** Originally introduced July 2008.

It was the summer of 1973, I was fifteen. I saw my first James Bond movie. Live and Let Die. Roger Moore. Very scary. And there was a guy named Ken. He was a cousin to my friend, Jan. We were all meeting at the theatre to see Live and Let Die. I stood in the pre-arranged meeting place and waited for Jan and Ken to arrive.

I had limited information about Ken. I knew he was from “up north.” Jan said he was popular, a year older than we were, and he was going to try to kiss me. Sure, I was scared but with my sixteenth birthday right around the corner I was a little tired of hearing that “sweet sixteen and never been kissed” crap and I was anxious to get this kiss ordeal done with so whenever the cliche was mentioned I could just laugh Inside My Head at their expense. Wasn’t I the clever one?

Anyway, what Jan eliminated from the description of Ken was that he had one leg two inches shorter than the other and as a result he walked with a very obvious limp, not that there is anything wrong with that but even thirty-five years later I still don’t understand why Jan would not have worked that into the conversation before introductions.

Ken was also significantly shorter than me. Not that there is anything wrong with that either, but this was the kind of short that people would mention to their friends. I think he was as tall as my shoulders. As an adult, I maxed out at five feet four inches tall, I have no clue how tall I was that summer, but I do remember that Ken was what short people would call “really short”.

In addition to these unfortunate shortcomings, Ken seemed to have the longest trunk of any human being on our continent. Certainly there is nothing wrong with this, but I’ll never know why Jan wouldn’t mention these things to me.

Now, the truth is I am not even sure if Ken had thighs. He might of had just had a trunk and then some knees. I am not sure. Back then handicapped parking hadn’t been invented but this is the kind of guy that would certainly warrant it.

Now I understand all of those things were beyond Ken’s control. So as Ken approaches me at our meeting place in front of the theatre, he smiles and says, “Carrie, you look just like Jan described.” All I could say back to Ken was, “And you have kind eyes,” and it was at that point I noticed the left eye wandering.

So Jan had explained to Ken how I looked? I just could not comprehend this. Well, perhaps because Ken was the older cousin, he may have few years of suave-ly-ness under that extremely low slung belted trunk of his and told Jan to describe me in more detail than I had ever asked about Ken.

There were many things going on with Ken, and through no fault of his own he could not do much about his appearance. He was certainly chipper and in my defense, both eyes were kind even though they rarely focused as a team.

Ken offered to buy me a soda and I accepted his offer. In hindsight (with my eyes looking backwards in the same direction) , I might have agreed to do just about anything Ken was asking because I was so desperately trying to be sure my attention was directed to the correct line of vision.

Once we got in the theatre, the true Ken literally rose to the occasion. Because of his extraordinarily long trunk, he gave the illusion of being remarkably tall. I felt protected, safe just being in his shadow.

This theatre has recently been renovated as part of our Historic Downtown. At the time we were there to see the movie it was just plain old run down downtown. I am sure there are tremendous theatrical terms to describe the ceiling; however I am not privy to them so I will describe the ceiling to the best of my ability.

The ceiling was meant to be beautiful. There were tiny holes punched in jagged shapes that gave the illusion of twinkling stars. You knew you had to take your seat when the over head lights went dim and the stars became very bright. The next phase brought the stars dimmer and dimmer and eventually almost completely invisible. Romantic, right?

Except that in our city’s pre-historic days, we had bat problems in our downtown theatre. When the over head lights were dimmed, it signaled the bats to begin their swooping. Which made me shiver and shudder and obviously that was a signal for Ken to make his move.

Remember describing how safe I felt in his shadow? Well, as he raised that arm to move up and around me, my nose came directly parallel with Ken’s armpit. I have no scenario to describe that odor except to wonder if he lived so far up north that they were unable to deliver deodorant during the off season.

I can sympathize with the wandering eye, the internationally award winning elongated trunk, and the short leg, but a man’s got to keep himself pretty tidy to overcome those strikes.

