ‘get real’ and focus on my classes so I could get into a good college and I never played organized sports after that.”
Suddenly, there is a commotion at the piano. Best Dad’s younger daughter has asserted herself onto the piano bench and without asking has claimed her turn at the keys. She gleefully pounds the keys in a cacophony of sound that even a parent couldn’t love. Actually, a parent is very likely to become immediately annoyed, particularly due to the complete lack of manners displayed in the interruption. The older child reacts with a screechy, ear-splitting yell of “Get off!!” Best Dad rolls his eyes and strides over to avert a sibling meltdown. He sighs and tells the younger child she can only have a turn if she asks nicely. When she does so, he shrugs and asks the older child if she will allow the youngster to take a turn.
“I’ll give you a turn playing games on my phone,” he adds as incentive. The older child’s shoulders slump in defeat, but she agrees and slides off the bench.
Best Dad slinks back to the doorway and leans heavily against it again. He watches sadly as his older daughter accepts the electronic bribe and plops down on the sofa, now enthralled with mindless video games. The narrator continues, the random clanging of notes preventing the children from hearing him, “Haven’t you developed another dream since your passion to be the next Jack Sikma died?”
“A dream like that one? An all-consuming passion that leads to you dedicating your life to one single pursuit to the exclusion of all others?”
“Yes?” the narrator asks in a hopeful tone, knowing full well that the answer is a resounding “No!”
“Nope, since then I’ve had something else. I don’t know what to call them. Perhaps you could call them ‘pursuits’ or ‘interests’ or even ‘hobbies’. ‘Careers’ I’ve had, too, several of them. None of these interests or careers has ever felt as firmly rooted in my heart as that first one. I wanted to be a baseball statistician, an economist, a mortgage broker, and maybe a few other things. I’ve dedicated a few years to each of them, but they’ve risen to the level of a ‘dream’.”
“This is a running theme with you, Best Dad: a lack of loyalty to your dreams, ideas, pursuits, et cetera.”
“No argument here.” Best Dad says sadly, but matter-of-factly.
“Except one thing.”
“Hm?”
“Your family history research.”
“Yeah.” Best Dad pauses for a long moment, the gears of his mind turning over this item. “I have been pretty loyal to that pursuit, haven’t I?”
“So much so that you might refer to it as a ‘calling’?” The narrator says, half question, half statement.
“I’ve actually been doing research on my family tree and family history for my entire adult life. My grandmother got me started on that path when I was a teenager when she showed me her family tree that goes back to the Mayflower.”
“Wow!” The narrator is impressed.
Best Dad continues, “But… since there’s no money in that pursuit, it will always be just a hobby. And beyond that, there’s no single thing I can call my ‘Dream’ in family history.”
“You know that’s not true.” The narrator rebukes him.
“No, you’re right." Best Dad pauses for a satisfied smile. "I did have a dream in family history research.”
“And?”
“And it already came true.”
“Mm hmm.” The narrator replies knowingly.
“Yeah, I had what I felt to be a mystery in my family history that I wanted to solve, a hole in my family tree that I felt should be filled. And through my own initiative and research, I discovered that missing link in my family tree. I opened up a whole section of our family history, discovered well-known and respected ancestors, even found the gravesites of several generations of my family.”
“So, not only did you have a dream after Jack Sikma, it’s already come true.”
“Yeah." He says, continuing to smile. "But that’s one of the drawbacks of dreams.”
“What’s that Best Dad?” the narrator asks with surprise.
“The dream-come-true moment is only one moment and then that moment passes."
"Ah," the narrator understands.
"Once that moment is in the past, it's a memory, not a dream any more and, inevitably you have to find a new dream.”
“And that’s not so easy, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. But you know what?”
“What?”
“It’s pretty fun to watch these little ones developing their first dreams.”
“First dreams are like first loves aren’t they?” The narrator wistfully and rhetorically asks. “Pie-in-the-sky and head-over-heels.”
“Except for one thing. Unlike first loves, we parents can share those first dreams along with our children. Those dreams sink deeply into us, and they become our dreams, too.”
The narrator quietly interrupts his enjoyment of the moment. “Best Dad Evar, do you have a dream?”
“Do I dream? Of course I dream” Best Dad says with a smirk.
“No, I don’t mean the dreams you have at night. I mean a dream. Dream with a capital ’D’.”
“Oh, that kind of dream. Like my daughter’s dream to be a famous pianist and singer?” He looks at the child, still playing quite nicely and singing not quite in tune. “Yeah, I had a dream like that once.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I had a dream to be the next Jack Sikma.”
“Jack Sikma? Who’s that?”
“Well, in the late 1970’s and through the 1980’s, Jack Sikma was one of the top forwards in the National Basketball Association. He was six foot ten, had a very consistent shot and played well on the boards getting rebounds. When I was younger, I watched all the big sports, and I thought if there was any player that I could be like, it would be him.”
“So, Sikma was your favorite player?”
“No, no. My favorite player was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. So of course, I practiced my sky hook, too. But Jack Sikma was a white guy like me. He had a shot I could emulate and a rebounding and defensive style I could work towards. He wasn’t my idol, but he was my model.”
