On entering Area 51

Area 51.

What comes to mind when you hear "Area 51?"

Conspiracy? Secrecy? Aliens? Really bad sci-fi films? That's where both Jimmy Hoffa and Elvis are currently hanging out, right? Is that where the FemBot we know as Melania Trump was created?

The questions about Area 51 and, much like the soul of the current occupant of the White House, the answers are non-existent. Today, though, I have answers because I have entered Area 51.

I should be clear that the Area 51 I speak of is not that den of conspiracy somewhere north of Las Vegas but rather it is the fact that I turned 51years old today. I've already discovered some parallels to this august age and the alien landing area that dare not speak its name. There's a few things about this age that are making me feel more and more alien-esque. For instance:

• Spots on spots on spots - each day it seems like some new age spot or dry patch o'skin makes an appearance on my dad bod. At this point, you could play a nearly endless game of "Connect the Dots."
• Memory Erasing - remember the fun little tool the "Men in Black" boys used to wipe people's memories? Yeah, so I seem to have one of those that's gone active somewhere in the recesses of my mind that makes me forget odd little things. (Sorry about not remembering to get the 13 bagels sliced the other morning, every body!)

Those are just two things along the alien path that is turning 51. I suspect I've got another reminder from AARP that I have yet to join that army awaiting me in my mailbox today. I'm steadfastly holding out on that one, no matter what my increasingly gray head of hair suggests. The fact of the matter is that even though today I turned 51, I'm not feeling older. Like James Brown belts, "I feel good."

I've got plenty of reason to feel good. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML has now been by my side (by her choice, people) for nigh on thirty years. We just seen the weekend with our children, grandchildren, and almost new daughter-in-law and that was simply a joyous experience for us as parents. Basically the best early birthday present I could have hoped for. I am a lucky man.

So, I'm a tad curious to see where the mystery of Area 51 and this year takes me. The one thing that I know for sure is I'll be grayer by the time I roll into 52 next year. Everything else is up for grabs. Bring it on, 51st year!

22

Last night the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML was perusing the Facebooks when she insisted that I look at a picture posted by one of her friends. The picture featured this friend's daughter, in a hospital bed (rightfully so as she had just delivered twins), and her OB/GYN standing next to her, holding the babies. SML wanted to know if I recognized the doctor. I didn't, so I assumed it was the new grandfather. 'No, silly,' she decried. 'It's Dr XX!' Dr. XX delivered both CAL and the RM. Apparently I was supposed to have his image seared into my memory. I did not. The last time I recall seeing or speaking to said doctor was twenty two years ago today when he delivered The Boy aka The RM.

That's right, twenty two years ago today, our lives were inexorably changed with the arrival of The Boy. He was more than a week late, finally turning up when he felt the time was right. That time, of course, was when I was right in the middle of delicious burrito that I was never able to finish (not that I'm still bitter) because a nurse insisted it was time for SML to start pushing. It was our third child and he was our smallest. I mean she could have sneezed and shot him out like a cannon. I could have finished that burrito (again not that I'm still bitter).

While I didn't get to finish that burrito, I am forever grateful for the Boy that we got that day. Each of our children have brought their own unique spirit into our home and he was certainly no different. With two older sisters and his mom, he essentially grew up with three mothers. For the most part, he's been a good sport about that. He's never left us wondering why our lives are dull. He's made sure they aren't. From a cavalcade of broken arms to inexplicable dents in his car during high school to his absolute transparency in telling us all kinds of things, he's made sure our lives have been anything but dull. Frankly, I'm grateful for that. Not sure I'd have it any other way, as I look back on his shenanigans over the years, as a parent does on a child's birthday.

You can't help but look forward to what lies ahead on a child's birthday as well. The RM has grown into a darn good young man. He's wading through young adulthood and is making his way through the minefield of adulthood with aplomb, so far. He's found himself a really lovely young woman and they have a lot of exciting things ahead of them.  We're excited for him, to be sure.

Happy birthday, son. I'm lucky to be your dad. It's been an honor and it's never been boring. My gray hair thanks you.

24

Let's talk about 24.

No, not the Fox series of old (and soon to be rebooted). Nor the fact that there are 24 hours in a day. Nor the fact that the number 24 is is the only nontrivial solution to the cannonball problem. In a shock to no one, I have absolutely no idea what that problem is. None.

