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I met the Postmistress and 3 of our kids for lunch at The Happiest Place on Earth today.

Not Disneyland, though we live close enough we could do that. But that would be so old school for this modern family. I mean, seriously, if we measure the happiness of a place by how much money we spend each time we go there . . . I sure don’t see Mr. Toad flippin’ back any $300 rebate checks each spring.

Costco fine dining, anyone?

Buck and a half for a dog and coke.

So, here we all sit at those tables that strangely resemble the ones from grade school. Packed together real close. Brushing backs with the sweaty lady in the ballcap. Actually saying hello to someone you recognize from soccer last season. Sharing the other end of the table with Laurel and Hardy, who look like they could be married.

And you think we could just smile and make a little small talk with each other. Nothing heavy ’cause we’re just hooking up for a quick lunch. Should be plenty of safe topics at hand for the next half-hour: “Nice weather, how were finals, what would you like to do this weekend, can I buy a new bike, how’s your day.” How hard can it be, really?

We could have carried on with the nice conversation about the raccoon family that broke into the dogfood bin last night. That caught my attention.  I thought it was really cute when they paused to wash their little paws in the swimming pool. Judging by the hysterics of my wife at 3:00am, one would think that this would warrant at least a few minutes of banter. Nah.

What about the dangerous gang of rodents that moved in to clean up the mess the racoons left behind? I thought it clever that they would climb the screen door outside our bedroom, then launch their little selves into the waiting dogfood bin. Sleep deprived and still in intruder alert mode, the wife pulled back the drapes at 4:00 am to see what was making such a clatter and locked eyes with a certain Mr. Mouse, who deftly performed a backflip for her into the dogfood bin. Did I mention how fond she is of beady eyes and hairless tails? HO HUM.

“So what exactly were you thinking when you went outside to scare off the ‘coons in the nude?” The mistress inquires.

“I didn’t imagine I had time to put on a suit, what with all the hysterics you were throwing off.”

“You know how mean those things can get. What if they turned around and attacked you? How would we explain the wounds on the private parts to the emergency room doctor?” Devious grins were exchanged between boys. Demure, knowing smiles crossed the faces of the girls. Dad was in the crosshairs again.

I suppose the mental picture was just too much for everyone. A Vulcan Mind Meld occurred between the 4 of them: A Mom who should know better, a 17 year old boy who knows too much, an 11 year old girl who has heard waaay too much, and our 7 going on 17 year old boy. “I have an idea . . . Let’s talk about Dad’s vasectomy!” Here in Costco. While rubbing backs with Mrs. sweaty-back. And maybe we should all sing It’s a Small World After All.”

“Those raccoons could have saved you some money on the operation, Dad.” Hoo-boy, here we go. Some men receive  honor through the retelling of stories of past greatness.  Some men’s children sit quietly in rapt attention while dad tells stories of his prowess on the athletic field. Some men have kids that brag on their dad-you know:”My dad can beat your dad” kind of stuff.  Some men.

They wanted to rehash V-day. “A day that will live in infamy” to loosly quote FDR.

“So, like, you’re sitting there in just your shirt when the doctor comes in? Just your shirt? Nothing else? Weren’t you really embarrassed to have another guy poking around down there?” the mistress prods. Somehow, my sterilization has become a cathartic experience for my wife. The 6 months prior to her “yearly exam” are a simmering pot of anticipatory stress. Then, for 6 months after, I hear about how lucky I am not to be a lady and how humiliating the “yearly” is and “How would you like to put your feet up in stirrups?” So I suppose fair is fair. Have at me. Just not in Costco, please.

“Well, it didn’t hurt did it?”

“Not at first.” And the cutting really didn’t hurt. <Exaggeration alert>Different story when he pulled the first nad out and tucked it in the cleft of my first two toes. Only minor relief when he tucked it back in. The balance of the procedure took place on the ceiling. <End alert> In the end, it was only 2 or 3 minutes of agony. He forgot to mention that some men feel a little discomfort during the tie-off.