“There’s just one problem, Best Dad Evar.”
“I’m getting there. When I was twelve and thirteen years old, that dream seemed realistic. I had two uncles who were pretty tall. Nowhere near six foot ten, but still, there’s always that hope in the back of your mind that you’ll be the exception. Especially when you’re in the middle of puberty and everything’s changing.”
“And when you reached fourteen?” the narrator asks knowingly.
“Yeah, at fourteen, my teammates were starting to tower over me and I stopped growing at just short of five foot ten. Nothing close to Jack Sikma‘s height and size were in my genes.”
“And by sixteen?” the narrator prompts him further.
“At sixteen I found myself competing with the little, quick guys who were great ball-handlers and whose feet moved at lightning speed defensively. That just wasn’t my game at all. When I finally got a little playing time that year, I hurt my knee and spent the rest of the season in a flexible cast. The next year I decided to ‘get real’ and focus on my classes so I could get into a good college and I never played organized sports after that.”
Suddenly, there is a commotion at the piano. Best Dad’s younger daughter has asserted herself onto the piano bench and without asking has claimed her turn at the keys. She gleefully pounds the keys in a cacophony of sound that even a parent couldn’t love. Actually, a parent is very likely to become immediately annoyed, particularly due to the complete lack of manners displayed in the interruption. The older child reacts with a screechy, ear-splitting yell of “Get off!!” Best Dad rolls his eyes and strides over to avert a sibling meltdown. He sighs and tells the younger child she can only have a turn if she asks nicely. When she does so, he shrugs and asks the older child if she will allow the youngster to take a turn.
“I’ll give you a turn playing games on my phone,” he adds as incentive. The older child’s shoulders slump in defeat, but she agrees and slides off the bench.
Best Dad slinks back to the doorway and leans heavily against it again. He watches sadly as his older daughter accepts the electronic bribe and plops down on the sofa, now enthralled with mindless video games. The narrator continues, the random clanging of notes preventing the children from hearing him, “Haven’t you developed another dream since your passion to be the next Jack Sikma died?”
“A dream like that one? An all-consuming passion that leads to you dedicating your life to one single pursuit to the exclusion of all others?”
“Yes?” the narrator asks in a hopeful tone, knowing full well that the answer is a resounding “No!”
“Nope, since then I’ve had something else. I don’t know what to call them. Perhaps you could call them ‘pursuits’ or ‘interests’ or even ‘hobbies’. ‘Careers’ I’ve had, too, several of them. None of these interests or careers has ever felt as firmly rooted in my heart as that first one. I wanted to be a baseball statistician, an economist, a mortgage broker, and maybe a few other things. I’ve dedicated a few years to each of them, but they’ve risen to the level of a ‘dream’.”
“This is a running theme with you, Best Dad: a lack of loyalty to your dreams, ideas, pursuits, et cetera.”
“No argument here.” Best Dad says sadly, but matter-of-factly.
“Except one thing.”
“Hm?”
“Your family history research.”
“Yeah.” Best Dad pauses for a long moment, the gears of his mind turning over this item. “I have been pretty loyal to that pursuit, haven’t I?”
“So much so that you might refer to it as a ‘calling’?” The narrator says, half question, half statement.
“I’ve actually been doing research on my family tree and family history for my entire adult life. My grandmother got me started on that path when I was a teenager when she showed me her family tree that goes back to the Mayflower.”
“Wow!” The narrator is impressed.
Best Dad continues, “But… since there’s no money in that pursuit, it will always be just a hobby. And beyond that, there’s no single thing I can call my ‘Dream’ in family history.”
“You know that’s not true.” The narrator rebukes him.
“No, you’re right." Best Dad pauses for a satisfied smile. "I did have a dream in family history research.”
“And?”
“And it already came true.”
“Mm hmm.” The narrator replies knowingly.
“Yeah, I had what I felt to be a mystery in my family history that I wanted to solve, a hole in my family tree that I felt should be filled. And through my own initiative and research, I discovered that missing link in my family tree. I opened up a whole section of our family history, discovered well-known and respected ancestors, even found the gravesites of several generations of my family.”
“So, not only did you have a dream after Jack Sikma, it’s already come true.”
“Yeah." He says, continuing to smile. "But that’s one of the drawbacks of dreams.”
“What’s that Best Dad?” the narrator asks with surprise.
“The dream-come-true moment is only one moment and then that moment passes."
"Ah," the narrator understands.
"Once that moment is in the past, it's a memory, not a dream any more and, inevitably you have to find a new dream.”
“And that’s not so easy, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. But you know what?”
“What?”
“It’s pretty fun to watch these little ones developing their first dreams.”
“First dreams are like first loves aren’t they?” The narrator wistfully and rhetorically asks. “Pie-in-the-sky and head-over-heels.”
“Except for one thing. Unlike first loves, we parents can share those first dreams along with our children. Those dreams sink deeply into us, and they become our dreams, too.”
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Planning #GBE2
We find our hero, Best Dad Evar sitting in a black, wheeled office chair at a desk with numerous scratches and dings. Behind and below the chair the carpet in the family’s living room bunches up unnaturally, so that when he rolls the chair back a bit, Best Dad has to give an extra oomph just to move into a more comfortable position. That’s tough these days. Finding a comfortable position, that is.
