The Nobel Prize in Math

Logo_of_the_Nobel_prize

I don’t mean this in an ugly way, but Lisa was a pretty good nagger. She didn’t really stay on me about stuff cause I typically do what I’m supposed to do. But she could harp on the kids about a plethora of things: practicing the piano, completing their homework, keeping their skin moisturized, getting their thank you notes written, and more!

Since I’ve been the sole parent, I’ve had to take up the role of naggart.

I don’t mind, there’s part of me that perversely enjoys getting under another’s skin. What I stink at is remembering. I just don’t care enough to be a great nag.

I so want to excel at this task. I long to hear a child’s annoyed whine, “Daaaaad. You don’t have to tell me again!”

I long to respond, “Clearly I do!  You did not do it the first six times I asked!”

The problem is, I never asked, because I forgot.

This week we’ve been at the beach, and I have had the awesome opportunity to hassle Stephanie all week long. She’s about the head to camp for four weeks, and she has to complete a massive math assignment for her class placement for the fall. She did the work once, but the school sent us an email encouraging her to push a little harder so they could put her in an honors class.

I was excited!

“Stephanie, if you increase your grade on the placement test slightly, you can take Honors Geometry next year!”

I had visions of Harvard, a PHD, maybe a Nobel Peace Prize! My daughter, one and the same as pi.

She didn’t bite.

“Isn’t the honors course harder?”

“It IS more challenging,” I thought I was giving her a boost!

“Then why would I want to take that?”

“The Nobel Peace Prize baby!  STEM is in!”

She just couldn’t see our vision for her future (by our, I mean my).

So, we’ve spent at least one miserable hour each day of our vacation fighting about math. We’ve been here six days, I have the conversation memorized.

“Stephanie,” I start in the kindest tone I can muster. “You need to start thinking about spending some time on your math.”

“I HATE MATH! IT’S SUMMER VACATION, WHO HAS TO DO MATH IN THE SUMMER?”

“You.”

“This is rediculous!”

“Baby, you’re good at math. You got an award in 8th grade assembly for math!”

“I like math, in the school year! I don’t like math in the summer. When am I ever going to use math in my life?”

“Mmmm.  Let’s see.  EVERY DAY!”

“Not this kind of math. Do you ever factor a polynomial at work?”

“Seriously? I work at the Y.”

“See.”

And then, I get to nag. For an hour at a minimum.

“You could have been done with today’s work in the amount of time you’ve spent complaining. Shut your pie hole and get to work!”

It’s no use. I think she just likes to argue. It’s gonna be a constant battle. She’s “asleep” now. Her computer screen is black. Geeze.

I’m just gonna drop it until next week.  By then I will have forgotten, and she’ll be in basic math.

Oh well, who wants a stinkin’ Nobel anyhow?

 

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Sunday Post 178: I Can Almost Hear

Lisa recorded our voice mail greeting at some point long ago. Over four years later, I had not recorded over it. So if you called our house, she would greet you.

However, after years of going out of my mind with Time Warner Cable, I decided to go with a new carrier. After I made the decision, I realized it would mean our voicemail greeting would be deleted. I’d have to re-record.

We worked hard to preserve Lisa’s voice, saving it on every phone and computer the family owns. And now, if I want to hear her, I just pull it up on my iPhone or Dell and listen.  Sometimes its just nice to hear.

A while back my minister talked about the importance of voices. Someone referred to your voice as your thumbprint on the world.  Man, I wish I could still hear those who are gone.

I imitate my friend Trey but I long for that slow southern drawl. He died in a car wreck several years before Lisa.

I lay in my bed the other night trying desperately to remember how each of my grandparents sounded. I almost could – my Grandmama Tanner’s laugh, Granddaddy Tanner telling me, “You have a hole in your head boy.”  I could see my other grandmother’s face – she was by me on the bed.  But I couldn’t quite remember her voice.

It’s like the inflection is there, rolling around the outskirts of my cerebrum, but I just can’t pull it out.

What a shame.

I get used to pictures, but I always had to brace myself when I phoned the house.  Not in a bad way, but I had to be ready.  Sometimes her tone would bring a smile.  Sometimes it would bring longing.

I don’t know what I miss most – seeing, touching, or hearing her.  She was a talker, man could she move those lips.  Sometimes I’d wish she’d stop chatting everyone up after church and just get in the car – I was hungry!

