The big day has finally arrived! After months of anticipation and preparation, we are finally free to embark on our big journey to the land of early Christendom and the most delicious gyros you can possibly imagine! And yet, in the midst of all the excitement over our trip to Greece & Bulgaria, I feel a bit like the guy in the picture.
I am leaving my children behind. And while I'm certain of my return in just over 9 days, I have never been good at saying good-byes to the ones I love. I think it all started when I was shipped off to college. At 18, I was headed for the big city for my freshman year at a major school. I was young... immature... green... still wet behind the ears. And on the morning of my scheduled arrival in my new abode, my parents promptly helped me pack up my little Honda CRX then watched as I set sail alone towards my destination. My roommate's parents came with him and stayed about 5 or 6 days just to make sure he got settled in properly, but not my folks. They just waved good-bye and called about 3 weeks later just to make sure I found everything okay. I always thought it a bit odd, but chose not to dwell on it too much. Now I am convinced that this strange occurrence has stunted my ability to say good-bye the right way.
My compensation for this short-fall is to go overboard. I tend to cling. I've been clinging to my kids for the past couple of days. Hugging them more... cuddling with them in the bed... watching more TV with them. I even drove them to school this morning. They were probably ready for us to leave given the amount of Daddy they've had these last few hours, but I was pretty torn up. I never actually cried outwardly, but I know that over the next few days, I'll think of them often and long for next Sunday night, when I'll get to see them and hold them again.
They're supposed to be checking this blog over the next few weeks. Kids, I love you! I hope you have a great time while I'm gone! Remember, Mom and I are just a few days away!
I have a confession.As a kid, I loved watching Mr. Rogers.
I know that’s not a popular thing to say… all the cool kids were into The Electric Company or Captain Kangaroo or even 3-2-1 Contact.But I really dug the way that this mild-mannered, sweater-changing, middle-aged neighbor of mine could simply think about “The Land of Make Believe” and suddenly find himself riding his magical trolley to a fictional wonderland where puppets reigned supreme.Mr. R taught me how to daydream, and I didn’t have to watch many episodes before I became the champion of all daydreamers.In fact, when I think about my childhood, I think of a boy who spent more time in a fictional world than the real one.
As a kid, it was just fun.But now that I’m all grown up, I realize the powerful life skill that was being taught to me at such a tender age:escapism.I hate to think of where I would be today, had I not had Mr. Rogers in my life, teaching me how to pretend that I was somebody else, living somewhere else, with better friends, talking owls and platypuses and magical trolleys.Yes sir, this seemingly useless little skill has rescued me from hours upon hours of boring classroom lectures, lengthy business meetings, toxic family arguments and cold, lifeless sermons.
However, awed as I may be at the abilities I acquired while watching the show, I will forever be perplexed over the oddity that is Lady Elaine Fairchilde.You remember – the creepy old hag puppet with a nose like a bratwurst, blood red cheeks, short-cropped, straw-like hair, an angled little chin, and eyes that could bore into the soul of the devil himself.As I child, I feared her.As an adult, I’ve questioned her sexuality.Overall, I just don’t get the point.Can you imagine the brainstorming session where the creative geniuses of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood decided to put an alcoholic he/she into the land of make-believe as a neighbor to the fetching Lady Aberlin, the vocabularily limited Henrietta Pussycat, or the ever wise Daniel Tiger who lived in a clock?
I always kinda figured that the point of fantasizing about an alternate reality was to find a happier place than the real reality.I don’t know about you, but my happy place doesn’t have crotchety old alcoholic biker chicks with creepy eyes and pointy chins.Besides, she’s a museum curator, for heaven’s sake.As a kid, my happy places were filled with dead soldiers (whom I had killed in the heat of battle), good friends, and beautiful girls…we didn’t even know what a museum curator was in my happy land, let alone have one.Plus, she called everyone “toots” except for King Friday, whom she irreverently called ‘Friday’.If I’m King in my own fantasy world, I’m not having anyone calling me anything other than ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Sire’.No one simply calls me by my last name.She even had the nerve to tell Prince Tuesday that his portrait of his father (Friday) was crap.In my fantasy world, that’s grounds for beheading.But apparently not so in Rogers’ twisted little make believe land.
Fred Rogers is dead, and that fact alone saddens me. He was a kind and gentle soul with the kind of mad creativity that only the genius possess. Gone are the sneakers with navy socks along with the indoor traffic lights. No more Mr. McFeely with his speedy deliveries. Mr. Rogers has taken that final glorious ride on the golden trolley in the sky. Yet because he is gone, the questions surrounding Lady Elaine Fairchilde will forever remain a mystery.
