The Big One

I've always taken a certain measure of pride in the fact that I wed an older woman. There's a mystique to the older woman, a sexiness, a hotness, and an added layer of difficulty to the hunt. You see, I think it's fairly easy for an older man to score a younger bride, but you've really got to amp up your game to bag an older one. They're wiser. They know our tricks. And we'd better be pretty frickin' special if they're going to pass up their sugar daddy for us. Well I did it and I'm proud.

I also happen to be talking completely though my anus because we were stupid frickin' kids when we met and started dating, and our difference in age is a mere six months. But tomorrow that six month age difference will magically transform into a seemingly bottomless chasm as my bride ceases to be a 30-something. Yes, tomorrow is Diane's birthday, and it's a big'un. Tomorrow my bride turns 40.

FORTY.

4.0.

But that doesn't distress me at all. I, as a younger husband, think it's HOT. I get to sleep with a 40 year-old woman! What really bothers me is the knowledge that MY 40th is only six months away. Then I'll probably cry.

Saddlesore Surprise

Yesterday was Kailey's 9th birthday (last year of single digits, Kiddo), and Diane came up with a great idea. She made some reservations and told the girls to get ready for a surprise. Their only hint she gave them was the clothing they had to wear, which should have been an obvious tip-off: jeans, their cowgirl boots, and cowgirl hats. Let's just say that the girls aren't very good guessers.

Kyra's contribution: "Where are we going? Jeans-R-Us?"

I looked up at Diane and shrugged, "Well now what are we gonna do? She guessed it!"

Kailey's guess, as Diane slathered her in sunscreen, was "We're going over to Grammy and Papa's house and hanging out in their backyard." She clearly doesn't have a firm grasp of the concept of "surprise", which made the surprise all the more special.

There is a horse stable a couple of miles up the road on the way to my in-law's house. We've driven by it roughly a hundred thousand times in the four years we've lived in Tucson. Yesterday, we pulled in. And the girls freaked.



Now THAT'S a SURPRISE. Diane's folks met us there, though her mom didn't stay to ride. We signed the release forms, fitted the girls with riding helmets, and mounted up for the trail ride. Kailey was up first and was matched with a horse named Rooster, though he should have been named Turtle (he was slow), or Turkey (that's what he acted like, giving Kailey some problems on the trail).



Kyra was next and her horse was Sardine. He too gave her problems. I think both of the horses knew they had inexperienced riders and just dared the girls to take control of them. One of the wranglers eventually gave Kyra a stick to use as a switch to keep Sardine from stopping too much.



Papa climbed aboard Big Boy, Diane was matched with Geronimo, and I was destined to wander through the desert on a horse with no name. Kidding. My horse was named Major...or "Major Pain" as the wranglers called him while I threw my leg across the saddle. They weren't kidding. As soon as they led him into the line for the ride, he began nipping at the butts of the other horses, which would make him a "Major Pain in the Butt". I think he was testing me and eventually behaved as I continually pulled back on his reigns.



It was a beautiful Spring day for a ride; sunny, but not too hot with temps in the low 80's. We were out for about an hour, which was just about right. Any longer and I probably wouldn't be able to sit today.




The girls had a great time despite their cantankerous mounts, and Kailey proclaimed the experience as "the best birthday ever!" I'm glad, Sweetie.

Life at the Top

It's the anticipation before the plunge.

You've waited in line for an hour-and-a-half. You've passed the same people three hundred times as you twist and turn through the maze leading to the the cars. It's hot. You finally push through the turnstiles and are corralled into a numbered zone where you wait for the car to arrive. Moments later it zips around the corner, hisses to a stop, and releases its wind-blown passengers. The gates open and you pile into the car and lower the safety harness into position. Then you're off. The car jerks as it latches onto the chain that leads the ascent to the first breathtaking drop.

As a kid I hated it. I was horrified of roller coasters. The speed, the drops, the loop-de-loops, and, most of all, the uncertainty that the cars would actually stay on the tracks scared the crap out of me. So I didn't ride. I would wait patiently at the exit while the rest of my family twisted through the mile-long line to ride the Screamin' Eagle, not entirely confident that they would come out alive. They always came back, and somewhere along the line as I grew older, I overcame my fear of roller coasters. In fact, I grew to love them to point that they're the only rides I want to spend time on when I go to an amusement park.

