Puddintopia

We had a fun day yesterday, after having the “White Death” visited upon us Friday night (in these parts, that refers to a ghastly blizzard-like snow with accumulation of more than a millimeter). The Puddinette and I took turns shoveling the offensive semi-frozen material off the driveway while the kids played, and then everyone enjoyed a steaming mug of cocoa or apple juice (we have a child who is anti-chocolate, yet love him anyway). I got to thinking, afterward, and ended up feeling a skosh disappointed for the kids, because the snow dropped on a weekend and cheated them of the opportunity for the universally loved “snow day”.

Back in prehistoric days, when I was an elementary scholar (cola was a nickel and you walked uphill to school, both ways), there were few things as incontestably glorious as a snow day. Weekends were always great, sure, but most weekends included some act of distastefulness: a trip to Aunt Bea’s, who smelled like moth balls and old lady perfume and insisted on wet, full-pucker, ruby-colored cheek-kisses, or worse, a home-improvement project, like the infamous day-long garage cleaning. Grown-ups, throughout recorded history, have been coming up with schemes to ruin a kid’s weekend. Snow days, though, are, by definition, impromptu, and often include being housebound, which makes them inviolate from the meddlesome plans of adults.

I recall with much fondness those days, back before I was cursed with age, me, my brothers, and the usual cast of neighborhood miscreants spending hours in the manufacture of snow mounds in preparation for the King of Mound melee, as well as pitiful attempts to get our trusty Flexible Flyer sled to glide gracefully through 4 inches of soft snow. The real fun, of course, followed the hours of snow play, when retreating to the indoors with nearly numb fingers and toes for a dry pair of socks and soft comfy fleece pants yielded the inevitable hot chocolate and an afternoon spent languishing contentedly over a variety of games. Dungeons and Dragons, Monopoly, Parcheesi (The Royal Game of India!), and chess were all key components of winter days that helped sculpt my inner nerd.

I especially remember, on those snowy, stay-home days, my first bloodthirsty lessons in chess from my Dad, who has never, to my knowledge, intentionally taken a dive when the opponent’s King is still upright. Only now, as an adult employed by a manufacturer that must, regardless of rain, snow, sleet, or shine, produce a given number of actual parts every week to be profitable, do I see how fortunate my father was to be a teacher, subject to the same snow day rules as my childhood self. Also, now, I see how much it must have sucked for my mom, as the single extra employee in a psychiatrist’s office. Crazies (a clinical term, obviously) don’t take days off of being crazy just because white stuff falls from the sky. In fact, I can only imagine that such events likely encourage added wackiness. Not much opportunity to stay warm at home when your clients are hearing voices in the snow tell them to whip up some creamed spinach in case the “gray men” come back from Mars for a visit.

Like I said, after having all of these thoughts about the snow days from my past, I was a tad disappointed for my kids, who missed a chance with the poor timing of this storm. But then, because it was a weekend, with no parts needing to be shipped, I got the opportunity yesterday to enjoy a rare snow day for myself with my family and don’t mind admitting that I selfishly enjoyed the hell out of it.

pud’n

I was checking in with facebook earlier, doing my pseudo-daily duty to achieve social butterflydom, where I read a friend’s status referring to a new law requiring anyone driving a motor vehicle to turn on his/her headlights when using their windshield wipers. I haven’t bothered to attempt confirming the assertion; quite frankly, I’m not concerned if it’s true or not. I do know such a law went into effect in Ohio last month. The long and short of it, though, is that this business has gotten my dander quite up!

On its face, you have to be looking at me, scratching your head, and thinking, “Puddin, really, this is a safety measure; everyone believes is safety!” Ok, yes, fine, I have no issue with safety. I’m not an animal. I have 4 kids and enjoy the idea that we live in a world where, with some feeling of security, they can play 12 hour little league games (well, it seems like it), grow up, decide they hate me, get a nose pierced, go to college, get married, and live happily ever after. So, sure, I’m all for safety. Honestly, though, is this the kind of thing that needs to be law?

