I take my dad's advice to an absurd extreme

When I was about 14, my Dad started teaching me how to drive. Well, he started before that, but not in earnest until I was 13 or 14.

When I was 7, he bought my brother and me a motorcycle for Christmas. My dad could ride a motorcycle before he could walk, which made his up-bringing naturally peculiar, and he assumed that we’d take to it like he did. And oh, I so wanted to. I thought that motorcycles and dirtbikes were amazing. I had dirtbike magazines, and would watch motorcycle movies, and would pretend that my bike was a motorcycle, complete with the joker card attached to my bike with a clothes pin to spank the spokes of my bike. But after my first go on the motorcycle, with my dad perched on the seat behind me, and the front tire blotting out the sun as I popped the most outrageous wheelie after revving it up as high as it would go and spastically releasing the clutch, I never wanted to ride that motorcycle again. My dad was disappointed, to be sure. My big brother had more success, and I didn’t ride a motorcycle until 20 years later.

But that’s a whole ‘nother story. Actually, that’s the whole ‘nother story in its entirety. You’re welcome. But let’s get back to my dad teaching me to drive. It was decided, not by my brother or me, that our Dad would teach us to drive. We loved and worshipped our Dad. The thing is, and this is really a very minor thing, sometimes, and only sometimes, he’d get just a wee bit on the . . . loud side of things. If you ever met him, and many of you have, you’d know he’s a great guy. The salt of the earth. Sure, he’s an ass-kicker (seriously, the guy had two broken arms, and still kicked the crap out of a guy. And you thought that the UFC fighters were tough. They ain’t got nothin’ on my old man), but he’s also one of the most generous souls you’d ever meet. It’s funny when he and my mom are out and about in our home-town. It’s always “Hi, Danny. Hi, Mrs. Martin.” He’s a friendly guy, and my mom was one of three math teachers in the High School, so everyone in town had her as a teacher at some point.

But he would, and really, I hesitate to use this phrase, scream like a little girl during his driving instruction (That’s funny. It didn’t hurt near as bad as I thought it would). Admittedly, we were pretty bad drivers, and it’s likely that he’d scream at us just because he was afraid for his own life. We talked to our mom about her possibly taking over our driver’s education, but she only replied that HER father had taught her how to drive, therefore our dad would teach us how to drive. It was a rite of passage. I’m not sure if it was rite of passage for fathers or kids, but it was a rite of passage, dammit. If I wasn’t going to be bar mitzvahed, the least I could do was be taught to drive by my dad.

We’d go way out in the country, out by the marble quarry, for those familiar with Wheatland, and initially, I’d sit on his lap and steer while he worked the pedals. Eventually, he let me take the driver’s seat, and with white knuckles I would grip the steering wheel, yet somehow still manage to weave from one side of the road to the other. My favorite part of the day was when he took over again, and raced like a bat out of hell back to town, our stomachs dropping as we breached each hill. It was hilarious fun. My brother told me that we actually left the ground, a la the Dukes of Hazzard, but I strongly doubted it, though I never let on. My dad was the mack daddy of drivers.

Being the strange kid that I was, I wasn’t worried about my physical safety while driving, or piloting a few thousand tons of machinery. No, I was worried about driving on an academic level. Specifically, I was worried about steering and applying gas. Not how to do these things, mind you. You just turn and stomp. No, I was literally worried that I would not know how far to turn the wheel to go around a corner, and that I wouldn’t know how hard to step on the pedal to make the car go the speed I wanted it to. I assumed that this was a skill that you learned after years of practice, and that each driver literally thought to themselves “okay, I’m making a 90 degree turn. Therefore, I have to turn the steering wheel 270 degrees at just the right moment” (my mom was a math teacher, and it shows). I didn’t understand that as you’re driving, if your turn isn’t sharp enough, you just turn the steering wheel a little more, or if you aren’t going fast enough, you just apply a little more pressure, or less, depending on the speedometers reading. I eventually mastered the pedal to such an extent that I recently had to take a class in order to keep my license. I thought that you were supposed to collect speeding tickets, like baseball cards. The really good ones are the most expensive. I was wrong. What I really learned after 8 hours of “Blood on the Highway” videos was that it would be a great idea to invest in a radar detector.

