Cat’s in the Cradle

Posted on January 24, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I don’t remember my father being around that much as I was growing up. I’m sure he was there from time to time, but I just don’t recall much in the way of interaction as a child. He was in the air force and no doubt a busy guy, but I think you can be a hard-working man and still be a positive part of your kids’ lives. I remember as a four-year-old in Spokane, Washington, going down a long slide as flat as I could make myself so he wouldn’t see me as he came to pick me up (back then it was okay to go to the park alone at that age, either because there weren’t pedophiles, or more likely because there was no media to first cultivate them and then sensationalize the danger). I had permission to be there, so hiding was an odd thing to do; I think maybe to me he was larger than life, as fathers tend to be at that age, but also kind of scary because perhaps I didn’t know him so well.

I played a lot of baseball growing up and was pretty good at it. I really don’t recall him coming to the games. I’m sure he must have on occasion, but apparently not enough to make himself part of the experience for me. I do remember annoying him with endless questions and complaints from the back seat on road trips, dodging his attempts at a backhanded reply as he drove. Strangely, though, I don’t recall any real interaction with him once we got where we were going.

My parents divorced when I was twelve. My father and I had the occasional sanctioned weekend together, but it was usually awkward and often involved a new woman he was seeing and her family. These visits were uncomfortable and I doubt I did my best to improve them. I wanted him to myself and resented the intrusion of people I assumed help ruin my family; he likely wanted me around to help validate his new situation. Eventually, both of us seemed to give up and I stopped going.

Dad remarried when I was sixteen; I missed the wedding for a basketball game. Around this time, I think my father tried to be more involved in my life, but it was too little and too late. As a parent you inevitably face that point when your children, usually in their teens, develop relationships and interests outside the home and don’t need (or often want) your input as often. Dad tried to make up for lost time at the worst time. In my early twenties, he tried to come to most of my club softball games. Around this time I even lived with him for a short time, but still his involvement in my life remained peripheral at best.

My fellow siblings had issues with their father as well and it’s safe to say they were no closer to him than I. Dad had made his mistakes with each of us;  the details stay tucked inside the family vault where they belong. Suffice it to say my father’s relationships with each of his children were strained at best and either because of limited involvement or egregious error on his part, or both, the fault in each case lay squarely with him. When my father retired and then divorced again in his early seventies, he found himself pretty much alone. While welcome in my home, we never really sought each other out. I was busy; he was dad. He would visit his grandchildren infrequently and I know he enjoyed them, but their sporadic relationship with him was destined to be as awkward as mine had been. While they called him Grandpa Bill, they knew little about him and were never close to him.

He had a back surgery in his mid seventies and developed a very bad infection that almost killed him. He eventually recovered, though the surgery had been botched and he emerged in worse physical condition than before, embittered and cursed by ill fortune. His children were there for him, perhaps as much from a sense of duty than anything else; we found him a nice place where his meals were provided, had care if he needed it and could come and go as he pleased. He moved into a crummy apartment as soon as he was able to decide for himself.

In December of 1999, my father didn’t feel well and went to the hospital. In a day, he was diagnosed with Biliary cancer. In another, it was determined to be inoperable and that he likely had only a couple of weeks to live. He and I had talked once about a friend of his who had gone quickly and how he hoped it would be that way for him. Now that it would be, he seemed struck by the finality of it and desperate for a way out. However, all conversations with his caregivers concerning his options invariably turned to his comfort and preparation for the inevitable. Eventually he became resigned to his fate.

In the end, his children were there for him; how much was from the same sense of duty and how much from love I won’t say; we’ve never spoken of it. I can say I loved my father. I just didn’t know him very well, or perhaps knew him too well and didn’t like him all that much. I suspect my siblings likely felt the same way. But in that all too brief period when dwindling time should have compelled us, neither he nor I could summon the strength or courage to say what should have been said. For me, that I worried about his relationship with God, that I loved him and would miss him, and for him…I don’t know. Maybe the same thing.

Dad entered hospice on New Year’s Eve, 1999. Where most people concerned themselves with the new millennium and potential societal doom, we dealt with the end of my father’s life. He quickly slipped into a coma and died on January 3, 2000, with all four of his children among those at his bedside. At his funeral service, I was amazed by the turnout. There were well over a hundred people in attendance; almost all were colleagues and friends from work. It was gratifying to see how many people he had relationships with, that so many had kind things to say and that they came not from a sense of duty, but because they wanted to pay their respects. And so it was: a man who defined himself not by his family or role as father, but by his work and competence as an administrator in three separate careers, was celebrated for it.

He’s been gone twelve years this month. I wish I’d done more things with him when it was my turn to do so. As time has gone by, the subtleties of his personality are fading from my memory; I am desperate to hang on to the good things I knew about him. He was a smart guy, with a biting wit, good stories and several funny, metaphorical “dadisms” that he would apply to any number of situations. Sadly, though, my clearest memory  is of a man in a bed, stoic and unwaveringly somber as death descended, still unable to relate to his children on a level that others take for granted; and of me, somehow too afraid to tell him I loved him and worse, to broach the subject of his salvation. My fear and selfishness will haunt me the rest of my days, and perhaps him for all eternity.

I learned something from my father. My wife and children mean more to me than anything else in this world; I really enjoy my family and I have loved being a part of their lives. I hope they know how proud I am of each of them. My children know I love them as much as I can love; I hope that when my time comes I have the opportunity to tell them one more time. I promise I won’t skip the chance.

Posted in Christianity, Family, Humor, Living, Parenting, Religion, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 280 Comments

Ten Things I Hate About You (and Your Driving)

Posted on January 20, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I may complain, from time to time, about things that bother me (ask my family and they’ll tell you that “time to time” means dawn to bedtime). Today I want to talk about drivers in my hometown of Tucson. They suck, but in their defense, I’ve found that the drivers are just as annoying in other places I’ve visited. I drive a great deal in my line of work, so it’s a subject that I confidently know something about – like most subjects. The title may be a little misleading; please understand that by you I mean the collective you. If there’s nothing on my list applicable to you personally, then (you’re a liar) please feel free to ride along and point fingers with me. Also, know that I mean hate in only the kindest sense of the word, as in loathe with every fiber of my being.

