Darth Wiggles Goes to Clemson

 

Well my wife and I reached another milestone in life last Saturday. Our daughter, Darth Wiggles, is now a full time student at Clemson University and living on campus. You would think being a full time student would naturally mean living on campus, but with the Covid pandemic throwing everything into chaos, she was doing online courses for three weeks here at home before it was her time to move up there.

The actual move to campus wasn't that bad compared to stories I have heard from other people. We did have to drive two cars because of all the stuff my daughter needed, but only barely. And the campus police and other Clemson staff had most everything dealing with the incoming students expertly planned out and carefully managed.

In fact, I only made a fool of myself twice that day, the first was unknowingly driving off the actual street and onto a pedestrian walkway. The second example was somehow getting lost LEAVING the campus. Once my wife and I had Darth Wiggles settled into her dorm room, we said goodbye and drove away in our respective cars. My wife pulled out of the parking lot immediately but I wanted to find an interesting podcast on my phone, so I didn't started driving for about fifteen minutes. Long story short, I missed a turn going out somewhere and was heading towards the South Carolina/Georgia/North Carolina border area for twenty minutes.

Darth Wiggles appears to be settling nicely into her new surroundings while for her parents the house to just too damn quiet. Right now the plan is for her to spend four to five weeks up there before coming home for a visit. No matter how much she was looking forward to getting on campus, there will be a period of homesickness to overcome.

It still sucks though, for my wife and I.

A Tough Road for the Kids

 Last Monday started out as a fairly normal day at my work. I'm part of the Engineering crew at a local hospital that normally maintains HVAC systems and other assorted mechanical equipment. I clocked in that morning at my usual time and went about my normal duties. It's all pretty mundane stuff, so much that it's not huge exaggeration to say a technician could set a clock on when a piece of equipment will go bad again after being fixed.

That day was a little different in that I was part of a crew that had to work on a stuck heat valve above the ceiling in the Labor and Delivery department. In fact that valve was located in the ceiling above the new born nursery where four babies were being carefully watched over by a couple of attentive nurses. It goes without saying those two nurses weren't happy that three guys from Engineering were in their work area. But the nursery was too hot and we had traced the problem to that stuck valve.

Having the valve in the ceiling above the nursery was simply a case of poor design but all that was decided years ago. For the Engineering crew I was part, we had to work swiftly and as quietly as possible to drain the water line, clear out or replace the valve, then leave the area without disturbing the babies.

Luckily all we had to do was drain that particular water line, which flushed out a nice chunk of trash allowing the valve to open and close properly. We were out of the nursery in about forty-five minutes with the area now cooling as it should. That still left the matter of gathering up our equipment and putting the ceiling tiles back in place. That last part fell to me as the other two guys began heading back to our shop.

Once done, I glanced over to the sleeping babies and became thoughtful about the future for a moment.

“Hang tight, kids” I said to the babies without really thinking. “It's going to be a rough century.”

One of the L&D nurses heard my words and looked at me like I was crazy before walking off. The other nurse also looked at me, smiled and nodding in agreement as I left the room.

Like Father Like Daughter

 Far more years ago than I really want to remember, there was an incident with my National Guard unit that in a way came back to haunt me this week. Being more specific with the time frame, this all started in the spring of 1999. My son, Darth Spoilboy, was almost five years-old and playing Pee Wee soccer for the first time. In fact, his first game was on a Sunday during one of my National Guard drill weekends and this is where things went south.

In the old days, ending around the mid-1990's, the National Guard use to take into consideration things like important family events and “minor” stuff like civilian jobs. Both of those circumstances, along with the birth of a child or the death of a loved one was almost an automatic “get out of jail free card” allowing a soldier to skip drill weekend. The National Guard unit would then work with the soldier allowing them make up the missed time, usually having the individual come during the regular work week and do chores for the full-time Guard staff. The other option was to send the soldier off to drill with a different unit or some sort of special training at yet another location.

For various reasons in the mid-1990's, this easygoing policy went out the door with drill weekends starting to resemble a short term prison sentence. One of the causes of the leadership becoming far more stricter was that, of course, a lot of people abused the relaxed attitude about attendance to the point they had to do something. Another reason was simple bean counting because desk bound bureaucrats were actually closing National Guard units that were understrength. There was a rumor that never quite died that the bean counters, over the course of a number of years, found several units where the attendance roster didn't match up with the people that were suppose to be wearing the uniform in the armory that weekend. The results being that the leadership and full-time guys and gals of those units were relieved of command and had their careers ended.

Such an extreme circumstance caused the people in charge to lose their minds and clamp down like the fate of Western Civilization rested on perfect attendance. This extended to even no-brainer issues like civilian job work conflicts with the unit leadership literally informing the soldier to tell their civilian boss and coworkers to suck it up and deal with it. During the last four to five years before I retired from the Guard, I had to work around this issue many time resulting in severely strained relationships with my boss and coworkers.

All that being said, my issue that Sunday in 1999 didn't amount to the proverbial hill of beans in the greater scheme of things but on a personal level it was monumental. My loving spouse, the great Dragonwife, never agreed with the part of the National Guard spousal support manual that tells the wife or husband of a National Guard soldier your significant other belongs both body and soul to them until they say it doesn't. She wanted me at my son's soccer game and there would be hell to pay if I missed it. Initially, there shouldn't have been a conflict since my son's soccer game was scheduled so late that my unit was usually dismissed before that time.

