I was summoned to the principal’s office exactly one time.  It was in the fifth grade.  There was a phone in the back of our classroom that connected only to the main office.  If a student was being checked out of school or a needed to see the nurse, the phone would buzz and word was passed.  Whenever that phone buzzed the teacher or aid would have all eyes on her, as we wondered if one among us might be lucky enough to escape class for even a few minutes.

I remember it well because the teacher’s aid furrowed her brow, eyes roaming around the room, finally settling on the teacher as she began shaking her head.  This was an entirely new response and now she really had the room’s attention.

“Patrick, Jeff, Bobby and Chris are wanted in the principal’s office – for disciplinary reasons?!?!

I, too, was shocked.

While I truly didn’t know what I’d done, I was quite certain this wouldn’t play well at home.  As we were shepherded into the principal’s office, I vividly recall feeling the nervousness and trepidation.

*************************************

Well, those two feelings were back over the weekend.  Instead of a teacher’s aid guiding me into a principal’s office, it was Father Time ushering me up to the Foster Grant display at Walgreen’s.  Much as I tried, the voices in my head were not to be quieted:

“I’m only 47, do I really need to do this?”

“If I’m really doing this, what’s next in the aging process parade of horrors?”

“Which ones are the men’s glasses?”

“Why the hell is the display next to the adult diapers?”

As it turns out, excepting a couple little hiccups, these babies were one great buy.  I often read leases and other mind numbing legal documents and now everything looks like a Dick and Jane book through my 1.75’s.  I feel like the world has opened up for me:  the grass is greener, the air is fresher.  As a reading glasses novice I’m definitely still getting a handle on use.  Reading is obviously fine, but if one’s attention should be drawn suddenly across the room there’s a very real risk of something akin to seasickness.  As a result, I’ve been working on what I call the “Aunt Polly” method, setting the glasses further down my proboscis and shifting my gaze above the top rim of the glasses when I need to change focus.  Bingo.  I also spoke to the manager at Walgreen’s to suggest they bundle reading glasses with Dramamine for the new user.  She said they’d give it some thought but I got the feeling she was just being polite.

It also would have been wise to tell my kids about the new purchase before they had to see for themselves.  I was working last night at the dining room table when my daughter walked by, stopped, stifled a grin and asks, “Oh, so we’re doing this now?”  It was as if I was lounging around in a sundress, leafing through Crossdresser’s Quarterly.

**************************************

In case anyone is wondering, the trip to the principal’s office was due to a little dust up while walking home from school the previous day.   The four of us got into a war of words with a few boys from that other fifth grade class at our school.  Things apparently hit a crescendo as we passed the home of an old lady who happened to know one of the boys.  She called the school, he got called into the office and sang like a canary.  There had been no punches thrown, no profanities, simply some yelling and maybe a flying pine cone or two.  That’s just how life was on the mean streets of Palos Verdes Estates back in the early ‘80s.

We all wrote a note of apology and that was that.  No spring chicken, I’m still surprised this woman was able to recognize one of us.  Must have been looking over her rims.

The kids are easing into their school routine and we seem to have navigated the “back to school” waters which have proven surprisingly treacherous in recent years.  Re-entry was certainly smoother than last year.

If you told me two years ago that we’d be paying for private school, I’d have said you obviously have me confused with someone else.  We moved to Palo Alto three years ago and are fortunate to be in one of the best school districts in California.  We’re believers in the public school system and our twins are juniors at one of the public high schools.  Naturally, we were quite skeptical, and mildly amused, when our youngest announced that he’d like to attend the private school many of his good friends go to.  We bit our lips and patiently explained that he wouldn’t be attending a different school just to spend more time with his buddies.  He was insistent and began talking about actual academic benefits the school offered so we agreed to look into it.  Sadly, we were very impressed and it turned out to be a perfect fit for him and his learning style.

Our son’s new school is a catholic school so the orientation was held on a Sunday with parents and the new students attending mass together before the orientation proceedings began.  As a new family at the school, we felt it was important to make a good first impression.  Or at least not a bad one.

We all got in bed at a reasonable hour on Saturday night so we’d be fresh and ready for that first day.  It was a pretty sound sleep right up to about 3 am.  That was when the dogs began campaigning to go out.  Usually they can be hushed back to sleep but other nights it’s clear that if we don’t let them out there’ll be trouble.  A pile of it.  On this night they immediately tore outside, barking up a storm.  This is a bad sign and never ends well.  About 15 seconds later they raced back, eyes blinking furiously, the unmistakable smell of skunk juice radiating from their coats.  I’ve written about this experience previously.  Carrie and I spent the hour between 3:00 and 4:00 am bathing each of the dogs twice in the magic mixture of hydrogen peroxide, dish soap and baking soda.  We slid back into bed a little after 4:00, trying to get just little more rest.

