George Washington’s Coming Hoooome…

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This past weekend we went to DC to see DJ. I am glad she is there and not in Bunnlevel, NC. It is a very nice place to visit.

On Saturday, we went to Mount Vernon, George Washington’s home. I actually learned some things while there.

Did you know that Martha Washington was a young widow with two children when George came into the picture? I had forgotten that fact. He had no biological kids. Interesting.

I think Mount Vernon was a really cool place to live. It sits on the Potomac River with a great view of the water. There is a huge porch and a huge lawn that leads down to the sandy bank. There is also more goose poop in his yard than you could ever imagine. I didn’t see one goose, but I ABSOLUTELY know they live nearby. Must have been out dining at El Rodeo (or El Runnio as one of my family members refers to it) for lunch when we were there. Something is stirring up their gastric systems.

The tour guides said that ahh, can’t remember exactly, but about half of the stuff in the house was original, the other half period pieces they had just collected.

The banister leading to the second floor was installed by Washington – and I touched it. Got his DNA all over my right hand.

They showed a replica of a wagon that was similar to one he owned. Well, maybe not a wagon. It was like a hard dining room chair glued onto a piece of plywood and attached to large wheels. A horse then pulled the apparatus which may have been how he got back and forth to DC. There wasn’t even a seatbelt. My ass would have been on the ground. Head all bashed up on a rock and smeared with goose poo no doubt.

I like cars.

He had his own blacksmith shop on the grounds. How cool is that? Need a horseshoe? No problem. Need an iron poker? Comin’ up. There was actually a dude there cooking up a spoke for a fence while we stood there watching. Unbelievable.  I need a blacksmith shop in my backyard.

They had a fake Martha Washington there. Well, actually she was real, a real person; she just wasn’t the original Martha. She was in a room all dressed up with big white hair talking like she was actually living in the 18th Century. She had a bottle of cologne that she let us smell. She said it was the kind that George wore. It was nice. Probably came in handy since his bathroom was up the street from the house.

Oh, and they had a dung hut, but we didn’t go see it. I’m not 100% sure what a dung hut is, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to work, live or sleep in one.

All in all it was a lovely day. I highly encourage a visit. You may learn something, and you’ll get to see the bed that old George died on. A bit morbid but really kinda fascinating.

The Ninja Masseur

I don’t often get massages.  It is a rare treat.  I once got one in Hawaii.  It was a Lomi Lomi massage.  The woman straddled me on the table.  I nearly had a heart attack.  I thought she was going to murder me.

Last weekend I was fortunate enough to get another.  It was 80 minutes long – also unusual for me.  I’m more used to the hour-long.

This quiet, sort of timid masseur greeted me and escorted me to the room.  It was there he asked me a plethora of questions before I was instructed to “disrobe to my level of comfort” and crawl on the table.

I discovered why this place encouraged an 80 minuter.  It is because he took 20 minutes asking me questions.

“Do you have any medical issues I should be aware of?”

“Is the music choice OK?”

“Is the volume level to your liking?”

“Is the sun bothering your eyes?”

“Do you want the fan on?”

“Do you want me to open the blind?”

“Is the head of the table tilted to your liking?  Is the foot of the table tilted to your liking?”

DUDE!  My liking is for you to rub my back like you’re doing laundry on the prairie!  STOP ASKING QUESTIONS AND GET TO WORK!

“One more question:  Do you want lilac oil, orange blossom oil or oregano oil?”

“Well I don’t want to smell like a pizza, and I don’t want to fall asleep.  I’ll take the orange.”

Maybe it was cilantro – I can’t remember.  But it was something I’ve cooked with before.

So this tiny man started my massage with me on my back.  He took his little fingers and left his prints all across my forehead.  It was like when my kids made fingerprint Easter Bunnies in preschool.

He then began rubbing my ear lobes.  He spent a seemingly inordinate amount of time messing with my ears.  At one point he gently grabbed the inner cartilage and held down toward the bed.  I tried to raise my head.  I could not.  He had me pinned.  It was an incredibly weird sensation – a 175 pound man being held down by his ears.

It wasn’t long after that I discovered this librarian looking fella could have snapped my head off like a ninja.  Some guys don’t like a rub down from another man.  This is strictly business for me.  If the hands are strong, I don’t care if Jack the Ripper is in charge.

He dug down on the knots in my back with force.  He put my stress to shame.  He belittled my tight little muscles.