Instead let's talk about the fact that we have a Den member turning 24 today. It's CAL's birthday and we are lucky to be together today. It's nice to have her here to celebrate and even nicer that we got to spend it in one of her favorite cities - New York. One of the benefits of life behind the Connecticutistan Curtain is the ability to slip from underneath it (it helps that our iron-gloved overlord, Martha Stewart, is presently distracted by her dalliance in the form of a cooking show with Snoop Dogg Lion) and make our way to either NYC or Boston.

New York City the day after Christmas is not for the faint of heart, especially if you find yourself in Midtown, which we did towards the end of our day. First, though, we started our day at the 9/11 Memorial and Museum as CAL had not yet seen the Museum and that was top o'her list. If ever I am not moved as I visit that sacred place, please find the person who bought my soul and try and get it back. I was stunned this time by one of the things I had missed in previous visits and maybe I'll talk about that in a later post. Suffice to say, it took my breath away.

After that, it was time to celebrate CAL's birthday with a little indulgence in the form of the goodness that is available at the Momofuku Milk Bar. Their six layer birthday cake looked awesome but they don't sell slices - only the whole cake for $42, so birthday cake pop truffles were the order of the day. This location of the Bar is on 56th between 5th and 6th, smack in the middle of Fuhrer Trump's lockdown area (our cab driver was not happy with the blocked streets as it is impacting his ability to get into very busy and popular areas -given that he was of Arab descent I suspect the Fuhrer could care less about the impact on this man's ability to earn a living), so we knew we wouldn't be getting a cab anywhere near  there to get us back to Tribeca. CAL wanted to see the Tree at Rockefeller Center anyway and the crowds on 5th Avenue were teeming. We got as close to the Tree as we could - close enough for this picture:

Then we made our way over to 6th Avenue into a crowd of people that can only be described as "Tourists As Far As The Eye Can See." Most were clambering to get to Radio City to see the Rockettes, while all we wanted to do was get to a subway station. Fortunately, we made it and on the F and C trains we went. After a three borough tour (Manhattan, Brooklyn and Queens), which is what happens when you accidentally wind up on the Brooklyn Bridge instead of the FDR (don't ask), we were on our way home.

It's been a good day. We are fortunate and blessed that our now 24 year old was happy to celebrate her day with us. We are even more fortunate to be her parents.

Happy birthday, CAL!

50

So I've hit that number today

There's another birthday here in the Den today and that birthday is mine. It just happens to be one of those significant milestone birthdays, too. Today, I celebrate fifty years of darkening the door of this wonderful thing we call life.

I like what Victor Hugo said about being 50. He said "Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age." Turning 50 does not mean that I am suddenly middle-aged. That ship sailed when I turned 41. Per the good people at the U. S. Social Security Administration and their super fun Life Expectancy Calendar (have fun playing with that one!), I am expected to live to 82.2 years old. So I am nearly a decade into my middle-agedness, which for my children means at least three more long decades of dealing with me. Buckle up, you three! It's only going to get worse. You have been warned.

Here's some fun facts, courtesy of the Interweb's truth sayer Wikipedia, about 50:

• 50 is the atomic number of tin (as a sciencephobe, this means nothing to me)
• 50 is the number of Gates of Wisdom and Gates of Impurity in Kaballah. I wonder about the connection between wisdom and impurity now.
• 50 is the number of U. S. states. No, really, there are only 50 states. It is not 51 (sorry Washington DC or Puerto Rico).
• 50 is the number of the retired jersey of San Antonio Spurs Hall of Famer, David "The Admiral" Robinson.
• 50 is the number of rings required to transform Sonic to his super form in the "Sonic the Hedgehog" game. Given my extensive (and by extensive I mean non-existent) history as a gamer, this another one that means nothing to me.

Thanks to the great Paul Simon, we know that there are "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover."

Thanks to Keanu Reeves in his tour-de-force role from the 1990's cinematic masterpiece "Speed," which in itself is a gift that just keeps on giving, and Dennis Hopper's creative bomb-making skills, we know that 50 was the danger zone. Remember if that bus went slower than 50 MPH, it was goodbye Sandra Bullock and Cameron from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

I'm excited to hit this milestone. I'd like to think it's going to give me an air of added maturity. In reality, it's brought me an invitation to join AARP and starting the countdown to this:

Yep, that delightful procedure is coming. It's one of the harsher realities of turning 50, as is this point made by the life of any party he must have attended, English author George Orwell. He said, "At age fifty, everyone has the face he deserves." Let that one sink in. If I now have the face I deserve, I shudder to think what else is coming my way in terms of what I deserve...