Now I’d give anything to stand behind and wait.  If only to hear her one more time.

 

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

If you have read the book and are willing to write a short review, it would be helpful: Click here. And thanks

I just made it up!

Where do words come from? Like who decided that a bed should be called a bed. It could have been called a snoozemeister. But no, somewhere in history, someone decided to call it a bed.

I always wanted to invent a word. Something that desperately needed a name but didn’t yet have one. And then, about five or six years ago, when I was having a conversation with one of my kids, it hit me. They were describing something that, to my knowledge, didn’t yet have a name.

“Dad, my hiney doesn’t feel good.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know. It’s wet and itchy.”

“Inside?”

“Yes.”

“Moist?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” I needed a word, one that could adequately encompass that feeling we’ve all experienced. “Hmm… we call that… squenchy.”

“Squenchy?”

“Yea. You got a squenchy butt.”

It wasn’t until recently I realized my kids had no idea that wasn’t a real word.

“Dad, I was at camp today and one of my friends told me her butt was itching. I asked her if it was squenchy. She’d never heard that word before in her life. Can you believe that?”

“Honey, you’re 11. You need to know. Squenchy isn’t a real word. Only our family knows what that word means.”

“Like blatch?”

“Yea. Like blatch.”

We made that word up at the dinner table one night. It’s when two bodily functions occur simultaneously.

Nothing would make me prouder than to open up Websters and see:

Squenchy: squench – ee; adj.; when your butt is moist and itchy often due to insufficient wiping. Contributed by: Danny Tanner

Oh, I long for the day.

Sunday Post 177: Do You Have Enough?

I was fortunate. I had life insurance on Lisa. It wasn’t a ton, but it is enough.  If invested correctly, it can make a dent in college and perhaps there will be some left for my retirement. I’m banking on the stock market!

Four years before Lisa died, our insurance agent came to our house to review our policies. At the time, I had four times more insurance on me than on Lisa. He ran numbers for us. We had our blood tests.

I decided to increase my insurance four fold and was considering doing the same for my wife. But when it came down to it, I simply doubled hers. You know why? ‘Cause it was going to cost $350 more per year.

Yep. I could have double the money I have now if I’d have spent $1,400 over a four-year period of time. That’s less than $1 per day.

This seems sort of crass for me to share about my finances. Maybe sounds like I am thinking about the wrong things. Let me assure you, THERE IS NO AMOUNT OF MONEY THAT I WOULD NOT TRADE TO HAVE MY WIFE BACK. I’d give the shirt off my back and the shirts off my kids’ backs to have her sitting by me right now. But I can’t.  And there is one thing that my insurance agent said to me that I can’t seem to shake.

When I went to complete the paperwork to get the insurance check, I mentioned my lack of vision for the future in deciding not to increase the amount of insurance I had on Lisa more than I had. My agent responded, “Danny, you gotta understand, you have more insurance on your wife than 90% of guys your age. You likely have more on her than most guys have on themselves. You actually made really good decisions.”

So if he is right, 90% of you are grossly underinsured. If something happened to your spouse, you’d be up the creek. If something happened to you, your family would likely struggle financially.

I have friends with two or three kids and a $50 or $100K insurance policy. I’m telling you, that ain’t gonna educate your kids, and it certainly isn’t going to support your family for the long haul.

It sounds like I work for the insurance industry. I don’t. I’m not getting a kickback! But I want folks to think about the future. I want folks to think about their family if something happens to them or to their spouse.

It’s hard enough to lose a loved one. Imagine doing it while wondering if you can keep your house or educate your kids. Don’t put yourself, don’t put your family, in that position.

Dead Crab Walkin’

coenobitaclypeata2

It’s true, I don’t love animals.  I’d like to.  I try.  And then some dog ends up humping my leg, and I land right back where I was before – one who does not love animals.

They’re cute to look at – sort of like someone else’s baby.

“Oooo.  He’s so frickin’ cuuute!”

Then he poops.  And he’s not as cute.  And he smells like my grandfather after dinner at El Rodeo.

But as much as I am not an animal fanatic, I wish them no harm.  If someone else is feeding them and brushing them and paying their vet bills, I’m good.  I am perfectly happy to sit by dogs at the outside cafe tables at my local pub.  Who doesn’t like to have their crotch sniffed while they eat dinner?  Count me in!

That being said, I think I killed our Hermit crab.

