It's hard to believe that almost a year has passed since my father died. As I start this post, I notice it's 5 a.m., Wednesday morning--I'm battling a bit of isomnia caused by the excessive rest of a recent illness--and I realize that on this very day last year...actually this very moment, I would be pulling into the hospital parking lot, having made the trek from San Antonio to Katy, TX after receiving a call from my sister that Dad had been transported by ambulance about 1 a.m. Truly, nothing good ever happens after midnight.
When I started this blog, I thought I would write more about my dad...as a means of healing and reflection, but I haven't found that to be the case. I have written a few Dad-centric posts but nothing consistently. Don't get me wrong, the act of writing about...well, everything...has been a cathartic process that has led to much reflection, clarity, and in some ways, healing. It's just my topic choices have been a bit...chaotic. But that's pretty representative of my life right now so I guess that suits me just fine.
Regardless of my disjointed focus, I did intend that in the week leading up to the anniversary of Dad's passing that I'd develop daily posts in his honor. But the universe had different plans in mind by afflicting me with the aforementioned illness--a revenge visit from a case of bronchitis that was only mocked and clearly irritated by the last round of antibiotics. So rest, not blogging, was in my future...until today.
I can't say anything profound will come out of me over the next few days. I prefer to reflect on happy times with my dad or reframe familial absurdities that I think the world just has to know. Come on, you know your life is more fulfilled now that you've read about the time my wife almost (not really), very nearly (not even close) stabbed me.
So, now that I've buried the lead (as I tend to do in all my posts), the actual reason I brought you all together today was to share an absurdity that arose on almost every family road trip that took us outside of Texas.
You see, if you're heading north from Houston, all roads appear to lead through Dallas, TX. And Dallas, my dear readers, is truly, the most terrifying city in all the world...or at least that's what my dad taught me as a child.
Now, we never had a formal sit down on the matter, but Dad was always very insistent that the land of Dallas was not to be taken lightly. Every time we approached the city limits, we were informed that not a word was to be spoken by any child of Newhouse descent lest those words be met with terrible consequences. I could never tell if said consequences would come from Dad or the minions of Dallas, but I truly believed that the outcome would be the end of me. And so trip after trip, the Newhouse clan sat in absolute silence until Dallas was nothing more than a speck in the rear view mirror of our station wagon.
Of course, now, I realize my dad was full of crap.
At best, Dad wanted to focus all his attention on the increased traffic and aggressive drivers..but these are the half-truths parents tell themselves to help them sleep at night.
In reality, Dad was using the first major city not named Houston to acquire some freakin' peace and quiet. You don't cram four kids and two adults into a station wagon without achieving decibel levels of a 90's metal band, recording such hits as Stop Touching Me!, What's That Smell?!, and my favorite, I Know You Are But What Am I? It's no wonder he chose a Metroplex for an extended, sanity-preserving respite.
Of course, he eventually pushed his luck too far. With each passing trip, Dallas got closer and closer to Houston. I mean, we were pretty smart kids, it only took us 10-12 trips before we caught on that Dallas was not spelled The Woodlands.
It's spelled C-O-N-R-O-E...thank you very much.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Charley Says It All
Now, Charley has never been a mouthy dog. Even after teaching him to speak, he often lets out a silent bark the first time or two. For Charley to repeatedly howl, I can only think he was really upset, and based on his silence upon Coal's return, I thought he must have missed his brother. I honestly found it rather touching.
I called Sara on the way to work to recount the tale of our dogs' bro-union, and Sara was equally flummoxed by Charley's new vocal lamentations.
Later that night, Sara came home to find Charley howling away again...even though Coal was nearby. I, at first, became worried that Charley might be showing his age--he had lost track of Coal and became upset. But then it hit me, maybe Charley missed the humans in his life, likely Sara...most definitely me. And again, I was touched by Charley's deep connection with those around him.