Clearly, 50 is going to be awesome. I'm a few hours into it and I'm already a fan. The first fifty years have been good, darn good. I think the 32.2 years that I have left are going to be darn good, too. Among other things, I want to see if there's any truth to this statement from T S Eliot:

The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always 

being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down.

I'm 50. I'm not dead yet, so no need to toss me in the Wagon O' The Dead:

SaveSave

21

It's another day of celebration here in the Den. One of our Den-izens is celebrating a birthday. Today it's The RM who we celebrate. He turns 21 today and suffice to say, we are celebrating a fine young man.

Those 21 years have gone by in a flash. I remember each of our children's births for very different reasons and can go back to them as if it were yesterday. Our Lady of Awesome's birth is associated with many firsts including a whole lot of terror, as she was our first-born (duh!); CAL's birth is associated with peace because A) I wasn't the one doing the birthing and 2) due to an odd set of circumstances and the fact that it was Christmas, it was just the nurses, doctors, and the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I in the room as she came into the world; and The RM's birth pretty much set the stage for how he rolls.

He was several days overdue and determined to make his mother just a little crazy. Finally, a bed opened up at the hospital and we were on our way down there for the induction festivities. Of course, by the time we got there some other woman had the testicular fortitude to go into labor on her own and our bed was gone. This news was not well-received. So in my most calm and soothing manner (go ahead and believe that), I explained to the hospital staff that we were not leaving and that they were welcome to find us a place where my wife could being the miracle of birth. Sensing we weren't leaving, they literally dumped us in a large, fairly barren closet-like space and induced SML. Meanwhile, The RM seemed completely non-plussed by all this and still didn't seem in any hurry to leave the comfort of the womb. In the meantime, I found out that some friends of ours from Church were in a room a few doors down, having had a little girl the night before. I sauntered down to their room, greeted the new parents with the following greeting, "Hi Rob and Rhonda! Congratulations on your little girl! Now get out. We need the room." As I recall, her parents, whom I had never met, seemed a little shocked. Suffice to say, that didn't work. So my father had the presence of mind to get me a burrito from Filbertos (he apparently knew the dangers of being hangry before it was a thing and I labored over that thing while SML labored over The RM. Right as things were getting good with the burrito, The RM decided it was showtime and like Moses parting the Red Seas, the Miracle of the Found Room occurred and we were whisked out of the birthing closet and into a real room. In no time flat, again says the guy's who's contribution to this whole process was minimal, The RM made his arrival. It was fairly drama free and full of joy. That's how he started life and that's how he rolls today.

Over the course of these last 21 years, he's made us a little crazy on more than one occasion, but it really has been a drama-free, joyful 21. That's a pretty good way to live, if you ask me. Like his sisters, he's been a joy to us and I can't imagine our world without him. He rounds out our family well.

Happy birthday, mijo!

He loves his Mom and he'll still hug her.
He'll never outgrow that.

It's her birthday

Celebrating her big day in Moline, IL

It's an auspicious day here in the Den. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML is celebrating her birthday. This is her 28th birthday that she has, for better or worse, celebrated with me. That's a lot of birthdays and I've only forgotten it once in all those years. Twice, I tried to convince her that the houses we bought right around her birthday constituted her birthday presents. With a track record like that, I know you are thinking what I'm thinking, "#Husbandoftheyear!"

PS - If you are thinking that, you are a man who's been married a long time, like me. You will also know this is poorly conceived thinking.

Anyway, there was no breakfast in bed or other traditional birthday shenanigans here today. But there was a hat, banner, and blasters that I, in a shock to no one, did not provide. That's because the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML is not here. She's somewhere in the middle of the United States, with one of her dear friends, taking turns driving an SUV, dragging a U-Haul trailer packed with very important stuff, like TMFKATB's golf clubs. Because golf. Because his head will explode if he doesn't have his clubs at his side when he starts school.

These two women (#I80ladies if you want to follow them on the Instagram), who have five grandchildren behind them, are by all accounts having a really good time. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML overcame her fear of dragging a trailer and is now so confident in her skills that she may have a second career in driving the big rigs. They found a 7-11 yesterday and got their free Slurpee. They saw some old man, in full commando, relieving himself into traffic from the side of the freeway. They stayed in Moline, IL last night! Isn't America great?

