I'm a Sheep Dog

No, that's not my photo snapped at the latest "Furry" convention. Actually that photo has been doctored with my face on a sheep dogs body. (I know! It's amaizing how real that looks!) As a rule, I don't dress up as a Sheep Dog. But I am of their ilk. I'm a herder. I know I've mentioned this before in passing, but I wanted to get into more detail to see if any of you are herders too. Or am I just abnormal.

My tendancy is to be in constant contact with my loved ones. I'd prefer that we all be in the same room, if we are all home. If one of us is gone, I need to hear from that person, usually if he or she is going to be late. I'd really like a call when anyone is about to head home so that I know when to expect him or her and I don't have to watch out the window and worry that he/she is dead in a ditch.

I suppose I can dispense with the vaguries of him/her...I'm talking about Doc here. He's more of a cat. His philosophy is "If the phone doesn't ring, it's me." If I don't hear from him, I should assume all is well. Which is kind of a logical leap for this pup, because I also wouldn't hear from him if he were dead. So, really? Not helpful for herding purposes. There's also a matter of our different interpretations of what "I'll be back in about 20 minutes" means (See this post, #3 for more information).

I know he hates the phone and would rather never have to use one. And in general, we're an awesome team; I have no complaints. For example, when we cook in the kitchen, we communicate almost completely implicitly; no words are necessary. I aspire to this level of communication with the people in my life and I'm lucky to have it. But it would be nice, for me, if he would just call on his way out the door from work to let me know he'll be home soon and to check to see if we need anything. Or let me know if he was going to be late or off on walk-about.

But that's an old saw and really off the point.

I was talking about me.

My herding instincts really come out at night. It's very difficult for me to be the first one to go to bed. I really can't settle down until I know that everyone is home, safe and out like a light. This is tricky for me and Doc, him being a night owl and working afternoons and me also being a night owl but on the early shift. I want to stay up with him, but it ruins me for the next day.

Last night, however, I had to go to bed first, even before the girls. I had the world's worst stomach ache, complete with cramps and chills. I hadn't slept well the night before and I was just worn out. I slugged down some Pepto and reluctantly headed off to bed. I should have been comforted. I had the bed to myself, I had the heated mattress pad turned up to ward off the chills, I popped in a Bob Newhart Show DVD, but I had this feeling of fear/emptiness.

Everyone was still up. My herd could drift while I'm in here. What if Lucy sleep-walked again? What if Riley runs away? What if Doc scarpered off to the back yard for a whiz and slipped and fell and cracked his head open?

Stop it, I told myself. Just enjoy sprawling out and drifting off. I did, eventually. Then at about 4 a.m. I woke up, still alone. I experienced a sheep dog frisson of fear. I got up and wandered through the house, eventually discovering the girls on the couch and Doc sleeping on they chair with his legs out on the ottoman. I thought about waking him up and dragging him back to bed. And then I thought better of it. They were fine. They were herded. I could go back to bed.

Still...what if...

What John Mayer Knows About Parenting Could Barely Dampen a Doily

Father's Day is always pretty low key around here. For the past three Father's Days, Doc, the only father on his team, has been scheduled for work on Father's Day. Which mildly sucks. I mean, we can always use the dough, but it would be nice to have him around on a day that honors him and what he is to his family.

There's been a bit of talk lately around here about the importance of fathers to daughters, that leaves John Mayer in the dust. We've decided that daughters need to know that they are beautiful, special , accepted. They need to know what a good man looks like. They need to be able to smell a rat and cross the street to stay away from them.

One thing I've learned that I hope to gift my daughter with is the knowledge is that when you're facing something you rather not, a Cornish Horn-Tailed dragon, an audit, or court, for example. You need to do the right thing, keep your head, pray and do your best to not freak out. It's hard. It hurts. It's scary. But as old Bill Cosby once said, "Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it." I've done this myself and it works. It's a way to love something hateful.