I realize that thousands of angry mothers out there are again putting pen to paper to accuse me of supporting socialists and eating babies, but hear me out. It’s not that I disagree with the concept, per se, I just think our elected officials should maybe work harder to solve actual problems, as opposed to fabricating “issues” to resolve because our political system currently resembles two cliques of school kids staring at each on a playground shouting, “you’re stupid”, “no, you are!”, “nuh-uh, you are more!”.

The fact is that legislation like this costs time and money and accomplishes nothing. But wait, you say! Someone might get caught driving willy-nilly in a torrential downpour and have their wipers on without their headlights (GASP!). They’ll be stopped, a citation will be issued, and eight year-olds everywhere will chasten their fathers for acting recklessly.

Won’t happen.

The violation is a secondary offense, meaning your friendly neighborhood patrol office can cite you for it only if you happen to be doing something else wrong first. In other words, if Granny goes out looking for a beefy burger in the rain and drives through the restaurant, or Johnny Six-Pack accidentally hydroplanes his Plymouth onto a playground (you know, ’cause neither could see clearly without the headlights), we can all rest comfortably in the knowledge that they’ll be cited for that added moving violation and charged an extra c-note. Boy, that makes me feel much safer.

In a perfect world, we could, perhaps, spend our legislative time and effort solving problems that are actual problems and not making laws which are really just a formalized expression of common damn sense. If Granny and Johnny have trouble remembering their respective headlights in the rain, why not consider addressing how they came to be behind that wheel in the first place. Adding a secondary offense, though? Wow, good job, that’s definitely working for the public interest there.

Every now and then, it seems to me that it sure would be nice to see someone on the playground do something useful without having to be “Double Dog Dared”. Stupid idealism.

pud’n

Too much work tonight, I’m afraid, for attempts to produce even marginally entertaining words. I will endeavor not to disappoint again tomorrow. For now, please enjoy this image of my favorite beer:

I was going to write some fiction tonight, perhaps see if the thirsty man could get up off the tile, but it turns out the fiction takes more effort than just spouting whatever nonsense comes to mind. So, instead, I’ve decided to break out a new, hopefully recurring feature here at Puddintopia: Questions I Want Answers To. The premise is simple: there are many, many things in the world that just don’t make any sense to me, and dammit, I would like some answers.

Several things have plagued me since my youth, but there’s only question that I can recall having all the back in first or second grade: could they not come up with anything better than the term “husky” for boys’ jeans with, um, a little extra room? I mean, really, when you’re a little dude kickin’ it up in the early elementary grades, life is rough enough without having to carry a label that’s simultaneously synonymous with dogs and pudginess. Your formative school days are spent trying to figure out why anyone needs to understand the “schwa” sound and then later having to dodge little “Jenny” on the playground (because she’ll kiss you, in the most embarrassing way possible, if she catches you), so clearly, no one needs to have to the carry the additional burden of a label that basically means “rotund”.

I know, I know. There are moms out there squealing delightedly about how their little busters are all burly and growed up now, and denim manufacturers cling to the idea that well, hell, it’s better than just smacking one of many other, potentially more derogatory, words on the label of those jeans. But really, isnt’ there a better way to address this, some method to avoid having shy 10 year-olds everywhere looking in late August at their respective new fall wardrobes and muttering to themselves, “stupid huskies”.

For adult ladies, we reward the little people with terms like “petite”, or “junior” but there’s no shame in shopping in “ladies” or “women’s”. For adult men, it’s simply S-M-L-XL plus as many X’s as you can fit on the tag. “X” is cool, it’s just a letter; if you look it up on thesaurus.com, it doesn’t carry any synonyms, let alone “big”, “whopping”, or “thick-set”. Sadly, though, for children, for some reason, we have to have words to describe the sizes: “slim”, “regular”, “husky”, or for girls, horrifying phrases like “pretty-plus”.