Believe it or not, they've talked the entire time and have not run out of things to talk about. Let's be honest, I'd have shot myself by now. But not my wife. She's having fun with her friend, celebrating her birthday in several states. If she's lucky, birthday dinner may be somewhere in Wyoming. Suffice to say, it's been a memorable birthday for her. She deserves it.

Happy birthday to my favorite!

3

As is what is now a long-standing tradition here in the Den, today we honor a Denizen on his birthday. By all accounts, it's a big one. So big that, thanks to a wicked good fare sale (so good that it was totally appropriate to burst into a rousing rendition of 'Let my people go'!) from the revenue management gods at JetBlue, we were able to celebrate our grandson's third birthday with him.

Turning three is not for the faint of heart. It's a big deal, especially for our grandson, B. You're potty-trained. You are genetically programmed to ask "why" every 1.7 seconds. You say "what the" and then pause dramatically whenever you encounter something that befuddles you. You really love your little sister and your hugs prove that, although her occasional bulging eyes would suggest you might want to turn it down on the strength of said hugs. You love your friends and it looked like you had so much fun with playing with them at your party today.

Your mom, Our Lady of Awesome, and your grandma, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML, made a great sports-themed party. Because sports are your life. The baseball cake was a big hit (cheesy pun intended)! It was hard to stay focused because there was so much going on, but you made turning three look really easy. And more than a little fun.

It was so good to be here with B on his birthday. Every moment is a joy. Even the one this afternoon where he fell going up the stairs at the Wilk at BYU and I failed to notice he'd cut his lip. #grandpaoftheyear

Happy birthday, B!

26

26

Is not the name of the next Adele album.

A rhombicuboctahedron has 26 sides (please, nerds, can someone tell me what that rhombi thing even is?)

The atomic number of iron is 26.

God gave the Torah in the 26th generation since Creation. Who knew?

The 26th letter in the English alphabet? Z.

The age at which males can no longer be drafted in the United States is 26.

But most importantly, 26 is the birthday being celebrated today by Our Lady of Awesome, our eldest child and first-born daughter. For 26 years, I have been in awe of her (as I am all my children). She somehow managed to survive me as a very young, brand-new dad. As a newborn, she had to listen to countless versions of my senior thesis on the role of grace in Southern short fiction (try writing the paper of your life for the only Catholic English professor at BYU). She had to listen to They Might Be Giants' album Flood from the minute she came home from the hospital as I was completely obsessed with it. She did it all without complaint. She's always had a way of looking at me too, even from the time I held her that first week she spent in the NICU. She's had a look that tells me, 'Dad, I know what you're up to.' Suffice to say, she's not one of suffer fools gladly.

She's made a good life for herself. Watching she and Awesome parent their two children is a joy. They are good partners, good to one another, and good to our grandchildren. She'll celebrate this birthday surrounded by the things she loves most, family and sunshine (given that there is sunshine you'll know immediately they're not here in Connecticutistan). She deserves it.

Happy birthday, Princess, and thanks again for these two:

23

Some things, like honoring birthdays, don't change here in the Den, so today is no different. Today, thanks to her parents and their impeccable family planning timing, CAL celebrates a birthday.

It is her 23rd. She is now a college graduate. She is embarking on that great adventure known as the Post Graduate Internship. She's chosen a career that puts her in the thick of making life better for children who are very ill. That tells you a lot about our birthday girl.

Another thing that tells you a lot about her is how she's willing to spend her birthday. Last year, it was with us, her mom and dad, walking around Washington DC. This year won't be quite so glamorous. The three of us will be jammed into her heavily laden moving van (and by moving van, I mean her Fird Escape) as we begin a test run in advance of Phase Three of Vacation Shenanigans 2015. We get to sing "Happy Birthday" multiple times as we drive from Utah's Dixie to the Valley of the Sweat, I mean Sun, to see family. Is there no finer way to celebrate your 23rd?

I'm just glad we get this time with her. Happy birthday, Princess!

49

49 - did you know that it is the square root of the number 7? (I actually did know that, I promise.)
49 - did you that it is the atomic number of indium? (I don't even know what those words mean.)
49 - did you know that Arsenal had a 49 game unbeaten run between May 2003 and October 2004 until they lost to Manchester United?