He asked me if I wanted my stomach massaged.  I asked if it was included.  I didn’t want to pay extra.  He assured me it was.  Then by all means.  My stomach works really hard.  It deserves some attention.

I was a little concerned that the lint in my bellybutton would mix with the orange oil and create some interesting yarn – but what the heck,  it came with the package.

When I turned onto my stomach half way through the glorious experience, he hung a strap under my nose.

“This is frankincense,” he explained.

Me and the baby Jesus. 

“I prefer myrrh.  JK!”

I don’t think he heard me.

Thankfully he left the sheet on my behind when he went to work on my gluts.  He balled up his fist and beat my butt like a toddler to a table when didn’t get what he wanted for dinner.

I’d seen that in the movies, but I hadn’t been spanked since I was a kid.  Sort of surprised me.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the whole experience was when he hit the small gong at the end of my session.  Doing.  He warned me that when I heard that sound, our time together was complete.

He thanked me for my patronage and swiftly left the room.  Another ninja move.

I sat up on my bruised tail and sipped my raspberry water.

What a lovely day it has been, I thought.

UBER

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When DJ went to college, I told her I would pay for four things:

  1. Her tuition, room and board
  2. Her books
  3. Her transportation
  4. A set amount of spending money each semester

Numbers 1, 2 and 4 have worked out well.  Perhaps I should gave given a bit more clarity around number 3.

What I meant by “I will cover your transportation” was that I would get her back and forth from school.  It’s a 4.5 hour drive one way.  Sometimes I drop her off or pick her up.  Sometimes she flies.  And sometimes she takes the train.  Yes.  I cover those expenses.  I want her to come home – often.  So I’ll pay.

I also figured, up in DC, that she might buy a Metro card to ride the train to Target or to, I don’t know, Mount Vernon.  I am happy to cover that OCCASIONAL expense.

She took our initial conversation in a different direction…

The UBER direction.

Apparently my credit card is attached to her Uber account, and I just received the bill.

In one month, she charged 18 Uber rides.  She also charged seven “car shares” and one $14 Metro ride.  I don’t even know what a “car share” is.  What I do know is that one shared a car to Maryland on November 17 for $35.75 and another shared a ride back on November 18 for $28.88.  Who in the heck was she spending the night with in a different state?  She says it was a Camp Seafarer reunion.  Yada, yada, yada.  I don’t care if she was spending the night with the Pope… he needs to pick her up from campus in his large white window filled bus.

I asked her, “Are you taking Uber across campus to class?  You can’t do that!  You must walk!  That’s part of the college experience.”

She told me she once went to the zoo, and it was educational.

“Well what about the other 17 rides?”

“Dad, there are two charges for every one destination.  You ride there AND back.”

She did have a point.

She then explained that it could have been worse.  She has often been using UberPOOL which sticks you in a car with complete strangers allowing you to split the cost.  In fact, she forwarded me an email she received from email@uber.com.  It said, and I quote,

WOW!  You’re pretty savvy.  By choosing to ride UberPOOL, you saved $95.55 in 2016.  

She should have forwarded that to me because she didn’t save anything by using UberPOOL.  Cause she didn’t pay for Uber.  I DID!!  We had over $180 worth of transportation charges in the month of November.  AHHHH.

I didn’t know I was going to have to include Uber in my monthly expenditures.  Jimini Christmas!  These girls are slowly breaking me into little, bitty pieces.  I’m a shell of the man I used to be.

 

My Banana Clip

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It was a Wednesday morning about 10.  I had an hour to kill before I had to be at my next meeting.  I have not shaved the beard I grew in November for the play we were in.  Two people at work told me they like it.  That’s all the encouragement I need!  My cheeks will never feel the stroke of a razor again.

The problem was my hair was getting a bit squirrely too.  A friend walked into the coffee shop where I was meeting with a co-worker and said I looked like the Unibomber.  Now, this dude shaves from his adam’s apple to the nape of his neck so he clearly prefers the bowling ball look, but I knew he had a point.

I drove across the street to a Wing Cuts or Great Chops or whatever the $12.95 hairdo place was located.  To my dismay, it was closed.  Like, out of business closed, so I needed another option.  Alas, I remembered that there was a shop of some sort beside the fast food Japanese restaurant the girls and I frequent right around the corner.  Maybe I’d be able to smell the Teryaki Chicken while in the chair.

