“Be vewy qwiet…”

“We’re hunting cwistmas twees….hehehe”

Well, enough Fudd-isms, as we no longer do such foolish things. But the day after Black Friday, before American Express sponsored it, used to be known as…Saturday. Quite the revelation, I know.

My older brother and our dad had taken to procuring a real honest-to-gosh Christmas tree for the folks’ place on this mighty day. With the appearance of my lovely eldest daughter, I joined in the quest. When you have baby at home, suddenly tossing some lights on top of a six foot tall artificial plant that was there all the time, didn’t seem to cut it. The boys had done their due diligence and found that Ulbrich’s tree farm had a good selection of free range trees (A joke for those of who take shopping at the co-op too seriously). While the good folks at Ulbrichs had already had some on the lot already pre-cut and ready to be attached to your car, those were for the wimps, the candy-assed & generally inferior.

Okay, chances are those were also taken by the smarter people, but the real men, the hairy chested, not afraid of rear-wheel drive cars, drinkers in the good dive bars, went to get our own. Well, it was also cheaper to cut your own down as it saved the Ulbrichs folks from doing it. In our thriftiness, we also became snobs. That first one, that’s a good one, but let’s see what else is out there. My first escapade on this adventure had either my dad or I leaving a glove to mark a potentially worthy tree. From a distance it looked like the glove was giving us the finger. That system evolved as the old man made markers out of material, so we could TRACK the trees, as the good ones wouldn’t stay where we left them.

The uniting factor in all this is that I think with one exception the weather was mostly crappy. It was raining one year and even the staff was looking at us like we were nuts, which truth be told, we probably were. Either rain, snow, or ground that mostly resembled walking on a fudge sundae, it was never ideal, but you came away with the right tree from the space. I don’t think it mattered much to my kids where the tree came from, but it was an all too rare window in my brother’s soul. He battles a variety of issues, but can tell you about each jaunt in remarkable detail, even though we stopped some years ago.

That is what I take away, when I read about people tsk-tsk-ing about the midnight shoppers Thursday night, or self-righteously shopping local because a credit card company told them too, I tend to think more about this kind of silly stuff. There wasn’t a year that we didn’t look like the Keystone Kops heading into the woods of Alden, and that was pretty cool.

That said, shop the local shops at the damn time, the Black Friday deals are marketing (as they pop up again and again, during the year and the season) and cyber monday? Click on the “watch” buttons and you don’t have to do things because some smarmy marketer told you so. I say this as one of those smarmy marketers.

Black Friday

I mean seriously, I know some bars were opening back up Thanksgiving Night and all, but can you imagine being the guy who has to leave dinner to put his stuff on to head off for the 10 pm shift at Target?

There is a reason that people like Thanksgiving more so than Christmas, less constant pressure. This occurred to me, thinking of the poor devil who actually had the misfortune to need an essential, underwear, or whatever at the closest Target.

I mean, I understand, Friday is a day off for most folks and it’s the season and all that, Remember when the season started at the civilized hour of, say, 10? There wasn’t anything wrong with that. The bulk of the “incredible” deals often resurface during the season and even during the “mystery days” of Christmas, you know, that space between Christmas and New Year‘s.

I guess this all stems from me seeing the inevitable news piece of some poor slob who had to line up at 2 in the morning for the deal on a flat screen at some big box retailer, only to stumble and get trampled the moment the doors open. Nobody needs a new set so badly that they need to risk safety and regard for other people that way.

And I think that is at the heart of it for me. Christmas and I have had a love hate relationship over the past few years, mostly from my own odd belief that I wasn’t able to do all that I wanted for my kids only to find out we were doing fine all along. Yet, the season actually is a “Season” with displays creeping into the Halloween racks at some retailers last month, before Halloween.

It is the one time frame where people generally act the way they should all year long, provided you aren’t seeing them in a retail setting.

You want to embrace it, but it can sometimes be too big to get your arms around.

20 Years ago today

I learned some important things: Lamaze is crap and Petocin doesn’t speed your contractions, it makes labor one big long spouse’s hand-crushing contraction. And at 8:34 p.m. life changed

My eldest arrived on June 2, 1991 after 23 hours of “sheer bliss.” I think there is a file on my former spouse and me because the experience really molded us for when we returned for the other two kids.

But despite it all, she arrived quite nicely.

image

We were feeling pretty good about a year after. She’s continued to age quite nicely. I can’t do that beard anymore without there being “Santa-like” connotations.

Happy Birthday, Kid

Holiday Road

The holiday gave rise to a whole collection of random notes. Bear with me as I clean out a few mental pockets.

I’m fond of joking that my lovely former spouse and I are in the three phases of parenthood: With the youngest, we can still solve the occasional issue with a hug and a kind word. With the lovely middle child, we are the loveable buffoons who occasionally have the money. With the eldest, we are the fucking idiots with the money. And so it goes. Funny what you note and when you note it. We sent the mighty middle child west with her best friend and the friend’s parents on the fourth to spend time in Las Vegas followed by a canyon tour. Being all of 15 (and about to turn 16, as she would want me to add), her mom and I got over our fears of our child two time zones away and went on a charm offensive to get her at peace with the idea. The tragical history tour left last night and about 9 we got a call from chicago. “Did you like the first flight?” “No” was the curt reply. Apparently, she was really jazzed, but we were never going to see that.

I awoke to a text saying “I’m on a monorail.” So, I guess mission accomplished. Considering when her older sister turned 16, she was briefly in a bar with me in Williamsburg and now she is in Vegas. Either, we are either irresponsible or the coolest parents ever. I’ll opt for the latter.

