I find myself in the unlikeliest of predicaments.
I do not want to tell my friends how great parenting can be, for fear that their experience will not be so swell and make them feel lesser.
I do not want to tell my friends how awful parenting can be, for fear that their trials will not be so great, and I will have poisoned their outlook.
For myself, I can have anything I want... and I don't care for it anymore.
I am impossible to shop for.
Presents are hopeless.
Though I enjoy the people that wish to give me the presents immensely, for the sheer notion that they wanted to try.
Sure, there are some things I will try when curiosity intersects opportunity... but nothing that I want enough to go out and actually get because I am somehow driven to posses them.
I do not have access to every album or music file that I have ever coveted.
However, this leaves open the door to the magic that happens when I chance across a hearing of one of those tunes.
I have not read and do not own every comics collection that could possibly fascinate me for hours/days on end.
I have not watched every movie that would reduce me to guy-grunts.
I have not read every book that would make me put it down at times and sigh, "damn".
And that is fine.
They are still out there.
I leave open the chance for happy surprises and thrilling encounters.
I want to learn more of the unknown.
I want experiences.
I think I want the knowledge of things without possessing the things themselves.
I want to lease life, and always trade it in for the newest model.
I adore reading and returning library books for free.
Listening to college radio makes me nostalgically giddy (really surprised the program accepted that usage; I was all set to change it to "giddy with nostalgia" but I digress - and need another shot of that Very Old Barton 90 proof 6 Year - which isn't really all that old, but I am round the bend now).
I am delighted by both of my daughters' imagination and emerging sense of humor.
I am high like an idiot when browsing a good selection at a liquor store... and drunk shortly thereafter.
Did you ever hear the one about what a car and an elephant have in common? The four year old busts out with that on the way home and I can't stop laughing until we're in the garage. Just wait until she finds Nantucket on the map.
Birthday consumption.
Papa Murphy's take-n-bake stuffed pizza (creamy garlic chicken and bacon.)
Booker's small-batch bourbon.
126.4 proof, 6.7 years
Straight from the barrel, uncut, unfiltered.
Recipe from Booker Noe, grandson of Jim Beam.
Nose of raisins and cinnamon (and fire).
Ahhhhhhh.
The wife and I open the door with the little jingly bell on it, hop over the raised doorway lip (truely wicked) and stroll into the local boozeria.
She is quickly dazzled by naughty labeled wines and lost to the brightly neon corner of the shop to giggle.
I press on, to the furthest darkest back corner.
Man-country, where they keep the whiskeys and bourbon.
Old Charter is a new addition for this shop. (I've read it's part of the Buffalo Trace Distillery, Lexington, KY.)
They have a puzzling variety of vintage; 1 year, 3 year, 5 year, 8 year, 10 year and 12 year.
Not to be overcome with indecision, I grasp the 12 year (90 proof) and emerge back to the fluorescent light of the cash register.
On the way, I do the wife a favor and grab a big ol' tear-drop bottle of Rain vodka. Lovely container, organic contents.
The kind of vodka that doesn't need to hide behind flavorings, mixers, or additives.
The wife won't buy it for herself, because it makes her feel guilty to buy anything but Popov.
On the other hand, I have every incentive to buy her good vodka because well...
The old man behind the counter is restocking the hip/boot size bottles and doesn't notice my arrival.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
I set the bottles down again, jingling them together a bit. Clink, clink, nothing.
Right about here, lizard-brain is telling me to just side-step back on out through the door to the car with my prizes.
The wife walks up.
Just then, old man turns around and jumps with a start, "Will that be all then?"
Yeah, she was wearing one of her boobie shirts.
Old man's still got the radar.
Wife looks at the receipt in the car, "Did you really need the 12 year?"
"Well yeah. I've never had Old Charter before."
"So?" she says
"Here's the thing, if I started off by trying the younger stuff, each bottle would have been cheaper, true, but might have been more expensive overall."
"Huh?" she says.
"Look, if I try the one year, and it sucks, I would think, well, maybe the three year would be better, so then I buy that, and if it sucks, I might think, well maybe the five year is better and so on, until I end up buying the twelve year old anyway. So, this way, I start off with the twelve year old. If it sucks, I don't need to try any of the others because this is as good as it's going to get. If I do like it, I can always downgrade until I find the one that's too young, then go back up just one notch from then on."
"You way over-analyze your booze, but thanks for the vodka."
"Anytime. Anytime."
My eldest wanted to do something special for her mommy yesterday, Mother's Day of course.
I think it had something to do with the Dora episode where she collects ingredients for a cake to bake for her mom.
Which placed me squarely, on a groggy Sunday morning, in the kitchen with her at 6 AM.
My brain can be an unfriendly environment for thought under those conditions.
{George Dickel, the local whisky bottled at 90 Proof, distilled at Cascade Hollow in Tullahoma, is fantastic by the way.