When I drove up, I was a bit intimidated.  It looked more like a salon than a Sports Clips.  It was called E.A. Wells Hair Design.  Fancy schmancy!  I wasn’t sure they would take me cause I wasn’t sure I had enough on the top of my head to design anything.  But Abbey greeted me with such enthusiasm, I figured I’d give it a go.

She escorted me to the back of the shop and sat me in a chair which was attached to a sink.  It reclined and at the top had a scoop cut out of the ceramic where you rested your neck.  My head just dangled about in the burgundy bowl.

Homegirl scrubbed my scalp like I was her dog.  She’d put some product of some sort on my head and just go to town.  She’d rinse and repeat.  She did that like four times.  My head must have been way, way dirty.  And she didn’t even get my clothes wet!

Man did it feel good.  I was gonna ask her to marry me, I mean the stuff she was doing was very personal.  Hmmm.  Perhaps I could just hire her to wash my hair on a daily basis.  Do people do that?

She asked me how I wanted my hair cut.  I told her the regular way.

She told me she was going to give me some style.

I’m not sure if she did.  But it was a nice haircut.  The only problem is that my bangs, the hair in the front, are really, really long.  This morning, on the way to church, I had to put them in a small banana clip to try to get my hair to dry in the away position rather than in my right eyeball.  As I walked down Morgan Street from the parking deck on our way to the sanctuary, I realized I had not removed the fastener from my head.  Stephanie was walking beside me, and we were having a conversation.

“Did you not realize the clip was still in my hair?” I asked.

“Yeah.  I sort of did,” she responded.

Did she just not put together that I don’t typically wear my hair in a partial ponytail or did she actually want me to walk into church looking like a 1980’s sorority girl?

Regardless, I now have a style, and I think I’ll go back because it was only $9 more than Supercuts.  And because Abbey has magic fingers.

A Single Parent Morning

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Do you see a battery here?

It was one of those days that being a single parent hurts.

It was 7:20: Stephanie had an exam at 8.  I was about to take Michelle to school.  The older headed out the door in a rush to meet a friend for some final cramming.

7:21 AM:  “Dad, my car won’t start!  HELP!”

Indeed, we had a dead battery.  I was buttoning my white, starched, dress shirt but my flannels and bedroom shoes were still on my bottom half.  I grabbed my keys knowing I’d be late to work.

7:22 AM:  I texted my co-worker informing her of my likely tardiness.

7:25.15 AM:  The gas is nearly out indicator light came on.

7:25.30.16 AM:  I cursed.

7:36 AM:  Stephanie jumped out of the car rushing to her exam.

Me:  “Can you find a ride home from school?”

Her:  “Probably.”

Me:  “If so, pick your sister up at 3:15, assuming I get the car started.  If not, hang tight.  I’ll pick you up at some point before bedtime!”

7:40 AM:  Me:  “Michelle.  Someone will pick you up after school today.  Keep your phone on.  If Stephanie or I can’t get there by 3:30, go to Panera.”

Michelle:  “I don’t have any money.”

Me:  “Neither do I – check the ashtray.”

Michelle:  “There’s only $1.63.”

Me:  “Give them our home phone number, I think we have enough Panera points for a free pastry.  Drink water if you can’t find another quarter.  I think  drink is like $2.”

Michelle:  “What can you get as a free pastry?”

Me:  “I think anything in the glass case.  Pick the most expensive thing.”

Michelle:  “What if I don’t like it?”

Me:  “Get it anyway.  We want to maximize our purchasing power.”

7:56 AM:  Dropped Michelle at school.

7:59 AM:  Arrived at the gas station.

8:01 AM:  Man in a pickup truck eyeballed my choice of clothing.

Get at me dude!

8:30 AM:  I open the hood on Stephanie’s car, a Mini-Cooper.

8:47:  I finally find the battery.  It is hidden in the back corner of the engine, in a small black plastic case.  What the heck???

8:35 AM:  Jump start; car starts.

10:12 AM:  My cell phone rings, I’m at work, it’s my neighbor.

Me:  “Charlie, what’s up?  Is everything OK?”

Charlie:  “Well, your house alarm is going off.  I have the police here.  I think your housekeeper set it off.”

Me:  “Officer.  She is my housekeeper.  I was supposed to leave the alarm off.  You see, the battery died, I had to get gas in my pajamas with my dress shirt on, my kid was gonna have to go to Panera unsupervised…”

Officer:  “Mr. Tanner.  Just go back to work.  It’s all good.”

