Well, we're in the final breaths of tax season. Unless you've already filed your extension. Or you're a church or a political action committee (more on that later).
And I'll let you know a little terrible secret.
I don't mind paying taxes.
I know.
Sounds weird.
But I don't. It just seems to me to be the kinda thing you do if you want roads to drive on, and public schools with traffic guards in little orange vests, and a whole bunch of people trying to keep nuclear weapons out of the hands of religious fundamentalists.
Clean water is nice too. Air that's breathable. I like taking out my copyrights and knowing that someone is keeping me from being infringed.
It's not a perfect system. Obviously. And it's not a fair system. Obviously. And if I had my druthers I'd prefer if more of my hard earned resources went to education, health care, and public radio and much much less on tobacco and corn subsidies, but there are very good reasons why I'm not fully in charge of such things.
I say 'not fully' because I'm not helpless. I do vote.
We do get to do that . . . you know . . . we get to vote.
If you don't, you should try it sometime, even if as an intellectual exercise. If anything, at least it gives you the right to complain.
It's like what my mom says about playing the lottery: You don't expect to win, but $2 does buy you permission to dream.
I'd say that's worth it.
What I don't like, and I'm sure you're with me on this if you weren't with me before, is cheaters.
Cheaters everywhere.
And not just the blatantly illegal kind, but I find myself loathing the kind of people who have the audacity to 'work the system'.
And it's only probably because 'working the system' is something I'm terrible at.
What's even more disturbing to me is how complicated systems have to become in order to deal with all the people that try to 'work it.'
I was not born with a single 'work the system' bone in my body. I like to check the boxes in all the appropriate places, smile my charming smile, and tell people to have a nice day.
I'd probably be a hell of a lot more financially successful in life if being a squeaky wheel was something I was remotely good at. But I'm not a squeaker, I'm a WD40 kinda guy.
For today's How to Tuesday I thought I'd like to apply at little grease to a few little sticking points.
First: Did you know that every dollar that goes to funding the IRS results in a net gain of $6 to the National Budget? That means for every dollar we invest, we get back $6.
And that's just playing by the rules. That's not even having to change a single line of the tax code. Sure it's political suicide to suggest such a thing, but seriously Congress, sneak it past us. Fund the IRS on the Monday after a really good episode of Game of Thrones, we won't even notice.
We're really not paying that close attention.
Second: Close a few loopholes. Not saying all of them (though the first I'd wanna tackle is off-shore tax shelters cause that's being a shitty American, looking at you Apple). I'm saying you get like five people in the room to go over the tax code. Each person has to read out loud a section. The litmus test for cutting any program should be any line that requires the reader to follow up with this question "We really do that? Really? Jesus!"
Third: Speaking of Jesus. And Allah, and Jehovah, Vishnu, Jim Jones, Brigham Young, and L.Ron Hubbard.
I'm not saying they don't provide a service, cause they do. God will provide.
But do they really provide a different service than Starbucks?
Their books don't need to contain nutrition facts, but you gotta admit, religion is nothing but a brick and mortar establishment of the ephemera.
Organized religion is retail.
I'm just saying, food for thought really, that it's in our constitution that the government will not establish any religion, and isn't tax exemption the same as subsidizing, and isn't subsidizing the same as paying for?
Caution though. The Kool-Aid might be cheap, but it's extremely hot.
Fourth: Speaking of really cheap Kool Aid, the age of high fructose corn syrup needs to come to an end. Nixon was pretty much a genius in not only increasing our national food stores, but using government money to keep millions of growers afloat, but world wide distribution is no longer a matter of weeks, it's a matter of hours, we don't need to produce so much stable goo any longer, we can produce actual food.
Fill my dinner plate with the meats of capitalism, and not the socialized system we have now.
It's a thing to consider.
In closing however, all of this is just at the top of my head. As I said earlier, the tax code is not perfect, nor is it fair, nor is it remotely fixable in my lifetime, but I do get to vote.
Which gives me the right to complain.
However quietly I choose to do so.
Squeak.
Modern Art
Orange on white canvas, though I'm sure having some historical significance, or whatever, just isn't all that interesting after the second look.
Sorry Rothko . . . I tried.
