Tiger Update

This will be a quick post following up on "Tiger Grabbed a Tail." I had to go to Tyler, TX yesterday on business. Getting up at 5:00 AM and driving 2 hours one way to do someone else a favor does strange things to my sense of humor. So, when my attorney showed me the news article that the Tiger Woods mistress count is up to 9 now, I couldn't help myself:

I said, "Well, it looks like he's gotten nine holes in...he could finish out the 18 by playing the back nine."

(rimshot...wa, wa, wa, waaaah)

Then there was the part of the story about Tiger having sex with one of his friends with benefits while in his car in the church parking lot. Tiger, yelling "Oh God" repeatedly while in the backseat of an Escalade in a church parking lot does not constitute going to church.

Either Tiger is addicted to sex or he never learned how to say no to crack.

Okay...I'm done now. I think.

More updates as events warrant.

With Friends Like These...

I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to find a comment on one of my posts from GunDiva (aka Mrs. Wilson of http://gundiva.blogspot.com/) directing me to her blog for a little pat on the back. GunDiva has been a loyal reader and commenter on P&H since the EasyStreet Blog Carnival award I received in early October brought me to the attention of people outside close family and friends. It seems I made an impression with my special brand of baffling bull hockey ('cause I know I ain't dazzlin' no one with brilliance). While I didn't set out on this adventure to win awards or receive recognition, I have to say it's really nice to be appreciated and get kudos from my peers.

This award comes with strings attached, though. The rules, as explained in GunDiva's blog posting, are as follows:

1) grab the award (see the big blue circle thingie above - click on it and save it as jpeg file on your hard drive somewhere you can find it)
2) post it on your blog along with five things you love to do
3) name five others you want to recognize

I think I've already posted at least five things I love to do in my blog; but, what the heck, repetition can't hurt. Here, in no particular order, are five things I love to do:

1) Read. I think it was Stephen King who said that anyone who wants to be writer should read everything they can get their hands on. I'm not sure I ever had a conscious thought to want to be a writer until recently, but I've tried to read just about everything I can get my hands on for as long as I can remember.

2) Cook/Eat. This may seem like trying to cheat and get a two fer; but, the truth is, you can't do/love one without doing/loving the other. They go together like high school sweethearts. As the saying goes, never trust a skinny cook. Unless they have metabolism issues. I was 30 before my pasta binging caught up with me and beat my metabolism into submission.

3) Fly. It's sad that one of the things I am most passionate about in life is so freaking expensive. To fly for one hour in a small, basic single engine plane costs upwards of $75. Get something with a little more power or complexity and you might as well light a stack of Benjamins on fire. Still though, when I can afford it, there's nothing I like better than breaking the surly bonds of mother earth to go punch holes in the air.

4) My Wife. If you haven't figured this one out yet from reading this blog or knowing me personally, you are seriously and truly screwed in the observation department.

5) Tinkering. I can't help myself. Really. I just can't bring myself to pay someone else to do something I can do or figure out how to do myself. It's just too much fun to learn something new or fix/make something with your own two hands.

Now comes the hard part...figuring out who to recognize. Here, in no particular order, are the five people I'd like to recognize:

1) GunDiva. The logic of this choice may seem a bit circular and perhaps not in the spirit of the award, but the rules don't say nothin' about not doing it. So, I'll recognize who I darn well please. Thank you very much. Seriously, GunDiva is a loyal reader and regular commenter whose feedback I value. Knowing that there is someone else out there who gets a kick out the thoughts oozing from you brain is, more than anything else, what makes writing worthwhile. She also happens to be a pretty good wordsmith herself. I am a particular fan of her "other blog" Lyon's Roar Protection Agency (http://gundiva-lyonsroar.blogspot.com/).

2) Candace at Crazy Texas Mommy (http://www.crazytxmommy.com/). This is double recognition for her since GunDiva already beat me to it and recognized her. Candace is flat out nuts and knows the true meaning of "bless your heart" to boot.

3) Melanie at One Hot Mess (http://makingupyourmind.blogspot.com/). Like GunDiva, I've met a few people I wouldn't otherwise have crossed paths with. Melanie deserves special recognition as she was follower #2 on the blog and the first follower from the blogosphere outside of friends and family to publicly admit to following my deranged ramblings.

