Friday, May 12, 2006

I Don’t Believe in... or It’s Just a Story

Yesterday OurDad made me cry. He said I was killing fairies, and he wouldn’t stop.

I was trying to get ready for school, and I couldn’t find the bookmark for my book called The Trouble with Tink. You know, Tinkerbell. I like Tink, but she is a fictional character.

“Maybe Tink stole it, she is a sneaky fairy”, OurDad said. All I wanted was help finding my bookmark, but as with all things to do with books OurDad has to analyze it to death, or point out the “true meaning” or worse play up some theme.

“Tink didn’t steal my bookmark because she isn’t real.”

“Ohhhh,” cried OurDad clutching his chest like he was having another coronary, “don’t say that! You know what happens every time you say that.”

“Stop it. I can’t find my bookmark. You probably stole it. Fairies aren’t real,” I said still leafing through the pages of The Trouble with Tink looking or the bookmark.

“Ohhhh,” he cried again now dropping to his knees and still clutching his chest, “I order you to stop killing fairies.”

“No you stop!” I said back and opened my backpack to look for it in there. There are no such thing as FAIRIES!”

Now OurDad stood up and pretended to be angry. “You stop that right now or there won’t be any Tink to read about.”

“I just want my bookmark before I miss the bus, and I don’t believe in fairies.

He clutched his chest again, “Ahhhh, don’t say that, he cried in totally fake agony. Then I let him have with a chorus of I don’t believe in fairies. I don’t believe in fairies.” He writhed in agony, and I thought, my, that rolls of the tongue so smoothly like someone really thought it out like a poem or a song.

Then he stood back up towering above me and roared “STOP KILLING FAIRIES!” He was jabbing his finger at me. He was so mad and for real. I dropped my backpack and it spilled on the floor, and out poured papers and pencils I hadn’t seen before.

“But fairies aren’t real,” I whimpered, my eyes getting all watery. He didn’t have to yell at me.

“AHHH There goes another one. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, and if the man who created Sherlock Holmes believed in fairies that should be good enough for you.” I started going through the things on the floor, but I still didn’t find the bookmark.

“Dad, please stop it,” I asked. “They’re just stories,” I said as I put the Trouble with Tink into my backpack.

“Oh so just because they are in stories you don’t believe in them. Fine go ahead kill them, but first think about a world with no Tinkerbell or no Captain Holly Short. Two strong female characters, actually they are the same character. You should admire them, but no, you’re trying to kill them.”

“Dad, They are just stories.”

“Oh, so now you don’t believe in stories”

“No, I just don’t believe in—“

“Don’t say it! Don’t you get it fairies are the hope, and dreams of magic and miracles and mysteries,” he said waiving his arms around like he was trying to do magic himself.

“Dad, they don’t even want us to know they exist.”

“That’s because you’re trying to kill them.”

Just then I heard a rumbling and colossal bouncing coming up our potholed street. “Dad! My bus!” I screemed slinging my backpack over both shoulders and running for the door.

He stood at the door behind me waving as I ran down the street to my bus stop and said, “have a good day sweetie, and please don’t kill anymore fairies.”

“I won’t," I yelled back.

I still haven’t found my bookmark and I’ll have to start reading Tink from the beginning again, and I almost missed the bus all because he wanted to argue about fairies.

That’s OurDad.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Cinco de Mayo

In our house we are very serious about our language. No, not English. I mean swear words. If some one says the S word they get a warning, even OurDad. Same for the D word. “Stupid and Dumb are mean and hurtful words.” However, they do sometimes apply like on Friday night. We usually go out to eat on Friday nights, and everyone takes turns choosing where we go. But some choices are just stupid, and it’s dumb that we can’t go to MacDonald’s or Burger King on Friday nights. Well, this Friday it was Cinco de Mayo, and OurDad insisted on eating Mexican. We argued, and I got in trouble for saying it was stupid to celebrate Mexican Independence in America, ok the US. But it is stupid.

When we go to the restaurant, the one where the authentic Mexican band sings Ole Ole a lot, it was packed. We were saved we thought. There were people shoulder to shoulder on the deck and cars parked across the street in a vacant lot. Great Mom started to crack, “it doesn’t look like Mexican was such a great idea, hun.” Dhuu, it was OurDad’s idea, and it’s Cinco de Mayo.

OurDad insisted, “I’ll just run in and see how long a wait to get a table.” With the place looking totally packed Great Mom figured it was safe and let him go. We weren’t so sure. You have to understand that if OurDad wants to eat somewhere he’d wait till we all starve for a table. A hostess could tell him 45 minutes, and he’s come back to the car saying, “lets go, they can seat us right away.”

