My Norwegian Adventure

Just a few weeks ago, my wife was given the chance of a lifetime to embark on a ‘some expense paid, 1 week trip’ to beautiful Norway, land of the midnight sun.  Her sister, who apparently is a pretty big deal at Vandalay Industries (name changed on account of the fact that I was threatened by the goons at her company... something about national security), was given a work assignment in Norway (who goes to Norway on business… honestly?), and my mother in law thought it would be a great idea to make me stay home with 4 of the rowdiest kids east of the Mississippi, so she offered to take Heather along on an all girls excursion to Scandinavia.  And given that I had no say in the matter whatsoever, I readily agreed.  (In all seriousness, I was extremely glad to give Heather a much needed vacation from our children, but deep down, I trembled over the thought of being left alone with them.)

Leading up to the day of departure, I handled myself pretty well.  In retrospect, I was probably either in denial, or just eager to get the whole thing over with – kinda like when you were a kid and you knew you were eventually going to have to eat your green beans, so you just manned up and choked them down quickly so as not to ruin the rest of your dinner.  I kissed my wife good-bye, feeling up to the task at hand.  Thirty minutes later (I kid you not), a cold chill went up my spine and I reached for the phone.  As my wife answered on the other end, I confessed, “I just now realized what I’ve agreed to… is it too late to change my mind?”  It was.

That first night wasn’t so bad – mostly because 2 of my girls spent the night off with family.  The next day was much the same.  The fewer the number of children in the house, the easier it is on everybody.  My week started in earnest on Sunday, and I have to say, I aced my first test.  By 6:30 Sunday night, the kids were fed (well, mind you - chicken scallopini over pasta with peas), the baby had been bathed and ready for bed, the kitchen was clean, the older girls were in the shower, and everybody’s lunches for the following day were packed and in the fridge.  Oh, and just to make things challenging, I had planted a row of broccoli and a row of swiss chard in our garden.  Granted, I think I was trying to prove something to myself (either that I was the best Dad and husband ever, or that I could handle any amount of pain heaped upon me by my tormentors), but thus far, my week alone with the children had been a blistering success.

Monday night, however, came quickly – more quickly than I had anticipated.  And, as everyone knows, Mondays just plain ol’ suck – there’s just no other way of saying it, and this was a Monday for the books. It all started that afternoon, when I picked up Gracie from the sitter, while talking to Heather on the phone.  Gracie loved hearing Mama’s voice, but was beside herself when we hung up and Mama all of sudden disappeared.  She screamed the entire ride home (a 10 minute drive). Abby, our 4 year old, was so mad over the screaming, she lectured me for half of that ride for letting the baby talk to Mom.  (Mom had been known as ‘the M word’ up to that moment, because just the mere mention of the name ‘Mama’ made Gracie cry).  I don’t know if you’ve ever been trapped in close quarters with a screaming baby AND a precocious 4 year old who thinks it’s her place to lecture you, but it’s not what I would call a peaceful experience.  In fact, I would liken it more to a prostate exam (for those of you who are wondering, yes I have had one and no I most certainly did NOT enjoy it or the incredibly anxious moments leading up to it).  By the time we arrived at Isaac’s and Emily’s school, both the screaming and the scolding had come to a halt, mercifully.  However, the fun was just beginning.

As my son, now in the 6^th grade, climbed into the truck, he informed me that: a) he got a zero on his project (what project?!!) because I didn’t remind him to do it and b) I would have to take him to his Grandaddy's tonight so he could do research and print out ‘stuff’ on the computer so he could finish his project tonight and turn it in the next day for a merciful upgrade from his zero (we don’t have a functional printer at our house, probably because we have so many kids), and c) I was to stop at the store and buy him poster board and markers. I yelled at him for letter a, refused to entertain the idea of letter b, and dutifully complied with letter c.   I then asked when this project had been assigned.  “Um… Friday I think,” he said, and if it sounds a bit suspicious to you now, imagine how I felt as I heard his mouth form the words, complete with fishy sounding pauses.  And just as my Mom did to me thousands of times when I was young and ‘forgetful’, I gave him an earful on the way home and took away TV and video game rights for 1 week. Once we got home, I made him call his teacher to apologize and beg for more time (no way in heck I was spending the night at my Dad’s with 4 kids when there was so much to do at home… geez that sounded an awful lot like my wife!).  