So. That being said, let’s get right to it: Ten Things I hate about you (and your driving), in no particular order:

1) You have that annoying sticker in the back window that tells me how many family members you have. Why do I care how many stick people and cartoon dogs are in your house? It seems kind of foolish to announce to the serial killer (no, not me) driving behind you that if he counts the heads in your minivan, he can tell stick mom must be home by herself. The most annoying thing about it is that I didn’t think of it first. How could anyone have expected a cheesy idea like that to take off?

2) You have bumper stickers on your car. Fine, your kid’s an honor student at Mongo Elementary, but just how high is that particular bar set these days? Besides, I find bumper stickers very distracting when I’m texting.

3) You text while you drive. What are you thinking? I’m an amazing driver, so texting for me is no big deal. But you suck, remember? Texting just makes you even worse. You probably suck at that, too. I’ve gotten pretty adept at spotting texters who drive ahead of me; they weave just like the drunks do, which makes driving drunk a little less risky these days. Unless you’re texting too.

4) You won’t turn right against a red light. It’s legal in Arizona, dipstick. Then, when the caution arrow comes on, you think “Okay, I’ll be cautious.”, and so you still don’t go. I wish I could have back the precious time that’s been sucked away from my life forever waiting for you to turn. I’d be at least a couple of minutes younger now.

5) You won’t turn left with a green light unless the arrow comes on. Are you kidding me? You could have gotten out, opened your trunk, pulled out your walker and shuffled across the street before the next car came, but you refuse to drive out into the intersection until specifically ordained by the arrow to do so. It makes me so mad I shake my steering wheel and roll my window down to scream at you (the crank broke off, so I have to turn the sharpened remnants with one hand while pushing my window down with the other. It really hurts). I can feel the veins straining in my neck. It’s more than I can bear; I’m almost blind with anger and at that moment almost want to kill you.

6) You’re a road rager. Why don’t you relax? Getting mad won’t get you there any quicker.

7) I let you in front of me and you deny me the thank you wave I so richly deserve. You’re an idiot, trying to get on a major street twenty feet before the intersection. I feel sorry for you being so stupid and for spending thirty-five grand on a Mini, and so have mercy on you; you act as though my benevolence is to be expected in modern society.

8) I let you in front of me because you’re stupid for trying to get on a major street twenty feet before the intersection, and you prove we both are by trying to cross two more lanes to get to the left turn lane. Of course, everyone else is going and no one will let you cross in front of them. So there we both sit for another light, you stuck perpendicularly in front of my huge truck, looking hopelessly hopeful, avoiding any eye contact (smart), and me giving you the Hitler salute (minus four fingers) and wondering if my auto insurance would cover me pulling you from your vehicle and beating you senseless (turns out it won’t).

9) You’re old, you got here the first week of November, and you won’t leave until the third week in April. You’re not in Minnesota anymore (ten thousand lakes my rump; I’ve been there, and there’s only a couple hundred, even by Arizona standards. The rest are big holes filled with water). There’s no ice on the road. Speed up! You’d think that you’d want to spend what limited time you have left at your intended destination, not wasting it away getting there.

10) Your music sucks. I hate sitting in the lane next to you at the light. All I hear is bass and expletives; do you have any idea how stupid you look sitting there, your Altima shaking like a Chihuahua at a…well, anywhere? I am comforted knowing you’ll be deaf in ten years and the only sound left in your brain will be BOOM, BOOM, BOOM and prison speak.

There you have it. Ten things I hate about you and your driving. I hope you know that outside of my truck, I’m about as awesome a person as you probably expect me to be (dang it). There are so, so many more things I hate about other drivers; It would please me to hear some of yours. Please, nothing about Water Feature Guys in big, white box trucks; then I’ll know you’re lying.

Posted in Arizona, Automobiles, Cars, Family, Humor, Living, Music, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 52 Comments

They’re Everywhere!

Posted on January 15, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

E. Coli with Your Popcorn?

I seem over the years to have developed a reputation for being something of a germophobe. This is a ridiculous notion; I am merely more aware than most of the existence of countless microscopic armies, unified in purpose and lying in wait to kill us all and of those among us, presumably sent by Satan himself, to unwittingly and callously offer themselves as military transport.  This silent battle for our very survival occurs everywhere at once, but no more overtly than in the men’s room of any public place. I offer to you today the bathroom at the local Cineplex Overpriced as a battlefield by example and some indispensable advice in the way of defense along the way.

I use the men’s room to make my point simply because I hold the fairer sex in such high regard and assume their practices to be less Neanderthalic. I have never been in an occupied ladies’ room (save for the time one of my fellow coaches tricked me into thinking it was our team’s locker room. Fortunately, everyone had a nice laugh, save for the fat old lady adjusting her panty hose at the waist and myself, who has the sight of her constricted, blue-veined cellulite forever burned into memory). I prefer to think of women as poster children for good hygienic practice; I’m certain there are exceptions, but console myself with the notion that these particular ladies give themselves away in more obvious ways (i.e. their general appearance).

The first point of attack in the men’s room at the local theater is at the outer door; some of the troglodytes who came before have committed all manner of offense before entering (nose picking, crack scratching, personnel adjustments and the like) and left the traces for you at the handle. I prefer to enter by way of a shoulder or foot pushed into a virginal part of the door. Then it’s on to the urinals, where the first visible evidence of danger is revealed. For those of you who have yet to see one, the urinal is a fairly large porcelain conveyance of liquid waste, hung on the walls at a generally appropriate level. Some men comment that the water is often cold and even deep; while I’ve found that’s often the case, I am of course very careful and they are all lying and trying to be funny. I digress; the point is that the thing is hard to miss, and yet there is always a little puddle on the floor beneath them. What is wrong with these guys? Perhaps it’s a function of age. With kids, it’s a learning process; the little nipper still needs to be tamed, and with the older set, their prostates may be having fun with them. No matter; when I use the urinal, I find myself standing like a giraffe at a watering hole. I know urine is supposed to be sterile, but not when it’s someone else’s and festering on a restroom floor. Men who are less acute than I (all of them) inevitably step in these remnants of piddle and then track it everywhere; for this reason alone I do not subscribe to the “Five Second Rule” when it comes to dropping food on the floor.

