Fly By Night

You can dive with the

Fishes

The Dragonflies

You can swim with the

Mermaids

The Fireflies

You can dip with the

Wings

Of the Butterflies

You can swoon with the

Moon

The Alibis

Your days have left me

Alone

But not Scared

Alone

With the darkness

But Prepared

Your love is not something

That needs to be

I loved you

With a longing

Unfortunately

You can dive with the

Fishes

The Dragonflies

You can swim with the

Mermaids

The Fireflies

You can dip with the

Wings

Of the Butterflies

You can swoon with the

Moon

The Alibis

Book Review - The Secret History

Book Review Series

“The Secret History”

Donna Tartt

Published 1992

“The Secret History” does not start off gently.  The first sentence lets you know just what you’re in for, as the undiscovered body of Edmund “Bunny” Corcoran lies in the melting snow.  This is not a whodunit.  This is not a murder/mystery.  The fact that someone is dead is indeed an integral part of the story, but the fact that someone is dead is never hidden.  Nor does it need to be.  The novel has much more in store for you than that.

The story is told from the perspective of Richard Papen, an isolated and lonely young college student from California who seems to have a shaky future.  His college endeavors have been primarily based on how he could get out of his lower middle-class station in life, and away from his unsupportive parents.  By sheer fate, Richard enrolls in a Greek language course and excels.  This decision proves monumental.

To avoid California life and his family, Richard transfers to fictional Hampden College in Hampden, Vermont, and manages to impress the Greek professor, Julian Morrow. After their second meeting, he is admitted in to the highly selective Greek Studies Course.   This program is a college unto itself, with all courses (except one) being conducted with the same teacher, same students, same classroom.   The students are either isolated or immersed, depending on your viewpoint. 

Only 5 other students are enrolled in this program:  Twins Camilla and Charles Macaulay, Francis Abernathy, Henry Winter, and Edmund (Bunny) Corcoran.  It is immediately clear that Henry is the nucleus of the group.  A head of the Lernaean Hydra.  Richard’s life will never be the same again.  You know this as he enters the room.  You read this in the lines that Donna Tartt paints. 

“The Secret History” weaves a tale with many fibers.  Economic class distinctions, mob mentality, peer pressure, morality, hubris, secrecy, and cultism.  As you read the story, you become immersed in the lives of these people.  You hate them, you love them, you root for them, and you wish them harm.  You forget that they are college students.  That is one of the things that make this novel - any touching novel - worthwhile.  You find yourself amazed at the things these people do, but often forget that they are young adults.  They speak with such knowledge, such eloquence; you need to remind yourself that they have a lot of growing up yet to do.

Broken into two parts, “The Secret History” unravels at steady pace.  You are given enough time to breathe in the characters and to feel them out, but not enough inside scoop to be fully aware of what makes them tick.  That’s the thing about this novel.  You are aware that you are not aware of some vital information.  And some vital information you are never privy to.

Do I have any issues with the story?  Sure.  It can be a bit pretentious.  It can be a bit showy.  I’ve read a decent amount of Greek mythology to know about Dionysius, but some of Ms. Tartt’s scenes do seem as if she’s trying to prove just how smart she is.   The book itself could be cut down a bit, as it lags some in the second part. The narrator can seem a bit frustratingly naive at times. These are minuscule points that I can pick at, for a book that I adored.

Do I recommend “The Secret History”?  Most certainly.  It was a unique and exciting read.  Most importantly, it was one that I didn’t want to end.  I’ve discussed with my friend the question of what makes a good book, a good book?  We agree, that any good book is judged by how it made you, the reader feel, and how (or if) it stuck with you.  I finished this story and still wish I was one of those people who were new to it.  I envy those of you who have yet to read it and can still embark on this journey.

I hope you enjoy it half as much as I did.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Musings on a Winter Vacation

Or...How I Survived My Alone Time.

This week ushered in my first full time schedule back to work since December 18^th.   With more than 2 weeks off, in which I had no plans of any sort¸ I sit here a changed woman.  And probably not for the better.  You have been warned.

 “Time, time, time.  See what’s become of me.”  Those are the lyrics I’m reminded of.  Simon and Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade of Winter”.  OK, I’m being a tad dramatic.  We’ll make it the Bangles version of the song instead.  To lessen the intensity.

