Things that Can't be Unseen or Forgotten

The following event occurred over two years ago and is only now gotten to the point that my personal statue of limitation for uncomfortable and creepy situations has expired.

While I can never be called a prude or a strict goody-goody moralist for the most part I am not overly familiar with most people except close friends and certain family members. The best way I can describe myself is that I am quite formal around most others to the point I can seem standoffish. Over the years there have been numerous instances where my behavior and intentions were grossly misjudged which ultimately caused a considerable amount of hurt feelings.

I actually blame this on my size and appearance. See, I stand over six-feet, five inches with a body type that suggests a different life path could have saw me become an NFL linebacker. Add to that a general facial expression which one army drill instructor told me point blank would easily scary the hell out of an already nervous recruit tends to makes it difficult for some people to judge my true demeanor. In fact, one cold morning at Fort Carson, Colorado a rather meek second lieutenant came around the corner of a building in the motor pool and saw me pulling radio equipment out or a vehicle. Somehow I startled the guy because he immediately snapped to attention and salute me like I was a full bird colonel or something. One word of advice to any young soldier or potential recruit who might read this, if something like this ever happens to you quickly respond back the proper way because the last thing your budding military career needs is a bitchy little officer hounding your ass.

I'll also admit my own sense of humor is almost incomprehensible to many, which by itself throws a huge monkey wrench in how others relate to me. When the main form of humor of those around me involves fart jokes and funny events concerning their redneck adventures while I laugh at Monty Python and Patton Oswalt comedic routines its hard for either to identify with the other. Once again I'll admit that I am a pretentious snob who sees the zany antics of those appearing on such shows as Duck Dynasty frankly beneath me and anything else appealing to the lowest cultural common denominator.

Taking all this into consideration it shouldn't surprise anyone that when my son, Darth Spoilboy, started dating I kept a respectful distance from his various girlfriends. On occasion I've seen how other dads act around their son's girlfriends and while I'm sure it's all innocent and good-natured hospitality, I frankly wouldn't feel comfortable acting in a similar manner. So you might understand how the following incident totally creeped me out.

It started on a Friday with me going to the individual laundry hampers in each room and essentially dumping everything in the floor in front of the washer and beginning the weekly process. Since my workweek begins on a Sunday night Friday mornings are the start of my weekend. Unfortunately, during that time the other members of my family are either at school or work, which leaves me “free” to do the required chores. That always means laundry, and to be honest not only have I become quite good at the job it is not unusual for me to enter a zen-like state when folding the clothes. Believe it or not, I have actually found that the motions of taking a chaotic item out of the dryer and returning it to a state of order quite spiritual. I liken my folding of clothes to videos I've seen where Tibetan monks create beautiful and exceedingly intricate sand art only to destroy once their creation is completed.

During those moments time ceases to have any real meaning with the universe and I becoming one. In fact I often just sit on the floor in front of the dryer and just pull out and fold the clothes there and just use the laundry basket to transport everything back to the rooms they belong.

It was during one of those quiet and spiritual moments that I pulled a rather odd item out of the dryer. It was skimpy, lacy underwear that in all honesty probably came from a place like Victoria's Secret. Yeah, this was one of those times that proved I was never the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer because I sat on the floor for almost a full minute wondering who that sexy undergarment belonged. Excuse the disclosure of far too much information but lets just say that as the custody of the family laundry I knew neither my wife much less my daughter wore anything like that.

When my poorly wired mind finally came up with a possible owner of such a mature and small undergarment I dropped the item and began crawling away from it as if I had stumbled upon a highly radioactive alien lifeform that wanted to drill a hole in my skull and suck out my brain like watery apple sauce. Okay, please no one write comments or send me emails trying to inform me what it meant that my son's girlfriend had her underwear in his dirty laundry, trust me I'm slow at times but this was a no brainer.

The problem I had was how to dispose of the garment since I sure as hell didn't want either individual to know I knew the damn thing, and possibly others, were in the family laundry system. The creepy part in all this was me sorting through the mound of dirty laundry on the floor in front of the washing machine looking for those particular items or anything else that might belong to my son's girlfriend.

After searching I came up with six items, not all of them undergarments, I couldn't readily identify and I threw them, and all my son's clothes, back into his laundry hamper. If young Darth Spoilboy asked me why I hadn't done his laundry my intentioned was to claim I forgot and tell him it was his chore that particular weekend. The two lovebirds showed up at the house a few hours later and I found that I couldn't look the girl in the face. There are just some things I DO NOT want to know about people and the style of underwear they like is quite high on that list.

Thankfully, the two broke up a month or two later, it was never more than a normal high school relationship with one of them losing interest. Needless to say I was quite happy with that turn of events since after the incident because I always felt I needed to leave the living room when they were at the house watching television.

My son is in his second year of college now and came home yesterday not only with a load of dirty laundry but also his new girlfriend. Old habits die hard and I think Darth Spoilboy believed I was going to include his clothes with the rest of the usual laundry. He was quite puzzled at my strong reaction when I told him I didn't care what possible events he had planned for his weekend back home, he was going to do his own damn laundry.

Leaf Blower and Marriage Maintenance

Several years ago during a hot and humid Saturday in the middle of August I stepped back inside my house after finishing up some routine lawn care when I noticed my lovely spouse smiling at me from her comfortable position on the couch. Had we been newlyweds I would have instantly assumed her beaming smile would have been the first sign that the rest of that afternoon would be spent behind the locked door of our bedroom. Instead, being a relatively old married couple, I looked directly into her overly happy eyes and braced myself for whatever new weekend destroying chore her mind had developed while I was outside mowing the lawn and using the weed eater to make our curb look presentable.

The former is a given but as for the latter the pod people we live among are obsessively fixated on creating a surgically precise cut between the edge of their lawns and the beginning of the curb. I actually give less than a rat's rear end but indirect and unspoken peer pressure along with the occasional neatly worded letter from the president of the home owner's association force me to try and match their compulsion at least three times a summer. With the curb trimming chore out of the way I had every intention of plopping my nonconformist butt in a chair and watching some television but my wife's mysterious smile had me nervous.

"Do you know who you look just like right now?" She said clearly about to laugh at her own brand of cleverness.

"No," I said wondering where her train of thought was heading while desperately hoping it would eventually involve both of us getting naked. "Brad Pitt," I said silently thanking some exceedingly small portion of my brain that is smarter and quickly than the rest of the grey matter residing between my ears.