As my son called a left a message for his teacher, I began cooking dinner – it probably would have been a good idea to either skip dinner or order out, but I’m a lean, mean cooking machine, and I relish the peace that comes with firing up the stove and creating something to eat.  I knew I would have to hurry, as I was scheduled to call in to a school board meeting.  I was supposed to attend, but the board chair had mercy on me and told me I could just call in since my hands were full with no one to help out at home.  As our stir fry was in full flame, the phone rang.  It was Isaac’s teacher.  Turns out the project was assigned 2 weeks ago and not on Friday as I had been told.  As dinner began burning, she gracefully gave me an extension on my… I mean Isaac’s project, and I promised that he would spend the next few days in her class after school until the stupid project was done.  I actually think I said the word ‘stupid’, but it’s okay, she understood.  After hanging up, I took the burned stir fry off the stove and quickly informed my son that his restriction was now for 2 weeks.  Fearing that the point had not been made well enough, I proceeded to lecture the heck out of him once more. 

As the burnt dinner cooled a bit, I reached for the phone to call in to the board meeting.  As soon as the board chair picked up the phone, all hell broke loose.  Gracie started screaming again… loudly… in the phone… as she clung to my leg with all of her strength.  I picked her up and calmed her down just in time for my other 2 girls to start screaming from the back of the house.  As I turned to see what was going on, Abby came running towards me shouting at the top of her lungs, “Daddy, daddy, come quick.  Emily’s stomach is hurt, but it wasn’t me!”  I prematurely exited the board meeting and went to the girls' room where my 9-year old, Emily, was in a heap on the floor, crying hysterically.  Now, you should know that Emily has the pain threshold of a porcelain doll.  Everything hurts her… extremely.  And we’ve learned to deal with it in our own special way – by tuning it out.  But, as I was unsuccessful in my first attempt to ignore the situation, I delved deeper and discovered that she had been popped by the hook on the end of a bungee cord on her arm and again in her stomach.  Bungee chord injuries can be quite serious, so I had mercy.  Her arm was instantly bruised, and it took several minutes to ease the suffering brought on by her stomach injury.  Once I did, the accusations started flying like bird poo after a car wash.  Emily blamed Abby, and Abby blamed Emily, and all of my interrogation techniques got me no closer to the truth.  At one point, I almost had to separate the girls from each other as they hurled accusations at one another and tempers flared.  Desperate for some wisdom, I offered up a frantic prayer.  The Lord had mercy.  Having had enough of Monday already, I offered up this simple solution in a voice that was… well, raised to say the least.  “You girls have GOT to learn to tell the truth.  I asked a simple question… which one of you is responsible for this (pointing to Emily’s injuries)?  And all I get are lies from one of you.  Well, I’ve had enough.  In my house, as long as you’re lying, you don’t eat.  And since I don’t know who’s lying, neither one of you will eat until I know the truth!”  Actually, at this point, I should probably confess that I vaguely remember saying that liars go to hell, although I was immediately shocked and repentant over such a monstrous suggestion (believe me, I was desperate enough to try ANYTHING to get the truth out of them and go on with the evening).  But the whole idea of withholding dinner until the truth came out was Solomonic in grandeur.  I then fed the baby the slightly burnt dinner very slowly and very enticingly.  Abby finally gave way to her hunger and told me the whole truth.  It went something like this, “Daddy… well, I just remembered something… well… actually… AFTER Emily was swinging the bungee chord (which she had previously maintained was the cause of the injury), I was swinging it really hard… and I think… yes… I think… it might have… no… it did… it did hit Emily on the arm and then again in the stomach.”  Victory!  The truth was out in the open.  Another scolding.  I was quickly growing weary of the scoldings.  

