The Old Man

This is one of the few times I wish I had easy access to a scanner, because if I did I'd post a few shots of my dear old Dad-- the first love of my life, very best pal, partner in crime and the source of most of the recessive genes that I possess so proudly. Before I start into the panegyric that I would like to write (assuming my readership wants to read details about a man they've never met), I'll try to keep this tribute reasonably concise (no promises though).

Dad was one hell of a guy. I can't think of much better praise than that when you reach the end of your days. He was a consummate family man, a hard worker, had a sense of humor that confounded some but never failed to leave me holding my sides from laughing. Was he handsome? Not in a conventional way. He was tall, and bore the marks of working 25 years in a steel mill, but as far as conventional good looks go, the old man was not what anyone would call a "looker." He started going bald in his twenties, and grew a beard in his 30's-- both in response to the corresponding loss uptop and to cover a chin that wasn't much to mention. My mother tells me that when my great-grandmother was first introduced to Dad, her comment was, "Well... he sure is a TALL drink of water!"

Other than having baby-blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes (which my brother and I both inherited), dad's best physical attribute was his smile. And even that wasn't pretty (in the literal sense), because he'd needed extensive dental work over the course of his life and the result was a less-than-lovely set of capped teeth. Dad's smile was remarkable because it seemed to radiate from every pore-- eyes crinkled, dimples flared, and you never got the sense that he was being phony. Upon meeting strangers, he gave them a strong handshake and let them know he was pleased to meet them. But when he ran into good friends or family members, the wattage beaming off of his face was strong enough to light Paris. People couldn't help but to smile back when Dad was around, because they could feel the genuine warmth and sincerity he exuded.

Because Dad worked shifts at the mill, more often than not he was available to watch and care for me while my mom worked all day as a teacher. The result was that I became Dad's sidekick-- a Robin to his Batman, the Morocco Mole to his Secret Squirrel. He liked to bring the element of fun AND education to all our fieldtrips together. If he had to run around paying bills, he would explain the merits of staying on top of debt (guess I wasn't listening so well) while letting me be the one to hand over the payment to the water department clerk or the waitress in a restaurant.

Many people were surprised to learn that he had never completed college, because he was so well-versed on such a wide variety of subjects. The family called him Socrates behind his back, as he was a man who was never at a loss when he felt his children needed "a talking to" about a subject he felt was important. At times we would have to stifle yawns when Dad would get long-winded, but we listened anyhow.

Every day that he went to work, he always had some kind of reading material in his galvinized lunch bucket. A book of crossword puzzles, the Reader's Digest, something. When he finally had to retire from the mill because his cancer made the work too dangerous, he confessed that he'd often taken grief from co-workers for being such a bookworm. "Whazza matter, Tom," they'd say, "you too good to sit 'n' shoot the shit with us, man?" He'd only laugh and tell them he was trying not to let the mill rot his brains.

Dad's been gone for over thirteen years, and with each year the loss of him changes in size and power. Easier in some ways, gentler... But as I reach personal milestones I can't help but reflect upon where Dad was at my age. When he was 34, he had 2 small children, a wife & home, and a live-in mother-in-law. He worked 40 hours a week at a job he didn't particularly like, but he had a family to provide for and so exploring or "finding himself" wasn't part of his lexicon. But I'm grateful that I had him as long as I did, and I appreciate all the sacrifices that he made so that I would know all the comfort and happiness that was in his power to bestow.

On the night before he died, he and I were sitting on our front porch enjoying a beer and talking about everything and nothing. All at once he said to me, "You know what, honey? I'm finally not worried about you kids anymore." This statement seemed, at that moment, to come from left-field. Yes, Dad was getting in-home hospice care and we knew that his life was being counted in weeks and months instead of years by then. But he'd been feeling great that day, and so such a final comment caught me unprepared. He saw my confusion, and said, "Now, you-- you I always knew I could toss off the back end of a train and you'd hit the ground running. But your brother..." Here he paused, then continued, "He was always so quiet-- I never knew what was in his head, on his heart. I worried that he wasn't happy, wasn't ready to face life. But I don't anymore." He went on to say that, through the course of his illness, he'd had time to reflect upon this enigma who was his son. Dad had realized that the roots he'd given me were the same as those that he'd given my brother, but that we'd each blossomed and branched out in different ways. I was so much like Dad that he had no trouble figuring ME out-- quick-fire temper, rapid-fire mouth, always ready to laugh or fight with equal passion. My brother's temperament is more like my mother's. They are simmerers. They will let troubles simmer in them for days and weeks, until you're far removed from the incident that upset them to begin with, and then they will erupt in what seems like a spontaneous and unexpectedly erupting volcano. Dad was finally at peace with the idea that "Different is not WRONG-- it's JUST DIFFERENT."