"God no," my wife responded finally breaking into a laugh, "you look like Bill Murray's character from the movie Caddy Shack."

"How nice," I responded sarcastically walking towards the bathroom to go take a shower. While I was obviously disappointed that sex was not on the agenda I had no real problem with being compared to Bill Murray. For me the former SNL alum has always been culturally sophisticated, extremely intelligent in an unconventional manner, besides being outrageously funny in a off-kilter way. To show how slow on the draw about what my wife actually meant about the comparison it was several minutes later and I was out of the shower and getting dressed when the truth finally dawned on me. Truth be told, I couldn't really disagree with the idea she was trying to convey.

See one of the reasons I hate doing yard work is that I am terrible at it. While the pod people I live around actually enjoy the serf-like existence required to meticulously imitate the idea of an 18th century English Lord's estate I can easily count off a couple of thousand other activities I would rather be forced to perform. But hey, if they get their jollies obsessing over the tint of their lawns, falling autumn leaves, or stemming a crab grass invasion good for them, its still a semi-free country. I, on the other hand,  would rather go to the beach, play with my kids, or have a root canal done by a dentist who once worked for the East German secret police.

The source of all my problems can usually be traced back to my lawn equipment. If you were to observe the pod people around me you would discover that everything they use is top of the line. Their riding lawn mowers have huge vacuum attachments along with GPS tracking and nifty cup holders. The weed trimmers they use have telescopic view screens allowing them to cut single blades of grass. As for the leaf blowers they use, the damn things can put out category five hurricane winds.

  On the other hand, my lawn equipment is not up to their standards. Besides that I somehow have an ingrained talent at breaking the stupid things along with having no real ability at fixing them. Because of that there were a few years I went through push lawnmowers like penny candy. That had to deal with the fuel, or my lack of adding an ethanol stabilizer. As for weed trimmers I actually had one catch fire while I was using it. I'll just say it was an electric model and leave out the rest of the details despite the fact witnesses to the event say it was extremely funny.

Leaf blowers have been a special pain for me from the moment they first arrived at the local home improvement store. As with the rest of my lawn care trials I admit I have been my own worst enemy but leaf blowers have always seemed an abomination. To me it just seems insane how people freak out over autumn leaves falling on their precious lawns. However since I am forced to comply with home owner association rules I buy the cheapest model that will allow me to get by with the barest minimum of effort.That has finally come back to bite me in my ass.

With the trees in my front yard shedding their leaves a huge section of the neighborhood curb is now in danger of being covered over. To calm the inhabitants, and keep my wife happy, a couple of days ago I dug out the two-cycle leaf blower I own, fueled it up, and prepared once again to do battle with nature. But as I pulled the cord that starts up the damn contraption it broke leaving me no way to get it going.

Like a good suburbanite I pulled out my tool bag with the idea that the leaf blower would be simple to fix, no such luck. Believe it or not the pull cord on my base line Poulan leaf blower is an utter nightmare to replace. Thirty minutes into my initial repair attempt I found that the pull cord assembly is in the very middle of the unit requiring every nut, bolt, and part to be removed to gain access.

Needless to say for me this goes way above and beyond the call of suburban duty. After several days of quiet contemplation on the subject and reviewing a You Tube video showing how to successfully replace the cord without losing your mind the issue with the leaves has not been solved. They continue to pile up and I am sure the pod people are probably worried the world will end because of it.  My wife is also getting nervous because she wants to keep good relations with at least a few of the neighbors which requires me to keep the house and yard looking at least semi-decent.

As for me, I do have a rake but that seems awful excessive at this time. I told my wife I am hoping for a very windy day, which would blow the leaves down the street, or for her to give me wild monkey sex which would supply the proper motivation. We'll certainly see which one happens first.            

News from the Home Front

Last Saturday afternoon the kids and I accompanied, Dragonwife, my lovely spouse, to Columbia International Airport so she could begin what would be a week-long business trip to Geneva, Switzerland. Unlike many airports Columbia's is actually a pleasant place to visit. Skylights in the roof provide a fantastic amount of natural sunlight, there are scores of places to sit including old fashioned wood rocking chairs along with plenty of plants scattered about to add some green to the surroundings. While I was okay with staying longer the kids wanted to go home to their respective activities while Dragonwife was eager to get the TSA security checks done and cross over to the section of the airport only passengers can go.

“You really need to get the kids home,” Dragonwife said absentmindedly while digging through her shoulder bag, “plus, I don't want you paying the short term parking fee.”

“Whatever,” I responded feeling slightly ticked that I was the only one of the four of us feeling any warm fuzzys at her getting ready to travel across a significant portion of the planet. So, with nothing left to say I turned and started heading for the exit hoping my kids, my eighteen-year old son and eleven-year old daughter, who were already way ahead, remembered to look both ways before crossing the street going towards the parking garage.

So with one last glance as my wife was scanned down to her bone marrow and felt up by some unisex TSA official I headed out the door feeling the last four of five months of her scrambling to get ready for this trip had ended rather anticlimactically. All things considered it didn't matter much to me since both simple duty and common sense required that I take a week off from work to watch over my kids. Even though Spoilboy is a semi-responsible kid, I just could not fathom leaving them at the alone house while I go do my usual night shift routine.

During the buildup she and I had debated on which one of us would be pulling the toughest duty. She made her case saying it was a business trip and I responded saying yes, in Geneva, Switzerland. I would then mention my National Guard summer camps that were always business along with being in either an alligator infested swamp or some hot and dry desert. Contrary to the nifty and sleek television commercials depicting awesome adventure training my summer camps in the peacetime National Guard were usually less exciting than watching grass grow or paint drying. Now there were the few exceptions when some anal retentive officer, desperate to gain favor with the active duty types, volunteered us for every crap detail under the sun.

Even if I understood the complicated details of my wife's tax attorney profession I could not reveal anything since in all respects it would certainly mean the forfeiture of vital and sensitive parts of my male anatomy. However, I can write that her previous business trips were always in far nicer locations than I could have dreamed compared to places where I regularly removed engorged ticks or cleaned out coarse desert sand from those same sensitive male areas.

During these last several days I have stopped my son from trying to sneak a girl into his room. Made sure my daughter brought a real lunch to school instead of attempting to stuff a bag of frosted flakes cereal into her backpack. Insured that the dogs and cat had fresh food and clean water everyday despite the fact those duties belong to the kids. This list could go on but lets just say they kept me busy and leave it at that.