Not that weekend, just after lunch all the officers and senior NCO's came out of a meeting telling everyone that the unit had a whole shitload of stuff to do and no one should expect to get home until well after 6:00pm. There wasn't any use in calling my wife and trying to explain the situation because I knew she would hit the roof and frankly, I was rather pissed myself. I'm uncertain how many people who have never served in the military have heard the euphemism, “Hurry up and wait”, but after the declaration that every soldier would be running around like chickens with their heads cut off for the rest of the day, somehow no direction or orders as what to do ever appeared. Enlisted soldiers and junior NCO's like myself just clustered together and began waiting for some sort of guidance to manifest itself.

A couple of hours ticked by with me getting increasingly upset. My son had an important event in his life about to occur and I was marooned on the other end of town. That was when I spotted the old fashioned phone booth inside the drill hall. A true relic from a past era, it had a small bench seat and those folding doors that allowed someone to shut themselves off from the rest of the world. As I stared at that early telecommunications wonder a plan quickly formulated in my tiny and inefficient brain.

I immediately called my brother, who lives in the upstate of South Carolina, and told him to phone my unit and say he was in Columbia and had just been involved in a car accident and needed a ride to get back home. We worked a short but important back story with the major point being that he had called my house looking for me but found out from my wife that I was doing my National Guard weekend duty. Another important point was that he had to wait thirty-minutes before calling the unit because several people had seen me in the phone booth and I didn't want the wrong person to connect the sudden emergency with my curious actions.

After that, all I could do was wait while remembering that I had once asked him to drop off some army blankets to my old National Guard unit that he passed within twenty yards (a little over 18 meters) everyday while on the way to work and back home again. I somehow forgot to turn them in during the process of transferring down to the Columbia unit. A couple of months later I'm reviewing my National Guard pay statement and discover my old unit had charged me sixty dollars for those blankets. I learned that my brother had forgotten to drop the blankets off with them ending up covers for the back seats of his van.

He came through this time with some nondescript lieutenant calling me to the office and almost immediately releasing me for the rest of the day. Not before I literally bumped into the first sergeant and having to explain the situation to him. You would have to have served in the military to understand the nature of first sergeants, having worked their way up through the ranks they know every stunt or scam a soldier could possibly pull. He didn't say anything, but just as sure as bears leave steamy piles of poop in the deep dark woods I realized he knew the scam I was attempting. For reasons I never figured out he told me to haul ass but drive safely.

Luckily for me, I got out of there with enough time to make it to my son's soccer game. This is where my daughter's recent scam comes into play.

It was last Wednesday around 10:30am when my ringing cell phone woke me up. “Hey Dad,” my daughter Darth Wiggles said, “I need you to come pick me up from school, the nurse says I have a fever and I feel awful.”

Working third shift is a pain in the backside but I did the required dad stuff and made my way to my daughter's school with every intention of taking her home. When I arrived I found that the two ladies that work at the reception desk in the main office had just stepped out and left the school nurse there to answer the phone and deal with slightly dazed parents like me.

“Hi,” I said, “my daughter just called and said she had a fever and needed me to pick her up.”

Since the school nurse has to deal with dozens of children each morning she just asked me for my daughter's name and her homeroom teacher then called that classroom. After hanging up though the nurse suddenly remembered dealing with my daughter.

“Ah Mr. Johnson, I checked your daughter's temperature about an hour ago and she was fine. Not only that, I've been her at the desk or my office the entire time and she hasn't used any of these phones.”

No one will ever make the mistake and think I'm that mentally swift but it was at that moment I realized the number that was displayed on my cell phone screen was the one for my daughter's cell phone. Since she had woke me up, I didn't pay attention to the number and just assumed everything was legit. It was also then the memories of my own phone scam to get out of drill and get to my son's soccer game came flooding back. I also remembered that my daughter had an algebra test that day and that she probably didn't study enough on Tuesday and was looking for a way to get out of it.

Instead of just turning around and leaving I had the nurse call my daughter's classroom and have her report to the office. A couple of minutes later Darth Wiggles walks into the office and sees the nurse and I talking. The “Oh Crap” look on her face was totally priceless. She then immediately turned around and went back to class while I was soon driving home eager to get back to sleep.

I know it was wrong, but I couldn't help but feel a little proud of my daughter. Oh yeah, she passed the algebra test with a B-minus so I let whole incident slide without telling Dragonwife.

Why I Have Grey Hair

Unfortunately for me a dumbass vaccine to protect myself from my all too regular bouts of stupidity is something that will never be available. I have long since resigned myself to the fact that what few active wits and viable IQ points I have will more than likely always be utilized in getting me out of trouble and generally uncomfortable situations that I seem to have developed an all too encompassing talent in finding. I did have high hopes that my son, Darth Spoilboy, had inherited the bulk of his brain cells from my wife saving him from my often funny but ignominious fate. A very recent event suggests that might not be the case.

This all started a couple of Saturdays ago when my very socially active son actually came and sat down in the living room with my wife, Dragonwife, and I as we were play acting at being American couch potatoes watching some documentary on Netflix. While the idea of our son willingly spending any amount of time with us seems simple his social obligations to his buddies and the two different girls he currently dates in actuality makes it a rare event on par with the proverbial blue moon.

“Hey mom and dad,” he said while typing some text message, “just wanted to tell you that my car is getting hard to start.”