Part of making that good first impression is being on time.  It’s safe to say that we over-achieved in this category, arriving a full half hour before mass.  No one else had arrived yet.  This was by design so we could find seats at the very back where fewer people might catch the skunk stench wafting from our bodies.  Before grabbing those inconspicuous seats, there was just enough time for me to step into the rest room.

I swear it happened when I was washing my hands.  I put my hands under the faucet, the water blasted out, bounced off my hands and directly onto my linen trousers.  Oh jeez, now what to do?  There was no paper towel dispenser, just the air dryer.  I went to the door, pulled it open a crack and told my son that he and my wife should go get seats, I’ll be right out.  With that, I raced over to the dryer and, standing on my left foot, hoisted my right knee up, poised like a runner sliding into second base.  When I heard the door open, I naturally assumed it would be my son, urging me to hurry.  Well, it wasn’t my son and I could think of just one thing to say:  “Good morning, Father!”

And with that, the dye was cast on another of my first impressions.

On the way to a ballgame this week, a couple buddies and I were comparing notes on the strangest conversations we’ve had with our sons.  These weren’t “birds and bees” talks but conversations from the “I never thought I’d be saying this” category.  When the conversation came around to me, I didn’t have to think twice.  It was a discussion in the car with my 14 year old.

Accelerating onto the freeway onramp, I began my preamble. “A couple things we need to go over before we get there.  Think of this like a giant party with the best friends you’ve never met.  It’s about as much fun as you can have.  You’ll meet a bunch of people who are super nice.  Some people are a little different but everyone is nice.  For tonight, try not to think of anything or anyone as weird or bad, just different.  Good different.  There’s just one rule:  Don’t eat or drink ANYTHING unless I give it to you.  I mean A-NEE-THING.  Promise?”

“OK, I promise.  But why?”

This question is the downside to taking my 14-year old son to a Dead and Company concert.  No sense trying to hide it, he’ll see it one day anyhow and better he sees it with his sober dad.

“Well, some people try to have an even better time.  They take a drug called acid.  It makes you hallucinate.  Know what that means?”

Head shake.

“It’s a drug that makes you, well, see things and colors differently.  It can be put in anything and you wouldn’t know it.  It can be in candy, cake, on a sandwich, anything.  No one would purposely try to hurt you but they might think they’re helping you have a better time.  Or they just might not be thinking at all.  It’s nothing to worry about, just stick with me.”

I’m a well closeted Deadhead.  Unless you ride in my car, you’d have no idea.  It’s been a pleasure watching my youngest come to love the music the way I do.  He recognizes most songs in the first few notes.  Taking him to a Dead show (or as close as one can come in 2018) was admittedly a bold move.  My parents wouldn’t have considered going, with or without an impressionable teenager.  I have wonderful parents but openminded acceptance of what they view as strange smelling long haired flower children grooving to Sugar Magnolia was simply a bridge too far.  I’m sure they felt there was a distinct possibility I might strike out in a mushroom induced haze, wandering through a chapter of life in which each paragraph is a new Dead show and promiscuous sex the punctuation.  I wasn’t sure what I wanted my own son to get from this experience but I knew I wanted him to have the experience and see that he could have fun doing it sober.

Naturally, we arrived early.  If you don’t get to the show early, you’re not going to walk Shakedown Street and without that, let’s be honest, were you really even there?  For the uninitiated, Shakedown Street is the craft and food fair set up outside the venue where one can buy unauthorized t-shirts and other memorabilia as well as food and drink. I’m sure a person might also locate somewhat less legal goods, were he of a mind.  It didn’t take long in this arena for the questions to bubble up.

“What’s that smell?”

“Pot.”

“No, not that smell.  I’ve smelled that before – remember that Giant’s game?  The other smell.”

“Oh, you mean the patchouli oil!”  This led us down the road of patchouli uses, most common of which, far as I know, is masking body odor.

Lawn seating at a Shoreline Amphitheater Dead Show is about as predictable as San Francisco weather.  You can’t be sure of anything so just be as prepared as possible.  I was careful to find a patch of grass around a number of other families with kids.  It felt like the eye of the hurricane but with a clear view to the maelstrom just feet away.  I wanted Will to have the experience but if we could avoid having a doobie passed our way, all the better.

Before the first set, we were standing and I was pointing out to Will several people with recording gear.  The Dead are almost completely unique in letting people record shows to enjoy again on their own and share with friends.  Each show is completely different and as Jerry Garcia once said, “after we play the show, we’re done with it – the fans can have it”.  It was during this explanation that I felt a hand on my shoulder.  There was a hand on Will’s shoulder as well.  The hands were attached to a 50-something woman with a kind face, possibly made kinder by the wine bottle on her nearby blanket.  “Oh my God, is this a father-son show?”  Then to Will, “Is this your first show?”  Will nicely smiled and answered her questions but I could tell he didn’t know quite what to think of this woman, of similar age to his bio teacher but much more into hugging.