At this point, I know you’re wondering, so, yes, I, myself, bore the shame of wearing the dreaded label. Hello, my name is Puddin, and I wore “Husky” jeans. Was it really all that bad, though? Was I fearful, at the tender age of 10, that I might someday be relegated to life as a circus-freak novelty like those twins on the motorcycles from the Guinness Book of World’s Records?

Honestly, no. Little boys couldn’t care two ways what the back of their pants say. But, man, husky jeans did have stupid little kid snaps and big boy jeans had pull-though buttons, like Dad’s. I hated those stupid snaps and every time I read the label, the snap was all I thought about. When you’re a little dude, let’s face it, life is about attitude, and nothing gives your attitude a foundation like having clothes just like Dad’s.

Dear Mr. and/or Mrs. Doe,

It has come to the attention of this Fitness/Spa/Health Club-type establishment that you were recently witnessed engaging in the act of Locker Room Streaking. According to the by-laws of Basic Human Decency, Locker Room Streaking (LRS) is defined as “the act of moving freely about a shared locker/dressing area with no apparent haste while proudly displaying one’s full nude form with a complete and utter lack of any discretion whatsoever”.

We would have hoped it go without saying that his practice is frowned up not only here, but in just about any other location you may find yourself on the face of planet Earth.

In an effort to further clarify the understanding of reasonable, decent people everywhere, we’d like to illustrate a few key points relevant to the guideline stated above:

1. Contrary to your apparent personal beliefs, no one wants to see your junk.

No, it doesn’t matter how fine you think you are, God gave you parts that no one should be subject to besides your parents and, potentially, loved ones. No one here is either – cover that stuff.

2. Real, live, post-workout, post-shower “junk” is not attractive, even on airbrushed Super Models, and trust me here, you are not an airbrushed Super Model.
3. There is no known shortage of wool, and towel production facilities are continually manufacturing excellent quality linens capable of covering your…parts.

Seriously, take that white fluffy thing off your head and wrap it around yourself…they’ll give you another one, Scout’s Honor.

So please, in the interest of preventing good people everywhere from having the image of your marginally maintained naughty bits seared permanently into their brains, cover your damn self whenever leaving the shower area.

Also, in addition to our “this isn’t your bedroom, so no naked strolling” policy, we would also like to offer these few handy reminders to make everyone’s post-workout dressing experience more pleasant:

1. If your locker neighbor is seated on a bench, bent over, tying his or her shoe, please wait an additional moment or two before dropping that towel when reaching your locker. Nothing says “surprise!” like finishing up a loop-loop-swirl shoelace routine and then lifting one’s head and being greeted at eye-level by a complete stranger’s “baby maker”.
2. Dressing rooms are full of mirrors, and mirrors reflect other mirrors. Just because no one is looking directly at you, that doesn’t mean no one is seeing you (see item 3 above regarding towels).
3. Anatomical “privates” are not the only objectionable thing found when undressed. Many of us belong to a fitness organization expressly because, well, we need some damned fitness. Our shared dressing rooms are no place for a Jello commercial, so don’t be slapping anything to watch it wiggle or see it jiggle.

We greatly appreciate your assistance in keeping our club beautiful by covering your a%! up. Your compliance with these guidelines will not only ensure that all of our members continue to enjoy their fitness/health club experience, but also that no one needs to contact Sargent Taylor down at the precinct, who has been itching to make a stop in since he got an unexpected eyeful last week.

Sincerely,

The Executive Board

[Author's note: many thanks to a friend who actually was the victim of an LRS experience earlier this week. We're all praying for a quick recovery, but the damage can be quite scarring!]

The man woke up slowly, unable to remember having fallen asleep, and drew a raspy breath. He grunted at the effort of breathing as each labored exchange of air nearly brought starbursts to his eyes, still shut against the light. He grimaced at the dryness of his throat and instinctively tried to swallow, expecting that some saliva would alleviate, or hopefully at least lessen, the misery of his uncomfortably arid windpipe. Unable to produce even a tiny swallow of spittle, though, he earned nothing for his efforts but a painful gulp and dry cough.