“Didn’t you want to watch what he was doing?”

“Honey, you forget I am the man who fainted last time I had blood drawn. And I would want to watch such a delicate procedure?”

And here is where things went south: Michael says, “Yeah, I have watched a vasectomy before. I saw how they cut the tubes, fold them over and put the little clips on them. I can’t see how those tubes would ever grow back together.” I stare, intrigued to find out if he is just messing with me. “Really, I saw one done on a cadaver in Biology class. Saw it done to a dog when the class visited the Vet, too. I even did one myself during a dissection.”

Well, this boy has been around.

“Your whole class, even the girls, watched a vasectomy on a dead guy?”

“Sure, it was neat. They wanted to show us how a surgery was done and they didn’t have a lot of time, so they did a V.” Neither I nor my wife knew what to say. Who knew our 17 year-old had gotten such an education? And I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned this until now, since the last Biology class he took was last year.

I suppose he thought that if he brought up those particular anatomy lessons at the time, his parents would then feel license to discuss more personal anatomy issues with him. And he would have been right. I am so glad that he is feeling more secure about himself today. I guess I don’t mind being the object of their jokes if that helps him along with sorting out his manhood.

I think I have forgotten the turmoil that is going on in our kids as they continually work through the process of growing up. Progressing from little kid, to big kid, to young adult, to adulthood is a herky-jerky affair. I remember a lot of self-doubt and insecurity inside my self. I wished more people would have initaited conversations that would allow me to explore the questions I had. I wish now that my parents were more vulnerable.

I was glad for the reminder that we cannot ever take the job of parenting lightly. Even when we just want to have a simple lunch at the local warehouse store. Our children need to see us model how to talk about “difficult” subjects. I think we owe them vulnerability: it helps us to be perceived as more accessible to them.

I owe my dear wife a debt of gratitude for her leadership in this area. Her “gift of gab” is truly a gift to our children.

Technorati Tags: communication, costco, kids

I just read Dereck Semmler’s most recent article, “Men are Wimps…” at his blog The Man Page and instantly flashed back to a time early in our marriage when we actually caught someone robbing our house. Well, we didn’t catch him in the house. . . I had to give chase for a bit.  Let’s just say right off that my wife was thoroughly unimpressed.

On a Sunday afternoon, returning home from our final Lamaze class we pulled into the garage of our little 2-story condo. I didn’t remember leaving the door into the kitchen propped open. And funny how the shadow of a miniblind is playing on the wall, though the wind is not blowing at all. Curious. I don’t remember leaving my television set on the kitchen floor . . .

BAH- WHAAMMMMM ! ! !  Before the concept could gell in my mind, I simply reacted.

I flew out of the car, barely throwing it into Park as the realization engulfed me that someone  was in my house stealing my stuff. Questioning my own sanity, but being propelled uncontrollably ahead by Lord-knows-what and testosterone laced adrenaline I grabbed the first substantial looking thing I saw. A clothes iron.

Leaving our superhero suspended mid-stride for a moment, let me tell you everything that flashed in my mind at the very moment I picked up that iron: “OK this is good it’s heavy and could deflect bullets can’t find a butcher knife besides they’re all dull anyway  hope the neighbor guy is home I could use some backup call 911 ! this thing could work like a shield i could throw it at him and run God I am stupid banished to the couch forever  what do I do with him if I find him I’ll probably trip over the cord  why can’t I stop myself Our Father who art in heaven… he’s more afraid than I am HERE WE GOOOOoooo ! “

So I did it- I searched the house, room to room, holding the iron in front of me. (I didn’t even wet my pants, and yes I did check). I am soo thankful that my wife stayed outside for that spectacle. The video would have won the $10,000 prize for sure: Skinny macho guy holding a trembling iron at arm’s length and swinging it back and forth like you see the cops do when they sweep a room. I was so pumped up I can’t remember if I even said anything out loud.  It didn’t take me long to figure out that the would-be thief made a hasty escape by diving out the dining room window when he heard the garage door go up. This explains the miniblinds moving around when we pulled into the garage. He left broken glass and a little blood behind as a memento.

