Rant: The Bank

I hate the bank.

Why exactly, I don't know. Maybe, in this digital age of uber-convenience and humanless transactions, it's a sense of resentment of having to actually physically be at this place to manage MY money and to pay someone else to hold it for me. Even though there's nothing really to actually you know, hold. I made it, I spend it. I don't get paid in gold nuggets or singles. So why am I here?

Our paychecks are direct-deposited and 99% of our financial goings-on happen in front of a computer. Yet, I still find myself inside a bank a once a month on average depositing some random check from Grandma or my employer (who can't figure out how to add on a reimbursement to my electronically deposited paycheck) or exchanging for Euro's as yet another sibling in-law goes off to study abroad. 

Yes, I know. There are banks that will allow you to do all this electronically now. You can scan and deposit checks with fancy apps and your average smart phone, and I could cure my bankaphobia for good. I get it. Unfortunately, my current bank doesn't offer that and since almost all our bills (and we have lots of bills) are tied in to our current account, switching now would keep me busy for the next couple of decades. Besides, you ever try breaking up with your bank? The folks at Big Gym even think the bank's a little tough to deal with.

And are bank drive-thru's intentionally designed to enrage, or do they just not care that making a 90 degree turn in the average mid-size car to make my deposit requires mirror damage and numerous hand gestures? They have the technology to send a Chipotle burrito-sized pod 400 mph through a magic tube, but they can't make an ATM that I can access without having to do that shoulder-wrenching, door half-opened, arm at full reach in the pouring rain, while I constantly check every mirror in anticipation of my imminent robbing?

Perhaps it's the one-too-many unsolicited critiques of my financial status over the years. Yes, I know my account was almost over-drawn. Yes, I am aware of how direct deposits work and it will save me the trouble of coming to this stupid place and having to talk to you. No, I don't want to upgrade my checking account to another type of checking account. No, I don't need new checks, the five hundred I ordered three years ago should hold me over for another ten.  No, I don't wish to speak with a financial consultant about helping my finances, unless he's offering me a job that pays more than I currently make there's not much he can do to help. Yes, I know I just made a large deposit and have a large enough balance for your next prestigious checking account. Thank you, for announcing that to everyone here. Do I get mugged here, or does someone just follow me home? Yes, I WILL have a nice day.

Why do bank tellers have to be so engaging? I didn't come here to chat on my lunch break. I don't get this much banter when I get a hair cut, just take my money and say thank you. You don't need to discern what I do for a living, where I work, or what my kid's favorite vegetable is in a 90 second transaction. I try to not make eye-contact in hopes that they will take the hint but it never works. They're as bad as the mall cellphone kiosk guys. Okay, almost as bad. I mean, have you ever screwed up and made eye-contact with one of those dudes? They'll ruin a night of Banana Republic and Cheesecake Factory like nothing else.

Kicking balls and other life lessons

It took me a second to realize what was happening given where I was. The cold wet air burning my lungs, the grogginess of being awake and already sweating early Sunday morning, and coarse dirt beneath my feet was all familiar.  The kid getting his face smashed twenty feet away by two strange men was definitely not.

He wasn't much of a kid. At least he didn't look like one, more like an teenage-Yeti based on the amount of body hair he sported. I had seen him in the shower, this was no child. And as most of your Eastern-Euro-Mediterranean-types go, he was surely shaving before he could crawl. Let's call him Turkish Twin 1A or just TT1A for short.

TT1A was having a bad morning. I turned to look at a spot I had just left to find him having his face used for punching practice by two other unknown dudes that hadn't been there seconds ago and weren't supposed to be there at all. I remember most the shock at the amount of damage these two made in such a short period of time. Not unlike now when I leave my daughter alone for thirty seconds to use the bathroom. I have no idea what caused this little meeting but it was over as fast as it began. The speed-boxing duo took off in a blur with Turkish Twin 1B, the identical, yet somehow even hairier version of his brother in full pursuit. Shockingly, TT1A was able to pick himself up, gather his wits and his teeth and followed his brother. Then others followed, chasing the two, bellowing like Comanches after John Wayne. The strangers made it to the parking lot just ahead of the mob, speeding off with a trail of Mercedes and Audis missing their side-view mirrors in their wake.