After dinner, I couldn't get anything done in the house, because Gracie was clinging to me like a leech... literally... I couldn't peel her off - she's very strong.  So I gave in to her demands and cuddled her on our couch, and she repayed the favor by pooping nasty acidic poo.  It burned her, and she screamed again… loudly.  I changed her and she had bad rash.  The kids scoured the house for butt paste and came up with baby powder and some other cream stuff.  She winced when I put the baby powder on and then looked at me like I had no idea what I was doing.  After all, Mom never uses the powder stuff.  Then I squirted the cream on her, and she giggled - the first ray of sunshine of the evening.  I then went to put her to bed only to realize that her sheets, which had been washed that morning due to the fact that she had wet them the night before, had not yet been dried.  So I popped them into the dryer and went back to the couch for another round of cuddling.  Eventually everyone made it to bed, and all I could do was just lay on the couch, pining away for my wife and the good ol’ days when there were 2 adults in the house.

Relatively speaking, the next couple of days were uneventful.  No more phone calls to Mom for the baby.  No more forgotten projects.  No more call in board meetings, and no more bungee chord injury cover ups.  And by Friday morning, I was convinced that I had survived the most dangerous mission I had ever embarked on.  And then… I got… the call.

There are moments that have forever been etched into the very core of my conscious awareness.  The very mention of these scenarios provoke memories of every little detail surrounding said moments.  Such occurences include:  the Reagan assassination attempt, the day the Challenger blew up, September 11, 2001 and now among these tragedies is the moment I’m about to describe.

The voice on the other end of the line was that of our kids’ school secretary.  “You’re going to have to come pick up Emily,” she said awkwardly, “she has… lice.”  Immediately, I went into denial.  My mind went crazy.  “Did she say rice?  I sent them to school with pizza.  Was Emily the victim of some horrible lunchroom trade?” All these thoughts raced through my mind as the wheels of my brain started smoking from the dangerously high rpm’s.  All that came out, however, was a very eloquent, “wha…?”  

As I raced to the school, I thought of the gravity of the moment.  “What if I have to shave my head,” I thought to myself.  “I’d look terrible bald.  My head is flat in the back and I’d probably look like a skinny Joe Rockhead, Fred Flinstone’s bald next door neighbor (opposite side from the Rubbles).”  Then I came to my senses and directed all of my mental attention towards dealing with the problem.  As I opened the door of the school, Emily was sitting at the front desk in tears.  These weren’t hysterical tears, however.  There were tears of shame and embarrassment, and with no Mom around, I knew I would have to muster up every bit of nurturing I could possibly muster.  I hugged her hard and told her everything was going to be okay.  I assured her that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her or dirty about her.  And on the inside, I prayed hard that I wouldn’t get lice from clinging to my little girl.  As we drove home, I wondered who else among us would get or already had lice.  As I did, my head began to itch.

Turns out, the 2 older girls had it, but nobody else did.  I stripped them and put them into the tub.  Then I began the very long, drawn out treatment.  I lathered up their hair with the recommended shampoo, then they sat there in the tub for at least 15 minutes (per the instructions) while the pesticides did their worst on those creepy looking bugs.  Meanwhile, my Mom, who had taken pity on me and had come over to help out, began stripping the kids’ bedding and bagging up all their clothes and stuffed animals.  As the girls sat there awaiting the rest of the treatment, my wife called… from Norway.  You remember… she’s away on a pleasure tour of the fjords and… the… other stuff they have in Norway, while I’m at home dealing with screaming kids and miniature bugs that look like prehistoric, flesh eating lobsters.  I answered with a chipper, “you have no idea what my day has been like, while you’ve been off gallivanting around Europe!”  I think I ended the conversation with a “I hope you appreciate what I’ve done for you!”

After the phone call, I began the rinsing and combing through process.  Holy cow!  The stinking bugs weren’t dying.  They were still alive and crawling as I picked them out one by one with the little plastic nit comb (I now know where the phrase ‘nit-picking’ comes from, and I wish I didn’t).  I panicked.  Now what?  I googled.  Turns out lice are becoming immune to the pesticides we used to treat our kids.  

Huh?  Who knew?  

So I quickly began to look for an alternative treatment.  I learned that olive oil is a natural lice killer.  It suffocates both the bugs and their demonic little eggs.  So, I coated the girls’ heads with olive oil, popped a shower cap on them, and let them sit in front of the tv on old beach towels for the next couple of hours.  Afterwards, I picked through their hair again like an obsessive little red-bottomed baboon.  This time, however, I was picking out dead bugs – by the handful.  It was one of the grosser things I’ve done in my life.  In the end, I think I picked about a hundred bugs out of my precious little girls’ hair.