All fascinating, no? But what's important here, and I say this sans ego, is that today is my 49th birthday. Given that the life expectancy for American males born in 1966 is 73.9 years, I am well-past middle age. I'm 2/3rds dead. My life is, at least on paper, 66% done. If I get myself no other gift today, it's that I'm not buying that garbage. It feels like yet another phase of life is just beginning.

Given that today will be spent getting religion, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I really got our celebration on yesterday. We decided to break free of the stern icy fist that Martha Stewart wields over Connecticutistan and we went over to the Hudson Valley in New York. We started our day in White Plains (Calm down, Mittites, it was not to see if Bill and Hillary were in town!) to go to the eastern-most outpost of our favorite pancake joint, the Original Pancake House. It was only appropriate to go there so I could indulge on my favorite, and most appropriately named pancake, the 49er.

The aforementioned 49 year old with the 49er

Let me just go on record and say that this is one, well three if I'm being honest, delicious pancake. After scarfing it down in a state of near nirvana, we began our trek into the Hudson Valley. We took the Taconic State Parkway and I've got to say that as far as parkways go, this one is a beaut. High praise from someone who considers driving a long distance is the 15 minute trip to the grocery/surly service/rotten produce store. We were in the Yukon-asarus which made for some interesting passing moves as we made our way to Poughkeepsie. Yes, Poughkeepsie. On purpose. Why?

For this:

That's looking south on the Hudson River from the Walkway Over The Hudson. Fashioned out of what was once a railway crossing over the Hudson between the glamour that is Poughkeepsie and Highland, New York, this is a 1.3 mile span that affords some just boss views of this amazing river. The weather was nigh unto perfect yesterday so we enjoyed the walk enormously. We wanted to capture the moment and fortunately two girls from Marist College marched right up to us and asked if we needed our picture taken. In about ten seconds, they had taken nearly a dozen pictures of us. Here's one of the better ones:

 While we were on the bridge, I discovered that the freaking Culinary Institute of America was within spitting distance in Hyde Park. It was off to the CIA. We were bummed to learned that it was mostly closed (it was Saturday after all) but being there at Food Nirvana was a borderline religious experience. I can't even speak of it without getting emotional....

Hallowed Ground

We capped the afternoon in Hyde Park at the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum. This was straight up fascinating! The curators have been meticulous in capturing the life of FDR and in particular, his years as President. The "Four Freedoms" speech, from January 1941, exhibition is particularly moving and worth another post, which will probably come the next time everyone's favorite megalomaniac, Donald Trump, spews something inane. Obviously we won't be waiting long. As one of the docents showed us FDR's fully preserved study, I got the chills thinking about what had been discussed 80 years ago as the President struggled to rescue the nation from economic oblivion. If only those walls could talk...

What a great day and what a great way to enter the last year before the mid-century mark! Spending with the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML...priceless. Time with her is the best gift I could have asked for.

20

As of today, September 9th, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I are no longer the parents of any teenagers. The Boy, or more appropriately, The Missionary Formerly Known As The Boy - TMFKATB for short - turns 20 years old today.

I'm not quite sure for whom this is a bigger deal, him or us. For us, it is certainly the end of an era. No more teenagers. All our children are, by law and by deed, adults and are doing the things young adults do. It's just weird not to have a teenager anymore. For him, I have an idea of what he may be going through. Like him, I turned 20 in the mission field and it was hard. I felt like I was now officially old (my gosh...the perspective of youth!) and had no idea what was ahead of me, other than a day of knocking doors on South Beach (yes, THAT South Beach - suffice to  say it was a far different place thirty years ago than it is today). I wonder if a Puerto Rican family will knock on his apartment door at 7:00AM like they did the day I turned 20, bearing frijoles negros and a cake? I'm thinking not.

It will be a good day for him. When the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML was behind the Zion Curtain last month, she made sure to drop off a birthday box at his mission office. He'll celebrate appropriately as a result. He always manages to have a good time no matter where he finds himself. That's one of the many things that we love about him.

Like his older sisters, he has brought us an immeasurable amount of joy. We are proud of him, not just on his birthday, but every day. I'm proud of the sacrifice he's making right now as a missionary. I know he'll be a different young man as a result when he is home in a year. It's exciting and it's an honor to watch it happen. I'm lucky to be his dad.

Happy birthday, son.