You would think someone in this situation would be relieved as soon as they figured out that the intruder was gone. You would think that a sane person would just thank God that nobody got hurt. You would think.

In the meantime, my very panicked and very 8 1/2 months pregnant wife was trying to convince the neighbor guy to “get over there and help my husband out”. Not a chance. This wimp just stood at the window and looked out. He offered to let her use the phone to call the police, though.

Coming down from my adrenaline high, I went back outside to find my wife. And was I thankful for that big belly, which was the only thing separating me from a real stressed-out-wife thrashing. I reassured her that everything was fine, and I could easily repair the window. Arm in arm, we walked into the scene of the crime to assess if anything was missing. The intruder had piled a bunch of our stuff in the garage with the intent of using our other car as the getaway vehicle. He was searching for the car keys when we startled him and he dove out the window.

You would think this would be the end of the affair: Just file a police report, get on with life, and adjust to sleeping on the couch. Remember what I said about sanity? Sanity had not fully returned to my feeble mind yet.

The thought that someone had violated our space was eating at me. At the same time I was contemplating the crime and wondering about the humanity of such a person. It dawned on me that he was going to steal our car, which meant that he likely didn’t drive to our house, which meant HE IS ON FOOT!. A hasty plan was formed in my mind and I did not wait for validation from my poor wife. I set out on a walkabout of the condo neighborhood sans iron.

Yes, you read me right. I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I had the audacity to believe I might actually see the culprit just wandering around the complex and that I would somehow be able to identify him. Stupid, I know. Pride makes men do the darndest things, and my pride had been pricked by this invasion of our privacy.

As it turns out I did find the guy and he was carrying someone else’s TV and VCR in his arms. (And I simplify the story here as it gets complex). He told me he couldn’t remember where his car was parked and wondered if I would hold his stuff while he looked for his car. He set the electronics down by a tree and I gave chase. The cops finally showed up by this point (hours after the crime) and witnessed our little chase scene. They caught up with him in a cruiser and arrested him. Physical evidence tied him to several burglaries and he got a 1 year sentence in county jail.

Derek, thanks for bringing back a memory I had suppressed so well. Good times.

Technorati Tags: fun stuff, Stupidity

Here is an idea for you last-minute Mother’s Day shoppers. Give her a bottle of coconut oil.

I know, I am hopelessly romantic. “Aw gee, honey, you shouldn’t have . . . an economy size jug of glass cleaner.” “Look kids, daddy got mommy vacuum cleaner bags this year. Doesn’t mommy loooooove daddy for such creativity?”

Let me just tell you that this stuff is HOT. If used outside the kitchen.

Oh yeah, I am gonna tell you how to cook with this stuff even if you can’t boil water. You are gonna apply the coconut oil directly to HER BODY. With your hands. Oh yeah.

First off- what to buy. At your local natural foods store (I got ours at Henry’s) you can find Virgin Expeller Pressed Coconut Oil. I think the World of Wally might have something similar, too. I won’t take your time to describe the process of expeller pressing, except to say that I think it cuts down ALOT on the natural odor of the oil. The bottle is about the size of a bottle of canned peaches and cost about 9 bucks. It will last a really long time.

What to do with it: You are going to give your wife a full body massage. For at least an hour. C’mon stud, you can stand to have your hands all over for an hour can’t you? She is going to get a relaxing massage from toes to head.

A word of warning: This is for her. DO NOT expect a “happy ending” for yourself. I know that so much fleshly contact becomes hard for us guys after awhile, but you must prepare yourself ahead of time to not hope for conjugal contact. In fact, if you do this real well there is a good chance she will fall asleep. On the other hand, while I prepare you for no nookie, truth is that she probably will get really turned on so be ready to go with that flow, too.