“We’re really hungry, now.” the Boy Child and I claimed hoping Great mom would take our side. No luck he was gone. This place was bursting with bodies, and Great Mom thought we were safe from even OurDad’s determination.

When OurDad came back claiming, “hey we’re next on the list.” I thought it was a clever new lie, and I couldn’t believe Great Mom fell for it, but he was telling to truth. The place was packed, but they had a table for us because it was packed with people standing around the bar getting drunk. It was horrible, and I couldn’t believe Great Mom would do this to us. It was the loudest place I have ever been in. Every one was talking, and that Mexican band was playing, Ole Ole over and over. People were even smoking, which makes the Boy Child nearly sick. “We don’t want to eat here,” we screamed, but Great Mom couldn’t hear us. The chips came and even the Boy Child abandoned me, they all stuffed their faces till the food came. I think their chips are stupid.

It was so packed with drunk people they were bumping into us and dancing everywhere when the band played. I don’t know what was wrong with these grownups, but Great Mom and OurDad seemed to think it was just great. Then OurDad tried to get me to Dance, I screamed, “NO WAAAY,” as loud as I could.

When we finally finished eating and got up to leave we had to push our way through stumbling adults to the door. Once we were out on the deck the smoke was gone and we could breath again. The blasting noise and music were gone and I could hear again. There were just a few men left in the chilled air on the deck arguing about birds.

“I don’t give a Fuck about the regular season, the Red Wings are Assholes during the playoffs.

That made up for the whole night. When we got to the car I said, “I heard the F word, and the A word. The real ones!”

It’s not exactly family night on Cinco de Mayo.

That’s OurDad



Sorry about they delay, but OurDad's in-laws were in town. Hiding this blog from Great Mom is one thing, but with Grandma and Grandpa, and Great Grandma here--not a chance.

OurDad is a cyclist, and Great Mom, well let’s say she likes things on the safe side. Between the two of them I can't believe were allowed out of the house without body armor. Anyway, OurDad is a huge helmet proponent. “You never ride with out a helmet!” I could go on with his descriptions of closed head trauma, but it makes me feel nauseous just to think about it. Needless to say, The Girl Child and I always wear our helmets when riding our bikes.

So the other day (Thursday to be exact) OurDad was spotted riding his bike WITHOUT HIS HELMET! Was it just up and down our street to test out a modification or a repair to his to ridiculously over-priced full-suspension mountain bike with hydraulic disk brakes, and carbon fiber components? NO! It was on a major street, Orchard Lake, between 15 mile and 14 mile. When this information came to us, through an anonymous source, we told Great Mom right away. We, all three of us, promptly ganged up on him.

"What were you doing riding on Orchard Lake without a helmet?!"

There was the usual "well, ummm" and a facial combination of sock and guilt. We had miscalculated and struck too hard. Had we come at him more easily he may have tried to deny it. Unfortunately, he didn’t as we had hoped he would. Our source was very reliable and we could have busted him for lying too.

So what was OurDad’s big excuse for breaking the house rule second only to the one involving matches and the stove and BBQ propane tanks and severe beatings? His excuse: “I forgot.” Sure there was a whole detailed story, but I’m not boring you with it. We didn’t even listen to the whole thing, before Great Mom started reciting his closed-head injury lecture, but I got grossed out so she had to stop.

“I forgot”

That’s OurDad

Hooray for Great Mom

Delayed post from Wednesday, May 3

Ok we said that this blog was about OurDad, but today Great Mom made us real proud and somehow OurDad didn’t do anything too bad. It was Great Mom’s big day, and he was on his best behavior. That actually kind of freaked us out; if OurDad's behaving, there's no one to make us look good!

Great Mom ran her first 5K and she ran the whole way! We had fun cheering for her and went out for ice cream afterwards!

Why did Great Mom do this: to get in shape, to accomplish something, or just to get a smaller butt? We're thinking it is some combination weighted toward the butt.

Great Mom has made the following observation about runners: Runners never have big butts. So which is the cause and which is the effect. She's banking on it being that runners have small butts because they run, as apposed to the inverse hypothesis; that they can run because they have small butts.

We think OurDad favors the former hypothesis too. You should have seen him cheering her on.

That's OurDad...

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

The B is Silent?

The GirlChild here. Today I learned it's T-H-U-M-B not T-H-U-M. Thumb, it's one of my spelling words this week. I asked OurDad, "What's this word, thumb?" I said pronouncing the B. Hey how was I to know?

"It's just thumb, like in Tom Thumb" he said giving me a wiggling thumbs up.

"Tom Thumb, who's that?"

