Confessions of an Antagonistic Older Brother

My parents deserve to be sainted...even though they lack even an ounce of Catholic street cred.

After raising four children--one boy, three girls, including a set of twins, it's a wonder that my parents let any of us see a double digit birthday. Don't get me wrong, to the outside world, we were good kids, but boy, could we bug the ever-living crap out of each other.

In some ways, I blame vehicular engineering. This was before the advent of the SUV. Now, kids reside in their little fortresses of solitude, beyond the reach of antagonizing siblings. We, however, grew up in the era of the station wagon (80s kids everywhere just shuttered in unison), sporting bench seat technology designed to sit three people comfortably...allegedly. Anyone who has ever sat three butts to a bench will tell you it is anything but comfortable and a brawl is an eventual certainty. You can't help it, any design that forces siblings to touch is woefully flawed.

With only four years of separation between the oldest (yours truly) and the youngest (the twins-Becca & Sara), the teenage era in the Newhouse casa was a repetitious mash-up of hormonal tears, ill-timed acne, relationship drama, persistent self loathing...and that was just me. Once you factored in my sisters, you had what in today's lingo would be referred to as...a hot mess.

Let's just say, the formative years among the Newhouse children were not peaceful ones, and as the oldest, I fully acknowledge that I (perhaps) may have (possibly) been the instigator in a fair number (most) of our conflicts...so much so that I (might) have apologized to them in recent years (on more than one occasion). It's called maturity, folks.

That lengthy introduction sets the context for this next tale...of an incident of which my parents have long been ignorant. Now that we're all at least 30, I am somewhat confident Mom won't ground us. Let's test out that theory, shall we?

I remember it well. Mom and Dad had left us home alone while they ran some sort of errand--possibly to buy Christmas presents, have the car serviced, or simply get the hell away from us--and I was placed in charge as per usual. Now, understand, I embraced the role of the eldest sibling with gusto, not to ensure the safety and care of my sisters, but rather...to boss them around. Sisterly in-fighting had left their collective resolve weak, never growing wise that if they just joined forces, they could shift the balance of power in moments.

On this night, I distinctly remember knowing my parents ETA, and we were t-minus 30 minutes. I was holding court in the kitchen near my middle sister, Carrie. Becca and Sara were on the couch squabbling with each other. Growing tired of the twin-fighting (see what I did there), I grabbed each one by the shoulder gently-ish as if to say, "Cool it.," and inadvertently (I promise) pulled Sara's hair in the process.

What happened next occurred in Matrix-like slow motion.

Sara stood up, lifted her nearly full glass of soda...and I hit the deck. From the safety of the floor, I watched as the liquid projectile arched towards the kitchen and connected with an unseen target, showering liquid everywhere.

Knowing my sister was out of ammo, I prepared to depart the floor and apologize, but just as I began to raise my head, I saw another glass of soda come flying from the opposite direction. In horror, I realized that in my instinctual act of self-preservation, Carrie had gone from innocent bystander to drenched victim, and though Carrie's throw landed true, Becca was close enough to become collateral damage in the process. Suddenly, I was no longer the target of sisterly rage; simply a fly on the wall (or rather the floor) observing the most intense verbal barrage I'd ever witnessed.

Cognizant that the parental units would be home any minute and soda stains were quickly becoming permanent, I sprung to my feet, intending to say something eloquent to calm emotions and restore peace. Instead what came out was, "Mom...Dad...we are all going to die!"

Without speaking, we sprang to action--sopping, scrubbing, and scouring ever piece of carpet, cushion, or linoleum found within the splash zone. Suddenly, we went from super slo-mo to hyperspeed (cue cleaning montage), and just like in the movies, the last wad of soda soaked paper towels landed in the trash just as Mom and Dad pulled into the driveway.

You see, nothing brings siblings together like the collective fear of parental punishment. Amidst intense conflict we came together under a united goal--to save our own asses. There's no motivation quite as powerful.

Nowadays, we get along splendidly, partly because we crammed 60 good years of conflict into 14 years of life, and primarily as it turns out, my sisters are pretty cool people. Who'd have thought?

So Mom, I hope you found this tale more amusing than upsetting. Just think, all those years of blissful ignorance...shattered with one blog post.

Hmm...maybe I should have thought this through a bit.

Love is a Food Coma

It only seems appropriate that my post-Thanksgiving Day post centers around food. Nothing pulls you out of a food coma like contemplating your next meal of gluttony.