Oh, where was this you ask? A Chuck E. Cheese parking lot? Falafel King? A Turkish prison?

If you guessed a youth club league soccer game in Heidelberg, Germany, you can claim your prize.

I was athletic growing up, but no athlete. Forged by the stern will of a woodsy, Army officer father, from the very beginning I was encouraged told to play something. Doesn't matter what, just go outside and do it, but be sure do it well. A childhood spent across the globe with two stints in Europe, and two left-hands, meant that something was soccer.

I played the game frequently, mostly because it was the only thing to do wherever I was and video games weren't a thing yet. Honestly, I found it boring. The monotony of cheap, meaningless uniforms, unskilled coaches reliving their youth and abusing the power of a plastic whistle around their neck, warm orange-slices at halftime, even warmer Capri Suns for the ride home, a nameless flimsy plastic trophy that meant nothing, just wasn't that exciting.

But somewhere along the way, things started to change. The game began to get a little easier. Then you start to hear your  name yelled from the other parents, not just your own. Your eyes widen and your heart pounds when that one punk kid's mom on the other team's sideline screams Oh, no! Stop him! as you blow by. You can run faster and do things the other kids can't. People start asking, wanting you to play with them. Then that trophy starts to actually mean something, and not everyone gets one either.

You never really forget that first time you find out about confidence and what a huge and powerful thing it is.

I played the game consistently for more than twenty years. But I was never that good. No colleges chased me with offers of free rides and fame. There were many others far better than me. The few memorable moments of glory or agony remain mostly in my mind or long gone. There was no internet then, just a few old photographs and grainy VHS tapes to prove any of it ever happened. Sure, my chest still tightens and the heart rate pounds sometimes, thinking back to a certain big game that I want to relive or undo or that time I almost scored in Turkey playing against the Italians.

Here I am, number 38, hopped-up on oranges and Capri Suns.

But it's really not the wins or the losses, coaches, or ghastly uniforms I ever dwell on for long, it's all the stuff I learned along the proves useful now. Unlike trigonometry, still not using this.



I had nice legs they said, but nothing nice enough for those shorts. Also, TTIA in better days, with all his teeth. 

I learned about humility. And when to be assertive. Despite an all-conference, most valuable defense player, state champion runner-up, starting-sophomore, the average blond-haired, slightly pudgy, blue-eyed Aryan monsters like the dude above and other assorted Euro's can, and will embarrass you on at the game of soccer. This guy physically and verbally abused for what felt like hours. He was stronger than I was and wouldn't stop with what I can only guess was Germanic-trash talk about my abilities and our ridiculous national drinking age. He scored and the abuse only got worse.

What you think you can do in life is nothing compared to what you actually do. You end up being judged as much for your reaction to a misstep, as for the mistake itself.



.

So I fought back. I got called for a foul, then a few more. But screw it, it shut him up. My teammates noticed. He backed down. Okay, so he limped too, but you get the point. Standing up for yourself has it's merits. You have to do it every once in awhile or you'll get run over and never get back up.

I also found my level of pain tolerance is quite high, and that ties in with my ability to be patient. Imagine sitting in the back seat of a tour bus, you're in Brussels, Belgium and home is five hours away, and your tibia is snapped in half, what do you do? You sit there and you take it, that's what. Then you butt-crawl up the stairs to your second story apartment since cell phones don't exist and the Germans haven't perfected the doorbell. Now, imagine coming home from a full day of breaking rocks to find the dog crapped again and while you're cleaning it up mid-dry heave, your wife calls to tell you she locked the keys, and the kid in the car so please come now, m'kay thanks, what do you do? You just exhale and go. Complaining won't always get you there faster or produce a different outcome, even when you find a piece of dog shit in your hair on the way.

Incidentally, the hospital room I had my shatterd leg x-rayed in was also the room General George Patton died in 1945, according to the sign on the door, which was comforting. So the game taught me a little history too.

My speciality was chasing people down, this comes in handy now when the dog runs away.

My daughter started her first soccer practice this week.  Some lessons she has to learn on her own.





From one end of daycare to the other

The news came in an email. The content of the message was clear right away thanks to the subject line including my daughter's name and punctuated with three exclamation marks.