Set the stage: Candles, flower petals in the bath water, a sloppy card . . . I dunno what works for you guys. But for Pete’s sake don’t just say “Wanna backrub?”. Set the scene. Ask her into your massage parlor. Draw a nice bath (after cleaning the tub first. Come to think of it, my wife gets turned on when I just think to clean the tub). Use mood lighting. For sure, get the room temperature so it is comfortable for her to stay unclothed without getting chilled. Wear something that is lightweight and comfortable for you (and sexy for her): You will likely break a sweat if you are doing this right. Music is nice. Pick up your nasty underwear from the bedside. Make sure the room is clean. Clutter-free leads to stress-free.

The massage table: Will probably be your bed. If she is most comfortable on the floor, go there. Lay down a couple of beach towels in case you get a little of the coconut oil where you shouldn’t. Just make sure that wherever you put her, you have comfortable access to all of her. You don’t want to aggravate your back by getting yourself all contorted.

Get started: Get her unclothed and laying facedown on the table. Start with her feet (This is why we began with a bath . . .). Now, the coconut oil is a funny substance. It is semi-solid when room temperature is below 72 degrees, but it becomes liquid above that. Also, a little goes a long way. One of the beauties of coconut oil is that it seems to stay slippery for a long time.

Another thing- Once you get started you must maintain physical contact with her at all times. No potty breaks for you. Always have at least one hand on her. I don’t know the shrinkology to back this up, but trust me. This means that you must prepare everything in advance and have it ready at your fingertips. Think through this before you start.

Work a little into your hands then get going with her toes. Take your time now, she is loving getting attention to her tootsies. After several minutes of this, work your way to her heels. Probably a firmer pressure is going to feel best. Do not tickle her. Do you hear me? NO TICKLING. This is a buzzkill. If done well, this massage experience will actually grow some confidence between you two-or you can tickle her and ruin it for her.

When you get to the calves of her legs you will likely have to concentrate on one leg at a time. Reapply oil as needed- but just enough to keep things slightly slick. Too much oil will likely feel icky to her. Press firmly and work towards her head. You can try varying pressure and maybe even dragging your fingertips or nails over her skin. Just stay real tuned in to her reactions. Ask her if whatever you are doing is feeling okay occasionally. You might even be able to get into a position that allows you to press her foot against your chest, allowing you to massage the front of her legs.

Now as you get to her thighs keep working the deep tissue massage. To get the inside of her thighs you will need to open her legs a bit. This is a great time to remind her that even if you touch her there accidentally, it is just a part of the full body experience. Don’t sexualize this. Don’t forget to work the outside of her legs, also.

By now, 10 or 15 minutes should have passed. Have a sip of the water you thought to set close by, but don’t stop rubbing with the other hand.

The Hiney- Work it good. Very firm pressure is good. These are large, strong muscles that can take a squeezing. Don’t forget to keep up a dialog about how beautiful she is and how much you are enjoying this. Work down the crack a bit, but do not cross her personal boundaries. If you aren’t sure if she would like you to touch her in this sensitive area, then I would say don’t go there. On the other hand, she just took a bath and everything is clean . . . Just pay attention to her body language is all I’m saying. She probably won’t feel too experimental this go-around, but if you do this full body massage right- well, there is always next time.

Work your way slowly up the back, paying lots of attention to her lower back and moving often back to her butt. Many women experience lower back pain and this attention to the small of her back will work wonders for her. Lots of tension is stored in the back, from the shoulders to the glutes. A good back massage can literally release stress from her life.

You can alternate between light and firm pressure, but don’t be schitzo about it. Do firm strokes over and over long enough to establish a rhythm, then switch to a light touch. Straddle her now, if you need to (just keep you pants on, please). Use your hands to make circles on her skin, pushing the tension from the spine out towards her sides. Don’t do the karate chop thing here, unless she specifically requests it.