It took me a few seconds to sort out his statement since when he does grace us with his presence it is often just to request that we purchase some item for him at the grocery store. Even though Spoilboy has a part-time job at a local deli my wife and he have an agreement in which he does not have to purchase certain items with his money. When I did sort out the meaning of his statement and asked him what he meant, I was rewarded with a nonsensical description of how his car acted when it gave him trouble starting.

“Alright dude, “I said, “next time you head out stop by Big Franks Auto Parts Palace and have them do one of their free series of tests. They can give us an idea of what might be going wrong and then we can plan some sort of response.” While I am not quoting myself exactly that was pretty much the jest of what I said. Even in hindsight it seems concise and to the point, at least enough that my son should have been able to follow my instructions.

“Sure dad,” he said while still texting someone on the other end of his real conversation. With that apparently settled he informed us that he was going to pick up girlfriend number two, the one he just hangs out with and who likes to play video games as much as him. While it has never been stated to me girlfriend number one I guess is the serious one since he actually cleans up and dresses nicely for her when they go out.

Fast forward to early yesterday afternoon, around twelve-thirty, and Spoilboy storms into my bedroom desperate for me to give him my car keys so he can get to work. For those who may not know I work nights, which makes getting the required sleep during daytime difficult at best, add the fact that this is currently summer break with both my son and daughter home and that makes the issue even harder.

“Why do you need my car?” I groggily asked since, like I said at the beginning I am a dumbass.

“Mine won’t start.” Spoilboy sheepishly said.

It took several more seconds for the worn and rusty wheels in my head to begin to turn. Sadly the hamster whose duty it is to power everything has long since died but I have worked around that issue in some respect.

“Please tell me you stopped by Big Franks and had the car checked?”

If this was a screenplay I would have to insert a prolonged silence here punctuated by a high degree of awkwardness on the part of my son.

“Well Spoilboy,” I said “no, you are not going to drive my car to work for the simple fact that you will not be home by the time I have to leave for work myself. In truth, I should make you walk.”

With that Spoilboy walked away and I plopped my head back on the very comfortable pillow figuring that I would have to play the decent but tired dad and go outside and try to figure out why my son’s car would not start.

Long story short, we pulled out the jumper cables and tried to start his car that way just on the off chance he had once again left his lights on and ran down the battery we had installed just four months ago. No such luck, in fact the symptoms suggested his starter had gone bad. This was confirmed today by the garage Big Frank runs right next his parts palace after we had a tow truck come pick up his car.

This begs the question that keeps running through my mind. Am I a bad parent for starting to dream about the day my son goes off to college? On a side but ultimately related note, I literally tremble in fear with the idea that my daughter has a little over five years before she starts to drive and demand a car of her own.

Darth Wiggles at her acting recital

In an attempt to channel some of Darth Wiggles' excessive energy my wife found an acting class for her to attend back in January. During the first couple of classes Wiggles was very shy around her fellow students to the point she meekly asked my wife and I if she could drop out. Of course, we answered that question with a huge no even though for several more classes she went through the motions of protesting the activity.

Once she arrived at the class and got around her fellow students and new friends her attitude changed completely. So much that Wiggles would come running back towards the small waiting area and demand the parent that had come with her leave so she would not be embarrassed. That was fine with me, the waiting area only had four seats and I am terrible at small talk, so once she had settled in I would retreat to my car outsude in the parking lot. But not before standing in the hallway and watching her and the other children for a few minutes.

Watching her classes were amazing, kids as young as five years-old were acting with real emotion and energy. While I can at least watch a movie and know when the actors are good, I have never understood the mechanics of how they crafted feeling and sincerity into a play or movie. Even watching Wiggles class for a short time I saw how the instructor guided mere kids into becoming serious performers.

The class recital was this afternoon at a local church with Wiggles and the rest of the group performing short skits. The older kids, those twelve and up, took on some serious subject like parental divorce, school bullies, and suicide. The regular class session is over until September but Wiggles will be attending an acting summer camp. Here is a short video of her monologue, and yes, I am very proud, 

I would have included some of the other performances but I do not want to open a can of potential internet worms by showing other peoples children on video.

A Milestone in the Road of Life

The incessant banging on my bedroom door last Tuesday afternoon forcing me back to consciousness from a deep sleep was the signal that my son, Darth Spoilboy, had returned from his last formal driving lesson with a professional instructor. It was also the indication he was more than ready to take the driving test at the local department of motor vehicles office, which unfortunately for me meant I would have to go with him.

For a few moments I continued to lay in bed struggling to find the motivation to go visit a place that even the most radical atheists often described as hell, despite the fact my son’s pounding threaten to shatter the door into a million pieces sending a swarm of deadly wooden splinters my way. The thought did cross my mind that such a fate might just possibly be preferable than having to spend time dealing with low paid and irate civil servants along with the hordes of spoiled civilians with bad attitudes.

In the end for my son, I did get up, slip on my sandals, and get out of the room before any real damage was done. I owed Spoilboy that much, Monday marked the last day of a desperate six-month waiting period after taking the written examination for his driver’s permit allowing him to take the road test and get his restricted license. Aside from a horrible condition, he suffered from back in 2005 resulting in massive surgery to his intestines and several weeks of painful recuperation, the six-month period waiting for his driver’s license was the most anguished time in his young life.