I leaned as far away from Ken as I could while his arm was perched up on top of the back of my seat. We drank our sodas in silence as the starlight diminished and the theatre hushed. Jan smuggled in Ju Ju Bees and I declined. Ju Ju Bees were not going to make up for this fiasco.

The bats settled, previews began and at the very last moment an usher seated an appropriately proportioned man directly in front of me. I was thankful for his abundant love of Brut cologne because that was my salvation. I leaned forward in my seat, inhaled the average man’s cologne and sipped my soda. I was anxious for the movie to begin.

There had been a tremendous amount of hype surrounding the Paul McCartney and Wings song and I couldn’t wait to hear it blasting away at me in Dolby Stereo. I knew all the words and I was prepared to sing the theme song loudly In My Head.

The theatre rumbled as the music started and Ken’s newest pitfall presented itself. Apparently the fizz of the soda was causing Ken to burp. Did he try to hide the burping? No, the burp was more Dolby than the Dolby Stereo.

When God grants so many of life’s challenges to one individual, you think God might have been omnipotent enough to up the ante in the self awareness department regarding personal hygiene.

What kind of man would eat onions prior to a date? Ken from up nort’, that’s who. Yes, I swore I wasn’t going to tell you this part because it would seem like I was mocking him but he said he was from up nort’, like with a silent “h”.

Uh huh, just when I think it can’t get any worse than under arm odor I was confronted with bad breath from raw onions. Seriously, it is one thing to be in the kitchen with someone who was frying onions and have that scent remain on your clothing. Even at fifteen I could comprehend second hand kitchen odor, but to knowingly serve yourself a slice of raw onion prior to a date? After you declared that there will be a kiss attached to that date?

My first thought was not only did this guy smell like body odor and raw onion, this man reeks of self-confidence. Yes, I was young and my heart was an open book, but not young enough to have that thought linger in my head too long. I had a fleeting thought that this might be the smell of arrogance. And by fleeting, I mean faster than bat crap can fall from a theatre ceiling, fleeting.

And my next thought was the most accurate thought. In My Head, the guy just plain stunk stupid.

I needed a plan. The movie was extremely sophisticated with an incredibly intense sound track. I was unable to follow the plot line because it involved the forbidden world of tarot cards, voodoo, drug lords, heroin all woven together with hungry crocodiles, turbo-charged speedboats, perhaps an airplane or two and way too much Caribbean accent. Besides, I was already going to hell because I was at a movie with a boy and my mom didn’t know it. I detached myself from the on screen action. I needed to think. No way was I getting kissed by Ken from up nort’. I didn’t care how close I was to sixteen.

The movie ended, no one moved because Paul McCartney was on the giant screen singing the theme song, an incredible moment in music history.

I looked at Jan’s well focused eyes. She was doing the eyebrow raising thing as if to say, “So, what do you think?”

“I need to call my mom, I’ll be in the lobby.” I scooted out quickly hoping the balcony traffic hadn’t been released yet. I fished a dime out of my pocket and placed it in the payphone. I called my house and told my mom I needed a ride home, I said that Jan’s mom was a nurse and had to go into work and Jan’s dad refused to pick up more than two people.

Yes, I was a good Catholic girl and I had no experience in lying. Jan’s mom was not a nurse; I don’t even know why I said that part. I don’t know why I said Jan’s dad would only take two people. What kind of dad would say that? I’ll tell you what kind, the kind of dad who had a daughter named Jan who had a cousin from up nort’ that stunk stupid. That’s who.

Ken and Jan approached the payphone. I wrapped myself in the safety of the silver umbilical cord that attached the handset to the wall-mounted portion. “He’ll never get past this,” I rationalized. I waved at them to go on without me, but they kept approaching. I waved them on with more animation and added an angry head shake and what I hoped look like an evil eye.

I blame that after movie behavior on the power of big-screen voodoo, I got lost in it. That often happens with the extremely innocent.