4) Mary Witzl at Resident Alien (http://witzl.blogspot.com/). Given the fact I have a double major in History and Anthropology with an emphasis in cultural anthropology, I was immediately drawn to Mary's multicultural stories of growing up and living in foreign countries and teaching English to young kids who are not so interested in learning anything much less English. Great writing, and it will probably irrevocably crush any thoughts I ever harbored of entering the teaching profession.

5) Tay at ProfoundiTay (http://profounditay.blogspot.com/). Tay is another glutton for punishment who fell on the hand grenade that is P & H and publicly admits to reading my witty attempts at prose. She is also another person whom I would never have met but for this world of blogging.

There. I hope my selectees enjoy my humble accolades as much as I enjoyed mine from GunDiva.

Tiger Grabbed a Tail

It seems like all I’ve heard for the past week or so on talk radio, in the news or in casual conversation is something about Tiger Woods, his accident and his alleged infidelity issues. I say alleged because, as a Christian, it’s not my job to judge or condemn Mr. Woods’ purported behavior (go look at Matthew 7 starting in verse 1 if you need more instruction on the subject of judging others). He’ll have to stand before God and explain himself just like the rest of us. I don’t imagine that will be a fun conversation for any of us.

However, given the apparent facts: 1) at least six women have come out of the woodwork claiming to have had a little Tiger in them; 2) he reportedly renegotiated the pre-nup with his wife; 3) he made a public statement about letting his family down; 4) he left the house at 2:00 AM for no good reason, etc., I’d say it’s pretty safe to say Tiger was out looking for strange. Where there is smoke, there’s fire as they say.

Tiger, just answer me one question: Why are you out hooking up with other women when you are married to a Swedish swim suit model? A SWIM SUIT MODEL for crying out loud. Was it just not the same after she gave birth to YOUR children???? Okay, so that was two questions. Sue me. You can stand in line with the rest of the world and try and get blood out of this turnip.

I just don’t get it. In most cases, no one puts a gun to your head and forces you to get married. If you’re not done sleeping with everything that moves and mentally/emotionally/spiritually ready to fulfill marriage vows, don’t get married. It’s that simple. “Forsaking all others” does not mean you can cross your fingers behind your back and whisper “Except when some hot chick just HAPPENS to tackle me and forces me to give her sex…repeatedly.” Unless, apparently, you are a professional athlete or are elected or appointed to government office. I bet John Edwards, Mark Sanford, Kobe Bryant, and a whole bunch of others were having déjà vu moments this week.

As many of you already know, I have very strong VIEWS on the subject of marriage, and I feel like I have been blessed to be married to a wonderful woman. I would never, ever consider cheating on her. And it has nothing to do with the fact she wouldn’t stop at breaking out the rear window of the car with a nine iron either. The Queen is much more creative than that, and I’m rather attached to certain parts of my body. At least, if given a choice, I’d like to remain attached to certain parts of my body.

Seriously, though, all this focus on Tiger Woods’ marriage has me thinking about my own marriage and the marriages of people close to the Queen and me.

While the Queen and I will have only been married for six years at the end of this month, we’ve known each other for twelve and a half years. We almost made it past the seven year itch before we even got married. Six and a half years might seem like a long courtship to some people; however, the Queen and I are not even in the running for the record. We know a couple who have been ENGAGED, not just dating, for at least nine years. We think they are nuts. And not about each other either.

On the other side of the coin, The Queen and I are friends with another married couple who we have known for a while. They married each other after a long distance relationship which lasted less than a year. The Queen has known the husband of the couple since they were kids. Individually, they are decent people who are fun to be around despite their character flaws and other personality quirks (like the Queen and I don’t have any of those). Together, they are like oil and water.

To say they have been having marital issues is like saying the Mona Lisa is a pretty picture. These two have taken marital strife to an art form. They should be framed and studied.

He thinks she is a “whore” who should meekly obey and submit to his authority as head of the household instead of contradicting and undermining him every chance she gets. She thinks he is an overbearing, selfish control freak who is Hell bent on making everyone else’s life miserable. This is his second marriage and her first marriage. He has custody of the kids from his first marriage, and she had two kids “out of wedlock” from prior relationships. They now have one child together.

Let me take a moment and step up on my soapbox for a moment. To all you guys out there that think you have to be “in charge” and force your wives or girlfriends to submit to your authority, you are morons. Submission is a voluntary act committed by the person submitting out of faith. Attempting to force someone to submit is, in fact, subjugation and won’t last. Dave Ramsey quotes a line frequently which is applicable here: “A person convinced against their will is of the same opinion still.” By attempting to force your will on others, all you are doing is bringing your own little Al Qaeda terrorist cell into your life. Look forward to that day when you wake up strapped into your bed soaked in gasoline. It’s coming.