Roughly three years ago today, the wife and I first set foot in the daycare on our tour not sure what to make of the strange sights, sounds, and smells battering our already tense senses.  The deluge of brightly colored things, obvious child-made art adorning the walls, and safety gates triggered a rush of Oh, crap. This is really happening panic-ridden thoughts.

The wife, the smart one, masked her tensions with pertinent questions you're supposed to ask about nap times, feedings, curriculum. I nodded like I was paying attention but was really memorizing teacher names to cyber-research later. Sure, Susan has her B.A. and working on a Master's in childhood education but how do we know she's not running an underground toddler fight club on the side? HOW CAN SHE AFFORD SCHOOL ON A TEACHER'S SALARY?

After enough annoyed glances from the wife, I did ask one question, one I assume only a Dad would ask. What if there's a fire?  You've got multiple rooms full of infants and toddlers, a handful of adults, and there's two feet of snow and it's ten degrees outside. It was January in Minnesota, so seemed like a logical concern.  Had the Director not shown anything but complete confidence in her answer, her response would have sent us out the door and looking for Mary Poppins' cell number before she could show us the cafeteria.  Turns out, if there is reason to evacuate the building, they dump 3-4 infants in a crib, grabs some blankets, and wheel 'em out the front door. No big deal.  Welcome to Minnesnoda.

Moving down the hall from the soft music and soothing voices of Infant Pleasantville, we hit Realm of the Toddlers.  It was like going from a museum and then stumbling into a Kid Rock concert. The rush of sound and smells was oppressive. Seeing the little big people running around, using real words while manipulating opposable thumbs was surreal. The may have been just two and three years old but they may as well have been college freshman. Our little kidney bean or pear or watermelon or whatever size fruit the your baby is now this size of this fruit email the wife sends weekly could never get that big in two years, right?  Maybe five, more like six years old I thought as one greasy-faced boy looked at with an index finger firmly up his nose. "Hi, I'm free years old" he said. Sweet Jeebus, they can talk?  When did Dr. Moreau start up a daycare?

Deciding this place was the least likely to do her harm or force her to make wallets during "circle time" two and a half years and a good sized yachts worth of tuition later, we're still dropping her off there. Through the years (Years? When did this happen?), she's risen through the daycare ranks, moving from class to class, from little infants to average size infants to big little infants to entry-level toddlers to intermediate toddlers to plain old toddlers.  Along the way we've seen our first little kiddy art projects - like all daycares I'm assuming, most of these are just hand prints on something, a little glitter, and maybe something that was once edible that no longer is which ensures your kid will eventually eat it later.

Daycare brought a whole new world of firsts. A petting zoo. Santa. A magician. Climbing in her first real firetruck. Her first time being pulled sweaty, kicking, and screaming from a bouncy house. Her first crush. Her first bite.

But here we are now, looking at the end of the hallway that was once so far, far away. Preschool.

That's what the email said. I read it three times to be sure. We knew it was coming and despite saying we wanted it and it was best for her I really didn't want it because I hate change as much as I hate getting old. I was just getting to enjoy our Lego building sessions at night, I'm not ready for Algebra homework and driving lessons.

But alas, her parent's mother's dynamic genes produced a superhuman and she was moving up ahead of schedule. So far ahead of schedule the email included words you don't normally associate with good news like "legally" and "waiver" and "the state."  She's a head taller than anyone else in her class, can sing the first verse of Jingle Bells like a coked-up Janet Jackson, and count to ten in German but I know the real reasoning was the obvious safety concern over the potential for her pummeling someone half her size into the racetrack carpet for the last pretzel at snack time. Again.

That's it, one more class to go and next she's on the curb waiting for a big orange bus. God help me.

All time flows downstream

One minute I'm fishing rocks out of my daughter's mouth while I weed the garden, the next I'm the last man on the block without his Christmas lights up, again.  Sure, time flies when you're having fun. But when exactly did time travel become a real thing? And when did fun really just mean crossing things off the to-do-list?

One minute I'm admiring my chemically treated green lawn, the next I'm contemplating dumping the piles of leaves in the lake like they're the dead body of a mob snitch. Yard work is less fun when it gets dark early, your wife is taking a final exam, your toddler develops a resistance to bedtime, and leaf pick up is at 6:30 Friday morning.

