Andrés-Román, aka, The Boy

My pal Lettergirl writes a wonderful blog called “Not Going Postal.” Last week she wrote a post encouraging her loyal readers to participate in a writing exercise. Lettergirl’s effort is here. The efforts of others are here.

I finally got around to doing mine. It is below.

Enthused

You stand there, face contorted, ready to spring at me.  Your ears are turning red, your cheeks flushed.  You launch yourself from the bed, into my arms.  I toss you into the air like a rag doll.  Thankfully your joyful squeals do not bring your mom down the hall to witness as your flight brings you dangerously close to the ceiling fan. You breathlessly bounce and plot your next attack. You grab at my shirt, pulling me down to wrestle. I wish I had your energy to play like this for hours. You climb on my back and call me your tiger. I am your big, bold, brash Bengal. We take off down the hall, I go around the corner, and toss you onto your sister’s bed.  It always smells like soap and flowers in here. “I don’t want you boys messing up my room,” your sister demands. You bare your teeth and prepare to spring at your sister.  She is not enthused at the prospect of joining our wrestling match.

Yubaba was a canankerous witch.

Ebby Halliday is 99 this year.

I always loved the “Separated at Birth” feature in the old Spy magazine. So with apologies to the founders of Spy, here’s my own version.

On top is Yubaba, owner of the bath house in Hayao Miyazaki’s animated classic, “Spirited Away.” Her twin is Dallas real estate icon, Ebby Halliday. May God have mercy on my soul.

I rode several buses, but not this one.

I rode the bus Tuesday. On purpose. I can’t tell you any more than that.

I know you read this blog religiously and are probably feeling betrayed by my lack of elaboration on this. But I can’t help that. It’s for business. Once that business is concluded, I’ll tell you about my trip and even include some video.

It was really sad to hear that a 40-year-old SeaWorld Orlando trainer named Dawn Brancheau was killed when she slipped and fell into the holding tank of a killer whale named Tilikum. This is a killer whale, according to the Orlando Sentinel, that has been linked to at least two other deaths.

Do you think that maybe it’s time to figure out a way to get this animal back where it belongs? Because it sure as hell isn’t digging the giant bathtub it has in exchange for the wide open expanses of ocean it once knew.

Before I go any further, I just want you six readers to know that I am not some drum-beating animal rights activist. I think PETA should stand for People Eating Tasty Animals.

But when dangerous animals are brought out of their environment for our companionship or entertainment, the potential for bad stuff to happen increases exponentially. I understand that zoos do a lot of wonderful things to help with the preservation of species. Charging admission to view these animals is a way for zoos to continue that research. But if a creature wants badly enough to escape its circumstances, that creature (just like any human) will find a way.

And if they can’t escape, they lash out. They are animals. They were born in the wild. And those born in captivity are still born with the instinct that would have served them well beyond their walls.

My children were devastated when Steve Irwin died four years ago. He taught us such an appreciation of the animal world. But he did it on the animal’s terms. Yet despite all his training and experience, my children thought he was nuts. And they would say it every time they watched “Crocodile Hunter.”

Again, I’m sorry this woman lost her life. But if you play with matches…

“Do you realize, Olivia, that February is over after next week? We’re starting the third month of the year.”

Her response, “Why is it taking so long? It’s just dragging!”

I was amazed. “Are you kidding me? A couple of months from now and I’ll be putting the Christmas decorations back up. At least that’s how it seems.”

Then I remembered being 13 and how I couldn’t wait to be 14 because I’d be that much closer to 15 and learning how to drive. Olivia is eager for the eighth grade to be over so she can leave her current school and get on to the International School of the Americas.

What am I looking forward to? My next mortgage payment? My next paycheck? Nothing so life altering is on my horizon.

I am scheduled to get my Master of Arts degree in August, but for now, that represents a lot more work on top of everything else I have to do. I guess I am seeing the path more than the destination. Unlike my 13-year-old (and almost any other teen) that focus on the goal and not necessarily what it takes to get there.

I don’t want to sound like a grumpus, because I’m not. Maybe I can grab on to some of Olivia’s impatience to make my time with her drag a little more, last a little longer and not rush by so quickly.

I'm sure I'm killing my kids.

What do you think these are? My youngest daughter saw them and said, “I thought they were giant red velvet marshmallows.” If only.

Trust me, they’re much more gross in person than a smartphone photo could ever convey.

These are Giant Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Now, I was a Cheetos nut, mostly because I never got to eat them because my parents thought they were junk. So I went crazy whenever I got my hands on them.

My parents probably thought the same thing about Cheetos that I’m thinking now about these things: “This is food?”

Our culture of mass production and convenience leads to the production of stuff like this. The ingredients don’t look too horrible: thiamine mononitrate, corn maltodextrin,Red 40 Lake, Yellow 6 Lake, Yellow 6, Yellow 5. All stuff you have in your spice rack.

