Our friend Porn

Ah! You sly, randy beast. Chances are that you are reading this for one of three reasons. 1. You actually enjoy what is written in this madhouse of a blog. 2. You have a parole officer with an incomplete knowledge of the 8th amendment and have been assigned reading this to work off some community service hours or 3. You thought it was going to be hot hot stuff from seeing the title. If you chose #3, shame shame shame and get to the confessional!

With all of the terrible news about the heat wave that is gripping a lot of the country and creating much perspiration and consternation for a lot of people, we are going to look at  meterology from a trans-continental perspective. Here in the scribblingdaddy blogosphere, we are committed to.... well not much, actually, but sometimes we like to take the global view on current events.

As a little known subcontractor of the National Aeronautic and Atmospheric Administration, I lead the thinktank The Institute for Nanospherical, Environmentalogical and Pyroclastic Terresterialization.   As this does not fit neatly on a standard-sized business card, we go by the acronym INEPT. We have a few core beliefs that guide us in our work: We will never shy away from faking data in order to get more federal funding and we love nepotism. With this in mind, let's take a look at the weather.

My 2nd cousin thrice removed, who is aptly named Sahara, has just been fired from her gig as chief meterologist for the Abu Dhabi region. During her interview, she spoke fondly of her love of hot desserts, but the word was mistranslated as deserts and she was hired on the spot. Her folly was to predict a snow and hail storm for the United Arab Emirates in July. Not surprisingly, Al-Jazeera skewered her and she was duly deported. At INEPT, we feel we have hit the jackpot- she embodies the spirit of our acronym and is sort-of a relative. 

At any rate, Sahara contacted our Southeast Asia correspondent, who is currently on the Thai-Burmese border covering Rangoon's military fashion scene. His name is Sutaporn Pwonphakdee Thamronglak Pwonphakdee. We just call him Porn.

Sahara contacted him via our preferred method of communication- the telegraph, so the exactitude of this transcript is dubious. Enjoy:

Sahara: Porn, are you there?

Porn: Yes, I am. Thanks for, ah, telegraphing me. Is it 1858 where you are?

Sahara: No, it's 2012. We would like to know if the heat wave that is gripping the US is like anything you have in Thailand.

Porn: Well, let me put it this way, we have a saying in Thai that goes like this: "ช่วยฉัน/ผมหน่อยได้ไหม คะ/ครับ."

Sahara: Ah, a little help on the translation.

Porn: It means that here we are used to it being "Bradbury hot." 

Sahara: Whaaaaat?

Porn: When you enter an un-airconditioned bus in Bangkok reading a book, the ambient temperature is around 451 degrees and the book will immolate in your hands. 

Sahara: Um, O.K. I'll have to look that one up later. 

Porn: We also have a lot of humidity. Your heat is more of the dry variety.

Sahara: Yeah, you try telling that to the Turkey at Thanksgiving!

Porn: Come again?

Sahara: You know, Thanksgiving. Last Thursday in November- Dallas Cowboys.

Porn: No. I'm Thai, but I do enjoy the re-make of the t.v. show Dallas- that J.R. is a hoot!

Sahara:  Alrighty then- welcome on board here at INEPT. We look forward to getting in touch with you in the future. 

Porn: Very good- I've got to go now- I have a call waiting from Christine Amanpour- she wants to do a reportage on why the Pattaya-Bangkok soccer game ended in a Thai.

 At this point, the connection was cut and we mercifully do not have the rest of the conversation to offer you...

If you have gotten this far, you are to be commended as this post was cooked (!) today while I was deleriously taking a noontime walk with no water to be found. John, my brother was the inspiration for this as he lived in Thailand for a while and was kind enough to take me there with him years ago. I take all the blame for the factual errors found herein.

Why? Why not!

Motivation has been studied by many learned people over the years. To me, it is a maddening phenomenon. What makes some people intrinsically motivate to succeed, or at least to attempt something new? How does extrinsic motivation, well, motivate people? If we are told to complete a task for some cash, we are motivated but still may not be able to fufill the job. Hmmmm. I mean if the promise of some benjamins does not motive for success, what will? 