There is a certain etiquette at the urinals to which all real men rigidly adhere; unfortunately, there is a shortage of real men in this world. First, man-code dictates that you never, ever, use the urinal next to someone else if another is open further down. This is not an issue of hygiene so much as one of general creepiness (it is, however, off topic for today and so we’ll leave it for another time). Then there is the courtesy flush; no one likes to use a yellowed urinal (least of all me). Unfortunately, the handle has been used by those that have already handled themselves. Thank God that society dictates we shake a guy’s hand instead of his junk, but that is essentially what’s happening whenever you flush. Because I’m a real man I adhere to the code, by way of a downward push with the closest elbow.

I think I can safely say that as long as I have been able to choose for myself, I have not gone “twosies” in a public restroom more than three times my entire life; in each of these incidents I would have suffered the most dire of consequences had I not (we can discuss this like adults, can we not? I suggest the wonderful children’s book, “Everyone Poops”, if this is an issue for you). I’m a home team guy when it comes to this basic function, and the reasons are obvious. Who knows what manner of man has presided on the throne before you, whether his cheeks were leprous, ridden with boils, or so hairy that he conveyed the attached DNA of dozens of people wherever he sat? The almost transparent paper with which to cover the seat is rarely available and as a barrier to pestilence is laughable at best. As this is obviously a matter of common sense, the man who routinely avails himself of the use of public facilities in this manner is clearly not in his right mind and therefore capable of anything.

I was once using the restroom (onsies) at a local movie theater when a man came bursting into the room exhibiting a most telling sense of urgency (if you are easily offended or otherwise given to propriety, you might want to turn away until the next paragraph. Wait…what?).  He went into a stall, sat with a thud and then grunted as though lifting a piano. The emanation that followed was announced by a sound like a chair backing up on a wood floor, followed by that of a five gallon bucket of dishwater tossed from a third story window and hitting a cobbled street below. He flushed and was re-panted and out before I had finished. Even worse, he left without washing his hands! I was both shocked and stupefied by the expeditiousness of his evacuatory experience. Worse still, since I wasn’t able to follow, his actions had rendered the entire cineplex a biohazard; drinking fountains, benches, seats (maybe he’s an indecisive sitter), armrests and theater doors were all off-limits. After washing my hands over and over whilst muttering the horror, the horror, I had to wait a couple of minutes just for someone else to come and open the restroom door so I could get out.

My business partner and I once had a discussion: If we were transported back into the dark ages, could we offer something to mankind to improve their condition? He launched into a detailed exposition regarding his introduction of concrete, oil and natural gas to the general population; how quickly their lives would change. I had to admit at the time that he’d likely be a far more important and influential man than I. Since then, I have realized I could offer them two simple bits of advice and save millions of lives: wash your hands whenever possible and, whatever you do, stay away from the movie theater.

Posted in Bathrooms, Humor, Living, movies, Restrooms, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 26 Comments

That’s My Boy

Posted on January 10, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

My Boy and His Fraulein

My son came into this world fifteen months after the birth of our first child ( see Wedding Bells are Clanking). Unlike the first pregnancy, this time we knew the gender of our child; to say I was excited to have a son is like saying that KFC Extra Crispy is just okay. I think every father since fatherhood began has wanted a son, some for reasons of practicality (another hand to help work the farm), some  for conceit (there are a lot of juniors out there). I wanted a son for the same reasons: my “farm” is in constant need of repair, and I believe there’s a desire in every man to have a boy to carry on the family name. I also wanted a son so I could play with him (something I don’t remember my father doing much with me as a child), so I could teach him the ways of the world and so he could learn the invaluable lessons to be gleaned from my swollen treasure chest of life mistakes.

Unfortunately, when he was born I was still making them. I still had not, by this time, made the complete and necessary transformation from carefree party bachelor to that of  responsible married man. There were hard money issues at the time (we didn’t have any) and I felt crushed under the weight of stress and of my inadequacies as a husband, father and provider. I thank God for my wife, who kept things together and still loved in spite of me. I try to remember all the times I spent doting on my infant son and insist to myself that they must be countless, yet my memory is confined almost exclusively to my failures then as a family man. If this is the punishment for my selfishness during that time, I can think of few worse. Awful enough for a man to be called away by force of duty and then return to see his children have grown in his absence, but I was at least there and still feel I missed it. I am unsure which is worse.

As a little boy, though, my son and I spent a great deal of time together. If I went to the store, he would happily tag along. We would often play tackle football on the living room floor, me on my knees, he trying to score by getting past me (I never gave an inch). Later, he took to the game of basketball, which is near and dear to my heart. We played one-on-one for years on the court in our back yard; I never let him win. Each time I won, I would ask him the same question:

“How old do you think you’ll be when you finally win?” He would, of course, answer whatever age he was at the time, but as the years went by and it became obvious he was going to start winning, I stopped playing. He played organized basketball for over thirteen years, and I only missed a single game (so I could install a fountain for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. It wasn’t worth it). In his last high school game, he scored ten points in the last two minutes of a playoff game as he desperately (and unsuccessfully) tried to keep his team alive. Afterwards he was struck by the finality of it and cried like a baby, though he’d grown out of crying years before; I honestly think he cared more than I did, if that were possible.

Throughout his life, I’ve called him by the same name: Boy. Yes, he has a real name and I use it often enough, but I’m sure if you ask him what I call him most, he’d say the same thing: Boy. I use the name because for me, it is solely his; he’s my only son, the only one I’ll ever have (as far as you know). He, on the other hand, has called me by several names over his lifetime: as a small child, it was Papa. Since he’s grown older, it has morphed into Pops, with an occasional Lumbering Oaf, Tub of Goo or Old Bag of Dirt thrown in for seasoning. I love each of them and answer to them all.

