Dad's Invisible Stuff

Apparently I have a Backingnese. I have no idea what it is, or even what it looks like, but in my imagination it looks similar to a Pekingnese, only not as annoying. The reason I know I have one is because my younger daughter, Doodle, blesses it in almost every prayer:

"Please bless Daddy's Backingnese..."

Astonishingly, my mother has one, too.

"Please bless Grandma NanZ's Backingnese..."

Every single prayer.

Lately I've begun to look under the furniture. Every once in awhile I think I've caught a whiff of something suspicious and try to follow the trail, only to discover that one of the kids put a wet towel on the laundry pile again. Then I think I hear something barking. The problem there is that we live in a busy city in between a Burlington Northern Sante Fe main line, and the 91 freeway. Plus our immediate neighbors on either side both have small dogs of the yippy variety that make me want to sue PETA for mis-classifying them as "intelligent life forms." Could be anything.

So, for now, the Backingnese remains a complete mystery to this clueless Dad. I haven't asked Mom whether she (contrary to type) has acquired a pet recently.

Gotta go. I need some Tylenol®. My back and knees are acting up with all these weather changes lately.

Just What We Need

Dave Barry's blog (this time posted by his so-called "stealth bloggerette" Judi) occasionally points in the direction of some pretty fun, funny, and downright outrageous gadgets and/or technological wonders.

Add to this growing list something called the "MediaCart" being developed by a company of the same name, and in conjunction with (cue evil Darth Vader theme) Microsoft.

It sounds great. But then, these things always sound great when described in a paper. The concept is to have your shopping cart become "interactive," which is geek-speak for "annoying as all get-out." This new cart will hook into the store's local network. Using maps and your shopping history, not to mention all the nutritional data for the items they sell, the cart would be able to help you navigate your way around the store, taking you directly to the items you need, and even helpfully suggesting recipes using the items in your cart.

I'm sure this would prove to be a boon for those moronic scatter-brained organizationally-challenged shoppers who never make shopping lists, never plan meals, and refuse to memorize the layout of their favorite market. For the rest of us, this thing sounds like a nightmare.

I do most of the shopping for Hacienda Woody. This is because of a tacit understanding between myself and Mrs. Woody that a) I am a pretty decent shopper when I have a list, and b) she makes lists. This does not take into account the fact that, without a list, I become the Congress of grocery shoppers. "Ooh. Pork! Gotta have me some o' that!" This is simply one of those "divisions of labor" that couples decide upon in a marriage out of love, mutual respect, and a desire to remain financially solvent until they retire.

My idea of a perfect shopping trip has three basic elements:

1. The List, lovingly provided by my Sweetheart.

2. The Store. Preferably the same store I've been haunting since moving to the Hacienda over six years ago. If I end up in another store, I'm lost. I have no idea where the cashews are in my local Vons, even when the aisle markers helpfully state "SNACK FOODS HERE, IDIOT." I'm too busy fretting that I'll never make it through my list. I don't see them! They must not have them! Grocery Store Anxiety. Look it up.

3. No Kids. I love my children. Really, I do. But taking them on a simple shopping trip is like being a department-store Santa on December 24th. It's a no-win situation. "Daaaaaddy! Can we get some of those?" "No." "But, Daaaaaaaddy...!" And so on. Plus, they fight over whose turn it is to push the cart. They started this particular argument, which has not been resolved to date, four years ago when neither one of them was tall enough to see over the top of the cart. I actually let Jelly push it one night and she immediately toppled over a display of champagne bottles, strategically placed in the same aisle as the bottled water, which was my original target. This did not deter her determination to push the cart, while simultaneously preventing her sister from having that privilege. No kids. Not in the store, anyway.

Now, instead of worrying about my kids, I get to worry about arguing with this technological infant ("But, Daaaaaddy!").

I'll grant you that keeping track of your cart total is a good thing for folks on a budget. I am less impressed, on the other hand, with store navigation.

I have a GPS. Flim-Flam, or Jungle Jim, or one of those. We programmed it with a very nice British female's voice. That way, she can nag me but it sounds cool. The problem is that I disagree with her frequently.

"After fifty yards, turn left."

Sorry, can't do that.

"Turn left. Now."

No, ma'am. Not gonna.

"Turn around now."

No.