And you gotta feel a bit bad for modern artists because now . . . no matter what they do . . . or what medium they choose to work in . . . they're just lumped in with everything else deemed modern.
They can't be impressionists any longer.
They can't be romantic, rococo, or baroque.
They can't even be abstract.
Nope. They're all modern now.
Whatever that means.
It kinda reminds me of how everything post Nirvana at the record store got shipped off to the "Alternative" section.
There was a time when Blondie and The GoGo's were considered Punk. Now nothing is punk if it's not indicative of The Ramones.
Or The Sex Pistols
Or The Clash.
It's all pop/rock now.
Or Indie. Which is just a nice way of saying that it doesn't sell very well and is only recognizable to your younger sister's creepy boyfriend.
Though I guess a better example of lumping stuff together is the ubiquitous 'World' music. Simply anything that's not from America or Britain and sometimes Canada.
Imagine writing country songs in Lithuania and being told that the section of the record store your albums are to be placed in is the thin dusty "World Music" shelf, simply because you were born in the wrong hemisphere.
How do you get your albums in the country section?
Move to Nashville.
Anyway,
Back to modern art,
It helps sometimes to read the description of each painting because even if you don't get the artist's view, at least you can get the curator's conception of what the piece was/is about and you can feel a little less stupid.
Though . . . that's not always right.
Take the painting above.
It's called "The Vampire"
or is it?
I sure thought it was. My wife and I found this painting hiding in a corner of the Metropolitan Museum of Art back in the spring of 2001 while trying to use cocktail napkins to clean the dye that was running off my new leather jacket.
We immediately fell in love with the painting and I found a print of it later that year which is now hanging above our dining room table.
A friend asked about it and I love when that happens because I get to launch into a much more detailed version of that story than I just told.
Then a curious thing happened.
I mentioned that the red-head in the painting was the vampire, and my wife, who I've been virtually glued to for 15 years, corrected me.
No . . . it's the man who is the vampire. Look at his face, he's all pale.
That's because the vampire is sucking out all his blood.
Nope . . . you're wrong.
She's clearly the vampire.
Wrong.
This painting has been hanging in various places of our homes since before 9/11 and somehow we've never agreed as to who is who and what is what.
Modern indeed.
Turns out all three of us, me, my wife, the curator at the MET, were all wrong.
The painting is called "Love and Pain."
Edward Munch never explained. There was too much uncomfortable awe and shock at it's unveiling, so it was left to the curators to attempt some kind of story.
The red head in the painting has been variously described as a lover, a prostitute, Munch's sister, and of course (proving that I'm not right, but clearly less wrong than my wife) a vampire.
Clearly less wrong.
The man however, is just a man.
How boring.
How un-modern.
But here's the thing. We love this painting. Not just for it's beauty (and mild creepiness), but for that ability to launch into a good story that is more about US than the painting itself. Now . . . with all this new information . . . it doesn't diminish in flavor at all. Now we get to look at the painting with new eyes, and the story of US gets even richer.
Can't say the same thing about Orange on a White canvas no matter how hard you try.
Sorry Rothko.
Facebook Five
Those who find it on Facebook . . . well . . . there's a problem.
You may have noticed that I haven't posted in a while.
Totally not true.
And you may have noticed at times that you'd get a pop up dissuading you from going to my site. I may not be viral, but I might be contagious.
Anyway, a lot, of weird little bits have been happening. First, my thumbnail pictures weren't going through, then they would go through but they were all blurry, then I was getting tagged with having to a whole bunch of stuff in order to get this blog passed Facebook's security . . . and now . . . well now I can't post directly at all. I can post a link, but that's it.
The link blocks my ads, btw, which I don't see a lot of income from. But a penny is a penny is a penny.
What concerns me is that I have no idea why. I've never received any notice from Facebook about my content, or even a little note that says "Hey . . . cool it with the metaphors."
So since I'm going to be dealing with this all day, I'm gonna make a quick little Friday Five about why Facebook fears me . . .
One: I don't buy their stuff.
They really want to sell me ads to increase 'likes' or promote my website. I get a little bloop at least twice a week telling me I should really do something. I smile at the bloop, and then delete my browser history. Always delete your browser history.
Two: Not enough baby pictures.