The remainder of my time alone with the children was spent reapplying olive oil, combing through every strand of hair one by one, shampooing and rinsing the kids’ hair about 3 more times.  When it was all said and done, I think I logged about 5 hours of nit-picking time, which was definitely an experience I’ll always remember.  In the end, however, I won and the lice lost.  Even better, however, was the return of my wife that next night.  I hugged her long and hard and haven’t lifted a finger to help out with the kids since.  Ha!  Actually, that’s not even remotely true.  (read on – I promise you’re almost done!)

My week alone with my kids was a gift from the Lord, lice and all.  I would not trade that time with my kids for all the riches in the world.  All the anxiety of Monday, as well as the day I call ‘battle lice’, proved to be an experience I will always remember with fondness.  It was a week I share with my kids and my kids alone, and no one can ever take that away from us.  My wife is the greatest treasure of my life, aside from the treasure I have in my relationship with the Lord.  She deserved her time away from me and the children, and I would readily consent for another week.  She deserved the time with her Mom and her sister, and I know that they, too, built memories that they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives.  The Lord taught me a lot during this week – about what I’m capable of when I put my mind to it, about how much my wife means to me and our family, but most of all, He taught me that nothing replaces the time we spend with the ones we love.  I relish the time I’ve been given with those I love the most.  God help me to live each day with them as if it were my last.

A Milestone Moment I'll Never Forget

My daughter and I reached a milestone in our relationship last week. Most fathers, assuming that they stick around long enough, end up burying at least one family pet before it’s all said and done. And while I had already achieved that objectionable goal (thanks to the passage our floppy eared bunny “Rabioli” several years back), yesterday brought with it a new challenge for a soft-hearted father like me – putting an animal down.

My faithful blog readers will remember that, several months back, my puppy Lola had children of her own. And like an idiot, I agreed to let my kids keep one of the pups. Zoe – the much loved half-breed (see puppies story below) had a rather tumultuous life. She was abused by her mother as an infant. Lola, though a good mother, likes to play rough. And Zoe learned the hard way that when another dog pins you to the ground with her teeth around your neck, you should just play dead until she leaves you alone. When Zoe was 4 months old, Isaac shot Lola in the foot with his BB gun – on accident of course – but he didn’t tell us until after the vet had run extensive tests to determine why her ACL appeared to be torn, only to find a small BB lodged in her ankle. Isaac’s little shenanigan netted us about $350 in unnecessary bills, and as a result, I sat Emily down to break the news that we could no longer afford to keep Zoe. After about 30 seconds of uncontrollable crying, Emily had me convinced that we should not only keep Zoe, but that I had better not ever discuss the idea of getting rid of her again, for as long as Zoe lived (a promise, I am proud to say, that I kept). About a month later, we noticed that Zoe wasn’t putting on weight like she should. Come to find out, Lola was eating more than her share of the food and poor Zoe was getting next to none. We rectified the feeding arrangements, and Zoe soon put on weight. After another month had passed (just last week), I came home to find Zoe extremely lethargic and unresponsive. She had been healthy and vibrant the day before, but now she just stood over her water dish, barely moving. Fearing that she had come down with something serious, I did what I could for her, trying to get her to drink and eat – neither of which I could do successfully. With the vet already closed for the day, we decided to take her in first thing the next morning.

When I woke up the next day, I discovered Zoe up under the shed in my backyard, lying as stiff as a board. I pulled her out, thinking she was dead, only to find that while rigor mortis had already set in, she was still breathing. Immediately, I set off to dig her grave. After a half hour of fighting the tough, red clay of South Georgia, I laid Zoe down into her final resting place, and headed towards the house to fetch the pistol. With every step, I wrestled with the idea of shooting my daughter’s favorite pet, but I knew that Zoe was as good as dead. She was as stiff as a board, and every breath was a chore. I imagined how the scene would play itself out, and I winced at the idea of having to tell my daughter the truth, “Zoe is dead, and I pulled the trigger.” But knowing it was the right thing to do, I decided that I was actually the hero. After all, weaker men would have let the dog suffer. Not me. I was a true protector of the innocent.