"Go back and turn where I told you, or I'll tell your wife about that milkshake you bought on the way home from work the other day."

Cute, but where you told me to turn is a ONE WAY GATE, AND WE'RE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF IT.

Anyway, I can't imagine some upstart shopping cart is going to improve on this process. Neither am I a huge fan of voice-activated anything.

Where're the eggs, please.

"Did you say... 'legs?'"

No. EGGS.

"Did you say... 'wigs?'"

You don't sell wigs.

"Wigs are on aisle 13."

Of course they are.

"May we interest you in today's special on pantyhose?"

*sigh*

Then there's this business of a "loyalty card." Apparently this card will allow one to "download shopping lists," along with recipe suggestions and — like we need this aggravation — diet checks.

"You know, you've put on an extra 5 pounds."

Have not.

"Oh, yes. I was chatting with your doctor's computer yesterday and you were in for your checkup. 5 pounds and your cholesterol is up another 12 points."

Nosey.

"May I suggest a nice Caesar salad tonight?"

No.

"At least take a trip to the gym."

Get lost.

No, all things considered, I think we're better off without automated shopping carts.

"Rice cakes are fifty cents off today."

Go away, already.

Daughter Survivors' Guide

It's not that having daughters is a bad thing. I love my girls. They love me. Everything is good with the world.

They are, however, both sub-teens.

Someday they will have grown to a point where boys actually get over their fear of cooties and realize that my girls are stunning creatures. When that happens, I need a plan. Fortunately, my friends up north have dropped one in my virtual lap. It's one of those ubiquitous internet things to which one can never give proper attribution. If you're the author, please let me know. If you prefer to remain anonymous, please know that I applaud both your craft and your sentiments. Comments in [brackets] are mine.

For those of my friends who have sons, I'm sure you're already teaching them the best ways to prepare for this ordeal:

APPLICATION FOR PERMISSION TO DATE MY DAUGHTER


NOTE: This application will be incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, lineage, and current medical report from your doctor.

NAME_____________________________________ DATE OF BIRTH_____________

HEIGHT___________ WEIGHT____________ IQ__________

GPA_____________

SOCIAL SECURITY #_________________ DRIVERS LICENSE #___________ _____

BOY SCOUT RANK AND BADGES__________________________________________

HOME ADDRESS_______________________ CITY/STATE___________ ZIP______

Do you have parents? ___Yes ___No
Is one male and the other female? ___Yes ___No
If No, explain: _____________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________

Number of years they have been married ______________________________

If less than your age, explain
____________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________


ACCESSORIES SECTION:

A. Do you own or have access to a van? __Yes __No

B. A truck with oversized tires? __Yes __No

C. A waterbed? __Yes __No

D. A pickup with a mattress in the back? __Yes __No

E. A tattoo? __Yes __No

F. Do you have an earring, nose ring, __Yes __No
pierced tongue, pierced cheek or a belly button ring?

(IF YOU ANSWERED 'YES' TO ANY OF THE ABOVE, DISCONTINUE APPLICATION
AND LEAVE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY. I SUGGEST RUNNING.)


ESSAY SECTION:

In 50 words or less, what does 'LATE' mean to you?

______________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________

In 50 words or less, what does 'DON'T TOUCH MY DAUGHTER' mean to you?

______________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________

In 50 words or less, what does 'ABSTINENCE' mean to you?

______________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________


REFERENCES SECTION:

Church you attend ___________________________________________________

How often you attend ________________________________________________

When would be the best time to interview your:

father? _____________

mother? _____________

pastor? _____________


SHORT-ANSWER SECTION:

Answer by filling in the blank. Please answer freely, all answers
are confidential.

A: If I were shot, the last place I would want shot would be:

______________________________________________________________

B: If I were beaten, the last bone I would want broken is my:

_______________________________________________ _______________

C: A woman's place is in the:

______________________________________________________________

D: The one thing I hope this application does not ask me about is:

______________________________________________________________

E. What do you want to do IF you grow up? ___________________________

______________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________

F. When I meet a girl, the thing I always notice about her first is:

______________________________________________________________

F. What is the current going rate of a hotel room? __________________

I SWEAR THAT ALL INFORMATION SUPPLIED ABOVE IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH, DISMEMBERMENT, NATIVE AMERICAN ANT TORTURE, CRUCIFIXION, ELECTROCUTION, CHINESE WATER TORTURE, RED HOT POKERS, AND HILLARY CLINTON KISS TORTURE.
[Okay, got me on that one. There's a Hillary Clinton "Kiss Torture?"
Does this involve hideous singers wearing Kabuki makeup?]