Why the hell am I talking about roller coasters? Because today is my birthday. I'm 39, and suddenly I'm that little boy ready to piss his pants at the thought of the plunge waiting on the other side of the hill. It's not here yet, but definitely inching closer and closer. I just need to remember that I like roller coasters and hope that once I'm officially over the hill, the plunge will be one hell of a ride.

Oh, and please, no applause. Just send cash.

Birthday Girl

Seven years have gone by way too fast. You came as a little bit of a surprise to Mommy and me. It took what seemed like forever for Mommy to get pregnant with your sister, and yet before Kailey even celebrated her first birthday, we learned that you were on your way. We weren't disappointed. In fact, we experienced a mixture of relief and gratitude as we realized we wouldn't have to wait years before having another baby. You were born on a Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, the ultimate reason for giving thanks. I can still remember your weary eyes staring into the face of your Mommy for the very first time. And it seemed like only yesterday.

Now, you're riding bikes, reading books, swimming like a fish, hitting the ball like Ichiro, and singing like a rock star. You have an inquisitive nature, an unquenchable hunger for knowledge, and a sweetness and sensitivity that I pray never goes away. And you have a laugh that fills my heart to the point where at times I think it might explode. I am so proud of you and hope that you have the best birthday ever.

Happy Birthday, Kyra-girl.

Thirty-Nine and Lookin' Fine

Today begins the final year of Diane's thirties. Where did the time go? On this date seventeen years ago, I nervously knelt on one knee and asked her to spend the rest of her life with me (scary thought), and she agreed. I guess she thought she had nothing better to do for the rest of her life. So here we are, seven cities, five states, five apartments, two townhouses, one house, five cars, two cats, one fish, and two kids later. It's been quite the ride. And although it hasn't always been easy, together we have always been able to make fun of our life situations enough to keep our sanity. Laughter sometimes is the best medicine.

So to my hot, strong, sweet, caring, and giving wife with the best belly-laugh in the world (yes, I am looking for some late-night action): here's to many more years of memories and laughter together. Happy Birthday, Hon. You're the best.

A $50 Toy Vs. a 70¢ Balloon

The balloon will win out every single stinkin', frickin' time. Diane gave me a task to fulfill on my way home from work for Kailey's birthday party on Wednesday: pick up some balloons. I stopped by a party store where they had a whole wall-full of balloons to choose from. It was a little overwhelming. I stood there staring at the wall for about ten minutes before someone came over and asked a really stupid question, "Do you need some balloons?" No, I'm making a mental sketch of every freakin' balloon on your wall so I can go home and construct exact duplicates in an attempt to avoid paying the exorbitant prices you people charge for a mylar balloon. Did I say that? No. I simply responded, "Yes, please."

"Are you having your party within the next eight hours?" she asked. I shot her a puzzled look. "The regular balloons only last eight hours after being inflated," she explained. Allll-righty then. I assured her that we would be partying as soon as I got home, roughly twenty minutes after she fulfilled my order. Satisfied, she scooted behind the counter and began rounding up balloons.

I bit the bullet and bought one of their $13 mylar balloons, an enormous heart-shaped "Happy Birthday" balloon that had four smaller stars branching off of it, along with a dozen regular ones of varying colors. The balloon lady filled them up while I settled the bill, and I went on my less-than-merry way. These party people are running a racket, and they know it. They also know that I'll be back to pay their ridiculous prices because they understand that the look on my child's face once she sees their balloons will make my suddenly lighter wallet worth while. And they're right. Kailey was ecstatic when she saw me walk through the door with my posse of balloons in tow.

We tied the balloons to her chair and proceeded with the birthday festivities: lunch, cake, and presents. Presents. The kid made a quite a haul in that department: dolls, art stuff, outdoor play gear, electronic gadget toys...enough stuff to keep her busy for a month. They did keep her busy for the day. But on Thursday, one guess as to what captivated her attention. Balloons.