So when I arrived home that night, I decided to do a little experiment. Sara and I, with Coal in tow, left through the front door as if departing. I patiently waited outside for the howls to commence, and...nothing. I returned Coal to the house while Sara and I remained outside, and pretty soon, the mournful sound of...silence became deafening. Charley seemed thoroughly nonplussed by our absence.
With my tail tucked between my legs and my experiment an utter failure, I reentered the house. Upon entry, I realized that the dog pillow was still in the dryer, and I went to grab it for the dogs.
As soon as I opened the dryer door, Charley came running around the corner, slipping and sliding on the hardwood with complete disregard for his own well-being. As I slipped the pillow into it's freshly washed cover, I thought Charley was about to come out of his skin in anticipation. Never has reunion between an animal and inanimate object elicited such emotion.
And it suddenly became painfully clear...Charley missed his pillow.
Not his brother...not his humans...his pillow!
His flippin' pillow.
Friday, March 16, 2012
The Night my Wife Stabbed Me & Other Tall Tales
Some people just know how to put on a production. My Father-In-Law is one of those people. Besides being able to choreograph a killer fireworks display, my FIL is a master storyteller. Anytime the family gathers for a holiday or another food-centric occasion, Saturday morning breakfast is guaranteed to devolve into an exchanges of tales from days gone by...and no one spins the yarns quite like Sara's dad.
You see, my FIL has a unique ability to paint a picture with his words. When he recounts the misadventures of his youthful days alongside three brothers, you almost feel party to the mischief, mayhem, and destruction left in their wake. (My apologies to the city of Shreveport.) When he tells stories about the mishaps at their airplane repair shop, it becomes clear that only through divine intervention did he escape those years without serious injury. I mean, an engine once grabbed him by the moob (that's the medical term), yanked him off his feet, and dumped him on his head, and he walked away just fine...with the exception of a hard to explain bruise.
I've witnessed looks of horrific clarity and revelation come across Sara's grandmother's face as years of unknown mishaps have been brought to light over the breakfast table. How'd her boys go through socks so frequently? Because they became projectile missiles with intent to maim after lights out. Why'd that favorite meal taste a bit off one time? Because my FIL coughed Nestle's Quik into the gravy and simply stirred it in as if it was a thickening agent to cover his tracks.
While my FIL never tells outright lies, he never shies from hyperbole...should it serve the story...as you'll discover in the titular tale.
Several years ago, Sara's father was a regular tenant at Casa de Newhouse. He was working south of San Antonio, and rather than driving 8 hours to Tyler, TX every weekend, he'd cut his weekend commute in half by staying with us.
It was Friday during Lent, and Sara, being a good Catholic, had planned a meatless dinner option for what I playfully (and begrudgingly) refer to as NO MEAT FRIDAY! I arrived home just as dinner prep was hitting high gear. She was making spaghetti, one of my favorites, but I noticed something...odd...in her meal preparation--she was cutting up zucchini and squash. Knowing that spaghetti is typically a stand alone dish for us, I innocently asked, "Are you putting that in the sauce?" (Okay, so there may have been a BLEEECH tone in my voice.) To which she informed me through clenched teeth that we had already discussed this plan, and I had given my approval.
Just moments later, Sara's dad walked through the door, surveyed the dinner situation, and seeing the veggies on the cutting board, asked, "Are you putting THAT in the sauce?!"
This is how my FIL describes the scene from that moment forward (with intensifying volume):
I mean, I just asked a simple question, and next thing you know, Sara grabs the knife and begins gesticulating with it, reading us the riot act about calling us...running the recipe by us...getting our approval...but honestly, all I can concentrate on is how with each passing moment and each blade-emphasized point, the knife is getting closer and closer to Ben's chest...and the poor boy doesn't even flinch...he's so used to these brushes with death.
Covertly, I kept to trying to signal to Ben that he should run for his life and save himself, but I wasn't sure I could get away with it without tipping off Sara. And so I simply begged forgiveness...in hopes of being spared...from an act that Sara clearly would have argued as justifiable homicide.