It’s no great epiphany to realize that when I’m at work, I want to be home.  I’m certainly not unique in this regard.  What is eye-opening, however, is that when I’m home, I get bored and turn into The Creature From The Black Lagoon.  Sitting at work I have these images of all of the things I’m going to do while I’m on vacation:  Paint the bedroom, wander around NYC by myself, have wonderfully girly luncheon dates that turn into dinner parties, change my hairstyle, go to the movies, etc, etc, etc.

You know what I did during the 15 days I was off?  Slept, fed the cat, slept, fed the cat, read, slept, fed the cat, read.

The biggest accomplishment I can claim is that I finished 3 books and wrote a few poems.  When I say I did nothing, I mean I DID NOTHING.  I couldn’t even be motivated to…well, never mind.   We’ll just leave that one hanging.

My point being is that given 15 days off in which I could have accomplished any number of things, my immediate instinct was to do nothing.  Which inevitably lead to feeling down and disenchanted with my station in life.  Which then lead to a lovely period of revisiting every painful moment I ever went through.  When, you know, I actually did stuff. 

Far from being healthy, it gets downright scary.  Just how precarious is our (my) state of mind?  This thought ran through my foggy head as I fumbled through my days.  “How easy it seems to turn from a functioning member of society, into a recluse.  Into a hermit.  Into that crazy lady in the corner condo no one ever sees.”   I was shocked at how easily I slipped in to a lifestyle that was damaging to me.  Is this who I really am (I thought)?  Is this the person I would be if I didn’t have a job to go to (I questioned)?  Most importantly:  Who would I be if I had made different decisions, or tried harder?  Is my regular life someone else’s idea of a damaging lifestyle and slippery slope?

My brain’s incessant questioning and berating was taking a toll.  The vicious circle did not take long to begin:  Sleep in late and feel guilty, chastise yourself for being a worthless sack of dung, feel bad about being a worthless sack of dung, remember all of the times you felt like a worthless sack of dung, go to bed and sleep late to avoid feeling like a worthless sack of dung.  Repeat.

Awake one random early morning at 5am, I started to evaluate my life and bump it up against how the world operates, as a whole.  How the microcosm of “just me”, related to the world at large.  To break it down further, I related the world of “me” to the world of “X City”. 

In the world of “X City”, life has a pace.  Like a living organism, it feeds, it operates, it communicates, it supports.   Should you throw a large wrench in to the works, “X City” fundamentally loses its shit.  Seriously, the Department of Waste Management and the Sewage Treatment Plant are in trouble.

“X City” is always operating one second away from disaster.  Look at what happens when a major city loses power.  The city goes crazy.  Our whole life revolves around electricity.  Pretty much every external thing we do requires this power.  When a city loses the ability to “see”, they lose their ability to function.  When a city loses what they are so reliant on having - what they don’t know what to do without - the city begins to lose its connectivity to humanity.  Things that were unthinkable before start to become doable.  How quickly “X City” turns from a fully operational and productive entity, to a place of divisiveness and despair, is amazing.

Sitting there at 5am in the morning, these not-so-deep thoughts made me realize just how close we all are from destruction.  Here I was sitting home during my time off of work and dipping my toe in to a pool of despondency, meanwhile the whole world was just as close as I was to soaking their collective feet as well.

As a human race, we just don’t seem built to handle change very well.  While we will adapt, eventually, our initial reaction is to revert back to instincts that are more…primal.  Survival of the self, hiding, providing shelter, seeking food, avoiding danger.  In my own way, that’s exactly what I did when my world was shaken up by (GASP!) a vacation that lasted too long.

In the end, I think I’ve made some of my own discoveries.  Take them as you will:

• The monotony of daily life is underrated.  Having something consistent is a welcome blanket in a world full of things we have no control over
• We, as a people, are not nearly as advanced as we like to think we are
• We like to complain.  It makes us feel like we have options we wouldn't take anyway.  And that's OK
• Too much time off with nothing planned is an exceptionally bad idea
• You are who you are.  Eventually, you're going to have to come to terms with who that actually is

Happy New Year All!  I hope 2014 brings you nothing but the best of everything.  For me?  Well, I’m counting down until my next vacation 

With Love
Lady Butterfly
xoxoxo

The Week That Was

2 News Stories from the Global Week that Was

Affluenza – AKA Rich, Spoiled and Entitled - It appears that being young , wealthy, and a criminal is now a solid defense strategy.  The “Affluenza”  defense was successfully argued in a Texas courtroom this week, sentencing a 16 year old defendant  to  (up to) 10 years of probation at a rehabilition clinic.  Obviously a much more lenient sentence than what the prosecution was seeking - 20 years in jail. 