You see, besides, you know, loving my wife, I married into the Holland family not for money but rather for food. I break that line out at least once a holiday meal, and it is always greeted with rousing laughter. Of course, I always wait until bellies are full, and we are at least three bottles of wine down--it's called comedic timing, folks.

But seriously, thank goodness I liked Sara because it would have difficult to leave behind the Holland family traditions...and by traditions I mean rituals of food and fellowship.

Now my family has always understood the joy of eating. Some of my favorite family memories encompass mounds of chicken fried steak--my mother's specialty--and other high calorie, soul satisfying meals. In short, the Hollands made this Newhouse feel right at home.

Here's a rundown of the meals that found their way into my heart:

Thanksgiving - While the sides are all great, this meal is made by the presence of Greenberg Turkey. What's so special about a Greenberg Turkey? Imagine something so good that an unnamed 30 plus year old man threw a temper tantrum one year when he was told Greenberg was not on the menu. Yeah, it's that good. Plus, it's one of Oprah's Favorite Things except it was one of my favorite things first. In your face, Oprah.

Fourth of July - Besides the aforementioned pyrotechnics, Independence Day is filled with mounds of boiled shrimp. This was the first food-centric Holland tradition I experienced, and I may have made a fool of myself. Fortunately, after coming up for air, I found I was in good company. A few of the recent family additions aren't partakers...and I think they must lead sad, empty lives.

Memorial Day - Ribs, potato salad, baked beans. Need I say more? Well, that's never stopped me. I don't even like potato salad, but I love this stuff. It's like mashed potatoes on crack...yet street legal.

Chicken Spaghetti Day - Okay, this isn't a actual holiday, but when Sara's grandmother makes this dish, I'm like a kid on Christmas, and all my presents are pans of chicken spaghetti and my stocking contains a bottle of cholula--the perfect chicken spaghetti condiment. I swear this recipe could solve all the world's problems. Global warming, the national debt, world peace--all solved by a pan of chicken spaghetti.

I know, I know...some of you are probably lamenting that you didn't factor food into the perfect partner equation. Don't worry, love will get you through the mediocre meals and the tasteless treats to come.

Me? I'm fixing leftovers.

Tales of a Disowned Dog

Our second pug, Coal, was supposed to be my wife's dog...but for reasons outside his control, that association passed many years ago.

For all intents and purposes, Coal is Charley's dog--Charley being the pug from my bachelor days. As long as a I can remember, I knew one day I would own a blond haired, squished face, lap-loving pug named Charley, spelled L-E-Y not L-I-E, thank you very much. After Sara and I married, the rigors of work and grad school left Charley longing for companionship, which he conveyed to us by chewing on his front paws. Now, I can think of far more effective means of communication than self-mutilation, but when you lack the power of speech, I guess your options are limited.

And so, Sara and I set out to find a buddy for my little buddy--my wife insistent on finding a black pug to pair with our fawn. I liked the idea, especially because we were going to name him Coal, apropos for a black pug, and even better because we already called Charley "Char" for short so as a pair they'd be Char-Coal (too cute for words, I know).

The Friday of Memorial Day weekend we brought little Coal home. Coal instantly took to his new brother. The same was not true for Charley. But that's a story for another day. Rest assured, they are great friends now.

In our enthusiasm to have Coal join our family as soon as possible, we didn't think things through very well. That afternoon, we were embarking on a five hour trip to visit Sara's family. That's a long trip for a new puppy with a teeny bladder. Though we intended to stop pretty regularly for potty breaks, Coal apparently didn't get the memo, and within an hour of our departure, Coal chose to relieve himself...all over my wife.

Now, Sara will insist that this was the instant Coal ceased to be her dog, but I think that moment came a few months later.

Our dear, sweet Coal it turned out was allergic to the world, but that trait didn't evidence itself until a little over a year later. I was at work, and Sara had taken the dogs to the vet for vaccinations. Shortly after bringing them home, Sara called to inform me that Coal appeared to be swelling up. Being the supportive husband I am, I offhandedly dismissed her concerns. About five minutes later, my wife called again and her tone made it clear that I was no longer allowed an opinion until I laid eyes on the dog myself.

I quickly trotted home (a perk of residing on campus) prepared to act indignant amidst my wife's assured overreaction. I opened the door and scanned the living room for Coal, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead I found a balloon covered in fur attached to an unfurled tail. I was fully prepared for Coal to start a rapid ascent towards the ceiling. So with my tail tucked between my legs, dog in tow, and an "I told you so...jackass" look on my wife's face, we headed back to the vet.