He opened his eyes, and light flooded his vision, adding searing flashes of pain to the hammering ache thud, thud, thudding in his head. Groaning against it, he tried again, blinking repeatedly, slowly adjusting to the light. At last, his vision clear, he found himself lying in a bed, looking through a window at the pale golden sun floating in a cloudless, crystal blue sky.

He turned away from the brilliance, with effort; the simple turn of his head a tremendous struggle. The muscles in his neck strained in protest, surely they had never before been abused so unjustly.

Forcing himself to exhale and trying to ignore the increasingly powerful headache, the man consciously relaxed each part of his body from his shoulders to his feet. It was an old trick, used religiously before speaking in front of large groups or on nights when his mind was too active for sleep. Odd that he could recall restless nights and auditoriums full of attentive strangers but little about his current circumstance.

Releasing the tension from his muscles allowed him to manage the apparent pain of just being awake to some degree, and for the first time he took a good look at his surroundings. He was laying in what seemed to be a hospital bed, in what reminded him of the lab room from 11th grade chemistry at St. Phillipe’s. Four octagonal tables with smooth black-finished tops stood to the right of the bed holding him, all before a vacuum-hood at the front of the room, which just blocked his view of the only exit. For the moment, though, he could think of nothing beyond the sink and goose-neck faucet set into each table.

Turning his attention to himself, he wiggled his toes as they peeked out from a dingy, too-short blanket covering his waist and legs. Dozens of circular scabs covered his arms, much like those from cigarette burns, and there were even more similarly shaped scars. An IV tube was taped to his right arm, leading to an empty bag besides his bed. He briefly considered removing it, but it hung from the kind of hooked pole that was designed for mobility. He had to reach the closest sink, and removing it might lead to complications.

Crossing the four feet of space between the bed and faucet seemed a herculean task. He took two deep breaths in preparation for the effort: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. His legs swung over the side of the bed with the last outward push of air, one step closer to precious water.

He wiggled his toes again and they brushed against the cool tile of the floor below.

Again, he took two measured breaths in preparation for sliding off the bed: deep inhale, slow exhale, deep inhale, slow exhale. He tensed, and his bare feet slid toward the tiles. Each foot flattening against the solid floor was triumphant, but the reward was much too brief. The world spun out of control as the rest of his body followed. Darkness washed over him as he thought strangely how pleasant the coolness was against this cheek.

I can write posts with my Blackberry. That’s pretty freakin cool!

We had an exciting day around here. Four of the six of us got our peepers checked professionally; the Puddinette and I for the annual contact lens order, the daughter for her pre-kindergarten screening, and the second son because he’s been complaining about not being able to see clearly. We were honestly not surprised to be told he might need optical assistance; good natural vision is kind of just a concept around these parts, much like space flight – sure, there are apparently people paid to fly around and live in space, but I’ve never seen it in person. If you stood the wife and I before an unabashedly crimson hay barn with a bulls-eye painted on the ever popular “broad side”, removed all forms of our respective corrective eye wear, and asked us to each throw a ball against the target, we would reply, in unison, “what barn?”. The kids are probably all doom to lenses of some kind.

So, the young lady and I had our eyes poked and prodded this morning and the Puddinette took our son after lunch for an afternoon visit to the eye doctor. Determined to do Something Productive while she was away, I settled on reducing the extensive pile of dirty laundry aging in our closet. Until this week, laundry had been a losing battle en la casa de Puddin because, unbeknown to us, our dryer venting has, since we moved in, resembled something much closer to a drinking straw stuffed with play-doh than a tunnel through which air is capable of moving. It seems our dryer duct is laid out much like cooked spaghetti. Such a fabulous design offers a multitude of places for the accumulation of dryer lint, resulting in the kind of blockage only a cardiovascular surgeon can truly appreciate.

