Gone Fishin'

I have been away from the keyboard for a few days. I took a vacation from my vacation and headed up to my parents’ cabin in the White Mountains (Moose Knuckle Lodge :-) ). It turns out that my sister and her family were already there. My sister teaches third grade (off for the summer) and her husband is recovering from knee surgery so they had decided to take the kids out of the heat for a few days (116 in the valley). They didn’t mind and I got the downstairs bedroom to myself so it worked out fine.

I played with the dogs. I went for a hike in the woods. I read my book on the porch. I took the kids fishing. It was all good.

I love fishing because its solitary and serene. I love those kids. I really do. But…I hate to say it but fishing with five and seven year old children just isn’t as enjoyable. I spent the entire time baiting hooks, untangling line, removing hooks from clothing, and saying things like…

“That’s OK. You just forgot to let go of the button. You have to let go of the button so that the line can come out.”

“Hey, be careful. You almost hooked your sister.”

“I know it seems weird but we have to use our inside voices at the lake. You’re scaring away the fish.”

“I’m sorry. Your uncle forgot the fish food (Power bait). We’ll have to use corn.”

“Hey, we don’t use that to hit the dog.”

Alright, I made the last one up. When it was time to leave my nephew was complaining that we couldn’t go yet, “because we hadn’t catched any fish.” I told him that, “Fish are like Lulu (new family white lab puppy); They eat when they get up in the morning and again before they go to bed at night. We’re not going to catch any fish right now so let’s go have a sandwich.”

He bit; hook, line, and sinker.

Big Sis

I read TIME Magazine’s recent cover article How your siblings make you who you are By Jeffrey Kluger. It’s not ground breaking stuff but it is an interesting read. It goes beyond the birth order stereotypes that everyone is aware of and looks at the amount of time we spend with our siblings when we are most impressionable. Kluger examines siblings roles as “collaborators and coconspirators, our role models and cautionary tales. They are our scolds, protectors, goads, tormentors, playmates, counselors, sources of envy, objects of pride.”

I am the younger of two children. My older sister is three years older, happily married, and has two wonderful children. We’re very close. I consider her one of my best friends. I’m not going to dissect our relationship (I hear your relieved exhale). But I am going to share some memories that crossed my mind when I was reading the article in TIME.

At about five years old I interrupted my sister and her friends at play by leaping through her door wearing nothing but a makeshift cape. I made some ridiculous comment about being the “Man of Steel” (I was clever at an early age) and bolted. I barely had time to throw on some underoos before she chased me out of the house and to the end of the block with a softball bat.

My sister has never taken any shit from anyone her entire life. This includes my father. I distinctly remember sitting in my room, while the two of them had one of their battle royales, thinking, “if she would shut the hell up and stop pushing his buttons this argument could have been over an hour ago. Why does she insist on making it worse?”

When she started dating I was always three years too young and 40-50 pounds too skinny to intimidate any of her boyfriends. That has always pissed me off.

When I was 15 I knocked on my sister’s door before departing for a school dance. I admitted that I was hoping to kiss my date at the end of the evening and was nervous as it would be my first. She didn’t laugh at me. She didn’t point out that it was creepy that I asked my sister for advice on kissing. She just smiled and said, “Every kiss is different so don’t worry about what you do. Just concentrate on the moment and do it like you mean it.”
I remember this for two reasons. That night I chickened out after a long awkward goodnight. I retreated to my car and in frustration slammed my forehead into the steering wheel inadvertently honking the horn. Also because every woman I’ve been with has told me I am a great kisser. Every one.

My sister took me for a ride in her new car when we were both teenagers. She turned to me with a concern in her eyes and sincerity in her voice that took me off guard. She said, “Promise me you will always wear your seatbelt. I’m serious about this.” To this day I never drive without my seatbelt on.

In college I would call home every Sunday night to check in with my parents. Then I would call my sister. At no time during those calls did I say to her, “Well, my classes are interesting.”

While planning her wedding she told both my parents, “At the reception, Pudge is going to get wasted. And you’re not going to say anything about it.” I did. They didn’t.

There are more stories but I promised PZ I would shorten up the prose. In short, I love my sister. There is no doubt that she played a role in shaping who I am today and it is for this reason that I will never tell her that I write a blog.

Genius or Dee Dee Dee

Why is it that I often think I am the smartest guy in the room but there are more than a few people that think that I am border line retarded? I hold Bachelors’ and Masters’ degrees, am well read, follow current events, can grasp and articulate complex concepts, and can speak intelligently on a wealth of different subjects. I feel confident saying that I am a smart guy.

Many people draw a distinction between smart and educated. These people point out that I am not great at reading people/situations. I can’t always tell where people are coming from. I don’t see angles and I don’t always know when I’m being spoon fed bullshit. Abundant evidence of this can be found in my mind boggling track record of ill-fated fantasy league trades.

It is also true that I don’t think quick on my feet. I often think of my best responses after the fact. The only exception to this seems to be my sarcastic wit. Though I got good grades I was always the last test taker in the room; Whatever that means…

Ends

Contrary to popular belief I have given some thought to working again. I’ve gotten some suggestions from family and friends. Some of them have been good, some not so good. Thanks to PZ for suggesting “pin monkey”. Here is what I’m working on right now.

• Corporate Communications. I’ve got an appointment to speak with a woman who is the Director of Communications and PR for a company I used to work for. I think this could be interesting, utilize my writing talents, and could be done with a Marketing degree. I’m interested to see what she has to say.
  
• Product Specialist. This basically means you’re a buyer for a distributor. It’s a 9 hours in a cubicle kind of gig but it pays well and I’ve got connections.
  
• Teaching. The majority of my family are educators. Several of my friends have said that I would be good at it. The idea intrigues me. The truth is I would love to coach baseball as well; the only thing I’ve ever really been passionate about. I’m looking into substitute teaching to see if it suits me.

Hoops

I’ve got an adult league basketball game tonight. I play with PZ and Spicoli both of whom read my blog. PZ has suggested that I write about our games. The truth is there is nothing that interesting about these games. We actually win most of our games and nobody, other than me, is laughably inadequate. The season has thus far lacked the quality storylines that were abundant during the ’05 campaign. I haven’t yet been ejected for berating a terrified female referee. PZ hasn’t started fisticuffs buy intentionally firing the ball at an opposing player’s groin on a throw in. Due to personnel changes we are no longer treated to The Snowman’s nightly Kobe Bryant impersonation.

The biggest difference in this year’s squad is the loss of Johnny Nap. J-Nap. Johnny Cakes. Cakes is a great guy. He is not, however, the most gifted athlete. We’ll just say he was our “hustle guy”. The beautiful thing about The Nap is that he would invite girls to come watch our games. I could never figure this out. It’s roughly the equivalent of me inviting a girl I would like to date to read my blog before we meet for dinner. Not a great idea. Johnny would invite some young lady to watch him play basketball, which he’s not good at, in some high school gym against a bunch of out of shape thirty-somethings and then refuse to play! He averaged about two minutes a game. One in the first half and another in the second. I remember sucking wind saying, “Johnny, I need a breather. Sub for me at the next dead ball.” He just said, “Nah. I’m good.”

Did I mention his rec-specs? Niice!