Stepping off the soapbox now….

As near as the Queen and I can tell, these two are not on the same page about anything. They don’t seem to agree regarding how the money should be spent, how to raise the kids, religion, how to dress, makeup, etc. The Brady Bunch they are not.

The Queen and I did a lot of soul searching and counseling before we made the decision to get married. Watching the meltdown of this couple’s marriage, I am reminded of some advice our minister gave the Queen and I when we were in pre-marital counseling. He said, “A bad marriage is a whole lot worse than no marriage at all.” Truer words were never spoken.

This is just my opinion, but I think a lot of people lose sight of one important component in any marriage. That is: marriage is both a physical union and a spiritual commitment. I see so many people getting wrapped up in being “Princess/Prince For A Day” and forgetting that they are making a promise and a vow to God in front of however many witnesses, friends and family to “have and to hold” a particular person until “death do you part.”

That’s serious business. God says so (see what Ecclesiastes 5:4-5 has to say about failing to fulfill a vow). I have no intention of standing before God and having Him call me a fool. Or worse. Not if I can help it.

To borrow from Forrest Gump, “I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is.” It’s about applying the Golden Rule every day. If you want to be treated like royalty in your marriage, treat your spouse like royalty. Not because they are royalty, but because you made a promise before God and creation to treat that person like no one else.

I didn’t marry a Swedish swim suit model. I married someone much more beautiful than that. I married a woman who loves me unconditionally not because I have money or fame or physical endowments, but because she is a loving, caring individual who sees the same in me. I married a Queen, and I try to be worthy of her every day.

Good Food, Good Times

I think I’ve already mentioned a line I once read in a book which really stood out to me, but it’s worth repeating here. It went something like: “I love to cook, I love to eat, and I’ve won awards for both.” I haven’t won any awards for eating yet mainly because I haven’t entered any eating contests. Not that I ever will, mind you. I find the concept of trying to eat mountains of any particular food faster than the next guy to be utterly repulsive. In a projectile vomiting kind of way. I did, however, win third place in a cake baking contest once for my Black Forest Kirchen Torte.

The fact I learned not only to cook well but also learned to enjoy the process of cooking is nothing short of a miracle. I learned to cook when I was rather young. I wasn’t forced to learn how to cook, per se, like some kids were; however, it wasn’t exactly an optional experience either. Learning to cook became more or less a necessity for survival in a single parent household in which the parent, mom, was busy earning a living and going back to school to finish her degrees.

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I first learned to cook, but I know I learned to make a fairly basic spaghetti sauce sometime before I was eight years old. By the time my parents separated when I was eight, I was fully capable of managing most basic meals.

This early introduction to the culinary arts came with some interesting side effects. Most notable was the occasional odd menu choice. Leaving a pre-teen with a sweet tooth in charge of meal planning and cooking is not always wise. Fortunately for me, my mother had the prerequisite combination of desperation/insanity/lack of choices which allowed me to make what others might consider to be, shall we say, unwise dinner selections. I remember one dinner in particular which consisted solely of uncooked chocolate chip cookie dough. In my defense, I did ask her what she wanted me to fix for dinner to which she infamously replied, “I don’t care.” I don’t recall her protesting very strongly when she was presented with her bowl of dough either.

While my mother gave me a good grounding in the basics of cooking, she never really had the time or inclination to teach me about cooking for the shear joy of it. I was to learn the finer points and the love of cooking for the sake of cooking from others. From my grandmothers, I learned the fine art of baking. Mother’s mom had a way of making biscuits that was just divine. There was no better breakfast that her biscuits with cream gravy and a little (read a lot) of butter. To this day, I can’t match her biscuits which she managed to get done with a high degree of consistency sans recipe or measuring cups/spoons. I also got my cinnamon cookie recipe from her Liberty Cookbook of which my sister currently has custody. T., if you are reading this which you admitted you do, that cookbook is long overdue for a stay in my kitchen. Hint, hint. Then there was great grandmother’s carrot cake recipe. Mmmmmm…..(slobber, drool, smack). It’s no wonder I can’t pass up a bakery without whimpering and drooling like Pavlov’s dog.