_________________________________________________________
Applicant's Signature (that means sign your name, moron!)


_______________________________ ________________________________
Mother's Signature Father's Signature

_______________________________ ________________________________
Pastor/Priest/Rabbi State Representative/Congressman

Thank you for your interest, and it had better be genuine and non-sexual.
Please allow four to six years for processing.

You will be contacted in writing if you are approved. Please do not try to call or write (since you probably can't, and it would cause you injury). If your application is rejected, you will be notified by two gentlemen wearing white ties carrying violin cases. (you might watch your back)

To prepare yourself, start studying Daddy's Rules for Dating.



Rules for Dating My Daughter

Rule One:
If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two:
You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck [or, for my comfort, below her eyes]. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

Rule Three:
I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four:
I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a 'Barrier method' of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five:
It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is: 'early.'

Rule Six:
I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule Seven:
As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process than can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car? [Mrs. Woody notes that makeup will likely not be that big of an issue. Mrs. Woody is not a huge makeup wearer, and we're teaching our girls to have healthly self-images. Woody notes for the record, however, that there are numerous ways for females to delay things that do not necessarily include makeup.]

Rule Eight:
The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka - zipped up to her throat. Movies with strong romantic or sexual themes are to be avoided; movies which feature chain saws are okay. [No, scratch the chain saws. Or anything worse than a PG rating, for that matter.] Hockey games are okay [if it's a Pee-Wee league]. Old folk's homes are better.

Rule Nine:
Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been [Hey!]. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten:
Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy near Hanoi .. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit the car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, and then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine. [I don't have rice paddies or Agent Orange. I have Governor Moonbeam Brown and malathion spraying. But the principle is the same.]

Aging Like Fine Whine

The following conversation, more or less, took place not 10 minutes ago:

Jelly Woodyette: Mommy? What date was it yesterday?

Mrs. Woody: January 27th.

Woody: Hey! That's my anniversary for going to the temple for the first time! So, let's see, that was 1977... no, 1978. Wow. That's been 30 years.

[Impact of previous statement hits Woody]

Woody [weeping]: That means I went on my mission 30 years ago...!

Mrs. Woody: Eat your fiber, dear.

The. Best. Kids. Christmas. Recording. Ever.

I have expounded the virtues of the "Veggie Tales®" animated shows before. In the mold of Davey and Goliath (now there's a blast from my past!) they teach good fundamental Christian principles and stories. But there the similarities end. "Veggie Tales" are smartly written, artistically rendered, and consistently funny. Their creators have always admitted that they write with a healthy (if one can use that adjective in this context) dose of Monty Python influences, albeit with much cleaner language and context. The result is something that plays equally well with kids and their parents. I can always get some serious chuckles from the "Silly Song" segment, and we have several of their soundtrack recordings, which I monopolize.

A few years ago, we came across a recording called "A Very Veggie Christmas." I love this recording. I just found it in my car this morning when leaving for work, and I chuckled all the way there.

Without giving away too much, you would need to listen to a version of "Feliz Navidad" that includes both a tuba solo and a chicken dance. There's also the "8 Polish Foods of Christmas" that always makes me laugh. In between (and even during) songs there's plenty of authentic Veggie Tales banter and shenanigans. In fact, if you don't listen to the background dialogue, you're in danger of missing some pretty funny stuff. It helps, of course, if you have some familiarity with the animated shows and know the characters. But I don't think it's an absolute requirement.

I used to think it a pity that they never animated this particular album. However, after numerous listenings, I have, like Mitt Romney, been converted to the purer truth. This needs to be seen in the mind's eye. It's a little like listening to old radio broadcasts of Jack Benny. You know that they're just standing in front of studio microphones, but you can see the entire scene and appreciate every bit of it. When Veggie Tales did their first network Christmas special a few years back, they included a few of these songs in the show, but not in the context of the party around which the recording was written. The special was fun, but this recording is funny.