Me:  “Thank you sir.”

Killing Time by the Tanner Girls

This is how my kids spend the day after Thanksgiving while I pick out the Christmas tree!  Although you only see one in the video, I can assure you, all are involved.

We hope your holiday was grand!

The Tanner Family

One in the bed and the little one said…

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For me, there was one grandparent that stole my heart.  Oh, I loved them all.  One granddad took us to get a Slurpee every time we came to town – that was cool.  But this one, we called her Idee, was something else.  Her real name was Ivy but my brother couldn’t say that.  His inability to speak correctly stuck.  She was forever our Idee.

There is something about the grandparent who drops everything when you came to town, but the best part about Idee was she could relate to us.  I distinctly remember just lying on her bed while she got dressed.  She “put on her face” each morning while talking to me about life.  Who would have thought that a seventy-year-old woman could give a 12-year-old advice?  She could.  And I hung on her every word.

When I went to her house to spend the night as a kid, she would pile blankets on the living room floor and my brother and I, along with Idee and Papa, would sleep there.  Before midnight, she would ship my granddad back to the bedroom ’cause his snoring sounded like a freight train.  Come to think of it, perhaps that’s why she was so anxious to not stay the night in her bedroom.

When we arrived at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving last Wednesday, it dawned on me that the day beds in their playroom had four mattresses stored underneath.  For some reason, my holidays with Idee popped into my brain.

“Girls, we’re sleeping on the floor tonight!  Four in a row.”

“But dad, there are lots of beds in this house,” my maturing college sophomore explained to me.

“That, is not the point.”

We retired at around 11, but sleep did not come until much later.

We sang, “There were four in the bed and the little on said, ‘roll over, roll over,’ and one rolled over and one fell out when she hit the floor you could hear her shout.”  And as we rolled across the mattresses, one would hit the floor.

Michelle told us the story of Danny the Ogre.  He wouldn’t let his children drink sodas at restaurants.

We recanted songs that we sang at bedtime when they were young, “Lord prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tired and true…”

We named my future grand kids (Obediah, Boaz, Sheamus, Isabella, Minnie), and I chose a granddad name.

We laughed til it hurt, gossiped about most folks we know, and learned the moves to Juju on that beat.

Several days later, I’m still tired.  Although, it was certainly worth it.

More Parades

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Lisa’s sister, my niece, Michelle, Stephanie and me on parade day

You know what this world needs?  More parades!

For years Lisa and I took our girls down to her father’s office on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh for the annual Christmas Parade.  He would provide the essentials:  doughnuts, hot chocolate, coffee, a parking space and a bathroom.  Our kids would be PUMPED, ready to kick off the holiday season.

When the girls and I began participating in Ira David Wood’s A Christmas Carol play five years ago, our parade routine changed.  We were no longer spectators, we were full on participants.  We don our costumes and walk the two-mile route encouraging the onlookers to ignore Scrooge who is shouting through a bullhorn to the crowd:

“Go home!  Christmas has been cancelled this year.  We’re going to have two Halloweens instead!”

The adults laugh and often respond with “Humbug!”  Some of the kids get fairly angry at the notion emphatically communicating with a man who is rolling down the street in a robe with a Christmas ghost at his side.  “WE ARE NOT CANCELLING CHRISMAS MR. SCROOGE!”

Although this is my sixth year in the parade, I noticed something different this go round.  Perhaps it is the political climate that made me more in tune.

What I saw were people, lots of different people, sitting together, laughing together, smiling together.  A man twice my age with a different color of skin responded to my hat tip and “Merry Christmas” with a hat tip of his own.  A girl in a wheelchair had a smile on her face that showed every tooth in her head.  Kids from 2 to 14 held out their hands for a parade high-five.  Groups of unrelated people came together to yell, “Merry Christmas Mr. Scrooge!” in unison. There were carefree smiles for miles.

My heart aches when I watch the news.  I sometimes feel as if our problems are so deep seated that there is no way we can ever mend.  But last Saturday, I had hope.  I saw laughter, and joy, and happiness and unity, and it did my soul good.

My prayer for my family, my city, state and country is a perpetual parade.  May we all recognize our blessing this week and bestow grace upon each other.

The Bath Bomb

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I don’t care to work anywhere that your uniform consists of a black apron.  That attire should be reserved for chambermaids.