Sara held Coal in her lap, reassuring him with caring strokes, and I swear to you this is exactly what happened next.

Coal lifted his head...looked Sara straight in her eyes as if he wanted to speak...and then proceeded to...projectile vomit all over her.

This, my friends, is when Coal ceased to be Sara's dog.

A hefty bill and a Benadryl drip later, Coal was fine, but unfortunately, we were just scratching the surface of Coal's allergy issues--a journey that I will highlight in future posts. Just know, the financial resources we have dedicated to Coal's mostly ineffective allergy treatments could support my Father-In-Law's firework habit for several lifetimes.

But back to the projectile vomit: Today, I can view this situation with humor (who am I kidding, it took every ounce of restraint and self-preservation to avoid cracking up as it happened); however, Sara has not achieved the necessary time and distance to see the lighter side of this tale. She may never, which is probably for the best. Coal only inflicted this kind of trauma when he was her dog so who knows what disaster would come her way if she ever reclaimed him.

All I know is that my dogs would never do such a thing.

Be Careful What You Wish For

I'm blogging to you from 30,000 feet this evening as my wife and I fly to the Pacific Northwest for a little vacay before things get cray-cray on the work front. Until recently, both of us worked in higher education, which meant despite our commitment to be together forever, forever did not include the month of August. Unfortunately for Sara, I still work in the field of higher education. I say unfortunately because her birthday falls right in the middle of new student orientation, which is my program, and thus, she has not celebrated her birthday on her actual birthday (at least with me) in a bajillion years...okay, eleven, but who's counting? (She is). But more about that later in another blog post...likely taking the form of a blog-apology or an ablogogy as I like to call it.

The actual purpose of my musing tonight is to mourn the passing of my boyish looks. You see, for years, people would regularly assume that I was MUCH younger than I actually was. Each time, they would excuse their foible with the standard line, "When you're older, you'll appreciate your young looks." Maybe so, but in the moment, it was mortifying. Imagine being mistaken for a junior high student during your senior year of high school. Try appreciating being laughed at by the bouncer at a 21+ venue as recent college grad...in front of your (hopefully still) future spouse. These are not cherished memories, my friends, though I hope you are finding humor in my pain.

Especially as a young professional, remarks about my age never seemed to take on a complimentary tone. Parents would make a passing reference to my age, and I'd think to myself, "Yes, I look young, but that neither changes the fact that your son was caught hauling a keg into his residence hall room nor does it impact my competence in handling this matter." Of course, as a young professional, I'd let those comments slide, which probably didn't help my case...but I digress.

After years of annoyance with my boyish looks, I was looking forward to the day of appreciation. But unfortunately, that day never came, and it appears it never will. Throughout my twenties, I continued to be carded regularly and never found it flattering. At 30, the carding suddenly stopped, and while I was mildly okay with not being mistaken for 20, the transition was so abrupt, it was startling. It's not like I had achieved some new found maturity distinguishing me from the twenty-somethings nor had a gray head of hair sprouted overnight. In my mind, I looked/acted relatively the same, but to the rest of the world, I apparently was no longer...boyish.

Still, four years later, I still had a hard time believing that the identity that I had bemoaned for years was no longer part of who I was. That was until my last visit to Colorado State for my doctoral program.

After the last day of class, several of my cohort gathered in the pub of the student union for a drink. I initially did not plan to partake, but later asked a classmate to grab me a glass from the bar...which was about 30 feet from our table. The distance, folks, will soon be a critical player. From the bar, I heard my friend shout that the bartender needed to see my I.D., which made sense, so I stood up, turned around to head to the bar, and before I even took a step, the bartender said, "Never mind."

That's right, folks. Not only is Ben no longer mistaken for years younger than his actual age, that fact is clearly identifiable from up to 30 feet away. One could say that I finally got what I wished for, but I'm not quite sure I wished for this. Regardless, my boyish looks have left me, and some part of me, mourns that a little...and some part still wants to kick that bouncer in the shins.

Stages of Grief

Those who know me well can attest that I am open book for all to see. I find it incongruent to live my passions but hide my pain, to share my hopes but not my fears, to showcase my talents but ignore my faults. To know me is to to get all of me--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Last April, the loss of my father became a part of my story--a chapter from which I'd like to share.

The mourning process for me has been...well...underwhelming. The five stages of grief have never manifested. Many have said that people grieve differently, and I have been no exception. Let me explain by sharing my stages of grief.