“Best Dad Evar,” a voice calls out in the darkened room. Best Dad Evar doesn’t look up from his computer screen. “Is it true that you actually planned to have your children?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Best Dad replies.
“Well, I overheard some of your co-workers discussing their own children today and from what I heard, it sounds like none of their children were actually planned.”
“They just sort of happened when they happened.” Best Dad finished the thought. “Yes, I heard that, too. For us, it just didn’t make sense to have children if you weren’t fully prepared to be a parent.”
“And you and your wife didn’t feel prepared for all those earlier years you were together?”
“No. Even right up to the moment we took our first child home, we didn’t feel prepared.”
“The planning must have helped, right?”
“You would think it would, wouldn’t you? Well, it sure didn’t feel that way…. Doesn’t feel that way.”
“No? You think parenting is just as difficult even though you did everything you planned to do beforehand?”
“If anything I find myself wondering often if we didn’t make a huge mistake by waiting all those years. You know what that did to us? It made us older.”
“Not wiser? More experienced?”
“Not when it comes to parenting.” Best Dad replies with a tired rub of his eyes. “We’re just older, our joints creakier and muscles more sore, our brains have lost more cells, we’re more dependent on caffeine and thus we’re crankier. None of this helps us be better parents.”
“Still, Best Dad, some of your plans have to have helped.”
“Well, let’s put it this way. Some of the things we planned to do, we’ve actually done.”
“Like what?”
“Like always having someone who is family or ‘like family’ watching the children when we’re away or working.” Best Dad’s face changes into a very slight smile, which is about as much emotion as you ever see from him.
“You never hire babysitters?”
“We never have. We’ve always had grandparents, aunties or very close friends who’ve watched them.”
“Wow, Best Dad, that’s really impressive.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, that slight smile still on his face. “That’s one thing that has really worked for everyone.”
“But we also planned that we would be settled in our careers by the time we started our family.”
“Oh.” The narrator’s voice betrays his dismay.
“We thought we’d be financially solid and secure.”
“Yikes.” You can almost hear the narrator cringe.
“We figured we wouldn’t be worrying so much about money and success.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. And one year ago, I effectively had to start my career over from square one.”
“Uh huh.”
“During the worst recession of our lifetime.”
“Yeah.”
“And having my industry of choice in ruins.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. You can’t plan for all that.”
“No.”
A tone on the computer indicates to Best Dad Evar that he has an email. He quickly reads the message on the screen, then lets out his breath in an exasperated “Hah!” His arms slump down onto the desk in front of him, followed by his head. With his forehead resting on the backs of his hands, his head shakes back and forth.
“What is it Best Dad Evar?” The narrator shows genuine concern.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“That was an email from my brother.” He pauses for a long moment. The narrator chooses to quietly wait, realizing that the final shoe has dropped. “As if I don’t have enough to do in my life, now he wants me to babysit his fucking car!”
“Best Dad Evar,” a voice calls out in the darkened room. Best Dad Evar doesn’t look up from his computer screen. “Is it true that you actually planned to have your children?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Best Dad replies.
“Well, I overheard some of your co-workers discussing their own children today and from what I heard, it sounds like none of their children were actually planned.”
“They just sort of happened when they happened.” Best Dad finished the thought. “Yes, I heard that, too. For us, it just didn’t make sense to have children if you weren’t fully prepared to be a parent.”
“And you and your wife didn’t feel prepared for all those earlier years you were together?”
“No. Even right up to the moment we took our first child home, we didn’t feel prepared.”
“The planning must have helped, right?”
“You would think it would, wouldn’t you? Well, it sure didn’t feel that way…. Doesn’t feel that way.”
“No? You think parenting is just as difficult even though you did everything you planned to do beforehand?”
“If anything I find myself wondering often if we didn’t make a huge mistake by waiting all those years. You know what that did to us? It made us older.”
“Not wiser? More experienced?”
“Not when it comes to parenting.” Best Dad replies with a tired rub of his eyes. “We’re just older, our joints creakier and muscles more sore, our brains have lost more cells, we’re more dependent on caffeine and thus we’re crankier. None of this helps us be better parents.”
“Still, Best Dad, some of your plans have to have helped.”
“Well, let’s put it this way. Some of the things we planned to do, we’ve actually done.”
“Like what?”
“Like always having someone who is family or ‘like family’ watching the children when we’re away or working.” Best Dad’s face changes into a very slight smile, which is about as much emotion as you ever see from him.
“You never hire babysitters?”
“We never have. We’ve always had grandparents, aunties or very close friends who’ve watched them.”
“Wow, Best Dad, that’s really impressive.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, that slight smile still on his face. “That’s one thing that has really worked for everyone.”
“But we also planned that we would be settled in our careers by the time we started our family.”
“Oh.” The narrator’s voice betrays his dismay.
“We thought we’d be financially solid and secure.”
“Yikes.” You can almost hear the narrator cringe.
“We figured we wouldn’t be worrying so much about money and success.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. And one year ago, I effectively had to start my career over from square one.”
“Uh huh.”