Don't take my word for it. Find it and buy it. Listen to it with your kids this season. You'll both appreciate it, if for somewhat different reasons.

I Really Need a Blackberry™

Here's my problem: We're on a long weekend visit with family in another county. During this visit, the Woodyettes, being consumate performers, do something cute and/or precocious, and Woody says to himself, "I gotta blog that." Then I remember that we're visiting a beach. There is no wireless hotspot at the beach, and even if there were, Woody left the doggoned computer back in the hotel room.

I have a corporate leash cell phone, of course, but I refuse to get into texting with it. For one thing, my thumbs are starting to get that little sharp-arthritic-jabbing-pain thing going every once in awhile, and I can only imagine that getting worse if I resort to texting. So anything that requires me to try and translate my hard-wired QWERTYized brain into a phone keypad is out of the question. I have texted my wife a grand total of, what, ten times or so. She despises texting even more than I do and has responded a grand total of, I think, six times. In three years. We are textually pathetic.

(Note to companies who have automated phone-based information systems: they stink. If you want numbers, I can keypad numbers as fast as anyone. You want alpha characters? Build a web site. Thank you.)

So I need a Blackberry. Blackberrys have somewhat more traditional keyboards on them. I see Blackberry-generated email all the time lately. I built an app at work that management uses for "succession planning." I'm not really certain what "succession planning" is, except that it sounds like something King Arthur used Excalibur to accomplish. ("I'm sorry, Sir Pellinore, thou shalt not succeed me once I extract this Sword from out thy heart." "I understand, my Liege.") So suddenly I'm getting tons of email from managers and executives that say "Generated from my Blackberry." Managers and executives — in my experience, anyway — tend to be 12:00 Flashers for the most part (look it up), so when I see that many of them using a relatively advanced technology to do their email, I realize that I have to have one.

Just think: I could see the Woodyettes do something cute and/or precocious, whip out my Blackberry, and curse loudly because there's no clear signal at the beach. But this is a minor inconvenience. We'll just stop going to the beach. Or — here's forward thinking for you — I could type it anyway, save it, wait until I get a clear signal, then find it (assuming I named it something logical like "Woodyettes Did Something Cute and/or Precocious") and email it to my blog, all in the same amount of time it takes my Dell Core™2 Duo laptop to boot up, find a wireless hotspot, type the entire blog post, and post it. What a savings in labor!

There is a problem, though. Even with a better keyboard, Blackberry keyboards are still about the size of a postage stamp. Okay, maybe a postage stamp from Mozambique that takes up half of the envelope, but still tiny compared to my standard-sized keyboard that barely fits in those laughably small moving boxes they give us at work when it's time to drive the herd to another pasture. So it's likely that I would want to carry a portable keyboard around with me for just such a scenario.

How would this work?

The Woodyettes would do something cute and/or precocious. Woody whips out his Blackberry and begins rummaging around in Mrs. Woody's notorious Black Bag for the portable keyboard. The Black Bag is a canvas bag that we began using instead of a purse as soon as the Woodyettes had gotten to the point of needing no more than one diaper on any given trip. Thus we combined the concepts of diaper bag and purse into a single entity known as The Black Bag®. Anyway, since even a foldable PDA-type keyboard would never fit in Woody's pockets, it has to go in The Black Bag. Unfortunately, so does everything else that we need on this trip. I have, and this is true, been unable to find entire magazines in that bag on occasion. As soon as we get home and Mrs. Woody dumps the contents of The Black Bag onto a table, sure enough, there's the magazine! Amazing! In the meantime, Woody has to root around in TBB for several minutes, searching for the keyboard. Aha! There it is! Then Woody discovers to his chagrin that the foldable keyboard requires a cable of a type not seen since Visor folded and became Palm One™. Woody gets so frustrated about the whole thing that he completely forgets what it was that the Woodyettes had done that was so cute and/or precocious, and the Blackberry hangs limply at Woody's side, looking for all the world like a smallish heart monitor.

Which is, after all, the point of this entire post. The Woodyettes really did do something cute and/or precocious this weekend, and Woody can't for the life of him remember what it was.

I really need a Blackberry™.

From the Heart of a Ten Year Old

This morning's breakfast prayer began:

"Dear Heavenly Father, Happy Halloween!"

I'll bet He wins every costume competition.