When he was about sixteen, I showed him a year book photo of me at the same age; he was shocked and apparently horrified by the image of his near twin. He looked at the picture, then up and down at me and said “You mean I have this to look forward to?” He’s been working out diligently ever since. And so it is: though I’ve known for so long that my son is a strong part of me, I now see much of myself in him. When prodded enough, there is his  temper; his hesitance in disagreements to admit his part; and his passion and single mindedness for what interests him to the neglect of all else. Fortunately, these are but brief glimpses of who he truly is, for both the Lord and my wife stepped in to the fray and their influences dominate. My boy loves the Lord and seeks His will, has a loving and giving heart, and is the truest friend a person can have: he is honest, faithful, loyal and forgiving.

My son is twenty-one now. He used to need me all the time: tying his shoes, help with school, figuring out the mechanics of things. Now he’s been to Europe, met a lovely young German girl there and gone back to Germany twice more since just to see her. He moved out late last year into a home with two really cool Christian brothers and got a stable, nice paying job working for a Christian owned business. He has really grown up quickly and things have changed just as fast; these days I don’t think he needs me so much as I need him.

I don’t know what the future has in store for him, but God does, and as long as he listens for and seeks His will I know he’ll be just fine. I don’t know what he’ll turn out to be, but I know what he’s become. My son is a man of character, and either slightly because of, or likely more in spite of me,  he’s become a far better man than I was at his age and more than I ever hoped he could be. Though he belongs not to me but to the only One worthy of him, I am proud to call him my Boy.

Posted in Children, Christianity, Family, Humor, Living, Marriage, Parenting, Religion, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Improving Home Improvement

Posted on January 4, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

As a specialty contractor (specializing in the design, installation and service of custom water features) in Tucson, Arizona, I find myself at one or both of the big box home improvement stores on an almost daily basis. Though I won’t identify them, their names rhyme with “Blows” and “Chrome Repo.” Admittedly, I am the poster boy for inefficiency when it comes to getting what I need. I’ve always relied on my memory, which was once first-rate. Now that it’s beginning to slip a bit (my wife bought me a Sudoku puzzle book, I assume in the hopes of staving off Alzheimer’s; I forgot where I put it), I’ve been slow to embrace the concept of writing things down. Not that it would matter; these home improvement giants have been designed to ensure that I traverse every square mile of their interiors in the hope that I will  lose myself for a day and buy any number of products I hadn’t been aware I needed (until I passed them).

On one particular trip, I went to purchase bags of cement and plumbing supplies for a job I was starting that day. Usually I try to pull up to the pallets of cement located outside; the three contractors’ trucks so rudely parked in front of them precluded me from doing so. I would have to hand load the bags inside the store onto a metal cart, then push them to my truck and load them again (which sucks, I don’t care how old you are, because they weigh eighty pounds apiece). I parked by the contractor’s department where the cement is stored, figuring I would get them last, then walked the quarter-mile or so to the entrance at the other end of the store where the plumbing department is located. I grabbed a regular shopping cart on the way in because the heavy cart I would need for the cement is never available at that end of the store.

Presently I pushed toward an employee, who presumably and by the threat of termination is required to make eye contact and state the following, or a variation thereof:

“How’s it going.” Note the punctuation; a lack of any real interest had rendered it a statement rather than a question. The notion to say anything at all had no doubt been etched into his brain by hours of mind-numbing training.

“Crappy, thanks. My daughter moved out-of-state and now she’s going to get married. I’m having trouble coming to grips with the fact that she’ll never live in my house again, and worse, I might hardly ever see her.”

“Um…Uh…Can I help you with something.” Ooh! I had obviously found the employee of the month; nice transition into programmed question number two.

“Yes, you can: I need eight bags of premixed cement from the west end of your store and a bunch of pvc fittings from the east end. How’s about you get the cement, I get the pvc and we meet back at milepost two in, say, ten minutes?”

“Um…Uh…” Never mind.  I’ve stumped the band. I press on, and soon hit on a bit of luck: an abandoned metal cart halfway down an aisle. I trade up and round the corner to the cry of  “Hey! Who stole my (bleep)ing cart!? Son of a (bleep)!” Well. I  might have helped you look, but with a mouth like that, you’re on your own.

I reach the plumbing department and grab a dozen or so pvc fittings (total weight: ten ounces or so) and a ten foot stick of half-inch pvc pipe. I place the fittings on the four hundred pound flat cart, but am forced to carry the stick of pipe (it’s too long, and would roll off the cart or stick out at odd angles and rearrange floor displays as I pushed by) like a lance with my left as I push the cart with my right. Onward, now, as I push the quarter-mile back to the masonry department for my cement.

As I head north, the front right wheel of my cart inexplicably begins to wriggle like a tribesman in a war dance; the fittings on the cart join in, and several skitter across the aisle. Before I can stop, one of them wedges under said wheel and the cart emits a sound not unlike an elephant farting (I’ve never actually heard one, but I’m assuming it would be loud and sound like a fitting under a cart wheel). A very nice looking young lady looking at washing machines turns at the sound; I offer a weak smile by way of apology, which apparently comes off as more of a perverted leer (unintentional, I assure you). She regards me as though I were a hobo with a stolen gift card. Who do you think you are, lady? First off, I’m a happily married man, I’ve no interest in you and if I did, you’d be lucky to have oh whatever. I gather my things and press on.

  Dang! I need silicone. I turn left just in time, but my cart seems strangely drawn to the display of shop towels piled at the end of the aisle. As I overcorrect, I notice the woman reading the label from a bottle of Gorilla Glue (an albino gorilla dressed in an overburdened white blouse and a distended pair of matching white capris, she clearly had something in need of glueing). Too late: I stab her with the pipe in her ribcage, or more accurately, between her second and third rolls of fat; it’s as though I’ve jousted with the Michelin Man and emerged victorious. I apologize profusely, lest she pound her chest and pummel me repeatedly about the head and shoulders. She is actually very sweet in reply, and I feel bad for my appraisal of her. I offer my best advice with respect to adhesives, which she promptly ignores by choosing another brand. I hope your mug handle breaks off in your hand and your triple frappuccino spills all over your ample lap, Gorilla Woman. 