“During the worst recession of our lifetime.”
“Yeah.”
“And having my industry of choice in ruins.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. You can’t plan for all that.”
“No.”
A tone on the computer indicates to Best Dad Evar that he has an email. He quickly reads the message on the screen, then lets out his breath in an exasperated “Hah!” His arms slump down onto the desk in front of him, followed by his head. With his forehead resting on the backs of his hands, his head shakes back and forth.
“What is it Best Dad Evar?” The narrator shows genuine concern.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“That was an email from my brother.” He pauses for a long moment. The narrator chooses to quietly wait, realizing that the final shoe has dropped. “As if I don’t have enough to do in my life, now he wants me to babysit his fucking car!”
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Bedtime #GBE2
The lights are deliberately low at Best Dad Evar’s home. The hallway filled with framed family photos, and occasional crayon marks and furniture scrapes is particularly dark, as it leads to the children’s bedrooms. Everything in the house is dark and quiet... for the moment. The silhouette of our hero appears in the doorway at the end of the hall, then tiptoes out, one step, two-
“Brrrriiiinggg!!!” The telephone loudly announces that some fool is calling at bedtime!
“God damn it!” Best Dad Evar grunts through gritted teeth. He lopes across to the phone and roughly pulls it from its base before the second ring.
“Hello!” He hisses into the receiver. A voice can be heard on the other end of the line, but its words are muffled. Best Dad Evar rolls his eyes. Next he nods.
“Well, we just got the kids to bed, but... well, now’s okay.” It must be clear to the person on the other end of the line from his tone that it’s not okay, right? Or maybe not, because whoever it is, they keep talking.
“Uh huh.” Best Dad says quietly, moving quietly into the kitchen to ensure that his half of this conversation can’t be heard in the back rooms. Anything to avoid disrupting the now (hopefully!) sleeping children.
“Mmmm.” He says.
“Oh... yeah.” He says.
“That sucks.” He says. His fingers are now tapping on the counter impatiently.
“Well, why don’t you-” He stops as the voice on the other end of the line breaks in, interrupting. Best Dad now glares ahead. Eventually the voice stops.
“Well, I gotta go.” Best Dad says.
After a moment he says, “I have some things to do to prepare for tomorrow,” explaining himself to the doubter on the line. The voice continues for another minute or two.
“I’m sure it’ll work out. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Another minute of chatter ensues from the phone as Best Dad glares at it. At one point he holds the phone away from his ear and makes a face at it.
“All right, well I really have to go now.” Finally the other party relents and Best Dad says goodbye and hangs up the phone.
“Wow, Best Dad Evar, what was that all about?” The narrator asks now that Best Dad has settled in to wash the dishes.
“Oh, it was my brother again.”
“Does he always call-”
“At Bedtime!” Best Dad exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air, sending soap suds flying toward the yellowing ceiling. “Can you fucking believe that?! How many times have I mentioned to people that we try to keep everything quiet and calm at bedtime?! It’s not like we’ve ever changed when bedtime is, have we? Everyone knows when bedtime is at our house. But every other night that god damn phone rings at 8:15 or 8:30!”
“Well, why did he call? It must have been important.” The narrator says. Is that mock obliviousness in his voice or imbecilic sincerity?
Best Dad raises one eyebrow and his lips curl into a smirk. “Bull shit!”
“What?” The narrator sounds wounded, but he could just be playing along.
“It was some spat with his girlfriend.”
“His on-again off-again girlfriend?”
“Did you know that already?” Best Dad sounds impressed.
“No, based on what little you’ve told me about your brother, I guessed it.”
“Yeah, well. It was some stupid shit that won’t matter day-after-tomorrow. But he just had to call me to ask what I thought about the whole thing.”
“I notice you didn’t really tell him.”
“And he never really gave me a chance to, did he?”
“No, it sounded like he was just talking non-stop.”
“That’s because the only thing he wants is for someone to listen to him talk. He doesn’t really want anyone else’s help or advice. He just wants you to listen and agree with him and his ideas and plans.”
“Speaking of ideas and plans…?” The narrator wonders.
“Whatever do you mean?” now it’s Best Dad’s turn to mock obliviousness.
“The favor, I want to know what the favor was!”
“Ooooooh, you want to know about the faaaaavor.” Best Dad pauses for dramatic effect. “You’ve been itching to know about the favor.”
“Well, yes, Best Dad, I'm very curious about the favor.”
“A little mystery like that burns inside you, doesn’t it. Soon you’re longing to find out what it is, smoldering with curiosity. It could be something stupid or mundane.” He says raising his eyebrows playfully.
“But knowing your brother, it’s probably not.”
“No.”
“So?”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait a little longer. He talked a lot, but he didn’t mention it.”
“Damn it!”
Best Dad laughs heartily, amused that even his personal narrator swears.
“Brrrriiiinggg!!!” The telephone loudly announces that some fool is calling at bedtime!
“God damn it!” Best Dad Evar grunts through gritted teeth. He lopes across to the phone and roughly pulls it from its base before the second ring.
“Hello!” He hisses into the receiver. A voice can be heard on the other end of the line, but its words are muffled. Best Dad Evar rolls his eyes. Next he nods.