So we had the venting purged this week and today garments practically whizzed through the laundry room in what, to us, seemed a frenzied storm of washing, rinsing, spinning, and drying. Last Sunday, I think we managed to get two whole loads laundered all day, and it took until midnight to get the second load completely dry. Today, we more than doubled that, and I have plans to get another load or two completed, still. I will readily admit to being ashamed and embarrassed by my reaction to something as mundane as laundry, but yes, this afternoon I marveled, giddy, at the wonder of having a load dry in Just.One.Cycle.

I was so pleased, in fact, that I decided to do the Puddinette a favor and took a few moments to (poorly) fold the warm jeans, just out of our incredible new drying device (folding is *not* my responsibility, but that’s a different post). I guess the point here is that, sometimes, it’s nice to have a low-stress weekend where you don’t kill yourself with projects to collect a fleeting few moments of gladness. My lens prescription didn’t get any worse last year, my second son is thrilled with the glasses he picked out today, and I’m waiting gleefully for my everyday household appliance to simply do its job within what most people would consider standard operating specifications.

The little things often do mean quite a lot.

pud’n

I have come to the conclusion that I am not a very good writer.

There could some over-simplification there; perhaps I should clarify. I might have some little skill as a writer, I might not, but based on the frequency with which I produce written content, one could be forgiven for thinking that as a writer I appear to be a pretty good software engineer.

I will allow that there are those among you who feel I have a knack for occasionally tapping the keyboard and fabricating an entertaining twist of phrase or two. That said, while I have certainly always appreciated the kind, supportive comments (arm-twisting included), a good friend of mine once told me, succinctly, “a writer writes”. Those three simple words have come to plague me with regularity because, and we can all agree on this, over the course of the past year (indeed, off and on since 2003), my output has been somewhat less than prolific.

I have lately thought that maybe I just don’t have much to say nowadays. Life ain’t so bad (knock on wood), and I seemed to have much more to say in the past, when I was generally more regularly irked up. Candidly, though, I have to believe that’s complete hogwash. The internet, the actual world even, is full of boneheads spouting an oral hurricane that absolutely defines vacuousness. MTV alone is doing an admirable job of filling the ether with words full of empty thoughts, and the number of slack-jawed knuckle-draggers populating internet comment boards with trollish flame-wars and keen insights on everything from Tiger Woods’ latest GPS location to the proper composition of navel lint is not exactly in decline. So clearly, there’s plenty of room here for tossing out a few words every day or so while effectively saying nothing important.

Still, though, were does that bring us? A writer writes…right?

I know this: something must be done, something must change. Should I give up on my mostly unrealized aspirations? No, I’m not there yet. Maybe later, someday, when I’m all growed up completely. Should I instead make yet another promise to rededicate myself to generating something worth reading from time to time? Bah. Been there, done that. When it comes to this space, I’m full of empty promises. I have four kids, put in more hours than your average full-time software dude, and absolutely refuse to give up my fleeting hockey, beer, and video game time.

What eventually occurred to me is that it’s not about content, it’s about exercise. I don’t often enough flex my writer’s physique or work my writer’s muscles. I need to work out, frequently. So I’ve given myself one last opportunity to make good on my lofty aspirations, one last chance to learn to be a writer. I’ve thrown down the gauntlet, to myself, and accepted it. Thus, I present to you the 2010 Puddintopia Writing Challenge.

So here’s what we’re gonna do: over the course of the year spanning January 29, 2010 to January 28, 2011, I am going to write 300 individual creative writing entries of 400 words or more. The entries can be almost anything as long as they represent original work, from fiction to more traditional Puddintopia commentary. I expect there will be a lot of short fiction, because it generally tends to appear more easily in my somewhat overactive imagination. They may be themes, there may not. There may be recurring characters. There may be lonely visitors. There will even be nearly incoherent ramblings, but rest assured, there will be no song lyrics.