Bob Weir started the first set with “Playing in the Band” and the crowd immediately rose.  We rose with too and enjoyed the show thoroughly.  There were some songs new to Will but he loved hearing “Tennessee Jed”, “Friend of the Devil”, “China Cat” and “The Wheel”, among others.  It was a fantastic night and while we talked about it afterward, I don’t know exactly what he took from it.  My hope is that my son sees it as one night with a diverse group of people, all looking out for each other, smiling, laughing, remembering and just enjoying a short journey together.

 

 

I had a flashback this week.  Not the quiet-reverie-triggered-by-an-old-song sort of a thing.  Nope, this was the helicopter circling, bullets whizzing past, buddies getting shot around you in a rice paddy type deal.  Except mine was at a shopping mall.  In a women’s store.

My daughter and a friend needed a lift home from Stanford Shopping Center.  She texted the location and time and I arrived abnormally early.  My standard practice is to come screeching around a corner, skid to the curb and declare to my riders that, yet again, I’m right on time.  I even had to find a parking spot.  My spot was in the front row, straight across the drive from the pick-up location.  Straight across from where “it” happened.  It came back all at once, I was actually here again.  My palms got watery and the R&D team from Right Guard started earning their money.   Today an innocuous computer store occupies the space but in December of 2001 it was a national purveyor of maternity goods.

It was two days before Christmas that Carrie and I welcomed twins into our world.  There was quite a bit going on as you may imagine.  The babies were both small – 5 pounds 3 ounces and 4 pound and a half ounce.  We were in the neo-natal ICU as a precaution because the kids needed to pack on some weight.  As a maternity nurse, Carrie was up to speed on all things baby but I was still learning how to change a diaper (front and back is a distinction one must master), proper cleaning, burping and myriad other tasks.  As the resident food source, Carrie was on a short leash, which cast me in the role of errand boy.  It was Christmas eve day that she asked sweetly, “Would you please go to the mall and get me a nursing bra?”

Carrie is always great about giving me all the information I need.  I’m just not always great about accepting it or, more accurately, paying close attention.  It didn’t help that I was operating on extremely short sleep.  Once Carrie gave me the name of the place, she continued on about something or other but was drowned out by my internal narrative:

So I’ll get the nursing bra at the mall, maybe have time to get sandwiches.  God, I’m hungry.  When did I last eat?  I gotta find my keys.  These wall murals are almost too happy but Pooh corner sounds totally cool.  The “h” on that word is definitely important, ha!  How far is the walk from the maternity place to find food?  I should get scarce before Nurse Ratched makes me change another diaper…

My time would have been much better spent listening to my wife.

If you’ve never walked into a maternity store as a man, it’s like the Land of Oz but scarier and much more strange.  Everything has a different purpose than what a man will naturally assume.  It’s like a fake REI.  The stringy things there on that rack?  Not slingshots.  The items hanging on the wall are not “kid sized tents”.  Well, in a way they are but one is well advised to avoid that terminology.  One of the two clerks read my saucer sized eyes and kindly approached.

“May I help you find something?”

“Uh yes.  I’m not a weirdo.” That established, I stammered on, “My wife and I just had twins and she sent me to get a nursing bra – for her.”

Hearing this, the second clerk approached.  She knew a wreck of some kind was about to occur and had no intention of missing out.  “Congratulations!  Of course we have nursing bras.  Follow me.  Are the twins boys or girls?”

I began to feel a little more comfortable and followed my new friends.  “One of each, actually.  We’re really excited.”

“Here we are.  We have several brands and a couple different styles,” she declared.  “What size is she?”

Uh-oh.  “Size…  Oh, uh, wow…”  This is the part where all I needed was a letter of the alphabet.  Any letter.  “She’s about…”  It could have been a letter from the greek alphabet.  No, instead I hoisted a pair of invisible grapefruits to my chest, a pleading expression to my face and said “like this?”

If synchronized lip biting ever becomes a thing, my money is on this pair.  They exchanged a very quick look and, without erupting in laughter, turned their attention back to moi.  In fairness, Jackie O. could not have been more gracious than this woman.  She selected something off the rack and said, “I think this will work and if not you can just exchange it!”

She could have handed over a can of motor oil and gotten no argument from me.  I thanked her, paid as quickly as I could and speed walked to the door.  If they had a surveillance video, I’m sure it’s been viewed in training seminars and in the break room over cold beers as a morale builder.  I’m just lucky this was before You Tube.