I gathered up the gun and several bullets (just in case I missed the first time), and I told Heather to move the kids to the far end of the house and make lots of noise. I didn’t want to have to explain the loud banging noises coming from the site of Zoe’s death. Upon my return to the freshly dug grave, I was relieved to find that Zoe had already breathed her last. I thanked the Lord and quickly covered up her remains.

I still had to break the news to Emily, which was as bad, or worse than, having to actually pull the trigger. She didn’t take it well, to say the least. We visited the grave as a family to say our final good-byes. Then, thinking the worst was behind me, I then set out for work.

Lunchtime brought about an even more grizzly scene for me.

As I pulled my truck into the driveway, I noticed that Lola was lying around, kinda sad-like, in the yard, chewing on a bone of some sort. I went over to console her. As I approached, I noticed that the bone in her mouth was rather large. Instantly, my already stressed little mind went into overdrive and filled itself with the most horrific of thoughts. The closer I got, the more convinced I had become that Lola had exhumed the remains of little Zoe and barbarically picked her carcass apart, only to have dragged the femur of our little puppy across the yard to gnaw on it tauntingly in front of those who still bore the pain of the morning’s events. My knees weakened and a wave of nausea hit me like a pillowcase full of soap. I bent over to throw up, but nothing came out. I accepted the fact that my dog was not just a cannibal, but an incestuous one at that. “Get a hold of yourself, man!” I mumbled quietly and then turned towards the grave to confirm my fears. I couldn’t tell, from that distance, whether it had been disturbed or not, so I ran, not walked, to get a closer look. Discovering that it had not, in fact, been tampered with, I soon relaxed. Visibly shaken, I walked slowly towards the house to get a grip, and maybe grab a sandwich and some chips.

I busted through the door and immediately asked my wife if she had given Lola a bone. Turns out my father in law had bought Lola one of those rawhide doggie bone things at the store. I then explained, with a slight degree of embarrassment, my dark thoughts to both my wife and my mother in law. While they laughed out loud, I was relieved that my eldest dog was not the monster I had believed her to be only minutes before and that Zoe was resting quietly beneath the red clay in the back yard.

Yes sir, this was a milestone moment I’ll never forget.

Puppies

I’m blogging again. It’s been way too long. This last hiatus left a mark. See, blogging is therapeutic for me, and lately I’ve been in need of much therapy. I’ve been busy doing such things as starting a school, which can be somewhat stressful, especially when you consider that all other schools in the area hate me with a twisted, maniacal sort of hate. Hate is not good for me. I generally tend to internalize it. And I allowed myself to believe that I didn’t have time to blog, with the school and all. But truth is, as the cliché goes, I don’t have time not to. To blog is to laugh out loud at life. To not to is to stuff all those laughs into the pit of one’s belly where things tend to fester and ferment. A fermented laugh is not as intoxicating as it may sound. Therefore… I blog. Plus, I had a really great story that is very bloggable.

My dog just had puppies. Wait… before you get all giddy, let’s explore this a little more. This isn’t an episode of Leave it to Beaver where the family dog’s long awaited day arrives and she gives birth to perfect, purebred Collies while Mom, Dad and the children look on with glee. No… this is a real story, with real people and real dogs with real birth defects. Perhaps I should back up just a bit…

My dog, Lola, is a beautiful chocolate Labrador Retriever, who chews everything in sight, including, at times, my kids. When she joined our family last February, we had grand plans for her. She was to be a house dog. However, her relentless desire to chew on the furniture and pee indoors incessantly, despite a good half hearted attempt on our part to house train her, eventually culminated in her permanent removal from the inside. She became an outcast, and over time, the children forgot about her – the same children who assured me they would take good care of her. Lola gradually became lonely as the children did their own things.

As any good father would, I tried to spend as much time Lola as possible. I would come home and play fetch with her, made sure she had plenty to eat and drink and gave her lots of thorough rub downs. But I am but one man, and Lola’s loneliness grew deeper by the hour. Deeply disturbed, I tried to figure out a way to find Lola a more acceptable home, but the kids would cry every time I broached the subject. And crying kids cast spells over their mothers, so Lola remained.