Honestly, I’m not totally sure what my experiment will yield. Of one thing, though, I am sure. If I can’t do it, if I give up or lose faith, if I find the burden of producing a paltry 400 words 6 out of every 7 days too much to bear, well, that will be it, for now. I will accept, reluctantly, that perhaps this stage of my own psuedo-adulthood is so full of Life that I just can’t squeeze in that one extra project. I will take my writer’s dream, lovingly wrap it in tissue paper and a bright purple box, tape the box shut (because that’s how Mom does it), attach a note that reads, “for slower days”, and place it gingerly on the top shelf of my mental closet where the dust settles in a thick film.

Between you and me, though, I don’t think “slower days” ever come. I think that if you end up putting something in that box, that box will forever be lost among the clutter in my head. I think you make time for the ones you love and the things you want to do, and I think that on this day in 2011, I’ll be raising a glass to toast my 120,000 words about nothing.

pud’n

In keeping with our new-found frugality, the puddinette and I have been discussing for weeks the possible option of self-styling the hair of sons 1 and 2. For reasons that still defy understanding, she planted her foot squarely against allowing me within 15 feet of my 3 year-old pink-and-lace-loving daughter with a pair of scissors. On the topic of home barbering the older boys’ hair, though, she was at least open to discussion.

As the need for haircuts drew near, I convinced her that I knew exactly what I was doing and was confident in my ability to minimize the potential damage to the hair of two male children, ages 6 and 5. In the back of my mind, of course, was the realization that in the absolute worst case, I could always shave their heads completely (to “even things up”, you see). I also might have neglected to mention during our negotiations that my only previous attempt at hair clipping took place under the influence of a six-pack of Sam Adams with an appreciative member of my former hockey team, who, (I have since been assured) thoroughly enjoyed appearing to have a monk’s bowl-like tonsure.

I think what really turned the discussion in my favor was when the puddinette realized that a) clippers could be acquired for the price of one haircut for both of the boys, and b) even if we never attempted it again, someday her wonderful husband will need to give up on the mirage that he still has enough hair to warrant paying good money to the nice girls at the local sports-themed, male-centric trim shop. When that day comes, the clippers will meet my scalp, and forever hence forth, I will be one among The Shaven. Thus, having a set of clippers isn’t exactly a bad investment; that day *is* coming, and it is inevitable.

So yesterday, after the puddinette left on the weekly grocery trek, I summoned both boys into the garage, shiny new clippers gripped tightly in my sweating palm. Thankfully, the experience was novel enough for the average 6 and 5 year-old that both were extremely enthusiastic. By drawing of straws, the younger was chosen for the first cut. He assumed his seat on my adapted barber’s chair, and bounced with anticipation as I wrapped him in the generic, trash-bag like “barber’s cape” that came packaged with the clippers. I attached the appropriate clipper comb and set the device on his forehead, ready for the initial pass. With a silent word of prayer, I flicked the switch to “on” and began.

……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..

“Huh”, I thought to myself, “that worked kinda like you see on TV”.

……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..

“Hey, well, that doesn’t look too bad….”

……..bzzzzzzt…………bzzzzzzzzt…….bzzzzzt……..

“Well, I’ll be damned! Maybe I won’t have to shave it down completely.”

When all was said and done, both boys were clipped and trimmed, and then gone over again to get any spots I might have missed. When the puddinette returned from her grocery extravaganza and looked upon my handiwork for the first time, her surprised was impossible to hide. “Wow, boys, your hair looks nice; Daddy actually did a pretty Good Job!”. Granted, she spent the next 2 minutes pointing out a places (just a few…here and there) where the clippers *had* to have been uneven since they resulted in wisps of unevenness. Nonetheless, for an amateur whose skill with hair clippers was likely to have been equivalent to an Army boot-camp barber, I must admit that I’m the tinist bit proud of how it all turned out.

Maybe it’s time now to start work on my own head.

pud’n