Girls in the Mist

After 48 years on this planet I’ve learned two firm and undeniable rock solid facts when it comes to the female of our species. Fact #1: I thank god every day that I was not born a woman. Fact #2: If I live another 48 years I wont find another hard fast, all encompassing fact about all women.

After studying women and their female offspring in their natural habitat these past 28 years, much like Jane Goodall, I have been able to decipher the actual meaning behind bits and pieces of their often confusing and secret language. What I’ve learned during my observations is not a hard and fast set of communication criteria, but more of a general guide line… a set of basic phrases and key words that can give the males of our species a clue as to the actual hidden meaning of these often misleading statements. I’ll highlight key caution words and phrases. For example:

Your wife/girlfriend is getting dressed for your evening out and you innocently ask her when she’ll be ready to leave… If her response is “Five minutes” you might as well open a beer, turn on the TV and catch up on the Flintstones marathon because she’ll be a while. In this context… five minutes in female dressing time is roughly 30 – 45 minutes in real time.

Now here’s where it gets tricky.

Let’s say your watching the end of the Colts game on Sunday and your wife/girlfriend is ready to leave for dinner at her parent’s house, and she says it’s time to go… your response “sure babe… just five more minutes so I can catch the end of the game”.  She’ll probably smile begrudgingly and then look at her watch… the clock is running. Five minutes now means five minutes.

Now lets say the game goes into overtime… this could mean the play-offs.

“I’ll tell you what babe,” you say with your best puppy dog eyes. “You go ahead and I’ll catch up as soon as this is over.”  A seemingly reasonable request.

Her response… a loud, very audible sigh.

In women speak this IS an actual word, but as men we mistakenly interpret this as a form of non-verbal communication to mean, “OK… I concede”.  What it really means is; she thinks you’re a knuckle dragging, nose picking idiot and she’s wondering when you’re going to extract your head out of your hairy, ape like ass, stop arguing with her and get in the car so she can finish her make-up in the vanity mirror on the way to her mom and dads. 

Now… to further emphasize her displeasure, she’ll stand by the door ready to leave with arms folded, keys rattling, toes tapping impatiently as she tries to glare a hole through your thick skull, waiting for you to join her in this weekly journey.  As your attention and focus returns to the excitement of the game she barks  “What Ever” as she slams the door behind her.  What she really said…. “FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!”

It’s 45 minutes later and you arrive at her parents house, happy and content that your favorite team is in the play-offs. You, with your keen relationship sense, have derived that something is amiss with your partner because she has not spoke to you or even acknowledged your presence since your arrival.

“What’s wrong babe?” you ask. Actually having no clue what the problem is.

“Nothing” she says. This, my friends, is the calm before the storm. Nothing means something. So, unless the next words out of your mouth are “I’m sorry”… even though you have no idea what to be sorry for, you should get your guard up because the argument is about to begin.  

You plead your case… big game…play-offs… made it in time for dinner… no harm no foul… thought you were cool with it… super bowl… etc.

“Fine”. She says.

You lose. This the word women use to signify that the argument is now over, she’s right and you need to stop talking. When you hear this word… stop talking. 

Now… lets take this one final step further… lets say you don’t read my blog and are therefore unable to heed my sagely advice… so you continue to argue with your mate even though you don’t have a snowballs chance in hell of winning this one.

“Look… I don’t know what the big deal is… Why don’t I just go home and give you time to cool off!” You respond in hopes of ending the argument with some dignity in tact.

 “Go Ahead.” She says. This is not permission or submission… This is a dare… no… a DOUBLE DOG DARE! Don’t fall for it.  If you leave… stop by the store and pick up some hand lotion and Kleenex… because you’re going to need them.

Also beware of the phrase “That’s Okay”. This is another one of the most dangerous two word sentences uttered by the female of our species. It means she plans on thinking long and hard before deciding how and when you’ll atone for your mistake.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll do it” is another “red flag” statement, meaning this is something that she has told you to do several times, but is now doing it herself.  This will later result in you asking, “what’s wrong”… She'll respond "Nothing!" then you can just follow the progression of events in the above paragraphs.