Ah, the evil eye worked. Jan grabbed Ken’s fat hand. Alright, I didn’t tell you his hands were fat but now you know everything. Yes, there was a left hand and a right hand and they were attached to the appropriate limbs. Honest, that is all there is to tell you about him. He wasn’t a complete freak, you know.

Basically, I am not a rude person except for what I just said to you a second ago. I don’t even think God gave me the gene that allows me to be rude. I just knew that I had to make sure that kiss never happened. Even if that meant lying to my mother and rudely dismissing a sixteen year old boy that had one leg shorter than the other, an unnaturally elongated trunk, a vagabond eye, perhaps a unibrow and definitely fat hands.

Besides, very soon I would another chance for that first kiss with Al.

Now, take a quick trip back to 1973 with me.

Hi. And thank you.

Hi.

And thank you.

My name is @CandidCarrie and this past Monday night, I was the recipient of a Social Media Miracle.

You see, at 10:50 p.m. on June 7, 2010, I put out this tweet. I was alone and I was scared. I needed support. According to the police, my fifteen year old wasn’t actually “missing” as much as she just wasn’t where she said she was going to be … they did their best to reassure me that this is age appropriate behavior.

She was returned home shortly before 11:30 p.m. Once she realized she was in trouble, she added more to the mix by staying “missing” even longer. Sneaky doesn’t change not matter what decade we live in, I guess. My biggest fear Monday night was the kind of danger you can get in while you are being sneaky during this decade. The officer reminded me that he was once fifteen and sneaky and that I was once fifteen and sneaky. I bit my lip and tried not to say, “We weren’t fifteen during 2010.”

Now back to my Social Media Miracle. Once I tweeted my situation, I received a barrage of support.  The twitter responses were in the hundreds, literally in the hundreds! Between the visible responses and the direct messages along with the texts and phone calls I was overwhelmed. I had to stop responding because I was now crying tears of gratitude. And I couldn’t see straight because I was exhausted beyond belief. And now I feel guilty because I quit responding and I hope to make it up to you all by this public thank you.

I began tweeting out of peer pressure. A blogging friend insisted I would love it and she was right. Twitter opened career paths for me, introduced me to several hundred people that I know am proud to call my friends in real life, and then I’ve got those of you who I have never met but your warm thoughts and well wishes wrapped around me so I was no longer alone waiting for my daughter to come home.

Just one tweet, one single tweet and I was surrounded. I remain eternally grateful.

Idiopathic Fears, Unintentional Vehicular Manslaughter — Scenarios 1 and 2

Unintentional Vehicular Manslaughter. Just the fact that manslaughter ends in the word laughter should be enough to make me think I don’t need to worry about it, but I do.

It takes a great deal of effort to be an attentive driver and I really do try hard to do my best. My idiopathic fear doesn’t involve me driving, it involves a stationery or almost stationery vehicle.

Scenario 1: Providing someone on a bike with an untimely death. I picture myself in a freshly parked vehicle , arranging my purse, making sure I have my keys and opening my door (I guess in my head the vehicle is always a van because the door is really huge) … and into the open door flies a speed demon bicycle rider. You know the kind, they are hunched over their handlebars because their skin tight clothes will not allow them to sit straight. These serious biker-types are a unique breed. Did you know that they even sell bike shorts that have gel packs in the butt region so their rear ends ___________________. I don’t know what purpose the gel insert serves. Just choose one of the items below to complete that sentence.

* Don’t fall asleep.

* Remain supple.

* Don’t stay in the shape of a bike seat when they get off.

* Absorb residual gas odor.

I just don’t have time right now to understand these gel inserts and I don’t want to get side tracked.

Scenario 2: Improper use of the parking break and causing an untimely pedestrian death. I am usually parked facing the down side of a hill, I hop into my vehicle and release the parking break but my vehicle has so much pent up energy from sitting that way for a long, long time that it lunges forward with a life of its own and I strike down the innocent victim crossing the street. Usually the innocent victim has waited for the stop light to turn green in their favor and they are within the yellow lines of the crosswalk. Once in my mind the car rolled backwards down a hill which wouldn’t have been bad but in my head I thought it was winter and the car careened into a group of sledders politely waiting their turn.

