Random Friday Stuff

I’ve got lots to tell you about. I mean, lots.

But the best news is that I understand you are hearing those voices in your head too. Your neighbor told me about it. She heard them. You seem to be a loud thinker.

It’s going to be okay.

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I’ve been using most of my louder thoughts to ricochet off the Worcester Range. The words break into tiny shards, then drop, softly, but still plenty sharp for the townspeople below.

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Hey wait, aren’t you the guy who opposed the fireworks?

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A mosque in the city?

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Oh Mr. America, you can be such a stupid bastard.

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What I Did Not Learn in Therapy:

I’m not so sure about something: You.

Mostly because it takes the pressure off: Me.

They frown on that shit.

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Daughter Test: I got to stop cutting wood early the other morning to take Izzie, as she’s now demanding to be called, to her dentist appointment.

It was over by noon.

So, being the responsible father that I am, I gave her two choices (it’s all about empowerment, baby):

“I can take you back to school or we can go home, grab the kayaks, and go to No. 10 Pond and head to our favorite swimming spot for the afternoon.”

I’m big on offering choices. I learned it from my parents, the folks who convinced me as an eleven-year-old that seeing “The Exorcist” was a fine “choice.” [Note to self: Mention this to future therapists).

Izzie – as she’s now demanding that she be called – passed the test: She chose me! No, not the kayaks, the gloriously clean and crisp waters of No. 10 Pond, and an afternoon of total water play, but me.

Deal with it. It’s my blog.

I’m glad Izzie passed her test.

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Speaking of Izzie, her new school recently had a “parents’ night” for the parents of the “new kids.” On the way there, I got words of warning from both the girl and woman in my life about behaving myself. My daughter didn’t want me to embarrass her by, say, talking. And my wife didn’t want me to…well…do the same.

I had been warned.

It’s a good thing, too, because I had to sit through things like this:

“We do things differently around here,” said the principal to the gathering of about 200 parents in a school’s elegant auditorium. “We call everyone by their first name, students AND faculty.”

Oh my.

“The kids don’t have a hard time with this,” he continued, “but the parents do.”

My wife put her hand on my knee and gave it a gentle squeeze, providing a quick reminder about the warnings delivered on the way there.

“So let’s practice,” the principal said.

My wife squeezed harder.

“I’m going to say, ‘hello, parents,’ and I’d like all of you to say, ‘hello, Keith,’ right back to me.”

I began to lose circulation in my lower leg.

“Hello, parents!” he called out, just like he said he was going to do.

“Hello, Keith!” we offered back, just like he asked us to.

I suspect I will be in a knee brace for the next six years.

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I would very much like Keith to call me Mr. Colby.

And that goes for the rest of you, too.

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Wait, I’m having a school flashback:

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Class dismissed.