Stage 1: Resignation (duration - 11 hours)
From the moment my sister called me at 1 a.m. to let me know Dad was being transported to the hospital, I just knew. Nothing said indicated things were dire, but somehow it was clear I needed to make the trip immediately from San Antonio to Katy. Even when logic started to will me back to bed so that I could travel with a full night's rest, I found myself wide awake. Deep down I just knew I needed to get there to say goodbye.

Stage 2: Tears (duration - 30 minutes)
When I arrived at the hospital about 5:30 a.m., the updates from nursing staff were guarded but optimistic. Looking back, I think they were simply being merciful as no doctor was present to help us make meaning of the reality--Dad was not going to recover. Once in the ICU, the difficult truth was shared, and it was time for us to say goodbye. My mom and two of my sisters went into his room, and I stayed in the waiting room awaiting the return of my other sister. I just couldn't bare to have her walk into the hospital room alone. It was in the interim that I had my one true meltdown...in front of what felt like dozens of (but really less than six) strangers.

The ICU waiting room is not so much a waiting room as it is a carpeted place you stand for the elevators. It's not the ideal setting to hear life-changing news of the negative bent. But really, where is a good place to hear your father is dying? Chili's? No amount of skillet queso and molten chocolate cake can temper that news.

Stage 3: Irritation (duration - 4 days)
Though I can't say that I experienced anger, irritation was a state in which I found myself regularly. It seemed farcical that my father had just passed in the morning, and we needed to meet with a funeral home that afternoon. I was amazed how retailers would hem and haw about our requests for a quick turnaround even after explaining that it was for my father's memorial service. (I'm sorry, we'll just ask Dad to give us some advance notice next time). Some of the irritation was justified and some was a circumstance of my emotional state. I realize now that the Starbucks barista was unaware of my father's passing, and thus, it was not a personality flaw that caused him to screw up my Grande Cafe Vanilla Frappucino with soy, no whip. As a normally even keeled person, I was thankful when this stage was over, and I returned to the standard Zen of Ben.

Stage 4: Emptiness (duration - April 17 to present)
The loss of a loved one leaves a void, an emptiness, that cannot be filled...try as we might. Initially, I attempted to fill that void by managing all the "details" that come with death--fielding phone calls, helping Mom with funeral arrangements, stocking the fridge, cleaning the house, picking up family--selfless acts with selfish intentions. Keeping occupied allowed me to ignore the emptiness.

Though the pain of loss has subsided, the emptiness remains...and I think it always will. In some strange way, I'm okay with that. My dad was an invaluable part of my life--an incredible mentor, my greatest supporter, even my best man; nothing can replace or fill that gap in my life. To look closely at the emptiness is to see my father's impact on my life. Yes, the emptiness is bittersweet, but fortunately it is an emphasis on the sweet.

Occasionally, the melancholy of loss will wash over me. I would be worried if it didn't, but the emptiness is quickly becoming a fact of my life. Fortunately, I remain blessed with an amazing mother, a loving wife, three truly cool siblings to whom I grow closer each day, and an extended family that includes a father-in-law and mother-in-law whom I cherish. None are substitutes for my father, nor would they try to be, but each remind me that my life is very full, no matter how empty it may feel at times.

Boom Boom Pow

After the umpteenth (translation 3rd) mention of my lack of blog activity from various in-laws this weekend, I have decided to teach them a lesson. Rather than interact with them, I will deny them the privilege of my presence in order to blog.

It's their loss really. If you like blog-Ben, you'd love actual-Ben...if I do say so myself. Though it does appear the family is getting along just fine without me...not missing me at all. I wonder if they actually read my blog...or are they simply trying to get rid of me? I'm on to their underhanded tricks.

Growing up, the 4th of July was an anticlimactic affair. My family would grill burgers, drink kool-aid, and the Newhouse kids would bug the living hell out of my father to let us buy fireworks. And by fireworks, I mean sparklers and poppers--fireworks lite, if you will. But back then, it was awesome...until I realized that July in Texas is hot and mosquitoes found me especially tasty.

Needless to say, my childhood did not prepare me for the event that is the 4th of July with my wife's family. You see, my father-in-law loves fireworks. Actually, that's the understatement of the year. My FIL is the proverbial kid in a candy store at a fireworks stand. The first time I accompanied him, I was charged by my then future mother-in-law to keep him in check. With my frame of reference, that would be no problem. $25 max and we'd be on our way. I was so naive...and destined for failure.