Generally, the law is lenient with those that commit unintentional vehicular manslaughter, but that will stop when it is my turn. In my head I will be used as an example for the rest of society and they throw the book at me. I receive a punishment that is so severe that they have no choice but to feature it as a “ripped from the headlines episode of Law and Order” and I make a cameo appearance at the end of the episode telling people to use alternative transportation such as the bus or trolley where they will only be ten percent accountable for someones untimely death because of the fact that they were present at the time and not solely responsible.

And I’m Still Smiling The Next Day …

Idiopathic Fears, Elevators

Elevators.

First of all, I have overcome my fear of escalators by not using them and if you will notice by my not using them they are becoming obsolete.

Anyway, elevators scare me big time. It isn’t the stomach-lurching ride equivalent to the worst thing Six Flags has to offer. And it isn’t the cable-grinding noises of metal grating on metal while it stretches trying to determine if we’ve reached maximum capacity. I am not worried about being trapped between floors and doing gymnastics of Olympic proportions while scaling to safety.

I worry about being the designated caregiver to those that are left behind once the elevator fails. Selfish? You bet. My role as Perpetual Rescue Woman (ta ta ta da) might become apparent in the event of an untimely emergency.

I can’t help but picture the following scenarios:

Hey Perpetual Rescue Woman, stay here with Dying Man That Doesn’t Have Enough Oxygen To Make It Out Of The Elevator Shaft. We can’t save him so maybe you could pray with him and you both will know you are riding the big elevator to the sky. Ba-Bye.

Hey Perpetual Rescue Woman, please stay here with my son. He is Obese Wheelchair Boy and there is no way we can both make it out. He’s tied me to that wheelchair long enough and I want to be free at last, free at last. I’ll tell everyone how brave you were today. Ba-Bye.

Hey Perpetual Rescue Woman, you like animals don’t you? I can tell because you have cat hair all over yourself. Don’t lie to me Perpetual Rescue Woman, I know you like animals. I’ve seen your blog. I’ve got cats to feed and a dog to let out so bend over, I can use your back as a ladder to safety. Ba-Bye.

Hey Perpetual Rescue Woman, you have six kids right? Cut the crap, I’ve read your blog and I know you’ve got six kids. Now stay here with my sextuplets and their big ass stroller. If the seven of you get out of here alive it will make a great blog post in the future. Look me up, my name is Doe. Jane Doe. Ba-Bye.

And this is why I take the stairs.

Ten Hail Marys And An Our Father Later

It was hot. Not by today’s standards, but for June of 1976 it was hot. I was right on track to graduate, all my ducks in a row, always the good girl. Until that morning.

It was a Monday like any other Monday but the plans were already in motion to change the course of history. I was going to skip school. My friend and I were actually going to go through with it this time. To hell with the rules baby we were going to skip school, punch out, cut class or whatever the really popular kids were calling it back in the day.

We phoned in each others’ absences by reading a well-rehearsed paragraph off of lined 3×5 index cards. We chose our words carefully, used our best penmanship as we wrote out our scripts. My friend and I even practiced the phone conversation several times on Sunday afternoon. We couldn’t use identical phrases because we didn’t want to tip off the feds and we were cautious not to stumble over our statements right at the onset of our premeditated crime spree. We synchronized our watches and called school to report in a matronly voice that an illness had fallen upon our child.

So here’s the skinny, my friend had a pool in her back yard and we were going to lay in the sun and get the tan of a lifetime. We were seniors, life was grand, and as far as we were concerned we were committing the perfect crime. Move over Oceans Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, and Thirteen Point Five. We were now wanted felons. Criminals. We were seventeen and truant. We told a lie. We faked our parents voices and we were so cool.

