Mexico bound...

That's right. The vacation dreamed of for the last couple of years is about to occur. It is disturbingly complicated in its execution. We are flying one grandparent to pick up El Toddler Grande and take her back to Colorado. Then when the vacation is finished, we will fly another grandparent back with La Hija del Fuego to Texas. That is three round trip tickets just for babysitting. Damn.

The upside is, Dr. Wife and I will be surrounded by some of our best friends in scenic Puerto Morelos, a tiny fishing village between Cancun and Play del Carmen. Add tequila, snorkeling mask, and a little sight seeing. It should be a good week.

The tiny little village has what they call an "internet cafe." I will blog some from the road, if time permits. Maybe even a picture or two.

Until I depart, go ahead and give me some advice for the trip (other than not drinking the water). Go!

Flash stupid

I decided this morning that I would go find a nice nature trail in the city of San Antonio. I did some searching, and found a trail site that described the location of a 5 mile nature trail. After a brief Google Maps consultation, I took off.

My bad choice occurred when, upon arriving at the desired area, I found a road block. You know the ones, the orange and white saw-horses that are put up when, say, a road has flooded out. I mean, come on, who really believes those things anyway?

Now, I'm an experienced driver. I know that you don't drive into water. And there was none, so I followed a little dirt access path past the barracade. Oddly enough, another driver did this shortly afterwards.

I drove slowly down the road, looking for evidence of this trailhead, and as I reached the top of a hill, I saw that there was indeed flooding across the bottom. So, I turned around, figuring I'd try again another day and just hit the gym. The car behind me turned around after I did, obviously reaching the same conclusion. However, she did so much more quickly. Which is why the cop who was guarding the flooded road caught her first.

I finished turning around and attempted to drive calmly passed the officer and back out past the barricade. He gave me a gesture of "talk to the hand" which I interpreted to mean "stop."

At which point, he began the rather intense interrogation. The sole purpose of which seemed to be getting me to understand what a complete idiot I was. He examined my Kansas information, and listened to me explain that I was a clueless hiker looking for a trail (thankfully, marked up Google Map was handy). He berated me with some pretty deserving little jabs, and then asked me a rather odd question:

Officer: "Are you a mass murderer?"
Confused me: "No, sir. I'm a high school teacher."

I left with a stern warning, and I doubt the woman pulled over before me (who was waiting in her car during my questioning) got away as cleanly as I did. A tow truck was approaching as I left...

One fiddle ... check

I am attempting to distill from the masses of people I encounter the true essence of Texan. Although the stereotyped "cowboy" and "Mexican" can be found, I'm pleasantly surprised at the range of characters. It is refreshing to know that my previous definition of "Texan" needs to change. So I am going to try to define and experience these common Texan commonalities, or Texanalities, as I filter them. My goal is to allow you, my precious reader, the dream of becoming a Texan without ever having to give into the stereotypes that you so feared (such as Fat Rattlesnake Rancher).

Aspect 1: Lone Star Beer. It seems to exist solely in 16 oz. tall cans, though it has recently been created as a "lite" beer. It is the favorite of cowboys, blues musicians, punks, psychobillies, and texicans alike. Upon cracking one of these tallboys open, one immediately tastes its peers: Schlitz, Natural Light, and Old Milwaukee. If it weren't for the good blues at the bar while I was consuming this rusty-urine flavored carwash water reject, I would have puked it back into the can. I will never drink it again. Ever. But since I have consumed one, I am closer to being Texan.

Aspect 2: Cowboy Boots. I am going to buy a pair. I haven't worn any since I was six, and I doubt that pair would fit anymore. It seems you don't have to be a cowboy to wear them here. Just willing to commit to wearing jeans. We may wait for winter for this experience. It seems that a true Texas man doesn't mind dehydrating through his undercarriage, but I like to let a cool breeze in from time to time. Cowboy boots around here can be worn with suits, slacks, dresses, kilts, jeans, but not shorts. It is amazing what a variety there are. There will be an entire blog about the shopping trip. Just you wait...

Duck, dodge, parry, thrust...