I have tried to blame someone else in the family, but I am the responsible adult.  I must admit my error.

He, I’d call him by name but I don’t think he had one, was 13 months old.  As I washed out his dookie filled aquarium, I have wished him dead.  I actually let him crawl around the kitchen counter in the hopes that he would fall to his death.  He didn’t.  He just sat and watched me scrub.

We left him without food and water when we went to the beach in June.  He’s upstairs – out of site, out of mind.  He survived that 7 day fast. Two weeks later we left again.  But this time, I thought of him.  I filled a bowl with H2O and planted his sponge right in the middle.  When we returned, I think he’d gained weight.

But the next two weeks were busy.  Kids were out of town.  Michelle went to camp.  I seldom went upstairs – there was no reason.

When I returned from dropping Stephanie at overnight camp today, I took some of her excess stuff back up to her room.  When I walked into the bathroom, I spotted him.  He was hanging out of his shell.  He had crawled up to the sponge.  It was dryer than the Atacama Desert.  His little claw was perched, open, pointing toward his usual water source.

I haven’t called for an autopsy, but I feel certain the cause of death was dehydration.

I can’t blame DJ.  It wasn’t her crab, and she’s been at camp all summer.  I emailed Stephanie tonight – I called her a crab murderer.  She’s been living upstairs.  I know he belonged to Michelle, but for goodness sake.  If you walked by a starving Hermit crab, wouldn’t you respond?  Wouldn’t you take the time to soak the sponge?

She can’t be blamed.  She got her braces off this week.  He lived in the bathroom, and the times she was in there she was looking in the mirror, enamored with her beautiful new mouth.

And Michelle?  Yes, she should have reminded meto water him in her absence.  But who can think of crabs when there are decisions to make about what to wear to the camp dance?

So, that leaves me.  I am the one.  I killed him.

I feel so guilty.

 

 

Sunday Post 176: Forgive and Forget

Maybe I’ve always held a grudge.

As a child as fairly nondescript. I didn’t excel at much of anything. I wasn’t popular. At the same time, I wasn’t overly weird – didn’t really stand out for good or for bad.

I was bullied on occasion, but I think I was more fearful of being bullied than I was actually bullied. In the few instances where someone did pick on me, I simply worked to avoid the bullier. I’d change my lunch table or take a different path home from school. But I never forgot. To this day I can recount the handful of times someone messed with me – the hour of day I was approached and the exact words that were said.

My children, on the other hand, seem to forgive and move on. It’s actually a quite honorable trait.

Several years ago, I invited a group of eight girls to go the mall to select outfits for the upcoming school dance. The posse paraded around Crabtree Valley, poking in and out of stores and critiquing each other’s choices. The next week, one of the girls sent an email out to the group asking if they wanted to dress for the dance at her house. Well, she sent an email out to six of the kids. She didn’t send one to my daughter and one other. She explained it was because her mom said she could only invite six.

Maybe they could only fit that many in their car and their phone was on the fritz so they couldn’t ask another parent to help drive the group to the school. Or perhaps they were planning a formal dinner and only had seating for six at their dining room table. It could be that six was their lucky number! Maybe including seven or eight would have put a curse on the family. Perhaps they had an older house with electrical issues and they feared two more curling irons would have started a fire. All great reasons to exclude my child.

I certainly understand that not every kid can be invited to every party. And had I not just taken this Queen Bee to the mall myself TO PURCHASE AN OUTFIT FOR SAID DANCE, it wouldn’t have bothered me that my kid wasn’t invited.

Interestingly, my daughter was not fazed. She said, “It’s OK dad, we’ll just invite a group here for dinner.”

I, on the other hand, wanted to go punch her mother in the nose.

My kid is so forgiving, I am not. It’s been several years and I still hold the grudge. I see the kid and turn up my nose. My daughter says, “Dad, she’s not so bad. I sort of like her.”

I want to tell her to stay away from the creep.

Maybe my girls are right. Maybe the thing to do isn’t to just avoid those who do you ill will. I guess forgiving, forgetting and starting over is the better thing to do.

I’m an elder at my church which I guess would somehow make it seem like I should be the one driving the forgiveness train. But sometimes I’m taught more from my kids than I’m teaching.