“Well, we just got the kids to bed, but... well, now’s okay.” It must be clear to the person on the other end of the line from his tone that it’s not okay, right? Or maybe not, because whoever it is, they keep talking.
“Uh huh.” Best Dad says quietly, moving quietly into the kitchen to ensure that his half of this conversation can’t be heard in the back rooms. Anything to avoid disrupting the now (hopefully!) sleeping children.
“Mmmm.” He says.
“Oh... yeah.” He says.
“That sucks.” He says. His fingers are now tapping on the counter impatiently.
“Well, why don’t you-” He stops as the voice on the other end of the line breaks in, interrupting. Best Dad now glares ahead. Eventually the voice stops.
“Well, I gotta go.” Best Dad says.
After a moment he says, “I have some things to do to prepare for tomorrow,” explaining himself to the doubter on the line. The voice continues for another minute or two.
“I’m sure it’ll work out. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Another minute of chatter ensues from the phone as Best Dad glares at it. At one point he holds the phone away from his ear and makes a face at it.
“All right, well I really have to go now.” Finally the other party relents and Best Dad says goodbye and hangs up the phone.
“Wow, Best Dad Evar, what was that all about?” The narrator asks now that Best Dad has settled in to wash the dishes.
“Oh, it was my brother again.”
“Does he always call-”
“At Bedtime!” Best Dad exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air, sending soap suds flying toward the yellowing ceiling. “Can you fucking believe that?! How many times have I mentioned to people that we try to keep everything quiet and calm at bedtime?! It’s not like we’ve ever changed when bedtime is, have we? Everyone knows when bedtime is at our house. But every other night that god damn phone rings at 8:15 or 8:30!”
“Well, why did he call? It must have been important.” The narrator says. Is that mock obliviousness in his voice or imbecilic sincerity?
Best Dad raises one eyebrow and his lips curl into a smirk. “Bull shit!”
“What?” The narrator sounds wounded, but he could just be playing along.
“It was some spat with his girlfriend.”
“His on-again off-again girlfriend?”
“Did you know that already?” Best Dad sounds impressed.
“No, based on what little you’ve told me about your brother, I guessed it.”
“Yeah, well. It was some stupid shit that won’t matter day-after-tomorrow. But he just had to call me to ask what I thought about the whole thing.”
“I notice you didn’t really tell him.”
“And he never really gave me a chance to, did he?”
“No, it sounded like he was just talking non-stop.”
“That’s because the only thing he wants is for someone to listen to him talk. He doesn’t really want anyone else’s help or advice. He just wants you to listen and agree with him and his ideas and plans.”
“Speaking of ideas and plans…?” The narrator wonders.
“Whatever do you mean?” now it’s Best Dad’s turn to mock obliviousness.
“The favor, I want to know what the favor was!”
“Ooooooh, you want to know about the faaaaavor.” Best Dad pauses for dramatic effect. “You’ve been itching to know about the favor.”
“Well, yes, Best Dad, I'm very curious about the favor.”
“A little mystery like that burns inside you, doesn’t it. Soon you’re longing to find out what it is, smoldering with curiosity. It could be something stupid or mundane.” He says raising his eyebrows playfully.
“But knowing your brother, it’s probably not.”
“No.”
“So?”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait a little longer. He talked a lot, but he didn’t mention it.”
“Damn it!”
Best Dad laughs heartily, amused that even his personal narrator swears.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Where the Wild Things Grow #GBE2
Today our hero Best Dad Evar is standing in the small, multicolored back lawn of his faded home, clutching a cheap hose with a plastic nozzle. Water shoots out in uneven fountains from the nozzle into a surprisingly lush garden nestled into the back corner of the yard, the kinks being so bad that occasionally they lessen or completely interrupt the water pressure. “Cheap piece of shit.” He exclaims, but not loudly, and despite his foul words he seems almost, dare we say it… content.
The familiar voice of the narrator quietly rises, as it typically does, when Best Dad is out of earshot of the rest of the family. “Best Dad, I’ve noticed that you have a number of…” he pauses, searching for the right term, “plants growing wild around your property.”
“You mean weeds?” Best Dad replies with a wry smile.
“Well yes, those, too. But you also have a number of flowering plants and even vegetables sprouting up in odd places.”
“Ah, yes, our volunteers.”
“Volunteers?”
“That’s what we call plants that we end up liking that we didn’t actively plant ourselves. We have a bunch of them. We have flowers: our lilies and our four o’clocks. Our mint, too. Did you know that fresh mint makes a very tasty tea?”
“I hear it grows like a weed.”
“Yeah, it does, but it’s manageable.” Best Dad says. For once he doesn’t seem annoyed by what could be a very vexing problem.
“What about this pumpkin plant coming out of your flower patch?”
“Oh, that’s actually transplanted from my compost. So not a volunteer, but pretty cool anyway. We’re going to get three pumpkins out of that plant!” He’s proud, it’s obvious.
Suddenly, a commotion can be heard from inside the house. Screams and the pounding of footsteps can clearly be heard even outside in the yard. Best Dad doesn’t move. The narrator asks curiously, “Um, shouldn’t you check on what’s going on in there?”