However, it was really my uncle Don (mom’s brother) who taught me the finer points of cooking from a truly Epicurean point of view. To him, food was not merely a means of sustenance. Food was an experience. He was of the opinion one should only consume food and beverage of quality and skillful preparation. To his way of thinking, the ingredients of a sauce which had cooked for less than an hour hadn’t really gotten a chance to get to know each other yet.

It was also because of him I never had to worry about other people drinking my beer at college parties. While most college kids are more interested in a cheap drunk using Milwaukee’s Best or Keystone Light or whatever else was on sale for under $10 a case, Don taught me to enjoy beer that actually tastes like beer was meant to taste instead of the watered down, purified rat urine most college kids swill. As a result, I usually went home more or less sober with enough beer left over for the next party.

That’s not to say, however, my cooking skills are without their limitations. For instance, while I am fairly successful at cooking well timed meals for a small group of people (no more than six people), I find myself intimidated by pulling off meals for larger groups. I think this comes from an experience I had in high school. I was dating a girl who wanted to introduce me to her parents. She suggested I make a batch of my now famous spaghetti for her parents and sister. She asked me what would be required, and I gave her a shopping list based on an expected audience of five diners. I arrived at her house to find out I was cooking for ten. There’s nothing quite like being surprised and put on the spot to go with the nervousness of being a tall, uncoordinated 17 year old meeting a girl’s parents for the first time to throw you off your game and put a damper on your joy of cooking. I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. This was the same girl who introduced herself to mom as a recovering drug addict and alcoholic. At the ripe old age of 17 no less.

So, when the Queen informed me we were hosting Thanksgiving dinner this year, it gave me a moment of pause. The kind of moment where one of your eyes twitches uncontrollably and coherent speech is temporarily impossible. After all, I was at a business meeting in mid October when I received a phone call from the Queen advising me of her royal decree. No discussion. Just (Surprise!) “We’re hosting Thanksgiving this year.” That would be the Royal “We” apparently. What else is there for a good slave to do but hear and obey?

To quote the famous infomercial announcer guy, “But wait, there’s more.” As loyal readers are already aware, the Queen’s health issues result in her not having the energy to really assist in the meal preparation. Add to that my mother in law’s complete lack of interest in cooking. She claims to be allergic to the kitchen, and her idea of cooking is to put a pot of beans on the stove to be served as bean and mayo burritos. There are times when I really do feel sorry for my father in law.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression that my family is without its culinary ineptness. There is one story involving a certain family member’s first attempt at roasting a Thanksgiving turkey which bears relating here. I am withholding the identity of the guilty party by request in good faith. I didn’t even solicit a bribe for this one.

As the story goes, our intrepid Turkey Toaster was fairly young, newly married and clueless as to the secret arts of the kitchen. Not one to be shy about asking for guidance, our would be chef put in a call to an older and wiser family member who instructed said neophyte to begin by “bathing” the bird and to call back when done. Having no other experience in the matter with which to compare and taking the words of wisdom somewhat literally, picture a young person merrily drowning and scrubbing a turkey in a sea of warm water and Ivory liquid soap suds.

It’s my understanding that the subsequent phone calls to the older and wiser family member involved much more explicit instructions after the initial shock and laughter wore off. I don’t know how well that particular turkey tasted as it was before my time; however, the story does not involve any trips to the hospital for food poisoning. So, I assume everything turned out well.

So, you see where this is going right? Me, who is not real comfortable with the whole cooking for a large group idea, cooking for no less than twelve people. We actually wound up seating 14 for dinner. It was almost 22 at one point. Fortunately for my sweaty palms and nervous ticks, the friends with a family of seven politely declined.

All in all, despite my aversion to cooking for large groups, we had a good Thanksgiving dinner. No one went home hungry, and leftovers were kept to a minimum. My brother in law and his family brought several side items, wine, chocolate chip cookies and a chocolate cheesecake for dessert. I managed to bake a batch of cinnamon cookies, roast a turkey, cook a brisket, make homemade cranberry sauce, make fresh hot sauce, make cream cheese Rotel dip, cook a pot of mashed sweet potatoes and whip up some cream gravy more or less on time.

The only thing that didn’t turn out right was the attempt at homemade barbeque sauce. It was one of Grandma Erickson’s recipes I had never tried before. It was bad. I mean gag a maggot bad. It went down the drain before anyone had a chance to realize how bad it was.

I’ll have to try that recipe again. Maybe with a little Ivory soap next time.