And then there’s “Thanks” Consider the tone and context that this word is said in. If it is said with a soft and pleasant tone, do not question it, or faint, just say you’re welcome.  If it is said in a hard and sarcastic tone or is stated, as “Thanks a lot” do not, under any circumstances, say, “You’re welcome”. Doing so will evoke the dreaded “What Ever” response.

I hope this information is helpful to those masses still struggling to bridge the communication gap between the genders. I, myself, will continue to monitor and record their strange rituals and interaction among others of their kind in an effort to uncover more mysteries and their meanings.

For now, I’ll sit in my corner and listen for those all-important key phrases… my lotion and Kleenex at the ready.   

                                                                        MoFo

Wet Spot

I bought my first boat the summer of 1981; shortly after I graduated high school… well, to be more accurate, I bought half of a boat. A good friend of mine, Jim Farbauch, also liked the prospect of boat ownership, so he jumped head first into the deep and murky financial waters along side of me… each of us hoping that the other could keep their fiscal head above water. After a lot negotiation (yes… even back then) and $250 down payment from each of us, we both signed our young lives away and became the proud owners of a 17-foot, 1976 Rinkerbuilt tri-hull runabout.

We never really considered the possibility that joint ownership of such a highly treasured toy could capsize our friendship; forethought was not one of our strongest attributes. Frankly, we were both shocked that a bank would loan two 18 year old kids $4500 to buy a boat… what were they thinking… so we took the money and ran.

Neither one of us had much nautical experience. The closest I’d come to piloting a sea/lake going vessel was on family vacations when we rented a houseboat on Dale Hollow Lake. After endless hours… sometime days of pestering my Dad, “can I drive now?” I would finally wear him down to the point that it was either kill me and throw me over board, or let me drive… those were the only ways he was going to get me to shut up. Since my presence, or lack there of would probably be noticed… I was eventually allowed to pilot the boat in the middle of the lake as we were moving from cove to cove. Although we were only moving at about 4 miles an hour and the closest land was at least 500 yards on either side of the boat, I thought I was the king of the world. (Screw Leo)

Jim’s maritime familiarity made me look like Captain Nemo. He had once been on a relatives boat… once… that and I think he still played with toy boats in the bathtub… that was the total of his experience.

So, after the salesman gave us a quick 30 minute tutorial on the tiny test lake at “Just Add Water” boats on how to launch and load our boat, we hooked the vessel to the back of my Jeep and were off.

After dropping Jim off at his parents’ house so he could get a trailer hitch installed on his car, I drove straight to my girlfriends’ house to surprise her and show off my new aqua acquisition.

As I turned into the driveway I noticed my girlfriend, Kim Martin, was sunbathing on a chaise lounge chair in front of her parents’ garage. What a day I was having… Boats AND Bikinis! Since my arrival was not expected, she deemed her Tropicana suntan lotion cover body, cheap sunglasses and disordered hair unfit for my viewing pleasure and quickly darted inside the safety of her home and away from my hormonal gaze… although, apparently her configuration was good enough for the hundreds of cars that had passed by her driveway during the past few hours as she lay basking in the afternoon sun.

As I awaited her re-emergence, I spent the majority of the next hour talking to her father, who was genuinely excited about my purchase as I demonstrated and explained the various features of the boat. When Kim finally appeared to inspect my vessel, I asked her quite proudly “What do think?” 

Now… The scenario that had played out in my mind as I was driving over was something like this… her jumping up and down and saying “Oh my god… that is so cool! When are we going to the lake!?! Do I have to wear a top?”

What actually happened was; with less than moderate enthusiasm she replied, “It’s OK I guess”.  Needless to say, this was not the reaction I was looking for.