Best Dad sighs deeply. “Yeah.” He walks over to turn off the hose. Clearly he doesn’t think the commotion is an emergency. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Ten tops.”
A whirlwind is passing through the home, carrying with it presents and sweets. The children are jumping up and down and shouting, and it’s now apparent that these are gleeful shouts. Best Dad and his wife are briskly whisking toys and laundry off of the floor and the furniture, but are failing in their attempt to make the home presentable for their guest. As quickly as it arrives, the whirlwind is gone again only minutes later, leaving the children huffing and puffing as they come down from their sugar highs, and the parents slumped against the kitchen counters, shaking their bemused heads almost in unison. Best Dad rolls his eyes and returns to the back yard and his hose.
“Best Dad, what was that?!” the narrator asks with high-pitched alarm.
“That,” he pauses, gathering his breath, “was my brother.”
“Did you know he was coming?”
“Of course not, we never know when he’s coming. We never even know when he’s going to be in the country!”
“Surely you’re exaggerating.”
Best Dad chuckles softly. “You’re right, we know when he’s arriving in the country, because he always needs a ride from the airport.”
“Does he always stir everything up like that when he comes?”
“It’s just his way. The kids love him, of course. He’s fun. He plays with them. He’s loud and boisterous, which, let’s face it, kids find irresistible.”
“But he always seems to leave the grown-ups perturbed.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a shit-disturber. He can’t help but mention some complaint or gossip whenever he visits.”
“What was it this time?”
“He has a favor to ask.”
“That doesn’t seem like much. What was the favor?”
“Well, he couldn’t just come out and ask me the favor, could he?”
“No?”
“No, he says ‘I’ve got a favor to ask, and it’s kind of a big one.’”
“And then?”
“Then he says, ‘But I don’t want to bother you with it right now. I can see you guys are busy. We’ll talk about it later.’”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Why wait, just ask me?’ But he was already heading out the door and he pretended not to hear me.”
“So you’re left speculating and worrying about how big a favor it could be.”
“Exactly. See what I mean? Shit-disturber!”
“Well, it could be worse.”
“Really, how?”
“Well, uh, I don’t know. It was just something to say.”
“Yeah,” Best Dad says with a smirk and a shake of his bald head. His watering complete, he tosses the hose loosely onto the lawn and looks longingly at his pumpkins, as if wishing everything in life could be so productively simple.
The familiar voice of the narrator quietly rises, as it typically does, when Best Dad is out of earshot of the rest of the family. “Best Dad, I’ve noticed that you have a number of…” he pauses, searching for the right term, “plants growing wild around your property.”
“You mean weeds?” Best Dad replies with a wry smile.
“Well yes, those, too. But you also have a number of flowering plants and even vegetables sprouting up in odd places.”
“Ah, yes, our volunteers.”
“Volunteers?”
“That’s what we call plants that we end up liking that we didn’t actively plant ourselves. We have a bunch of them. We have flowers: our lilies and our four o’clocks. Our mint, too. Did you know that fresh mint makes a very tasty tea?”
“I hear it grows like a weed.”
“Yeah, it does, but it’s manageable.” Best Dad says. For once he doesn’t seem annoyed by what could be a very vexing problem.
“What about this pumpkin plant coming out of your flower patch?”
“Oh, that’s actually transplanted from my compost. So not a volunteer, but pretty cool anyway. We’re going to get three pumpkins out of that plant!” He’s proud, it’s obvious.
Suddenly, a commotion can be heard from inside the house. Screams and the pounding of footsteps can clearly be heard even outside in the yard. Best Dad doesn’t move. The narrator asks curiously, “Um, shouldn’t you check on what’s going on in there?”
Best Dad sighs deeply. “Yeah.” He walks over to turn off the hose. Clearly he doesn’t think the commotion is an emergency. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Ten tops.”
A whirlwind is passing through the home, carrying with it presents and sweets. The children are jumping up and down and shouting, and it’s now apparent that these are gleeful shouts. Best Dad and his wife are briskly whisking toys and laundry off of the floor and the furniture, but are failing in their attempt to make the home presentable for their guest. As quickly as it arrives, the whirlwind is gone again only minutes later, leaving the children huffing and puffing as they come down from their sugar highs, and the parents slumped against the kitchen counters, shaking their bemused heads almost in unison. Best Dad rolls his eyes and returns to the back yard and his hose.
“Best Dad, what was that?!” the narrator asks with high-pitched alarm.
“That,” he pauses, gathering his breath, “was my brother.”
“Did you know he was coming?”
“Of course not, we never know when he’s coming. We never even know when he’s going to be in the country!”
“Surely you’re exaggerating.”
Best Dad chuckles softly. “You’re right, we know when he’s arriving in the country, because he always needs a ride from the airport.”
“Does he always stir everything up like that when he comes?”
“It’s just his way. The kids love him, of course. He’s fun. He plays with them. He’s loud and boisterous, which, let’s face it, kids find irresistible.”
“But he always seems to leave the grown-ups perturbed.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a shit-disturber. He can’t help but mention some complaint or gossip whenever he visits.”
“What was it this time?”
“He has a favor to ask.”