Today, I got some motivation to create a new sport/game that was both intrinsic (I'm gonna do this!) and extrinsic (Kim asked me to help her pile moldy food onto the compost heap we keep out back). 

As vacation time approaches, Kim has been very good about getting all perishable foods out of the house so we do not have foul, rotting nastiness to return to. Today, as is not usually the case, Kim was disposing of some flour and corn tortillas of varying sizes. I was motivated to see how well I could throw them like frisbees. Just for the record, I was not promised any moola as motivation- just by curiosity, I suppose. 

I am pleased to report that launching the mid-size flour tortillas was extremely satisfying and my range was quite good. The small flour ones were also quite fun to toss into the stratosphere. Sadly, for the Iowa farmers who will want to mass-produce genetically-altered corn for making tortilla frisbees, those made of maize were terrible and ripped in half just as I threw them. Unfortunately, they were not the only thing that ripped as I am scheduled for reconstructive rotator cuff surgery tomorrow.  Oh well, at least Kim will have to do all the driving this summer!

"L'etat, c'est pas moi!"

While most of the world has been feting Queen Victoria's, er I mean Elizabeth's 60th anniversary as top royal, I have been thinking of another European monarch. Who, you may ask, has been marauding the synapses of my cerebellum? Why, it's none other than Juan Carlos of Spain! In case you are unaware, "El rey" got into some trouble on the Iberian peninsula for taking an expensive Elephant hunting trip in Botswana while his country teeters on the brink of economic chaos. Muy estupido? Creo que si!

Here in my realm, I am fourth in command. There is still some debate as to whether Carter is my immediate superior, or if Reid is. Be that as it may, I figured that I could take the kids on a "suburban safari" today and not get in much trouble a la Juan Carlos. Allow me to recount the expedition:

First we packed the safari expedition vehicle my car with all of the necessary provisions to tame the wild. Reid insisted that we bring his sedan chair stroller so that he would be able to ride in comfort. Carter was in charge of vittles and chose a healthy fruit snack fig newtons. I was in charge of beverages, and since it's summer, I chose H2O water.  Oh wait, those are the same thing.

Now we were off to our exotic destination the zoo  to view the fauna. In order to be fully prepared, I stocked my suburban assault pants cargo shorts with everything we needed, including kleenex due to the leaky nose epidemic here at the "casa" that I have miraculously avoided. Once on the savanna paved zoo path, we encountered many a different ferocious animal prairie dogs and flamingos that exist in their untamed habitats fenced in areas.

The highlight of the trip was when the princess Carter pointed out to yours truly that Master Reid's sedan chair had a heretofore never-discovered gelatinous material stuck to a wheel. As I reached for my specimen bag so that I could it back to base camp my house for analysis, Carter figured out it was actually flamingo poo. I believe the latin is birdus crappus.  No really, that was the highlight of the safari.

On a final note, we were highly disappointed to see that the snack bar was merely a mirage closed thus making an unplanned trip to Sweet Frog necessary. While marveling at the feral beauty that can only be seen in a surburban strip mall parking lot, we sated our "elephantine" appetites, as would have made Juan Carlos proud.

So let that be a lesson to all you monarchs out there (are you reading this Harry and Kate?). Just go to the zoo and save yourselves from the wrath of a nation. 

And on a personal note:

I would like to extend a hearty "shalom" to whoever accessed my blog from Israel. I hereby offer you the bureau chief position at my Tel Aviv office. The salary is $0.

And "Guten Tag" to the Germans who took a peek! In your honor, I have sent my lederhosen to the cleaners so I can wear them on Saturday night.

Of course, you may have just gone to the wrong site by accident. 

3122 Tennyson St.

Below is a picture of the house I was raised in. This picture is from 1937. Apparently "khiramaddie" is selling these on EBAY for $9.99 each (link below). I'll give it to you for free! 

My parent's house is the middle one. If you look carefully at the house on the left, there is a silhouette of a woman in the bedroom above the front door. Also note the black poodle to the left of their walkway. My bedroom (middle house) was top right. My parents demolished that wall in the early 1980s. When my brother and I sold the house in 2005, the owner rebuilt the wall.