I took a lot of baby pictures in my youth's youth. But I try not to share them anymore, because, simply, I don't want you to know what my kids looks like. BTW, he won't fall for that candy bit. He gets enough at home. You'd be better off tempting him with cheeseburgers.
Three: Not enough motivational posts.
I do want you to feel good about yourself, but I'm not gonna tell you to get off your ass while I'm sitting in yesterday's clothes, not having showered since Tuesday, and eating more than my fair share of cheese.
Four: I complain about the wrong things.
I could write an entire satirical essay on the effects of climate change that blames everyone (especially Californians) for not having solar panels on their houses and get three 'likes' while my step-son will post the words 'homework sucks' and he will get seventy-two 'likes' fifteen comments and a scholarship to The University of Arizona for their master's program in social media.
Five: Maybe . . . I am Dangerous
It could happen. I could start a revolution. Think of Jonathan Swift and Thomas Paine and all kinds of writers and thinkers who have changed the world. It's not without precedent, and none of them had dinner recipes.
Anyway. Who knows when and or if the problem can be fixed.
Until then . . . link up . . . I'll get my pennies elsewhere.
TBT: Surrender to the Masters
There's only so much of my silly face with bad hair cuts one needs to post on "Throw Back Thursday" before everyone has gotten the point.
The point being we all had bad taste when we were young.
So instead, each Thursday morning I get up, pour some coffee, and check the web for fun historical facts that happened on this particular day.
It means that not only do I get to play along . . . I also get to cheat. Two of my favorite things.
Anyway, April 9th is my evil-step-mom's birthday. (she's not really evil in any reasonable way . . . way too delightful, but it's much more fun writing 'evil-step mom'. Brings me back to my Disney princess roots, especially since I'll be scrubbing floors later this morning.)
This is also the day that Robert E. Lee surrendered and the American Civil War was officially over.
It wasn't technically over. There was still a lot of fighting going on in New Orleans . . . yet another reason why the world is a better place because of text messaging.
In 143 A.D. Septimus Severus became Caesar of the Roman Empire. It's unclear if he is the great great great great grand uncle of Professor Snape.
Genealogy gets a bit murky in the dark ages.
Also . . . a lot of golf facts.
Along with the portraits of Robert E. Lee, and busts of long dead Caesars, there was Veejay Singh, Phil Mickelson, Tiger Woods, other golfers who's names escape me now. They all seemed to have taken home the Green Jacket on April 9th.
Green Jacket? you ask.
That's right. The prize for winning The Masters Tournament at Augusta.
Happens every first full week of April.
And you don't actually get to keep it if you win.
You have to surrender it the following year.
Which seems cruel to me, but I'm not golfer, so I wouldn't know what to do with a green jacket if I had one.
Other fun facts are that Lee Elder was the first african american to win the tournament in 1975, one year before I was born, and 110 years after Robert E. Lee surrendered.
The first african american to be admitted to the Augusta National Golf Club didn't happen until 1990. They could win the tournament, but they weren't invited to lunch.
They let girls in sometime after that.
Well . . . okay . . . 22 years after that . . . but hey . . . now it's "Lunch for everybody!"
Which I'm pretty sure is a line from the Gettysburg Address.
One of the first girl inductees was Condoleezza Rice (pictured above in her own green jacket). She is the former Secretary of State under George W. Bush, she speaks five languages, including Russian, and is a classically trained and concert ready piano player. (not to mention a scratch golfer)
She ain't no princess and she gets to keep her jacket.
I'm not even qualified to scrub her floors.
And when I said I wasn't a golfer, that wasn't totally true. I do golf. I enjoy golf, though if you say "Golf" over and over you'll start to understand how really weird language is, and if you do it in public, no one will sit next to you on the bus.
Lunch for thought.
I'll even watch golf on television. Which I know sounds even crazier than saying the word 'golf' over and over on a crowded bus, but I find it relaxing to see such a silly thing being taken so seriously. It makes me consider the silliness of all serious things.
I've been trying to get my son interested in golf, but trying to get him interested in something that he's not currently interested in, is like putting a leash on your cat and taking it for a walk. His grandpa (My evil-step-dad) is slowly nudging him in that direction too.
I'm not sure either of us stand a chance.