Ask her how she is doing. You should keep up a bit of conversation during the massage, just to help you keep verbally connected. But don’t make small-talk. All conversation should be geared toward her. Allow for many quiet times so that she can stay in the moment.

By the time you get to her shoulders, about 40 minutes should have elapsed. Work the tension out of her shoulders for five minutes or so, always keeping just a thin film of coconut oil on her skin.

Now, as you get to her head, you will need to get most of the coconut oil off of your hands because you are going to spend about 10 minutes massaging her scalp. Again, vary light fingertip pressure with firmer massaging. Work around to her forehead, avoiding getting the oil on her face.

As you can see, you are nearly an hour into this and you have not even gotten to the front side. I know, I know- this is where the goodies are. Unfortunately, she probably doesn’t store any stress in her breasts. Not to say that your massage can’t continue on to the front . . . Ask her if she would like to turn over and get some front side massage. Go for it as long as she wants.

The wrap-up: You have given her a petty inexpensive gift that she will remember for a long time, and will hopefully ask for again. Thank her for allowing you to spend so much time touching her. Tell her how beautiful she is. Give her a clean towel to wipe off any excess coconut oil, or lead her to the shower. If the massage ended with an offer of conjugation, by all means: go for it! But please, (and I know by this time you will very excited and might become, shall we say: quick) remember this is FOR HER. Make sure she gets a happy ending before you do.

A couple of words about coconut oil: For most people it doesn’t irritate those sensitive tissues, In fact it can be a great, inexpensive substitute for K-Y or other lubricants. Don’t assume, though. Try it out slowly before you go all-in.

Coconut oil should be non-staining of your sheets. But lay down towels just in case.

The very subtle aroma is quite nice.

It is inexpensive.

It is a great moisturizer.

It is condom-safe.

It tastes pretty good. ‘Nuff said here?

Blessings

Technorati Tags: fun stuff, marriage

Be forewarned if you ever come to dinner at the Postmaster house you are likely to get schooled. At the very least entertained. Possibly shocked. The following took place  recently at the dinner table:

Our 17 year old son was filling us all in about his plans to go play ice soccer with the high school youth group. He plays AYSO soccer on a grass field, so I wondered aloud what ice had to do with soccer. “We will be playing indoors at the ice rink” he mentioned casually. Pass the bread please. “Will there be girls there?”,I query. “Yea Dad, everyone in the church group is invited, girls too”.

“Girls are going to get out on the ice and crash into boys on purpose ?”

No further explanation is apparently coming from my usually tight-lipped son. Friendly he is, but sparse of words. “Butter?”

I press on:”I have played broom-hockey at the rink, but never ice-soccer: Are you sure about what’s going on?”

“Sure I’m sure. Actually, some girl broke her wrist last time we played. It’s fun.”   Nice.

By now the mother hen antennae are focused tightly on our conversation. She seems to be flashing THE LOOK my direction. THE LOOK can mean many things depending on the situation, but it is sure to evoke the flight-or-flight response in me.  After a brief mental Chinese fire drill I (rightly) guess that the Mom has done a quick sum: testosterone+girl sweaters+feats of athletic stupidity+broken bones=Dad you better do something about this. Now. “Uhhhhhhhhh . . .”

Did I mention that the antennae double as a death ray?

“Maybe you ought to wear some really thick clothes to protect yourself. Try my hunting jacket. And see if you can put a pillow in your pants to protect your butt.”  I knew it was totally not the advice the mother was expecting from me but, hey, it did sound like fun and she knows that THE LOOK addles my brain . . .

I hear the unmistakable sound of the death-ray warmup.

His older brother, ever alert to an instigation opportunity pipes in (saving his dad’s butt); “Maybe you ought to put that pillow in the front of your pants. To protect your package”.