You see foliage, I see late-night raking.

One minute I'm watching the sun go down with the kiddo on the back deck, the next I'm stuck at work while the grandparents take her trick-or-treating.  If you're new to the I have kids game and want to know what age a child successfully computes the whole wait, I get candy from strangers thing, the answer is two years old. Additionally, the answer to how many consecutive weeks will the kid scream I WANNA TRICKA-TWEATING while driving through your neighborhood is two and a half. Eighteen days. Enjoy.



Excuse me ma'am, you can't park that horsey here.

One minute I'm driving almost five hours to the in-laws for Thanksgiving with Mrs. I Don't Want To Be In A Car Seat After Mile Marker 60, the next I'm losing to a toddler in bowling.  It's hereditary (from her mother's side), but still. The witnessing of my offspring wielding a six pound bowling ball like she was an extra in King Pin ,while high-fiving her gloating mother was a tad embarrassing.  If there's one thing I've learned, it's never get involved in a land war in Asia and never, ever bowl against Midwesterners when there's money or pride on the line.

One minute I'm coordinating family dinner plans with the wife like we're getting ready to invade Europe, the next she's actually in Europe. The wife has a great job. A great career (and a supportive husband.) But, her travel schedule would make a Def Leppard roadie homesick. Fortunately, she has enough sense to keep the old man happy with exotic food and boozes when she gets home. 

If you look just above the top of my wife's pretty head, you notice St. Basil's Cathedral, as in Russia. As in freaking Russia.

So you never know where you will be one minute to the next. But you'll be somewhere and a camera comes in real handy.

Oh, the places you'll go!

Four years. Not what most would consider a significant chunk of time, unless you're a U.S. President, Olympic gymnast, or perhaps a dog. But long enough time for me to forget most of what the good pastor was saying that afternoon.

I just can't really recall much of what they said to me or what I said in return. It wasn't that I didn't care or was indifferent towards the matter. Perhaps it was nerves or the guzzled Red Bull and vodka handed to me by my almost brother-in-law moments before.

I do remember the feeling of hundreds of eyes burning into my skull as I considered the possibility that my fly was in fact, down.  It wasn't.  I remember reciting her name in my head over and over so as not to screw that part up.  So of course, I couldn't remember my own name. I remember wondering what blunt object the Maid of Honor would choose to bludgeon to death the world's most incapable DJ. It was either public shame or an extension cord, I don't know. I was rushed off for six thousand more pictures.

It's the moment we walked down the dirt, pine-needled path together, arm-in-arm, that I do remember. Like it was yesterday. The sight of her groomed toes peeking out from wedge shoes. The contrast of white against the green and yellowing aspen leaves. The sweet smell of her hair, and the BBQ spread. 

Somewhere during those first steps, and in countless ones since, the words of a great Doctor came to mind.

“You're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So... get on your way!” 

That mountain may include a secluded hot springs on your honeymoon in the pitch black of night, with no flashlight and naked strangers, but whatever. You put your faith in someone and keep going.

"You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?"

We moved to Minnesota in December - proof I'd follow her anywhere. Regardless of the physics of minus 32 degree weather.

"And when you're alone there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.” 

Like the thought of having to be single and date again.

"So be sure when you step,
Step with care and great tact.
And remember that life's
A Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left."

Full-time jobs. Graduate schools. Two mortgages. Joint checking accounts. Joint phone chargers. A child. A dog. Date nights at the grocery store. Knowing someone else's favorite flavor and what goes in the dryer and what doesn't.  Yeah, that's deft.

"And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)"
     - Dr. Seuss, Oh, the place you'll go!

Thanks Dr. Seuss, for all the wise words and favorable odds.

And thank you, babe. I'm in love with you.

Things that go squish in the night

It has been almost a month since I last wrote here.  Sorry. I might be a little lazy these days. Or maybe between the pesky full time job, the missus's ridiculous work/travel/grad school regimen, or the increasingly destructive toddler that demands food, attention and a full time custodian pretty much daily now, I might be a tad busy.