One of my favorite books is called Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson. In this book the main character, Hiro, thinks to himself,

"every man believes that he is tough. And when he believes he isn't tough, he still envisions that if he were to seclude himself in a Tibetan shaolin monastery and train for years, he could become the toughest, most bad-ass man alive." *

It is because of this, as well as a knowledge that someday boys will want to date my daughter, that I want to enroll her in a traditional Kung-Fu school. There, she would learn to kill with her bare hands, balance on bamboo poles, snatch the pebble from my hand, and wield the un-em-ori death touch. What father doesn't want this? Can there be an end to my life more honorable than my daughter driving her tiger strike through my chest to rip out my beating heart, screaming "I WILL marry, father, and your corpse will sit there quietly as I do!!"? I think not...

Dr. Wife, on the other hand, is a closet ballerina. While I am delivering deadly blows to imaginary enemies in the mirror, she is quietly doing pirouettes and plies, delicately balancing on her tip toes. The prettiness of it causes me some trauma, but I understand that all girls are raised to be prancing ballerinas (unless their fathers intervene with instructions regarding the proper usage of meridian pressure points in combat situations).

This has caused within our household the achievement of a compromise. Young Pie has taken her first gymnastics class at the local gymnastics/cheer/dance academy. Complete with leotard. How is this a compromise? The first years of Kung-Fu training involve teaching flexibility, resiliance in falls, balance, coordination, and the ability to follow direction from the Master. So does gymnastics. Dance focuses on basic moves, stretching and strength, balance, and an appreciation for grace and prettiness. So does gymnastics.

It remains to be seen where the Young Wonder will take this. She may choose to compete, to cheer, to dance, to ballet, to Kung-Fu, or none. But she will be prepared for the time when she must leap to the air and snap a kick into the throat of a young suitor who asked to hold her hand.

*This is quoted poorly from memory. Read the book, as it relates strongly to the influence of language on the development of society and the roots of communication. And it has a guy with a nuke tied to his brain.

Fragment #2

The process of prepping Miss Neverpoop for the movie began days earlier. I drove past the theatre and pointed it out...

"In there is a great big movie. We are going to go watch it with some other people. It's a movie about a rat who likes to cook. The movie is called Ratatouille."

The next step was talking about volume. Many wise guys told me their kids were afraid of the loud music, explosions, etc.

"This movie is so big that the music and sounds are loud. If they get too loud, you can sit on my lap until it's quiet again."

To which she replied,

"They just need to slow the movie down and calm down to make it a little quieter. Slow it down..."

So when Ratatouille began, she sat in my lap, eyes glued to the screen, tiny fist full of popcorn. Dr. Wife cajoled her onto her lap soon after, but that overwhelmed little smile stayed stuck to the screen the whole time.
Her take,

"I like Ratatouilles. They snuggle me and are nice and don't bite and they like to cook sometimes. I'm going to take a good nap tomorrow so we can go to the big movie again."

Fragment #1

It's been a blogtastic couple of days, so I will break it into little chunks. Hopefully, I will give these little views their due.

But first, let's paint a picture in your mind of the writer, and what the world around me is. First, rain. More flooding, but we're undamaged. It does leave Miss Neverpoop and I stranded a little more, as it isn't safe to drive these streets during the flash flooding. Then, the lack of poop. It has been more than a week, which means it was time for another dose of suppository glycerine.

Please tell me why my daughter holds in her poop until it hurts her. Please? After giving her the medicine, she looked at me and said, "Daddy, you weren't very careful with my body. You gave me an owie on my poopy hole. You need to be more careful with me." I am an awful, wretched creature.

She still is holding it in, but she and Dr. Wife have drifted off to sleep in a little cuddled mass in bed. Thanks to the glycerine, it will only be a matter of time before she unplugs, and her body mass drops by half.

So I am listening to the rain bursts roll through, watching some mindless TV, drinking bourbon and trying to forget that I hurt my little girl tonight. I know, following doctor's orders and all. But damn, her little face cuddling up to me, wondering why we had to do that...

In the next installment, I will tell you about Sammy's first movie at a theatre last week, and her opinion of Ratatouille.