Now You See It, Now You Don't

It's no secret I will do just about anything for the Queen. Under the right circumstances, the Sixth Commandment might even be subject to a more liberal interpretation should some poor, unfortunate fool be dumb enough to attempt harming the Queen thereby underestimating the depth of my willingness to fulfill my marriage vows. Specifically, the one about protecting her. Is it really murder if someone simply ceases to exist on this planet?

So, if I'm willing to do serious bodily harm to a would be regicidal maniac, it should come as no surprise that I'd engage in a little property destruction without too much persuasion.

As regular readers, friends and family are aware, the Queen's health has been challenged for some time now. We had been noticing a musty smell in the master closet for some time which would not go away despite our best efforts to clean, vacuum, wash, and reorganize said closet's contents.

Not long after we started smelling the musty odor, we received allergy test results indicating the Queen has sensitivities to mold. Sensitivities in most people might be a case of the sniffles or a slight headache. Sensitivities with the Queen are slightly more debilitating. Like seizures, severe muscle weakness and other forms of excitement.

Naturally, we started looking more closely at the master bath for potential sources of mold. The sink and toilet were clear of any water leaks leading us to the master shower which looked exactly like the photo below.

A close examination of the shower revealed cracks in the second course of tiles up from the floor as well as a lack of grout in the corner from the floor almost to the top. The Queen and I had been discussing remodeling the shower for a long time. It just had not been a major priority given everything else we have been dealing with of late. Unfortunately, we no longer have the luxury of taking risks and letting a potential shower leak go unrepaired.

To quote the magician: "Now you see it, now you don't."

The good news is that the person who built this shower was very good at his job. There was no water penetration into the wall cavity. The bad news is that I need to build a new shower.

If anyone is interested in buying a slightly used but extremely well built shower, I'd be happy to make suitable arrangements with anyone willing cart it off. One warning though:

Some assembly required.

It's in the Cards...or the Genes

I find myself slowly creeping up on my 40TH birthday. Hiding from it is probably a better description even though the event will take no notice whatsoever of my efforts to avoid capture. I don't want to grow up anymore than the next Toys 'R Us kid; but, as the winter months tip toe into Texas for their brief stay before being unceremoniously thrown out on the street by the bluster of spring barging in like a drunken Irishman full of too much hot air and recycled beer loudly proclaiming the yearly anniversary of my birth, I find myself reflecting more and more on what I still want to be when I grow up. Or least, what I want to do in the next 40 years or until the Second Coming...whichever comes first. If me and the planet are still here when I turn 80, I suppose I'll have to rethink everything again.

In between pondering my purpose in life and during those rare times when I have nothing better to do, I've been playing online poker. It's not nearly the same as sitting around the table with a group of family or friends, telling stories and jokes, and generally having a grand old time, but it'll have to do for now.

I've always enjoyed playing real live card games. There is a feeling and a smell to a well worn deck of cards which I can't even think of a proper way to describe. A new deck is a little like a brand new car. They're all sleek, glossy and shiny with a sharp chemical smell of fresh ink. They're slippery in your hands and fly across the table on a deal. A well worn deck of cards, on the other hand, has a texture that forces you to make an effort to spread them across your hand to reveal the secrets handed out by the dealer. They will still fly across the table until some minuscule imperfection in the card or the table stops the card dead in its tracks like it hit a brick wall. The ink smell is still there, but it has lost some of its edge and has matured from countless games as if aged in a barrel with fine wine.

It is no secret that my love of card games comes from my upbringing in a family of card players. I think I learned to play gin about the same time I learned to play Chutes and Ladders. My grandfather's (mom's dad) morning ritual for as long as I can remember was playing Gin with his second wife while drinking their morning coffee. My great grandfather Pennington (mom's mom's dad) even played poker semi professionally to help put food on the table for his family back in the Great Depression.

I guess you could say card games used to be a way of life in my family. I don't remember many family gatherings or visits that didn't involve a game of cards at some point or other. Gin or Canasta were the main games of choice; however, an occasional poker game was not unheard of. I say used to because family gatherings have become increasingly rare these days for a variety of reasons; and, on those rare occasions when we can get everyone in the same spot, the TV or the computer or the honey do list trumps the simple pleasures of a real live, ink coated cardboard in your hands, face to face game of cards.