“Affluenza” is a term that was coined in the 1990’s and, in essence, means that a juvenile comes from a wealthy home in which no boundaries or limits were set.  Affluenza is also a synonym for rich, spoiled brat, but I digress.

Being “afflicted” with such a condition has allowed this 16 year old to get away with murder.  Literally.  Not only was this 16 year old caught on camera stealing cases of beer.  Not only was the blood alcohol content 3 times over the legal limit.  Not only did he flip his truck, severely injuring passengers in his own car – one to the point of suffering severe brain damage where he can no longer move or speak -  BUT -this teenager also happened to KILL 4 innocent people.  He killed 4 people by drunk driving his truck and plowing in to them on the side of the road.  That’s how “strong” this “affliction” is.

So, to recap, because Mommy and Daddy didn’t establish any consequences for his behavior, the judge has now reinforced Mommy and Daddy’s lack of parental ability, by giving him a slap on the wrist.  Does this make sense in anyone’s mind?   Oh, and Daddy has to fork over $450,000 a year for each year this creature stays in rehab. 

What is wrong with this picture?

***

The Sign Language Affair - It was a somber event in which many of the world’s leaders were gathered.  Nelson Mandela, who passed away on December 5 at the age of 95, was honored and revered by his country and the world at a memorial service on December 10, 2013, in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Unfortunately, the news story that has made the world scratch its universal head, has now become about the sign language interpreter who ‘signed’ the program for the hearing impaired.

It appears that the sign language interpreter has a few demons, a few problems, and more than a few skeletons in his closet.  Apparently suffering from schizophrenia, the interpreter claims he had a full-blown attack during the memorial service on Tuesday, signing words for “rocking horses” and “prawns”, which were not – no doubt – part of anyone’s speech.

To add insult to injury, it now appears that this interpreter has a very shady past, to say the least.  Numerous charges have been brought against him since 1994, some of which include rape, murder, and kidnapping.  The plot thickens when we learn that the murder court case file is mysteriously empty.  The plot gets downright muddy when it was uncovered that the firm that hired this interpreter has apparently vanished like dust in the wind.

The fact that all of this was uncovered by a news outlet after the man was hired and was standing next to some of the most powerful people in the world, at a memorial tribute for a legend – makes this story seem like a bad Hollywood movie.

2 News Stories from the Local Week That Was

Human and Feline Stomach Virus Linked? – In a Northern New Jersey suburb, a strikingly attractive woman with a gift for gab  was suddenly silenced, when a stomach virus took hold of her intestinal tract on Wednesday, December 12, 2013.  While details were not shared, the experience was captured with this quote from the gravely ill:  “UGH. I feel like ass.”  A truly telling statement, indeed.

Adding to this medical mystery was the fact that not only was this beautiful woman struck down with illness, it appears her Felis Catus, or housecat, was also afflicted. 

There has been no conclusive study conducted that proves the connection between feline and human viruses, however it seems clear that we have a potential case in this small hamlet, located 20 miles west of New York City. 

While authorities were not called in, the CDC is aware of the episode and plans to keep a vigilant eye on both the woman, as well as the cat.  A spokesman for the CDC, who wished to remain anonymous stated, “It is easy to track the movement of the woman.  Her habits are routine, and her schedule is consistent.  The Feline, on the other hand, has proven to be quite tricky.  A female cat, this animal has been known to hiss when approached and to swipe her claws, even when not provoked.   Without access to specimens from both subjects, we can only assume that the Feline in question poisoned the woman with its apparent malcontent.”

The Feline was unavailable for comment, but did provide a glaring look through the window, aimed directly at this reporter’s camera. 

***

2 Working Days Left – A female, who is presumed to be the same woman who contracted the potential Feline/Human Stomach Virus earlier this week, has been gleefully announcing to all around that she “…only has 2 working days left in 2013.”