Finally I complete the Bataan death march to the masonry department and push my cart alongside the bags of cement mix. They are, naturally, stacked below a low shelf so that anyone in need of them will have to lift the bags while bent over at the waist; first, though, I have to move the broken, spilling bags from the top of the pile. by the time I finish, I am stuck in this position; I resemble Quasimodo looking for dropped change for the next ten minutes.

The checkout line is long and comprised of grumpy, impatient contractors. The checkout girl is on the phone, and her customer looks at the rest of us apologetically. Something is wrong. Screw this. I’m outta here. I push the heavy cart, now six hundred forty pounds heavier, back across the front of the store to the cashier at the other end. I do this with my right hand while my left still carries the stick of pipe. After a ten minute wait, it’s my turn with the cashier, who asks me the next question from the Home Improvement Worker’s Manual.

“Did you find everything you needed?” No, I didn’t. That’s why I’m standing in front of you now.

“You know, I’m not sure. I’ve only been back and forth across this store three times. I’m sure there’s something else I need. Maybe I should pull out of this line I’ve been in for the last ten minutes and push this cart back and forth a few more times…on second thought, let’s just call it a visit and I’ll try again tomorrow.”

After some more titillating conversation and the raping of my credit card, I gratefully push out into the morning sun, only to realize that my truck is parked back by the masonry department and I still have another quarter mile to go before I get to pick up all those bags of cement again. After a choked whimper and a near silent dingdang it, I push off up the parking lot, fighting the epileptic front wheel which has me veering back and forth like a drunk driver.

I really don’t have the answer for how “Ho’s” and “Gnome Creepo” can make things work better for me; I suppose a little more patience on my part might make things easier (I noticed as I pushed by that the outside pallets of cement were now accessible). I think perhaps a few more checkout lanes would help, along with a shuttle or light rail system inside the store.

Posted in Construction, Home Improvement, Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 5 Comments

Wedding Bells are Clanking

Posted on December 29, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

My eldest child, my twenty-three year old, beautiful, sweet daughter, just got engaged this past week. It had to happen eventually, but I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around the thought of her getting married (too bad I can’t just sit on it; I’d be sure to get around it then). She’s had a boyfriend or two in the past, but they came and went, as I secretly (and often openly) hoped they would. Now here’s one who, despite my considerable size and the tacit threat of bodily injury, has seemingly run the gauntlet and was brave enough to ask for her hand in marriage. I’m starting to think this might be serious.

I found out I was going to be a dad when I was twenty-seven. To say that I was not ready for parenthood would be the same as to declare I was unfit as a nursing mother (forget the obvious; there’s also the hair, the hair…). I can honestly say I had given little thought to ever becoming a father; most who knew me then would say I was only marginally able to care for myself. Over the following months, I was swept away by the tide of pregnancy:  changes in my wife (still beautiful), in my home (women definitely prepare the nest in anticipation of a child), and in income after my wife was confined to bed rest because of pre-eclampsia all occurred and I was powerless to affect any of them. I was overwhelmed and still unprepared for fatherhood by the time my wife was admitted to the hospital.

Because of the pre-eclampsia, the doctors induced labor and some time later determined  that our baby was becoming stressed; they would have to perform a caesarean section. During the surgery, the doctor giggled and said he nicked our baby’s head with his scalpel, and it was then that the paternal impulse first kicked in: How’s about I nick your junk with that scalpel? He assured me that everything was fine, and asked if he could please have his scalpel back to finish up the operation.

When he finally lifted up our beautiful baby, I thought he might have nicked more than its head, as my son was clearly missing his defining parts (we didn’t know the gender beforehand; I assumed, being ridiculously manly, that I carried only the male chromosome). A girl! No matter; to me, one need look no further for proof of the living God: I was instantly transformed from Ignorant, Ill-Prepared Potential Father to Ignorant, Ill-prepared, Hopelessly in Love Father. I know now that this is how you truly become a parent, and anything you might do by way of preparation is meaningless by comparison: God instills in you a love for your child, exceeded only by His own. When you act on their behalf, using that love to guide you, how can you fail?

I guarantee that I am not the world’s best dad, but I know there is only one Father who loves His children more. Fortunately for my daughter, she has the world’s greatest mom.  By her mom’s hard work and unwavering devotion to her children, along with God’s help and through His provision, my baby girl is now a beautiful, accomplished, smart, funny and sweet young lady. I could not be more proud of her; when people compliment me for the good job I’ve done (happens all the time), I accept it readily, though I really don’t deserve it. I can only lay claim to loving her as much as I am able to love, and a will to protect her until my dying breath. Sometimes I envy people who can buy whatever they want, but thanks to God, who entrusted the care of her and our other children to us, it’s easy to remember we have wealth beyond compare.

This young man who has asked for my daughter’s hand (I wish she had three; he could take one and we’d keep the rest of her) is a good, decent person. He is one of my son’s best friends and my boy loves him dearly. He is no stranger to hard work, has many talents and I have no doubt that he will do all that he can to provide for my daughter and their family, whenever that happens (immaculate conception, anyone?). He asked for my permission to marry her – twice, which I appreciate (why didn’t he listen to me, then?). Most importantly, though, is that he makes her happy. My reticence crumbles in the face of her joy. I suppose the best gift I can give her is to be happy as well (that’s all they’re getting). I’m working on it.

My daughter has been doing an internship at a hospital out-of-state since August. It’s been hard not seeing her whenever I want. I miss her. I never really considered that someday my children would live somewhere away from my wife and me. I thought ideally that she might start her work life back here in Tucson. Now she’ll be married soon, and careers, marriage and life could take them anywhere. I’ve always hated change, but I hope soon God will show me the good things that will come of it: their successes, a home of their own, perhaps a grandson named Richard for me (it’s a dying name, like Bernice, or Myrtle. Maybe for good reason).