But despite discovering how to use the gas pedal, I still had a problem with weaving within my lane. I had it firmly in my mind that your car should stay in its lane and NEVER EVER MOVE. If you started out 1 ½ feet from the center line, then by God, you should be 1 ½ feet from the center line when you are a mile down the road. That never happened for me, though. Swerve, swerve, swerve. Back and forth between the centerline and the line on the shoulder, like a little ping-pong ball.

I told my dad about it, and he gave me a piece of advice that’s stuck with me ever since: “You don’t steer a car. You just aim it.”

That’s some damn good advice. Just aim. It’s so wonderfully Zen, so very Taoist. Such a very long way to get to the point.

I’m a thinker. Scratch that. I’m an OVER-thinker. I usually try to steer when I should just aim. When I was an adolescent, I was such an overthinker that I almost became a hermit. I would analyze any social situation to infinitesimally small pieces of minutia. I went on one date in high school. Carolyn Teter, God bless her, asked me to home-coming one year. I was a horrible date. I’m still grateful to Carolyn though, otherwise I would never have gone on any dates. I couldn’t talk to girls without trying to analyze absolutely everything that was said. I’d take a conversation about anything, and dissect it over and over again in my mind, desperately trying to find a clue that the person I was speaking to was secretly in love with me.

My near-monastic life lead to the rumor that I was gay. I wasn’t gay. Not by a long shot. Oh, if many of you knew how I longed to ask you out. . . But still, wasn’t gay, didn’t really care if you thought I was. I was always surprised at how cavalierly some people would approach me and just ask point blank “Hey. You gay?”

Almost every conversation I entered in high-school had the same theme: I would be thinking about what you wanted, what you wanted to hear, what I should say, and most importantly, the best way to extricate myself from the conversation smoothly. I certainly wasn’t aiming, I was trying to steer those conversations for all that they were worth. And when I was trying to steer, I wanted so badly to be liked that nothing came naturally, and everything was more awkward. It wasn’t until my SENIOR year that I actually made any close friends in high school.

Then I went to college. A fresh start. And I learned to aim a little more and analyze a little less. I was still shy, still overthought most things, but I was getting a little better at just aiming. Just letting life happen without trying to steer it. I got my first girl-friend and my first kiss.

The frustration is, though, when you see those lucky few with auto-pilot. Those people who were simply born on the right trajectory, who seem to ooze confidence and charm out of their pores. I hate their freakin’ guts, but it’s only jealousy. (Truth be told, I think that I have a fair amount of confidence and charm, mostly because I’m awesome, yet humble.) Their seemingly effortless path through life makes me question why my own path isn’t easier, and further feeds my neuroses and over-analysis.

But mind you, this “aim” I’m referring to is merely a way of getting through life without being totally blindsided or paralyzed by the self-doubt that typically comes with over-analysis. Furthermore, thinking in and of itself is not evil. Quite the reverse. Academic thinking is a wonderful thing. And the unexamined life is not worth living, after all. However, when I use the term “thinking” or “over-thinking,” I mean an almost obsessive analysis of a situation that will likely hinder your life rather than shed any light on it.

Unfortunately, my aim at times proved to be a little aimless, and it took me quite a few years to finish my Bachelor’s degree (8!). After working full-time for a while, I started school again and let my aim take over. I took up Philosophy. It’s a lot harder than you’d think, and utterly worthless, but I don’t regret it. My aim was getting a little better. Best of all, I married someone who didn’t mind that I was a Philosophy major. Hooray for my aim! (Yes, Sarah, you were a Bullseye.)

I ended up in Law School. Didn’t plan on it. Just where life took me. In fact, the thing that made me first consider going to Law School was an off-hand remark made by my mother-in-law’s friend about how angry it would make my father-in-law (a doctor) if I went to Law School. (Doctors and lawyers have a natural animosity because they are sadistic butchers while we keep the wheels of society running smoothly.) Yes, I started Law School because of a joke someone made at my father-in-law’s expense. Because I’m me, and think that almost everything is funny, I think that that is absolutely, brilliantly hilarious.

Now, here I am. A lawyer. Not wildly successful, but very comfortable (Of my many (read: few) flaws, being too ambitious has never been one of them. Thinking almost everything is funny, however, is a flaw that I proudly possess.). And I was just described by a client as “cool.” I’m in criminal law, not because I ever planned to be, but that’s where I ended up when I stopped trying to steer.

My over-thinking does still rear its ugly head. Not that that’s a bad thing, but I will never be your Jimmy Buffet parrot-head with a devil-may-care attitude. I will try to continue to aim down life, and realize that I’m just going to have to drag along this insufferable, sarcastic, terribly shy (yes, really) very occasionally insanely neurotic, yet testicle-smashingly handsome person along with me.

I will never conquer my overly-analytical moments. To this day, I still have Sarah read emails and my replies before sending them, just so she can tell me “that person wasn’t implying that you were stupid. And you shouldn’t curse in an email to a Judge.” But, like a toddler boy being toilet trained, the older I get, the better my aim. I suspect when I’m around 75, I’ll have this whole life thing down pat.

You don’t steer your life. Hell, you couldn’t if you tried, you damned control-freak. You just aim it, and see what happens. Dad, thanks for the advice. Mom, Dad taught me how to cuss. Whew, am I glad to get THAT off my chest.

Me and my filthy, filthy mouth (Degree of difficulty: no actual swearing)

I love to curse, to cuss, to swear, to use bad language. My mother told me when I was growing up that cursing was lazy, and showed the lack of imagination of the user. How gloriously wrong she was. The foulest language is the most colorful, unique, attention-getting, emotion-inspiring language of the lot. And I use it often, and I daresay well.

There’s a fine distinction between simply cursing and cursing well. I’ve known several people who feel that curse words should be used as commas, or used in place of “ums.” It becomes routine and ineffective. Eventually, it becomes silly, and finally stupid. What a crime, to take brilliantly powerful part of our language and render it toothless by wielding it incorrectly.

My history with the Almighty Swear started very early in life. My sainted father had a keychain made for him by a friend that was a small bronze circle with one word etched in the middle. As far as curse words go, it’s one of the most versatile, and applicable to practically everything, despite its humble beginnings as a noun. It is the slang term for feces. Just that one word. It was, much to my parents’ dismay, the first word I learned to spell. I recall returning home from kindergarten one day with a paper that my teacher had sent home with me. In my five-year-old opinion, it was art. I had drawn a stick figure man sitting at a table, and a stick figure woman standing nearby. The man was holding a newspaper, and in a large speech balloon over the man’s head was the word, the only other word besides my own name that I knew how to spell at that point.

Mind you, I don’t recall that tableau with my parents and the newspaper ever actually happening, so I don’t know why I chose to immortalize it on the back of a kindergarten worksheet, but there it was. I proudly showed my parents. My parents did not show pride in return. Instead, it was gently explained to me that the word was inappropriate for children. I was taught that phrase that has haunted children for generations : “Do as I say, not as I do.”

You see, my sainted father would, from time to time, and on appropriate occasions, swear. My mother didn’t swear in front of me until long after I graduated from high school (Just between you and me, it still tickles me to hear her swear. It’s a rare occurrence, and almost always a quote, but she’s such a sweet old lady that hearing foulness coming from her mouth leaves me slightly and quietly hysterical.) My sainted father is a wonderful cusser, definitely one of the best. He knows not to bandy swear words about just to swear, but rather to punctuate a point. And everything I learned about the craft of swearing I learned at his knee, or rather from the passenger seat. I not only inherited my father’s propensity towards the obscene, but his road rage as well, and we both loudly and happily voice our objections towards other drivers with every vulgarity at our disposal.

I didn’t begin cursing myself until I reached the ripe old age of 7. I remember the day. I was feeding the dog, and I quietly said that word to myself that I had used when in Kindergarten. I felt horrible for the rest of the day. I knew my parents would find out some way, and I would be punished. But nothing happened. I questioned my older brother, Brett, who was an expert at all things (as an older brother ought to be). He just laughed at me (like an older brother ought to do).

Later, Brett would dare me to say certain words when we were waiting in the car for my mother to return from some errand. At this point, I have to admit that I had a certain paranoia regarding my parents. I was convinced that my parents had taken our Thunderbird to the Ford garage to be fitted with listening devices, and that every word I said was being recorded. I was convinced that my brother, who was an expert, was also an agent of evil. Still, when your big brother tells you to swear, you swear, lest you feel the wrath of his scaly hands on your forearm administering a “Native American Rope Burn.”

As time went on, and I wasn’t caught, I became more and more daring with my cursing. I started cursing with friends at school. I was cavalier, but chivalrous. I typically wouldn’t use profane language in front of girls. Okay, maybe chivalrous was the wrong term. Guarded. Girls were more apt to tell on you than boys.

And life proceeded. I learned to use cursing to make others laugh, to emphasize a point, to gross others out. I still never cursed in front of my parents out of respect. Me and my filthy mouth left home and went to college, where I met a wonderful girl. Our second date was giving blood (romantic, eh?). I gave blood first. Before the nurse took her blood, I commented on the enormous gauge of the needle. The nurse told me to shut up. And this delightful girl said, “Man, that hurts like a . . . “ Well, you know the story of Oedipus? Think of the curse word that best describes him. That was the word. And I knew it was love.

Cursing as an adult is an interesting thing. I eventually became comfortable enough to curse in front of my parents, beginning with the master curser, my swearing sensei, my dad. I swore a few times around him and he didn’t say anything. And so it went. Never accept a car ride from my father and me at the same time. We turn the air blue.

With my mother, I was a little more hesitant. I was a man, dagnabbit, and should be able to say what I wanted. Still, I hid my swearing in nonsensical sentences, like “fart it to crap.” But in the end, the real me percolated to the surface. I try as much as possible to refrain from dropping f-bombs around my mother, mainly because my father does so as well. But she knows that despite all her efforts, I’m at heart a lover of language. Of dirty, dirty language.

Even now, as a full-fledged adult with full swearing rights, cursing seems to have its own patterns and etiquette. Generally, if an older male uses profanity in your company, you can feel free to use it in his. If he doesn’t, then typically one doesn’t use profanity in his presence as he may deem it “crude.” In this context, “crude” is apparently a bad thing. If a younger person uses profanity in your presence, then it really depends on the circumstances. If a woman uses profanity in my presence, then she inadvertently opened the flood gates for yours truly.

I love language. I love the sound of it. I love how words string together to make beautiful poetry, or even better, terrible poetry. I love the feel of language on my lips.

But my favorite part of language isn’t the noun or the verb or the adjective. It’s the profanity.

Oh, hell, yes.

In which I describe my apparent t-shirt fetish

My t-shirt drawer is full to bursting. I decided that I should winnow out a few, maybe give some to Goodwill, maybe throw some away. However, during my culling process, I discovered that I have an unnatural attraction to my shirts.

This shirt has holes in both armpits. But, then again, it was my first Miskatonic University t-shirt, and I wore it to my first Nine Inch Nails concert. Back in the drawer.

This shirt has a bleach stain on the front. But it’s my only other Sandman (a fantastic comic by Neil Gaiman. Check it out) t-shirt besides the long-sleeve one with Death on it. No, I’ll just color in that white spot with magic marker.

This shirt is from my first bike race. This one’s from my second. Here’s my third and fourth race shirts. Okay, new rule. We keep all bike related shirts.

I got this t-shirt when I joined the Nine Inch Nails fan club. I got this t-shirt when I resigned from the Nine Inch Nails fan club. I got this at my first Nine Inch Nails concert. I just ordered this one from NiN.com . I got this one at my last Nine Inch Nails concert. It has the Jane’s Addiction logo on it, too, complete with a naked chick. It doesn’t fit, but NIN and Jane’s Addiction? Yeah, that’s a keeper.

I bought this one in the Denver airport. It’s orange and says “Denver.” How clever. I never wear it because it’s so ugly. But then again, it’s still practically brand new. Into the drawer with you.

“The Dunwich Horror”? Another Lovecraft t-shirt. It came with an audiobook on CD that I ordered, I think. I ordered the extra-large, which the manufacturers apparently thought meant 7 foot tall, and not 6’2’’ with a little extra roundness around the middle. And it’s a marbly dark brown. How hideous. It looks just like someone had wiped there ass on a white t-shirt over and over again. I’ve only worn it twice. Still, like the Denver shirt, it’s practically brand new. And it’s from H.P. Lovecraft.

Another Miskatonic University t-shirt. It’s fine. A few University of Wyoming t-shirts. Man, I’ve had these for years. I graduated college in 1998, and law school in 2001. These are some old, well worn shirts. And this one’s starting to smell. But do I really want to get rid of all my Wyoming gear? No. It stays.

A t-shirt my father-in-law bought me that says “VIRGIN” in huge letters, with “records” in smaller letters underneath it. I’ve never worn this shirt. It’s too new to throw away, but do I really want some poor person to have to walk around with a t-shirt announcing their virginity? No. I’m sure I can wear it under something else.

Here’s another t-shirt from my in-laws. It has Franz Kafka on the front. They got it in Prague. They bought me the European extra-large, which is like an American medium. Jesus, how tiny are those Europeans, anyway? I’ll give that one to Sarah. She likes pretentious things. That’s why she married me, after all.

Man, there’s a lot of black in this drawer. Here’s a red shirt with no markings on it. Great shirt. Keep. A Blue shirt with a faux white shirt under it. Keep. My Indycar Racing shirt. Definitely keep. It makes me look like I have awesome pectorals.

My Innsmouth High School Swim Team shirt. I will never part from this shirt. It’s so esoteric that only one person has ever “gotten” it. Too esoteric? Nah. Keep it.

Two Nirvana t-shirts. Do I really need two? Well, one describes a concert that I never went to, and the other has the word "Motherfucker" on the back. So I guess I do need them. Never know when you may need a shirt with "Motherfucker" on it.

My Reverend Horton Heat shirts. Man, I have a lot of band shirts, especially from someone who took violin lessons as a kid. This one that says on the back "Playing every state in a drunken state" I never really cared for. I WILL throw this one in the Goodwill pile. Still. . . I got that from the time that Jenny Ingram and I went to Denver to see them play. We had a hysterically good time, and we ate Greek afterward. I'll hold onto it for a little while longer.

And on it goes. I’ve disposed of several white undershirts, but nothing else. I wear a lot of dress shirts, so my t-shirts go unused. And Sarah steals some of my shirts.

But, oddly, what I really want are more shirts. These shirts are each a treasure, but I need some fresh blood to throw in the mix. Maybe I should get that STP shirt at K-mart?

In which I save your relationship

I’m certain that everyone thinks that being married to me would be a little slice of heaven, that every day would be like getting a champagne sponge bath from Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp while Oprah gives you a caviar enema, and 6 burly yet finicky Greek men clean your house and an albino monkey whose farts smell like chocolate feeds you grapes, at the same time Stevie Wonder arranges roses to spell your name, his hands bleeding from the thorns, and your name horribly misspelled and not actually resembling any word or language that you’ve ever seen, but hey, it’s Stevie Wonder.

I’m not going to lie to you. Being married to me is exactly like that. But it’s not all bleeding blind guys and farting monkeys. No, I’ve really had to work to be this perfect. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes And since you are all my friends, I will give you my tips for a successful and happy marriage. And please bear in mind that it always helps if you are vomit-inducingly attractive and well-nigh irresistible, such as I am.

I could’ve provided more (or frankly, after you’ve read them, you’ll see I could’ve likely chopped a few), but ten is such a nice, round number.

1. YOUR COMFORT IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER’S FRAGILE NERVES: If it’s somewhat late, and the kids are all asleep, and your significant other is still up puttering around while you lay in your bed, all warm and toasty and comfortable and sleepy, and if you notice that the bathroom light is on, and it starts to bother you, I mean, just really get on your nerves, and you start wondering who left that light on, and you suspect that it was your significant other, and you don’t want to leave your comfy little haven, DON’T scream as if a limb has just been severed in order to gain your significant other’s attention and have her run into the room so that you can ask her to turn the light off. Yes, it seems like a perfectly ordinary solution to a perfectly ordinary problem, but you will find that the resulting tongue-lashing further hinders your sleep. Though it’s understandably a struggle, and your significant other is up anyway, it’s best just to get up and turn it off yourself.