(End Scene)
With each retelling of this incident, the danger, the rage, and the size of the knife has grown in my father's portrayal. I'm pretty sure in the next iteration, I will finally be stabbed by a sword just for walking into the kitchen, and the scars I really bear from Crohn's and gall bladder surgery will be reminders of the day I questioned Sara's culinary prowess.
Of course, Sara has a very different view of this incident. She feels justified in her frustration since she had taken the time to gain meal approval from the masses, and she swears that she simply gesticulated with the knife because she was in the middle of cutting the squash. No husbands or fathers were ever harmed (or at risk of harm) in the creation of this tale.
And that's how I remember things, as well...because I'm writing this at knife point.
You can put it down now, honey.
You see, my FIL has a unique ability to paint a picture with his words. When he recounts the misadventures of his youthful days alongside three brothers, you almost feel party to the mischief, mayhem, and destruction left in their wake. (My apologies to the city of Shreveport.) When he tells stories about the mishaps at their airplane repair shop, it becomes clear that only through divine intervention did he escape those years without serious injury. I mean, an engine once grabbed him by the moob (that's the medical term), yanked him off his feet, and dumped him on his head, and he walked away just fine...with the exception of a hard to explain bruise.
I've witnessed looks of horrific clarity and revelation come across Sara's grandmother's face as years of unknown mishaps have been brought to light over the breakfast table. How'd her boys go through socks so frequently? Because they became projectile missiles with intent to maim after lights out. Why'd that favorite meal taste a bit off one time? Because my FIL coughed Nestle's Quik into the gravy and simply stirred it in as if it was a thickening agent to cover his tracks.
While my FIL never tells outright lies, he never shies from hyperbole...should it serve the story...as you'll discover in the titular tale.
Several years ago, Sara's father was a regular tenant at Casa de Newhouse. He was working south of San Antonio, and rather than driving 8 hours to Tyler, TX every weekend, he'd cut his weekend commute in half by staying with us.
It was Friday during Lent, and Sara, being a good Catholic, had planned a meatless dinner option for what I playfully (and begrudgingly) refer to as NO MEAT FRIDAY! I arrived home just as dinner prep was hitting high gear. She was making spaghetti, one of my favorites, but I noticed something...odd...in her meal preparation--she was cutting up zucchini and squash. Knowing that spaghetti is typically a stand alone dish for us, I innocently asked, "Are you putting that in the sauce?" (Okay, so there may have been a BLEEECH tone in my voice.) To which she informed me through clenched teeth that we had already discussed this plan, and I had given my approval.
Just moments later, Sara's dad walked through the door, surveyed the dinner situation, and seeing the veggies on the cutting board, asked, "Are you putting THAT in the sauce?!"
This is how my FIL describes the scene from that moment forward (with intensifying volume):
I mean, I just asked a simple question, and next thing you know, Sara grabs the knife and begins gesticulating with it, reading us the riot act about calling us...running the recipe by us...getting our approval...but honestly, all I can concentrate on is how with each passing moment and each blade-emphasized point, the knife is getting closer and closer to Ben's chest...and the poor boy doesn't even flinch...he's so used to these brushes with death.
Covertly, I kept to trying to signal to Ben that he should run for his life and save himself, but I wasn't sure I could get away with it without tipping off Sara. And so I simply begged forgiveness...in hopes of being spared...from an act that Sara clearly would have argued as justifiable homicide.
(End Scene)
With each retelling of this incident, the danger, the rage, and the size of the knife has grown in my father's portrayal. I'm pretty sure in the next iteration, I will finally be stabbed by a sword just for walking into the kitchen, and the scars I really bear from Crohn's and gall bladder surgery will be reminders of the day I questioned Sara's culinary prowess.