(And my step dad isn't evil either . . . but . . . you know . . . I'm a princess)
And it's not just for selfish reasons that I want my boy to take up the noble game. He could be really good at it. He's got length, speed, balance, and pretty remarkable hand-eye-coordination. It also happens to be a fact that college scholarships for golfers are some of the least claimed at American Universities.
He's gonna need scholarships.
Cause I'm all outta money.
Which means, even though I'm white and male, no one is ever going to consider inviting me to join the Augusta National Golf Club.
No lunch for me.
There are rules.
But I do have a massive flat screen TV, food in the fridge, and an unscheduled hour between Cinderella-ing the floors and picking up my son from school.
You hear me, Masters Tournament at Augusta? I may not be part of your little game, but I will be watching.
[INSERT DIABOLICAL LAUGHTER]
Chicken Soup for the Existentialist
2 Chicken Breasts
2 Carrots
1/2 Onion
3 Celery Sticks
2 Potatoes
All purpose flour
Olive Oil
Garlic
5 cups of stock (any kind)
Ginger
Parsley
Bread
Now there's nothing quite like a bowl of soup.
Nothing.
Especially on a rainy day.
Of which we've had two.
And I missed the first one.
Anyway, as soon as the rain started coming down I gave my wife several soupy/stewy/chowdery options for dinner. Chili, beef stew, chicken soup. She proceeded to give me several reasons why it should be my choice, and then gave me several reasons why my choice should be chicken soup. I don't know how she does it . . . but she was right both times.
So chicken soup it is.
Or was.
Now growing up as a kid (as if there is any other way) my impression of chicken soup was a salty frothy noodley thing that gets poured out of a can or shaken from a flavor pouch, a little water, a little heat, and you're good to go.
I continue to feel that way. At 38 years old I could still live off of Top Ramen and cold pizza if pressed, which means two things; One, I'm good at being poor, and two, I've never quite grown up. Both of which I'm okay with.
Anyway, there was point in time in which I wanted to learn how to cook things from scratch, both as an intellectual exercise, and to validate all the kitchen training I'd received at my mother-in-law's knee. Chicken soup was high on that list.
The kitchen smell alone is worth every minute, but unfortunately, chicken soup from scratch takes all day, is very messy, and it's one redeeming quality is that you get to say you'd made it from scratch.
There has to be a way to get all the goody goodness of flavor and kitchen smell without so much fuss. And . . . of course there is . . . or I'd be doing something else this morning.
First step is to cut everything up into bits.
Because chicken is so dangerous, I prefer to cut up everything else first and set aside. The onions should be diced thin, as should the carrots and celery. I don't know how you feel about the size of your potatoes, but I like them to be at least spoon sized. I don't want them to break apart and dissolve into the brine too easily. If you don't like potato skin, gold potatoes are best. If you do, red potatoes are even better. Russets are fine I guess whatever.
Once everything is chopped and as far away from the chicken breasts as possible, go ahead and start cutting the meat. For best results, chop the chicken up into little finger tip sized squares. Careful not to cut your own finger tip. If you like big meaty chunks, go ahead, who am I to judge?
If you do not have a garlic press . . . go out and get yourself one. If you're too lazy to do that (and I totally understand) make sure you crush the garlic with the flat side of your knife before chopping up. The reason for this is that the cellular insides of the garlic need to be released and can only do that by being crushed. If you just slice the cloves, you're never breaking the cells and you won't get the full load of taste and aroma.
Okay, heat up your soup pot, add a little olive oil, drop in your crushed bits of garlic, wait for it to smell good. Once it smells good, sprinkle just a bit of flour on to your chicken bits, not enough to coat the pieces, just enough to create a roux that will thicken the texture of the soup come feeding time. Put the chicken in the pot and brown.
Now, in a frying pan, saute the onions until they get translucent then add the carrots and celery until they start to sweat. It's important to cook all this separate from the chicken cause it releases all kinds of aromatic flavortastic goodness. One the veggies are sweating balls, sprinkle a few bits of ginger root (if you got it, powder if you don't) add them to the chicken and stir it all around.
You might say "Why ginger?"
And the answer might be "Cause it's awesome."
You'll probably notice that the flour has made little crusty bits on the bottom of your pot and you're a little worried that it will be a bitch to clean later. Don't worry . . . it'll all work out in the end.