2. YOUR JOKES ARE NOT ALWAYS FUNNY: Realize that any joke, no matter how hilarious, does have an expiration date. The first time your significant comes home after a visit to the hair salon and doesn’t look noticeably different, some gentle chiding will be seen as all in good fun. The 40th time, not so funny. I will admit that I have not taken this lesson to heart.

3. JOKES ABOUT YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE ALWAYS FUNNY: As a corollary, jokes about YOU have no expiration date. You will repeatedly have to hear the story about the time that you were sent to the story for a gallon of milk, and returned with an enormous block of cheese, a half-gallon of Cholula, and a 12-pack of Coke, and no milk. You won’t understand why this is noteworthy, but you will look appropriately sheepish each time the story is told. You will also have to hear about the time that you swallowed a very old antibiotic pill found by itself in a pill bottle in the back of your medicine chest because you said “Hey, I paid for it.” Luckily, though, your drunken escapades will most likely not be fodder for jokes at your expense, as long as you don’t bring up your significant other’s drunken escapades.

4. HOUSEWORK: Occasionally, DO a little housework, and then scoff if offered any thanks. Say things like “Hey, it’s my house, too.” This will reinforce to your partner that you are 1) responsible, and 2) willing to do a little housework every now and then. If you are willing to do a little, hopefully, your partner will not expect a lot. And removing your belt from your pants does NOT qualify as housework, though it should.

5. DIRTY DIAPERS: No one’s falling for it. Everyone can smell the dirty diaper, and since the kid’s in your lap, you should just bite the bullet (which seriously brings up some disgusting mental pictures) and change the diaper. DON’T ignore the dirty diaper. Also, DON’T scream in disgust while changing the diaper. DON’T try to describe the smell, and the havoc it’s wreaking on your olfactory nerves. And most of all, DON’T try to parlay the one time you changed a diaper into not changing the next ten. I mean, you’re good for like five or so. DON’T be greedy.

6. THE MARITAL BED IS NOT JUST YOURS: If your bed is big and comfortable, and you yourself are likewise big and comfortable, it’s not kosher to fake a communicable illness so that your partner feels that they should sleep on the couch and allow you to hog that big old bed all to yourself. Yup, that’s a DON’T. Among the infectious diseases that you shouldn’t fake include: Spanish Influenza, whooping cough, the plague, scurvy (which I don’t think is actually transmittable), smallpox, and just a general vague malaise. Also, don’t fake restless leg syndrome in the hopes that your partner will simply get the hell out of bed just to get away from your jostling person.

7. DROPPING F-BOMBS: DON’T use excessive profanity. The quandary is, of course, the definition of “excessive,” which will undoubtedly differ between partners. Here’s a hint: your definition is far too liberal. Your partner’s draconian definition of “excessive profanity” is correct, damn it to hell.

8. ANNIVERSARY GIFTS: When it comes to Anniversary Presents, DO religiously stick to the traditional Anniversary Present scheme. Your significant other will think that you are hopelessly romantic to give traditional gifts. This is true. What else is true is that you have to put little to no effort into deciding what an appropriate gift will be. Some wonderful schmuck came up with a list for you! The great thing about this particular tip is that you can admit it to your significant other and he/she won’t care. (Who are we kidding? There’s no “he.”)

9. SUGARPIE HONEYBUNCH: Avoid pet names for each other at all costs. It’s just sickening. I do call my wife by her maiden name, but avoid “babe,” “lover,” “fancy face,” “fancy feast,” “toots,” “stinkfinger,” “shifty,” “honey,” etc. This will likely not save your relationship, but it will make me not hate you. Or hate you less.