The driver’s permit allowed Spoilboy at the wheel of a car only while accompanied by an adult, which was problematic when we came anywhere near his friends resulting in severe embarrassment for him being seen with his parents. Several times Spoilboy asked my wife or me to slump down in the car in an attempt not to be seen as we passed close by someone he knew. He stopped making this request after I started picking my nose and eating phantom buggers in clear view of anyone nearby in their own cars. So you can understand how he viewed his driver’s license as a form of personal liberation for his young soul.

Now our battle plan was to arrive at the DMV around 1:00pm, the time we theorized the least amount of people would be there trying to get business done that particular weekday. Walking into the confines of the building, a glorious testament to bureaucratic architecture, we were first assaulted by the heat from the lack of air conditioning and then by the sight of long lines at the counters and the unwashed masses sitting in uncomfortable chairs certainly designed by one of Satan’s minions. After grabbing the ubiquitous slip of paper with a number printed on it signifying our place in line and the greater scheme of things we joined the sad group with me wondering if we would leave before Doomsday arrived.

As we waited I could not but help wonder why such a pro-business and free enterprise state like South Carolina had not installed a bar in every DMV office not only as a money making venture but a way to alleviate the depressing mind funk that hang over every building like it. I figured after hanging a few tropical posters showing beautiful Caribbean islands the hypothetical bar could sell non-alcoholic beer, low sodium pretzels, and hypoallergenic peanuts at exaggerated prices. The marketing of those items could certainly offset the salaries of many of the civil servants and possibly make the state a little money. And I will not even mention the cash bonanza corporate endorsements of beer, tourism, and snacks would bring.

Going further on making the DMV friendlier, I figured they could throw in a little steel-drum music over the intercom, place several fake palm trees in strategic locations, and have the staff wear Hawaiian shirts complete with colorful leis. Of course, its common knowledge that all DVMs are run by Nazis, ever eager to inflict suffering on people, as well as being gateways to hell so any attempt to humanize such places is simply impossible.

Just as misery from waiting threatened to overwhelm me my son’s number was called and we quickly jumped toward the counter with the smiling clerk waiting to serve us. The clerk was very life-like, almost as good as the automatons in the hall of presidents at Disney World and after checking the various forms to assure the state that Spoilboy was who he was we promptly sat back down to wait for the examiner who would test my son.

With my usual luck, right as I struck up a conversation with a redneck MILF (imagine a 40-something, chain smoking Kate Middleton dressed in an AC/DC t-shirt and tight jeans) there with her daughter the examiner called Spoilboy for the test and wanted to speak to me for a moment. The examiner just wanted to inform me what he was going to test my son on and how long it would take. It was an extremely professional thing to do but annoyed the shit out me since my spot next the hot redneck lady was lost the second I vacated the seat. Looking back, I saw two generic bubbas competing for her attentions and the possibility to join her list of boyfriends with the chance to vie for the grand prize of being her fourth husband.

After a mandatory check of the vehicle by the examiner, he and Spoilboy drove off for the test leaving me waiting outside. Without sounding too much like the proud father I figured my son had the test in the bag, along with several sessions with a professional driving instructor, Spoilboy and I had spent many hours just driving around. I found him a careful and considerate driver, which was good for my heart given how teenagers usually are when they first start driving.

During this time what was funny was seeing his intense focus on getting the parallel parking portion of the test right. A few times during these practices, I started feeling the first symptoms of motion sickness as he repeatedly ran through the maneuvers it would take to get him inside the assigned space. So, when he and the instructor pulled back into the DMV area and drove up towards the barriers that served as the parallel parking test site I was sure he would make it but I still found myself holding my breath.

With a deftness and skill I admired, Spoilboy whipped the car inside the required space completing and passing the test. Soon afterwards, my usually levelheaded and calm son was clearly walking amongst the clouds as we waited for his driver’s license to be made. Out of all the uncomfortable waiting in a place I almost would not wish on my worst enemy it was totally worth it to see him pass this milestone on the way to adulthood.

The only problem now is that Dragonwife and I are feeling the pressure by Spoilboy to purchase him his own car. I just wish his driver’s education had included a lesson on how insuring teenage boys cost their parents several body parts along with the pawning of younger siblings. That reminds me, I have only seven years before Miss Wiggles gets her license, any prayers and funds sent my way would be greatly appreciated.

Miss Wiggles dancing at the recital

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Saturday was the annual ballet recital for my daughter, Miss Wiggles, and her friends that signifies the start of summer for me in many ways with the biggest being that the school year ends less than a week later. Like every year since my daughter was four years-old it has been my duty on Tuesdays to rush her from daycare to ballet and tap dancing practice. The recitals are always sort of sad for me since they provide a clear marker for how much she was grown over the year.

As far as fatherly duties go, its not that bad as long as I could quickly leave the dance studio after dropping her off. If I have to stay, I will be the only dad in a sea of moms who broadcast uncomfortable vibes at me because of my presence which bounce off the walls like thunderous sound waves.

A few times over the last year, if I didn’t get out fast enough and to the nearby library it was possible for me to overhear some aspect of female conversation that guys just do not ever need to know about. Moreover, if I have to stay for some reason I can tell I stifle the resulting conversation, which was almost as bad resulting in the bad vibes. Anyway, that is thankfully behind me for another year. I would let Dragonwife take her but she prefers to take our son to piano practice which is at the same time.

This year an old college friend of Dragonwife’s and her boyfriend, down for a visit, joined us for the recital and I am thankfully we arrived as early as we did because it was soon standing room only for the first half of the performance. I couldn't imagine forcing Dragonwife's friends to go through the recital having to stand up. They have been together for several years but do not have any kids and I could tell they felt more than a little alien around all the other parents and kids. At least sitting down they seemed a little more comfortable and out of the way.

Before the performances started I saw the usual collection of suburban drones complete with desperate housewives scoping out both what the other women were wearing and any guys that looked single. The gossip among these ladies flew at supersonic speeds with Dragonwife in the middle of some of it. It was also easy to see frustrated dads on various smart phones and blackberries tapping out what must have been important messages. When the curtain finally went up and the lights dimmed a welcomed hush sweep over everyone.

The second half brought the ballet portion of the recital and a little more breathing room in the auditorium since many people hauled ass if their child had no other presentation. Before anyone gets any ideas I realize that my cinematography skills hover somewhere in the negative realm but since I was sitting inside a crowded auditorium using an old digital camera with a rinky-dink video function that in all honesty barely works I feel pretty good with what I recorded. The first little girl you see is not my daughter but since at the start of the routine she is still behind the curtain I focused on who was on the stage. My daughter will be the one in purple outfit trying to keep up with the bigger girls. Miss Wiggles and the other girls had a great time and are looking forward to the start of a new year of dancing in the fall. I am too as long as I can continue to flee the scene after dropping her off.

Call the Bolshoi Ballet

Just because I really have no interest in hearing the assorted suburbanite moms discuss their trials and tribulations while Miss Wiggles and their daughters are practicing ballet I usually haul ass to the nearby library and cool my heels in some way. This time though their practice was open and I remembered to bring my video camera and get some of the action recorded. While this segment is not the best of their performance the instructor this year has done wonders with the girls and I expect they will be awesome for the recital in May.

The funny part about my aversion to staying at the dance studio has to do with the time Wiggles and I arrived extra early and while I was around the corner of the hallway waiting for her to finish changing into her outfit. During that brief time two moms came in, not seeing me, and continued with their discussion comparing the sexual performance and habits of their husbands. It was far more information than I ever wanted to know and I yelled loudly to Wiggles in the restroom to hurry up even though I was right outside the door. It should be easy to guess I increased the volume in my voice strictly to alert the two ladies of my presence and that I was hearing their conversation. Since I am now somewhat uncomfortable around the waiting moms I quickly turned Wiggles over to the instructor and got the Hell out of Dodge. Which is a real bummer since the deli next door has an awesome WiFi bandwidth which can be picked up inside the dance studio waiting area while the library blocks most videos feeds.

Snow in South Carolina

Leaving work Friday morning I passed a buddy who suggested that I immediately go to the grocery store and pick up enough milk and bread to last through the weekend. That the expected storm moving into our area was going to hammer us a lot earlier than people thought. When I asked my friend how he knew this he said that his grandmother had called before he had left for work saying her arthritis was acting up far worse than normal.

The weather report I had seen the night before said we would only get half an inch to an inch of snow. The highly paid weatherman I watch at that time in his nice suit and smiling a few thousands dollars of serious dental work assured us that the snow would only start late into the night. Can anyone guess who I believed of the two?

Miss Wiggles had a school play Friday morning so I really didn't have enough time to stop, pick up what might be needed, and then get cleaned up in time to make her play so I just drove straight home. Not long later as I walked into the school the sky was cloudy but there nothing to suggest the snow would arrive early like my buddy's grandmother claimed. But the play hadn't been going for five minutes when the intercom broke in saying that the school would be closing a couple of hours early to get the kids home before things got bad. Many of the parents groaned probably figuring the same thing I did as I walked into the school.

By the time Dragonwife and I got to the grocery store the place was a madhouse with everyone rushing to grab what they needed and get home before the kids and the snow which even the weather people were now saying would arrive far sooner.

Sure enough, the snow started about 3:30pm and didn't let up until early Saturday morning. The picture above was taken at 4:00pm with the ground already covered. I wish I had gone outside and walked around enjoying the only part of snow I really like but after Wiggles school play we had to rush around getting the house ready for the Chinese New Year party the next day. So I was completely crapped out by the time the snow was coming down.




The next morning the same weatherman who had claimed we wouldn't get very much in the way of accumulation was now smiling about the four to eight inches of snow on the ground. This storm turned out to be the worst "blizzard" for South Carolina since 1973. Now in truth the expected half an inch to inch of snow would have sent the state into a major spasm had it occurred during a regular workday but with it being a Saturday much of the disruption, even with the far greater amount of snow predicted to having fallen, was blunted.










That morning Miss Wiggles and I slipped outside to enjoy the snow before the crazy rush of getting everything ready for her Chinese New Year party. Matters were complicated even more when Dragonwife got a phone call from the parents of one of Wiggles classmates saying that the birthday party for their child was still on for that day. The party was at a "nearby" skating rink and guess who got to drive Wiggles to the party? For me the fun part was following the direction whose most detailed part was that I had to "turn left after the sign with the cow on it."

When she and I got back we went straight into DEFCON one for her party with her guests arriving right after she changed in her Chinese dress. Sorry, I got only a couple of pictures since I was literally pushed into kitchen duty cooking up the dumplings and getting the rest of the food ready as Dragonwife and a few moms kept the kids busy with crafts and storytelling.






This picture was taken right after the previous one above but just out of sight Darth Spoilboy and a couple of his friends had loaded up on snowballs and mere seconds after Wiggles snapped this photo I was brutally attacked. The attack was so savage I was left on the ground and by the time I recovered my attackers were back inside laughing their sorry asses off.

Its Sunday now and most of the snow from Friday has melted. Rather large patches of white can still be found but the roads are clear and its pretty much business as usual for us here now. While we missed the usual snow spasm that afflicts South Carolina when a few flakes hit the ground the last weather report I listened to mention another storm heading our way. The smiling weather guys are all hedging their bets on this one saying it will most likely just be a cold rain but possibly mixed with some snow or sleet. If we do get more in the way of snow and ice with being the start of a work week this state will seriously have a rough couple of days.

High Impact Wiggles

My daughter, Miss Wiggles, is to say the least a tough little girl. I have seen her get in the middle of my son and his friends wrestling on the floor and come away laughing. Our trips to the beach no matter how overall relaxing always has moments of sheer terror. I have caught my daughter trying to wandering into rough surf alone believing she can handle it; running up to strange dogs constantly thinking they will want to play with her as much as she wants to play them; and the real terror episode was when she was desperate to swim next to a jellyfish going about its merry and oblivious way. Many times only divine protection and sheer luck has prevented disaster.

My daughter dynamism does spill over back home and in school resulting in many notes from her teachers sometimes writing of something akin to a tiny revolutionary out to squash the established order. At daycare one time I came to pick her up after work only to have a talk with a very tired and frustrated college girl majoring in education about how upset Wiggles got when she found out that vanilla pudding was going to be served for the afternoon snack instead of chocolate. If the description of the events described by the young lady were true my daughter staged something close to a strike getting other children to refuse to accept what she called that nasty stuff. Still though, she does have moments where the little girl stands out and not some extra concentrated package of "blood and guts" out to conquer the world.

When I picked her up Wednesday she had the usual look of having done something that would result in a talking to back home. Examining her daily papers back at the house my wife and I did find a note from her teacher stating that she had kicked a little boy in the nuts that day. Wiggles was not at all responsive about why she had done such a thing, refusing to talk about it at all. After dinner though when she was tired and sleepy she did open up about what had happened.

The troubles started at recess-don't they always-when the little boy in question for some reason came up and hit her. Wiggles started crying when she said that the teacher didn't really listen to her when she went to go tell and when the boy came back before he could get at her again she kicked him, apparently making the little shit run off to the teachers screaming foul.

While it might be naive I believed my daughter and wrote a "nice" note back to the teacher explaining Wiggles side and how when she went to tell a teacher they didn't listen to her. I also dropped a line or two wondering how this happened and how it might be better if they spend a little more time getting the whole story.

Thursday afternoon we found a note from Wiggles' teacher apologizing for not finding out the whole story and that the little boy in question had gotten a note sent home for his actions and was forced to apologize to my daughter. Now this story should end here but like so many things in life nothing ever really ends. Late Friday afternoon we decided to grab a quick dinner at the fast food chicken sandwich place then hit a movie. My wife and I were at the table watching Wiggles play with a little boy in the enclosed playground and after refusing several times to come eat her food I was forced to go inside and physically bring her to the table. Much to my surprise she was followed by her playmate and when I started to talk with him I was very surprised to learn that her playmate was none other than the little boy that had hit her and that she had kicked in the nuts. The two continued to talk while she ate and upon Dragonwife and I briefly exchanged greeting with the boys parents.

Walking out the door the boy yelled out, "I'm sorry I hit you the other day." Clearly heard by everyone in the place.

With my daughter yelling back even louder, "I'm sorry I kicked you in the nuts." The place fell silent as we left with me wishing that things could be this easy for grownups.

Things we did this weekend

The overt consumer materialism thing ain't for me however several months ago our main television started showing strong signs that it was approaching a terminal end of useful life, so we thought it best to get a new one before it blew up.
When after everything else has been eliminated and the television picture goes to static on the screen and a weird smell starts drifting through the house its best to get a new television.

Our purchase of a 40" LCD screen television went extremely easy with the giant retail corporation more than happy to sell us one using the credit card we had with them without coughing up one of the kids as collateral. It was quickly setup back at the house with a minimum of fuss even with the usual snarky comments from my wife. That television gave excellent service until an unfortunate even that happened just last Friday night.

Darth Spoilboy came into my room sometime late Friday evening while I was trying to sleep to tell me that he had inadvertently "hit" the television while entertaining several of his friends playing X-Box360. Puzzled and with more than a few cob webs running through my brain I went to inspect the damage but did not realize how bad it was even with Dragonwife busting a couple of gaskets upstairs.

I found a crack in the screen very similar to one you might find in a car windshield after it had been impacted with a small rock. It took the shape of a star but the resulting damage had never the less royally screwed the picture as you can see. Now I must admit I was a little upset but I hadn't quite gone into orbit like Dragonwife who had the poor kid close to being drawn and quartered in front of his friends. I am a little puzzled still, a few days later, about his explanation over how he hit the screen but its all water under the bridge now. Sunday afternoon Spoilboy and I took the television back to the place we bought it with the copy of the extended warranty we bought and were promptly told we were shit out of luck. The expensive extended warranty not only doesn't cover accidental damage but it would cost just about the same amount to buy a new one as have our not yet six month old television repaired. Of course this was something we found out Sunday afternoon but a more pertinent question is what do the next day after having an expensive and not yet paid for television ruined?


You go to the Carolina Renaissance Festival up near Charlotte, North Carolina. After a frustrated Dragonwife almost canceled the trip a near mutiny that resulted changed her mind and we all piled into the car and made our way up.

On a side note it must be stated that I almost had a mutiny on my hands with the selection of music I brought along. Naturally, Buffett was my choice but neither my wife, son, or his girlfriend, Darth Shopalot, thought much of my musical tastes. Even Miss Wiggles, who normally would have agreed with me, went to the other side forcing me to surrender and listen what they liked on the radio. The picture here is of the two traitorous Sith Lords, Shopalot on the left and my son, Spoilboy on the right.





Trying to be a good husband I pointed out to my wife the wide selection of brooms she could purchase at the festival to get her around town. My sense of humor, as with my music on the ride up, was unappreciated to the extreme. Even after I pondered out loud that she at least could purchase her mother one, as long as it the broom stick was extra strong. Much to my surprise that comment didn't go over any better.
















No one call Child Protective Services, that's just my son holding my beer. The drunk look on his face is just an act, I promise.















The festival hosts many performers with a very wide spectrum of acts. This guy is doing his impersonation of a statue. While I kept Miss Wiggles on a metaphorically short leash around this guy doing his thing another, younger child, tried to make off with the small box, that is slightly out of this picture, that he was using to collect money for his "performance".











This is Don Juan of "Don Juan and Miguel"an act that showed their talents with whips, comedy, and some less than spectacular sword fighting although I wouldn't tell them that. They were hilarious and if you get the chance to visit a nearby renaissance festival see if they are performing.















This troop of performers are called "Barely Balanced" and did some great tricks doing some serious acrobatics, juggling, fire breathing, and comedy.

I had to really admire all these performers who did some very difficult acts out in the open were the weather can at a minimum cause you to make a fool of yourself to a crowd that might not be very forgiving. At worse, given some of what these guys were doing, a mistake could kill you.








As the day was drawing to a close we stumbled upon Ms. Sarah Marie Mullen as she was playing her harp. Miss Wiggles was in awe of what she was doing and after a set Ms. Mullen gave my daughter a short lesson in playing the harp. I did record it and if adding the video hadn't thrown my computer into spasms I would have included it. I may try again on a separate post although the video is short.

As much as my wife might disagree lust played no part in my demanding we purchase several of her CD's.









The kids on our way out after the purchase of several expensive hats. I tried to get Dragonwife in the picture but upon threat of severe pain I was reminded of our agreement about her showing up on my humble blog,

















I don't know why I included this picture in the post. It may be because it was the only one where my stomach didn't make me look pregnant. Or it may be because the skeleton is a good analogy of my dead sex life. Either way we had a good time and if I wasn't so tired and wanted to bore the living daylight out of y'all even more I would have included more pictures.

Daddy is a bad influeance

Before anyone freaks out I will freely admit I am more than likely a bad influence on my daughter. Some might be chagrined at the seemly religious altar dedicated to Jimmy Buffett behind my daughter but I assure everyone that I am not indoctrinating her in the partying tenets espoused by the Church of Buffett, orthodox.


This picture was taken at the Charleston Margaritaville where I wasted, as my wife would say, good hard earned money on Jimmy Buffett hats and t-shirts. Someday I hope to bring the rest of my family into the one true faith, freeing them of the drivel and mind-numbingly boring aspects associated with modern suburban life. But seriously back to the main point of this tiny, desperate post, ain't my little pirate cool?

The Mysterious Miss Wiggles

Weekends are often stressful affairs in their own right at my house. After five working days dealing with the usual affairs of life many weekends are just a continuation of other normal work week activities along with trying to get things done that can only be accomplished on Saturday and Sunday. Running the kids around to their activities, getting needed maintenance on the cars, washing mountains of dirty clothes, and cleaning the house and yard take up much of weekend time. During these stressful weekends everyone in the family is pressed into service with the understanding that once the critical objectives are at least met time will be spent on other more enjoyable activities. The only problem holding true to the critical objectives is when the children are involved.

Just a few weeks ago was one of those stressful weekends with the bathrooms, as far as Dragonwife was concerned, hazardous toxic waste dumps. Mountains of smelly laundry were piled high in the hallway next the washer and dryer needing to be done. Of special concern to my wife were the dust stalactites hanging from the ceiling fan blades that she insisted needed to be cleaned. Being honest here but I will have to admit that my motivation that Saturday morning was not at the highest level. The bathrooms, in my opinion, were not as dangerous as my wife suggested. At the hospital where I work I'm on the HAZMAT team and while I wouldn’t have eaten off the bathroom floor there wasn’t any green slime visibly moving anywhere although that could not have been said for some dark green items of laundry slowly crawling away from the rest of the piles. As for the dust stalactites hanging from the blades of the ceiling fans I admit that they needed to be removed.

With the benefit of having my radio tuned into the Saturday morning NPR shows my duties were passing quickly and as far as cleaning can be enjoyable I was having a pretty good time. During this time I was multitasking the various chores all across the house since Dragonwife had gone on the monthly Sam’s Club run to stock up on groceries. Since one of the darkest pits in Hell must surely be having to spend eternity in a crowded Sam’s Club I felt that I was getting the better end of the Saturday chores right then. The kids had long since finished what they had to do and were either playing the guitar, in the case of my son, or watching SpongeBob which usually never fails to complete enthrall my daughter. That is until that particular Saturday.