“That doesn’t seem like much. What was the favor?”
“Well, he couldn’t just come out and ask me the favor, could he?”
“No?”
“No, he says ‘I’ve got a favor to ask, and it’s kind of a big one.’”
“And then?”
“Then he says, ‘But I don’t want to bother you with it right now. I can see you guys are busy. We’ll talk about it later.’”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Why wait, just ask me?’ But he was already heading out the door and he pretended not to hear me.”
“So you’re left speculating and worrying about how big a favor it could be.”
“Exactly. See what I mean? Shit-disturber!”
“Well, it could be worse.”
“Really, how?”
“Well, uh, I don’t know. It was just something to say.”
“Yeah,” Best Dad says with a smirk and a shake of his bald head. His watering complete, he tosses the hose loosely onto the lawn and looks longingly at his pumpkins, as if wishing everything in life could be so productively simple.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Does it ever stop? #GBE2
Our hero, Best Dad Evar, is walking quickly between the front door of his gym and his dusty little car, the one with the paint chipping away on the roof. Within moments, the car is bouncing into the driveway of the little house with the unpainted trim that his family lives in. He hops out quickly (though he still makes that grunting noise we talked about earlier), and a few minutes later he's changed and sitting at his computer typing.
"Best Dad Evar, I've been watching you." The narrator says, with a hint of a scold tinging his words.
"Oh yeah?" Best Dad Evar replies halfheartedly, his fingers still tapping the keys.
"I've been watching you for the past fifteen hours."
"Uh huh." Best Dad seems not to be paying attention.
"Do you know that you haven't stopped to take a break since seven o'clock this morning?"
"Mm?"
"You've been going non-stop, switching from one task to the next all day: shower, breakfast, commute, work, quick lunch, work, dinner, clean up, bedtime routine, gym, write. You even spent most of your lunch hour doing chores!"
"Yeah, that's my life." Best Dad replies, staring at the computer screen with a faraway look, no longer seeing the words on the screen.
"How long has it been like this?" the narrator asks.
"I can't remember. Certainly since I became a parent. Non stop chores from morning 'til night. Even the weekends mostly consist of chores I have to do to get the kids ready so *they* can have fun and not die in the process."
"Do you ever get a free moment for yourself?"
"A moment here, a moment there."
"Do you ever just do what *you* want to do?"
"Hah!" Best Dad bores his gaze into the spot where he imagines the narrator to be. "That's just not available to me."
"That's a pretty strange kind of life, don't you think?"
"Yeah, it is. But I trust that this life will end some day."
"Do you mean when you die?!" The narrator is horrified.
"No! What makes you say that?"
"Whew! I thought..."
"I know what you thought. What I meant was that there will come a day when these kids are a little older.... you know, when they turn eighteen and move the hell out of my house." The narrator chuckles. "When they move out, maybe I'll be able to spend a little time on me. Until then..."
"Okay, but Best Dad, what happens if you end up like so many parents these days."
"What do you mean?"
"With grown children living at home and mooching off of them into their 20's and even 30's?" Now it's Best Dad's turn to be horrified. The look on his face is pure panic. He's clearly never considered this possibility.
"But... I'll be ... in my 70's when my youngest is 30.... it just.... Noooooooooooo!" He runs for the medicine cabinet to grab a bottle of pills.
The narrator is relieved when Best Dad only shakes three pain relievers out into his now sweaty palm.
"Best Dad Evar, I've been watching you." The narrator says, with a hint of a scold tinging his words.
"Oh yeah?" Best Dad Evar replies halfheartedly, his fingers still tapping the keys.
"I've been watching you for the past fifteen hours."
"Uh huh." Best Dad seems not to be paying attention.
"Do you know that you haven't stopped to take a break since seven o'clock this morning?"
"Mm?"
"You've been going non-stop, switching from one task to the next all day: shower, breakfast, commute, work, quick lunch, work, dinner, clean up, bedtime routine, gym, write. You even spent most of your lunch hour doing chores!"
"Yeah, that's my life." Best Dad replies, staring at the computer screen with a faraway look, no longer seeing the words on the screen.
"How long has it been like this?" the narrator asks.
"I can't remember. Certainly since I became a parent. Non stop chores from morning 'til night. Even the weekends mostly consist of chores I have to do to get the kids ready so *they* can have fun and not die in the process."
"Do you ever get a free moment for yourself?"
"A moment here, a moment there."
"Do you ever just do what *you* want to do?"
"Hah!" Best Dad bores his gaze into the spot where he imagines the narrator to be. "That's just not available to me."
"That's a pretty strange kind of life, don't you think?"
"Yeah, it is. But I trust that this life will end some day."
"Do you mean when you die?!" The narrator is horrified.
"No! What makes you say that?"
"Whew! I thought..."
"I know what you thought. What I meant was that there will come a day when these kids are a little older.... you know, when they turn eighteen and move the hell out of my house." The narrator chuckles. "When they move out, maybe I'll be able to spend a little time on me. Until then..."
"Okay, but Best Dad, what happens if you end up like so many parents these days."
"What do you mean?"