10. SAY IT OFTEN: Most importantly, tell her that you love her every day. Make a game of it. Try to find the most inappropriate time. She’s changing a diaper? “Love you.” Left the door open when using the restroom? “Love you.” On her hands and knees cleaning vomit off the floor? “Love you.” Up to her shoulder in a cow’s ass? “Love you.” Screaming at a telemarketer? “Love you.” The spontaneous admission of love is the most sincere, probably.

I hope that you can use this to improve your relationship. I’m no Dr. Phil because I’m not excessively overweight, I have a full head of hair, a relative dearth of homespun wisdom, and I don’t have a PhD in Home Economics (which may or may not be true about Dr. Phil). What I do have is almost 38 years of being wonderful, and 43 years of a successful marriage where I have rarely been referred to as an asshole.

Enjoy friends, and remember the most important rule regarding long-term relationships: your partner knows all your dirty little secrets, your secret anxieties and phobias, everything embarrassing about you, and is still willing to call the pizza place because you‘re uncomfortable on the phone. Do you really want to let this person out of your sight?

And please keep my wife in your thoughts as she tries to clean out the caviar.

Sometimes, it can only get better.

This morning, after an anxious two-year-old had climbed into our bed during the night while wearing a subpar diaper, I was awakened when I felt urine running down my back. It had an interesting effect on my attitude. Frankly, if you start the day by getting peed on, things can only get better.

In which I explain that I did not use the Princess Potty

We have a two-year-old is currently undergoing the world’s most laid-back potty training in the world. It’s a method that worked on the older two, and it seems to be working on her. Essentially, we provide a small potty, and if she uses it, fine. If not, we continue to change her diaper. No incentives, just options. Slowly, she’s introduced to underwear, which she completely soaks with urine, but is slowly preferring to her diapers. Eventually, she’ll wear only pull-ups to sleep in, then WOO-HOO, only one more to potty-train.

We bought the potty some time ago. For this kid, we went all out and bought “The Princess Potty:” a little throne-shaped potty that has two sensors on the bottom of the bowl. When the sensors are touched, an adorable little fan-fare is played, and it changes each time. It’s adorable until you realize that it’s a turd or a cup of pee that is spanning the sensors and triggering the fan-fare.

I think we got this potty from Sears, and had given our two-year-old the choice between the princess potty, and a frog potty. (My wife was pulling for the frog potty because it would’ve matched the bathroom’s décor, but she was willing to honor our daughter’s choice.) Our daughter chose the princess potty, and ever since it’s been installed in our front bathroom next to the toilet.

As I mentioned before, we’ve had this potty for some time, and Lord knows how long it sat on the shelf before we bought it. It works fine except for. . . sometimes. Sometimes, the fanfare plays when no one is in the room. In the middle of the night, we’ll hear the electronic fanfare. Walking by will sometimes set it off, and sometimes . . . well, you’ll see.

I use that bathroom on occasion. We have a bathroom in our bedroom, but this one’s closer to the living room and my precious, precious TV. The other day, I was using it in the usual manner (I won’t go into details. You’re welcome.) when the Princess Potty, nestled right next to the toilet, played it’s regal fanfare.

Hmmm, I thought, and continued my bidness. Then it played again. And again. Luckily for me, I was not the sole audience. My two older daughters were right outside the door.

“Don’t use the potty, Daddy!”
“That’s not your potty, Daddy!”

Then raucous laughter. I hollered my denials, but it only fanned the flames as the tiny toilet continued to play.

“Mommy, how come Daddy can use the potty when he said that we can’t?”
“Don’t sit on it, Daddy! You’ll break it!” And the fanfare played on and on.

Tiny fists beat at the door as the two-year-old realized that her potty was playing, and that she wasn’t on it. Eventually, I reached over and dismantled the cursed thing. I don’t know why it played over and over again. It was like something out of a Poe story. I put new batteries in, and it stopped malfunctioning. I don’t know if that was what the problem was or not, but it was all I could think of to do.

The funny thing is, when I first assembled it, I had kinda, just a little bit, wanted to try it. It’s not something that had been nagging at me, or that I was obsessing over. It was just, you put something together, you want to try it out. Take it for a test drive. Be the first to use it.