The background story goes like this: In 1937, FDR nominated Hugo Black for the Supreme Court, but his congressional approval was in doubt because he had been in the KKK. He gave a CBS radio speech from our (well, not ours then) house, which explained his KKK connection. He was confirmed by the senate. He was friends with the owner of the house at that time. 

I got interested in this because the ancient twins (who were alcoholics) who lived next door (that lady in the silhouette is one of them), told my dad that Hugo Black was sworn in at our house. I got interested and the Library of Congress had a bunch of info. That's where the photo comes from that the person is selling on EBAY.

 

http://www.ebay.com/itm/1937-photo-Scene-Black-broadcast-Washington-D-/250610619006

Digit doldrums

History is dotted with people who have overcome physical limitations to excel in their chosen professions. Renoir had debilitating arthritis and continued to paint well into his sunset years. Beethoven had hearing problems (what?), yet he is considered one of the greatest composers of all time. The drummer for Def Leppard lost an arm in an auto accident and continued to beat the skins. Speaking of one-armed wonders, Jim Abbot threw a no-hitter even though he was missing a limb.  And of course lets not forget Mother Theresa, who helped the destitute when she herself was physically limited in her golden years.

Well, now I can be lauded with the aforementioned. It is with humble sincerity that I enter the pantheon of greatness reserved only for those who continue to do exceptional (or mediocre) things despite a handicap. It have great personal pride in being to share my thoughts today with the world two people who actually read this. Sadly, this morning, my right index finger was stuck with a safety pin. Despite the excruciating and debilitating pain, I have cast off the Dora band-aid (that I begged Carter for through my hot tears and wailing) in order to type this. Dedication to the beautiful transcends all discomfort. Move over Renoir, there's a new martyr on the scene.
 

Special Delivery

Fed-Ex, UPS, even Roadway Express, I know that I have had dalliances with all of you. I regret to inform you that it was all fake- my true love is the U.S. Postal Service. Always has been and always will be. Let's face it, how could one not fall prey to the allure of a quasi-governmental agency that delivers to your door (or mailbox here in suburbia) six days a week, excluding federal holidays? And they only get funding from stamp sales! A truly exceptional organization.

With my ardent love for all things postal (except for those periodic massacres), I would like to discuss the mail I received via my paramour today:

One GQ magazine that I got with expiring frequent flier miles. I'm not much of a GQ guy, but you get what you can with limited miles.

One invitation to become (for 20 bucks!) a card-carrying member of the Secular Humanists. If I were single, I would join because that would help me woo the ladies.  This is no longer an option and I am currently unemployed, so I won't spend 20 dollars for this. :(

One Verizon bill. Hooray!

And the "piece de resistance"..... one invitation to the Green Bay Packers annual shareholder meeting. Oh yes, yours truly is an NFL owner. Not just any shareholder mind you, but one of 364,000! That's an exclusive club and one that I am proud to be a part of. I waited by the phone during the draft, but they never called me for my opinion. I can't for the life of me figure out why not. 

I am the tin man!

Today I found Carter's Fisher Price doctor's kit that contains a thermometer, syringe, and stethoscope. When Dr. Carter saw that I found it, she decided it would be good to give me a checkup. After getting a few shots and having my temperature taken, I was declared healthy. Next came the cardiac portion of the exam. Using the stethoscope, Carter tried to find my heart. She couldn't and told mommy that "Daddy doesn't have a heart." I'll remember that when she needs money for medical school.

an "aquatastic" moment!!!!!

There are many a mythical creature that roam the hinterlands of our minds. Perhaps one is gaga for the griffin, loco for the liger, silly for the sasquatch, or undone by a unicorn. The legend, folktale, or urban legend that spawns these mythical monsters is immaterial. What is important is that people believe in them and hold them special in their hearts. 

I have such a creature that gnaws at my subconscience each and every waking moment. I was introduced to it by Kim, who is also held fast in its sway. I have been on the lookout for a few years now and I was beginning to believe that I would never actually see it "in the wild."

Until today.