The King of Little Cottonwood Canyon

On her birthday

This is NOT how we've celebrated

Lest anyone think I was somehow tipping off the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML about her birthday gift in yesterday's post, as I wasn't. When you've celebrated as many birthdays together as we have, birthdays come without a lot of fanfare.

Today is the 27th birthday that my wife has shared with me. See what I just did there? I told you how many birthdays we've had together without explicitly revealing her exact age. Another tick in the #Husbandoftheyear box! Yay me!

Her day began as it has for years. Breakfast in bed, served from a tray on the 'you are special' plate. It's funny how that breakfast has transitioned over the years. When flax seed is an important, dare I say critical, element, you know your carefree "Doesn't matter what I eat!" days have long since sailed on. Gifts were then opened and the Vancome Lady (see yesterday's post) would have no doubt spouted off some mildly judgmental whiff of approval in French again with the delighted reaction to the perfume, I mean par-fumeh.

Then, like any other Sunday, we went and got some religion. It was a good morning of church. Once we were home, I got down to business to make a birthday lunch. I made an "Asian Lemon Chicken" that I found on the Pinterests. With some brown rice and edamame, it was a really good lunch. I do, however, have a bone to pick with the web of lies that is spun by the pictures people post of their food creations on the Pinterest. On what planet does anything, EVER, come out looking so glossy as it does on their site? I'll tell you what planet - NeverNeverLand, that's where. As long as it tastes good and doesn't look like an organ transplant gone horribly wrong on the plate, I'm fine with it. So even though my chicken looked nothing like the picture, it sure tasted good. Mission accomplished.

We'll cap the day with a few friends coming over to celebrate and the day will be done. We won't be climbing on the dining room table to gaze longingly into one another's eyes, a la "Sixteen Candles." I'd probably fall off and break something, like my arm. Besides the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML has a pretty strict "No Ruining The Classic Films of the 80's with Crappy Reenactments" policy, so it's out of the question.

Sitting on the dining room table or not, all in all, it's been a good birthday here in the Den.

The Eau de (insert here) Lady

Yeah, her.

Admittedly, I can be a little down to the wire when it comes to preparing for the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML's birthday celebration. My track record is spotty, including once when it was forgotten (not my finest hour, can I just tell you?) and twice when I tried to tell her that her gift were the houses that we had just purchased, I tried to get away with that in California and here in the 'stan because we signed on those houses in July right around her big day. Not cool, I know.

For her birthday tomorrow, I was determined to be more on top of things. To my credit, I have her birthday meal planned and I am, in theory, confident it is not going to be horrible. As for gifts, I long ago took the easy way out on that and asked for a very specific list in order to avoid disappointment on all sides. No different this year, nor was the fact that I waited until the last minute - this afternoon - to get it together, making me once again a leading candidate for #Husbandoftheyear.

As said candidate armed with my list, earlier today I ventured into a certain store whose name sounds a little lot like 'Abhora' to secure one of the items on her list. I knew exactly where I needed to go in this place as I do not make any trek here lightly as it terrifies me. Why? Look, I'm secure enough in my middle-aged dadbod masculinity to march through any store that caters to women. When you are the father of two daughters, you get comfortable with those stores or every trip to the mall is worse than your annual prostate exam. This store has the power to turn me into a quivering mass of discomfort. It's not the weird makeup lighting throughout the store. It's not the borderline toxic cloud of 300 perfumes. It's the veritable army of saleswomen clad in black and red who march through the store like overly made up stormtroopers armed with lethal makeup brushes. These women, each of whom has been pulled so tight that their legs snap open when they speak, are a force of nature. It was the same today. I knew exactly where I needed to go in the store but I was about three steps in when the fatal flaw in my plan was made bare. I had no idea where the item I needed was stocked in that section. One of the stormtroopers instantly picked up on my mistake and she swooped down on me like a pelican on chum. I told her what I needed and we made our way through the perfumed haze to it and this happened (please note that I have spelled out some of this to give you a feel for it):

PERFUME LADY: "Do you want the (suddenly she burst into a French accent) Oh Day Twah-lette or  the Oh Day Pahr-Fumeh?
ME: Brief stunned silence, as I was still trying to process the sudden appearance of the French accent..."Um, I'll take perfume, please." I instantly regretted that I did not say "Si vous plait"
PERFUME LADY: Turning her head and glaring looking over her shoulder at me, saying, "You mean you'd like the Oh Day Pahr-Fumeh?" The French accent was back.
ME: Trying to process the fact that she seemed to think we were in a parfumerie along the Champs Elysses in Paris and not an outdoor strip mall built a top an old golf course in the middle of freaking Connecticut, I said, "Yes, the par, I mean, perfume, parfume." The way I stumbled over 'perfume' was a not so subtle intonation for her not to hurt me.