We entered the store, and we headed straight toward the big stuff. Within five minutes we had surpassed "keeping him in check" territory. Being new to the family, I was hoping to make a good impression with my MIL. Clearly, that wasn't going to be happening this afternoon. By that evening, however, the shame of my failure was replaced with awe. FIREWORKS WERE AWESOME!

Since that initial show, I have only feigned mild resolve at keeping my FIL in check. Actually, the last time I gave that role much effort, I thought we were going to come to blows. Now, I am simply a fireworks enabler, insisting we go bigger, better, louder each year. It's ridiculous, really...ridiculously awesome.

This year, the show was no exception. We held the 4th early (the calendar be damned), and despite some near misses with a stray homicidal artillery shell, fun was had by all. Now, I just have to convince my MIL that a suburban full of fireworks only costs $25.

Tales of a Delinquent Blogger

I owe you, dear readers, an apology.

I have been delinquent in my blogging duties. I have allowed things like work and school to get in the way of broadcasting my unsolicited opinions and self-indulgent anecdotes. I know your lives have been unfulfilled without my musings. For this neglect, I am humbly sorry. My only defense is a desire to keep my aforementioned job and eventually complete my doctoral coursework. Yes, I can be unreasonable at times.

I have been inspired to blog on numerous occasions. Here's are some topics that have made my shortlist:

• TU's Class of 2011 - This was the first class of students I'd seen from their first day of college to graduation. This group will always hold a special place in my heart, especially members of the O-Team, theProject, and my student staff at the Information Desk.
• The death of the serial comma - All I can say is that I am disappointed, miffed, and perplexed. I guess I should add rebelling to that list.
• The Voice - I am generally not a fan of reality television, but this was a great show. The Voice demonstrated that friendly competition does not diminish quality, and I loved that the coaches were invested in people, not just product. And no offense to the talented Javier Colon, but Dia Frampton, you could sing the phone book, and I'd listen.

I am sure there are other blog-worthy moments that I might get to one day...my birthday philosophy most certainly, but that will have to wait. It is now time for the Holland family shrimp boil, and I must do my duty and eat to excess.

Happy reading!

Coming Attractions: Reflections on my father

Well, it appears at least a few people are interested in reading what I have to say. That fact is both gratifying and intimidating, because now, I have to deliver. Originally, I thought this would be a blog by me, for me, which is kind of liberating...and slightly sad. Plus, my inner monologue really should remain trapped within the confines of my mind so I apologize in advance for some of the thoughts that may spew forth in unfiltered moments. I blame it on the caffeine.

What finally got this blog started was the passing of my father...they weren't his final words or anything...though that would have been an anticlimactic moment.

"Son..."

I lean forward, grasping my father's hand. "Yes, Dad?"

He looks me in the eye with knowing, wisdom. "Start that damn blog already."

"Love you, too, Dad."

(End scene)

No, I started the blog because I thought it would be a fitting venue for me to write and reflect on his impact on my life--the important memories, the valuable lessons--as a way to consider how he continues to be present even after his departure. It feels like a healthy part of the grieving process...for me at least.

Now, before any of you revolt because you thought this blog was going to be funny, uplifting, and entertaining, don't worry. I promise to intersperse plenty of entries about much lighter fare. I'm sure I will rant a bit about Coal, our hairless, allergic to the world pug. A month won't go by without a mention of my love for cheese. And speaking of love, you'll regularly hear of my misadventures in marriage with my patient, yet adoring wife Sara...who also thinks I'm hilarious...and charming...you can see it in the way she rolls her eyes.

Even my reflection will be sprinkled with attempted wit. My dad thought he was funny, and I share the same delusion.

Lucky for you, dear reader.

Introduction

I'd love to think that over time fans will flock to this blog in order to read my latest musing on popular culture or chuckle at a random diatribe about one of my food philosophies, but I realize there is very little I can share about the world that has not been said by someone funnier, fancier, and famouser (yes, in my blog I can revise the rules of grammar). The concept of starting a blog is in and of itself an unoriginal idea. The fact that my Dean of Students has beaten me to the blogosphere by many years is both embarrassing and unsettling. My blog title says it all....it's been done before...and my name is Ben. Clever, right?

And so, since the minimal traffic I expect to get will be limited to my Dean of Students, who will be simply checking out who mentioned his blog, and my mother a couple times of day, what I elect to put into words will likely be for me alone.

So Ben, I hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and...hi Mom!