Rah Rah Sis Boom Cray Cray

The now famous barometer for being a genius at something is that you've logged 10,000 hours doing it. So, if you did nothing but whittled wood every day, with no sleep, for about 15 months, you'd be a world class wood whittler! Fortunately, I don't think I've spent 10k hours doing anything in life, although if I was Hugh Hefner I probably wouldn't say, "fortunately." But, in working the abacus this morning, I have found one thing that has superseded all other time demands for the past 8 years: watching soccer. Based on those hours of being a loving, supportive parent, I have decided that soccer parents are the craziest, kookiest, most annoying fans of any type. On the planet. Ever.

Here's my street-cred for making such a damning statement. My wife and I have been sitting in our little $7 camp chairs (always go for the high dollah chairs - the cheap ones have the life expectancy of a spider in a girl's dormitory) for about 15 years between our two little cherubs. We greatly enjoy it. We love Soccer Saturdays, and now, Soccer Sundays. When these days come to an end, we will likely take up something horrid like curling or canasta.

But sometimes with our most cherished endeavors, there can be a dark, unpleasant underbelly.
Like eating fish. It can make for a healthy, tasty dinner, but it sure does stink up the joint while making it. Which leads us to the aforementioned condemnation of the grown ups on the sidelines of the world's most popular game, even though it's relegated to a triple digit number on cable in the U.S.

May I present kooky parents evidence item 1: most parents have never played soccer, yet feel compelled to scream, yell and hoot-n-holler advice, directions, praise, criticism and pearls of wisdom at their darlings and the refs. Now, this would be like if you had never worked on an internal combustion engine and stood next to the mechanic screaming where the flux capacitor should go. All of this "enthusiasm" takes place despite the fact that the kids already have someone named Coach, who has assuredly played the game they're coaching, and is desperately trying to do his or her job amongst the din of crazed voices from the opposite side.

Evidence item #2: Mommy and Daddy don't seem to understand that a kid 50 yards away cannot hear anything M and D are yelling, except maybe their name. The end result is the child hearing, "Susie blah blah farvegnugen blah blah onomatopoeia blah blah Susie!" That reflexively pulls Susie's head towards M and D as a round sphere is hurtling towards Susie's torso.

Evidence item #3: soccer parents have no sense of personal space. As committed as they are to hurl the human voice into the abyss of the field, they are even more dependable to do so 7 centimeters from your cranium. Unlike at most sporting events, the local soccer fields offer M and D the freedom to move around. In doing so, they tend to set up shop right behind yours, because it is your nugget of turf that invariably offers them the best grandstand. I would think my now nearly bald crown would alert them to another's presence, but evidently their frothing not only slurs speech, but blurs vision. This is why I will be pairing ear plugs with those $7 chairs as my next financial venture.

Disclaimer: none of the above applies to any of the parents on any of the teams to which my daughters have belonged. You have logged 10,000 hours of perfect behavior and are testaments to good sportsmanship and wonderful parenting.

Not Smart Enough To Be Dumb

I was reading the other day about the October Revolution in Russia in 1918, and how Lenin, and eventually Stalin, really, really liked the industrial workers, and really, really hated rich folk. The richies were either shot or sent off to Siberia, while the workers got to live as long as they kept their pieholes shut, and of course, kept working. As I look upon my own financial trajectory in life, I'm pretty sure I might have lived to see 1919, and I'm not very happy about it.

Fast forward to 2010 and the pageantry of a show called Dancing With The Stars. This season, like all others, features those whose star has set, some whose star is rising, and others who somehow peeled away the Golden Ticket from the Wonka bar of life to be on national tv and get paid to dance ... and hang out with Russians in skimpy clothes. Such is the case of a contestant with the moniker of, "The Situation." Now, aside from the fact that he got booted before the halfway point and was worse at dancing than Elaine on Seinfeld, it remains that he was asked to be on the show, and I was not.

Here's what I have gathered about said Situation. He's really good at working out, shaving the side of his head, and bedding young, drunk women. These impressive attributes have garnered Mr. Situation a hefty check book. He's expected to make about 5 MILLION dollars in 2010, plus release an autobiography (also known as a coloring book), and has a rap song. All of this has led me to come to the nirvana moment of realizing that I've been doing everything wrong for the past 25 years.

Supposedly, in a time long, long ago, if you worked really hard, didn't get a girl pregnant or go to prison, the world was your oyster and there was shuckin' to be done. Now, not so much. This is not about ranting about the silliness of society or the incessant desire to be famous although you have no discernible talent. This is a teaching moment. It's a guide to financial security.