We slathered ourselves with Coppertone and suited up. I vividly remember that swimsuit, too. I got it at J.C. Penney with my babysitting money. It was a red one piece Speedo that was identical to the ones they were wearing in Montreal at the 1976 Summer Olympics. So, by 7:40 a.m. we are poolside and ready to soak up the rays. I had my spray bottle of lemon juice so that I could spritz my hair and obtain golden highlights as a token of this illegal adventure.

At about 7:55 a.m. we were racked with guilt. We told a lie. We faked our parents voices and we were so going to hell. I think I started the hysteria. What if a teacher noticed that I had lighter hair than I had last week on Friday! How would I explain that one? Simple, it happened over the weekend my friend the voice of reason explained. Whew. Brilliant. This is why she had a 3.8 GPA and I only had a 3.5.

OH MY GOD! What if we got a sunburn!?! A sunburn would certainly look fresh enough. If it happened over the weekend it wouldn’t be as severe on a Tuesday. They could figure this out easily enough just by touching our cheeks. Sunburn was only hot the first day and a half, never longer. If this happened on a Saturday there was no way it would still be hot. HOLY CRAP, we were about to be busted. Even worse, we were sinners. On purpose.

True story, 8:20 a.m. we were in the Main Office of North High School asking if we could see the Principal, or the Vice Principal, or the Assistant Vice Principal. We wanted to turn ourselves in to the authorities.

We told the secretary what we did and she had some kind of a buzzer that summoned the Commander in Chief. I think it was the Assistant to the Assistant Guidance Counselor In Training’s Student Teacher. We once again recited our tale of how we faked our parents voices, lied about being ill and we would like to surrender. We couldn’t stand the gut wrenching ache that was so often associated with leading a double life.

I remember the stomach pain more than I remember the exact words of the Commander in Chief but it was something to the effect that since we were honest and forthcoming and could see the error of our ways the Powers That Be would be able to keep this off of our permanent records.

Thank you Sweet Mother of Jesus. Good things come to those that are honest. It pays to tell the truth. Confession is good for the soul. A penny saved is a penny earned. The cows will come home to roost. We were not going to burn in the fiery trenches of hell.

We went to tell the priest of our wrong-doings the following Saturday and asked to be forgiven by someone more powerful than the Assistant to the Assistant Guidance Counselor In Training’s Student Teacher. We planned our confessions about thirty minutes apart so that the priest wouldn’t suspect that when I confessed that I lied to my parents and my friend confessed that she lied to her parents that we had been co-conspirators.

Ten Hail Marys and an Our Father later we met by the bench at church to walk back to our neighborhood. Was it worth it? Hell, yeah. We never told our parents about our escapades and my mom quit reading everything I wrote several years ago so my secret remains safe. Sssh.

Amen.

Save Yourself, Save The Planet

Honestly, why start on such a huge project like saving the world when you’ve got your hands full with the self-improvement projects you’ve been neglecting for years. Here’s just a few easy ways you can be kind to yourself and the environment.

** Don’t drink and drive. Ever. No matter what. Ever. I won’t lie, I did drink and drive in my twenties and I’m not quite sure why I never died. Or killed anyone.

** Do drink more water. The best formula for that is to take whatever you drank yesterday and multiply it by four … that should be enough.

** Do save the planet. Drink more water just don’t drink it from disposable bottles. Wait, filtered water in glass drinking cups. Unfiltered water is full of lead because for years we believed we could keep our children safe just by washing their toys, thus polluting the lakes and oceans with the powdered lead. Unfiltered water is also full of drugs because the industrial strength filters aren’t strong enough to get out the drugs that idiots keep flushing down the toilet when the cops are at the door. Somehow, by purchasing the install-it-yourself home filter you can eliminate all the unnecessary minerals and drugs. Good luck with that.

** Don’t be afraid of global warming. There are enough scientific studies out there to show evidence of climate trends, which is what I believe. I believe that because I am careful to hang around with like-minded people. There is also enough information on the Internet if you want to subscribe to alternate theories. Just don’t become paralyzed by other peoples’ right to free speech.