Along with keeping the two Sith Lords honest I had the normal duties of making sure the house stayed reasonably clean, the refrigerator doors were kept closed, the front door was locked at night, and that a mountain of laundry did not grow so high as to touch the ceiling. In short, while I did not delve deeply into the “honey-do” list left by Dragonwife I stayed consistently busy during her absence, not that I will get any credit for it. Several times during this past week while in the middle of some mundane chore I had a chance to reflect on the irony of the current situation. While I love to leave the house and the curiously inbred little town I find myself marooned by wife is very much the homebody. That she travels quite a lot lately doesn't bother me at all, I'm proud of her intelligence and abilities. But what does bugs the living shit out of me is that every time I plan a short escape something always comes up. It's a small recompense but at least she is suppose to bring me a t-shirt from the famous CERN Large Hadron Collider located in Geneva. What can I say, it appeals to the SheldonCooper/science nerd/total geek side of me. However I am getting a little nervous since what happened yesterday.

While I was getting a jump on the weekend bedsheets and blanket washing Thursday afternoon I heard the obnoxious squealing brakes of the FedEx truck that goes through the neighborhood. At first I figured the delivery dude was just dropping off stuff to the angry troll across the street, he works at home and rarely leaves. But instead delivery dude came to my door carrying two medium-sized packages. Both were sent from Switzerland by my wife with each of the boxes addressed to one of the kids.

When the kids got home from school we opened them and discovered a beautiful coo coo clock for my daughter, Darth Wiggles. My son, Darth Spoilboy, had several things in his box namely a fancy Swiss army knife, a nice leather toiletry bag, and a sweatshirt with some sort of emblem on the front. But no, nothing from CERN for the hardworking dad who did his duty and made sure the house was still standing and the kids stayed out of jail.

An oversight? I surely hope so, or papa is going to be pissed.

What Wives Should Never Do

 (Author's note: This was my first attempt at nonfiction at the Helium.com writing site where I have been playing around with flash fiction again. The gods at Helium did not like my admittedly tongue-in-cheek response to their prompt and kicked it off the next day. As you might be able to guess the prompt was to explain the things wives should never do to their husbands. For those who might cast a disparaging eye at such a topic there was another prompt asking wives to explain what husbands should never do to them.)    


Guys in general rightfully deserve the stereotype that we are tactless brutes lacking any consideration, especially for our suffering better halves. The key words here are “in general” because if you can look beyond the superficial gruffness and false bravado are not we fresh and blood human beings ourselves with feelings that can be hurt? So ladies here is a short and simple list of things you should never do to your husband.

Never force your husband to go shopping. Simply put guys usually hate going shopping for themselves and often can be found sprinting inside a store for something they desperately need like new underwear or toothpaste. Shared common interests notwithstanding the only reason husbands and boyfriends will even begin to enter some dress or candle shop is because they think such attentive behavior might get them sex later.

Along those same lines some ladies think allowing their significant other to wait outside their favorite boutique and hold their pocketbooks while they shop is enough of a reprieve. In some ways this situation is even worse, the male of the human species spent millions of years of evolution roaming the African savanna, to tie him to one spot is akin to those brutal and inhumane cages where some livestock are forced to spend their entire lives. The only possible exception to this predicament is if there are already other guys at the same location holding their girlfriend’s pocketbook.

The funny thing is there is actually an established social hierarchy for guys who sit outside some store waiting for the ladies in their lives. Seniority is based on the oldest male in the immediate area requiring the younger pups to sit and listen to whatever he was to say. Any guy who disrespects the sitting grand poobah is expelled from the group and forced into the store his wife or girlfriend is shopping to stand around and hold her items.

Does this sound like too much whining? Yes ladies, as a man I freely admit my brothers and I complain and whine far more than the cruel and very inaccurate stereotype of woman doing the same thing suggests. What in heaven’s name do you all think us guys did as we strolled the African savanna for all those countless eons?

Do not expect us to read your minds. One of the biggest obstacles I have had to overcome in my own marriage is to develop the talent for reading my lovely wife’s mood or true feelings when she says the exact opposite. How females interact with each other when men are not around is a complete and utter mystery to me. From what I have read though it has been suggested that it is often a byzantine labyrinth of intrigue and deception. Bringing that into a relationship is a dangerous affair. We guys usually, but not always, appreciate the direct approach; remember we are after all just relatively cleaner versions of unrefined cavemen.

About a month after my wife and I were married I could tell she was very upset about something but refused to tell me what was wrong. This went on for nearly a month until she exploded and began to tell me I was the crudest and poorest example of a human being this side of your average genocidal dictator. What brought on this volcanic emotional eruption was my long habit leaving my socks on the floor next my shoes. Of course, it is an immature behavior but I had just spent two years living alone in a small apartment and developed the usual set of male habits when it came to keeping a room clean. The general reason I left them next my shoes was because I often just wore the same pair for several days. Okay, maybe that was more information than you needed to know, I apologize.

On a side note, speaking strictly for myself, but I figure it goes for all guys, if I could in fact read minds rest assured I would have already used it to become filthy stinking rich.

Wives and girlfriends should never attempt to force their significant other to dress differently, unless we ask. One of the worst traumas for boys growing up is when their mothers took them shopping for new clothes. Now some guys do have a fashion sense and enjoy walking around all GQ and honestly more power to them. That being said a number of us males, very much including myself, had to deal with a mother who desperately wanted a little girl to dress up in pretty clothes. When they had a son instead this desire stayed the same with them dragging their boys around forcing them to try on suits, ties, and oddly decorated or strange feeling pants and shirts that we were told not to get dirty.

One of the worst experiences I had along those lines was during elementary school. My mother had gone out and bought a pair of off brand blue jeans decorated with the image of a shiny cowboy hat on one back pocket and a pair of cowboy boots with tiny rhinestones on the other. At the time I was nine years old and when I saw them I knew I would catch the devil from my classmates the minute they saw me walk by. As everyone knows children can be extremely cruel and after just wearing those odd pants to school once I swore I would never go through that kind of abuse again. This bring up the fact that mothers, wives, and girlfriends should never buy the men in their lives clothes that cannot get dirty, paint splattered, and then torn to the point they become un-wearable.

Only if your husband or boyfriend asks for assistance in picking out clothes should such a task ever be attempted. Of course, this all goes all out the window if said man is about to make a total fool of himself, and then it is at your discretion.