In summary, Dad knew that parenting was about roots and wings: if you give your child a solid foundation and prepare them for the world, then the winds and tides that buffet them later become easier to withstand. I can still hear him saying, "Honey, smiles are free. They cost you nothing. But they might mean everything to the person you give one to!" So on the eve of my dear-old-dad's birthday, I charge you, dear readers, to go out tomorrow and give out some smiles. He was right, ya know. Smiles ARE free, we do burn calories creating them, and you never now if the person you're giving one to has received kindness fr another soul all day. Happy birthday, Daddy!om

..and SPEAKING of Coffee...

...were we? Seeing how it's Monday morning, a natural topic for rumination is, "What do I need to purchase so badly that I'm getting up on a freezing cold bank holiday to stumble off to work??"

The answer is simple: coffee

If one does not work, one does not buy coffee. And as coffee is as necessary to my existence as oxygen (possibly moreso), I work-- therefore I can purchase BEAN. One of my dearest friends in the world now lives in Seattle (the Land of Coffee Snobs), and has long been one of my greatest fellow appreciatuers of a good cuppa joe. The first time I visited her home, she asked me "what kind of coffee do you want?" I braced myself to hear a litany of "flavors" like Jamocha Bliss, Butternut Surprise and Taffey-Toffee Tremor... Instead, my heart thundered to hear the love-song of a fellow coffee-addict echoing from the kitchen. She rattled off an impressive list of imported coffees-- all purchased in whole-bean form-- and then went on to ask if I "want anything in it?" We've been boon companions ever since-- united in our love of this caffeine-laden creation.

Personally, I would not consider myself to be a coffee snob* (see note in comment section). On more than one occasion I have "made do" with less than deliteful brew so that lives would be spared because I was suffering from a case of S.J.D. (Serious Java Depletion)-- a regrettable condition that has wreaked more havoc than an Astroglide shortage on Valentine's Day-- lives would be lost, fires set, relationships ended and general mayhem galore would ensue thanks to not having what you need WHEN... YOU... NEEED... IT.

I'll never forget one of my earliest house-sitting jobs for an elderly woman named Emma-Lou. The job is noteworthy 1) because she was actually IN the house while I stayed there (she needed help prior to / following cataract surgery), and 2) she made, quite possibly, the worst coffee I've ever been compelled to consume in my life. The dear soul insisted on cooking breakfast for me each morning, and as I'd made the mistake of admitting that I liked coffee, she obligingly included a full pot to the menu (all for me-- she didn't touch the stuff). NOTE: One of the few snobbery issues I have with coffee is that I want it to be strong enough so that I cannot see through the brew-pot to the other side / to the bottom of the mug (usually not a problem as I add milk). Imagine if you will then, on that first fateful morning, Wahwer looking on with horror as not only could I see the white, Mr Coffee stylized flower logo wrapping around the back of the carafe, I couldn't really even smell coffee. Most people-- both coffee drinkers and "the others"-- will tell you that the ambrosiac smell of brewing coffee ranks fairly high on their list of near-religious experiences. So to neither smell NOR see what I was being told was coffee stimulated a horror akin to realizing at 11:30 on a Sunday night that you've forgotten to write a book-report for school. You know deep in your heart that this can be survived (i.e. by pulling an all-nighter to both read & report on a book) , and that you can somehow salvage this disaster. But you're bewildered as to how such a blatant balls-up could have happened on your watch...

I survived that travesty in good form, and as those who know me will attest, coffee has in no way stunted my growth or in other ways negatively impacted the treasure that is Wahwer. I feel I am a better (and imminently more pleasant morning-person) thanks to the benevolent ministries of Juan Valdez than I ever could be without him. Juan is my friend. I have even built a shed out back for him to park his burro, Pancho, when he stops to deliver my bean supply. However, thanks to the murder / arson that happened 200 yards from my place last week, Juan has started making noises about the increasing risks of making at-home deliveries anymore. He pleads with me, his Columbian brown eyes glittering with unshed tears, saying, "Perdon a me, querida mia... I don' know how moosh longer I ken risk Panchito's life by coming to this dangerous barrio. He ees my amigo, mi companero de mas anos... I cannot leev without heem!" Faced with the chance that I might soon have to resort to honing my Hood skills to secure an uninterrupted supply of coffee to my house, I beg my readers to think of me as they greedily brew up pot after steaming pot of coffee each day. Remember that there is a poor (and I do mean poor) girl, living (just like Elvis sang) "In the Ghetto"... shuffling off to work selling pencils and apples on the corner so that she can afford to keep Juan's loving attentions intact and the flow of coffee in her veins on full bore.

