Someone else's treasure?

So what is so special about this trashcan? After all, Sea World has hundreds of them throughout the park. They are in the standard pebbled-concrete enclosures. This one had a fine trash bag and lid. In fact, it was in most ways as natural as they come.

But apparently, this one is delicious. How do I know? Because I watched a two year old boy licking the concrete sides. Not just touching his tongue to it, but truly licking it. His face showed sublime ecstasy as he ran it repeatedly up the sides of this filth-sicle. No grimace of disgust, no hesitation, and no restraint. He licked it with passionate glee. God only knows where his parents were, though the scream that erupted from an angry mother moments later indicated that eventually they noticed Mommy's Little Angel was missing.

But really, all that I could grasp was:

HE WAS LICKING THE DAMN TRASH CAN.

Wabbits...

Job hunting is depressing. I went through the second round yesterday with a marketing company. You know when you leave a store and there's this smiling man with a catchy table who is really excited to sell you a great deal on a fabulous savings package?

That's my job offer. In fairness, the products were legit and good deals. And the manager training me was a genuinely positive guy. But ambush marketing? Sure, I could do that. Do I want to? No.

This would be easier to turn down if any of my other prospects looked better. The jobs that actually appealed to me were filled without so much as a distant wave my direction.

The pressure I'm feeling is really self-imposed. I have income moving my way, and I've been a smart spender lately. But I'm a pretty typical man in that so much of my self-worth is pinned on my financial value to the family. I know, typical male ego...

A decent job is out there, but where? And how will I land it? I really want to own my own business, so I need to get into a business world of some sort. But how? And what? And why won't the breweries in town magically adopt me as their spokesdork?

Now you're older still...

On the way to preschool today...

Daughter: "Daddy, how long until I am 5?"
Me: "You just turned 4, honey."
Daughter: "But will I be 5 soon?"
Me: "It will be a year from now. You get to be a big 4-year-old for a long time."
Daughter: "But I won't just be four. I will get even fourer and fourer."

Being four isn't just an age. It is a state of being that has degrees. Miss Neverpoop seeks to achieve a greater degree of fourness with each passing moment.

I shudder to think what that means for us. More spontaneous feats of climbing? More random fits of independence? A greater level of bedtime combat? A deeper commitment to her puppy impersonations (complete with spontaneous leg-licks)?

Rolling along

Miss Neverpoop's first bike ride at the local park. It was her first time going down hills (which terrified her), and her first time going up hills (which terrified her). She is afraid of everything these days.

• Hills


• Spiderwebs


• Bees


• Dust bunnies


• New food


• Hair


• Doctors


• Medicine


• Band Aids


• Removing Band Aids


• Loud sneezes


• Lint


• Speed Bumps


• Fire


• Pickies (hangnails)


• Toilets flushing


• Going fast


• Monsters


• Moths

It is a little disturbing to see her so frightened all of the time. We never allow her to give into her fears (alright, maybe fire...). We calmly hold her as she faces them. She loves adrenaline, but is terrified of trying anything brand new. If we can get her to try it once, though...

I'm working with that in my own world. Leaving teaching is scary, especially when I failed at doing so last year. In the middle of it all, I am trying to figure out how to find a new job, prepare for the next venture (owning the microbrewery), deciding whether to buy a house, rent, or get the hell out of Texas, refinancing the house in Kansas, and trying to manage the stress without letting daily life scare the shit out of me.

Yeah, working on that. It was a good day for a bike ride.

Sage tortilla

My father can talk. He tells a story the way a builder erects a home. The land is cleared, a foundation poured and cured, plumbing is fitted as frames are nailed one by one into place. Time passes, and the bits and pieces fit together to reveal a home, fully functioning and furnished as the story comes to a close.

This is his way, my father. And whether or not you've heard the words before, you will hear them again. The house will rise.

His best moments of advice are relics of lessons long learned.

Me: "I'm not catching any fish, Dad!"
Dad: "You're just not holding your mouth right."

or

"You need to clean the inside of your windshield, too, son."

and

"Just humor me and bring along a jacket."

because

"Son, haven't you learned by now that I'm all knowing."

which has been proven by

"Now, you can eat a jalapeño but don't touch your eyes afterwards. It will hurt like hell."

It's that last bit of sage wisdom that finally bit me. For although I didn't touch the habañero, it had been put in the wrapper with my burrito at El Pollo Loco.

I hate that burrito.

And I rubbed my allergic eyes.

I RUBBED MY GODDAMN EYE!

An icy hot pick of pain and confusion probed towards my brain. That same alligator-brain immediately commanded me to claw my own eye out. I rushed to the bathroom of El Pollo Loco (which in and of itself is not extraordinary). The door was locked!
It seemed that yes, indeed, the eye would need to come out. Right-the-hell-now.

At times like this I am lucky that Dr. Wife is in charge. She calmly knocked the surgical spork from my clutches and calmly handed me some cool, wet paper towels.

Ah, the cooling glory of water on a humble brown industrial paper towel. Of this, songs are writ.

With time and water, the pain gradually traded places with laughter as my dad's advice came rolling to my mind. Thanks for trying, Dad. I really was listening.

Compliance required

Miss Neverpoop has taken on the role of Miss Bossypants around the house. She barks orders, despite our complete refusal to obey. Requests with pleases and thank yous are considered, but the orders are ignored.
And yet they flow like wine.
Recently, she decided that she wants to enforce a few table rules.

Miss Neverpoop: "Daddy, don't talk with your mouth full, please."
Me: "My mouth is empty, dear."
Miss Neverpoop: "Mommy, don't talk with your mouth full either, please."
Dr. Wife: "OK honey, I won't."
Miss Neverpoop: "Mommy, did you know that I love you even when you talk with your mouth full?"
Dr. Wife: "I'm glad, honey, and I always love you, too."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, but don't eat with your mouth full."
Me: *stifled laughter*
Dr. Wife: "I have to have food in my mouth to eat."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, but don't eat with your mouth full."
Dr. Wife: "Then how can I eat?"
Miss Neverpoop: "It's ok, I still love you even when you do that."

Obedience is necessary, understanding is optional, and love is unconditional. I wonder where she got that.

Social !!!!

What is flunk day? Tradition! Debauchery! Mid-day sex excuse!
At Coe College, where I once slung-a-da-ink, the student council has the power to cancel class one day of the year. At the crack of dawn, the school victory bell rings out over campus and the student council begins pounding the doors, announcing the glorious day that is flunk. Though most are aware the night before, when the student council ruins the surprise by being randomly intoxicated and jubilant with disregard for their next day's chores.
Kegs are tapped across campus, local dance clubs are commandeered, redneck waterpark/golfcart parks are overtaken, and OFUI's were given out for playing Ultimate (Operating a Frisbee Under the Influence).
Half of those days were gone to me, lost in student teaching (which knew no flunk) and organic chemistry lab (which continued sans professor). But the rest of the time was spent being silly with fraternity brothers and Southern Comfort.
Today is flunk day, my Kohawks. Quit working! Get some beer!