I normally wouldn’t buy this stuff, but the kids had a rough day yesterday, so I thought I’d get them something fun for their lunches today. Now I’m worried they might not make it through lunch.

It's this guy's fault

I’ve always wanted to blame Hallmark for Valentine’s Day being what it has become — flowers, puffery, chocolates and lovey dovey stuff. But it’s really Geoffrey Chaucer‘s fault.

The scribe of The Canterbury Tales is credited with adding the element of romantic love to the Catholic feast day with his poem, Parlement of Foules written in 1382. At least that’s according to Wikipedia.

The poem was written to commemorate the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II to Anne of Bohemia. There is a line in the poem, “For this was on Saint Valentine’s day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.” The concept of lovebirds was born.

People began exchanging written love notes, etc. Those eventually gave way to mass-produced Valentine’s Day cards. And chocolate and flowers and jewelery and lingerie and so on and so on.

Prior to that, it was just a day to celebrate the martyrdom of a couple of Italians. Maybe that’s what Al Capone was trying to bring back with the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Just a guess. It’s probably wrong.

(Special thanks to Wikipedia. I couldn’t have written this post without you.)

This gift would get my butt kicked.

I heard an ad for one of these roses on the radio while listening to the Jim Rome Show. The rose lasts longer than real flowers, it’s covered in gold, free gift-wrapping and it comes with chocolates. DUDE! SCORE!

That ad was preceded by an ad for some day spa. Which was preceded by an ad for Pajamagram and the Vermont Teddy Bear Co.

I don’t know if the one other guy who reads this blog knows it, but women are complicated. We want them to be simple to understand. But if they were simple to understand, they would not give us the time of day.

My lovely wife of 19 years and 5 months, is a VERY COMPLICATED woman. Of the aforementioned gifts advertised, the day spa is probably the only one she would like. I joked about getting her a Vermont Teddy Bear and she said something that sounded like “grass licking.”

Men, we have become simpletons and the geniuses that turned Valentine’s Day into a love thing know that. Every ad for Valentine’s targeted at men pushes the simple solution. It’s also very impersonal.

Once upon a time, men were explorers, adventurers, poets and authors. Whatever happened to penning a personal note? Whatever happened to cooking a meal? (Yeah, yeah. Jewelry is nice, but that stuff is expensive. Wife muttered, “cheapskate” while proofing.)

I have fallen into the stereotypical trap and written this (for an audience of about six) at the last minute. But it is still enough time to do something personal and outside the expected. And if you’ve already sprung for the Dirty Darts game or the I Cherish You Personalized Glass Bud Vase, make this the last year that you cop out. Promise me.

What am I getting the missus? I’m getting her a new bed.

My daughter's academic home starting this fall.

My oldest daughter is a Globe. Globie is the mascot of her new school, the International School of the Americas.

She was one of 120 students randomly selected in a lottery of hundreds, if not thousands of applicants, who applied to attend the school.

She was also one of 120 students randomly selected in a lotter of hundreds, if not thousands of applicants, who applied to attend the Design and Technology Academy in the Northeast Independent School District. Another outstanding high school magnet program here in San Antonio.

It is great that these programs are available. And we are fortunate that we were lucky enough to be chosen. (I should have the kid buy a lottery ticket.) But it’s also sad in a way. The excellence and unique programs offered by these schools cannot be sustained on a district-wide level at every campus. These schools provide proven curricula that produce outstanding, productive people.

If they were divisions of a company, they would be copied by every other division in order to produce the same successful results company wide. Instead they are held out as unique examples while the rest of the divisions (campuses) go along a standard operating procedure. Some excelling, others plodding along.

We were fortunate. Not everyone else is.

The Wood family children with the four Aquarians there in the middle.

My birthday was Friday. It was also the birthday of my oldest sister Sandy. I was born on her 18th birthday. Two weeks earlier, it was the birthday of my oldest brother Rick (he’s in the white T-shirt). Today is my brother Paul’s birthday (he’s the big one in the middle).

The outcasts (I kid) are the twins, Diana (red) and Donna (white). They were born Aug. 7.

Now, my parents were married on March 24, 1949. Considering 10 months (40 weeks) of gestation, I can see Sandy being born when she was. First wedding anniversary would account for the birth of my brother Rick. Then it gets harder to calculate, though Heaven knows why I would want to. But bear with me.

Paul was born the year of my parents’ fifth wedding anniversary. The twins and me, I’m not sure. I mean, for me, I was probably conceived near their 18th wedding anniversary, yet I have no idea why that would be significant. And the more I think about it, the more unsettling it becomes.

I’m just happy that all my siblings and my parents are still with me today.