I'll end my sad story now, as I'm also running low on #2 Ticonderoga's and simply must restock.

Humble Pie Goes Well with Coffee

Allright, allright...

So yes, I was the one posting potty humor jokes and belittling the Valentine's Day celebrations in general. Well, I humbly revoke some of my bitter words in light of the lovely prezzies I received from afar.
(you can also see part of my new office in the background)

Big ups to their sender-- you brightened my day in every way.
~ Muchas gracias ~

Fire in the Hole - My VD Wish for you

I know I promised (vaguely) a more esoteric, pathos-laden post for today, but in light of the fact that:

1. It's Valentine's Day AGAIN (keeps coming back no matter how hard I protest)
2. I'm one of those goofy adult females who is inordinately entertained by potty humor, and
3. This oldie but goodie came through my e-mail today and I'm too busy to be original
   

I present the following Valentine to my readership. I hope each of you has a day filled with your favorite things (o.k.... maybe not filled, but at least some sprinkles of favorites).

HOW TO POOP AT WORK

We've all been there but don't like to admit it. As much as we try
to convince ourselves otherwise, the WORKPOOP is inevitable. For those
who hate pooping at work, following is the Survival Guide for taking a
dump at work.

CROP DUSTING: When farting, you walk briskly around the office so
the smell is not in your area and everyone else gets a whiff but
doesn't know where it came from. Be careful when you do this. Do not
stop until the full fart has been expelled. Walk an extra 30 feet to
make sure the smell has left your pants.

FLY BY: This is the act of scouting out a bathroom before pooping.
Walk in and check for other poopers. If there are others in the
bathroom, leave and come back again.
Be careful not to become a FREQUENT FLYER. People may become
suspicious if they catch you constantly going into the bathroom.

ESCAPEE: This is a fart that slips out while taking a leak at the
urinal or forcing a poop in a stall. This is usually accompanied by a
sudden wave of embarrassment. If you release an escapee, do not
acknowledge it. Pretend it did not happen. If you are standing next to
the farter in the urinal, pretend you did not hear it. No one likes an
escapee. It is uncomfortable for all involved. Making a joke or
laughing makes both parties feel uneasy.

JAILBREAK: When forcing a poop, several farts slip out at a machine
gun pace. This is usually a side effect of diarrhea or a hangover. If
this should happen, do not panic. Remain in the stall until everyone
has left the bathroom to spare everyone the awkwardness of what just
occurred. COURTESY FLUSH: The act of flushing the toilet the instant
the poop hits the water. This reduces the amount of airtime the poop
has to stink up the bathroom This can help you avoid being caught
doing the WALK OF SHAME.

WALK OF SHAME: Walking from the stall, to the sink, to the door
after you have just stunk the bathroom. This can be a very
uncomfortable moment if someone walks in and busts you. As with farts,
it is best to pretend that the smell does not exist. This very
uncomfortable walk can be avoided with the use of the COURTESY FLUSH.

OUT OF THE CLOSET POOPER: This is a colleague who poops at work and
is damn proud of it. You will often see an Out Of The Closet Pooper
enter the bathroom with a newspaper or magazine under his or her arm.
Always look around the office for the out Of The Closet Pooper before
entering the bathroom.

POOPING FRIENDS NETWORK (P.F.N.): A group of coworkers who band
together to ensure emergency pooping goes off without incident. This
group can help you to monitor the whereabouts of Out Of The Closet
Poopers and identify SAFE HAVENS.

SAFE HAVENS: A Safe Haven is a seldom-used bathroom somewhere in the
building where you can least expect visitors. Try floors that are
predominantly of the opposite sex. This will reduce the odds of a
pooper of your sex entering the bathroom.

TURD BURGLAR: This is someone who does not realize that you are in
the stall and tries to force the door open. This is one of the most
shocking and vulnerable moments that can occur when taking a poop
at work If this occurs, remain in the stall until the Turd Burglar
leaves. This way you will avoid all uncomfortable eye contact.

CAMO-COUGH: A phony cough that alerts all new entrants into the
bathroom that you are in a stall is called a Camo-Cough. This can be
used to cover-up a WATERMELON, or to alert potential Turd Burglars.
The Camo-Cough is very effective when used in conjunction with an
ASTAIRE.

ASTAIRE: An Astaire is a subtle toe-tap that is used to alert
potential Turd Burglars that you are occupying a stall. This will
remove all doubt that the stall is occupied. If you hear an Astaire,
leave the bathroom immediately so the pooper can poop in peace.

WATERMELON: A watermelon is a big poop that creates a loud splash
when hitting the toilet water. This is also an embarrassing incident.
If you feel a Watermelon coming on, create a diversion. See CAMO-
COUGH.