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

If you have read the book and are willing to write a short review, it would be helpful: Click here. And thanks

Baggage That Goes With Mine

Gucci-Trunks-IIHIH

It was almost one year after Lisa’s death that an overwhelming desire to date came over my being. It was as if I saw this impending life of loneliness approaching, and I felt I had to develop a plan for avoiding the scenario that kept playing out in my mind.

I mentioned my readiness to a couple of friends and within a week or two, I found myself scheduled for a blind lunch date at a restaurant near my office.

I thought I was ready, but I thought wrong.

As the day approached I became more and more uneasy. That morning, I gagged in the bathroom toilet.

At 11:30 I went into a co-workers office, he’s also a very good friend.  “I can’t do this. I’m going to puke. I have to call it off. Do you thinking texting her is appropriate?”

This friend, who had walked by my side for the previous 12 months and had heard my rants about moving to a retirement community at age 45 simply to have a built-in social network, grabbed my shoulders.  “Get yourself together man! You’re going on this date! You don’t have to marry her, you simply have to eat with her.”

He walked me to my car.

“Take off your wedding ring. Get in the car. Don’t come back without a receipt. And there’d better be TWO entrees on it!”

I think the “date” lasted 45 minutes. She was nice enough, very easy to talk to, and I did not vomit.  But I just wasn’t ready.

It takes a lot of cahoonas to put yourself out there. I have single friends who have slugged out the dating scene for years. I think about what I have to offer, sort of like a newspaper want ad:

Single male looking for a date; skinny with slight love handles; works for a nonprofit; will always love his first wife, the mother of his children; lives on estrogen lane with his three teenage daughters; continues to find random hairs poking out of various orifices around his body.

I mean, who wouldn’t want to jump on that?

Year three I decided I was gonna be a “PLAYA”… was gonna date multiple women at once.

Yeah – not so much.

I found my calendar didn’t much support that kind of lifestyle.

Let’s see, I think I can fit you in the 17th of next month from 5:45 – 7:15 pm, after I drop off at ballet and before I have to be at the Stewardship Committee meeting at church.

Nah, going out with one person is plenty.

Two of the women I’ve dated are now in very serious relationships with other guys. One is engaged!

Date Danny Tanner, and fall in love (with someone else). I’m a good starter kit.

I’ve been on a number of first dates, even seconds and thirds. And then, when there are no sparks, I don’t know what to do. Call back and ask, “Are you feeling sparks? Cause I’m not really.” Or, “I’d love to hang out and be your friend but I just don’t think we’re moving each other romantically.” Or, “If you could do something about that annoying laugh, maybe this could go somewhere.”

And the worst is when I then see these women, who I just never called back, in the mall.

“Hey…” this is the most awkward moment of my adult life, “I meant to call you back but…that laugh, well…”

Seriously, they didn’t call me back either so I’m guessing they saw the six-inch white hair poking out of my left ear.

One friend told me I didn’t want to go out with a particular woman ’cause she had baggage.  Seriously?  I got a whole Samsonite 5-piece set!  I need someone whose baggage goes with mine.

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

If you have read the book and are willing to write a short review, it would be helpful: Click here. And thanks

 

 

 

Sunday Post 175: Wierd Little Family

On Wednesday I had a church meeting after work. It put me late getting home. I rolled in about 8.

I’d promised the girls we’d go out to dinner so we hit the Mexican restaurant closest to our house.

We returned home at 9:39, about to puke we’d eaten so many chips.

“Girls, I think I need to jog or I’m gonna be sick. You want to join me?”

“Dad, it’s 9:30!”

“Yeah, but you guys can sleep in tomorrow. Let’s jog to the playground.”

Michelle jumped on board quickly and Stephanie, who hates to run, acquiesced to my request likely because she didn’t want to sit at home by herself that late.

We jogged about half a mile down Ridge Road to the Lacy Elementary School playground. The girls hit the jungle gym while I took a few laps around the paved track. When I finished, we all lay down on the grass and looked up at the stars.

We live in the middle of town, there were lights around, but the sky was clear. Stephanie was the first to spot the Little Dipper. She pointed up.

We talked about the brightest stars in the sky.

“I think that one is mom, beaming down on us.”

We sat a few more minutes. Michelle crawled up into a contraption I call The Spinning Mushroom. As she spun she said, “I love our family. Not everyone would do this.”

What beautiful words for my ears.

At 4 PM that same day a guy interviewed me for a book he is writing about grief. He asked me about our family, before Lisa’s death and after. I shared that I thought we were a weird little group, that it wouldn’t be unusual to find us having a fight with wet sponges in the kitchen or having a theme for a typical weekday dinner. I think we have special, but in a fairly unconventional way.