The Voice

The Voice is not happy tonight.

The Voice has been with me for many, many years now. It has been my companion through every stage of life — the good, the bad, and the severely depressing — and we have survived. The Voice has been shaped and molded over several decades. It is nowhere near as elastic as it used to be; but then, neither am I.

The Voice even survived puberty with me. In fact, in many ways The Voice made that transition in far better shape than I did. Over the ensuing years I have done my best to master The Voice. At this stage of life I can only say that, far from mastering it, The Voice and I have reached a mutually beneficial agreement. We are comfortable with each other now. It does its level best not to make a complete fool out of me (difficult, given the roles I've pursued on stage in the past), and I try not to take The Voice too far outside its comfort zone.

The last time I did that was a near disaster. The Voice was fresh out of high school and singing for the local J. C. The choir director had it in his head that The Voice must be capable of stretching into the realm of the counter tenor. Dangerous ground for one so inexperienced and — at the time — relatively intractable. The Voice was asked to perform the treble solo work in Schütz's "Magnificat." Heinrich Schütz liked his tenors, ah, surgically altered, and I probably had no business trying to emulate one at such a tender age. The Voice survived, but that director and I have parted company, never to work together again.

When The Voice started speaking to me again, I vowed not to rough him up so much in future gigs. I stuck to stage work where I could use my Character Voice. The Character Voice shares facilities with The Voice, but doesn't wear them out quite so much. Different still is The Speaking Voice, which at one time was compared with — this is true — a rusty hinge on helium. On stage, one can project to his heart's content, safe in the knowledge that The Character Voice is making few demands on The Voice.

(Note: Once upon a time it was referred to as The Singing Voice, but The Voice is a pretentious snob and prefers the more mysterious cognomen.)

About fifteen years ago I hit my vocal prime. The Voice had somehow matured to a point where it was fairly easy to put up with. It had also gone through what I can only define as a secondary puberty. The Voice insisted it was a 2nd Tenor, and I was more than willing to go along with it.

On second thought, I lie. What I really wanted was for The Voice to drop into baritone range. Baritones are 2nd tenors with attitude problems. But they get meatier roles.

Musically it's been a wonderful time. I have performed for some truly wonderful conductors over the years, and have been invited to solo far more than when I was a scrawny 1st Tenor. I have a recurring gig (until they get tired of me) doing the tenor solo for our annual Messiah Sing-Along here in Yorba Linda. The Anaheim Mormon Chorale has kept me happily busy doing an occasional solo, including some Gilbert & Sullivan.

Except...

We had our first rehearsal of the season a week ago. Our director, JoLane Jolley, is a wonderful musician. Educator, adjudicator, having worked herself with some of the finest conductors in the business. She also knows what she wants to hear, and right now what she wants is more oomph in her 1st Tenors. "Woody," she asked, "would you be willing to do 1st Tenor in falsetto?"

Since this question put Woody immediately in mind of a certain brush with counter-tenorhood, Woody was not pleased. Willing, of course, but not pleased. Woody is extremely comfortable as a 2nd.

The Voice is furious.

The Voice hasn't been stretched like this since I was 18. The Voice is starting to mutter under its breath. I'm hearing words like "mutiny," "retirement," and "Harry Belafonte." (Woody is not implying for a minute that The Voice would deliberately go around singing "Daaaaay-o!" until it went so hoarse that Woody could only speak in croaks, but I'm certain The Voice wants Woody to know that it's capable of doing just that.)

Tonight, after another two-hour workout in this truly unnatural range, The Voice came very close to not speaking to me again. I tried to soothe it by reminding it that I stayed in head voice for as long as possible. I only resorted to falsetto on a few occasions, and only for short bursts! The Character Voice has been chuckling to itself all night long. The Voice, meanwhile, is huffing around the house demanding its own dressing room. With chilled sparkling water.

No, The Voice is not easily appeased. Woody has been sort of croaking since returning home tonight. I'm hoping that The Voice feels much better after a good night's sleep.

"Daylight come, an' I wan' go home."

The Inner Curmudgeon

There are advantages to being a curmudgeon, if only a half-hearted one.

Got a phone call last evening. Bear in mind that any call that comes to the house now is usually either my hospitalized Sweetheart or someone desiring an update on her condition (generally fair, with patchy low clouds in the morning). This call was different.

