Prompt 2 - First Time In Your Life

In another installment of 'What did I do in that writing class,' I'll share the second prompt and what I wrote that day. For our second prompt, we were asked to write about the first time we experienced something in our lives. I was initially tempted to write about what it's like to live under the pseudo-authoritarian regime of a thin-skinned, mysogynistic megalomaniac and Grade A pathological liar but that seemed too fantastical, too unbelievable and this was a course in non-fiction writing (and yet here we are in Trumplandia, but I digress). So I went with something I know - on becoming a dad for the first time:

I became a father for the first time 27 years ago. I was young, some would argue that we were too young to become parents. We were barely out from under our own parents' roofs. The thought of becoming a father, though, was mostly exhilarating, until the day of our daughter's birth. It suddenly became an all-consuming terror. As my wife labored to deliver our daughter that day, I was filled with an overwhelming paralyzing fear, with questions assaulting me at every moment. The pain I was feeling had to be on par with the pain that gripped my wife with each contraction. It wasn't. But doubt plagued me with each of those contractions. How could I care and provide for this little girl who was about to be born when previously one of the most pressing questions in my life had been collar up or down? How would I handle this? How was I going to care for her needs?

Once she arrived, the nurse placed my daughter into my trembling arms. I took in a long, deep breath and looked into her tiny eyes. I, for better or worse, was one of the first people she was seeing. I wanted her to know she was in good hands. As I looked into her eyes with a growing sense of awe, something in me snapped me into our new reality. I touched her little hand and said, "Hi. I'm your dad. And we're going to figure this out all together." That's been my unspoken motto as a dad ever since. 27 years later and two more children, I'd like to think I've figured a few things out about being a dad. It's still a work in progress.

I don't think I've ever been more scared of anything in my life than I was the day I became a dad for the first time. Writing about it a few weeks ago brought back a flood of feelings - fear, awe, excitement, terror, joy. The funny thing is that if I had the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.

#storieseverywhere

Into the chasm

@stuff.co.nz

It is no secret that the American electorate is a tad divided in the run up to the presidential election. The division is everywhere but its starkest, darkest, and ugliest side is most evident on the Interwebs. Earlier this week, I got an up close and personal tour of the dark side.

Earlier this week, on the morning of my birthday, a Tweet comparing refugees to a bowl of Skittles by the eldest son of the Republican presidential candidate was trending. It caught my attention and I Tweeted my own response. Here's what I said:

Thank you @DonaldTrumpJr for reminding us how little regard you 

have for humanity. Like father, like son.

Snarky, yes, but it was my honest reaction, a reaction by the way that I was under the impression I was allowed to have. I really thought nothing more of it until my notifications started to blow up. Apparently, I'd struck a nerve with the more extreme residents of Trumplandia in my tiniest corner of the Twittersphere. Nearly 25,000 impressions and engagements, plus hundreds of likes and retweets of that Tweet later, I'd been drop kicked into a hate-filled chasm. Here are a few highlights from the responses that came my way:

A**hole

F*!$ off

I should be subject to violent anal rape (I toned that one down but apparently this is a favorite line of attack, or variant of the same theme, by Trumplandians. See this from Washington Post columnist Dana Milbank)

I am an ISIS supporter

I am a feminist and an abortionist, or at least an abortion supporter (I'm not quite sure how that leap was made)

I am illiterate

I need to study English more because I do not know what an analogy is (I guess I should sue my alma mater then for failing me when I was awarded an English degree)

I am an SJW (Social Justice Warrior - I didn't know what that was so I had to look that one up)

Muslims and Syrians are not human

I should pray that my church isn't bombed by refugees this Sunday

I was asked where I lived so that refugees could be sent to my home to poison me and my family

I have no right to speak 

Fun, right? 

There were some telling things as I fell into the chasm. In almost poetic move to prove that I was an SJW, one of the Tweeters went into my blog and linked to a post I wrote in April of this year about women being assaulted by anonymous Twitter trolls as proof. Irony alert - that was posted by an anonymous Twitterer. While my blog is mostly personal, I've written about issues that are important to me including gun violence, rape, and a few other hot button issues. But the issue that makes me an SJW? Speaking out against the abuse of women on Twitter. That speaks volumes. Irony alert - being told I have no right to speak. That one killed me. Being told by those who shout from the rooftops about protecting their rights that I have no right to speak was rich. Thanks to the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, I have as much right to speak as any one else in this country.

What is most telling is the fear, or the bigotry masquerading as fear. I don't go to church on a weekly basis convinced that my place of worship is going to be bombed. Nor do I fear that a family of refugees is going to poison me, in spite of the wishes that it would happen that came my way.  I can't live with that kind of fear. Not everyone who is not a WASP is hell-bent on destruction. Really, they're not.

My trip into the chasm of hate on the Interwebs was short-lived. It was instructive, disturbing, and revealing. It speaks volumes about the divide and the fear in this country. To live with that kind of fear / bigotry is in the word of the Republican presidential candidate, "Sad!"