** Some people tell lies. And sometimes you won’t know they are lying until it is too late. Been there, done that, bought their t-shirt, had their baby. Practice safe-sex doesn’t mean just using a condom, it also means protecting your heart. And your soul.

** There are people that don’t tell lies. They are just harder to find but well worth the wait. Been there, done that, and I will live happily ever after, damn it.

** Some people suck the life right out of you. Try to hang around with the least suckiest people you can find because it is through these unsucky people and their friends that you will be able to change your attitude. Positive people through off a great vibe, glob on to it, that’s why they put it out there.

** You probably won’t trust me on this, but life is to short to wait to love yourself. Make a sincere effort to love who you are where you are right now. You might not be where you thought you would be, but make the best of it. Don’t wait to love yourself after you lose the weight or grow your hair out or fit into the perfect size jeans.

 

Very seldom do I preach, but when I do it is all same theme …

** At any given moment, just by being who you are can really make a difference. You just don’t know it at the time.

Reason to Believe, Part One

 

The end of the story.

This was the last picture that night. I was probably 21 at the time. I carefully removed everyone’s eyes from the photograph (except mine) because the people with me are  in the photograph are either way too successful or way too dead to have their picture running at my place.

 

Friday nights we did everything as a group, Saturday nights were theme nights, and on any given Sunday we would be together from noon until about 8 p.m.

In my opinion, theme nights were my favorite because we only chose themes where we thought we would look really great. There were probably close to 25 or 30 of us and everything was carefully planned using a land line telephone.  We never announced the theme until Saturday at noon because we didn’t want any of the other girls having enough time to plan how they could look better than us.

One of the guys we hung out with had a farm house and we’d usually start there with solids before we switched to liquids. In the seventies we weren’t afraid of drunk driving and sexually transmitted diseases hadn’t been invented so we were truly invincible.

The beginning of the story.

Three of us shared an apartment. Two of us were close friends since kindergarten and I was the other one. I took the place of the one that girl that left for college. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now – those are dynamics that never work.

We had great parties. Seriously great parties. Three girls lived upstairs, three boys lived downstairs. The boys cut the grass and shoveled the snow because we pretended we didn’t know how.

Fridays were wild in our two-family home. We’d get home from work, clean and do a week’s worth of dishes. One floor of the house would play the music loud enough for the entire building, most of the time it was Meat Loaf’s Bat out of Hell. Our throats would be raw from screaming lyrics before we even left the apartment for the night.

We were young. We traded clothes and secrets, we were going to be friends forever. We drove each others’ cars, hugged each others’ boyfriends, ate each others’ food, and did each others laundry. We lent each other money, paid each other back, and screamed when the perfect song came on at the perfect moment. Damn, we were loud.

I smoked for a weekend. I’ve rarely admitted that fact, but I’m telling you now. I smoked one pack on Friday night, the second pack on Saturday night, and another pack Sunday afternoon. That would be my addictive personality, I guess. Merit Methol was the brand I smoked, I liked the way the pack looked. I even bought sunglasses that matched the cigarette pack. And after three days of hard core smoking my lungs hurt so I quit.

The incredibly long middle of the story.

We dated softball players. Don’t quote me on this one, but at the time I thought it might have been some kind of crazy ass Wisconsin law. I mean, every girl I knew was dating a softball player. And every girl knew also could tell how good a guy would be by what position he played in the softball game. Don’t think we didn’t notice how quick a catcher could go from his knees to an upright position. Don’t think we didn’t notice how fast a shortstop could switch off between second base and third base without missing a beat. We saw it all. We even knew that the guys who were all talk about playing the field but couldn’t really produce ended up right field. We just knew.

One of the best parts about dating softball players were the tournaments. It was like the World Series every single weekend.  Particulars were well planned. We didn’t have cell phones. Hell, we didn’t even have cordless phones. Four couples shared two vehicles. Usually the guys caravanned, four per vehicle and the girls came an hour later also four to a car. Gas prices weren’t outrageous, cars were inexpensive and music came on eight-tracks.