Interviews with the recipients of this proclamation have offered varied quotes, again with the certainty of anonymity:  “What the (expletive deleted) do I care how many days left of work this (expletive deleted) has?” said one vocal recipient.  Another offered these words, “If that woman says one more thing about her remaining working days, she will be counting her remaining days. Period. “

The woman was unavailable for comment, but a quick look at her FaceBook page did show that she was “Doing a dance of joy, 2 more work days left in 2013.”

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Lessons of the Week

This week has been interesting.  It has brought about fits of giggles, tears of annoyance, waves of rage, and dawning realizations.  I’d like to dedicate this post to the things I’ve learned this week.  A simple post with a hefty impact.  So she said modestly.

Commuting in the Rain is Nothing Like Dancing in the Streets

Driving to work in Northern New Jersey is a painful experience.  It is a knuckle-whitening, teeth clenching, foul-mouthed swearing nightmare.  And that’s all before I even leave my parking garage.  Throw rain in to the mix of a normal commute, and you might as well stick a fork in you – because you. are. done.

We’ve had spotty showers off and on all week in my area.  Nothing torrential.  Nothing earth shattering.  Something you would put your intermittent windshield wipers on for, in order to dissolve the splats and tire mist. To NJ, however, rain is an anomaly.  A demon of the sky:

“Why, oh why are these wet discs falling from the sky?  What am I to do except slam on my brakes as each droplet bounces off of my car?!  I must treat this “rain” (as they call it) as an agent of doom.  The only way to save myself is to stand still and lurch my car forward, every now and then.”

NJ drivers act as if they are dodging virus-filled hypodermic needles while navigating hot-air balloons, as they maneuver their way from Point A to Point B.  What exactly is the problem here?!?!  Step on the gas, and go.  Jiminy Crickets these people are going to give me an ulcer. 

Oh, and as a side note:  Stay out of the passing lane if you are A)  Not passing anyone  B)  Feel uncomfortable doing the speed limit or above C) Your car can’t make it up a hill.

Working Nine to Five is No Fun Without Lily Tomlin

If you’ve ever watched the 1980 movie “Nine to Five”, than you understand where I’m coming from.  If you’ve never watched it, then you should still read this, but none of it will make sense to you.  I highly suggest you Netflix it or do what you do in order to watch older movies.

Those of us that are gainfully employed are happy to be so.  I am certainly not asking to be jobless.  I’ve been there, and that’s no fun without Lily Tomlin, either.  Let’s face it though, what is?

I ask you, where is the Skinny & Sweet?  Where is the mistaken identity corpse stealing?  Where is the boss snatching and kidnapping? Why isn’t everyone going down to Charlie’s and getting drunk?

I feel I was sold a bill of goods on this whole “working” thing.  I want my toy back.  I’m going home.

 

 

 

I’ll be watching you.  You better call the Police

This week I’ve interacted with people in all sorts of ways:  Via Web Ex, Skype, Conference Calls, Through Social Media, and Via Finger-Gestures.  And, oh yeah, in person.

I must say, this has certainly been a week to highlight people’s deficits in perceiving verbal and non-verbal cues.  Myself included.

I’ve come to understand that if I’m consistently reaching out to people and they don’t reach back, than maybe my reaching isn’t so welcome.  I think this rule can be applied across universally. 

Heads up boys and girls:  The more you persist in trying to get someone to understand that you’re interesting, witty, charming and insightful, the more you’re not interesting, witty, charming or insightful.   With each unasked step you take, the more you tiptoe to that gray town of Stalker-ville.  You don’t want to live in Stalker-ville.  It’s full of Peeping-Toms and Lazy Susans. 

You can’t make someone comfortable if you are bombarding them with discomfort.  Back off.

Cats.  Now and Forever

This week, a friend posted a link to a fun website that showed how owning a cat can cause permanent mental health damage.  As I read through the 30+ examples, I began to notice that I fit most, if not all, of these criteria.

 

 

I sing to my cat on a daily basis.  The nightly ritual being a song that is composed by myself and is copyrighted, so back off:

The Monkey Butt Song

Giving some water, to my daughter

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

Giving some dinner, to my winner

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

Giving some treats, to my sweets

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

And in the morning, we will repeat

Monkeybutt, monkeybutt, monkeybutt

*I make myself uncomfortable, so she can remain comfortable.