"He's just not right. Now it's bridges." It's another installment in the "Man, I'm glad I'm not him" series!

The Sunshine Skyway - Tampa / St. Pete

 For any of you that have read more than one post here in the Den, there's a lot you can learn. This is not because I'm a fount of wisdom or a member of MENSA. I am neither. Read here and learn from my mistakes. I've even dedicated a series here to those key learning opportunities (you're welcome).

The Jamestown Verrazano near Newport, RI

In my zeal to let you learn from my mistakes, I've also let you know how I think and what makes me tick or ticks me off. So not only do you get to learn from my mistakes, you get to say, "Man, I'm glad I'm not him!" After reading what follows, I suspect you'll be saying exactly that.

The Claiborn Pell near Newport, RI

Let me tell you about my mild case of, wait for it, gephyrophobia. That's fear of bridges, people. Now, as I said, mine's a mild one and I blame it squarely on 1970's disaster films (Earthquake! I'm calling you out!) and the I15 flyover to Satan's Favorite Freeway, the westbound I91 in Corona, CA. For five years, I was on that overpass every weekday morning. I typically was sitting on its highest point for 10 - 15 minutes depending on how backed up things were at 530AM (because SoCal traffic is awesome!). As a result, I had my earthquake escape plan because there was no way I was pancaking to the earth during the Big One. No way was I going out in my beater commuter Camry car either. In my head, each of my myriad escape plans was more perfect than the next. Let me assure you, each one was doomed to failure had the Big One ever gone down. I was never at ease on those mornings on that stupid bridge and it was there where the seeds of gephyrophobia were set.

Fast forward to my trip to America's penal colony, Florida, recently to see CAL. Our trek from Tampa to Miami took us over the Sunshine Skyway. This did not please me one bit. If you are not familiar with its history, spoiler alert - it's not pleasant. In 1980, a cargo ship hit it, causing a partial collapse sending 35 people to their deaths. Seeing it in the distance that Friday afternoon was disconcerting. As I recall I went into hyperdrive talking mode as we crossed the span. I really hope CAL didn't notice me rubbing my thumb and forefinger like there was no tomorrow (Hello, coping mechanism!).

Then there was a twofer today. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I decided to go down to Newport, RI for the day. So did every other person from Massachusetts, New York and New Jersey based on the sweaty hordes assembled there. But I digress. Traveling from our part of Connecticutistan into Newport allows us the joy of crossing the Jamestown Verrazano and Claibon Pell (on another note, why does that name make me think of Foghorn Leghorn?) bridges in fairly quick succession. As we approached the first, I uttered my mantra, 'I hate bridges' and began the rubbing of my thumb and forefinger and I didn't stop until we were across both.

With that over, we had a great time in Newport, except for the parking. Don't get me started. We wound up walking the Cliff Walk and it was spectacular. We saw a few little summer getaway houses like this:

Short sale, anyone? Let's go halfsies!

And we soaked up scenery like this:

We walked close to nine miles throughout the course of the day there, which ended at a burger dive populated by, I kid you not, Johnny Depp impersonators channeling Captain Jack Sparrow. Sufficiently sated and with my arches screaming, we headed home. This of course meant traversing my two new favorite bridges. The first was the Foghorn, I mean Claiborn Pell. As we proceeded up the span in the inside lane, we noticed the jagweed in a car several lengths ahead of us was weaving precariously into the other lane. The car ahead of us in our lane was forced to lay on the brakes and the horn simultaneously. Already just a little anxious (thumb and forefinger rubbing), this tool was not going to make things any easier. As we got closer, it became obvious why. This joker was filming his drive across the bridge, left arm out the open window with his phone out, capturing it all. He was veering into our lane because, well, he was an idiot. I should point out that we were in my rather large and environmentally deleterious Yukon. He was in a tiny, nondescript Korean car. Sure enough, he veered into our lane. At that point, it was game on and hasta luego, gephyrophobia! I laid on the horn and because of the size of my Yukon, I blocked his view. He had the testicular fortitude to start screaming that his view was blocked - all at 40 plus miles an hour, mind you. While we had not reached the bridge's peak height of 215 feet, we were close. I'd be lying if I did not quickly think how with one quick jab of my steering wheel to the right, he and his tiny sedan would be sailing into the water and there'd not be a scratch on my Yukon. Suffice to say, I decided to linger and block his view a little more before speeding away. As I glanced in my rear view mirror, he did the same thing to the driver behind me. She laid into him with her horn, and since she was in a convertible, gave him a visual sign of her displeasure with his utter obnoxiousness. Good for her.

If nothing else, that little encounter helped me forget about the whole bridge issue. Like I said, my case, based wholly on a diagnosis provided by Wikipedia, is mild if anything at all. So what have we learned today? Well, clearly, if your take away is 'Man, I'm not glad I'm not him with this whole bridge thing,' then my work here is done. More importantly, if your take away is 'Man, I'm not using Wikipedia to self-diagnose anything,' then I've really done something good today. You're welcome.

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.