I should also probably mention we're in the process of getting a new roof and kitchen ceiling and if you happen to work in the insurance, banking, construction sales, or general contractor business I have probably spoken to stalked you and we are no longer friends.  And then there's our hero dog that saved us from certain doom recently by bravely slaying a wild animal (mouse) just feet from our back door. Now that he's tasted blood and pride, when he's not demanding to go out for the 489th time that day to run a security sweep, he stares out the windows like twelve year old boy looking for an errant boob on a Mediterranean beach (speaking from experience.) This dog has survived traffic, ingestion of enough sharp objects to fill a tool box, near hangings, surgery, a wife with thin patience, and more "this time, we're really getting rid of him" threats than I can count. But I'm fairly certain it will be a massive aortic rupture caused by a small rodent taunting him from outside that will finally do him in.

Back in May, the wife, on a rare school break, emerged from behind her laptop and textbooks and accompanied me on my weekend routine through greater suburbia.  Her ghostly pale skin aside, it was good to have the extra set of hands along. And the adult company too I suppose. We ended up in the local furniture store in search of a bed for our freakishly fast growing toddler.  Her dimensions and burgeoning physical abilities telling us that the crib was becoming obsolete and this was a purchase I didn't want to handle alone. 

The new bed sat in the garage for four months. Mostly because we were too chicken to set it up and deal with the ensuing carnage.  Mostly, I'm the chicken.  I wake up if the dog farts at 2 a.m: the thought of a little person with a knack for finding pens and lotions wandering around my house in the middle of the night sends me straight to hard booze.

For a few weeks we refused to accept reality as our daughter's screams sent us into to her room every few nights. Hearing the familiar stuck daddy, stuck!, I would walk in to find her straddling the crib rail with both legs like she's on the balance beam from Hell. Thanks, Olympics!

The final straw came on a Friday night, of course.  Both legs over the railing this time, her rear firmly balanced on the rail and instead of the normal terror-filled look, her sheepish grin said "I got this. Watch." 

So from Friday night, we went from this:

To this by Saturday morning:

To this three weeks later:

The first few nights were the worst, but as expected. Since then, it's been mostly calm with the occasional skirmish turning into a full blown battle.  Or some nights, when it's quiet and the dad-sense tells you to check on her anyways, you may find her standing in the dark with what was a full tub of ointment a few minutes earlier. You may then find yourself Googling things like Vaseline, hair, carpet, removal and homemade Xanax instead of doing other things, like writing a blog post.

Married with children

Occasionally, as I have mentioned before, the wife and I muster enough energy and petty cash to sneak out of the house for few hours.  I know what you're thinking; with two full-time jobs, a mortgage, a weedy yard, a leaky roof, an attention-dependent, partially house trained mutt, a 2.25 year old Toddlersaurus Rex (who's completely unhousebroken) and a grad-school program that's turned your wife into a Chinese Olympian, why would you ever want to leave the house?

So color us crazy. If you don't get your jollies from walking past a restaurant peering through the glass at child-less couples actually savoring a meal without the thousand-yard stare, then you probably aren't a member of the married with children club. If you're out some night and happen to see a couple walking zombie-like, partially overdressed but perhaps one is accidentally wearing the shoes he uses to mow the lawn with with an Elmo sticker on the seat of his pants, just remember, they're people too. And it's rude to stare.

If that same couple should end up at the same hip, trendy night spot (or Chili's) at the same time as you, let them go ahead.  They're probably here thirty minutes later than they wanted to be and the thirteen year old that's at home texting, watching their TV and ideally keeping the kid from needing poison control is getting paid by the hour.

If you happen to be the employee responsible for waiting on said couple this night, keep in mind smugness, eye rolling, and a general display of impatience will negatively impact your tip.  They get to experience this treatment at home, don't expect them to pay extra for it somewhere else.

Yes, the wife will need a full sixteen minutes to peruse the drink menu so there's really no need to ask us if we've decided every thirty seconds. It's our first time out in awhile so we really have no idea what we want and we'll likely end up ordering your gourmet fish sticks and mac 'n' cheese anyways. Boring, yes. But those leftovers are a toddler-approved microwaved meal for tomorrow. Which means we'll be needing the boxes, so don't look all incredulously when we ask for them when we order.

And if you see that couple, quietly picking through their meals, seldom talking, frequently checking their phones for texts, don't feel for them. They're probably happier than you can imagine.

And please, stop staring.