“Well… we’re leaving for the lake early in the morning” I said. “I’ll be by around 8 to pick you up”

“I’m not going to lake tomorrow!” she replied.

Again… not exactly the response I was expecting.

Jim and I, along with a few friends, spent the next two days on Lake Monroe acclimating ourselves to our new toy. We had an amazing amount of fun enjoying the boat, our friends, beer and “other” stuff we brought… but the entire weekend,  it bothered me that my girlfriend didn’t want to spend the day with me on my new boat… I mean I had a boat! Really… so I broke up with her as soon I we returned to Indy. Nice guy, huh?

That summer I spent every available opportunity camping and boating on Lake Monroe with my friends. 

I later found out that she really wanted to go, but felt a little self-conscious about being around a me and a bunch of friends that early in the summer…. She didn’t feel like her tan was “bikini ready”.

Four boats and twenty-five years later, my old girlfriend has no problem going to the lake with my friends and me… and my wife doesn’t mind if she comes along… because they are one and the same person. Every Tuesday you can find “Big Red” tied up along side of our friends boats (none of which have seen fit to “officially” name their boats) at Allen’s Creek (party cove) on Lake Monroe.

I’ve always been a big fan of Celebrity and Crownline boats. I like their deep V hull design with the tall interior side walls and large built in cooler in the floor… in fact it took over two years of searching in order to find our current boat, a 96 Celebrity 220 BR.

Every year I find something I’d like to add or replace on our boat. I rebuilt the small block 350 engine two seasons ago to give me a little more power, installed new trim tabs last season to help get her big ass out of the water (that’s the boat’s ass… no reference to anyone living or dead) and replaced the braking system and bunks on the trailer. At the end of last season I expressed to my wife that I was thinking of doing a total remodel on our boats interior, after all, she was the one who repeatedly remarked how much she liked the interior design of my nephews Malibu boat.

“That sounds expensive. Why we don’t we just get a new boat?” Kim asked.

Now, if she had said that phrase to me the year before, the word “boat” would still be lingering in the air, echoing off the walls in our family room while me and my truck were leaving tire marks in the street and a wet spot in my shorts… happily on our way to shop for a new boat. Although the idea of having a new boat with the latest and greatest stuff was really appealing, the thought of the $60k plus price tag that went along with it made me cringe… especially for a toy we would only get to use 4 months of the year.

So I did a little research, took a lot of pictures at the boat show, and eventually came up with a design I liked.  Then… I removed everything from the interior of our boat… the seats, carpet, the floor, side panels… everything except the steering wheel and the gas tank.

The rebuild went smoothly. In place of carpet I used a new vinyl floor covering that is made for boats… looks amazing, doesn’t stain nor hold water like carpet. That means no musty smell and no mold during storage. I made sure we have uber storage, and of course an ear splitting, teeth rattling sound system. We went from cramped seating for 8 to comfortable seating for 12-14.

Kim said no one needs 15 cup holder in a boat. Now she realizes that we don’t have 15 cup holder… we only have about 5 or 6 cup holders… we have 9 or 10 cell phone/sunscreen/ear ring/make-up/head band/sunglass holders.

The only glitch in the make-over was with the person who did the upholstery work. She took 3 times longer than she said it would and tried to charge me $2000 more than her quote. She finally finished everything 2 days before we left for vacation on Dale Hollow Lake. It took 12 solid, pain in the ass hours to get everything back together. Turned out fantastic.    

Would I do it again…sure. Is there anything left to do? Next year I think I’ll have the trailer Rhino lined red to match the boat. Then I’ll be done for a few years.

There’s an old saying… the two happiest days in a boat owners life are the day he buys his boat, and the day he sells his boat. Well… I guess I’m not just a boat owner… I’m a boater.  The only way that expression would apply to me would be in the reverse… the two happiest days in a BOATERS life are the day he sells his boat, and the day he picks up his newer, bigger boat.