In conclusion, I fear that the very blog that I had hoped would be therapeutic for me as I seek freedom from my childhood tormentor, has forced me to face my demons once again.Or, I guess I should just say demon – the homely Lady Elaine – the very stench of evil.In so doing, I feel the urge to cope in the only way I know how… by escaping into an alternate reality where the likes of Lady Fairchilde are prohibited.
That’s just the kind of person I am. Literally. Last night I had a hankerin’ for some bananas foster, so I sauntered into the kitchen to take a quick survey of all the necessary ingredients. Butter… check… brown sugar… check… Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream… check, check… Rum… check… bananas… bananas… bananas…
To my short-lived horror, there were no bananas. I distinctly remembered buying a beautiful bunch of pristine yellow bananas a few days earlier. However, in the midst of a craving induced fit of stupor, I came to a realization about my 2 year old’s inexplicably bad habit of eating just a bite of banana only to decide she’s not really in the mood for bananas: It cannot peacefully coexist under the same roof as someone who deeply loves bananas foster. As the bleak truth that we were out of the key ingredient for the perfect foster sank in, I immediately started to complain. I tend to do that at times. I’m a bit of a… what would you call it… well… a complainer, at times. But then it hit me. When you have no bananas… why not make foster… just plain ol’ regular foster? Tapping into the vein of the very pioneering spirit that made this county great to begin with, I forged into the great unknown, determined to make the first banana-less foster in Dismukes’ history.
In retrospect… probably not the single greatest creation of my colorful culinary career. But in a pinch, I had bettered a bowl of plain ol’ vanilla ice cream, AND I got to play with fire in the process. Not bad for one man with a handful of ingredients and belly full of hungry. I’d like to see McGyver make do with as little. But perhaps even more impressive was my determination to turn a bad situation into a win/win for me and the bananas – I got a satisfactorily tasty dessert and they didn’t get eaten, while safely slumbering at the local grocery store. I hate to boast about myself, however, I will gladly do so when given the opportunity. This just happens to be one of those opportunities.
While I’m sure no one will ever write a book about this event, nor will anyone ever sing of the tale of the banana-less foster, I have joined the ranks of an exclusive society. I now count myself among those who have turned the tables on defeat and emerged victorious, despite unfathomably horrendous odds. Members of this hallowed club include the entire 1980 Olympic Hockey Team who, after being crushed by the Russians just days before the opening ceremonies in Lake Placid, came back to claim their membership with a “miracle” run to the gold medal. They had no bananas either… yet they made Olympic foster. Another fellow victor is fictional high school basketball coach Norman Dale as played by Gene Hackman, who led the undersized and undermanned Hickory High School basketball team to the Indiana State Championship, thanks in part to the decision of Jimmy Chidwick, local round ball prodigy, to join the team in mid-season. Coach Dale had no bananas… but he made Hoosier’s foster.
On a side note, William Lear, designer of the Lear Jet was a former member of the club. After his remarkable success in aircraft design, he went on to “grace” the world with the 8-track tape. Apparently the society members decided Lear was headed in the wrong direction and his membership was revoked.
I love to travel. I love everything about travelling. I love the smell of my suitcase. I love travel sized toiletries, even though I know I’m paying twice as much as I would for the jumbo sized bottles of the same product. I love the fact that I spend countless hours day dreaming about my excursions in the weeks prior to my departure. I even love the things about travelling that others hate. I love crowded airports. I love airplane food. I love jetlag, even though I hate it. I even love that I can’t sleep much on the night before my trip (see earlier blog from Feb ’09). I love all these things simply because they remind me of the fact that I’m going somewhere, and I love going somewhere.
I don’t understand people who don’t love travelling. I know a man who once bragged about how he had no reason to visit another country because everything he needed was ‘right here at home’. At first, I thought he was joking, so I laughed. When I realized he was serious, my laughter turned into weeping and eventually wailing and gnashing of teeth. That’s how much I don’t understand people who don’t love to travel.
I try to structure my life so that I take at least 1 major trip every few months. Last summer I went to Panama City Beach. This past Fall I went to Russia. In February of this year, I went to Colorado. In September, I’m going to Greece and Bulgaria. Christmas of this year, Lord willing, will be spent in Phoenix/Prescott, and I already have my sights on family trip next year (hopefully either Disney World or a road trip to Washington D.C.). Some folks, like the anti-me mentioned above who hates to travel, might call me obsessive compulsive. I, on the other hand, call myself a survivalist. You see, I have to schedule my life in such a way. Otherwise, I’d go mad. Life in a small town is all about getting out. If you don’t plan your momentary escapes from time to time, you become deranged.
Consider the anti-me mentioned above. Can anyone honestly think that everything one needs is truly ‘right here at home’. Surely not. Surely this man is deranged. Imagine if his premise were really true. Where would humanity be today if it were truly the case? The children of Israel would never have entered the promised land. The Pilgrims would never have sailed to the new world. Neil Armstrong would never have walked on the moon. Gilligan would never have been stranded on a deserted island with Ginger and Mary Ann. I shudder to think of a world without a nutty professor who could build a radio out of coconut shells and seaweed, but couldn’t patch a hole in the side of a boat.