Since I have two children to put through college and things my wife and I want to do after they flee, what we're doing now isn't going to cut it. Things are going to have to be different around the Parker house. First, Joy and I need about 20 more children. Certain medical procedures have deemed that this will require adoption. Which means 20 little Asian adoptees will soon be descending upon our crib. Due to our new-found faith in something we'll make up, we will change their names to those of Disney characters. Out of respect we will avoid Goofy, but will accept Geppetto. TLC or Spike TV will learn of our hardship, and offers will be made. Step 1 complete!

Step 2 to Situation-like wealth will involve a little more determination, and a willingness to get dirty. Marital woes, female plastic surgery that causes the tabloid press to use the word, "zeppelins," and me being photographed from a low angle getting out of a limo with no underwear, are all tried and true methods to personal wealth. Throw in brushes with the law, accusations of drug use, joining Scientology, and sleeping in an oxygenated pod, and our 15 minutes will sprout like Nicholas Cage's hair plugs.

Step 3 will either involve a crash-n-burn of your finances and personal life, or you'll be one of the lucky few who gets to learn the Viennese Waltz on prime-time tv while sporting a full spray on tan. So go forth my plodding peasants and sow the seeds of mediocrity! Oh, and don't forget to call that adoption agency.

Beyond Four Walls

I've always been intrigued by Steve McQueen's quote, "I'd rather be in the middle of nowhere than in any city in the world." It sounds a bit over arching at first, but for me, I think I would have liked hanging out with ol' Steve.

I realized this the other day while inside. As I began to hear the first drops of rain tapping the roof, which quickly turned to a full-on thumping, I thought how much better the sound would be if it and I weren't separated by shingles, rafters and insulation. For there's nothing as pleasing to my ear as rain hitting the side of a tent that's pitched somewhere far from signs, roads, and most of all, people.

Just outside those synthetic walls is a world that I think most of us have forgotten, unless you're watching the one-dimensional version of it on the Discovery Channel. The touch, smell and wildness of that thing called nature is good for the soul. It has an ability to calm and clarify, something of which our cloistered existence often does the opposite. The stirrings, patterns, colors, sounds, roughness and vastness of being outside, somewhere, all serve to wake us up in ways that technological wizardry will never match. Robert Frost knew this when he sat down to pen verses.

While thoughts of places and things like clear Canadian lakes, warm breezes across a Costa Rican beach, or the unending music of the James River tumbling over rocks, bring a happiness to me beyond reruns of Wonder Woman, sometimes it's enough to simply walk out into the front yard. Because out there, away from the hum of computers and the blandness of carpet, is the whistle of birds and the feel of grass. The sound of wind through tree tops will forever trump the sound of air pushed through vents. And the scurrying and alertness of a squirrel, forever working, working, working, is still fun to watch.

Steve Allen, the late comedian, television host and author, once told me that science fiction has nothing on the reality of Earth. That some of the wildest imaginings of writers can't be matched by what we can witness with our own eyes. I can't wait to get outside again and prove him right.

Not Ready For Lawrence Welk

I once worked with a gentleman in his late-50s to early-60s. Well, that's how old he said he was. Judging by his appearance which resembled that of a post-apocalyptic homeless sloth, I'm convinced he was quite a bit older. Despite the grime, he did offer up a shiny pearl of wisdom one day. He said, "It's all about getting to the point where you just don't care what others think of you."

I've thought of his maxim quite frequently as of late. It could be that I turned 43 recently. It doesn't take Stephen Hawking to figure out that 43, numerically, now places me in my mid-40s instead of early-40s, since 43 is closer to 45 than it is to 40. That's squarely in the category of middle age considering the average life expectancy for men is about 76 - 79. Despite being a bit irritated by the fate of facts, I'm beginning to see the Old Man's words sprouting fruit.

I have given up on having hair like Fabio or abs like an Abercrombie Fitch model. The hair fell out long ago, and I'm not trading in one six pack for another. If my clothes don't match, well, that's your problem, not mine. I WILL wear my bright blue Crocs in public with shorts, even though it makes me look like a white version of Urkel who rides the short bus. Yet, despite these red flags of aging, I refuse to dive into the morass of the mirror-less or tread into the troope of the tactless.

I look forward to the opportunity to grow old with my wife, have grandkids, and hopefully emulate so many of the wonderful characteristics I witness in the elders in our community. But until I have crossed the threshold of lucidity, there are certain things about getting old in which I will not participate. While I could type feverishly about bus tours to Branson, eating dinner when most people are finishing lunch, and striking up conversations with strangers while sitting on benches at the mall, my main fear involves the uncontrollable desire to discuss bodily functions.

I hail from the genteel southern tradition of keeping certain things to oneself. Some things are simply better left unsaid for fear of exposing oneself to pity or ridicule. Or making people want to vomit. We all know that certain things, sounds and odors emit from our orifices from time to time. And since we know that there are exits, why enter them into conversation?