On one particular World Series tournament weekend, I was the designated driver.  In the seventies that meant you were the one designated to drive. It had nothing to do with starting sober, remaining sober and being a responsible sober person for the duration of the evening. It simply meant you were the one that was designated to do the driving.

We were all crammed into my Ford Pinto, yes it was green. I had a serious juke box with a deafening pair of speakers. They weren’t the little pansy ass box speakers either, these were serious speakers that needed special holes drilled into the flat area between the seat and the rear window. This pair of speakers came from an ex-softball-playing-boyfriend’s first generation Monte Carlo. And yes, they were way too big and powerful for my Pinto which would explain part of my popularity when it came to choosing a designated driver.

To be continued …

 

 

 

Operation Wiener Relocation

Last night we had a good ol’ fashioned wienie roast followed by a couple of hundred marshmallows. We needed to do this because it was thirty two degrees and I refused to turn the heat back on in the house.

We had originally planned to do this over the weekend, but the wind picked up speed and we had our plans blown into the next week. Anyone that has/had children needs to forewarn parents planning to have children that you can’t postpone something fun and then just go on with your life.

Oh, life does go on but it is no where near like it was before, oh no. After twenty four hours my ears were bleeding because I heard the same words over and over and over.

** When can we roast marshmallows? (times five bazillion gajillion)

** How long until we can have hot dogs made outside? (times seven gugatrillion)

No more questions, my adorable little peeps. We will proceed with our original plans when the weather changes.

** I know you said no more questions, so this isn’t a question, because you wouldn’t like that so this is more of a run-on sentence where my voice gets higher and higher and it sounds like a question but it still isn’t a question but there is no wind right now.

When my kids were little they didn’t even know when Christmas was coming because I couldn’t handle the questions. One day, it was just Christmas. The tree went up, stockings were hung. They just marveled at all of it, never knowing that something big was following. It wasn’t until they went to school and everything I carefully orchestrated was ruined by “The System” teaching them about calendars. And time. And reoccurring events. School sucks that way. I totally understand it now when homeschooling parents say that it is a matter of priorities.

Any way, as preparations are underway for our fine cuisine, it is quickly discovered that there may be a problem with the hot dogs.

Back up, my kids are raised with responsibilities. The youngest kids came from rocky beginnings and we were in a series of foster homes before landing safely on our front porch. From early on, my kids get involved in meal planning and preparation. One reason is so that they see there is always food available because sometimes that hadn’t been possible, and another reason is that it makes my life so much easier when I delegate.

Part of their responsibility is to unload the groceries. It further cements the idea that we will always have enough food, no matter what. I wasn’t crazy about this plan right away, but it made a huge difference for the kids.

I can’t always find what I am looking for because they put things where they think they belong, which isn’t always the case. They clear the dinner table, too. Sometimes a funky smell is coming from a cabinet but a brief search will teach you why a half used can of tomato paste needs to go in the refrigerator and not back in the cabinet.

You are now flipping to the current time of last night. The hot dogs were put in the cabinet and not in the refrigerator. At the time the groceries came home from the store on Saturday, the plan was a cook out Saturday night. One of the kids thought the hot dogs would cook faster if they were at room temperature instead of refrigerated (brilliant, I say), which explains why the hot dogs were put in the same cabinet as the buns. Sadly, once the festivities were postponed Operation Wiener Relocation was not initiated.

One more quick trip the to grocery store included a discussion about it being best to put stuff away properly at the original time of purchase and always be prepared for something unexpected occur. The general consensus was to avoid playing hide the wienie at all costs, keep your wienie where it belongs and forget about it until you need it for real.

Now, that we are done with our wienies, let us progress to to our next pressing topic. As the fire went from person to person, the crowd echoed “I Hate White Rabbits” whenever the smoke went in their direction.