We're directly south of Kentucky Bourbon country, but across that state line it's officially "whiskey" not "bourbon".
Article on "whisky vs whiskey" here
Curiously, though American, George Dickel uses the "whisky" spelling on their label.}
Solution, stare blankly at pantry, while yawning and scratching.
Eyes focused, then not, then focused again on the little cardboard box with cartoon berries on front.
Jello.
My savior.
Hallowed be thy wiggle and jiggle.
Next a successful hunt for a round pie dish under the cabinet.
Graham cracker crumb crust poured into dish and spread evenly, with my eager assistant.
I handled boiling the water for the Jello, but my helper poured in the mix and the cool water to firm it.
Gently poured onto graham cracker crust inside pie dish and into the freezer for a quick set.
Then I chopped bananas and readied the multi-color sprinkles.
Once the goo had begun to congeal, she arranged the bananas on top and scattered the sprinkles across.
(OK I helped guide that a bit.)
Then back into the fridge until the wife woke up for breakfast.
Surprise!
Happy Mother's Day from the 3 year old.
Doesn't taste half bad either.
I even took a picture of the finished product, but wouldn't you know that the cable from the camera to the PC has gone missing during the move.
There was a sighting on day one, but none of us remembers exactly where.
The drumbeat of the move is picking up pace.
The house is beginning to fill on a daily basis with various contractors for fixing up, real estate agenty-types, and stuff-moving types.
This all happens around the daily routines for the kids, the dogs, and I.
April is shaping up to be the first month where the wife is home more than she is away on business travel.
I feel like a psych ward patient, in my wheelchair, in the corner.
All metaphorically.
Except for the psych ward patient part.
I was at the gym, about to step off the elliptical machine, and looked out the windows toward the parking lot.
And was at that point seized by a panic attack.
Where was my daughter?
She had wanted to come to the gym with me, I remember putting her shoes on, and then I was at the gym on the machine.
I had no recollection of dropping her off at the child care center.
SHIT
Was she still in the car? Or had I left her wandering the halls?
I set off at a quick pace trying to put a plan together.
Focus, man, focus.
Then clarity washed over my sweat-sheened face.
Oh yeah, she'd changed her mind as we were getting in the car, and had stayed home with my wife to watch Dora instead.
Ah, relief.
Then back at home later that night, watching a movie, I came upon a particularly boring stretch, and thought to myself, "Self, now would be a good time for a nip from those two fingers you poured yourself earlier."
Wild Turkey has gone upscale by the by.
They have a line called "Russell's Reserve" that is aged 10 years.
Fantastic.
Here's a link to a reivew:
So I went about trying to find where I'd put the tumbler, in the dark.
I wasn't on the table next to the loveseat, it wasn't on the floor beside it.
Nuts, maybe I'd put in my lap under the blanket I had, or worse, in a fold on top of the blanket.
I've lost more wineglasses that way while watching movies in a darkened room.
I forget they're there and stand up, to hear a crystaline crash moments later.
I gently tug aside the blanket to look for the orphaned tumbler peeking around my legs.
No luck, so I put the blanket back down...
and notice that the tumbler, is in my left hand, now with only one finger or so left.
So, yeah, I feel as though I'm skipping grooves, several at a time, and am disoriented, more than usual.
But here are the things I did notice this week:
The wife bailed while running on a treadmill at the gym.
Her knees now look like mine when I was 12 and first learning to skateboard.
The housing market locally has depreciated another 12%.
We'll be looking for slightly less expensive homes in Nashville than we were previously.
Sonic Youth's "dirty" effort
coupled with
Not the year.
The hooch.
Ridgemont Reserve Small Batch Barrel Select Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.
Aged 8 years to 93.7 Proof, or 46.85% alc/vol.
A perfect pairing before bed on the night before the wife comes home from the latest all-week business trip.
I didn't even mope at all this time, except for, like, those 30 or so times.
And the kids, the girls, are getting sophisticated.
Eldest, upon my asking if she would like a hot dog for dinner says, "well, I still have three slices of cheese left, and when I finish them I'll be full, so no thank you."
She's three at the end of the month.
A big round of applause for the sponsors that made today possible for me.
My morning was presented by:
Krups home espresso machine
in conjunction with:
Eight O'Clock Coffee Company original blend ground arabica beans.
My afternoon was supported by:
Books On Tape
the reading of the novel "Dead Souls" written by Ian Rankin
A Detective John Rebus mystery
as read by Geoffrey Howard
The remainder of the day has been/will be brought to me by:
Labrot & Graham
Woodford Reserve
Distiller's Select
Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey
90.4 Proof, or 45.2% alc./vol.
Official bourbon of the Kentucky Derby.
Soundtrack for today provided by SST Records and specifically Black Flag,
excepting the hours provided in the afternoon by Books On Tape.
All rights for the distribution of my day subject to specific prior approval of Kerside Productions
in association with The Groove is Neutered worldwide.