Of course, Sara has a very different view of this incident. She feels justified in her frustration since she had taken the time to gain meal approval from the masses, and she swears that she simply gesticulated with the knife because she was in the middle of cutting the squash. No husbands or fathers were ever harmed (or at risk of harm) in the creation of this tale.
And that's how I remember things, as well...because I'm writing this at knife point.
You can put it down now, honey.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
LeaderShape: My Week in the U.P.
It's amazing how quickly time can fly when you're posting absolutely diddly squat. Topic ideas have come and gone in multitudes with nothing to show in terms of production. If I keep up this pace, this blog will fall into oblivion in no time, which would cause my mother at least a little dismay...well, she'd be polite enough to fake it...I think.
Honestly, dear reader(s), 2012 has offered plenty of substantive content; I just haven't dedicated the time to let you in on my world. Some of those moments will have to remain in the past, but I would be remiss if I did not recount an amazing experience that began literally hours into the New Year.
Last summer, I asked my friend and classmate, John Lehman, about LeaderShape, an intensive week-long leadership program for college students. No, that is a terribly underwhelming description. At LeaderShape, students learn to embrace a healthy disregard for the impossible, challenge themselves and each other to lead with integrity, and commit to make a positive difference in the world in their own unique way. It's powerful, life-altering work, folks.
So back to John...knowing that he had served as a Lead Facilitator on a number of campuses, I wanted to know how I could get involved. John encouraged me to consider serving as a Cluster Facilitator--part of the LeaderShape faculty that works with a subset of the larger community (i.e. the Family Cluster)--for Michigan Tech's LeaderShape program. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (Is John the horse in this expression?), I expressed my extreme interest, no questions asked...though I really should have asked at least one question.
You see, I assumed Michigan Tech would hold its LeaderShape experience in May...when it was, you know, defrosted in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. You know what they say when you assume...you end up freezing your tail off in the U.P. in January. That, my friends, is the highly abbreviated version as to how this Texas boy ended up spending New Year's Day on the way to Michigan to work with and learn from 60 amazing Michigan Tech student leaders.
I was privileged to work with a fabulous Family Cluster (Shout-out to my
A B-BRASS KEY peeps!), an awesome faculty (Sully, Courtney, Renee,
Karyn, Katie C., Dani, & Katie V.), and two talented Lead Facilitators, Amy Climer and Chris Carey.
To say the experience was personally transformative would be an understatement.
I was there, first and foremost, for the students, but you can't experience LeaderShape without doing an immense amount of self-work. I found myself stretched in ways I could never imagine, embraced by a community of complete strangers, and reminded how much I love serving as a facilitator to groups of any size. I was impacted in incredibly wonderful ways, but two revelations stick out:
Vision Clarification
Every participant created a vision detailing how she/he intended to change the world. I came to LeaderShape with decent understanding of my personal vision, but Michigan Tech's Vice President for Student Affairs, Les Cook's closing remarks on Day 6 gave words to what I knew in my heart. My vision is to positively impact those who will positively impact the world. That, in essence, is why I do the work I do.
Mythbusting
Eight of my twelve years as a Student Affairs professional have been spent at my alma mater, Trinity University. That's 2/3 of my professional career in one place. It's no wonder Trinity has become home to me. But after spending so much time in one place, it becomes hard to imagine yourself being professionally happy anywhere else or loving any students beyond the beloved red brick walls of Trinity. It took about 3 hours for the Michigan Tech students to dispel that myth, reminding me that exceptional student leaders will find their way into my life and into my heart no matter where I land.
Before I ramble on too long (too late), I owe a special thanks to Travis Pierce for inviting me to participate in LeaderShape and getting me to Michigan despite a detour into Wisconsin because of a blizzard. In addition, many thanks to my CCI family for allowing me to head north just as offices reopened and holding down the fort in my absence, and to my wife, with whom down time is rare and precious, for supporting me in this experience even though it meant cutting our holiday short.