Taking Stock: As I said in the ingredients list, you can use any kind of stock you want. Beef might taste a little weird (good weird not bad weird), and vegetable might be a little bland, so the preference is for chicken stock.
You've got lots of options when it comes to chicken stock. First you can make the true stuff. Boiling shit for hours. Try it once and you'll never have to do it again . . . I promise. You can get the high end stock from Whole Foods or your local equivalent, but it'll cost you and, in my humble opinion, it is the least tasty of all the options. You can get the mid-grade stuff at any supermarket (Trader Joes has the best) or . . . you can do what I do, and dissolved two bouillon cubes in some hot water.
It's cheating . . . I know . . . but you're already locked into the fresh ingredients and the cubes have the perfect amount of salty "flavor pouch" flavor. No one will ever know the difference and if for some reason they do, you have my permission to unfriend them forever. You don't need those kinds of people in your life.
Add the stock. Bring to a boil. Lower the temperature and simmer for an hour.
Every few minutes or so, walk out of the house and then walk back in again.
When the whole house smells like heaven, including the garage and the boys' bathroom, it's time to add the potatoes.
Shouldn't take much more than 20 minutes for the potatoes to get soft and you're good to go.
Taste the brine. You want it to be just a hint on the not too salty side. Salt is the kinda thing that people can add themselves. If it's too salty add a half a cup of water and bring back up to a boil.
Set your table.
The table should include salt, pepper, a little bit of fresh parsley, red pepper flakes, and bread. You worked hard on this dish and it's gonna taste like you worked all day, don't leave a drop on your bowl that can't be soaked up with a chewy slice of sourdough.
Ladle into bowls. Serve.
Additions/Substitutions:
Okay, I know y'all are crazy for low fat, zero carb versions of everything, and boy have I got a treat for you.
First, you don't have to add the flour to the chicken. I like it because it gives a thicker texture to the liquid, but the original recipe doesn't have it, so it's just as good without.
Second, you can (and should) replace the potatoes with chopped cauliflower. I think it's so damn good this way, I'm reluctant each time to even bother with the potatoes, but it will tweak the flavor a bit, and sometimes my wife is just not in the mood.
Go figure.
You can also just add water instead of stock if you're watching your salt intake. All the fresh ingredients are there and you can zest it up with just a dab of whatever fresh himalayan pink crystals you got hiding in your cabinet.
Breaks my heart to say it, but you can also skip the bread.
Sad emoticon. : (
Now, since I can't leave well enough alone, I might also suggest adding a few slices of fresh jalapeños that have been soaking in balsamic vinegar while you were cooking the other stuff. Not saying you gotta. And if you don't like spicy then it's not for you . . . but if you want a little heat . . . it's damn delicious.
Damn delicious.
Total time: 2 hours (most of which is sitting on the couch catching up on Justified Episodes)
Servings: Three dinner bowls and two lunch bowls.
Wine Pairing: Buttery white, or soft red.
Number of times your SO will roll their eyes into the back of their head and make soft cooing sounds: At least four.
HTT: How to Alaska
Okay . . . maybe not A LOT of places.
But . . . you know . . . places.
And I've flown on enough airplanes to feel pretty confident in how the whole system works. When to buy tickets, which lines to stand in, how much to pack in my carry on, when the steward is having a bad day, how to keep calm in bumpy weather, how to make a small bag of pretzels last an entire hour, those kinds of things.
But my recent trip with Alaskan Airlines has shown me a whole new level of stuff I'd never even really considered before and, unfortunately, how unprepared a traveler I am.
or was.
I'm better now.
I've learned.
Which is exactly what I thought I might share with you today's How to Tuesday.
Most of you might know some of this stuff. Some of you might know all of this stuff. But the rest of you should probably take notes.
Okay, first things first:
Step One: The Luggage Fee.
Now I haven't been living in a cave the last decade (as I've said . . . I gone places) so I am well aware that some airlines charge a luggage fee. And let me say for the record that I am not wholey against this.
Being an airline is tough. Especially an American one. Not just because we're fat, but because our airlines are not subsidized by the government. Which is the way we like things. But that creates an unfair advantage for our competition. So be it.
So I can see adding a luggage fee to the price of the ticket. Perfectly reasonable.