True to the balloon lady's prediction, the regular ones wilted overnight. The girls cut the strings off of them and proceeded to bump and kick and swat them all over the house...for hours. It was maddening. What was worse is that they then had the audacity to argue over one balloon. And of course all of this happened while I tried to take a nap (I'm not lazy...I worked the early morning shift and had been up since 3:30). "THERE'S TWELVE BALLOONS AND I'LL BREAK EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM IF YOU CAN'T STOP FIGHTING OVER THE PEARLED BLUE ONE!!!" I threatened. They normally ignore my idle threats, but I must have sounded really angry because they relented...for about twenty minutes. Then, like a dog returns to its vomit, they returned to their folly. It's been a long couple of days.

The good thing about balloons is that they don't last long. By tomorrow they will have deflated enough that they'll need to be thrown away. Hopefully, Kailey will then return to play with the gifts we bought with our hard-earned money. If she doesn't they'll sit in her closet and collect dust with all of her other forgotten toys only to be remembered several years from now when we try to give them away to Goodwill or The Salvation Army. Then Kailey will petition and plead like mad to keep them. The headaches will begin all over again, all because of a 70 cent balloon.

You Say It's Your Birthday...

Eight years ago today, my sister-in-law white-knuckled Diane and me to Overlake Hospital in Bellevue, WA for the birth of our first child, a girl. It was shortly after 1:00 am when Diane was blindsided by her REAL contractions prompting us to cram into the backseat of our '94 Olds Cutlass Supreme where we were rushed to the hospital by my pale-faced and sickly looking sister-in-law. Diane twisted and writhed in pain as I did my best to rub her back and legs in a vain attempt to comfort her. "HELP ME!!" She bellowed. "I AM!!" I retorted. I realized that she was in pain, but I was doing everything I learned in that stupid, useless lamaze class, and she didn't appreciate it. I think that the two of us screaming at each other did more to take her mind off the pain than any rubbing I could do. Debbie stepped on the gas.

We arrived at the hospital and were escorted to a room where Diane's first words were, "Epidural, please." Moments later, she received her epidural and was able to rest until it was officially time to push. Kailey was "pushed out", as she likes to say, roughly seven hours later. I remember everything like it was yesterday, and I can't believe that eight years have passed. Where did my baby go? She has grown into a beautiful, fun, creative, athletic, and hard-working little girl. We are so proud of you, Kailey. Happy Birthday.

Breakfast in Bed

This morning as I was frantically composing my third complaint letter to AMERICAN AIRLINES (more on that later), Kyra approached me with a piece of paper. "Can I take your order, please?" I looked at the paper where my wife listed several breakfast-y options. Apparently, they were going to prepare me a birthday breakfast. Sweet! "When you know what you want, just circle, no, UNDERLINE them. Then I'll come back and take your order." She then ran off to play. I don't know why...it only took me two seconds to complete my order: French toast, scrambled eggs, orange juice, and coffee.

She returned a short while later, then disappeared with my order. I turned my attention back to my scathing letter to AMERICAN AIRLINES, sons of b..."Oh, hi Sweetie!" Kyra reappeared at my side with a twinkle in her eye.

"Awww, Daddy, you look exhausted." Kyra doesn't pronounce her "R's" very well, so she sounds a little like Tweety Bird. "You should go back to bed and get some west." I smiled as this was a much-welcomed distraction from the daunting task of dealing with AMERICAN AIRLINES. I grabbed her hand and allowed her to lead me back in to the bedroom where she tucked me into bed. "Alwite, you just west and get some sleep." No argument here.

She and Diane tiptoed into the bedroom with, SURPRISE, my breakfast, complete with a birthday candle. Diane lit the candle and they sang to me, and I blew out the candle and made my wish (that AMERICAN AIRLINES would go out of business...darn, I guess now it won't come true).

Kyra joined me a short while later because to her, breakfast in bed is pretty cool. She told me that she didn't get to have breakfast in bed on her birthday, so she was going to have it on mine. Fair enough. So we sat there next to each other chowing down on French toast, dropping powdered sugar down our shirts, and watching Regis & Kelly. Not a bad way to start the day. Now bring on the presents!