Last weekend I took Michelle to Crabtree Valley Mall to purchase birthday gifts for two of her turning 14-year-old friends.  She was determine to buy them a bath ball.  I was unfamiliar with this item.

When we arrived at Raleigh’s shopping Mecca, she escorted me to a new store called Lush.  Actually “store” is generous.  It’s more like a walkin closet.  Although it is on the second floor of the mall, I could smell it from the bottom of the escalator.

As we approached, my olfactory senses went into overdrive… lime, lilac, vanilla, cinnamon, salt, mint – my nostrils were perplexed.  So much to take in.

In this 10′ x 10′ box, I vied for space with sixty eighth grade girls who swarmed the face mask display like an active bee hive.  The bath balls were beautifully displayed in the back corner.

“Dad, aren’t they cute?  They look like a big bird’s egg.”

“Or a Martian turd.”

Apparently these chalk like bombers explode when you toss them into water.  The smells and bubbles embracing your naked body like a 20,000 thread count bed sheet.

We purchased four of the $8 ovals and headed to checkout.  Over by the soaps, a male employee in black regalia, washed a woman’s arm with a white cloth in a stainless steel bowl filled with water – 59 of us watched.  It was a bit like Jesus washing the disciples feet, yet different.

Thank you, but I’ll bathe in the privacy of my own home.

I’m wondering why anyone would want to walk around smelling like peach schnapps.

This is all so natural to Michelle.  This is all so odd to me.

On The Run

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13.1 miles, only 13.1 more to go!

In 1992, a group of friends decided it would be a good idea to run a marathon.  They also thought it would be a good idea for me to run a marathon with them.

This was pre-marriage, pre-kids.  I could do anything I wanted to do.

I wanted to go to New York with my friends.  I didn’t particularly want to run a marathon.  But I did.  Very slowly.

I was a casual runner, maybe two or three miles a couple of times a week to keep my heart in shape and my shape intact.  In high school I ran cross country.  One day Coach Hodges made us run from Terry Sanford Senior High School to the Moose Club which was a block from my house.  Instead I just ran home and got my mom, after watching an episode of Gilligan’s Island and eating a cherry Poptart, to drop me off on Pincrest Drive near the back parking lot of the school.  I splashed water on my forehead and sprinted toward the track.  The coach was impressed with my time that day, as she should have been.  I’d never run such a distance so quickly.  I didn’t feel too bad because we picked up Maxwell Ruppe on the way back.  Had we not done this, I think we both might still be running.

In August, DJ informed me that we were running a marathon together.  “Dad, it’s a fundraiser for camp.  We just have to raise $2,000 to help send kids to camp who otherwise could not afford to be there.  It’s called Run-A-Kid-To-Camp.”

“Couldn’t we just drive them?” I asked.  “Do you realize that a marathon is 26.2 miles and that you have never run more than the length of our backyard in your life?”

DJ assured me she could do it.  To prepare us, we went to the expert on marathon running for dummies, my brother-in-law Matt.  In a former life, he trained out of shape people to race.

He set us up with a training calendar and told us we should:

  • But new tennis shoes to avoid ruining our hips, knees and shins
  • Get this gel to eat so that we don’t go into antiepileptic shock and die
  • Purchase appropriate run wear so that we don’t get bloody nipples

After he got through with me, I was even more convinced this was a horrible idea for a fifty year old with achy knees and a very sensitive chest.

But I have a problem.  It’s I Want To Do Anything That Will Give Me Time With My Daughters syndrome.  Plus, it angers me to think that I can’t do what I was able to do when I was 25.

So here I am, training for a marathon.

Because DJ is not in town, we encourage each other over text.  She does not like to run, so when I started this adventure, I fully expected her to pooze within the first few weeks.  She has not.  In fact, the weekend our schedule demanded a 10 mile run, she sent me a photo with the Washington Monument in the background with a big fat grin on her face.  The next day I sent her a text after each mile I ran… 1, 2, 3…  By the end, I had to call 911 for a stretcher to reenter my house.

“Dad, you have run much more than I have.  I don’t understand why I this ten miles was so difficult for you.  You’re falling apart.”

“I’ll tell you why… 32.”

“32?”

“Yes.  There is a 32 year age span between you and me!  My knees are 32 years older than your knees.  My hips are also 32 years older than your hips.  My heart is 32 years older than yours is.  That is the difference!  I AM OLD!”

But there is one thing to be thankful for – thus far my nipples are fine.