I know I have to come to grips with this, and realize I’m not losing a daughter so much as gaining a son. So, in closing I say the following to my daughter’s fiance, who I cheerfully accept as her future husband and embrace (figuratively) as my eventual son in law:

To you I present that which is most precious to me. Though she is not mine to give, she has chosen you, and secure in the knowledge that God is involved, that is enough for me. He has blessed you with a gift that few, if any, deserve; nurture her, care for her, love her with all your heart, and protect her with your life if necessary. Do these things, and I will love you as a son. Do them not, and I will snap your spine and pummel your scrawny body into a whimpering, unrecognizable bloody pulp.

Posted in Children, Christianity, Family, Humor, Marriage, Religion | Tagged , , , , , | 16 Comments

Dr. Josef Mengele, D.D.S. – Part II

Posted on December 26, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

My wife and I first began dating in July of 1983. Soon after, I met her parents for the first time. I think it was safe to say I made quite an impression on them: they told her afterwards they preferred she not see me anymore. I can’t say that I blame them. I’m not sure what their model of an ideal suitor would have been, but if I guessed a good-looking, clean-cut, overtly Christian young man of no small means, I could not have been far off (a pastor’s son would have been perfect). Since I was almost beyond handsome at the time (hey, this is my blog; I’m entitled to a certain creative license), I certainly met the first standard. Unfortunately, as a long-haired, heathenous part time worker whose only financial goal was student loan avoidance through perpetual matriculation, I fell decidedly short in meeting the other criteria. My only saving grace (you parents of girls approaching dating age pay special attention) was that by telling their daughter not to see me, I became forbidden fruit and therefore all the more attractive to her. We settled into an uncomfortable but exciting routine of brief, often clandestine meetings, sprinkled with an occasional group date with her family in the hopes that I might, through my obvious and undeniable charms, eventually gain favor with them (we were young and naive).

On one such evening in September, we had gone to the movies with her parents and younger brother and sister. Afterwards and in that awkward time where people stand in the parking lot, unsure of what to do next or, in my case, how to gracefully extricate themselves, she whispered that I should invite her family to a local restaurant. I did, and they readily accepted; it appeared that things were working in my favor and there might be hope for us yet.

We arrived at the restaurant, were seated quickly and after a lengthy perusal of the menu, began to order one by one. Suddenly, I was impaled in the heart with a paralyzing stab of fear (all of us have experienced this feeling: that moment when you realize you had forgotten something of vital importance, and it was now too late. I once had this feeling on a basketball court, when I saw a clock on the gym wall and realized my father had just remarried and I had missed it. It nearly ruined the rest of the game for me). I was new at this; because I had invited them, did custom dictate that I was footing the bill? They couldn’t actually expect that; could they? It would explain why they accepted the invitation so quickly. Everyone was ordering food like Somalis at a buffet, and I had six bucks to my name. There was no way to broach the subject without looking like a complete loser and undoing any perceived relational progress that had been gained to that point. So desperate was I and at such a loss for remedy that I resolved to fake either a seizure or imminent gastric distress when the bill came.

As they sat waiting for the food to come and I sat with my sphincter prolapsed from anxiety, there was at once a great flash of light and a loud boom which came from the street behind us. A car, fully engulfed in flame, was sliding on its side at considerable speed along the far curb lane of the street outside the restaurant. I yelled for someone to call 911 and ran across the street, unsure of what I could do but grateful for the diversion. The car had been traveling at a very high rate of speed and had hit the curb in a merging lane, which ruptured the gas tank and caused the car to flip on its side. By the time I neared the car, it had come to rest against a large, concrete-filled traffic pole. It had hit with such force that the front and back of the car were touching; it was like a chip bag stuck on a tree branch in a windstorm.

I was the first to arrive and saw the driver almost immediately. The car had slid at least sixty feet on the driver’s side before impacting the pole; it was obvious that he had died, in gruesome fashion. I climbed on the car to look down through the passenger window, saw no one else inside, and then someone tried to pull me down by the waist.

“There’s no one else, Richie. Watch the fire.” It was my dentist, whom I always referred to as Dr. Josef Mengele, D.D.S (see part I). Though I hadn’t seen him earlier, he been eating at the same restaurant.

I was pretty sure the driver was the only one in the car (as it turned out, there had been a passenger; he had flown out the window upon impact with the pole and landed seventy-five feet further down the parking lot. The firemen found him later and he survived), and there was still a risk of explosion, so I hopped down. I saw my dentist walking back across the street; I came up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder. He screamed and jumped in terror, as though he thought I was the driver coming back from the dead. I found it a most curious and unsettling reaction.

By then everyone had cleared the restaurant to gawk and all the food that had been ordered went uneaten. For some time afterwards, whenever I retold the story I claimed that God had sent this man to his doom in order to spare me the possibility of painful embarrassment in the restaurant (I was not a Christian at the time, so it didn’t concern me that God would work in that way; after all, I was worth it). All in all and despite the permanent emotional scarring from what I saw under that car (I will never, ever forget it), things went pretty well for me that night. I was spared any embarrassment with respect to the bill, my future in-laws had to be impressed with me climbing atop a flaming car and my girlfriend knew she had a man-stud for a boyfriend.

A couple of months later I went to my dentist for my regular visit. He took great pleasure in recounting the event with me and his hygienist whilst jabbing me in the gums with his little hooked instrument and bouncing his little mirror across my molars.

“Richie, your gums are bleeding. And it looks like you have a little cavity.” Of course I did. “It’s really small, and you’re such a brave fella. Let’s skip the shot and get it done quickly. I’ll be gentle and you just tell me if it hurts.”

After twenty minutes of me moaning as though I were gagged and beaten with a sock full of nickels, and he ignoring me, the torture session mercifully came to an end. As I leaned forward to gargle and spit out  blood and bits of drilled enamel, my dentist held something up for me to see.

“See this pen, Richie?”

“Yeah, nice.” I groaned.

“It is nice, Richie. Guess where I got it?”

I thought for a second. “No…” I remembered and now understood his reaction when I had touched his shoulder at the accident scene.

“That’s right, Richie. The dead guy. Took it right out of his shirt pocket. He wasn’t gonna use it, was he?”

Posted in Accidents, Christianity, Dentistry, Family, Humor, Marriage, Religion, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Dr. Josef Mengele, D.D.S. – Part I

Posted on December 22, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

"Is it safe?...Is it safe?...Is it safe?"