Winter turned to Spring, Spring to Summer, and eventually Summer gave way to Fall. As the leaves began to turn, we Dismukes quickly realized we had reached a bit of an equilibrium in our canine/human relationships. You see, Lola had now forgotten about us. (Except for me, of course, seeing as how I was the only one to show her any affection at all, limited though it may have been due to my first priority of starting a school.) And thanks to a lack of parental involvement, at least on my wife’s part, Lola began searching for her identity in promiscuous relationships with other dogs.

Looking back, we should have been aware of Lola’s sexual escapades. All the warning signs were there – her rebellious attitude, the fact that she was sleeping in later and later in the mornings, strange dogs hanging around the house, and her slightly swollen, discolored vagina. However, as I mentioned earlier, most of the family had forgotten her, and the only one with enough compassion to deal with Lola’s adultery was too busy starting a school that would benefit hundreds of uneducated children for years to come.

The arrival of December did nothing to make us (er… them… not me) notice Lola any more than we had in prior months, especially as the kids anticipated Santa’s annual visit. However, the week before Christmas, something awful happened. Lola’s teets dropped dangerously low, and we were forced to deal with a new kind of problem we had never experienced before. A multitude of questions flooded our minds. How had this happened to our dog? Who was the father? Had it been consensual? Is Lola ready to be a mother? Will she just chew up the puppies like she’s chewed up everything else in our yard? Can a pro-life family get a doggie abortion? But eventually, the questions faded as we began to prepare for several new additions to the family.

Just last week, Lola’s puppies arrived. 6 little babies… all black. Three of them had tails. The other 3 only had partial tails. Nubs… if you will. Ironically enough, Lola has been a very good mother, taking great care of these little pups… even the ones with nubs.

How long do you think it was before our kids and my wife started asking me to keep one of the pups? That’s right… the very same ones who had banished poor Lola into the realm of the forgotten seem to want another dog to join the family and, eventually, the realm of banishment where Lola resides.

My father has a part time yard man who works for him. I use the term yard man loosely. See, when he was hired, I think the idea was that he would do yard work exclusively. However, over time, this yard man, who’s now in his 40s, spends much of his time reading the paper, riding around town on my dad’s mule (not a real mule… see the picture), and generally slacking off. He’s probably not the most intellectually astute person I’ve ever met, although somehow he’s managed to outsmart my Dad, who graduated with an engineering degree from Georgia Tech. In an effort to protect the identity of said yard man, I will refer to him simply as “Lewis”.

When Lewis found out we had puppies, he did what any good yard man would do. He waited until he was on the clock, then drove the mule over to my house to see the dogs. He’d already agreed to adopt one of them, and he wanted to go stake his claim. Upon discovering the nub-tailed puppies, he reached the conclusion that the father had to have been a Rottweiler. In his elation at the magnitude of this new revelation, he rushed over to the bank to share with me the good news.

I told Lewis that Rottweilers are born with tails and that they usually clipped them off just for looks, to which he simply replied, “yep”. A long silence. “So,” I added, “you can’t really tell who the father is simply because 3 of them don’t have tails.” More silence. Then he confidently, but slowly said, “Rottweilers got li’l nubs for tails… ‘dem dawgs got nubs too… ‘dat means a Rottweiler was the Daddy.” Sensing some resistance to logic and reason, I went on, “you know… if you cut your hand off and had kids, your kids would still have hands.” He pondered this for a moment, and then said with finality, “I know that ‘dem dawgs is part Rottweiler.” Conversation over. When I shared this story with my Dad, he revealed that Lewis once had a child who was born without thumbs, which got me to thinking…

Maybe they are part Rottweiler.

Leaving for Greece

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!

Why I Can Watch the Chucky Movies Without Batting an Eyelash

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.

Bananas, Bananas and More Bananas

When life takes away my bananas, I make foster.

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.

The great Dale Carnegie once said, “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Cute, Dale. But let’s be honest. To make lemonade, you still have to have water, sugar and ice. I mean, if you only put lemons in it, it would suck like a Hoover. A better quote would be (and I’m thinking of petitioning the National Cliché Society), “when life takes away your bananas, just make foster.”

Planes, Trains & Automobiles

I wish I was going somewhere today…


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.


I wish I was going somewhere today…