After this little verbal take down, she asked me if there was anything else I needed, like a special cologne for myself. I said no, thank you, blowing the chance to toss in 'merci.' In retrospect, that was probably wise. I suspect it wouldn't have ended well. So better to continue to birthday preparations, which is precisely what I did. Because #Husbandoftheyear.

Two

Two.

Thanks to the soothsayers over at Wikipedia, you can learn all sorts of things about the number two that you never wanted to learn. For instance, did you know that divisibility by two is easily tested? Or that two is the smallest and first prime number? Neither did I and those two math gems are liking to kill me. Interestingly, there is no reference to the scatalogical nature of the number two, which is an indication that Wikipedia is not staffed by a bunch of eleven year old boys. We can all rest easily now. But enough about that and all things numbers and math.

Why the two? Because there is a birthday in the Den. The Grandson Awesome turns two years old today. As he turns two, B has proven to be a force of nature. He's determined. He's physical. He's a thinker. He know what he likes and what he doesn't. He's funny.  He's happy. He's a reflection of two parents who love the heck out of this boy.

And as his busting at the seams proud, which is not a statement on my waistline, grandfather, I can saw we love the heck out of him, too!

Happy birthday, B!

25

25 years.

A quarter of a century.

The silver anniversary.

If you're car is twenty five years old, it's most likely considered a "classic."

If you're twenty five years old, you're an adult now, whether you like it or not.

We're talking about the number '25' a bit here in the Den today. Why? We are celebrating the birth of our oldest child and first-born daughter, Our Lady of Awesome. Twenty fives years old today. I won't waste a lot of virtual ink lamenting the fact that I have a child who has been on this earth for a quarter of a century. Instead, I'll celebrate her. It's her day.

I love this girl's sly sense of humor. I love her willingness to be silly with her brother and sister. I love that she does not suffer fools. At all and never has. I love her commitment to her husband and her son. I love that she still checks in with her mom. I love that she's happy.

I'm a lucky dad. I honestly had no idea what I was doing as a dad when she was born. She was our 'crash test dummy' and she came through it with flying colors. Amazing.

Wishing her a happiest of birthdays today!

79

My father died almost five and a half years ago and today, 8 February, marks what would have been his 79th birthday. Recent circumstances have caused memories of my dad to be at the forefront of my mind. It's days like these, birthdays, that the sense of loss is more acute.

It also reminds me that I've been pretty lousy at grieving the loss of my father. According to Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her Kubler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief associated with death. The five stages are:

Denial / Anger / Bargaining / Depression / Acceptance

When I recall the events around my dad's death and the ensuing nearly six years, it seems to me that per the model, I skipped the first four stages and went directly, in much the same you do when playing the world's most arduous board game, Monopoly, bypassing 'go' and going directly to jail, to 'Acceptance.' I don't think I had much of a choice. There wasn't time for the first four stages when it happened and since then, acceptance seemed to be the only option.

To be sure, part of that acceptance comes with my faith and belief in a plan for us after this life. That sense of surety I have is, for me a source of great comfort but today, and I can't quite put my finger on it, I'm just a bit out of sorts over this grieving process. I can't help but wonder that because I wasn't prostrate with grief or anger at the time that I haven't honored my father's life or memory. I don't think so but it's bothering me just a little. I'm not saying that I should have leapt on his coffin as it descended (think the burial scene in Jonathan Demme's delightful Married to the Mob). That would have been ridiculous but I still can't help but wonder if I've grieved appropriately?

Loss and how we handle it is a deeply personal thing. Yet, and I've pointed this out before, it is not lost on me that I am ironically making it a public thing by writing about it in this forum. I know for others, opening up a raw nerve in a silly blog like this would be unthinkable. For me, though, this works.

Sure, I wish my dad was still here to be celebrating his 79th. Who knows? Maybe we'd have been by his side today. If nothing else, we would have picked up the phone and talked. I'm glad I was able to wish him a happy birthday on his last. He was a good, patient man. I take great comfort in that patience.I feel like he's being patient with me to this day as I figure out this grieving process. For that, I am grateful.