And to my Family Cluster, A B-BRASS KEY--Andrew, Austin, Brad, Erik, Kyle, Rachel, Sam, Sophia, and Yvonne, you each have the ability to change this world for the better. Never doubt what you are capable of, and if that inner voice ever tries to stymie your resolve, hear mine cheering you on, reminding you of what you already know: You are a gift to this world. Live that truth...and you will truly touch lives and impact this world in a powerful, positive way.
Thanks for sharing your week with me.
Ben
Honestly, dear reader(s), 2012 has offered plenty of substantive content; I just haven't dedicated the time to let you in on my world. Some of those moments will have to remain in the past, but I would be remiss if I did not recount an amazing experience that began literally hours into the New Year.
Last summer, I asked my friend and classmate, John Lehman, about LeaderShape, an intensive week-long leadership program for college students. No, that is a terribly underwhelming description. At LeaderShape, students learn to embrace a healthy disregard for the impossible, challenge themselves and each other to lead with integrity, and commit to make a positive difference in the world in their own unique way. It's powerful, life-altering work, folks.
So back to John...knowing that he had served as a Lead Facilitator on a number of campuses, I wanted to know how I could get involved. John encouraged me to consider serving as a Cluster Facilitator--part of the LeaderShape faculty that works with a subset of the larger community (i.e. the Family Cluster)--for Michigan Tech's LeaderShape program. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (Is John the horse in this expression?), I expressed my extreme interest, no questions asked...though I really should have asked at least one question.
You see, I assumed Michigan Tech would hold its LeaderShape experience in May...when it was, you know, defrosted in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. You know what they say when you assume...you end up freezing your tail off in the U.P. in January. That, my friends, is the highly abbreviated version as to how this Texas boy ended up spending New Year's Day on the way to Michigan to work with and learn from 60 amazing Michigan Tech student leaders.
 |
| LeaderShape 2012 Faculty Michigan Tech |
To say the experience was personally transformative would be an understatement.
I was there, first and foremost, for the students, but you can't experience LeaderShape without doing an immense amount of self-work. I found myself stretched in ways I could never imagine, embraced by a community of complete strangers, and reminded how much I love serving as a facilitator to groups of any size. I was impacted in incredibly wonderful ways, but two revelations stick out:
Vision Clarification
Every participant created a vision detailing how she/he intended to change the world. I came to LeaderShape with decent understanding of my personal vision, but Michigan Tech's Vice President for Student Affairs, Les Cook's closing remarks on Day 6 gave words to what I knew in my heart. My vision is to positively impact those who will positively impact the world. That, in essence, is why I do the work I do.
Mythbusting
Eight of my twelve years as a Student Affairs professional have been spent at my alma mater, Trinity University. That's 2/3 of my professional career in one place. It's no wonder Trinity has become home to me. But after spending so much time in one place, it becomes hard to imagine yourself being professionally happy anywhere else or loving any students beyond the beloved red brick walls of Trinity. It took about 3 hours for the Michigan Tech students to dispel that myth, reminding me that exceptional student leaders will find their way into my life and into my heart no matter where I land.
Before I ramble on too long (too late), I owe a special thanks to Travis Pierce for inviting me to participate in LeaderShape and getting me to Michigan despite a detour into Wisconsin because of a blizzard. In addition, many thanks to my CCI family for allowing me to head north just as offices reopened and holding down the fort in my absence, and to my wife, with whom down time is rare and precious, for supporting me in this experience even though it meant cutting our holiday short.
And to my Family Cluster, A B-BRASS KEY--Andrew, Austin, Brad, Erik, Kyle, Rachel, Sam, Sophia, and Yvonne, you each have the ability to change this world for the better. Never doubt what you are capable of, and if that inner voice ever tries to stymie your resolve, hear mine cheering you on, reminding you of what you already know: You are a gift to this world. Live that truth...and you will truly touch lives and impact this world in a powerful, positive way.
 | |
| A B-BRASS KEY |
Thanks for sharing your week with me.
Ben
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, November 25, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
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.
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.
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