Howls of  laughter spew from Ryan, our 7 year old. Just saying the word package brings joy to his life. “Package!!! BwaHaaHaaaaa Haaaaaaa!” Bright eyes await whatever comment will follow. He knows boy-instinctively that this conversation is going in the toilet and he’s ready to jump in.

“Your brother is right about the pillow in front. Might want to see if it would wrap all the way underneath to protect the jewels in case you do the splits on the ice”, I add.

The daughter, poor thing, just smiles demurely but takes it all in. Having 3 brothers has got to be a warping factor in her life. We pray for her.

Putting her death ray away and hoping to somehow mitigate the onslaught of genitalia jokes that is visibly building up around the table, the Mom chimes in with, “Michael maybe you could borrow one of dad’s jockstraps from when he had his vasectomy. Wouldn’t that help protect things?” 

Silence fell upon the dinner table at that moment. Not because Mom spoke of my fixin’. No, my package has been the topic of conversation ever since the fix got done earlier this year. Nothing hidden here- everyone knows what was done and why. (Still, months later, the boys will inquire, “How’s it healin’, Dad?”). Silence fell because mom said jockstrap. It is a funny word of itself, but misused it caused pause.

“Perhaps you mean cup ?”  “Besides, men wouldn’t share a strap. That’s just wrong. Would you borrow a bra  from another lady?“  “More iced tea?”

The dam broke. In less than a minute we had mentioned most of the funnest human body parts.  One thing that ladies need to understand is that boys and men like to talk about our junk. It’s just fun and we never outgrow it. We think it is an endearing trait.

 The boys got on a roll . . .

“A cup????  I need a bowl !!!” “Wouldn’t that be so funny  to show up at the rink with a bucket in the front of your pants !?” “Yea and the girls could wear buckets on their chests to protect those !”

This silliness went on for a bit of time until we had pretty much said all of the “clean” euphamisms for reproductive parts and pieces. Then one of us said “Wouldn’t it be great if we could just take our package off before we did some sport that might damage it?”

“Great idea! Just click it off and put it in a drawer. Go play your baseball or wresting. Click it back on when your done. Might make it easier to keep clean, too.”

“I don’t know how you guys put up with that stuff flopping around when you walk or run. It seems so uncomfortable.”

“What if someone stole it while you were gone?”

“I suppose you could go to the package store and buy a replacement.”

“Would I be able to choose the size?”

“Sure . . . There would be: small, medium, large and extra-large.”

“What guy is going to ask for anything but XXL?”

“Good point. XXL would soon become new small”. “Would breasts be detachable, too?” The wife chimed in.

“Absolutely. When they get a little saggy you could just trade them in for something firmer.”

 ”What size should I trade mine in for? I am a little lower than when we first married . . .” (An obvious test).

“Keep the ones you got. They’ve been good to me.” (Test passed).

“I would go smaller.”

The Mom gets a bright idea: “Maybe you guys could leave your parts at home when you go out on dates. You know, just click ‘em off and hand them over to your parents as you leave. Wouldn’t that make staying out of trouble a lot easier?”

“That might be a bit awkward, Mom. I just can’t see me handing  my johnson to you before I go on a date. That would just be not right.”

“As not right as becoming a dad before you are ready? Seriously, those parts of yours get kids into so much trouble. I wish they really were detachable. I would give them to your spouse as a wedding present right after you “kiss the bride.”

“That would be an interesting ceremony, to say the least.”

“I am liking this idea more and more,” I quip. “ If I were God for a day this is the one thing I would do for humanity. Can’t you see how messed up many of us allow our lives to get just because we can’t maintain control of our urges?”

Anyway, the conversation went on for a bit longer and we did get a chance to throw in another plug for purity. You can’t say it often enough. We might be a little more educated now, too, depending upon how you define it.

I hope this glimpse into the insanity that often prevails at the Postmaster household wasn’t TMI. Truthfully, I am not sure why I shared this, except that it is Friday and I am loosening up for the weekend.

Blessings

Technorati Tags: communication, fatherhood, goofiness