But please know and believe, as my oldest three children don’t, I did not use the Princess Potty.

Traumatizing Children by Killing Animals in Literature; or Why I Hate “Where The Red Fern Grows”

Sometimes I just like to yammer about things. This is one of them.

My daughter’s third grade class is currently reading “Where The Red Fern Grows.” I remembered being forced to read this as a child. I only remembered the one scene where a boy falls on an ax and dies. Lucky for me, I had an older brother who warned me about the axing. Of course, since he was an older brother, he had to tell me about it in gruesome detail, adding nasty, blood-spurting touches that weren’t in the original. God, I miss him.

Anyway, I likewise warned my daughter that there was a disturbing scene in the book, and explained it to her very briefly, depriving her of the hilarious trauma that my brother dispensed to me. Her teacher had also warned the class before reading that section. But I remembered nothing else about the book.

She has been enjoying it so far. Over dinner tonight, she told us the plot that she had been told, about a young boy in the Ozarks who wanted nothing more than two hounds. After dinner, she wanted to watch the movie, despite the fact that her class had not yet finished reading the book. She was worried about how it would end, having overheard a snippet of conversation among classmates about the death of a dog. Jokingly (as is my wont), I told her that it ended Hamlet style, with everyone dead. I then reassured her that I had no memory of how it ended, so it probably wasn’t as dire as that.

So, we watched in on Netflix. Turns out, I wasn’t far from the truth. Along with the previously mentioned death of a child, one dog was killed by a mountain lion, and the other died of a broken heart, refusing to eat until it starved to death. My daughter was bawling. Trying to comfort her by telling her that she was crying over the death of fictional dogs only made me look like an asshole. Which I so wasn’t. I was the realistic dad. Thing is, though, when your kid’s crying over something sad in a movie, they don’t want realistic dad, but sympathetic mom. But I digress.

Why the hell is animal death so prevalent in classic juvenile fiction? And why the hell do teachers make us read it? Really. Old Yeller? He was a good dog. Got shot in the head. Sounder? That was another fun one. Charlotte’s Web? The dread specter of death loomed large for almost the entire book for that damn pig, but it was Charlotte who got it in the end.

I had a book once, an anthology of short stories for 8th graders. There was a story in that was seriously, for lack of a better phrase, fucked up. A young boy befriends a kitten and takes it home. His parents, not animal lovers, tell him to get rid of it. So the boy makes a noose out of a shoelace and strangles the kitten to death.

This was in a book for children. Dear God, why? I wish I still had the book. I’ve told people about it, and, horrifically, everyone believes me, because we’ve all read those sorts of stories as kids.

I absolutely understand that children shouldn’t grow up in a vacuum, believing the world to be a carefree charming place where only bad people in Batman movies die. And animal death is still less significant than a human death, and Disney slaughters parents by the hundreds in their movies.

But still, when trying to instill in children a love of literature, shouldn’t we try to preserve their sense of wonder a little while longer? Do we need to cram death down their scrawny little throats at such an early age? I lost various relatives throughout my childhood, including my brother when I was 15. Reading about it as a child? Not a barrel of laughs. More like a keg of lay-awake-at-night-staring-at-the-ceiling-contemplating-your-own-mortality-in-your-Spiderman-Underoos.

Why are these books classics? We all (barring teachers, naturally) have read them exactly one time: back in school when we were made to. And then we never read them again. Who’d want to?

Of course, as adults we read these sorts of things, because they are made for adults. “Titanic” is one of the top-grossing movies of all time. Women love to watch it and weep. For men, it’s “Kill Bill Vol. 2.” (Why did it have to suck so bad, Quentin? WHY?) We can separate cinematic or literary death from real death. But kids can’t. Everything is so realistic and immediate for children.

If I were a smarter man (and I’m already pretty smart), I’d figure out a way to get these books out of schools. Kids should be reading much lighter fare, like the “Wizard of Oz,” or “The Phantom Tollbooth,” or Chilton’s manuals. Let them wait a little while before death rears its ugly head in their lives.

Still, I suppose my up-coming children’s novel “Death Zoo” should at least sell well to schools.