In the know about dog breeds

I was driving my daughter to school because she had missed the bus. She was chattering about the neighbor kids and I was vaguely listening as I obeyed all the traffic laws. *don't snicker*

“He says they are pimple dogs.”

“What?”

“Dave and me were—“

“Did you say pimple dogs?” I enunciated very carefully.

“Yeah.”

“Do you mean little fuzzy dogs that bark a lot?” My husband calls them footballs so why couldn’t my daughter call them pimples?

“No, like Superman. You know, pimple dogs.” She has this way of explaining things when she knows something I don’t know. Carefully, confident that with patience and time I'll finally catch up.

Superman is Dave’s dog, a sweet, dopey puppy the size of my car. I thought about it for a moment, looked in the review mirror in time to see her give me the raised eyebrows. “Pit bull?” I said it again, emphasizing the t and that it was two words.

“Yeah, pit bull. Superman is a pit bull.”

Yes, yes he is.

A Day for Dad

My dad is a series of sweet memories and the occasional ache of loneliness. He died when I was fifteen and throughout the years I’ve hit mile stones and wished he was there to experience it all with me. I love the way he laughed, how rowdy he was at sporting events and how fiercely he believed in working hard and treating people fairly. I think of him every time I mow the lawn, see a police officer (he served for almost twenty years) or even when I meet someone taller than me. See, since I’m not hanging with the NBA, not many people are taller than me at 5’11’ but my dad was 6’4’’ or 6’6’’. The height depends on who you ask. He taught me to drive. He taught me how to chop wood, make a fire, and walk down steep hills in the forest. He led by example and he loved my mother with a passionate giddiness that softened his strong persona. He whistled a very specific brief tune that I wish to god I’d asked what it was. No one knows but everyone can still hear it and him in their minds.

He was a marine, a cop, a dad, a brother, an uncle, a volunteer, a lover, a friend. More. He was amazing.

I’m still half stuck in the anger part of mourning for my mom. But I was never angry after dad died. He left on a Saturday and the next day I sat with my younger sister in a wooden pew and silently cried for the hour long church meeting; remembering how he sung off key but with pride. With a little coaxing, I’d talk him into sliding his wedding ring off his finger while they passed the sacrament. I’d fit his ring in turn to each of my ten fingers. Loose, even on my thumbs. My daughters get me to take off my ring, then fist their hands closed to keep the ring on their finger and hold it up to the light. The emeralds and diamonds spark light and they dream. I can see it in their eyes. And me? I ache a little, missing him.

Confident 7 year old is sure she got it right

My youngest thanked me for her pancakes which were topped with peanut butter and maple syrup. She put the peanut butter away and then said to me, “Mom, peanut butter is my fashion.”

“Your fashion?”

“Yeah my fashion.” She nods.

“Fashion is the kind of clothes you wear. You don’t wear peanut butter.”

“But fashion also means things you like, things that are great,” she says it with the same tone that I just used but with a bit more poor-misguided-fool for emphasis.

I thought about it for a moment, watched her skate across the kitchen floor in her sock feet. “Do you mean passion? Peanut butter is your passion?”

“Yeah, passion. That’s what I meant.”

She is almost nine now and still loves peanut butter. Currently best on vanilla ice cream. 

Day Job

I work for a call center that takes calls from all over the United States. And let me tell you, customers can say the oddest things.

Our headphones have special noise canceling mics so the customer won’t hear our coworkers talking to their customers, or random banter between agents. Our customers don’t have noise canceling equipment and we hear everything. Sometimes more than they want us to hear.

A surprisingly large number of American’s need 9volt batteries for their smoke alarms. A scary percentage of those don’t realize that is why the alarm is chirping at them.

Then there is the fun relay calls. A wife/husband/friend in the background is telling them what to say and the agent hears everything twice. It’s especially funny when the person on the phone changes the background person’s message to be more polite or politically correct. Background speaker, “Tell them if they don’t help us right *&)v now we will *&)^ @$^! And then they’ll be sorry.” On the phone, “If we can’t get this fixed we’ll cancel our service.”

From thundering kids, and conversations said around a mouth full of food, we get it all and are good at adapting. But please, please don’t take us into the bathroom with you. But if you do, at least wash your hands.