One such family gathering stands out amongst the disorganized mess that is my memory. I can't remember the occasion, whether it was Thanksgiving or what. Nor can I remember who all was there. I do remember we were at great granddad Pennington's house in Austin when someone, cousin Pat (I think), suggested we have a penny ante poker game. So, a bunch of us all sat down around the round oak table now sitting in my mother's house and commenced to playing good old fashioned 5 Card Draw and 7 Card Stud. This was well before the huge popularity of Texas Hold'em.

I recall holding my own fairly well despite the fact I was the youngest player at the table (all of probably 16 at the time) and hadn't played much poker before that night. I can't remember what time it was exactly; but, sometime around way past late:30, a general consensus arose amongst the group that it was time to pack it in for the night. Cousin Pat piped up and said, "One more hand. No limits." I was sitting across from great granddad which gave me a front row seat to catch the gleam in his eye as he said, "Awright". The action came around to Pat at which time he bet $10. Heady stuff for what was a friendly penny ante game up to that point. Great granddad was next in line around the table from Pat, and the only sound he made was the sound of his belt clearing belt loops as he whipped off his money belt. He started to count out several hundred dollar bills much to Pat's dismay.

I remember Pat trying to argue about something. I can't remember exactly what. I suspect it was a feeble argument trying to limit the game to table stakes or pleading poverty. Whatever it was, it was a losing argument and a losing bet. He lost on both counts, and the game was over.

I miss that. You can't get that kind of story from an online card game. "I beat the computer in hearts" or "I was in a heads up hold'em battle with a guy from the Ukraine on Pokerstars.com." just isn't quite the same. Where are the smells, the sounds, the glint in the eye, the knowing smiles, the smug satisfaction of watching your opponent cringe as you lay down a winning hand in an online card game? Will it matter in 40 years?

The big round oak table is still there bearing the patina and scars earned through years of family get togethers and countless card games. It sits waiting for a table full of family and friends to gather around to shape new memories of old games. It waits patiently to see how often mom will try to bait the stack in Canasta, who will try to bluff to an inside straight and whether a rare lay down hand in gin will appear. I look forward to that.

A Moving Curse

I had dinner with mom recently. I think. It may have been a week or two ago now. Time no longer has any meaning to me. Warning to those who are offered the chance to work from home: make it a point to get out in public once in a while to avoid becoming a workaholic hermit.

It was a lovely dinner after a long day of driving from Dallas to Aggie Land (Bryan, TX - that’s a 3 hour trip one way for those of you who are cursed with the misfortunate to be from somewhere other than Texas) and back; however, mom made it a point to take issue with the way in which she has been portrayed in this blog so far. Specifically, she indicated perhaps, just perhaps, I might have been using my bully pulpit to make her the butt of my slightly skewed worldview a little more frequently than a good son should.

I love my mother. I really do. I wouldn’t have a world view, much less a slightly skewed one, without her. So, in an effort to show her how much I appreciate her and respect her wishes not to be the whipping girl yet again, it’s dad’s turn to be thrown under the bus. I’ll get around to rehabilitating mom’s image in another post. I promise. Oh, and if my sister is reading this by some miracle, I will gladly entertain requests to be left out of this exercise in character assassination. I’ll even seriously consider such a request if accompanied by appropriate compensation.

Now that the solicitation of bribery as a means of avoiding familial libel and slander is over with, we can continue with our story.

I’m not too worried about dad getting offended by my humorous references to his character flaws, real or imagined, as I’m pretty sure he’s still not reading the blog. When I last spoke to him a few weeks ago and inquired as to his opinions about whether he liked the blog, the quality of the writing (he was an English major in college after all), etc., he said, and I quote, “He-eh”. At least, that’s the only way I know to spell the sound that comes out of his mouth when he has no clue what someone is talking about. It sounds like a cross between “hay” and “eh” with a slight hint of a nasal “nuh” in the middle. Or maybe the nasal sound is tacked onto the end somehow. It’s hard to tell.

I’m sure there are lots of stories to tell about dad. The problem is I only know a few of them that don’t involve carefully repressed memories. I think it’s one of the side effects arising from him not being the custodial parent in a “joint custody” situation. One of these days I’m going to ask a family law judge how they figure “every other weekend and two weeks in the summer” constitutes “joint custody”. Seems to me like someone was smoking a joint when they came up with that euphemism, but I digress as usual. Instead, I will focus on how I take after dad.