So until that happens, I’ll enjoy the lake, the warm water, hot sun and cold beer with my family and friends aboard “Big Red”.  See you on the lake. 

MoFo 

Man Made Valentine

When ever I hang out with my grandson you can count on a few things happening… video games being played, an extraordinary amount of wrestling and play fighting, a lot of laughing and more than a few “NO!!! You’re a guurrrlll”. If you weren’t aware, that is the ultimate insult to a soon to be 4 year old boy… “You’re a girl”… “You throw like a girl”… “You hit like a girl”… and any similar phrase that questions his masculine standing… and of course threatening to paint all of his toys pink… that one always gets him fired up.  

I look forward to spending more “guy” time with the only male in my lineage, so far, teaching him about the things that men do. I will confess that most of the men in my younger years were no more than a generation or two from being raised barefoot and hayseed. My mom’s family is from Tennessee and my dad’s folks hail from Kentucky. (Insert your own redneck joke here) To say my upbringing was colorful would be an understatement.

As a young man, my grandfather chose as his profession the exciting world of manufacturing and distributing corn whiskey (moonshine) throughout central and northern Kentucky beginning around 1915. This was a somewhat common vocation where he was from and he regaled me with the stories of his life in the Kentucky hills as I sat on the edge of my seat at my grandparents’ dinner table. The accounts he told were a point of history, things that had happened in his youth and were required at the time in order to support his family and nothing to be ashamed of.  

In 1918 he was forced to flee to Indiana to avoid prosecution by the revenue service. Once in Indiana and safe from the threat of incarceration, he settled down on the south side of Indianapolis and began a family. At some point and time after his arrival to Indy, he became an acquaintance of the notorious bank robber John Dillinger.  My grandmother alluded to the fact that my dear old granddad had criminal tendencies, but she quickly cured him of those inclinations through the loving influences that only women possess. Although that part of his tale was never elaborated on by neither him, or my grandmother, regardless of how much I pried. Like I said… Colorful.

For the first 11 years of my life I spent practically every weekend and the majority of my summers with my grandparents. They lived in a modest farmhouse on Mann Road, just past Southport Road on Indy’s southern boundry. Their small family farm sat at the base of a large wooded area locally known as Mann Hill, where motorcycle hill climbs were held in the 40’s and 50’s.  Currently, there resides a baseball/softball complex atop the property I roamed as a child and a golf course has consumed a vast majority of the woods and hills where I played.

My grandfather taught me about hunting and fishing, how to care for his gardens and animals. He gave me my first horse and trusted me to properly care for her, even at my young age, but his greatest lesson taught was self-reliance. He passed away in 1974. I still miss him to this day.  

My uncle Augie Newkirk taught me and my cousins the fine art of poker and other games of skill and chance. Many nights…  me, my brother Jesse and my cousins Richie and David would sit around his kitchen table, each with our jars of pennies, nickels and dimes, and fight a loosing campaign against our older and more battle tested opponent in such games as draw, stud and hold’em.  The night would always end the same way for us kids… each of us poorer, but slightly wiser… and our uncle would buy us all Mickey and Bill’s pizza… with what used to be our money.

My dad taught me about cars and their care and maintenance.  It was ultimately up to me to repair or replace malfunctioning systems and components if I wanted to remain mobile. He would point me in the right direction, give me guidance and advise, but always require me to do the vast majority of the work.  He also taught me the art of negotiation. That the first offer was just that, an offer, a place to start from. Haggling was an art form, and he was a master.

We can add to this list the many coaches I’ve had throughout my life who taught me teamwork and sportsmanship. Who spent countless hours in the hot sun pounding the knowledge of whatever sport was in season past my “Farah Fawcett” hairdo and into my thick skull.  

Then there are Marine Corp Drill Instructors who taught me discipline, honor and a love of country, and my fellow Marines who taught me about loyalty, brotherhood and sacrifice…and an honored handful of brothers who taught me about the ultimate sacrifice.