For most of my forty plus years in Tucson I went to the same dentist, along with the rest of my family. He was, until my mid thirties, the only dentist I had ever been to; I saw him faithfully twice  a year (mommy made me). He was a nice enough guy; I remember as a child him giving me rides in his dune buggy in the parking lot behind his office. He always seemed genuinely pleased to see me (I was money in the bank), was always fairly engaging and never failed to ask about the rest of my family. A few things bothered me about him, though. He had a way of speaking that just struck me as kind of creepy; it was a cross between Peter Lorre, Liberace and the bad guy with the glasses who burns his hand with the medallion in Raiders of the Lost Ark (come on, you know the guy). He also had bad teeth; it seemed more than a little hypocritical to be extolling the virtues of good dental hygiene through a couple of rows of crooked, yellowed ivories.  Worst of all, though, was his subtle, yet definable predilection for torture. By my teens I no longer referred to him by name, but rather as Dr. Josef Mengele, D.D.S (google if you must, minus the D.D.S. part).

Each visit began with a full on assault upon my gums and teeth with a sharpened hook-like instrument (I later saw a similar device when I visited a torture museum in Germany). To help him more accurately inflict pain, he also employed a mirror which he bounced along my teeth like they were bars on a xylophone. Through it all, he enjoyed conversing while his arms were in my mouth to the hilt.

“Your gums are bleeding, Richie. How often does that happen?”

“Aah aah huur. He hi euah hi aah.” Translation: “I’m not sure. Seems like every six months.”

Whenever I went to visit him I always seemed to have a cavity or two (a dune buggy can be an expensive hobby). On most occasions he would administer a local anaesthetic, but he always made sure I got a good look at the needle( have you ever seen one? It’s huge, like a jousting lance) first. Now that I’ve been to other dentists, I know it’s common practice to use a topical anaesthetic on the gum before administering the shot, so it didn’t hurt going in; Dr. Mengele apparently felt this was an unnecessary step. The pain of the needle piercing the gum and jaw made whatever came next almost pleasant by comparison. Once he gave me a shot in the same spot three times( I honestly think he forgot the first two); though I felt none of the drilling that followed, I looked like Bill Murray in Caddyshack the rest of the day and drooled so much it looked as though my right nipple was lactating.

Often though, he would forego the shot, saying instead the following words that would have me tingling with fear, originating testicularly and running up my spine like a forest fire up a dry pine.

“Richie, it’s a small cavity, so let’s skip the shot; we’ll be done in no time, and I’ll be very gentle. Just tell me if it hurts.”

“Ohaay…aaaay. Aaagh?” (“Okay…wait. What?”). If you haven’t experienced it, let me tell you now that the feeling of a drill bit on an exposed, raw nerve in your tooth is unlike any other; I have experienced pain in many forms, but this one is the worst (so far). Still, I would naively take him at his word and so let him know whenever it hurt.

“Aaaaah!! Kaaahoe, yaa ooh haa!” This was hairy-hand-in-the-mouth speak for “Owww! Careful, you old fart!”

“Yeah, that hurt, huh, Richie?” Well, he certainly spoke gently, like Lorre Liberace Raider’s Bad Guy talking a kitten down a tree; but he never stopped drilling. I honestly think he just wanted to know whether it hurt. I remember during these Inquisition sessions staring at his wallpaper, which depicted an old medieval town seen through a stone archway. I tried to imagine myself there, but failed to do so without also adding a large, jackhammer-wielding bubonic rat whose tail hung from my mouth as I strolled through the idyllic town. Often I would try to think of a few of my favorite things, but then the Julie Andrews song of the same name from The Sound of Music would invade my skull and add to my growing misery.

Eventually, the session would mercifully end. Dr. Mengele always showed me my bloody bib before discarding it, as though that might motivate me in the future to do something other than never return. As I exited the torture chamber back into the waiting room, I always considered warning people with widened, fearful eyes of the nightmare that awaited them, but no one hot ever went to my dentist so I didn’t bother.

A most bizarre, almost unbelievable encounter with my dentist occurred away from his office one summer evening in 1983; it placed its indelible print upon my soul and, as a single event, may have impacted my life more than any other. I will share it with you in my next post, Dr. Josef Mengele, D.D.S., Part II, coming sooner or later.

Posted in Arizona, Dentistry, Family, Humor, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

A Retraction (Of Sorts)

Posted on December 19, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

"Um...where's the nipples?"

I will, on occasion, go back and read some of my posts (someone has to) from time to time. It’s weird, but my perspective can change within a matter of days; I will read something and think That was a weird way to say that, or perhaps Gosh, that’s embarrassing. Most often it’s more simply Wow. You’re an idiot. One recent post seemed to invite all three personal criticisms and so I feel a retraction, or at the very least an apology, is definitely in order.

In God, Don’t Let Me Die in Louisiana, Part II, I tell about my experience fishing with my cousin J.D. in Louisiana (haven’t read it? Jump off the bandwagon and be among the first). I read it recently and couldn’t help noticing (because my wife told me) that I am pretty hard on the poor guy. Within the context of the story, I intend to relay my belief that he makes some poor, life threatening choices that I feel are less than wise. Instead, I make some assertions about his intelligence that appear to define J.D. as an individual. Though he chooses to pick up a highly venomous snake (a Water moccasin), nearly causes a person to be gaffed jugularly by its fanged, flying, decapitated head, and then swims butt-naked in a pond wherein this species obviously lives, these examples alone are not reason enough to call him an idiot. In truth, I haven’t seen J.D. since that day over thirty years ago and so by definition really don’t know him; he may be by some accounts a brilliant man ( because I know by others he is not). It would have been better, in retrospect, to call his actions idiotic rather than him an idiot. I feel bad about this; a Christian man (any man, for that matter) should be more kind. For that, J.D., I am sorry.

As an interesting side note, I have heard from more than one relative that J.D. became a Pentecostal snake-handling preacher; for those of you that don’t know, they are best known for their physical handling of poisonous snakes during church services to show both their faith and belief in anointed power from God. This belief is derived from a single Bible verse: And these signs shall follow them that believe: In My name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover(Mark 16:17-18).