"Tom Thumb. He's a guy no bigger than your thumb. It's a classic. In fact it's a fairy story, you'll love it." Oh no, here we go again. All I wanted to know is what's with this letter B in the word thum, but I get yet another trip to Literary Land. OurDad has a PhD in microbiology, and you think he be able to sort out a second grader's spelling list, but no OurDad has to be a literary wannabe too.

"I don't care about Tom Thumb. Why is there a B in this word!," I shouted pointing to the letters T-H-U-M-B on my spelling list.

"Oh, well it's silent," OurDad tells me.

There's silent B's too? I was so depressed. What other silent letters am I in for in the coming years? "Why," I asked, "why is the B silent?"

"It just is." What kind of conformist garbage is that? 'It just is.'

"Well if it's silent, why does it have to be at the end? Couldn't it be B-T-H-U-M, or T-H-B-U-M, or T-H-U-B-M? It couldn't be T-B-H-U-M; that wouldn't make the TH sound."

"It just can. Now just spell them like they are on the list, Ok."

Then I asked him when Great Mom would be home, and he shook his head and started reading his book again. What good is that PhD if he can't even explain my spelling words?

That's our Dad.

Sorry Mom

We’ve been begging Great Mom for months to let us blog about OurDad, but she always says, “The answer’s still, NO.”

Actually the first time we asked she said, “What’s a blog?” When we explained she laughed a lot, then she realized we were serious. That’s when we made the mistake of showing her a few blogs, and we got banned from using the computer for a month. “

“No! The way your father plays around on the internet he’s bound to find it sooner or later, and then... well, do you really want him to know what we say about him when he’s not around. It would ruin all the fun.”

She had a point, “But why should we keep it all to ourselves?”


However, today he did something so “OurDad”, N-O or not, we took it as a sign. Like Great Mom’s gonna find out; she can hardly find her email.

So here goes:

I’m Boy Child (5/16/96) and I’m Girl Child (7/2/98) some of our posts will be from me and others will be from me, and some by the both of us, but they will all be about OurDad.

OurDad is great when he’s not driving us crazy, or embarrassing us, or making us do homework (even during summer), or worst of all trying to fill our heads with literary classics. Keep that Emily lady and that creepy Poe guy to yourself. We don’t care what you think of Shel Silverstein. We like him. And we don’t care if you’re from Missouri we’re not reading Huck Finn. We were born in Michigan, and we’ll keep reading Johnathan Rand’s chillers.

Usually OurDad is just driving us crazy and no one gets hurt, but today, oh boy, it was really embarrassing. We’re glad we weren’t there to see it, and that, luckily, no one got hurt. It was so bad in fact that we didn’t even tell Great Mom—which is usually the first thing we do when she gets home from her executive job with an automotive supplier. That is if we don’t call her cell phone first. “We’ll tell mom” are the three most powerful words spoken at our house.

This year summer has started early for OurDad, because some full-timer at the CC where he teaches biology decided they wanted the overload pay and took his class so he’s not teaching the summer I semester. Now, you’d think that with “nothing” to do his mind would be clear enough to get through a day without the aforementioned driving us crazy and embarrassing us ect. But with nothing to focus his thoughts—it’s worse. We hate summer for this very reason. While our friends are all way at camp, we get “Dad Camp”—his name not ours. For the next few weeks, thank God we’re still in school, but Great Mom is a nervous wreck—sure that OurDad will burn the house down while he’s home all alone with “nothing” to do. We think that’s why she’s letting him work on his project at the library.

That’s where he was headed today when it happened. He’s on his way to the library at the same time the middle school kids are getting out for the day. Nice early start there dad. Busses all over the neighborhood, but that shouldn’t stop him, his head off in Literary Land. As he approached the entrance to our subdivision there was a bus stopped-- flashing red lights and that red octagon flap open with the letters S-T- O and P. Never mind all the visual cues, but the honking horn and screaming bus driver brought him back from Lit Land in time to slam the brakes and stop before passing the entire length of the bus, and before, any kids were actually crossing the street. A bus full of kids staring, the bus driver screaming, and some nosey neighbors looking out their windows to see just who was trying to mow down the middle schoolers. The kids got off the bus, and crossed the street, behind his truck, he watched the bus roll away in the rearview and he drove on. Definitely one for the embarrassing column.

That’s OurDad.

A tad anticlimactic you say? This was just his first day home alone! Sorry, Great Mom, but we’re not going to make it through this summer without telling someone what we’re in for at the hands of OurDad. And frankly, if we tell you, you might have a stroke, and then we’d be left with absolutely no parents what so ever.

He’s OurDad, but we love him.
Boy Child
Girl Child