Someone once told me “A veteran is someone who, at one point in his of her life, wrote a check made payable to ‘The United States of America’ for the amount of ‘up to and including my life.”

All in all… these were lessons in the things men do… sort of a long and complicated “How to” guide. But for all of this training in the manly arts… it’s the women in my life that actually taught me what is was to be a man.

A real man puts the needs of his family and loved ones before his own, much like my mother and wife do. They are always the last ones to sit at the dinner table making sure every ones needs are fulfilled, and the occasional $20 bill always seems to find it’s way into a child needing pocket when dad is not looking. They cook, clean, administrate and maintain… both in the home and out.  They do this out of love, a sense of duty and a fear and knowledge that if they do not do it… it likely will not get done.

A real man tries to look beyond the shortcomings of others, realizing that his wife has done this very task these past 27 years, by putting up with his various schemes and considerable amount of bullshit. She follows him half way across this country and back… more than a few times, and regardless of their address, without her there… it’s not a place he’d call home.

A real man does not know true meaning of unconditional love until he holds each of his four beautiful daughters in his arms for the first time. At that moment he realizes that the word “Love” is too small of a word to even begin to describe what he is feeling… To know that there is a life, four of them in fact, that are far more valuable than your own.

Men teach you the ways of men… but it’s the women in your life that give the title “Man” it’s meaning.  

Happy Valentines Day!

MoFo

Trees

Yesterday marked my 48^th year on this planet. I greatly appreciate all of the well wishes and birthday greetings I received from friends both near and far. Around here, no big party was planned, no expensive presents bought. In fact, most birthdays in our family are no big deal.  We save the big celebrations for the milestones.

Like the first year you can put “teen” at the end of your age… that’s a big deal. It marks the beginning of young adult hood and lets parents know that their child is about to enter a state of temporary insanity for the next 3 to 6 years.

In 1976 the movie “The Omen” scared the hell out me and the rest of the country, Punk Rock was born and the United States of America celebrated its 200^th birthday of independence from British Rule. It was also the year I turned 13, got my first noticeable chest hair and received my first real “Stereo” much to my parents dismay.  

16 is another big one. The most notable reason… it’s the year when you are eligible to get your drivers license. It’s a time when you are permitted to experience the world around you parent free. Even if it is on a limited basis, you’re still unrestricted.

Once acquired, that piece of plastic with your picture on it is your “Ticket to Ride”, you can go solo, do your own thing, be your own person. No longer do you have to endure your parent sitting in the passenger seat wide eyed and white knuckled… stomping on the imaginary break pedal and checking your speed every 10 seconds.  You can come and go as you please… as long as mom and dad say it’s OK.

For me, 16 meant freedom in the form of a 1974 Chevy Nova. I was playing basketball with my friends in the back yard of our house on Davis Dr. when my dad pulled into the driveway. He tossed me the keys and said “I don’t care if you take it out in the middle of the street and burn it… it’s the last car you’ll get from me.”  

The once bright blue paint was beginning to fade along the hood and rust was launching an attack on the metal around rear fenders and trunk lid. It sat atop 4 miss-matched tires and rims, none of which had a hubcap and all but one wheel was missing a lug nut. The in-car entertainment system boasted an AM radio with 4 speakers, with only one working. As for the luxurious interior, it was appointed with a front bench seat that had maybe 14 strands of tattered cloth desperately fighting a loosing battle to keep the foam from escaping its original factory position atop the seat coils. 

It was without a doubt the most beautiful thing I’d seen in all of my 16 years.

At some point in our countries history the great minds of our society gathered together and declared that at the age of “18” you are; old enough and smart enough to vote, strong enough and brave enough to join the military and fight for your country, mature enough and stable enough to move out of your parents home and get married. You can do this all in the same day if you like and without any ones permission but your own.  

On that day, the 18 year anniversary of the day the doctor pulled you red faced and screaming from your mother body and administered your first ass whipping, you are now and will forever be known as an adult. 