You know, they say to find out what you’re good at and stick to it, and in that respect I am clearly the bigger idiot. Way to go, J.D. You’re way ahead of me.

Posted in Christianity, Humor, Louisiana, Religion, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

God, Don’t Let Me Die in Louisiana – Part III

Posted on December 15, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

As I mentioned before (part I), whenever we visited my father’s family in Deridder, Louisiana, we stayed at my grandfather’s house. It was a small, white, two bedroom, wooden home located just outside of town. Papa was a simple man, with simple tastes: he loved fried catfish (breakfast, lunch and dinner), chewing tobacco (as evidenced by the spit cups scattered throughout the house), and watching pro wrestling on his black and white television (“That…Mad…Dog…is…a…mean…mother!). His daughters bought him a color set, but he didn’t like it (“Don’t…look…natural.). It only made sense that his house was simple too; one probably wouldn’t look at it twice, but it served its purpose.

Ewww…

  Because there were only two bedrooms, I was always relegated to the couch, which was okay were it not for a slight issue: there seemed to be a bit of a cockroach problem. By a bit I mean to say that they were everywhere. Papa’s house wasn’t ill-kept (save for the aforementioned spit cups); food was stored properly. It was more a function, I believe, of a perfect storm of factors that individually might cause a slight, yet conquerable infestation, but when combined resulted in a full-blown takeover. First, it was a wet, humid climate that roaches seem to favor; add to this the age of the house, and then, for the cherry on top, the fact that my grandfather didn’t seem to mind them and therefore did nothing to get rid of them.  He seemed to regard them as part of Louisiana living; compared to some of the nasty creatures he had dealt with while tromping through the woods and swamps, these were timid, harmless and adeptly low profile(they generally came out, in profusion, at night after he went to bed).

  Those of you who read my stuff are probably convinced by now that I am afraid of my own shadow (well, it is really big). Respectfully, I submit to you that I am not; I am merely more cognizant than most of the perils inherent in contact with certain species. I am most definitely not afraid of bugs; they live in abundant variety in Arizona, I run into them often and there are some very nasty ones here. The cockroach, however, is another matter. I have been accused of being somewhat germophobic; I acknowledge only a certain heightened awareness of germs, their existence virtually everywhere around me and their predilection to sicken and/or kill me. For this reason, a bug that frolics along the shore of every conveyance of human waste, then comes into your home and does the Macarena on your dishes is one that I simply cannot tolerate.
  It didn’t help that the roaches in this home seemed to be steroidal; they were the Mandingo of cockroaches. If they had a football team, they would be Louisiana state champions for ten years running. If you tried to step on one, it might grab you by the shoe and twist your foot until you lost your balance and fell. As a result, I carried an aerosol can of roach killer everywhere I went in that house. I waged my own personal war with them in my grandfather’s home. I imagined they had a poster of me hanging somewhere (probably in their post office); I was public enemy number one.
  One evening I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom; I brought along my trusted spray for protection. When I turned on the light, I saw him immediately. It was the biggest roach I had ever seen, fully four inches in length, on the bathroom mirror. Strangely, where most cockroaches would have run for cover when the lights came on, this one turned around on the mirror, as if to face me. Clearly a higher link in the food chain, I was both angered and offended by his arrogance and so raised my can to fire. When I did, the megaroach did the most remarkable and horrible thing: he launched himself from the mirror and flew directly at me. Are you freaking kidding me? Roaches can fly? I thought as I stumbled back and sprayed a cloud of retreating fire. He veered to the left through the kitchen doorway and landed with a loud skidding sound. Now you’re mine.
  I  turned on the light and stopped dead in my tracks. There he lay, on the linoleum floor, surrounded by at least three other roaches that encircled him.  It was apparent to me that they were showing concern for him; I imagined one of them asking “Who did this to you, Jim?” While another shouted “Legions, unite! Prepare for battle!” I was certain it said this, because right away several more came in from under the opposite kitchen door that led outside.
  It was more than I could bear. I sprayed a line of repellent across the threshhold of the kitchen doorway, another on the floor around the entire front of the couch and still another across the wall behind it. I sat there the rest of the night, sleepless, knees up, nearly overwhelmed by the fumes, yet unwilling to move.
  The next morning, there was no evidence to suggest anything had happened: the giant roach was gone. Either he had survived, or they’d taken him back to perform a ceremony befitting a fallen leader of state. Soon everyone was up for breakfast and I forgot about the whole sordid affair in short order.
  During breakfast, my father asked me to help him clean the storeroom outside the kitchen and we began the chore immediately after. Not long into the job I lifted a steel washtub that sat upside down on the storeroom floor and nearly soiled myself when I saw what was underneath: a two foot wide, eighteen inch high, teeming mass of cockroaches. I was like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens; I had found the nest, but instead of a flame thrower, I was armed only with my trusted can of bug killer. In retrospect, I should have seen the sheer stupidity of what I did next, but I was weary of battle and saw only an end to war.  I sprayed the pulsating pile, and it immediately exploded in every direction. Throngs of giant roaches ran up my legs, into my shorts, under my shirt. I bolted from the storeroom outside, pulling off clothing as I ran. People across Beauregard Parish ran outside from their homes to see why Sigourney Weaver was screaming at the top of her lungs.
  When I look back on that day, I can say now that some good came of it. I had never seen my old man cry before then; no matter that it was from laughing. I can still see my grandfather, eyes squinting, toothless grin from ear to ear, shoulders bouncing. As I stood naked in his back yard, lifting and separating in search of any remaining invaders, I found instead that there is often much joy to be had in the misery and misfortune of others (as long as no one gets hurt – permanently). Other than my keen hyperawareness of germs and perhaps as yet undiscovered cockroach remains in my upper colon, I emerged unharmed. I am ever on the lookout for the humor in the folly of others but, sadly, seem always to remember best the joy others found in mine.
Posted in Arizona, Christianity, Family, Humor, Louisiana, Religion, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments