I’ve been on the hunt for a new job. Sharon and I are planning on moving back east, mostly for the purpose of getting closer to family, but also to escape the dead-end job situation in which I have found myself these past eighteen months. My career has always been an ill defined sort of thing, mostly because there are lots of skills that I can do reasonably well, and I find myself interested in far too many activities. I’ve done just about everything you can do with media at one time or another, and that leaves the door wide open, or slammed shut, depending on how you look at it.
Remember way back when child safety seats were for infants only, and not all children under thirteen years of age and 135 pounds? In my last post, I hinted that my mom’s driving might have been a wee bit dangerous. This is where the rubber meets the road.
Blogs are about revealing the mind numbing details of childhood, right? Well, buckle up, children, because Daddy’s driving. (Mind numbing detail #1. In my family, it was Mom’s driving that was most likely to kill us.)
War rarely begins with open combat. Sometimes, an accident leads to a skirmish, and then another, until full scale war breaks out, and we send our sons off to do battle. More often than not, war begins with a philosophy. At the very least, it starts with an opinion that gets built into a philosophy for PR purposes, and next thing you know, some entire group of “the other guys” is filled with satan-worshipping crack addicts with weapons of mass destruction, or whatever…
In my single-digit formative years, I had a friend named Kevin. He was a fun kid, if you define “fun” as walking the line between play and juvenile prosecution, or possibly as exploring the outer limits of childhood guilt. Either way, we spent our summer days trying to reenact Evel Kneivel’s most disastrous jumps, like the time he convinced me to ride my little brother’s bike off the tree house in our backyard. I nearly squashed it flat, and I spent weeks trying to convince my brother that his bike was much cooler as a chopper, never mind that he couldn’t actually pedal since the pedals hit the ground twice on every stroke. That was on a good day; our daredevil performances occurred in between acts of pure vandalism.
It’s no secret that my parents were not the happiest people on the planet, especially when they were together. One of my mom’s favorite phrases, intended to cover any situation in which my dad backed her into an angry and frustrated corner, was this…
“I should have married Burt Thigpen!”
Obviously, I’m glad that she didn’t – since I would have missed out on my entire life, and all. We heard that phrase on a regular basis. Dad blamed my mom for the boat’s failure to start, Burt Thigpen. Dad told my mom to buy $200 worth of groceries and gave her $80, Burt Thigpen. Dad lost one of his 58 pairs of work gloves and yelled at my mom about it, Burt Thigpen. The hair fell off the hindquarters of the German Shepherd mutt… well, you get the idea.