You see, this magical creature is not really a creature at all, but a mix of lycra, spandex and poly-cotton fibers. It is called the "modesty swimsuit" and I can now claim to have seen one on a real living woman! Lest you be not aware of its particular allure, let me explain: It is a neck to ankle swimsuit that covers 94.745%  of a person's body. It may or may not have a gauzy, flouncy skirt attachment (those are particularly prized). Think of it as somewhere between a bikini and a burka. It's hot, it's throwback (to 1904) and I have now seen one in person!

My only regret is that I cannot find a male version.  

a special restrained and modest shout out to missesswimsuits.net for this pilfered image.

The Bard is spinning in his grave

Here goes..... an attempt at poetry:

TEARY KIDS:

No tears when they're happy

A lot when they're sad

They cry when they're mad and

They cry if they're bad

They cry when the thunder 

comes rolling this way

They cry when they've got 

nothing better to say

Sometimes it's real

and sometimes it's fake

Just give me some water

an aspirin I'll take

 

They cry if we say yes

They'll cry for a no

They cry when we stay home

They cry when we go

They cry when they're tired

They cry after play

They cry if they're glum

or don't get their way

When they don't well up

with tears 

night or day

That's when I worry

that all is o.k.

 

 

 

Dreaming big!

Young kids usually decide what they want to do for a job early on. Most of the time childhood dreams wilt under the glare of reality. Not many children actually become astronauts, I'm sure. There are probably a lot of crushed cosmonaut dreams in Sibera as well.

I was no different. First and foremost I wanted to be a garbage man. My parents nurtured this by letting me watch the "rash rucks" each morning. Ah the halcyon days of yore- wanting to spend a life disposing of other people's stinky rotting rubbish while dodging overfed vermin.

Next up was the idea that I would be a police officer. This career idea was inspired by watching "CHIPS" over and over again. I wanted to be Jon, ride the freeways and nab the perps.  The knight is shining armor keeping exit 227 on the 405 incident free.

Another fantasy job for me was to be an archeologist (I have seen Raiders of the Lost Ark 1,000 times.) I wanted to travel to distant lands, get out my trowel and dig dig dig! I even went so far as to actually buy a fake bullwhip and wear it around. Now that's cool.

Parenting has unexpectedly allowed me to pursue all three of these careers at once: I am a sanitation engineer as I get to empty the stinkin' diaper genie on a regular basis; I get to be a traffic cop keeping the young one's out of harm's way; I get to be an amateur archeologist when I analyze the dust-encrusted foodstuffs that I sweep from under the couch.  Oh the joy!!!

I'll make sure to teach the kiddos to never give up on their dreams- they just may come true.

Mistaken Identity

What does it feel like to be mistaken for someone else? It would seem true that this has happened to everyone at some point. Dopplegangers abound. For instance, I could mistake my son Reid for a competitive eater. I could mistake my daughter Carter for a princess, or so she thinks. Kim is unmistakable. Writing otherwise would be to infer that there is another person on this planet as beautiful as she, and that could be dangerous territory. My father could have been mistaken for Mr. Drummond. My mother could have been mistaken for Barbara Billingsly, with an innate toughness and fluency in jive that can only come from being born in the Bronx.

Today, as I went to get pizza for lunch near Kim's work , the kid behind the counter mistook me for his college history professor, Dr. Nelson. I've never met this Dr. Nelson, but I'm thinking he's pretty handsome. I wonder if he is related to Adam Sandler's Bishop Nelson... At any rate, I am glad that pizza dude seemed to have liked the good Dr. because if he hadn't, maybe he would have slung steaming hot pizza sauce in my face.

November dreams

I believe that I would be a good vice-presidental choice for Mitt Romney. Not only am I very qualified, I don't have any gainful employment at the moment. I've heard the VP gig pays pretty well. I feel that a look at my assets to his campaign and how we are similar is in order. All of the following information on Mitt has been compiled by Brad, the only person to answer my ad for an unpaid research assistant. Brad is currently working towards a B.A. from an unaccreditated online university. His talent at plagarizing Wikipedia is a plus.

Mr. Romney's father was Governor of Michigan.

My father was raised in the upper peninsula!