Miraculously, the contraption fit.  Carrie and the hospital staff get to enjoy a fun tale at my expense, everyone is hungry, let’s eat.  I left to pick up food at the same mall only to discover that my credit card is gone.  The take-out man says “Maybe it’s not stolen, where did you use it last?”  Oh shit.

“Yes, hello.  I was in there a couple hours ago.  I don’t know if it was you that helped me, if not I’m sure you’ve heard the story.  In any case, my name is Patrick and did I leave my credit card?”

We met again at the store’s check out desk, immediately adjacent to the non-slingshots.  It must have been exhaustion working to my favor but I’d reached a point of no longer caring and was able enjoy a good laugh with the ladies who’d helped me.  It would have been much easier if I’d just listened to my wife – but I would have missed out on a fairly good story.

Rooftop Santa and his eight little buddies have been back in storage for weeks.  As are the boxes of ornaments, bells and other seasonal accoutrement Carrie uses to deck our halls.  The thank you notes were sent and the sweet-smelling hunk of kindling was laid on the sidewalk over a month ago.  There remains one gift, perched menacingly on my dresser, that I can’t bring myself to throw away, give away or put to use in one fashion or another.

2005

The series of events was set in motion when the kids were little.  The twins were four years old and the little guy two and a half.  A perfect age for our family to be settled in the family room watching Beauty and the Beast.  Our chocolate lab, Charlie, sauntered into the room to join the fun.  Charlie is unalterably opposed to television and refuses to watch so he just sat down looking at us.  I was watching intently, all cued up to belt out my favorite line from “Gaston”, “I’m especially good at expect-o-ra-ting…” so was caught completely off guard when one of the kids asked, “Oooh, what is THAT?”  To which another answered, “It’s, it’s, it looks like a witch’s finger!”  Charlie sat there with a big dumb dog smile on his face and a matching indicator of glee on the southerly end.  Terrific.  Gaston is out, it’s time for the birds and bees, this time with a dash of veterinary flavoring.

The term “witch’s finger” actually became useful.  The kids could use the term, Carrie and I would know what they were referring to but dinner guests, for example, would remain delightfully uninformed.  This also proved convenient in sidestepping boundless embarrassment at the dog park.  But life moves on, kids get older and certain situations lose their novelty.  Fortunately.

2015

In November of 2015, we found ourselves without a family picture suitable for a Christmas card.  So it was that Carrie and her camera were on the back lawn attempting to shoot – with the camera – three nicely dressed kids (no small feat) and two recalcitrant retrievers.  Two of the kids were arguing feverishly, with the third child failing to produce even a serviceable smile.  The dogs wanted to know when someone was finally going to throw a ball.  As for me, I would be dismissed with prejudice from a remedial photography course, so my presence was not required.  When Carrie did summon me, I knew something was terribly amiss.  “Would you please make them laugh so I can get this picture?” she pleaded.

Judging from her bold italic “please”, I knew I’d have some latitude here.  It took a minute but eventually came to me.  “It’s too bad we can’t attach the camera to Charlie’s witch’s finger”, I said.  “Because then we’d have the world’s first Christmas card photo taken with a selfie-dick.”

It turns out that I over shot the mark just a bit.  The boys couldn’t stand up straight, one of them turning a color of red matching the sign that says “Emergency Room” at the hospital.  My daughter even spun in a circle laughing and Carrie, who would normally point out how incredibly inappropriate my comment was, had to turn away so the kids couldn’t see her face.  Probably my proudest moment.  Eventually posture was regained, noses wiped and the progeny photographed.

2016

Last summer we took the kids to New York City for the first time and hit all the tourist spots.  One of these was the top of Rockefeller Center.  We weren’t the only ones with this idea.  On the observation deck one must wait – for quite a while, it’s worth noting – for a chance to stand against the edge wall and take a picture.  This wait is made longer by those who feel compelled to get pictures of themselves from every conceivable angle using, that’s right, their selfie-sticks.  When at last our turn came we began moving into position when a pack of manic millennials armed with their own egoistic extenders barged into the space and began posing and snapping.  I threw up my hands and pleaded (loudly) with my family, “if you ever catch me with a selfie stick, will you kindly rip it from my hands and beat me to death?!?”  A member of the pack actually apologized, though I think the apology was negated by the eye roll.  I really do need to look into one of those millennial communications decoder rings.

Naturally, Santa brought me my very own selfie stick.  It sits smugly on the dresser, just daring me to do anything with it.  I know what it definitely won’t be used for.  It could make an excellent backscratcher but Carrie really has great fingernails.  I would use it to “goose” a giraffe but the kids seem to have outgrown the zoo.  Please share any ideas, the nuttier the better!