"Hello? Mr. [garbled]?"

Any mispronunciation of my name, even given certain domestic dialects, generally means yet another calling service outsourced to somewhere in the middle-to-far east. I place this one in Pakistan or India. I start with Mr. Polite first.

Inner Dad: "Yes. Can I help you?"

Telemarketer: [reading from script] "Mr. [unintelligible], I am calling to ask for your help in answering a product survey with regards to your sporting goods purchases."

Clearly this lad has not been a regular reader of the Inner Dad or Woody's Woundup.

Inner Dad: [unable to help myself] "Are you serious? I haven't seen the inside of a sporting goods store in years!"

Telemarketer: [quickly scanning suddenly unhelpful script] "You say you don't buy sporting goods?"

Inner Dad: [now enjoying the call, having gained the upper hand] "Oh, I suppose you could count the scooters I buy for my daughters at Target, but other than that, no, I don't."

Telemarketer: [abandoning now useless script] "Ah, um, [Hindi expletive for all I know], thank you very much for your time, Mr. [still unintelligible]."

Inner Dad: "My pleasure."

And I meant it.

The Hallelujah Chorus - Of a Sort

Via my mostly-saintly mother, who got it from a former conductor:

My co-workers now think I have completely lost it.

I think I very nearly did. Enjoy.

#164 - How to Age. Rapidly.

Step 1. Have your son, whom you have not seen much in the last couple of years, invite you to be one of his "friends" on Facebook.com.

Step 2. Register, with much trepidation, at Facebook.com. Have fears about getting sucked into a "MySpace" with a different interface.

Step 3. Have fears somewhat ameliorated by the fact that Mitt Romney, LDS Stud Presidential Candidate, also has a Facebook.com page.

Step 4. Log on and check out son's page.

Step 5. Realize, quickly, what a fogey you have become in the last three years.

Step 6. In fact, begin comparing yourself with your own father, who wasn't much older than this when his hair turned nearly silver. Like, overnight. Begin wondering just how much you, personally, contributed to this color change.

Step 7. Further realize that, after only a moments' consideration, you're beginning to think of retirement in terms of "sooner" rather than "later." Also, that minivan you're contemplating buying is beginning to look sexier than your average Ferrari. Ferarri. Whatever.

Yes, I have officially joined the ranks of the Fogeys of America (FoA). You might have thought having a daughter that is not only married but has presented me with a beautiful granddaughter older than both of my other daughters would have qualified me for fogeyism long before now. But, no. It's always the boys that turn Dads into living fossils. Trust me on this.

Yes, I joke about getting a shotgun so I can be cleaning it casually whenever my daughters' future Interested Hunks begin calling and I answer the door. I still have a few years before that particular nightmare kicks in. But my son...

Well. I can only say that I immediately went into Father Reactive Mode. I posted a note on his Facebook.com page: "This is your father. Get a job. Get a haircut. Look more like me. Only thinner. This has been your Father update." It was a kneejerk sort of thing. Then I decided I'd better say something that showed I was interested in his life. I considered all the options. "Considered military school, lately?" Or, "Hey, I understand there's an opening at the local library! That oughta be a chick magnet, hm?"

But of course I copped out. I asked about his current girlfriend, then realized she was in the pictures on his page. I haven't decided yet who has more body piercings. This, I think, is the ultimate fogey-indicator. My wife only has piercings in her ears. My son has them in places I'm pretty sure were listed in the "Thou shalt nots" section of the Ten or So Commandments. "Hope things are going smoothly" I think I said. "Much love."

And I meant it. I love my son, however different from my own life his may be. Certainly this was not how I envisioned things when my only namesake - he who would continue the Woody name - reached the age where his idea of high style reminds me forcefully of a half-shaved poodle. Looks like Britney Spears became a dog groomer only to give up halfway through her first job so she could rot in rehab.

No. Really. I love my son. He's a bit on the goofy side, but what teenage boy isn't? I certainly had my moments when I was that age. Fortunately, I had those moments in the highlands of Guatemala and no one noticed. And my journals are sealed.

So, in summary, I aged about fifteen years this morning. Next entry: "That's 'Geezer,' not 'Geyser,' Sonny. I Have Dentures Older Than You..."