Wives and girlfriends should not freak out if their man needs some alone time. This is where things can get messy, the two sexes, forever locked in a strange dance alternating between love and hate, each have segments that are convinced that they naturally carry all the burdens associated with a relationship. Because of this the various injured parties believes that should get the majority of time to be alone to mentally and emotionally regroup. 

The simple answer to all this posturing is that there is not one. Yes, some individuals permanently carry the burden of the relationship they are involved in but most of the time responsibilities shift from one to the other. A rational couple would sit down and discuss what bothers them and when they would like a chance to slip away and enjoy a movie or a cup of coffee before they take a chainsaw to the other. While we are at it we should all come together for a group hug and to sing “We shall overcome.” Truth be told it is human nature try and exploit an advantage to greatest possible extent at the weaker party’s expense.

While ladies are universally viewed as the weaker party in the male/female relationship dance, mainly because men are often jerks prone to quick violence, women get the edge when it comes for the need for some alone time. Ladies who are financially able can spend a day at the spa without anyone thinking anything about it. Now if a guy wants to spend the day fishing or being just being lazy he is open to a world of acid comments about falling short. The truth is that we all need a little times away from the everyday grind to recalibrate no matter how wasteful our lack of purpose might seem to others.

All this boils down to something husbands and wives should do for their spouse, it is ridiculously simple to the point of being so obvious that we often fail to think of it. Just give the most important person in your life a little consideration and take care of them like you want to be treated. 

 

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.

About that wedding...

The Time: September 25, 2008
The Place: On the road in central eastern Virginia

Believe it or not it was a dark and stormy night as I drove the starship (the family CR-V) up I-95 trying to find our way to some place called Sandbridge Beach, Virginia for my brother-in-law's wedding. Past military training for me has that when driving the guy or gal riding in the front passenger seat not only is the navigator but carries the job of making sure the driver, that was me, stays alert. Much to my dissatisfaction as I was driving I would repeatedly find Dragonwife reading some culinary magazine using a small book light. Normally keeping my wife preoccupied on long trips is a good thing but since this area was terra incognito for me I would have greatly appreciated her attention due to the severe rain, blasting winds, and heavy traffic I was driving through was seriously freaking me out. Instead I was periodically getting shown glossy pictures of various entrees that strangely reminded me of what the occupants of automobiles looked like in the aftermath of terrible car crashes. At least the kids were quiet with my son, Darth Spoilboy, and daughter, Miss Wiggles, being entertained. The former with his iPod and the latter watching a "Bratzs" movie on the portable DVD player. This was a good thing since I started to see in the rain this looming concrete octopus of several highway overpasses stacked on top of each over with the arms being roads moving off if different directions. In a rush Dragonwife dropped the magazine she was reading and began trying to tell me which of the many series of exits I would soon have to take. I in turn was careening across lanes while praying that we all didn't end up a sticky paste on the wet road because my brother-in-law had to be married in some out of the way romantic place. The MapQuest directions were saying something on the order of five separate exits all less than a mile apart. As usual for the Beach Bum/Dragonwife navigation team we missed one of the exits which I thought would soon have us replaying the old Bugs Bunny cartoon of him tunneling through the ground on a trip, coming up to the surface realizing he was very off course, in some sort of cartoon adventure, and that he should have taken a left turn at Abuquerque. At this point we tried to loop back around but due to rain, unfamiliar territory, and general grumpiness of both pilot and navigator we ended up on some county road which at least had the benefit of being out of traffic. Now I know guys are suppose to be the ones that don't want to ask for directions but I did stopping at several convenience stores hoping that someone would actually know where their store was in relation to the rest of the world. After hitting one in which the store clerk actually admitted to being a local and knowing something about the area we wandered around until we figured he was back at the store snickering about the tourists he sent on a wild goose chase. But since God looks after children and fools we came to a stop at an intersection and accidentally noticed a landmark that matched one on the poorly printed map we got from MapQuest. Back on track we made our way finally to the Sandbridge Beach area stopping at a fantastic seaside restaurant. It was still raining heavily as we tried to enter the restaurant with the hostess telling us that the area all the way toward Virginia Beach was experiencing a tropical storm that suddenly formed that day.

The restaurant was awesome, it was locally owned and operated and not some crappy national chain with mass produced pop culture stuff hanging from every space inside. Surfboards of various styles and lengths hug from the walls, a sign on the door assured us the seafood was locally caught, and the waitress was wearing a tight t-shirt. I don't know who was happier, Darth Spoilboy or myself, since he actually removed his iPod and talked to the young lady serving us along with openly staring at her nicely shaped assets. Anyone who reads me even a little will easily understand I was doing the same thing.

While our travels had been hard the delay its caused was beginning to be welcomed since had we arrive earlier we would have been drawn into Dragonwife's sister cooking dinner for the entire clan. Past history has Dragonwife's sister, Lady Trump, being large and in charge of the kitchen and freely drafting anyone into her service. Past history in such events have Dragonwife and me doing kitchen cleanup with Dragonwife going AWOL soon into the assignment. She would explain that her family doesn't get together all that often and she wanted some time to catch up with them. But since we ended up so late getting in having to stop for dinner we arrived at the house with dinner and cleanup done. I never asked who got saddled with cleanup but several disgruntled looks from the extended family sitting in the living room gave me a undue satisfaction and a general idea of who it was as we came in.

The rental house we were in for the weekend was beyond huge bordering on enormous. It has TWELVE bedrooms with four of them having two sets of bunk beds. Two fully furnished living rooms on the second and third floors, five bathrooms, and two decks again on the second and third floors with a deck area on ground level around the small swimming pool. Since the house was on stilts beside the pool area was a relatively sheltered space for parties that was going to be put to use Friday night. Now some might think we would have most in not the entire Dragonwife clan staying in such a place but it was only my immediate family, Dragonwife's parents, and Dragonwife's sister Lady Trump and her daughter. Mrs. Sunshine, my mother-in-law had some of her family (about six people) in another rental. Warren Beatty Sunshine, my brother-in-law had one for him and his fiancee. His fiancee, the soon to be Beautiful Gorgeous-Sunshine had her family in another house nearby as well. Mr. Sunshine, my father-in-law, couldn't get any of his people to break away from their jobs in Hell or from causing world-wide chaos but had they came I'm sure they would rented another beach house as well. All told I'm sure the wedding was a boost to the local economy.