Mr. Romney's father worked for the federal government.

My father worked for the federal government!

Mr. Romney lived in Massachusetts.

I lived in Massachusetts!

People voted for Mr. Romney.

I was voted "coolest kid with bifocals and orthopaedic shoes" in grade school!

Mr. Romney thinks having multiple wives is o.k.

Oh yeah!

Mr. Romney has silver hair that conveys a sense of accomplishment and maturity.

They don't call me "the grey goose" for nothing!

Mr. Romney has profited from stock trades.

I once earned $20 from cashing out stocks my nana bought me!

Mr. Romney has experience leading complex events such as the Olympic games.

I was assistant coordinator of the Jr. High Spelling Bee!

Mr. Romney could benefit from a swing-state VP.

I live in Virginia!

Mr. Romney wears jeans at blue-collar campaign events. 

I own a pair of skin-tight jorts that I wear in the privacy of my own boudoir !

I think the choice is pretty clear!!! I have put a down payment on "Mitt and Dick go great together" posters. All donations are accepted. Please write checks to my friend Cash.




         

Diamond truths

There are a few things that are no-brainers when it comes to summer. First and foremost, the kids are out of school and need whatever sort of guidance it is that kids need (?). Gargantuan bugs appear and attack at will, often inviting their friends. Humidity makes an appearance and sticks around, figuratively and literally. Ice cream shops are all about the Benjamins and baseball comes out of hibernation.

Attending baseball games can be a lot of fun and an excellent way to get horribly sunburned. It is also a great venue for people-watching and there are a few archetypes that can invariably be counted on:

1.The college girls who dress like they are going clubbing instead of sitting in front of a game.

2. Their boyfriends who high-five each other at regular intervals for no apparent reason.

 

3. The little kids who run amok because their parents are "taking some time to themselves."

4. The guy who brings his glove to catch a foul ball (see #2). Usually this glove is from 1981 and could not catch a wiffle ball, let alone a screaming line drive coming in for landing in his hoochie-mama's (see #1)  $10 beer. 

5. The old overdressed guy who keeps score with a golf pencil and leaves a mountain of peanut shells around him.

6. The group outing. Normally, neither the kids nor chaperones have ever attended a game and all are oblivious to all other fans.

7. The self-absorbed texters. Oh wait, they are everywhere. 

And  last but not least.... a very rare bird not generally seen, but attends occasionally: A fan who actually pays attention to the action on the field (other than the old guys keeping score, that is, but these geriatrics cannot physically get out of their seats and live at the ballpark).

With that in mind, feel free to head on out to a ball game and see for yourself. Oh yeah, don't forget grandpa's glove for those foul balls. Or learn how to duck.

Becoming daddy

Father's Day to me is one of those suspect holidays  created by Hallmark to sell more pithy cards at egregious prices. That cynicism beside, I have a few reflections on the blessed night and day that made me a father for the first time:

Kim told me her water broke around 9 p.m. I was always under the impression that water-breaking was a one-time event. It breaks and birth occurs soon after. What I found out (in our new car) is that water-breakage is a process that lasts for a while. Thanks to my intense abstinence curriculum at Catholic school from Sister kneestogether, I was completely ignorant of this.

When we got to the hospital, we were led back to the delivery area because Kim was smart and pre-registered. She was trussed up on the delivery bed, poked and prodded with various monitors and she declined pain meds for a while. This delivery process lasted until noon the next day. That's 15 hours of labor! I put in a lot of effort feeding Kim ice chips and had to stop and get chocolate goodies periodically. I also gorged myself on the free treats in the break room. There may have been a few t.v. breaks too (I can't miss my Maury!). What I remember most about that time, however, is my own extreme discomfort in that I was not given a bed to sleep on and had to snooze in an unforgiving chair with a miniscule hospital blankie. But hey, that's the kind of sacrifice I make for family.

Recuperation!

Exhilaration!

YMCA Olympiad

Saturday morning is swim lesson day for my five-year old daughter, Carter. Daddy usually takes her and the quality time is immesurable: "Hold my hand!" "Don't run!' "Get over her" "Carter don't touch that!" "You have to pee now???" 