I Got One Hand in My Pocket...

OK, first off, get your minds out of the gutter. It's not like that...not this time, anyway.

Today has been an interesting day of "pocket-finds". Why is it that everyone gets so happy about finding money in their pockets? I guess it's the closest we come to finding lost or buried treasure. Well, this morning I was putting away some clothes when I found a $5 bill in the front pocket of Diane's slacks. I was giddy with excitement. Not only had I found lost treasure, but I also knew I was going to STEAL it! And so I did. It was a rush. Finders keepers, losers weepers. I think I even did a happy dance as I carefully placed it into my wallet. So, Hon, if you're wondering what happened to that $5, it's in my wallet. Just try to take it back, if you dare!

Next, in the same session, I found a long-lost stick of Chap Stick in the front pocket of my jeans. OK, it wasn't lost that long; just long enough for me to have to buy another one. If there is one thing I absolutely NEED to get through winters here in the Southwest, it is Chap Stick. It's really wierd. It seems that as long as I have a stick of Chap Stick in my pocket, I don't really need it. But the second that I leave the house without my Chap Stick, my lips immediately dry up and I go into withdrawal, licking my lips like a raging psychopath. And now that I'm writing about Chap Stick, I'm having to apply it every thirty seconds. I'm totally mental. Anyway, I swear that I previously checked all of my pockets in my quest for my Chap Stick, so I was amazed when I found it. And I'm now strangely excited to have TWO Chap Sticks. Envy me if you must.

My third and final pocket-discovery of the day came when I pulled out my "winter" coat. It's been freakishly cold and windy here in the Southwest, and by freakishly cold, I mean in the 30's at night and in the 60's during the day. I've become a desert wuss. My "winter" coat is actually more of a fall coat, and I don't get to wear it very often. This was made evident when I pulled four theater tickets to the production of Peter Pan out of the front inside pocket. They were dated November of 2004. We went to the show on Kyra's 4th birthday and saw Cathy Rigby in her farewell performance. The girls wore their pajamas to the show and we had a great time. It's a good memory.

So five bucks, backup for a Chap Stick addiction, and a fond memory...not a bad haul. What's in your pocket?

The Perfect Gift

My dad's birthday was this week, and I finally got him what I believe to be the perfect gift. He's not the easiest person in the world to buy for (whose father is?), but this year I nailed it.

A little background: I was born nearly 38 years ago on January 12, 1969. Any sports nut worth his or her weight will know that one of the greatest upsets in American sports history happened on this date. On January 12, 1969, Joe Namath delivered on his guarantee of victory as he and his upstart New York Jets defeated the heavily favored Baltimore Colts, 16-7, in Super Bowl III. The victory gave much-needed credibility to the AFL, whose teams had been blown out by the "superior" teams of the NFL in the previous two Super Bowls. My dad never saw a minute of the game. Not a huddle. Not a snap. Instead, he waited for his precious baby boy, his first child, to be born. And nearly every year of my 37 years, he has reminded me of this.

Until now.

The idea came to me last year as I looked for my dad's birthday present, "I wonder if there's a DVD of Super Bowl III?" So I jumped on the internet and searched. I came up empty in my DVD search of Super Bowl III, but I did find something in a format called V-H-S...it's a video tape played through a V-C-R. They seem vaguely familiar. Anyway, I stumbled across a video series called "The NFL's Greatest Games", one of which was Super Bowl III. SCORE!! IN YOUR FACE! IN YOUR FACE!! Except the series had gone out of print (or whatever videos "go out" of) and retailers wanted $1 million for the tape. Abort. Abort. I bought him a hat. I'm not cruel...he collects them.

This year in my quest for a birthday present I returned to my search for the NFL's greatest game to see if it had come down to a respectable price. It had. SCORE!! IN YOUR FACE!! IN YOUR FACE!! So I purchased it along with a couple of hats, Jets and Colts, of course, and sent them along to my dear ol' dad.

I talked to him a couple of days ago and he told me he just laughed as he opened up his gift. "Guess I can't tell you that I've never seen the game anymore, can I?" he said.

Nope, I reckon not. But I'm looking forward to the day when we can watch it together.