Early Friday morning Wiggles came and got me out of bed wanting to walk on the beach and watch the sun rise. Since I had about nothing to say in the matter as far as my daughter was concerned I did whatever good dad did in such situations. I put on my shoes and went walking on the cold beach. After everyone finally went to bed the night before leaving the house quiet I swear I could feel the house swaying in the wind and hear more than the usual noise of creaks and groans. The truth to the matter was that as I strolled the beach with my daughter I started talking with another couple also walking around who were old time locals to the area near Sandbridge Beach. What they told me was that when the rental houses were built certain corners were cut in their construction. In a conspiratorial tone I was told that since the rental houses were never built to be family homes the roof trusses and rafters along with the floor joists were spaced farther apart to lessen construction costs. The husband of the couple also floated the idea that if a hurricane ever tore the place up he figured the rental agencies would clean up nicely having the federal government help pay for rebuilding the area . Of course as our conversation moved on to different subjects this couple began expressing their belief in UFO's and how Christ was going to return to Earth in one.




After our walk Wiggles and I returned to the house for breakfast. Lady Trump was once again cooking which brought me a sudden desire to go and find a McDonald's but once I found out it was simply scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes and not some sort of exotic breakfast recipe like the cauliflower spaghetti aglio olio, grilled lamb shoulder chop or salmon mango bango she made for breakfast at my house on several of her past Christmas visits. All I'm sure are fine meals for the most discriminating connoisseur but just don't figure in my menu.

Of course everyone should know Miss Wiggles in the picture and the other pretty little girl is Lady Trump's daughter the delightful Miss Giggles. Giggles gave me a new nickname on this visit and as far as she is concerned I'm not, or ever have been Uncle Beach, I am "Big Tummy." Sadly you can't fight the truth.

I figured I would get saddled with clean up since I was able to avoid it the night before but Darth Spoilboy, never a morning person, really ticked off Dragonwife that morning and ended up having kitchen cleanup much to my satisfaction.


As Friday progressed the various actors and actress in this drama began getting ready for the party that would take place that evening on the pool deck and the space under the beach house we were staying at. One time I described my in-laws as structured, controlled, and deliberate people taking nothing for granted or doing anything without a plan. The one thing I left out was that in such a situation as a wedding my in-laws each want to have the others to follow their plan.

As tables were erected, sound systems installed and checked, and the pool areas cleaned everything was going okay. When it came time for decorating Dragonwife, Warren Beatty Sunshine, Lady Trump, and Mrs. Sunshine each had their own ideas of what to be done. Mrs. Sunshine started out decorating the party area with beach/jungle style garland that looked like jungle vines, seashells and starfish made out of tissue paper hanging from the garland, admittedly obtrusive looking fake palm trees, and my favorite colorful parrots also made out of tissue paper. For my taste I thought it was perfectly fitting for a wedding in which the sounds of the ocean surf was clearly heard, plus I admit I thought it was cool stuff. Once Lady Trump, Dragonwife, Warren, and Beautiful Gorgeous' uncle arrived on the scene a shriek of such decorative distaste erupted I thought someone had died. They each sprung into action ripping all the stuff down giving Mrs. Sunshine such a case of the "vapors" that a normally very socially accepting lady couldn't help but point out in a very sarcastic way that she admitted she was out of her league in decorating since Beautiful Gorgeous' uncle was not only a professional designer but gay. In short, my mother-in-law was rather crabby the rest of the night and beyond which is the reason behind the picture I chose for this segment.



My initial concern on this whole matter was how Miss Wiggles would act at a very structured event on a beach in which her usual behavior at such a place was to run absolutely wild. Happily, her behavior was excellent except for the fact that the one duty she and Miss Giggles were assigned was to hand out small sea shells to all the beautiful people assembled so they in turn could drop them in some seriously expensive large crystal vase signifying the joining of two people and unity of marriage or some other symbolic verbal crap that I tuned out after about a minute wishing there was a tiki bar somewhere nearby. While the very long winded pastor rambled on who was in turned replaced by Warren and Beautiful Gorgeous who wrote long poetic vows for each other Wiggles and Giggles at some point decided to bury all the shells they had in their baskets. About ten minutes away from having the girls hand out the shells Dragonwife and Lady Trump had to quickly dig up or find more so the girls could hand them out. At this point I tried to slip away but my wife caught me (Spoilboy snitched) and dragged me back by the ear. Yes, Wiggles is annoyed in this picture because she was blowing bubbles with her bubble gum during the vows and had just had it taken away.





A small sampling of the "beautiful people" at the wedding right before the ceremony started which was done Saturday afternoon. I could point out many of the people I have written about but to prevent my life from becoming endangered I will leave it to y'alls imagination which person goes with the names I have created.













After the ceremony was over my father-in-law wanted to quickly retreat back to the house so he could watch some golfing tournament but Mrs. Sunshine, still irked about her choice in decorating being rejected from the day before, was not in the mood and kept his leash very short.




















The newly married couple Warren Beatty Sunshine and Beautiful Gorgeous-Sunshine. I wish them all the best for a happy future. After the ceremony both rushed off and reappeared thirty minutes later having changed clothes with an airy rosy glow emanating from Beautiful Gorgeous and a telling shit eating smile coming from Warren. At that point I was at the beer table draining a third or fourth glass from the keg hearing some of the older guys making snarky comments about the couple "sealing the deal". I don't know whether Warren heard this stuff, I actually doubt it, but he yelled something out about never needing Viagra which shut several of the older farts up very quickly.

All told, I still hold to my belief that when the urge to marry comes up between two people regardless of any factor both should go lay down, take a nap and let the urge pass like bad gas.

Meeting Mickey Spillane

Author's note: My original version of this story was posted on my previous blog. Before I switched over to this blog I saved everything including the original version of this story to my computer's hard drive which was lost not long later due to my procrastination in burning my old posts to a CD and my son downloading a virus which destroyed everything on the hard drive. Due to my hearing a rebroadcast of the "Fresh Air" interview of Mr. Spillane I felt the need to rewrite the story for no other reason than to acknowledge a good deed that he did for a young scared kid.


