I think we got this at a garage sale or off craigslist.  Seems harmless enough.  A little inflatable blue horse that kids can sit on or something.

But upon closer inspection, one will see that it was designed to encourage horsey tossed salads.

And for that, oh blue horse with the “made in france” etching on the bottom, I am disgusted.

Last weekend, I was at my National Guard base and learned the following from a Captain who has been my drinking buddy traveling companion a few times this year:

Captain Lauren:  You know Major Yancy?
Me:  Yeah.  Sort of.
Captain Lauren:  She just pulled me aside and asked me if I am having sex with my boyfriend.
Me:  WHAT?  Could there be a more inappropriate question to ask a junior officer?  What’d you say?
Capt L:  I told her “yes.”
Me:  And she said?
Capt L:  She told me I needed to stop, because God would not approve.
Me:  Wow.
Capt L:  Talk about awkward.
Me:  Let me tell you how you should have responded–and how you should respond if ever asked again.  Let’s just go back in time a bit and pretend I’m you, shall we?

***

Major Yancy: So, are you having sex with your boyfriend?
Capt L: No–just with animals.  But he likes to watch!

Major Y: So, you having sex with your boyfriend?
Capt L: Well, it’s kinda hard to say “no” with that pink rubber ball in my mouth!

Major Y: So, are you having sex with your boyfriend?
Capt L: It’s not like I can resist his advances when my wrists are tied to the bed posts, you know?

Major Y: Are you having intercourse with your boyfriend?
Capt L: Is fisting really “intercourse”?

Major Y: Are you sleeping with your boyfriend?
Capt L: Yes, but is it wrong if my boyfriend is also my father?

Major Y: Are you sleeping with your boyfriend?
Capt L: No.  We’re just fucking.

If you too have been asked an inappropriate question and need assistance with a snappy, inappropriate response, feel free to enlist my complimentary services below!

I may have mentioned a conference I attended a while ago called BlogHer and how I stopped drinking for 2 minutes to hit the head at one point and then returned to find that the doll a mom blogger with sons had given me was stolen out from under my BowlHer pictures and name tag.

Well, when I got back, I wrote a letter to the company that manufactured said doll and told them I’d been swag hagged.  A few weeks later, an identical creature arrived with long hair and a bike:

After 15 minutes or so with a blowtorch and a hunting knife, I was able to release her and her bike from the plastic packaging.  I decided to see if Winnie liked it before exposing it to Maddie.

But Winnie cowered.  Despite my reminding her that she’s supposed to be a guard dog.  Pussy dog.

I dressed the doll in the more conservative of the two outfits, went to bed, and figured I’d introduce it to Maddie the next morning when she came into our room at 0630.  Would she enjoy it?  Would it inspire her to do something amazing, like the packaging promised?  Or would she just beat her little brother over the head with it?

She likes it!

They’ve been like peas and carrots for the past several days.  She named her new doll “Snow White.”  She carries it in the jog stroller as we journey through the ‘hood.

But does it inspire?

When I went upstairs to get her ready for bed tonight, I noticed the orange nightlight was wrapped in cellophane tape and that a nude Barbie doll and pink cellphone were dangling from it before a backdrop of yellow drywall splattered with red Crayola “M’s.”  She called it her “project.”  She beamed.

So… Thanks, Sandra from MGA Entertainment!  Do you paint?  ‘Cause you owe me a clean yellow wall.

*No, I’m not fucking selling out.  I just thought it was nice of these folks to send me a free doll after some whore stole mine.  That’s all.  And it really does make my 3-year-old happy, which means I have more time to for booze and pills.

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn’t know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter’s knee showed signs of an “allergic reaction” even though we had ruled out every allergy source — obvious and otherwise — that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift — a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago — Oct. 2, 2002 — the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter’s first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn’t tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don’t know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter’s condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

Last week, I lost two sofas, a receiver, and a subwoofer from my mancave totaling $5800.  Pretty Bride lost over 1000 sewing patterns, a bunch of fabric, and a lot of other stuff that I didn’t know lived in our basement.  I spent a couple days ripping out walls and pulling up floors while vacillating between depression and anger.  So, on Thursday, I decided to hop on a military cargo plane for Maine.  Because I’d never been to Maine, and I felt like my heart needed the benefits eating lobster supposedly gives.  I think Pretty Bride was glad to see me go.  My attitude was in the shitter.