I did not grow up with the safety net of White Rabbit, so when the smoke blew in my direction and I moved. Simple, pure, easy. Get up. Move. So, I am marvel at my posse and ponder the following, “will my work here ever be done.”

I don’t know how story of The White Rabbit began, nor do I really need to know. My kids didn’t learn it from me, it was taught by others as a folklore or tradition as a part of their past that they bring with them to our campfire today. Who am I to destroy it all by pointing out that fire doesn’t speak English?

Radio-Related Mid-Life Crisis, Guest Bredenz

It’s just a radio.

It’s a radio won at a casino-themed dinner held by an employer I worked for so long ago, it seems like someone else’s lifetime.  I can’t recall whether I actually did anything to earn it; there’s a good chance that it was a door prize. I’ve never been much of a gambler.

Specifically, it’s an Aiwa CS-N15U, and the serial number sticker on the back claims that it was built in 1988. Knowing this particular employer, it most likely sat in an ocean container in a warehouse in Newark for about three years after that, until it was claimed from a prize table by a much younger me somewhere around 1991. And this radio has graced a variety of my domiciles throughout Wisconsin in these nearly twenty years since.

For the past seven of those nearly twenty years, with very little deviation, my morning routine has been the same: Grab coffee, walk downstairs, flip the switch on this little radio, turn on the shower, and allow myself to be reborn. Celebrate that I’ve cheated death, and actuarial science, for yet another day.

This radio has been my trusted companion through, in no particular order: Three jobs, more failed relationships than I wish to admit, eleven years of marriage, seven years of fatherhood, a car crash that should have killed me, two Green Bay Packer trips to the Super Bowl, resulting in one Lombardi Trophy, Opening Days at both County Stadium and Miller Park, a forest fire, raking leaves, re-siding my grandparents’ home before their death, burying my grandparents, planting trees (not related to forest fire) watering said trees, fishing, splitting wood, caulking and staining a log cabin, many garage cleanings, more washed windows than I can remember, many things I wish I could forget, windy fall afternoons throwing a Frisbee with my daughter, and countless peaceful summer evenings spent sitting by a fire-pit with a beer in my hand. (Which, for the record, is how I started the forest fire.)

“Good times, bad times, you know I’ve had my share.” Yes, those words have emerged from this radio many times, also.

This radio has been witness to remarkable personal diversity. As my politics have leaned left and right through the years, this radio was surprisingly consistent, and never once judged the content, nor placement of the dial.  These speakers have known everything from NPR to Art Bell.

I listened to Brewer games on this radio with my grandfather, who passed away in 2001, and when I hear Bob Uecker’s voice through the speakers of this radio, I still picture my grandfather sitting next to me.

It was from the speakers of this radio that John Jagler informed me that a plane had struck the first of the Twin Towers on the morning of 9/11.  Every time I hear his voice, it reminds me of how that morning changed us.  Sadly, perhaps, not enough.

It’s almost staggering to admit that this simple piece of consumer electronics predates my first home computer purchase by nearly three years.  Processors have gotten faster, hard drives have gotten bigger.  This silly little radio has never known the difference.

About once a year, I notice that my friend’s little red “operation” LED is going so dim it can barely be seen, and the voices emerging from its speakers are becoming garbled. So, as a ritual, I put four fresh ‘D’ cells in the battery compartment, and my friend is given the gift of new life.  It’s fitting, then, that in these days just following the Christian holiday of Easter, this morning, my friend was longing for resurrection.

Today, something inside of me is different. This modest radio still works just fine; though, admittedly, much like its owner, it is showing some signs of wear. So, I am left wondering whether there’s something better out there. Experiencing a bit of a “radio-related mid-life crisis,” I guess.  I’ve made the decision: The time has come to retire my longtime companion. Nineteen years spent with the same miniature boombox is, quite frankly, enough.

Going radio shopping this afternoon.  Have no idea what to expect.

Bredenz can be read at Badger Blogger.

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