*I no longer need an alarm clock, because she’s staring at me at 5:00am

*I find her 3:00am fits of energy annoying, not scary.

*I overspend on cat toys, when she’s more interested in the box it came in.

I’m OK with being that crazy cat lady.  I love my girl with all of my heart, and I think this list is hysterical.  I’m not sure it will be so hysterical when I’m 98 and am drowning in cat hair and nasty cat looks, but for now…I  think it’s hysterical.

Here’s the link to see the full list, because it’s hilarious:

http://distractify.com/people/personal/agonizing-struggles-that-prove-cat-owners-are-the-best-people-ever/

So my readers, that sums up this week’s lessons.  As Brad Hamilton so sagely uttered in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”:   Learn it.  Know it. Live it.

 

With Love,

Lady Butterfly

xoxo

Killer Bees and Nuclear War

Killer Bees and Nuclear War

What Childhood Dreams Are Made Of

When I was a kid, all I wanted out of life was to grow up. 

Old enough to drive.  Old enough to stay out late.  Old enough to not have to listen to my parents.  Old enough to have all of that fun that is clearly waiting for you on the other side of teenage-hood.  Boy.  Was I an idiot, or what?!

In my mind's eye, adulthood was a switch.  "One day you were a child, and *poof* - one day you were an adult".  There was no transitional period baked in to my thoughts.  "When I Grow Up" wasn't looked at as a sliding scale of ages or changes.  It was a definitive moment in time. Rock solid and palpable. Yes.  I was an idiot.

God.  I wish I was that idiot again sometimes.  Not that I'm not currently an idiot, but now I'm just an adult idiot.  Which is far, far worse.

I was chatting with a co-worker this week discussing some of the random things in life that make you squeamish and just icky as adults.  My thing is eyeballs.  It really should read EYEBALLS!!! Eyeballs make me wiggle in my seat and cause my stomach to turn.  If there's a close-up of eyes in a magazine or on TV, I turn the page or the channel.  The mere idea of contact lenses makes me want to toss my cookies.  The thought of corrective eye surgery is enough to make me jump from my 3rd floor apartment.  To put it plainly, if SpongeBob Square Pants bugs out his eyes, I must step away from Nickelodeon.  It's that bad.  Chicken on the bone is my second ick-inducing thing.

This conversation led to what made us scared as kids. 

Growing up in the 1980's I had two fears that stood out like street lights on a dark and desolate highway.  Two fears that kept me up at nights and sent me seeking reassurance from my questioning parents:  Killer Bees migrating from South America, and Nuclear War.  In no particular order, but if forced to choose - I'd say the Killer Bees outranked Nuclear War.

Killer Bees

In the early 1980's, at least in New Jersey, it seemed like' Africanized-Killer-Bees-migrating-from-South America" stories were everywhere.  It ran on the news.   There were '60 Minutes' specials on it.  It appeared an invasion was just a matter of time.

"Investigative Reports" showed how these bees would attack.  Men dressed in beekeeper gear would hang a swatch of red cloth from a tree limb, and then gingerly remove the KILLER BEES from their semi-frozen hive.  Upon waking and gathering their bee-wits about them, the bees would quickly swarm the red cloth.  The only thing visible would be hundreds of bees hanging on top of one another in a state of frenzy and mayhem.  In steps the beekeeper, dousing the bees with a quick-acting cooling agent.  The final shot would be of the tree limb. With nothing but a corner of the red cloth left.  The bees hated red THAT much.

The "Investigative Reporter" would then turn his perfectly tanned face to the camera and tell us (me) that these bees are beyond aggressive. They are LOOKING for a fight.  You have been warned, viewer.  They are migrating at an alarming rate from the depths of South America right up to Northern New Jersey.  Do not step outside.  Most importantly, do NOT wear red.

 

The incredible threat of Killer Bees was certainly heightened in my kiddie brain by watching a late 1970's era made-for-TV movie that re-aired during this trying time, entitled "The Savage Bees".  These bees weren't bees.  These bees were attacking machines.  They wanted you DEAD.  They needed to STING you.  Their sole purpose in life was to bring an end to yours.

My parents didn't (and still don't) have any sort of air conditioning in their home.  During summer nights I would sleep in my upstairs room, head under the comforter and sweating,  hoping that the bees couldn't get in through the window screen and attack me before I was a grown up.