"With grown children living at home and mooching off of them into their 20's and even 30's?" Now it's Best Dad's turn to be horrified. The look on his face is pure panic. He's clearly never considered this possibility.
"But... I'll be ... in my 70's when my youngest is 30.... it just.... Noooooooooooo!" He runs for the medicine cabinet to grab a bottle of pills.
The narrator is relieved when Best Dad only shakes three pain relievers out into his now sweaty palm.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Best Dad Evar's Bookshelf #GBE2
Today our hero, Best Dad Evar, reclines on an unmade bed, reading. His position seems uncomfortable, so he shifts a bit from laying on his side propped on one elbow onto his back with his head resting on a contour pillow. Unfortunately this particular contour pillow doesn’t quite fit *his* contours. Beside the bed is a bookshelf stacked two deep with paperbacks and inspirational tomes.
“Best Dad Evar, I’ve noticed something about your bookshelf.” The narrator’s voice interrupts Best Dad mid-sentence.
“What’s that?” Best Dad replies. He’s grown accustomed to this omnipresent narrator and grown to like him a bit.
“Almost all these books are bookmarked.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Well, almost all the bookmarks are less than a third of the way through the books.”
“You’re right.” Best Dad sighs deeply and places a bookmark into today’s partially read fiction. He wasn’t really that into the story anyway. He continues, “I guess you could say that it’s because of my grown up version of attention deficit disorder. I can’t stay interested in any book long enough to get halfway through it, let alone finish it.”
“Well that’s too bad-” the narrator starts, but Best Dad interrupts him.
“I do the same thing with TV shows.” Best Dad says, pointing at the small TV on top of the bookshelf. “There are some that I like a lot for two or three episodes. But somehow I always seem to lose interest.”
“What happens?” the narrator asks, not daring to ask a more detailed question for fear of getting cut off again.
“I don’t know, but by the fourth or fifth episode, I often just say ‘meh.’ It’s not that they’re bad shows. Some of them are good. I just can’t stay involved. Either the characters annoy me somehow or the plot’s not engaging enough.”
“This short attention span affects your career as well.” The narrator presses.
“It defines my career. I’m forty one years old and I can’t even count the number of jobs I’ve had.”
“True, but you have had one job for four years and another one for three years. That's a long time.” The narrator helps with a bit of positive spin on these facts.
“I guess, but even within those two jobs, I had individual projects that were much shorter. I had cases at my consulting firm job and loans and borrowers while I was doing mortgages. So even though the jobs remained mostly the same, they were actually constantly changing. That kept things from ever getting boring for me. Don’t you think that’s a problem, being consistently at risk of boredom?”
“Perhaps.” The narrator says diplomatically. “But you have had one constant in your adult life, one person you’ve always maintained your interest in. One decision you’ve never regretted.”
Best Dad Evar smiles, knowing without hesitation what the narrator is referring to. He nods. Then he pushes himself into a standing position and wanders off into the living room to settle into his regular spot on the couch. The indentation on his side of the sofa is paired with one on the opposite cushion which is soon filled, as always.
“Best Dad Evar, I’ve noticed something about your bookshelf.” The narrator’s voice interrupts Best Dad mid-sentence.
“What’s that?” Best Dad replies. He’s grown accustomed to this omnipresent narrator and grown to like him a bit.
“Almost all these books are bookmarked.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Well, almost all the bookmarks are less than a third of the way through the books.”
“You’re right.” Best Dad sighs deeply and places a bookmark into today’s partially read fiction. He wasn’t really that into the story anyway. He continues, “I guess you could say that it’s because of my grown up version of attention deficit disorder. I can’t stay interested in any book long enough to get halfway through it, let alone finish it.”
“Well that’s too bad-” the narrator starts, but Best Dad interrupts him.
“I do the same thing with TV shows.” Best Dad says, pointing at the small TV on top of the bookshelf. “There are some that I like a lot for two or three episodes. But somehow I always seem to lose interest.”
“What happens?” the narrator asks, not daring to ask a more detailed question for fear of getting cut off again.
“I don’t know, but by the fourth or fifth episode, I often just say ‘meh.’ It’s not that they’re bad shows. Some of them are good. I just can’t stay involved. Either the characters annoy me somehow or the plot’s not engaging enough.”
“This short attention span affects your career as well.” The narrator presses.
“It defines my career. I’m forty one years old and I can’t even count the number of jobs I’ve had.”
“True, but you have had one job for four years and another one for three years. That's a long time.” The narrator helps with a bit of positive spin on these facts.
“I guess, but even within those two jobs, I had individual projects that were much shorter. I had cases at my consulting firm job and loans and borrowers while I was doing mortgages. So even though the jobs remained mostly the same, they were actually constantly changing. That kept things from ever getting boring for me. Don’t you think that’s a problem, being consistently at risk of boredom?”
“Perhaps.” The narrator says diplomatically. “But you have had one constant in your adult life, one person you’ve always maintained your interest in. One decision you’ve never regretted.”
Best Dad Evar smiles, knowing without hesitation what the narrator is referring to. He nods. Then he pushes himself into a standing position and wanders off into the living room to settle into his regular spot on the couch. The indentation on his side of the sofa is paired with one on the opposite cushion which is soon filled, as always.
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