One of my favorite programs on National Public Radio is “Fresh Air” with Terry Gross. I’m not big on listening too much of what the rich and famous like to whine about on other interview shows. But many times Ms. Gross has been able to open up various subjects and people I could have cared less about and making the topic or people interesting to me. Her interviews dig deeper than the superficial People magazine or Entertainment Tonight pieces that usually have some loony pop diva or whacked out actor expounding on their latest trip to rehab or their new diet of lawn clipping and tequila. Ms. Gross is able to draw out a real person and their beliefs most of the time with the exceptions I’ve heard being Gene Simmons who acted like a prick on her show and Bill O’Rielly who really was one. Then there was the show that they rebroadcast recently were she interviewed Mickey Spillane and I still got the strong feeling that after countless interviews where she handled many an overbearing personality she had a hard time coming to grips with a guy who was to use an old saying from my grandparents time: “common as an old shoe.” Of course I’m bias since I carry the memory of when I encountered the great writer as a young kid with him helping me out in a tough situation down in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina.

It was the mid-70’s and my parent’s marriage was a roller coaster ride of reconciliation and estrangement. Their marriage never was solid even going back to days before any of my siblings were born. As my siblings arrived both seemed unable to adjust to the added stress with each moving off into their own little worlds unable to come to terms fully with the children they each brought into the world. My father never was an emotional man often given to bouts of moodiness and outright detachment. My mother existed in her own little world full of stories of opportunities for a career she lost due to marriage and children. Where as my father grew detached and more distant over time my mother took refuge in a bottle and ever more elaborate fantasies of what she could have been, all the while increasing the circle of those guilty of holding her back. Given the times we lived and the general stigma that divorce still held in the South instead of ending the misery of their marriage they continued to be drawn together like a suicidal moth to a hot flame.

For some reason I can't even begin to understand my parents tried again to reconcile this time living on the mainland side of Pawleys Island in a trailer park just off the south causeway leading to the island, but it fared no better than their other previous attempts. After months of battles between the two involving all sorts of crimes, both real and imagined, my father arranged the purchase of another trailer and had it setup on the far end of Murrells Inlet off some dirt road. After months of enduring their strange behavior both my siblings and I soon came to appreciate the move and the relative peace that set in as we settled into our new home as the summer began. Like most good things though, it was never meant to last for long.

For those who don’t know Murrells Inlet even today bills itself as the seafood capital of South Carolina. Driving up Highway 17 just north of the Litchfield area unless you see the sign you still stand a good chance of missing the spur off the highway leading into the village. Many times I have written about the almost hidden coastal village of Pawleys Island but Pawleys to a great degree was always a destination more than an actual town. During the 70’s and earlier while there was a population of locals on the island itself it was still a place that drew tourists staying in one of the many rental beach houses and were wealthier types own second homes. The only difference was that the tourists did not come from as far away as they do now and had the consideration to leave once their vacation was over. Murrells Inlet on the other hand was always a working fishing village. But over the centuries it had also offered a haven for pirates, Confederate blockade runners, and during that time the occasional boat full of marijuana and its crew. How I know about the last one I will never tell, at least until I know for sure the statue of limitations has run out. For the first few months of the renewed separation between my parents it also became a haven for my siblings and me. The trailer park offered many things to keep children occupied before the advent of music videos and video games drew them inside for most of the day.

Behind our trailer was a rather large swath of woods that allowed us to run through viewing the occasional wild turkey, numerous possums, and the foot print evidence of a local bobcat that my grandfather identified during a visit. Many days would find my brothers, my sister, and me running through the woods with me carrying the BB gun trying to stalk the phantom bobcat or hunt squirrels so my grandfather could teach us how to clean and dress it to make squirrel purlow like he did as a child during the Depression. Yes, a few of the furry critters gave their life in our efforts. Just a little further down was a L-shaped pond that I’m now sure was artificial but never the less held many nice sized bream and a few small bass that we fished for many times early in the summer mornings. The trailer park we lived in had only recently been cleared and opened up and only a few other trailers had been setup and all were spread out leaving a huge area for playing without having to worry about making too much noise.

My mother’s mentally peaceful period ended upon the start of the school year. It was always difficult to judge when the dark clouds inside my mother would developed. Her alcoholism helped to bring it on but often times it was difficult to tell what was the cause and what was the effect since she could literally wake up one morning after weeks of being human and begin accusing everyone around her of disloyalty, lies, and holding her back for which she would start to drink. The really scary times were when she got this soulless, feral look in her eyes that seemed to suggest any sort of mayhem was possible. You just knew she would go for the belt which would be used to punish us for the most minor infraction. During these periods my grandparents did their best to blunt the worst of her bad times, when they knew about them. My mother had a fantastic acting ability to mask her darker moods from everyone. Being the oldest I did my best to keep track of her actual state of mind but even I was painfully caught short at times after returning home and she discarded her act of normalcy like some cheap Halloween mask.

Mr. Spillane’s appearance and help while brief and minor did much to defuse a glowing rage my mother had late one weekday afternoon. I’ve tried to pin down what drew the great mystery and crime writer to Murrells Inlet and the best I can discern was that he came to the Myrtle Beach area sometime during the 50’s after being invited to some sort of celebration that was being used to draw more tourists down. He somehow stumbled upon Murrells Inlet, which during that time was even more cutoff and secluded than when I lived there, and fell in love with the place, enough that to the best of my knowledge it cost him his marriage at that time. But to this day I’m thankful he did since his timely help may have saved my siblings and me.

Mom’s drinking could either be like a mad flood in which she quickly consumed enough beer and hard liquor to cause her to pass out, which could be a small blessing. At other times it was slow and steady which almost always fed whatever demons that lived inside her. These were the worst times to be around her since reality, even in her sober moments, was an ill defined thing subject to a whole manner of influences but drinking made it far worse. We were all home playing outside when she realized that there was nothing for her to make for breakfast the next morning. My siblings and I were rounded up and loaded into her Chevrolet Caprice that not many months later would carry us all across country as she chased the voices inside her head. Our destination was an old fashioned general store not very far down the road but the last thing I was worried about was my mother wrecking the car while under the influence. She had this almost supernatural ability to drive perfectly while heavily drunk and still gulping down a rum and coke she had mixed up before leaving the house.