I filled a bag with clothes I won’t be able to wear in Atlanta for 2 more months and left.  I read two Seth Godin books and some Hunter S. Thompson on the plane, so that I’d be inspired to be different, change the world, and get fucked up.  I took notes on radical ways to market my firm while lamenting my affiliation with the military’s keeping me from dropping acid or taking red pills.

Friday night, I got stuck in the back of a rental car going to Applebee’s.

Me:  Are you fucking kidding me?  I fly 4 hours north, and you people want to go somewhere I can find in the Atlanta suburbs?

I was pissed but had a burger and a bunch of 22oz beers anyway.  I watched an in-the-process-of-divorcing nurse try to sleep with every guy around while a couple of her friends repeatedly told her not to, because they’d done the same thing immediately after their divorces, and they regretted it.  I encouraged her to follow her loins and ignore the wrinkled naysayers, but the roadblocks continued until I grew bored and left shortly after 4am.

Saturday, I asked the person in charge of the group if I could use the rented Chevy pickup truck to go across base to the gym.  Then I drove it 30 miles to the coast.  I figured I had 4 hours before the plane got back and they’d miss the truck.  Except, when I arrived in Portland, they were still on the ground waiting on the birds to go away so that they could take off.  I was scared for a few minutes but then got the “okay, we’re taking off…will be in the air for 3hrs” text message.  Screw you, authority.

I parked on a cobblestone road and found a bar by the water; I plopped down between a man who resembled George Lucas and a woman who resembled Kathy Bates.  A man in a Harvard sweatshirt walked up to Kathy Bates to ask if he’d met her the night before, and the two of them talked for over an hour.  George Lucas is an engineer who lives in the mountains and travels to give expert testimony in lawsuits against the Department of Defense.  We fell in love over lobster rolls and Shipyard Ale.

At 3:15pm, I realized I’d better get the hell back.  I pocketed my parking ticket and pushed the Chevy to 90mph.  I was 10 miles away when I got the “we’re on the ground” text.  One long debrief later, and they were exiting the building as I pulled up to the curb.  I am Ferris Bueller without a Sloane Peterson.

A group wanted to go to Cook’s for dinner, so I volunteered to drive them to Portland, where I was certain the restaurant was located, only once I’d pulled onto the street where George Lucas had told me to find a sports bar to see the Alabama game, I pulled Cook’s up on the Garmin and found that it was an hour in the opposite direction.  I got out and let them drive off, asking that they return my GPS tomorrow.  I considered feeling guilty but then remembered that the Tide needed me.

The Tide won, another truckload came to Portland to meet me, and 7 of them got dinner while I got more Shipyard Ale.

About 10pm, I decided that the conversation needed to shift to my balls.  For the next two hours, every time a male walked by our table, two of the women in our group would stop him to ask if he would blow himself if physically able like “this guy” (pointing to me).  I decided that they were all liars when each one said “no,” and I made sure the whole restaurant knew I thought they were liars.  This was not well-received by management.

We played a game I invented called, “Guess the age of the Whores From Yesteryear.”  Shortly after this game started, I found our table to be the only occupied one in our section of the restaurant.  The server handed us checks without asking if we were ready to leave, and she added 18% for good measure.

She was thrilled when I ordered a peanut butter pie; she returned with one giant slice and eight forks.  I used all eight.  Someone in a “Hard Rock Cafe” sweatshirt called me obnoxious.  I reminded her that she was wearing a “Hard Rock Cafe” sweatshirt at a seafood restaurant on Saturday night.  She blushed and walked away.

I flew home on Sunday.  Back to the 30′ dumpster in the driveway and 11 oscillating fans placed in front of corners and crannies to try and eradicate mildew and mold.  And my mother-in-law.  Which is why I filled a tall glass with ice and emptied the last of the Maker’s Mark and Woodford Reserve.

In 2001, I worked on the 51st floor of the Bank of America tower, the tallest building in the southeast.  I’d been at work about 30 minutes when my phone rang.  It was one of my lawschool classmates who worked at Turner:

she:  “Go to cnn.com.”
me:  “Why?”
she:  “Because a plane just hit the World Trade Center.”
me:  “What?  What kind of dumbass flies into a building?”
she:
me:  “The site is taking a long time to load.  Just tell me what it says…”
she:  “Oh my God…another plane just flew into another Tower!  I’d better go…”

I jumped up, left my office, and went into the conference room across the hall to turn on the TV.  A few secretaries left their cubes and entered the same room to see what was going on.  Since CNN was one of our clients, many of us had received word that something extraordinary was happening.

But I had work to do, so I went back into my office to finish what I’d started.  Then…

voice:  “Jesus fucking Christ, they hit the fucking Pentagon, too?”

I recognized the voice as belonging to Suzanne, one of the junior associates in litigation from down the hall.

The conference room was now full, as secretaries, paralegals, associates, and even a few partners were watching the 20-something-inch cathode ray tube TV strapped to the wheeled cart by the dry erase board.  Then I heard that the attorney next to Suzanne had a brother who worked in the World Trade Center.  He was upset.  He was trying to find out if his brother was okay.

His brother was dead.

My phone rang again.  My friend Chad, a clerk at a law firm a few blocks north of us, was on the line.

chad:  “Y’all been evacuated yet?”
me:  “No.  Why the hell would we be evacuated?”
chad:  “‘Cause we’re fucking under attack!  Our building just got evacuated…nobody knows how many targets there are.”
me:  “Why the hell would anyone care about Atlanta?  ‘Cause we have Coke?  That’s stupid.  Wait…We’re getting some kind of announcement.  Yes, we’re supposed to evacuate, too.  What  a pain in the ass.”

I thought it was a stupid overreaction.  I went back to work and ignored the sounds of all my colleagues’ gathering their stuff and walking down the hall outside my office toward the elevators.

When the hallway became silent again, I walked into the head paralegal’s office.

me:  “Isn’t this ridiculous?  They want us to leave the building because of something that happened in New York and Washington?”

I looked out into the hall.  All the secretaries’ cubicles were empty.  All the associates’ offices were empty.  All the partners’ offices were empty.  The head of the litigation section walked into the office where I sat and spoke:

partner:  “Laura, for the first time in 30 years, I’m about to be angry at you.  Go home.”

She minimized the programs on her screen and stood up.  I stood, too.  The three of us entered the elevator and traveled the 51 floors to the bottom of the building and exited the empty lobby.  Best I could tell, we were the last to leave the building–the head partner, the head paralegal, and me.

I drove to Decatur and walked into one of those old-timey barber shops with a striped pole outside and got my hair cut as I watched the towers crash to the ground on the TV hanging from the ceiling in front of me.  I saw men and women coated in soot running from a cloud of destruction amid the smell of Barbicide and the sound of little metal scissors cutting away excess growth.  I listened quietly to the 60-something black man pontificating about the meaning of it all as he brought my hair back into military regulations.  I went home and emailed my friend from childhood who lived in the Village.  I called my parents.

*****

A year and a few months later, on a Wednesday night in January, the President gave his annual “State of the Union” address.  I sat in Manuel’s Tavern with the two classmates who’d called me on September 11, 2001, plus about ten others who’d rushed to the nearest bar after the conclusion of our last class of the day.  You may remember the speech–the last several minutes contained some rather fiery rhetoric about Saddam Hussein, weapons of mass destruction, and possible military action in Iraq.

More vivid than the events of 9/11 or any of the months that followed was the reaction from the ten or so friends and classmates who surrounded me at the wooden table against the glass at the packed bar where no one spoke but the President:  tears from the girls; looks of anguish from the guys.  All were looking at me:  the only person any of them knew who was in the military, even if it was just a weekend a month and two weeks in the summer.  Looks of knowing.  Looks that said, “You’re fixing to go away to Iraq, and we don’t know if we’ll see you again, and we don’t know how we’re supposed to react to that.  So, we’re just going to stare at you and be emotional.”

One month and seventeen days later, I’d get the telephone call that sent me away.  And my life would change forever.

Just like last year at this time, I took Maddie downtown to watch the Dragon*Con parade Saturday morning.  And, as my Twitter followers know, somebody severely pissed me off, so I’m going to ask you, dear reader, if I’m overreacting or in the wrong here.

After driving around downtown for 30 minutes, I found a place close to the parade route, pulled just ahead of it, and starting backing into the spot.  I was just about to cut the steering wheel to the right when this asshole drove in behind me: 

I slammed my car into “park” and got out.

Me:  Excuse, me.  I think I was fairly clearly backing into this spot.
Dickwad:  You didn’t signal.
Me:  Signaling isn’t required to parallel park.  I was backing into the spot.  You saw my little white reverse lights.
Dickwad:  Hee hee…you should’ve signaled!
Me:  Are you kidding?  I’ve been driving around half an hour with my 3-year-old, so she can see Jedi Knights and Storm Troopers, and you’re really going to take my spot?
Dickwad:  Sorry buddy…I don’t guess you can’t do anything about it now!
Me:  You are a FUCKING ASSHOLE, you know that?
Dickwad:  Fuck you, buddy!  Try to make me move and see what happens!
Me (approaching the back of his car):  Okay…APY 4452.
Dickwad:  What’re you doing?
Me:  Calling the cops.
Dickwad:  Who?  The Ghostbusters?  They’re not gonna do anything.  Sucker!

I drove off and found an overpriced garage before I did something stupid and got arrested.  By the time I left, a small crowd was pressing their faces against the Landmark Diner’s large storefront windows.

I did call the cops but ended up hanging up before I got through the dispatchers to a real person, as I was too angry to coherently talk about what had happened, and the parade was a few minutes from starting.  Here are a few of the nerds sci-fi enthusiasts we saw:

Maddie enjoyed it quite a bit.  She even got a Starburst candy and a necklace from a couple creatures who walked by us.  On our way back, I couldn’t resist stopping and taking this picture, however:

I’ve so far resisted the urge to ask any of my friends at the DA’s office or local police department to give me this guy’s name, but that may change shortly.  Somehow, the thought of his googling himself in a week or so and seeing “this guy is an asshole” come up really appeals to me.

So, any thoughts?  My fault for not signaling?  Should I have called the cops after he threatened me (sort of)?  Somewhere in between?

Regardless, the rest of the weekend was great:  the parade was fun, the Tide beat VA Tech, I got to catch up with a bunch of friends from undergrad, and I saw a girl who grew up down the street from me (and lives in L.A., so I haven’t seen her in 8 years) at the Decatur Book Festival.

But still.  What a dick.

Maddie calls her private parts her “bottom.”  I’m not sure how this practice began.  I certainly don’t talk to her about her female parts–that’s her mommy’s job.  Like disciplining her, cooking for her, clothing her, and telling her “no.”

Tonight when I got home from work and walked upstairs to take over at bath time, Maddie was standing in the knee-deep water, holding a washcloth in her right hand, looking down at herself, and singing:

“Clean the bottom!  Clean the bottom!  How I like to clean the bottom!”

Me: Maddie, why are you singing to your…er…private…girl parts?
Maddie:  My bottom?
Me:  Yeah.  I guess.  Your bottom.  Why are you signing to it while you wash?
Maddie:  Because I am!
Me:  I don’t think it’s appropriate–singing to your bottom.
Maddie:  But I like it, Daddy. 
Me:  I’m sure you do.  It’s just that, well, the nudity and the singing…I’m not sure it makes for good habits.  Have you seen “Forrest Gump” and how Jenny made her living in Memphis?
Maddie:
Me:  Yeah.  Guess not.  Forget that part about Jenny. Ready to dry off?
Maddie (resuming with the washcloth, but dancing this time): Clean the bottom!  Clean my bottom!  See my clean bottom!
Me:  Just what I was afraid of.  You’re gonna want a pole in your room for Christmas.

So I get a “friend” request from some woman named Brooke Beamer on Facebook.  I click “ignore.”

A week later (this evening), she requests my friendship again, but she adds this note:

I’m not sure if this is the Mack I’m looking for. I’m looking for a friend from Camp Winnataska who has a sister named Mindy. Is that you? If not, just ignore this request!

I still don’t know who the hell this is, but I’m certainly not going to ignore her request.  So, I write back:

Wait…Brooke?  Camp W?  We went streaking together, right?  And then you sucked my dick?

I didn’t expect a reply, but I got one:

Mack, your response really offended me.  Clearly, you’re not the Mack I knew from camp W.  I’m sorry I ever tried to reconnect with him and met you.

Feeling contrite, I write again:

I’m sorry, too.  I much prefer the way we “connected” last time we were together!  Whoever the Mack is you’re pursuing has mushy little green pea balls and isn’t worthy of your Facebook friendship, you little sex kitten, you!  Stay off my furniture, bad kitty!  Meow!  Meow!

She hasn’t written back, but I’ll bet she gets a good chuckle from the memories.

***

Then, I get a message on my neighborhood listserv saying this:

Please help!
Dixie went missing on Friday during the storm. She is brown/tan with a
black muzzle and about 155lbs. She is very shy and afraid of men. Please
call Katey.  Here is a photo:

So, being the good neighbor that I am, I “reply all” with this:

I didn’t look at the picture, but Dixie sounds like my mother-in-law.  She’s in Montgomery and is fine.  She really hates that nickname, though, so quit fucking using it, okay?

And then she replies:

Whoa!  I know we’ve been joking today but in this case can we keep in mind there is a scared pup and her very worried family out there? I hate to be a downer but I was the one who suggested they post the notice about their missing dog here because of the close proximity and all the dog lovers in the neighborhood.

So, feeling contrite, I respond, again via “reply all” email:

I just backed my car over Dixie.  By the way, quit screwing around with James while his wife is in Afghanistan, you loose, loose hussy you.  And your email?  It’s full of run-on sentences.  No wonder you got laid off and can’t find work!

She hasn’t responded yet, but I’m certain I’ll make everyone smile with my silliness.

I’m worried my little girl wants to be stripper.  Every day, I crawl across 9 miles of middle fingers and ineptitude (usually 45-60 minutes), pull into the garage, carry my laptop and “homework” upstairs, open the door, and walk in to find bare girl parts.

Sometimes, they’re complemented with the feather boa I got at BlogHer.  Other times, by furry, hot pink bunny ears.  Many times, by a pair of candy apple red or leopard print high heels from Pretty Bride’s side of the overstuffed walk-in closet.  But the bare girl parts are a constant.

Today, there were no accouterments, just cooter.  She was standing in front of the stereo speakers dancing to some old INXS delivered by XM ’80s.  Bare ass shaking as Michael Hutchence told us about his Devil Inside.

Maddie:  Dance with me, Daddy!
Me:  But you’re nekkid!
Pretty Bride:  She’s not naked.  She’s nude!
Me:  Until she’s on a canvas at the High, she’s naked.  Did she have an accident?
Maddie:  No.
Me:  Then why are you runnin’ around nekkid?
Maddie:  Because I am.
Me:  I am?  Who are you, Jesus Christ?
Maddie:  Jesus loves me, Daddy.

Which got me to thinking about Jesus and his admonition against judging.  Which got me to thinking about a family reunion I attended about 25 years ago at my great grandparents’ farm in Boaz, Alabama.  And how, right when all the old folks were sitting at card tables strewn about the apple orchard eating watermelon and turnip greens and fried chicken, my little brother and I tossed off our trousers and collared shirts, sprinted down the middle of 50+ geriatric kinfolk who were catching up on Aunt Ethel’s health and Uncle Luther’s retirement, and screamed, “It’s the adventures of NAKED MAN!”

Naked Man was my alter ego.  My Hulk, as I was his David (or Bruce) Banner.  All it took was my mother’s bridge group’s settling in around their face cards and cocktails, or my father’s Gideons camp’s planning their next Bible distribution, and Naked Man would make an appearance, often trailed by his younger, considerably less well-hung accomplice, Wannabe Naked Man.

Which got me to thinking:  I’m so fucked.