Luckily, there are myriad distractions for me as I sit in the humid sweltering hellhole pool area wilting like a hothouse flower. My favorites are the septegenarian ladies who practice their syncronized swimming.  They are a pretty talented duo and can scissor kick while submerged with impressive alacrity.

Today, as they exited the pool,  they had the caps off their heads and lo! One is young and one is, indeed, quite vintage. This was quite a shock. I figure they are a mother-daughter swimming team. Who knows but I have to pass the time somehow while my little nipper learns valuable skills (such as throwing a flotation noodle to a drowning person).

So I started to think- what kind of father-daughter act could Carter and I do to make a little cash? Spit flames? Swallow swords? Tightrope walk Niagara Falls? Once I find a suitable traveling sideshow, we are gonna jump that train or audition for "America's Got Talent", whichever is more lucrative.

What's in a n-a-m-e?

Every industry, profession, career and job has it's own lingo. For an outsider to come in to a new work environment, the need to assimilate information and a common lexicon with coworkers can be daunting and humbling. 

Education is no different- For instance an educator could talk about whether a student has a 504, is LEP, is in his or her LRE. Or maybe the teacher needs to target the kid's ZPD. Ah! Don't be remiss and forget IB and its attendant subgroups: MYP and DP. Do you have enough PDPs to recertify with the DOE? Maybe your graduate degree is an MEd or an MAT. Did the tardy kid get DBS or DAS? OMG he is OSS??? Does that affect the GPA? 

OK, blah, blah, blah. This morning, our principal sent out an e-mail letting us know that he placed lei (the Hawaiian flower necklace- don't know the plural form- add an "s?") for our annual end-of-year faculty luau so we could wear them. When I read the subject line of the message (lei), my immediate thought (on my last day!) was "Oh, man what does that acronym mean and how do I not know it? I feel so dumb!"

It's time to leave, methinks.

P.S. If you don't understand the acronyms above and want to know what they mean, get a life.

Thanks! Merci! Gracias!

Sometimes simplicity is the best approach: Thank you so much wonderful colleagues for making the past ten years of working with you so much fun and such a wild experience!!! Let the new adventures begin...

Thoughts of loss

Loss can be a sweet: losing one's virginity. Loss can make one despondent: losing a family member after a long illness; loss can be annoying: losing one's car keys on a rainy night. Loss can be frustrating: losing a game or bet. Loss can be scary: losing a job in a bad economy. Loss can be part of the cycle of renewal: a tree losing its leaves in the fall. Loss can have sartorial repercussions: losing weight, thus creating the need for a smaller-sized wardrobe. 

Loss can also be downright farcical. One could, for example, find a website that caters to people who buy thrift clothes or other items that people have deemed as "junk." Or maybe poor deceased Uncle Harry's entire wardrobe. Imagine such a website offering the following up for bid:

With an opening price of only $5, what committed Dodgers fan could resist? Surely, a maximum bid of $7.50 should easily (EASILY!) guarantee winning these beauties and having proper footwear for summer and for humiliating his children in public!!!. Alas, it was not meant to be, as someone, somewhere decided that these fancy shoes were worth the princely sum of $9.50. What kind of world is this that $2.00 can rend someone's heart from that which he covets? It is a cruel world indeed. But more importantly, who would have guessed that two people would actually bid on these?

Stanley Cup hangover

Yours truly stayed up way past his bedtime last night watching hockey. This video is fun:

http://msn.foxsports.com/video/NHL?vid=05daa430-956f-4611-aac3-4860e96e0f34/

A jet powered soda

If Orville and Wilbur knew what chaos they would unleash by flying a few feet on Kitty Hawk, they may have stayed in Ohio. With that in mind, here are a few of my favorite flying experiences, in no particular order:

1.  Having the wings de-iced on a snowy day only to have the process take so long we had to go back to the gate because we ran out of gas.

2. Taking students on a trip to France for two weeks and being told by a parent two days before we left that her son had a life-threatening kidney disorder. Oh yeah, he also lost his boarding pass.