I'm still here, so they obviously didn't.  I'll always be on the lookout though.  I know those Killer Bees are still migrating north and just waiting to attack me in my vibrant red T-shirt.

Nuclear War

To put it simply, I was terrified that we were going to be bombed with nuclear missiles launched from Russia during the 1980’s. 

As a kid, the news seemed to always show this impending doom of a threat.  Russia was the “enemy”.  Nuclear warfare was a “possibility”. It was Us versus Them.  Even as a kid I knew that no matter who “won”, everyone lost.

Once again with the made-for-TV-movies, “The Day After” was a critical life changing moment for me.  I was a kid and this movie was no Hollywood fakeness.  This was REAL.  The family bunkered down in their basement and left the dog upstairs as the nuclear attack started.  They left the dog upstairs.  How could they do that?  I was much less concerned with the kid who got blinded by the nuclear flash than the fact that THEY LEFT THE DOG UPSTAIRS.  This was devastating to me as a child. You don't just leave your pets to DIE!

 

 

The movie portrayed a mix of people in different situations reacting to the nuclear blast.  The horror of its impact.  The helplessness of the masses.  The realization that life would never, ever be the same.  I watched with eyes wide and considered this an almost certainty in my life. Based on everything shown on "legitimate" TV news, everything seen in newspapers – nuclear war was a very clear danger. 

Later in life I saw a British movie entitled “Threads”.  This movie made “The Day After” look like a Disney World vacation.

In the End

I remember going to bed each night and asking God to watch over my family.  Please prevent nuclear war.   Please don’t let the bees come to New Jersey. As a born negotiator, I also threw this in to the mix:  “If nuclear war does happen, God – please give me time to save my stuffed animals and the glass doorknobs from each room.” 

Since it was very obvious the glass door knobs were made of diamonds and would provide us money should we become homeless, nuclear bombing victims on the run from Killer Bees.

Come to think of it, maybe I don't want to be a kid again, after all....

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo 

 

$#!* My Dad Says

My dear ol' Dad's Birthday recently passed with little fanfare and even less hoopla.  To celebrate his special day, I dedicate this blog to all things "Dad".  Specifically... (To borrow the title of a well-known book and cancelled TV show) ...

$#!* My Dad Says 

Dear Pops is a poet in his own right.  He has a certain way with words.  Note, I didn't say the right way with words, just a certain way with them.  They are usually well intentioned, but are always convoluted and head-scratching.  A modern day Confucius, I'd like to share with you some of my Father's pearls of wisdom throughout the years:

***

"It'll Lubricate Your Joints" - As a child growing up in the 1980's, my family was by no means wealthy.  We always had clothes to wear, we never worried about where we were going to sleep, and we always had something to digest.  Herein lies the rub.   

The "food" my father purchased was classified as food only in the vaguest of terms.  It was food-like.  It was no longer moving.  It resembled something similar to meat, without having to follow all of those pesky USDA grades.  In essence, it was cheap. 

The "steak" that my Dad would make (for he was the primary "chef" in the household) was made primarily of bone, fat, gristle and a thin-strip of pinkish meat.  Try as you might, no amount of steak sauce was going to cover up the taste of this travesty.  Cows all over the land hung their head in shame to be labeled in the same category as this substance.   

As the plates were placed before my brother and me, my face would immediately turn in to a grimace and my hands would silently pat my lap to summon the family dog.  I'd cut along the narrow path between the bone, fat, and gristle to slice off the bit of meat that remained. This exercise took precision and readied me for a lucrative career in micro-surgery, should I have chosen to pursue it.   

Pushing the pile of gook to the side, I'd chew my millimeter of "meat" and declare my meal completed.  My father, spendthrift and gourmand that he is, would declare, "Finish what's on your plate or no Muppet Show for you."  To which I would reply, "I have!  The rest is fat." 

To which the famous line was uttered, "Eat the fat.  It'll lubricate your joints!" 

'Cause every 8 year old girl is interested in keeping her joints lubricated. 

 



"Just Try One Bite..." - In staying with the dining theme, my Father was also always big on trying new "delicacies".  I'm not speaking of unique dishes from around the world, or exciting spices that aren't used in typical American fare.  I'm speaking more along the lines of Gross-Out Food.  Such as, cow tongue, pigs knuckles, some sort of brain, pickled whatever's, etc. 