After I finished the cleaning of the smaller of our two bathrooms I moved the cleaning stuff into the master bathroom and started cleaning the invisible soap scum off the walls of the shower stall. There are two things I find intensely curious about soap scum. One, I can almost never see the offending substance although my wife assures me it covers the walls of the shower stall. Two, my wife’s intense and personal dislike of the substance that at times sort of scares me. Even though I question the very existence of the substance most of the time I felt it was my husbandly duty to do my best to save my wife the shock of finding it still on the walls when she got back. Plus, carefully wiping the shower stall walls would save me the hassle of hearing her complain (nag) about how scummy and disgusting the bathroom still looked. It was then that Miss Wiggles decided to join me while I was working.

“Daddy, what are you doing?” My daughter asked me standing in the doorway.

“I’m just cleaning the shower sweetie.” I said as I continued to wipe down the walls.

“But I don’t see anything on the walls except the stuff you are spraying on them.”

It was there I froze, I had an independent confirmation that the whole soap scum issue might reside in my wife’s brain. But just to be safe I continued to clean since discretion is always the better part of valor where wives are concerned.

“Daddy, I’m going to help you with the cleaning.” Miss Wiggles moved inside the bathroom picked up another rag and began wiping the bathtub that is right beside the shower stall I was cleaning. My daughter wanted to clean and I was cool with that, grateful that at her early age she still wanted to help. As opposed to my son who often when instructed to pick up and organize all the assorted detritus on the floor of his room will just toss it on his bed and cover it with his bedspread. My son has long since mastered the out of sight, out of mind approach to cleaning.

Still though Wiggles’ enthusiasm and honest desire to help is often at odds with her actually skills. So I wasn’t surprised to see a few minutes later that she had spilled the bottle of cleaner in the bathtub making a bigger mess than what was there originally. After she and I cleaned it up she gave up on helping and drifted back to the television.

What followed after that was a series of interruptions that at first were just honest attempts on the part of Miss Wiggles to do something on her own but since SpongeBob had lost its appeal that day these interruptions soon became almost deliberate attempts to draw my attention away from my chores. I got pulled away as pots and pans began crashing from cabinets as Wiggles went looking for something in the kitchen. A few minutes later Wiggles sheepishly came and told me she had spilled fruit juice on the coffee table and the carpet. Right after that I had to chase the dog down after it had snatched the television remote for the purpose using it for a chew toy. The biggest issue was removing my daughter from my son’s room after she had invaded his inner sanctum because she was bored. After each interruption I would tell my daughter she needed to listen to daddy and that we would do something fun once I was through.

I handled all theses disturbances and few other pretty well although my frustration level was rising. After separating my son and daughter then removing her from his room there was period of time where things calmed down enough for me to start back to work. What finally derailed my cool and wise fatherly demeanor though was seeing that my daughter had come back into the bedroom, climbed on top of my bed and was using it for a trampoline. Normally, that alone wouldn’t have fazed me in the least but at that time I had about four loads of clean laundry folded on that bed and Miss Wiggles jumping had utterly destroyed my neat and organized stacks sending most of the clothes to the floor below.

I was finding difficult to catch Wiggles who had built up some serious inertia bouncing all over the bed enjoying my efforts trying to stop her. Wiggles eventually just jumped into my arms oblivious to the work she had destroyed. Putting her on the floor next the bed standing up I bent down on my knees to have a little “coming to Jesus” talk with her like my grandmother often had with her grandchildren.

“Young lady,” I began. “How many times have I told you that daddy had stuff to do and that you would have to let me finish?”

My daughter gave no answer; instead she dissolved into a fit of cute but irritating giggles. Asking the question again, which I did, was both a waste of time and energy since it just precipitated a batch of even more incoherent giggles. All things considered I’m a fairly good dad able to handle most of the things my kids have thrown at me. However, that time I was at a complete loss to deal with events and to this day I don’t know where in the dark recesses of my mind my next words came from.

“Listen young lady, right now you belong to me and you will pay attention to what I have to say.”

One of the things I love about my daughter is the energy and freshness she brings to everyday life. She has never met a stranger, greets each day with hope and optimism, and looks at everything as an adventure as only a child can. But there are times that I often wonder that at her inner core if she is actually an old soul who has wandered this world far longer than I can imagine. Many times she has surprised by wife and me with an insight on some matter that simply shouldn’t be within the understanding of someone so young. This was another of those times because just as soon as my last words left my mouth I knew I had made a mistake.

My daughter’s giggling abruptly ended and her smiling face was replaced with a look of mild but tired amusement parents often give their children when they say something that makes no sense. A few seconds ticked by and I could almost see this gathering storm of dark clouds over my daughter’s head as forces I can’t imagine struggled to be reined in with her trying to figure out a way to communicate with the tall but very foolish and presumptuous mortal who just happened to be her father. She crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow I knew I was about to get an ear full.

“Daddy, you should know I belong to no one but myself.” With that she turned away from me in a dignified imperial manner and walked out of the room leaving me with my mouth hanging open, totally speechless and overwhelmed. To say all the frustrations I was feeling disappeared would be an understatement, my six year old daughter had just put me in my place letting me know that she fully understood she was a unique and free person in her own right.

What does one do after such a brief but total trashing from a six year old child? I picked up and refolded all the clothes abandoning my other chores, then joined my daughter on the couch who had inserted a DVD in the player and was now watching Disney/Pixar’s “Cars” like nothing had happened.