I can also see an added fee for extra luggage. My opinion being that if you can't travel without your entire wardrobe, you should either stay home or be penalized for being indecisive. I'm really sorry for those of you with young children (in more ways than one, cause I've been there), but I didn't drag my son on a plane until he was 8 years old, for that very reason.
So I can honestly say I was a little shocked that a modest bag for two people for three days, cost an additional $25. Had I seen such a charge when I bought the ticket . . . I would not have thought twice about it. And . . . if the idea is to offer a discount to those who don't require luggage for their trip . . . great . . . I still would have paid the extra $25 because I really hate dealing with unwieldy carry-ons.
But to be surprised at the check-out counter was just mean spirited. And what's worse is the look of shame on the faces of employees, who probably gets yelled at by every third customer who walks up and is blindsided with hidden fees.
Remember . . . I DO NOT MIND paying for what I'm paying for. I'm a firm capitalist, damn it. You got something. I want it. You tell me how much. I pay for it. You give it to me. If you need to charge me a shipping fee . . . fine. Just let me know. How exactly is that confusing?
Speaking of confusing . . .
Step Two: Checking In
Now . . . let us say that you're not bringing any luggage with you. Why should you have to wait in line at the checkout place when you can easily go online and check in and hour or even a day ahead of time? No reason. So now you can do so.
I think that's pretty neat.
But let's say you are bringing luggage. Okay . . . well . . . you're gonna have to wait in line anyway, so why bother checking in ahead of time?
Because . . . and I can't for the life of me understand why this is a thing . . . because the airlines overbook their flights.
Right.
Because they have exactly 120 tickets to sell, so they sell 125.
No shit.
Again . . . I don't live in a cave . . . I've heard the word "StandBy" before. But . . . I just kinda logically thought it was one of those things that came with trying to purchase the 121st ticket.
Like . . . we've got no more room . . . but there are always late minute cancelations . . . so you give us money and we'll put you on "StandBy."
This is not the kind of ticket I would purchase because I don't trust my luck with that sort of thing but I can see the allure.
But that's not what that means.
Apparently they sell 125 tickets and the first 120 to "Check In" get seats, and the remaining five are put on "StandBy"
What "StandBy" means is that the airline will do their best to find you an alternate flight . . . or . . . give you a credit for 400% of the price of your ticket (probably to soften the blow that your three day vacation just got ruined and you can't recoup the Hotel room or the new pair of walking shoes.)
But a credit? Not a refund . . . a credit.
Now since I will never be flying Alaskan Airlines again unless my child's life depends on it, WTF am I gonna do with a 400% credit? That's like going to your insurance company after your car was totaled and them sending you a See's Candy Gift Certificate instead of a check.
I mean . . . it's a nice gesture and all . . . but who's gonna use $15,000 worth of mediocre chocolate?
(reading that . . . I take it back . . . I know exactly who)
But still.
So because we didn't check in online, we were put on standby. We were also told that the soonest flight would require a lay-over in Los Angeles and get us to Portland in twelve hours. (More than it would take to drive there), or we could wait until the next morning.
I was a bit torn. My whole vacation was ruined, but I felt such painful empathy for the people who work for a company with such a ridiculously shameful system.
We were told to chill out and cross our fingers.
Which . . . oddly enough . . . worked.
Step Three: Turns out that if there is a mechanical failure in the engine of the plane your were planning on boarding, it's a really good thing, if you've been placed on standby.
I wouldn't have though so either . . . but there it is.
See . . . if a flight is delayed because of mechanical failure then the poor poor staff has to work very diligently to reroute the passengers who have connecting flights elsewhere. Like . . . if your destination is Hawaii and the connecting flight is in Portland, but you're obviously gonna miss it, the staff will find you another way to get to Hawaii on time.
Which is awfully nice of them.
I mean . . . in any other universe . . . it would be a logical expectation . . . but remember . . . we're dealing with the kind of people that would sell 125 tickets for 120 seats.
Asshat douchebags.
Anyway . . . thanks to the fact that the plane, whose seats we had already paid for in full, had engine failure that was going to delay people by at least an hour, space was made for us.
And we only ended up being an hour behind schedule.
Yay.
Step Four: Finding out why it takes an hour and a half to get to Portland from Sacramento, when it only takes 45 minutes to fly to San Diego.