While all this was going on, amazing number one son and I were watching a little tv and decided at the last minute to head down to the Central Wharf downtown to check out the fireworks. Got to say to Buffalo Place, well done. All the parking spots were open and reasonably priced. I slide into a space by the arena at 9:45 and we walked over the bridge to the strains of Lance Diamond turning somebody’s mother out in short order. The wharf wasn’t overly crowded and we caught a neat little show without working terribly hard. Not going to lie about the appeal of that. Nice half hour of pyrotechnics to cap a day, that sort of lost track of the holiday a little.

A friend of a friend lost his house saturday night and I started Sunday at a funeral for another. A little recentering was in order and Buffalo Place did the trick.

Fatherhood

I started to become one late on June 1st, 1991. My darling eldest decided to announce her impending arrival around 10:30 at night and as a sign of things to come, couldn’t be bothered to finish the job until 8:30 the following evening. Little devil had to make an entrance. In prepping for the big event, I read all the books and immediately upon arriving at the hospital, all the books, except for the Dad’s chapter of “What to Expect while you are expecting,” proved useless.

Darling daughter is owed a favor by her two siblings as we made return trips to Sisters in 1994 and 1998 and were intellectually much better prepared to cause trouble on our own behalf. But in 1991, I was certain of one thing, well, two things (we have a beautiful daughter) and that Lemaze was crap. My dad took a spill a few years back and I could swear I felt a few piercing glances (the kids lovely mother and I weren’t suffering fools quietly).

Happy Birthday, darlin

She’s the clean shaven one.

The Suite Life

I’ve been to sporting events with lousy seats, with no seats, with good seats, and with very rich seats. Let me tell you rich is better.

I have a memory of going to a Bills game with my dad to see Joe Namath play on a nice fall day, with the sun shining, only to be retreating by the middle of the second quarter as the temperature dropped 20 degrees and the rain ponchos we were wearing were threatening to turn us into sails.

But over the weekend, we lived the highlife.

I was invited to take up residence in a suite for the Sabres vs. Sharks game on February 13th. It’s a beautiful thing. Not being the tiniest of guys, I can shoehorn myself into the seats in the 100s just fine, but the suites are a whole new world. Space, views, comfy chairs, oh, my. I took my 11 year old son who took to this level of exclusivity without a trouble. We were the first to arrive and the hostess came down to announce herself and there is something in the way my boy said “Dad, we have our own waitress?” that still makes me laugh.

She later offered freshed baked cookies that his young eyes a goggle a la Tex Avery. I carefully made a mental note. We’ve all been at something where a great view is ruined by a beer-swilling popcorn spilling wooly mammoth who sits down right in front of you. That wasn’t an issue on this fine evening.

Can you imagine having tickets for that section and having to wait for the worshippers to dissipate. It was a fine evening, and did wonders for my disposition and my youthful sidekick who had a long week, too. We thought of waving to great unwashed and thought that might be tacky, so we settled for a more refined remembrance of our temporary vantage point.

Yes, sure, part of the fun is that it was on somebody else’s dime. It does remind you of that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry is flying first class and the attendent asks if he wants more of anything, and the only true answer is more of everything.

Food prepped with a little more care, hostess who makes a special point to tell me where the Molson Canadian is, unencumbered view, great company, and a win. I parked in the ramp next door like I was meant to be there. We all need and deserve to be whoo-ed and spoiled.

Good times.

Dorky Good Times

The Strong Museum in Rochester has some seriously cool exhibits. The bulk of the stuff there is geared toward little kids, which thankfully is slowing down for my guys. Occasionally, something catches notice. They recently launched a new exhibit called Videotopia, which tickled my inner geek. Videotopia is a room set aside and loaded with 120 fully functioning full size video arcade games from the late 70s and early 80s. Forget your Halos, as Marble Madness, Tempest, Mr and Mrs Pac Man, the entire Donkey Kong clan and many others were represented in their early form. If they had drink service, I could have stayed all day.

Rough week

It’s surprising what can make you raw, or then again maybe not. Whenever the ex’s job takes her out of town or vice versa, the other steps up and runs the child show solo for the duration. Been doing it long enough that I really don’t think about it.

The young man is bunking on my couch, while the girls are holding court at the house. They get a little taste of responsibility and independence, but close enough I can smell the smoke. The kids and I fall into a pretty great flow and as everytime their mom goes away, she returns to see all three still alive, fed, etc, so I think I’m doing pretty good.

We’re in day 2 of a 3 day stint. My mother in law calls and wonders “What are they doing for dinner?”, meaning the girls. Now, she is one of the most giving, good hearted souls that I know, but the way she managed to ask the question felt like somebody starting pouring bourbon in an open wound on me.

I sat there in my car outside number one son’s guitar lesson and just ate that feeling of upset. I know she didn’t mean anything but the way it sounded was nausea inducing, like I was less of a parent because I don’t reside at the house anymore or that my parenting involvement is suspect since my ex is out of town. “Can he handle it without the former Mrs?’ I sat there in a numbed stupor texting this to the lovely mother of my children who talked me back down. I don’t know if it is a feeling of spinning my wheels a little bit at work or just remembering what it was like in the eye of the gossip hurricane at our church a few years ago or just being overtired in general. But I needed a moment.

She called, we chatted, and I felt better after initially feeling worse. I started to tell a tale and couldn’t get to the end of it. What makes that silly is what provoked it was nothing by comparison to some of the sins that I’ve already strode through. I’m not sure if that is making any sense. I know my Mom-in-law wasn’t out to upset, just to help, but sometimes something benign can start a whole sordid turn. I vented, I baked (cookies) and am better now.

Show’s over, move along folks…