We pulled into the parking lot of the general store with her sipping her drink and leaving the car running so she could listen to her music. She handed me a five dollar bill and gave me a list of various items that I was not to deviate from in the least, she assured me a whipping would result if I did. Wanting to get back home and outside away from her I quickly walked into the store and looked for the needed items placing them on the counter as two guys talked nearby. The clerk was a rather tall mustached fellow who owned the store and had always been kind to me whenever I went inside. The second guy sitting on a stool drinking something I don’t remember looked to me like a short fireplug of a fellow equally jovial and lighthearted. Right off the bat they could tell I was nervous asking me if anything was wrong. I was only eleven years old at the time and it was beyond my ability to explain to them that my mom was in a possible dangerous frame of mind due to her drinking. I knew enough that when confronted before she could without hesitation don her mask of civilized behavior and act out abject puzzlement over how anyone could believe she had any sort of problem. I don’t remember my answer but I sure I said everything was alright. Looking back while they might have accepted my answer they knew something terrible was wrong after seeing my reaction to the clerk telling me I did not have near enough money for the items I had brought to the counter. I felt like some cornered animal unable to fight or flee knowing that once my mother found out she would be instantly convinced I had lost the money between the car and the store. Repercussions upon returning home were sure to be swift and brutal. I’m not sure how much time passed between me being told of the lack of enough money and the gentleman on the stool coming up and looking into my eyes worried that I was hiding something but I remember him putting his hand on my shoulder and telling me it was going to be alright as he pulled out his wallet paying for the groceries and giving me a couple of dollars more along with returning the five dollar bill I walked in with. The clerk then asked me if I knew who the guy was that they knew had delivered me from some sort evil and I said no. The clerk then went on to tell me that my benefactor was none other than the famous writer Mickey Spillane. I, of course, had no idea who he was at that time but to this day I know he saved me from my mother’s rage that night.

I returned to the car carrying the bag full of groceries and sure enough my mother asked what had taken me so long. I told her that I did the best I could while giving her the couple of dollars Mr. Spillane had handed me. Like a petulant child the return of more change than she expected sent her clouded mind off onto another, calmer direction, I kept the five dollar bill hidden for weeks only breaking it out while staying with my grandparents one weekend. As we drove off I saw that the man identified to me as Mickey Spillane had walked out the store and had been observing the interaction I had with my mother. I could tell that it was more than a casual observation and that he was genuinely concerned over my fearful behavior. While I never saw Mr. Spillane again I was always touched by his simple gesture and concern. He will always be a king among men to me.

Labor and Delivery soap opera

A whole host of alligators have crawled out of the swamps these last couple of days making for some very tiresome days at both work and home. So, I’ve been in something of a mental and physical funk that I’ve had a devil of a time shaking off. After some really hectic days at work that just never seemed would end I’ve sat down at home several times over the last week to try and write something only to have another crisis erupt pulling me away from my place and leaving too tired, frustrated, or both to write anything coherent. However, today at work a strange, maybe bizarre circumstance developed that was at least for me was very memorable.

Comedians of many different stripes have used the gimmick of a very upset and pregnant woman bringing down verbal hellfire and brimstone on her poor husband as she pushes something the size of a small watermelon through a much, much smaller opening. The hypothetical husband usually has to just smile and be supportive of his suffering wife no matter what insults or family secrets his wife exposes to those around them in the delivery room. It’s just that hospital security usually doesn’t have to make an appearance.

I normally work on sterilizers, surgical tables and lights along with pinch hitting on other equipment. So today when I was asked to help one of my co-workers repair one of the high-tech hospital beds that almost does everything including allowing the patient to manage their stock portfolio I was glad to help. My co-worker Robert and I entered the delivery room early this morning with the expectant mom in the malfunctioning bed, the expectant dad sitting next to her, and his mom and dad sitting on the couch in the room. All concerned at that moment were happy smiles waiting for the baby who according to the doctors was rushing to greet the world. It was still the very early stages of the birth and the bed the mom was laying decided not to obey any commands from the hand controller. At some point the bed was going to have to be raised and stirrups installed so the mom and baby could be more easily managed so the bed had to be working correctly. The nifty thing about the bed was that it was so high-tech that a little LCD screen at the foot was actually telling us what was wrong so even a monkey could repair the thing. Robert and I chatted with the family as he and I removed a few panels, fished around for the proper connector, then reconnected it to the proper circuit board and tested the bed. I found then basically country folks since the biggest topic of discussion involved the approaching deer hunting season and how the expectant dad and grandfather would still be in the deer stand that first day even with a new baby back home. The soon-to-be grandmother was all grins through this segment of the conversation but I did notice a sour look on the new mom laying in the bed. After the bed was fixed Robert and I retreated out of the room and went our separate ways.

Several hours later in the day I returned to the Labor and Delivery department to perform some preventive maintenance checks on the surgical lights in the room right next to the one Robert and I had repaired the bed in. The intervening hours had brought a huge difference in the family situation that had existed that morning. At first I noticed that several other family members had arrived waiting in the small waiting room nearby. When I entered the room next door to do my checks I could hear the screams of the expectant mother and figured she must have either forgone the epidural or had the misfortune to have it wear off too soon. She was calling the expectant dad every name in the book along with declaring that he would never ever touch her again. I admit that I cringed when I heard her tell what had to be the doctor and nurse in the room that her husband’s penis was so small that she didn’t even have a good time getting pregnant in the first place. After a few minutes the expectant mom became quiet and I figured she was between contractions but I continued to hear voices although I was generally unable to make out what was being said. I hurried as quickly as possible to finish what I needed to do knowing that when the next wave struck the expectant mom was sure to fare up as well.

Just as I was collecting my stuff I could hear the next wave of contractions begin as the mom began to scream. The expectant mom once again started tearing into her husband and while I left the room and entered the hallway I was prevented from leaving by another nurse who stopped me and wanted to wait at the nurse’s station as she went to retrieve a part she wanted me to order for her. The nurse’s station was just a few feet away from both the room I was in and the room with the highly upset mom so I was still getting an earful of what was going on.
The other members of the family including what I would soon learn were the expectant dad’s brother and sister-in-law and the expectant mom’s father were in the small waiting area along with the expectant dad’s parents who had never left. As I waited at the nurse’s station trying to ignore all the commotion along with the other nurses who seemed more amused over what was going on the sister-in-law jumped up saying she would stick her head in the room to try and help. She had not gone two feet in the room when the laboring mom exploded asking who the hell asked her to come inside. I heard the sister-in-law say something to the effect that she just wanted to see if she could relieve the abused dad. While I will not swear what I heard next was an exact quote, it’s damn close.

“Help me?” the laboring mom screamed. “Your son of a bitch husband may actually be the one who put me in this position.”

It was then that all the nurses at the station jumped up as one and rushed for the waiting area and the delivery room. One had the presence of mind to yell further down the hall for a nearby security officer as I made a hasty retreat out of the area. I noticed the commotion increased in volume enough for me to hear small bits as the big automatic doors of the department closed behind me. Personally I had heard enough of that soap opera.