Evidently it's part of the aging process for some to talk about how things are ... moving. What foods irritate that process. How things performed on the choir's recent trip to Atlantic City. The number of times they, um, well, work, in one day compared to how they were before the war. That Bernice has found Metamucil adequate, yet Clara has deemed Citrucel a wondrous addition to her flax seed regimen. Don't get me started on the topic of "consistency." Bottom line: if you do it behind a closed door and it involves Febreeze, it doesn't need to be discussed.

The irony in all of this is that by the time you get to 70, a lot of hopefully joyous things have happened in your life. Talking points, shall we say. With a lifetime of events and emotions from which to cull chat, there has to be a more lively topic at the dinner table. For example, how great the yams are at Cracker Barrel, and that they taste even better before the crowds get there at 4:30.

To be honest, I can't wait to see how it shakes out when I get older. Heck, it'll finally give me an excuse to stop wearing hats to cover up the skin yamaka on the back of my head for fear that it makes me look 53 instead of 43. Plus, not only am I going to wear Crocs all of the time, I'm going to do it with dark socks. And I won't care, which is a freedom those pesky youngsters won't have.

Ground Control To Major Crazy

We're all familiar with the book title, "Men are from Mars, Women Are From Venus," right? Women evidently emotionally land on Venus at some point in their lives, but as teenage girls I have learned they travel to a planet that is not shown by any styrofoam ball display at the school science fair. It's called Planet Crazy Person, or PCP, as in the hallucinogenic drug.

My lovely wife Joy and I currently have two residents of PCP visiting with us. Although they look like normal, sane inhabitants of Earth, their actions, words and delusions are evidence of their other-worldly origins. As proof, may I offer an example of their inability to comprehend normal conversation, or their outright hostility to what you and I might consider a genial question. The other morning I asked the eldest alien, who in Earth years is 15, what she wanted for breakfast. Her response: "I don't eat breakfast." Considering the fact that just the morning before she consumed 80% of the available food at Denny's, I thought I had misunderstood her. "You're not hungry this morning?," I asked with a caring, loving lilt to my voice. "Dad! I don't eat breakfast, you know that. I'm not hungry until sometime after lunch, plus I'm cramping, and I need to go to the mall because I have nothing to wear, and we never have any food in this house, and I can't believe you're making me go to that thing next summer, and yes, I AM going to fail my open book health test today, so stop asking me about it!" I can tell you from experience that if I had spoken to my Venusian wife that way, the castration team would be notified immediately and our house would serve as the antithesis to the theory of global warming. Yet, those populating PCP seem to find this incoherent babble as normal, for just 10 minutes later I'm asked, "So, what's for breakfast? I'm starving!"

In viral fashion this behavior is passed from the elder alien to the youngest. While her mouth hasn't yet learned the fluidity of insanity so perfected by the pack leader, her distortion of baths, showers and appearance of hair more than make up for that deficiency. At 9:15 on a night prior to school, the youngling decides that a shower must be taken to prepare the hair for the ordeal of the morning. By 6:45 the next morning, the effects of the evening shower have evidently faded, as another shower commences. By 7:35 more water is heard pouring forth, this time in tub-form, as at 7:34 it was decided that legs needed shaving, something that supposedly wasn't possible during the combined previous 60 minutes of showering. As water tables lower and aquifers dry, it has become apparent to astronomers that water is the most plentiful item on PCP since it is used without regard on Earth.

The good news is, due to eons of dealing with these visitors (those of the cloth tend to refer to them as "the possessed), parents have devised remedies, or at least calming treatments, for the creatures. Aggressive therapies involve signing parental consent forms to enlist in the Armed Forces at age 17. Some emotional mothers have a difficult time with this option and have come up with something gentler, yet far more expensive. It basically means giving them what they want, as you would a horrid beast who is demanding tribute so that you may pass. As Joy says, "they have wild emotions whose only salve is the sheen of a credit card."

Aside from government-like spending or dispatching them to Paris Island, advice and words of hope may help those of you who have found yourselves outmatched in your own home. Time is their enemy. If you can simply wait them out until they're 18, two things will happen. They'll either move to Venus, or move out. Meanwhile, may we suggest a membership to a wine club?

The Treatment Room

This day seemed a distant destination so many months ago. It was like the last few pages in a text book you're forced to read in a class you desperately don't want to take. You hold the book in your hands, feel the weight, examine the thin pages with the puny writing, and think there's no way you'll ever finish. But through plodding, griping, determination, cursing, praying and crying, those last few words in this horrible book are now, at this very minute, within my wife's sight.