But, if you want to legally drink alcohol at your going away to war, kiss me I voted today wedding reception… you’ll have to wait 3 more years.

So that makes 21 “the” birthday. The day when the constraints of your youth are cast aside and the summation of your years of knowledge and experience brings you to this moment in your life. You, my friend, can now legally purchase and consume liquid intoxicants.  Yes, you too will learn first hand the meaning of such phrases as “coyote ugly”, “calling ralph”, “driving the porcelain bus”, “drunk dialing”, “I love you, man!” and “I’ll never drink again”.  

So with all of that being said, 48 was just another birthday. I think we’ll add “50” to the big event calendar… yea… that’s a good round number. We’ll save the big party for that one. After all, that’s half a century… most trees don’t live that long.

MoFo 

Holes...

To quote Joe Pesci’s character Nicky Santoro in the movie “Casino”…

“A lot of holes in the desert, and a lot of problems are buried in those holes. But you gotta do it right. I mean, you gotta have the hole already dug before you show up with a package in the trunk. Otherwise, you're talking about a half-hour to forty-five minutes worth of digging. And who knows who's gonna come along in that time? Pretty soon, you gotta dig a few more holes. You could be there all fuckin' night.”

Unlike Nicky, planning ahead is a concept that seems to be lost on my progeny… a fact that I have become keenly aware of these past few months as my daughters attempt to “Forrest Gump” their way through life.

This lack of forethought and action has spawned all manner of emotions… such as regret for waiting until after the 6 inches of snow has accumulated before you attempt to get your 2 wheel drive mini-van out of your driveway so you can go to the store to buy a snow shovel… or the embarrassment, anxiety and sorrow that is derived from failing to complete the required school assignments and the consequences that their inaction has on a semesters final grade, and the resulting punishment given for those substandard marks… Finally, we have surprise, anger and self-pity… For failing to check fluid levels and preform basic vehicle maintenance and the resulting damage that this neglect causes to your engine and your limited personal finances. In all instances, advice was given prior to the said events, warnings of the consequences for failing to heed said counsel issued… and ignored, and “I told you so’s” distributed.

Unfortunately, their affliction (I believe the medical term is known as “Thick Headedness”) appears to be somewhat genetic. Much like myself when I was their age… My father’s advice almost always feel on deaf ears. I can recall the heated conversations I had with my father when I was a teenager. Many a time I conveyed to my dear old dad how absurd he and his antiquated views on life sounded and how unwelcomed his opinions and advice were.

“You don’t know shit” was my go-to response when he began his incessant rambling about integrity, personal responsibility and pride of a job well done. On occasion I would also use the ever popular “I heard you the first 100 times you gave me this speech”… not out loud, mind you… I happen to enjoy solid food and like my teeth in their natural and unaltered state… but in my head. Inside the steel trap that was my mind...  I really told him what a dumb ass he really was.  

Fortunately for him, over the years I gradually bent him to my will and point of view, until we finally have come to see most things “eye to eye”.  

So I’ll continue to spew my unsolicited sagely advice in the direction of my four daughters, using overtly foreign words like planning, integrity, preparation, effort, commitment, obligation, responsibility, and initiative… receiving in return looks of wonderment and confusion, knowing full well of the tongue lashing I’m getting inside their wise and all-knowing young adult grey matter. After all, what subjects other than lawn care, vehicle maintenance, and electronic gadgetry could a father possibly have any knowledge or experience in?

So remember, the next time advice, solicited or not, is given to you, consider the source. If it’s from someone who has a vested interest in your development as a human being…  then there’s a very good chance that their wisdom was gained from experience... both good and bad.

As for me, I’ll patiently sit here and wait for warmer weather, bluer waters and prepare for the upcoming Zombie apocalypse… So for now, one last word of advice… “You gotta have the hole already dug before you show up with a package in the trunk.”

MoFo