If you were to ask number one follower, best man and all around good guy, Ken, what is my most notorious curse, he will likely, without hesitation, tell you it is my perverse luck with moving. As in “it’s time to pack all my crap and change addresses” moving. I’ve lost count over the years, but I’m pretty sure Ken and I have helped each other move at least a dozen times. We’ve got it down to a science. However, every time, without fail, on any moving day I happen to be involved with, disaster strikes. I’ve pretty much seen it all: a completely insane soon to be ex-wife (not mine, Ken’s, The Queen is a dream to work with on moving day), dozens of fearless cockroaches chasing Ken and I down to reclaim their sofa that had just been moved in the middle of the night so that Ken’s now ex-wife could avoid leaving a forwarding address (that move was also the scene of the laundry closet wall caked with dryer lint because someone didn’t connect the vent hose…for a few years), heatstroke caused by choosing the hottest freaking day of the summer to move (there is not enough water or Gatorade on the planet to keep someone properly hydrated in 100+ degree Texas heat when the inside of the moving van feels like the surface of the sun), moving furniture up three flights of stairs while coming down with pneumonia (The Queen had to do most of the work that day as I was passing out from fever), thunder storms, furniture that had to go in through a second story window because it won’t fit through the front door and many other fond moving memories.

I come by my curse honestly though. It’s genetic from dad’s side of the family. Mom’s side of the family doesn’t move unless forced to by a tornado. I can prove it, too, with two fond memories from the Annals of Disastrous Moving Adventures.

The first fond memory I will relate is actually the second memory chronologically speaking, but it’s bad form to give your best evidence first. As moving weekends go, it was what has become typical for me: the weather sucked (thunderstorms all weekend) and one of my uncles (mom’s brother) went into the hospital for the final time due to a terminal illness. The bad karma of that weekend could have all been avoided though had my father made a simple, life altering phone call. You see, my dad and my uncle (his brother, not mom’s brother) had season tickets to the Dallas Cowboys. The Cowboys made it to the Super Bowl that year which gives season ticket holders first dibs on Super Bowl tickets. My uncle generously asked dad if I would want the other ticket. Dad, without asking me, told my uncle that I wouldn’t want it because…wait for it…I was going to be moving that weekend. He and my uncle went and had a great time in Pasadena, California while I was stuck back here in Texas to get run over by the bad karma bus. No, I’m not bitter at all.

The curse actually got started earlier than that though. This particular story will prove, without a shadow of doubt, my curse is genetically inherited from dad. Dad and my uncle owned and ran their own company. Sometime in mid to late 1988, they decided to buy a competitor’s operation down in Houston. Dad drew the short straw and prepared for the move to Houston to become the fearless leader of the office there.

By the time dad was ready to move, it was late December or early January. The week he was going to move, he was out of town for the first part of the week when the weather was perfect: sunshiny and relatively warm for winter in Texas. Dad came back into town Wednesday night, and we started loading the truck on an overcast and chilly Thursday so we could leave first thing Friday morning. Thursday night brought a Dallas, TX version of a blizzard: snow and ice covering everything, dropping power lines, and turning roads and bridges into skating rinks.

Now, I can hear some of you from places that actually have four seasons and see snow outside of a glass globe snickering into your coffee mugs; but, down here in Texas, most drivers think ice goes in your tea and were never given practical tips like cruise control don’t work on ice. Dad and I woke up Friday morning to a winter wonder land and embarked on what should have been a four hour drive to Houston. I know this is beginning to sound like the opening to Gilligan’s Island, but it’s really not that bad.

The snow and ice storm followed dad and I from Dallas to Houston. Ten hours later, dad and I rolled into Houston with a moving van full of dad’s worldly possessions still shiny side up by doing what most other Texans haven't figure out yet, driving incredibly slow. It was well after dark, and a lovely freezing rain gave Houston that cheerful, death on a slab in the morgue look. I don’t remember what floor dad’s apartment was on. What I do remember is being stiff from sitting in the cab of a moving van for 10 hours and then having to unload enough of the furniture to have something to sleep on that night. One elevator load at a time.

Saturday morning, after we unloaded and hooked up the TV, dad and I discovered that Houston had its worst ice storm in decades. Forty plus unlucky drivers managed to have a massive accident on an ice encrusted I-45.

Remember what I said? To people in Texas, ice goes in your tea.

As you can see, my moving curse is most definitely a genetic gift from my father. What I’m still trying to figure out is, given the fact he is well aware of my curse, why does Ken keep asking for my help when he moves?