I think there are a number of families like ours, not quite the norm but pretty darn cool. There are also many families who struggle, unable to find joy because of dysfunction, impatience with each other, or laziness.

I’m thankful that my kids see our family as unique. I’m glad we’ve moved from a grief-stricken quartet to the family Michelle “just loves!”

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

If you have read the book and are willing to write a short review, it would be helpful: Click here. And thanks

 

 

Ricky Raccoon

raccoon

Lisa and I bought a house built in 1955 for the charm. Her grandmother thought we were nuts.

“You could get something new for the same price,” she told us.

“Yeah, but we love this location, and this house has character!”

Tutu was right! It seems like every stinkin’ week lately I’m tossing money into the black hole of charm. DJ’s shower cost $310 to fix! I put it off, the teeny drip, until it eventually mirrored Niagara Falls even though the handle was fully turned off.

And now my air conditioner is on the fritz. That ought to be an easy $7,000 fix!

I bet in 1955 they didn’t have to worry about that, cause there was no a/c back then.  My spoiled kids.   I told them we were going to spend the summer pretending we lived in the 50’s, like in the movie Grease.

“It’s gonna be fun!  Grandma’s making you a Poodle Skirt, and I bought a big jar of vaseline to slick my hair back!  Oh, and no air conditioning…”

You’d have thought I told them we were spending the summer camping in Death Valley.

As if the air conditioning wasn’t enough, two weeks ago when we had a torrential downpour, water was flowing through the roof. Just dribbling in like a fountain. It ruined a rug and bits of the ceiling, on the first and second floors, are now crumbling onto the floor.

Your ceiling on your floor is NOT a good thing.

I climbed my non-handy-man, scared of heights behind up on the top of my house to see if I could figure out where the water might be coming from. It wasn’t difficult to find the hole. There was a 2 foot by 2 foot shingleless circle dug out right above the indoor rain spot.

After consulting with my buddy, a roofer, it was determined that the likely culprit was a raccoon.

I’d always wondered what Jethro Bodine from The Beverly Hillbillies was referring to when he used the word varmint. Now I know.

My buddy fixed my roof, and I have the rug ready to go to the heavy-duty rug cleaner shop because the $99 I spent on Stanley Steamer was like wiping a paper towel across a nuclear spill. It did nothing.

Five days after the roof was fixed, it rained again. And guess what? It leaked again. So, I climbed back out of the window and shimmied back up the roof, and burned the hell out of the palms of my hands because shingles are 320 degrees Celsius at 4PM in North Carolina in the summer. And guess what? The damn varmint had revisited, digging another hole in the lid of my house.

I HATE THIS ANIMAL. I am not a violent person, but the fantasies I’ve had about how I could hurt this creature are disturbing. PETA could press charges simply for my thoughts.

Now, I’ve paid critter control to come out and set a trap on top of my house to try to capture this evil monster.

Why does he want to come in my house? Is it my cooking?

By the time it’s all said and done, I will have spent over a thousand dollars simply because Ricky Raccoon has a shingles fetish.

If Critter Boy can’t catch him, I’m buying a shotgun and night vision goggles. I’m getting his ass, one way or another.

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

If you have read the book and are willing to write a short review, it would be helpful: Click here. And thanks

Sunday Post 174: On the Edge of Yikes

A couple of weeks ago I heard this guy, Bob Goff, speak at a YMCA training. He wrote the book Love Does.

He made several  strong points.  One that has really made me think was: Live on the edge of “yikes.”

He had us think of a time when we yelled, “yikes!” He wanted us to think about what we were doing at the time and how it made us feel.

It took me a while to think about a time when I had a yikes sort of feeling. I think my life is essentially yikesless. Especially yikes that I intentionally seek out.

Being a widower, being a single father, a job my boss tossed my way are all disconcerting, but none were chosen.  I was yikesed. I didn’t choose it.

He said to consciously seek it. To put yourself out there even when it makes you feel nervous. Help others, even when it’s uncomfortable. Take a risk, with career or relationships or your faith.

Get out there. Find your yikes!

Purchase Danny’s Book Laughter, Tears and Braids: Amazon or Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh

If you have read the book and are willing to write a short review, it would be helpful: Click here. And thanks

 

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