We’re creature of curiosity, unless of course our curiosity generator is broken (see anti-me). We long to experience adventure. We love to unravel mysteries. We yearn for the thrill of discovery. That is why we travel. And for me, my next turn can’t come soon enough. I’m day dreaming about Athens… about the ancient cities of Corinth and Philippi. I’m even day dreaming about the Gypsies in Bulgaria.
Today I woke up at 6:50… just in time for my morning shower. Actually, I don’t always take showers in the morning. Sometimes I take them at night. It just depends on what kind of mood I’m in. Once I was dried off and fully dressed, I went into the kitchen for something to eat. Sometimes I eat big breakfasts… like sausage and egg biscuits, or a nice hot bowl of cheese grits. Today, however, I passed on breakfast. We have a very nice espresso machine in our kitchen, which makes fantastic lattes. I usually have a latte, but today, I opted out. Next, I drove to work. Mostly, I just take the direct route. But today, I stretched the normally ¼ mile drive into a 5 minute loop around the greater downtown area of Edison. At work, I’ve been known to do all kinds of things. Some days, I work pretty hard, but not today. Today my Dad dropped by the bank just to talk. We talked for about 45 minutes, which is okay because he’s the chairman of the board.
On my resume, I think I will add “unpredictable” as a Character Trait.
I live in a town where nothing ever changes.Seriously… Edison is where change goes on vacation, because he knows he won’t be asked to do a damn thing.
Years ago (and I mean back when there were World wars), we had a passenger train that would roll through town at various times throughout the day, hauling rural dwellers into the city for business and carrying transients from town to town.For whatever reason, the train didn’t run on Thursdays, but it DID run on Saturdays.Our local bank, The Bank of Edison (where I now work), closed down on Thursdays but stayed open on Saturdays, hoping to be as accommodating as possible to the patrons of the rail.There hasn’t been a passenger train in these parts for at least 40 years.Yet, the bank is still closed on Thursdays.It is my firm belief that most folks at the bank, including the president himself, have no idea why the bank had a no-Thursday schedule.Just a few days ago, I suggested we consider closing on Saturdays and opening on Thursdays.The idea was overwhelmingly shot down.Change scares people around here… even when it makes sense.
I left this town back in the early 90’s.I did so because I was young and craved the very change that had been denied me for so long.I moved back in 2007 having had my fill of change.From 1998 to 2007, I moved a total of 14 times.Yes… I said 14.That’s change on speed, and that’s no good either.Upon my return, I discovered that (surprise, surprise) everything was just the way I had left it.Same folks , same businesses (with the exception of the Bill’s Dollar Store closure and the opening of the Dollar General), same mayor, same general disdain of anything new and different.We do have the internet now, which is good, ‘cause it helps us see all the things that we refuse to experience due to our fear of change.
Yesterday, at the bank (on a Saturday, mind you), I had a customer who was upset because someone else’s check posted to her account.The problem occurred because her account was a 4 digit account #.The other customer’s account (the rightful owner of the check in question) had a 5 digit account #.However, if you dropped the last digit of the 5 digit account, you get the account # of the complainer.I told the customer that when the check was processed, the scanner must have dropped the last digit of the account #, which caused the problem.I told her that the only way to guarantee that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again is to give her a new account… a 5 digit account.
As gracefully as possible, I explained that we would pay for the checks.We would reassociate her debit card with the new account.We would make things as painless as possible.Instantly, her guard went up.“Well, this has never happened before, so I don’t think it’ll happen again,” she suggested.To which, I replied, “yes, but we’ve only had the scanners for about a year now, and it’s happened to other customers as well.Plus there’s an issue of privacy for the other customer, so it’s not just a convenience issue.”Then it happened.Sparks flew.Her face became flushed, which she desperately tried to hide with an unconvincing smile.In an angrily, shaky voice she decreed, “I don’t want a new account.I’ve had this account for years and it’s been good to me.I like my account.”
And there you have it.The sort of logic that sinks ships.In one obscenely ridiculous statement, she had captured the heart of the problem of my little home town.This woman was married to a number.That’s all an account is… a number.Perhaps she feels that we actually have drawers for each customer in which we place their cash, where it sits in comfort awaiting the day when it will be used in exchange for goods or services.Maybe she feels that her particular drawer is a drawer of prosperity and a new account might mean a drawer of poverty.I’m reaching, I know, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to figure out what the big deal is.
It is both illegal and unethical for an officer of the bank to slap a customer, so I didn’t.I just smiled and said, “well… it’s your choice.”As I walked away, I embraced the fact that with some people, nothing ever changes.