No special meals were cooked in my Parent's house.  It also wasn't a democracy.  For instance, if you didn't like what was cooked, there was no option to say I'm not eating that.  Oh no.  You'll eat what is placed in front of you.  The motto was "Take what I give you and eat what I serve you."  This included cow tongue.

The slab of blech was staring at you from your plate.  The mere thought of what it was, bringing up thoughts that shouldn't be thought of during a dining experience.  Thank God for my Mom.  After awhile she would invariably say, "James.  The kids do not have to eat this."  To which he would ultimately respond, "Just try one bite..."

'Cause every 8 year old really wants to take "just one bite" of another beings tongue. 

 

***



"Pipe Down Over There" - My family vacations were usually spent in a car, hauling our trailer to whichever destination my Mom chose.  We had a blast and looking back it was the most fun I ever had.  The stories of my vacations have been well documented in this blog, but there are oh so many more stories to tell.

For the earlier parts of our camping trips, we had a Pop-Up Tent Trailer.  One that flattened down like a pancake, but would rise up with a crank and branch out on opposite ends, to create sleeping spaces. 

Now my mind is a little hazy with this one, regarding the timing of events, however my brother and I must have been laughing at one end of the trailer, with my mom sitting in the middle dining area.  I know my father was stationed at the other end of the trailer, trying to sleep.  I suppose we were having way too much fun and giggling over something inevitably childish and silly. Being as we were children and silly.  Well, the noise just got too much to handle for the old man, and he bellows from the depths of his rounded belly, "Pipe Down Over There!"  My brother and I just about peed in our pants.

'Cause every 8 and 11 year old are told to "pipe down" in 1983.

 

"Goddamn Son of BLEEP Rocks!" - My parents have lived in their house for over 40 years.  It's a beautiful property with a pond, a pool and a large front and backyard.  Every year for as long as I can remember, they have grown a vegetable garden.  And for at least the last 10 years, my Dad and I have decorated their house for various Holidays with blow-up figures or lawn ornaments that stick in to the ground.

Every year, for as long as I can remember, my father has been swearing at the Earth that stands beneath his feet; swearing up a storm of profanities my innocent ears should not bear witness to.  He is confounded.  Truly and utterly befuddled how there are any rocks left on his property.  After years of turning over gardens and placing decorations in generally the same spot, he is still stymied by the rock, stone or boulder.

As I stand outside in the bitter cold, untangling nylon ropes that are to attach into hooks twisted into the ground, my father begins his rant.  As Winnie the Pooh or the 6 foot Polar Bear begin to inflate, so does my Dad's annoyance at his godforsaken land.

"Godamn Son of $#!* Rocks", he explodes.  "[Expletive Deleted]", he swears. "[Expletive Deleted]", he finishes.

'Cause every adult woman loves to see her Pop struggling to put up kiddie Christmas decorations, or a giant inflatable turkey while cursing like a sailor.  Ahh, the Holidays.

***

 

"You're Not THAT Fat" - To emphasize the point that my Father is unique in the words that he chooses, or when he chooses them, I offer you this tidbit of goodness. 

A few years ago, I was chitchatting with my Dad about nothing in particular.  I had put on some weight, to be honest, and wasn't feeling especially pretty.  Now, I should have known better than to go to my Dad for a pep talk about my appearance insecurities.  This, the man who thinks wearing white tube socks pulled up mid-calf with black sneakers and cargo shorts in the epitome of fashion.  This, the man who thinks wearing a button down shirt with a pirate face logo is being "fancy schmancy".  Yet, I confided in my Father about feeling low and uncomfortable in my skin.

His reply was a heartwarming response of, "You're not THAT fat."

'Cause every woman feels just AMAZING after hearing those words. 

 

***

Now, there are so many more Dad-isms that could be shared:  his constant mispronunciation of words (I dare you to ask him to pronounce "Guru" or "Stigmata"), his complete inability to retell a story or relay a message accurately, his love of making us squirm as children by saying he was eating "smoked butt". 

I can say without any hesitation that I know no other man in the world like my father.  He is a one of kind guy.  A guy I am honored to call My Dad.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo