Father Muskrat

by air and by sea, to see a newly minted 4-year-old

muskrat — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 02:30:16 +0000

Wednesday afternoon, I rode in a Cessna Skyhawk from Honolulu, over Molokai, and onto Maui. After we landed, I learned my new friend had never landed at Maui before, because his instructor told him it was the most difficult runway in the U.S. to land a private plane, since the winds come off the ocean and through the trees to create vortexes of sorts in the crosswinds on the tarmac. Maybe that’s why we approached at an angle and got blown back into the air when we were a few feet above the runway, only to come down a few seconds later and actually land. That wasn’t frightening at all.

I did find interest in our flying over a leper colony near the coast of Molokai, though.

Somewhere over the Pacific, I took the yoke for a few minutes…just long enough to update Twitter with a Top Gun reference:

I’m piloting a Cessna while tweeting! Where’s Viper? I want Viper! posted by @themuskrat from Twitter for iPhone

I went to the Yard House for some half-priced sashimi after the flight I was supposed to work that evening got canceled.

Thursday morning, the alarm went off at 0400, and I learned the flight I was supposed to work that morning had also been canceled. Another free morning! I returned to Hanauma Bay in search of the swimming sea turtles my shuttle driver to the surf lesson told me were visible if I went out into the deeper waters far from the beach. Linnea (from the plane ride over) came with me. And you know what? We found one! After carefully swimming/shimmying over the reefs closer to the shore, we got into some deeper water, near the rock wall on the right side of the bay (if standing on the beach, staring at the water), and we came upon a giant sea turtle, about 5 feet under the surface. It hovered in the water, staring at me through my mask. I smiled at it. Its mouth moved. It nodded at me. I understood. He didn’t want me to fart in his house any more.

I dropped her off and went straight to work at the military base. I’m pretty sure I stunk. Afterward, I surfed for an hour and went back to Roy’s for dinner.

Friday, I got up at 0300 for a flight to work that required being on site at 0345. I was back to my room by 7am and went to the beach to surf one last time. I walked into the water with my rented board. A wave hit the board just as I had set it into the surf to wash off the sand; it flew into my face, knocked me over, and bloodied both the inside and bridge of my nose, before it landed with the fin striking my left foot, causing more serious bleeding. I knew this was going to be a great morning.

I rolled up the beach while a couple witnesses pulled my board up and asked me if I needed medical attention. I told them only pussies seek medical attention when bleeding from a mere 3 places and to leave me alone. After all, it was my last day in Hawaii.

After my hour was up, I limped over to Duke’s for one more delicious breakfast complemented with guava juice and Kona coffee. I checked out, bathed, packed, bought Pretty Bride a Tahitian pearl necklace to salve the news of the expenditures I’d made on myself a few nights earlier, and then turned the Nimitz Highway into the Talladega 500 as I tried to make it to the airport an hour before take off. I made it.

At 6:30am the next day, I landed in Atlanta. I might have slept an hour at most. 3 hours after I got home, our deck filled with four-year-olds, and we celebrated Maddie’s 4th birthday. I looked and felt like hell, but I think we gave her a great birthday party.

Until we asked her to quit licking cake off her plate like a dog.

The funny thing is, I think she looks more like me in this pose than any other she makes. Luckily, she doesn’t talk like me. I would’ve said, “It’s my birthday, and I’ll lick cake off whatever-the-hell unsavory surface I want to, Bi-atch.”

a series of fortunate events

muskrat — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 05:06:47 +0000

I never actually expected to have a trip to Hawaii count as “annual training” when I saw the email mentioning an opportunity to do just that about 6 months ago. But here I am. In Hawaii. Getting paid.

I arrived Friday afternoon after 10 hours next to a 25-year-old PhD student from Charleston who came for an Alzheimer’s conference; her name was Linnea. I called the duty controller at the base where I’m supposed to train and learned I was to show up at 0530 the next day. I walked over to Duke’s and had dinner and beers at the bar with another PhD student named Julian; he was from Switzerland. Linnea soon joined us, and the 3 of us continued until 9 (keep in mind that 9pm was 3am to my confused body).

The next day, my duties on base ended at 9am. That’s right. So I drove over to Hanauma Bay for some snorkeling and swimming.

Except for scraping my knees on some coral and getting sunburned in that spot a person can’t reach on his own back with sunscreen, it was a great afternoon (I thought about asking a stranger to put sunscreen on my back, but none of the scenarios in my head ended well, regardless of gender of the asked). Except for some reason, after I came back, I started getting lonely and walked several blocks down to where Pretty Bride and I went in 2008 after my last trip to Iraq. This was bittersweet, so I felt some sushi and Asahi beer were in order. I had several of both. When I woke up the next day, I realized I’d bought a shirt for my boy Owen and some of those Under Armour underbritches for myself. Oh yeah, and that I dropped $1000 at the Ralph Lauren store. On a sportcoat and sweater. Haven’t quite told the Mrs about that yet, so, moving on…

Sunday, I ran a couple miles down the beach at sunrise. I passed a homeless man, a very happy woman with her coffee, a couple in last night’s clothes who didn’t care about each other’s morning breath, a fisherman with his Lab puppy, some children who resented their parents’ waking them at 0530, and several surfers. Then, it was breakfast at Duke’s, where I became convinced that in Heaven, they will serve guava juice. I was supposed to report at 12:30, but it got pushed back to 3:30pm, so I sat on the balcony and read all afternoon before dinner at Roy’s, where I saw the lady next to me pour a bottle of Coors over ice and drink with a straw. I thought that my cue to leave.

The next day began at 0530 and ended by about 9. I thought it would be a good idea to drive an hour to a trail I’d read about on the internet. I walked through a church graveyard looking for the trailhead. No dice. Ran down a residential street past three very angry and protective pit bulls, stopping at where I thought the trail began. And I saw this:

Great. I returned the half a mile I’d run and started over. Finally, I found this:

I figured a “beginner” trail would be about 1-2 miles. It was 4. Up a mountain. And the trail was covered in roots and rocks. And I wore my most inappropriate shoes.

Once I got on the trail, I didn’t see another human. It was the most alone I’ve ever felt. At first, it was peaceful, until every fluttering bird made me wonder if 1) Hawaii has bears and 2) how long it would take someone to find my mauled body, since not a soul alive knew where the hell I was. So, with every painful step, I was afraid to cry out, for fear of a bear or puma finding me, and instead whimpered like a little hungry puppy. Because that’s what men do.

I finally made it to the top.

As soon as I got back down to the beach, I put my throbbing feet into the cool ocean. And I paused to take in the tranquil surroundings while berating myself for being such an unprepared, naive dumbass. It was nice.

Then I stopped by a park on the way back to the hotel.

Dinner was at the Yard House, where I talked to a kid named Robbie from California who’d traveled with his Mormon parents but broke away to guzzle some beers and smoke some cigarettes. I’m pretty sure Robbie was using a fake ID. He said “bro” a lot.

Today, I scheduled two activities from my “bucket list:” SCUBA dive and surf. First was the dive. I was pretty nervous about going underwater and relying on a metal cylinder to keep me alive, but I enjoyed it. My right ear wasn’t very cooperative with the whole “clearing” process every few feet, and when we came back up to the surface, the instructor told me he was close to giving up on me, but I finally got it to work. We saw several fish and a large eel. My leader, Greg, took several pictures that he’s sending me later.

I was not optimistic about being able to get up on a surf board, but I was wrong!

However, I did bust pretty badly on my very first attempt, landing in a reef. When I took off my shirt (see how I learned from the sunburn experience at Hanauma Bay?), I found a nice grouping of coral residue and blood:

That didn’t feel too good. The lesson was for an hour, and it was supposed to be a group class, but I was the only person who showed up, so, private lesson for me!

Tomorrow, I’m supposed to fly to Maui with one of the guys I met at the military base who has his private pilot’s license. I’m supposed to work in the evening after we get back.

So far, a great trip…I still can’t believe how lucky I am to be here. I’ve already initiated the process for coming back next year for more mission-essential training. It’s what our country needs.

real estate fail

muskrat — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 15:14:47 +0000

This is where our 2-month-old sleeps. Because we can’t sell our house.

I’m thinking this will turn out well for her in later years, however. Besides the obvious character building she’ll get from staying in a closet for the first several months years of her life, I can see the following scenarios down the road, too:

Tween Party Host: Hey, let’s play ‘60 seconds in the closet’! Who’s game?
Lola: I spent a large portion of my childhood in a closet. It’s not that great. Get lost, asshat.

Girl in Middle School: Did you hear? Lester came out of the closet last weekend! I don’t think we should let him sit with us at lunch any more.
Lola: I came out of the closet 10 years ago! It’s hardly a reason to shun a friend, Madam Judge-A-Lot.

Young School Bus Rider: I’m sort of a closet fan of the Twilight series. Squeeeee!
Lola: I wouldn’t characterize my fandom of anything as ‘closet,’ first of all. Neither should you. And second, why don’t you go buy a piece of intellectually stimulating non-fiction and, if you have enough cash left over, a clue!

See how I become Mr. Brightside?

a farewell to balls

muskrat — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 03:15:53 +0000

I could write about the utter terror someone who passes out when given shots or blood tests faces when going for surgery on his nethers, but it’s easier to just provide my impressions from that timeframe as they were happening.

Accordingly, here are my tweets, in reverse chronological order:

Fireworks behind our house tonight. Either the Braves won, or the city is celebrating my infertility. Fri Jun 25 22:49:22 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

Thanks for all the support, but tweeting a bunch isn’t brave. It’s how I cope: diversion. Fri Jun 25 15:23:57 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

Post surgery milk shake!!! (@ OK Cafe) http://4sq.com/5c5ccS Fri Jun 25 15:20:00 2010 via foursquare

Am now safely in the passenger seat of our minivan. How appropriate. Fri Jun 25 15:16:03 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

The new walk of shame: gingerly shuffling out of the urologist’s office in front of 20 people. Fri Jun 25 15:09:42 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

Am upright. Still afraid to look down. Is this what it feels like to be a circus performer? Fri Jun 25 15:03:36 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

I like how it says “congratulations!”. Asses. http://yfrog.com/euofngj Fri Jun 25 15:02:39 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

This is where my bare ass sweat like a whore in church. http://yfrog.com/5cvhoaj Fri Jun 25 15:00:27 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

I am afraid to look down under this gauze. It’s like being on a building’s ledge. Fri Jun 25 14:58:34 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

They say no peas or ice. I did it scalpel-free! Fri Jun 25 14:57:19 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

Just got busted tweeting. Oops. Apparently I’m supposed to provide a semen sample when I’m at blogher: 6 weeks from now. Hmmm. Fri Jun 25 14:56:40 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

The video says I am supposed to take “specimen” cups with me. I can only imagine. Fri Jun 25 14:52:01 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

The dr said he knew I was a lawyer by my small penis. I said I knew he was a doc by his med mal insurance releases. Fri Jun 25 14:50:25 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

Why is STP’s “Half the Man I Used to Be” in my head? Fri Jun 25 14:49:13 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

I think smelling burning flesh was the worst. Oh yeah, and the damned needle that made me sweat a quart. Fri Jun 25 14:48:11 2010 via Twitter for iPhone

I think he’s done. I’m alone w the video again. 2:46 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhon

I hope this isn’t “intern day.” 2:25 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone

The video stopped. http://yfrog.com/j2bzcj 2:23 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone

Now the video wants me to take off my pants. Stranger danger!!! 2:19 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone

The video says not to worry. The video does not know me. 2:17 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone

I like the word “rare.” 2:17 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone

They are making me watch a video. I don’t want to know the risks, asshole. 2:16 PM Jun 25th via Twitter for iPhone

a touching post by a friend about my balls: http://bit.ly/9OrSkO 11:43 AM Jun 25th via TweetDeck

am 3.5 hours away from my appointment to get neutered. stressed. is that what a rapist in saudi arabia feels like? 10:39 AM Jun 25th via TweetDeck

Now that it’s over, I gotta say I recommend doing it scalpel-free, like I did here. No ice or frozen peas. No swelling or bruising the next day or the next day or the day after that. No finding my absent penis on a blanket next to a broken toaster oven several hours after losing it.

The worst part? The clamp. I was terrified to look down, but at some point, some sort of vice grip contraption was cinched around my johnson. I was certain it was going to lose its nutrients’ supply, turn black, and fall onto the floor before ending up in a pawn shop. But it didn’t. I was VERY relieved, however, when the cinch came off at the end.

As for my interpersonal relations? Okay so far. I mean, my pecker wasn’t talking to me for the first several hours afterward. I avoided eye contact until Saturday afternoon (a good 24 hours), and even when I reached out to it to resume normal conversation, it played “hard to get” and retracted like a defeated turtle.

I think our relationship will improve over time, however. It keeps asking to go for vigorous runs down the nature trail behind our building, and I have to gently tell it, “Not yet. Doctor’s orders, buddy.” It seems to understand, even if it acts petulant right now.

Someday, it’ll thank me for the sacrifice my psyche endured for its freedom from suffocation by latex or butting its head against hard plastic. Some day, oh peevish penis. Just not now.

66

muskrat — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 15:54:37 +0000

This is my parents in October 1972.

My Dad had been married fewer than two years. He’d spent a year in Vietnam, gotten the Distinguished Flying Cross, and made it home unscathed. He had a Corvette and raced motorcycles. He was cool.

Til I was born 3 years later and fucked it all up.

Happy birthday, Pa. Stay cool forever.

the importance of staying small

muskrat — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 01:46:46 +0000

Maddie: Why do you want me to stay a little girl, Daddy?
Me: What? What makes you think that?
Maddie: Mommy told me.
Me: Oh. Well then it must be true, right?
Maddie: Mmm hmm. But I can’t stay a little girl, because I’m already a BIG GIRL!
Me: Well, you are bigger now than you used to be, that’s true.
Maddie: And one day I’ll be big as you, right Daddy?
Me: I hope not.
Maddie: Because you want me to stay small?
Me: Well, yes. Daddy likes his little girl as she is right now. So I can pick you up in the air. And fit you and your brother in the jog stroller for walks to the zoo. And help you with bath time. And carry you in my arms.
Maddie: But Daddy, even if I get big like you, I’ll still love you. You’re my Daddy!
Me: That’s true. But eventually, we won’t spend every weekend together like we do now. You’ll have your own house.
Maddie: You mean when I’m a mommy?
Me: Yes. Wait. No, I just meant when you’re grown up and live in the nearest convent to Daddy!
Maddie: Hooray! I’ll always be near Daddy!
Me: That’s right.
Maddie: What’s a convent?

changing brackets

muskrat — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 02:27:53 +0000

I haven’t been particularly excited about leaving marketers’ “most coveted age bracket” (although this guy thinks the boomers are changing that). I like knowing companies spend millions of dollars trying to figure out how to please me and how to catch my attention. It’s like dating a Rockefeller.

But not any more. Tomorrow I hit 35. No longer lumped with the 20-somethings. No longer able to tell people “early 30s.”

So, I’ve been trying to curb the effects of aging by refusing to act my age.

How?

Per these clips discovered by local law enforcement on an abandoned iphone in Buckhead, I’ve been encouraging fellow distinguished members of the GA bar to engage in strange behavior involving poles and microphones:

Make that “formerly distinguished.”

I found signs of abuse the next day on my legs and back: indicia that this activity was not without danger:

If ever there were iron clad proof that this behavior was not voluntary, this is decidedly it. Awful:

I like how the dude in the glasses doesn’t even know where the screen showing the lyrics is. It’s like he’s channeling Bret Michaels:

And if ever there were evidence of crossing into the “mid 30s,” it’s breaking out the Biz Markie:

I’m hoping to leave the office at lunchtime to do something I didn’t do a single time during my 34th year: go to the movie theater. I’ve missed it.

Hell, maybe I’ll get a senior discount.

help me, andrew clark. you’re my only hope.

muskrat — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 01:19:18 +0000

We’ve been trying to eat healthier the past couple of months. Joined a local organic farm CSA and everything. However, when the neighbors came over with brats and chorizo for the grill to join our free range chicken on Memorial Day, I agreed. And when the Mrs. cooked a dozen chocolate chip cookies, I found myself powerless to have fewer than 10.

Tuesday I didn’t feel so well, but I had a trial to get ready for, so I powered through.

Today was worse.

After emptying my bowels numerous times of the noxious fluid that audibly tormented me all morning, I rooted around in my briefcase and found a plastic container of Pepto pills. I think I bought them when I worked for IBM in 1997. I needed advice, and quickly. I turned to Twitter:

I assume it’s fine to take Pepto that expired in 2004, right? This is an emergency. about 8 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone

And by “emergency” I mean “I may shit myself in court.” about 8 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone

And you responded. With wisdom:

habanerogal @themuskrat GO FOR IT about 8 hours ago via web

_pixie_@themuskrat If you take the Pepto you may shit yourself anyway.

franklazaro @themuskrat It is either going to work or just exacerbate the problem. Not bad odds considering the alternative

daysgoby@themuskrat Shitting in court sounds awful. Hoping Pinky comes through.

tessasdad @themuskrat It’s the 2 minute warning and you need a hail mary. Gotta take those pills my friend.

I elected to go for it:

There is an angry herd of Thunder Cats in my belly. I hate them. about 8 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone

Ok little expired pink pills…DO YOUR THING! about 8 hours ago via Twitter for iPhone

And again, you responded with your supportive tweets:

stellar225 @themuskrat I’m sorry for your situation. Truly. Bc of it I’m about to pee my pants in the bakery as I laugh @ each update.

missbritt @themuskrat your stomach issues made me laugh out loud. Thanks!!

habanerogal @themuskrat Thanks Muskrat now that stupid Thundercats theme will be going through my head all day would rather have the gut grief

mrschaos @themuskrat You might just win your case that way…(I hope you feel better, though!)

But the pills didn’t help. So I stood in front of the Honorable Judge Thomas with my ass clinched together like I was trying to turn coal into diamonds, praying that Andrew Clark would try to impress his wrestling buddies by taping my buns together. No dice.

I thought of that old expression, “Is a frog’s ass water tight?” and I decided I would be the frog.

During my direct examination of my client, my lips asked the questions I’d outlined, but in my head, I was the frog.

During my cross examination of the adjuster, I continued to concentrate on being Kermit. MUST. NOT. LEAK.

During my cross examination of the insurance company’s eye witness, I was all:

“Frog! I am the frog! Please don’t SHIT YOURSELF, MR. FROG!”

During the other guy’s directs and crosses, I sat in my chair and willed my asshole to stay shut.

And I made it through the hearing without shitting myself.

And that? That has made all the difference.

hell, just call me ishmael

muskrat — Tue, 25 May 2010 02:59:57 +0000

Dear black professionals,

White people get annoyed when black people add titles before last names where said titles aren’t necessary and normally aren’t used.

I can see calling your doctor “Doctor Jones.”

I can see calling your preacher “Pastor Bob” or “Brother Bob” or “Rabbi Bob” or “Child Molesting Bob.”

But lawyers?

Why is it that when I call Tyrone Smith, Esq.’s office, his assistant responds with “Attorney Smith is away from the phone right now…would you like Attorney Smith’s voicemail?” Do you think my receptionist says that shit? Fuck no, she doesn’t!

And how come my black clients are all “Attorney Muskrat, what is our court date?” or “Attorney Muskrat, when will my check be coming?” and “Attorney Muskrat, do you think Attorney Fullofshit will ask about my marijuana arrest when he does his cross?” Do they think I feel respected? I don’t feel respected. I feel like I’m wasting time with each extraneous syllable. Time that your ass is paying for, Holmes.

Stop it. Just call me by my first name like a normal person.

Unless you’re daring enough to stand on my conference table and exclaim, “Oh lawyer, my lawyer!”
That’d actually be pretty cool.

clearly maddie belongs in front of the camera

muskrat — Mon, 17 May 2010 02:06:29 +0000

clip # 1: 3-year-old is in front of the camera. Poised. Not phased by her brother’s bellowing or her nose’s itching. She knows the words, even we don’t.

clip # 2: while I’m in the bathroom, the 3-year-old has taken my phone and begun filming. She refers to her brother as a “beast” and then goes all “Blair Witch Project” on us.