3. Vomiting uncontrollably on landing while flying with a friend.

4. Getting bumped up to business class and being excited to see a microphone, which I assumed was for summoning the flight attendants when I needed a snack, and proceeding to talk into it. It was actually an extendable reading light, I was quickly informed.

5. Hitting horrible turbulence and wondering if my beneficiary information was up to date only to be told by the pilot that our flight was a "pathfinder" flight that searches out pockets of turbulence so later flights know where to avoid flying.

6. Flying in a Cessna with a friend and seeing a 747 fly underneath us at 5,000 feet.

7. Having a ticket on a TWA flight two weeks after TWA flight 800 went down in 1996.

8. Witnessing the arrest of Richard Reid, the shoe bomber, while taking off on the adjacent runway.

9. Learning that some plane fuselages are partly manufactured with recycled aluminum cans.

Is the car packed?

A lightning strike

I do not know much about Charleston, S.C. My uncle was stationed there in the Navy. There is the Citadel and Major Anderson and his boys got a rude Confederate awakening in April 1861. Apart from that I know virtually nothing.

Kim and I went to Charleston about three weeks after we met. She bamboozled me into driving the whole distance ("You start out driving and I'll drive the second half."), we almost ran out of gas and, other than that, nothing noteworthy happened on the way.

Once we got to Charleston, we did all of the touristy stuff like the downtown Market, strolling the esplanade looking at the beautiful  houses and taking a boat ride to the fort that was bombed by the rebels that April morning.

The second night we were there we ate at a nondescript seafood restaurant in Mount Pleasant, right next to Charleston. We had fun laughing, being silly, and talking about who knows what. What stands out about this trip and in particular that night is that I knew that I had met the most wonderful woman in the world and that I wanted to spend my life with her. There is no explaining it- it was just meant to be.

The summer Vay-K

I have always loved to travel. I got this itch from my parents as they drove us all over the place when my brother John and I were young. There were only four of us in our family, which made for some hassle-free trips. The hassles, however are much more interesting. Over the course of this week, I am going to relay some of these adventurous mishaps for your reading pleasure:

When I was a young lad under the care of my loving mom and dad, we took some grueling car trips. I attribute this to the high cost of air travel to my father's penny pinching propensity. We lived in Washington, D.C. during my youth and that was our jumping off point to head to St. Petersburg, Florida from time to time. Lest you be fooled into thinking that we sashayed south in a roomy car, it did not work that way. We had a Chevy Chevette. If you can't conjure up a vision of this sweet ride, this pic is for you:

Ours was blue, such as this beaut. My finance-conscience father decided that air conditioning was a luxury and not a necessity when he bought this Matchbox car. Let's just say that it was a horrific sweat-box. But that's not all! Dad was a heavy smoker (2-3 packs a day), which meant as we had the poor-man's a.c. on (the windows were down), we were cruising along at Chevette speed (i.e. slower than everyone else) on the highway encased in a shroud of toxic smoke. Being that dad was 6'3" 220lbs. the son (me) sitting behind him was perfectly wedged between the back of his seat and the mountain of luggage spilling out from the car's egg-shaped trunk. I wonder if Chevy touted this possibility as an early version of an air-bag?

On one such trip, we were hogging the right lane which was the car's birthright when lo and behold a gigantic vulture out innocently looking for some food smashed beak first into our front windshield! What fun!.  Luckily, due to the advanced safety features of this golf cart sturdy vehicle, the only fatality was the bird. Later, with the windshield repaired, we continued onto the Tampa area where other adventures, such as getting a vicious sunburn and locking the hotel's bathroom door closed with no one in it awaited us. Come to think of it, I'm surprised dad and mom never asked for reimbursement for the locksmith...  I won't even get into the time mom chose to drive the wrong direction on a one way street in Ottawa.

It's these cherished memories that I'd like to share this week as I dream up ways to create mayhem for my kids on our impending trip through the midwest.

I am going through a mid-life "restructuring" and I have created this blog to share my thoughts on whatever topics interest me. After twelve years as full-time Jr. High and High school French teacher, I have decided to quit my job and stay at home with my  two children for the time being.  This should prove to be a decision filled with adventure!