Because . . . you're not flying on a jet.
Your flying on a propeller plane.
I shit you not.
Indiana Jones style propeller plane.
Dun da Dun Dun
Dun da Dun
Exciting really, but there are a few things you need to know.
Step Five: Things you need to know about flying in a propeller plane.
First it's bumpy. You not flying as high and you're essentially strapped to a tube connected to the engine of a rebuilt Dodge Dart.
Second . . . that shit is loud. Like 'sitting next to the speaker of a Metallica concert' loud.
Thirdly . . . it's small. So that carry-on bag that you thought would fit in the overhead compartment . . . won't. Expect delays, banging, and a flurry of foul language.
Still . . . it's exciting.
Step Six: The return flight.
Okay . . . so you've been through it all before. You did the online check-in the day before so you have an actual seat, you've got the $25 cash for your luggage, and you're emotionally prepared walking out onto the tarmac and stepping into a Volkswagen Bus that is going to somehow be driven at 30,000 feet about the ground . . . you're good to go.
Feel free to enjoy the complimentary five ounce beer.
You've earned it.
Play Date
It certainly wasn't a part of my generation.
We were given bicycles and told to go outside. If there was a park near-by, that was nice. If not, then there was usually some kind of cul-de-sac, or creek bed, or parking lot with which to find find some kind of juvenile entertainment. If we got thirsty there were garden hoses everywhere, if we had to pee, there were trees.
Another reason why it's tough being a girl.
At some point, and I'm not necessarily blaming the Reagan Administration, but at some point, outside became dangerous. Unsupervised activity led to terrible terrible things. No longer was the worst case scenario scraped knees and head lice . . . no no no . . . now there are kidnappers and pedophiles and drunk drivers and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Not to mention internet porn.
A parent would be crazy to allow unscheduled activity, but we also know, cause we've read all the books, that 'unsupervised' activity is is the cornerstone to raising children to understand their place within the social hierarchy.
Play is good.
Play is important.
Play is essential.
But how to we instill a sense of youthful exploration while ensuring our progeny never leave our sight?
Enter The Play Date.
We meet up with friends, coworkers, fellow Jesus-ists, or Facebook connections who have children that are roughly the same age as our own. We set the parameters, make sure there aren't any potentially lethal objects around (like sticks or dirt), and talk about the weather with the adults while still keeping one eye, or even one parent on savior duty.
At least I think that's how that goes.
I don't know.
I'd never been invited to one.
We just happened to luck out that our particular cup-de-sac was filled with age appropriate children running around in packs and a police officer across the street who parks his cruiser in such a way as to be pretty intimidating if you happen to be a bad guy.
I got my son a bike and told him to go outside.
An exception was made that he was allowed to come back in to pee, and juice boxes are readily available, but aside from that, he gets to grow up pretty much the same way I did.
I think that's good.
I hope that's good.
Won't really know for another twenty years.
Anyway, I'm not necessarily poo-pooing the play date . . . because there's a flip side.
Maybe, just maybe, it's not about the children at all. It's probably really about the parents. Adults need some unsupervised activities too.
Once that bald little head starts crowning, you (and hopefully your partner) are sentenced to a virtual island only accessible by pontoon boat.
It's not that you've lost all of your friends and family, it's just that everyone you know isn't anywhere near your level.
The people in your life who have been through it, become smug and condescending.
The people who haven't . . . couldn't give a flying fart.
You got each other (hopefully) . . . and that's it.
And for two years you're not even in the same arena. It's tag team time, but then slowly, cautiously, you're able to relax a bit, drop your guard, maybe even lock your bedroom door.
And then comes that moment when you realize that you haven't spoken in full sentences for the better part of the year because you and your wife have so many inside jokes and recognizable looks that you don't remember how to communicate in full sentences.
We need play dates just to feel human.
I recently found out that some close friends are moving to a house that is super close to ours.
And I'm like over the top super excited.
Sure we would get together a few times a year, wine tastings, the occasional birthday party, but now we get to say things like "Hey . . . I made too many pork chops . . . you wanna come over for dinner?"
Casual, whatcha doing?, unscheduled, unsupervised play dates.
Without all the scraped knees and head lice.
And with beer.
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