I go through seasons where I have nothing funny to say. In fact, I am in one now. For weeks, I’ve attempted to hide my state of seriosity by refusing to blog. I was afraid that my condition would be discovered, and I would be chastised by the blogging community. And no one needs to be bullied around by people who have nothing better to do than to sit around on their computers and read what others have to say.
Hoping that I would soon emerge from my humor funk, I began the waiting out process. But the hours passed slowly… much too slowly for a man who was reared in the era of microwave ovens and instant coffee. Hours passed into days, and the days soon turned to weeks. Ironically, not a single funny thought passed through my brain during this nightmarish micro-eternity. At first, I thought I was just a bit ‘backed up’ – suffering from a bout of comical constipation (not that there’s anything funny about constipation – it can be quite serious). But as time went on, I finally came to grips with the haunting reality that I’m just not that funny anymore.
Step 7 in the stages of grief process is “Acceptance and Hope”, and since I’ve always been the kind of person to want quick resolution to things, I decided to skip the first 6 stages. And given my newfound acceptance of this incurable disease, I am now committing my blog to all things serious. And what can be more serious than a pandemic?
Today, I’d like to blog about pandemics. I remember when they used to call them epidemics, but apparently, we’ve overused the word ‘epidemic’ to the point that we needed to create a new word to convey what the old one was supposed to mean before we watered it down so much.Pandemics are all the rage today.Everybody’s talking about the next big one, as if life just isn’t possible without the pending threat of global infection, and I guess that stuff has a way of rubbing off on you if you let it.
My son got sick a few nights ago.For some reason, every time he has to throw up, he goes into the hall to ‘do his business’.I’m not sure what that’s all about.I usually go to the bathroom and would prefer it if he did the same.After puking repeatedly on our beautiful hardwood floors, he spent a miserable day curled up on the couch in our den.As I watched him lying there in a state of total lethargy, I had a thought… one that I consider to be a typical fatherly thought, “I hope to heck that kid hasn’t brought the swine flu into my house.”
That's right, nothing says "the father's love" more than a guy lamenting the possibility that his 9 year old son might infect him with a potentially fatal disease. I'm afraid I fell victim to the mass hysteria. Then I realized that all the doomsday crowd has been secretly hoping for a pandemic since the '90's, only to become disappointed at the lack of cooperation from the latest, greatest strain of virus. Ebola, SARS, Mad Cow, Bird Flu, Swine Flu. They've all come and gone and have been major disappointments to the folks who prematurely annointed them as 'global killers'. Think I'm being too harsh? When's the last time you saw a media outlet rejoicing over a disease going away? Instead, it's quickly on to the newest fad in sickness, as if they're desperately hoping that this will be the one. Is it just me, or are we living in an era where just can't seem to find anything good wherever we look?
By the way… for those of you who have made promises to do things “when pigs fly”… you do realize that as of about a month ago… swine flu.BA DOMP CHHHHHH!And just like that, the humor is back.
Ok, so my quest to get free stuff is still on, lest you think I’ve grown faint hearted over the non-response from Susie Fogelson of the Food Network.In fact, it took a bit of a serious turn last week, while I was dining at one of my favorite restaurant chains.
We ate as a family at Carrabba’s Italian Grill, where we were seated next to the open kitchen.One of the chefs was talking rather loudly, and my son overheard some less than appropriate language.And while I won’t go into great detail (partially out of respect for my still favorite restaurant), it involved the word penis and some mild profanity.Had I been alone, or simply with my wife, it would’ve rolled off my back like rain drops on a freshly waxed windshield.However, I was with my kids and had to do some explaining that I didn’t really care to do while eating my eggplant pizza (I know what you’re thinking… seriously, it rocks!).So, being the activist that I now am, I submitted an online comment to the Carrabba’s corporate office.
Today, the phone rings, and it’s the manager of the restaurant.He’s extremely apologetic and wants me to describe the perpetrator to him.So I start feeling guilty, right?Like I’m going to be responsible for someone losing their job.Then he says to me, “look… don’t worry… I’m not going to fire him, I just want to teach him what’s acceptable and what’s not.So we go through the whole story and I’m thinking to myself, “I sure hope Isaac heard this guy right.”I’d really hate to get someone in trouble for something they didn’t do.But the bottom line is this… I now have a dinner for 2 at Carrabba’s.Can you say, “rock on!”?
So, after you’re done showing your support for McD’s (see blog below), please go have yourself a nice Italian dinner at Carrabba’s.
The big day has finally arrived! After months of anticipation and preparation, we are finally free to embark on our big journey to the land of early Christendom and the most delicious gyros you can possibly imagine! And yet, in the midst of all the excitement over our trip to Greece & Bulgaria, I feel a bit like the guy in the picture.