Today is the day of my wife's last chemotherapy treatment. In fact, I'm writing this about 4 hours into the infusion as she's beginning to drift off for her second nap. The whole process of switching out bags of various chemical toxins takes about seven hours. It's the eighth and last time she'll spend those seven hours in a vinyl recliner, set amongst the other twenty five in the room. From the bleachers where us non-combatants sit, it all looks so straight forward and harmless. But a few things belie that notion. Buzzers beeping. Nurses bouncing from one patient to the next. Spouses and friends sitting across or beside their loved ones as clear tubes drip clear poisons into the body. Held hands. Blankets pulled tight to drawn faces. It all makes the DMV look like not such a bad place after all.

Yet rising above the purpose of this place and the reality of it's guests, are qualities which hopefully help to balance the fear and lonesomeness that many of the patients surely feel. For it is from some of the patients themselves, those who bear the weight of the drugs and disease, that warmth and openness most freely flow. You'll see it when patients acknowledge one another with a brief, knowing smile. Or when, without hesitation, a complete stranger in the recliner to either side leans in to my wife to ask her how many treatments she has left, what kind of cancer she has, how she's feeling. For me at least, I found reassurance in those encounters. Despite that fact that Joy had already been put through the cancer wringer for four months prior to her first round, chemo still seemed like something that the real cancer patients went through, not my wife. Yet here was a stranger who seemed so comfortable with it all, exuding a confidence that stems from the realization that the battle can be won.

To clarify, all of this is easy for me to say. I'm just the by stander, the support team. I'm not leaving here with a needle jammed into the port in my chest that will continue to pump toxins for two days after I leave. I certainly won't feel the effects that have slowly built up in her body for the past four months. I feel the fear and worry, but in no way can I feel it like she does. But as the other half of our marriage, longing for the better half to be better again, I'm just thankful that this part is over for her. And if finding hope, kindness and friendliness in this most unlikely of spots helps her, or even me, to see the other side of this ordeal, then I'm thankful we sat there among those who shared it.

The Bracket Racket

Few four letter words have received as much media attention in the past few years as J-O-B-S. The U.S. went from an unemployment rate of around 5% in 2007, to a little over 10% at the end of 2009. That 5% difference represents millions of people filling out unemployment forms and scrambling for their personal or family's financial security.
We've been lucky at our house. Both my wife and I have kept our jobs, although my career in radio is a bit like that scene in the movie 300 where the Persian messengers stood on the edge of the bottomless pit; say one wrong thing to the Spartan king, and whoopsie daisy, off you go. Yet, while some semblance of job security has been in place at our place, the focus on jobs has caused me to look around at who has them and what they're doing. One gleaming gem emerged.
This unturned stone showed itself as we begin year number 3 of the wonderful world of orthodontic care. Now, you are likely wondering why we've been subjected to this financial lash for an atypical 3 years, instead of the usual 1 - 2. I know you're wondering it, because so are we! Seems the first orthodontist received his teeth-straightening degree from a community college in Kazakhstan. At the end of the two year, multi-thousand dollar process for our eldest cherub, her pearly whites were a bit like hair implants. From a distance all looked well. Not so much up close. That debacle of time and coin brings us to ortho guy number 2, who seems to have a real tooth degree and a real depth of knowledge, which all adds up to a real hefty bill that is twice as high as that from Mr. Kazakhstan Kook. But we're promised that in another two years and the price of a liver on the black market, she'll have the smile of a movie star. My cynical nature is imagining Austin Powers' smile from the first film.
This tale of woe (ever wonder if when proctologists tell a story it's called a "woe of tail?") brings us to the job gem of being an orthodontist. Observation #1: they have lots of diplomas. At least our second guy did. Observation #2: they might just have the easiest job in the world next to being the maid for clean freak Howard Hughes. I'm not sure what orthodontists do, but I can tell you what they don't do. They don't put in spacers, brackets or wires. They don't remove spacers, brackets or wires. They don't do the molds. They don't do the icky, funky cleaning. They don't help fit the retainer. They don't hold the children down as wire cutters enter their mouths to cut the 12 gauge wire that is embedded into their cheeks. They don't extract teeth because that's what the regular dentist does. And evidently they don't worry about paying their mortgage.
Rarely, unless it's from a Charlton Heston movie, have I seen so much work done by others yet the benefits reaped by so few. While being one of the "technicians" might be a good paying, stable job, they truly do all of the work. And it's not pretty work either. Have you ever looked into the mouth of a teenager? Think the New Orleans Superdome one week after Katrina. As the techs spend their days bent over into squirming, malodorous mouths, the Brains of the operation occasionally stroll by, nod approvingly, them amble back to the nether reaches of the office. Yes, yes, I know, the Brains have to come up with the plan for treatment. But for most of the chil'rens, isn't that kind of like following the protocol for a headache? Aspirin, aspirin, aspirin. My caps off to the techs.
Yet there is another important job position at the Brace Place. That of the accountant. Like the unemployment rate, they've taken an important 10% of our family's economy.