Miss Wiggles is going to a wedding

All concerned have been duly warned, I will accept no responsibility for what happens but it will most certainly be funny.

There are times that, as the old saying goes, I feel like some little old mushroom being kept in the dark and fed poop with respect to the lives of those around me. Whether my mushroom-ness is an unconscious act on my part to avoid a whole spectrum of assorted minutia I can do without or a deliberate act on the part of others to avoid bringing the redneck Neanderthal out in public is something for debate. But even then at some point news eventually filters down to me bringing me into the light, at least momentarily. Such an event happened this week while I was over armpit deep in fighting various work related alligators that have a habit of springing forth at the worst times. Dragonwife called me at work to report that her youngest brother who I will call descriptively "Warren Beatty" was finally tagged a few weeks ago , that is he asked his long suffering and totally fantastic girlfriend to marry him, and that now a date in which he will be bagged has been set. She went on to tell me that the happy couple is going to have a small wedding on some secluded Virginia beach mainly attended by family and "just a few friends".

While the only thing I try to avoid more than a wedding is a funeral but when informed of the wedding's ocean side location I quickly decided that in this case I could make an exception. I religiously follow the rule that a bad day at the beach always is better than a good day at work or one stuck at home. Even when that day at the beach forces me into what I am sure will be some sort of formal attire and having to deal with people I don't know and all sorts of social rules that might as well be high level quantum physics to me. After returning home from work free of my concerns there and my nature being what it is I began trying to figure out an angle that could get me out of the formal ceremonies allowing me to more readily enjoy my usual beach practices. It was then that my daughter, Miss Wiggles, came running into the living room from the backyard holding a brother, or at least a distant cousin, to the Geico gecko screaming that the little guy was hungry and that he needed a honey bun. Various ideas about how to avoid the wedding ceremonies flew through my head as I tried to talk Miss Wiggles into releasing the gecko even as the little guy's eyes were beseeching me to get him away from what I'm sure he thought of as the cute terror holding his life in her hands. It didn't take too long for me to realize that the best plan to accomplish what I wanted involved my little girl standing right in front of me. After some serious negotiating the gecko was returned to the backyard with a small piece of honey bun and my daughter in turn received a tall glass of chocolate milk to go with the rest of the honey bun. I then called my mother-in-law to sacrifice myself for the sake of an uninterrupted wedding.

One thing you have to understand about my in-laws is that each and every one of them are a very structured, controlled, and deliberate person. I do not offer this as a criticism, although they would certainly differ, but just an observation of how their family works. My family is almost completely spontaneous with most plans of any nature not surviving contact with the morning light. They in turn just about plan everything to a microscopic detail at times strangling the life and fun out of what they wish to do. Being honest here but both the spontaneous and the structured ways of doing things have their benefits and drawbacks. Many times my family have meant to do one thing with a last minute minor change in plan ruining just about everything else. On the other hand going on vacation with my wife at times can feel like some timed road march I use to have in the army with her rushing us from one location to another to beat the crowd or make some parade. Holidays like Christmas with my in-laws also are a structured affair with each event like opening presents timed down to the second and Christmas dinner being thrown into a nuclear meltdown panic as someone realizes that a vital ingredient for some gourmet dish is missing. My family in turn would just throw out the failed dish and open a can of Spam. But all things being equal my in-law's desire to have everything perfect with every person in their place and a place for every person often runs slap into the face of reality.

When Mrs. Sunshine, my mother-in-law, answered her phone I began feeling her out about the wedding asking her if Miss Wiggles was going to have any duty in the ceremonies. She said no, and then I asked her what the general idea of the wedding was going to be like. While it is planned to be a simple affair the couple have each written special vows that will be performed with several pieces of music being played that are important to both. As she stayed true to her family's structured nature going into every tiny detail of what was planned I struggled to avoid its mind numbing effects as I was told the various color schemes and flowers that were going to be used along with where and how they would be placed on the beach as water from the light surf would lap over the young couple's feet as they speak their vows. Once she was finished and I took several hits from the beer I had opened about eleven to twelve minutes into her description I asked her if it would be best for Miss Wiggles and myself to hang back at some other location (I was thinking a Tiki bar with a drop dead gorgeous female bartender) to avoid any undue outbursts that might derail the event. Mrs. Sunshine was completely flabbergasted that I would even suggest such a thing saying that all the plans, while not having the children in the ceremonies, none the less required the children to be present. I took a deep breath and opened another beer as I told my mother-in-law that in all the trips to the beach I make with the kids it is habit to let them in general, and Miss Wiggles in particular, to run absolutely wild to burn off as much energy as they can. I also reminded her about how at our last visit to their house we all went to Shoney's for a quick dinner and had to drag Wiggles off the salad bar after she slipped away from Dragonwife and crawled up on it to get more macaroni and cheese after we all said she couldn't have any until she ate her peas. Mrs. Sunshine, in her best Southern accent, said that her granddaughter had certainly outgrown such behavior by now. I almost told her she needed to ask a certain terrified gecko about that presumption but thought against it.

Sometime later Dragonwife came storming up the stairs into the computer room wanting to know why I was doing my best to avoid her brother's wedding, yes her mother called back at some point. While our relationship is light-years from perfect, hell it's light-years from normal, she and her mother know me well enough to have figured out my intentions. In all seriousness I told her that while yes I didn't necessarily have a warm fuzzy about standing on a beach in my one and only suit while sickly sweet music played and dozens of other in-laws I still didn't know after more than a decade of marriage hovered around the happy couple. I did think it would be better if Wiggles and I were someplace else so she wouldn't try to run off and go swimming as they exchanged vows. My wife assured me that she would have a talk with our daughter before hand to prevent her from showing such a behavior. One must always realize, at least with my wife and her family, when talking any further is meaningless. So I told her okay and that as long as she thought she could control Wiggles I would go along with their plans. My son, Darth Spoilboy, who was seriously boggarting the computer working his mySpace page and staying in contact with all his friends online, began snickering since he knew first hand about Wiggles’ nature on a beach. Dragonwife walked back downstairs happy that I had gone her way but unsettled that Spoilboy too thought their plans unworkable. It doesn't really matter to me in the end since I will have my camera and the antics of my daughter and the reactions from my in-laws and the bride's family will make great pictures to post. If I get a video camera I may even get something that might get me some money from America Funniest Videos and no matter what I will find a Tiki bar.