HAVANA OMELET: A case of diarrhea that creates a series of loud
splashes in the toilet water. Often accompanied by an Escapee. Try
using a Camo-Cough with an Astaire.

UNCLE TODD: An Uncle Todd is a bathroom user who seems to linger
around forever. This person could spend extended lengths of time in
front of the mirror or sitting on the pot. An Uncle Todd makes it
difficult to relax while on the crapper, as you should always wait to
poop when the bathroom is empty. This benefits you as well as other
bathroom attendees.

Hope the Survival Guide helps, as the WORK-POOP is an inevitable part of life. 

FREEDOM!!!

After nearly six weeks of delays, excuses and general BS, I FINALLY HAVE INTERNET AGAIN!!!!!

I'm planning to write something with a leetle more pathos and of interest in the next day or so, but for those of you who've been waiting so patiently for my return I'm throwing you a blog bone, ok?

SHeeeeeeeeeeee's BA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!!!!!

Melonie Made Me Do it

4 jobs I've had in my life:
Professional nanny
Pre-need sales for Funeral Home
Tour Guide
Marketing assistant

4 movies I could watch over and over:
(NOTE: the following are all shameful admissions)
Gone With the Wind
When Harry Met Sally
Roadhouse (God forgive my obsession with Patrick Swayze & Sam Elliot)
Anything w/Robin Williams

4 TV shows I love(d) to watch:
ER
First 48
Speed Racer
Sesame Street

4 places where I have lived:
Westchester Co, NY
Houston, TX
W Palm Beach, FL
Cleveland, OH

4 places I've been to on vacation:
Nova Scotia
Cape Cod
Texas
Cross-country drive (GREAT fun)

4 places I would rather be:
Napping
Seattle
Scotland
Somewhere warmer

4 of my favourite foods:
pasta
Steak
seafood
beer (TRY to prove it ain't a food group!!)

4 websites I visit daily:
all from here: Blog World Trailer Park

4 people worth tagging:
If you staggered in here then Ya'll are!!!!

One for the thumb

O.k. I wouldn't be a lifelong Pittsburgh "Stillers" football fan if I didn't give props to my boys-- the men in black-and-gold-- who finally brought home "one for the thumb"... the long awaited fifth Super Bowl ring for the Steelers' organization.

In honor of their victory, I've decided to give out my top nominations for idiots eligible to receive my very own One for the Thumb awards (aka Thumby's). This esteemed award will be presented to people who have qualified in one of the following categories:

1. Their thumb is firmly plugging their rectum & needs to be removed (thumb, not rectum)
2. Their thumb is firmly ensconced in their mouth, teet-like, because they are titty-babies who cannot stop sucking and slurping their digit long enough to be productive citizens.
3. They need to have a thumb poked into either orifice in order to stop the flow of useless crap (verbal OR literal) that is coursing out of them, crapping up the lives of those around them.

In the category of "Most Needing Thumb Removed from Posterior":

• The crazy ex-neighbor, who called me at nearly midnight Friday night to see if I would pick her up at the Emergency Room-- then proceded to keep me awake till 2AM running her to an all-night pharmacy, taking her home, then calling me to tell me she "accidently" left a bag of groceries in the trunk of my car and couldn't I bring them to her? BTW: She didn't get them until the next day.

Up for a "Slap a Nipple on that Thing" prize, I offer:

• The friend who demands I spend inordinant amounts of time with him, but who is NOT interested in a relationship, does NOT want to be tied down by a wife / significant other, yet acts like a titty-baby when I am tied up all weekend with family & friend commitments and cannot dance attendance on him-- then announces "we have things to discuss" when you do grace his presence.

And finally, my favorite category, the mythical "Stop the Insanity" trophy:

• Ever have a week that kicks your ass and comes back for more? As you all know, I have been and continue to be without in internet connection in my new office-- despite the fact that I have been in my new office for a month. I have called, visited in person (to no avail) and in every way subjected the internet provider to a barrage of calls and contact attempts that would bury a weaker opponent. Alas, I am still stealing internet like a felon when no one is aware, and cursing the company that turns me criminal. I won't bore you with all of the other minutiae that is making my life crazy at the moment (including the above listed). Just note that my crazy existance compelled me to go out for the past four evenings to spend time with friends, I woke this morning to a nasty not-(for once)-party-related headache, and am taking the afternoon off to go to the funeral of my childhood best-friend's father this afternoon.

And now that I have rambled longer than planned, I will get back to the work I just don't feel like doing.

NEWSFLASH: The internet provider just called to say the phone company will be coming TODAY to wave their wand over my connection, and that the provider's tech will arrive sometime later this week to do HIS thing... ALLE-FRICKIN-LUIA!!!!!!!!!