I can't pinpoint how I learned to do this, but I'm glad I did. I know my Dad did't tell me directly; he preferred to let me find my own way and offered his opinion only when asked. But his faith in me and his love showed me how to be strong and true. Sure I'm scared. But I just conjure up Captain Kirk or Hawkeye Pierce (another Captain, by the way) or some other larger than life model of bravery whom I wouldn't have know without my Dad's influence.

He pointed me in the direction of many things that give me strength:

• Star Trek
• Rock and Roll
• MASH
• Classic Cars
• The Lord of the Rings
• Attention to Detail
• Puns

And, Doc...the influence he has he uses well. He laid down "Rule Number One: Do No Harm." I like this rule very much. We've even started using it around the neighborhood (and not just with the kids). But kids respect it. It's simple. It covers a lot of ground. This will help the girls make HUGE life decisions in the future. It's an inspirational parenting tool and a stroke of genius.

Doc also takes his time. He explains stuff. He shows the kids stuff I don't know how to do. With my good looks and his know-how, they are going to be unstoppable!

Another bit of Doc's wisdom that we haven't shared with the kids yet (though Riley is reading this over my so the jig is up) is the idea of giving someone "A Pass." Imagine this. You're Doc's friend, right? You've been friends for a while. You've had a good time, shared some laughs. Then you goofed it up. Royally. You apologize to him and he looks you straight in the eyes and swings in close. "You. Get a pass." And he means it. I've never gotten a pass and then had the record of it thrown up in my face. This will also be of great service to the girs. It's unwise to harbor ill will to the people who are closest to you.

All in all, my girls are really lucky to have two wonderful gentlemen they can look up to and measure other people by. Pop and Daddy are the tops, so hopefully the girls will look for people like them to form their circles of friends. If that came true, baby, then I'll be on top of the world.

And I'm pretty lucky too.

"A court of equity will not assist a person in extricating himself or herself from the circumstances that he or she has created."

Doc and I were just discussing maxims. He believed he had just come up with one. Observe:

Upon reentering the garage after an al fesco whiz, Doc declares, "I have just come up with a new maxim."

"Oh?"

"You should never piss on your own firewood."

"A maxim, huh?"

"Yes," he replied.

"It's really more of common sense, don't you think?" I asked.

"Well, that's what a maxim is..."

"Huh...but I'm not so sure..." I replied as I headed off to look it up.

Long story short: This is a maxim.

What was particularly interesting was an example of a legal maxim, which became the title of this post:

"A court of equity will not assist a person in extricating himself or herself from the circumstances that he or she has created."

And yet we bail out Wall Street.

"If the courts were handling this shit, they'd say, 'Let 'em dangle," I said. "But think about who's handling this: The current government."

"And who's been in Big Business' pocket for eight years? W..." Doc said.

"Right...him and those fuckers in the Senate...excepting one, of course...he ain't been there long enough to be invested. But now that they're on the way out, Big Business is calling up and saying, 'We want our money back."

So, after this discussion, I'm thinking, "Don't piss on your own firewood" would be a pretty good maxim to hand over to the new administration. 'Cause when you pee on your own firewood, the odor will haunt you. Or maybe, "Don't shit where you eat." Or are those aphorisms...

"I Want That In Writing," Doc Said

It was late, too late. We were in bed and Doc had a lot on his mind. He kept starting conversations just as I would start drifting off. He doesn't do this often, but every now and then he poses the most interesting questions. Like the one time he asked me if we had life insurance just as I was about to roll over and go to sleep. Scenes from the movie Double Indemnity immediately sprung to mind and I was instantly wary, wondering if he planned on bludgeoning me in my bed and making his way off to Tahiti with the settlement.

But getting back to the other night...

Doc had made a jibe about my earlier post and how I said "I was usually in charge in a relationship." He said, "You're in charge because I let you be in charge." Well, those are fighting words, such as they are in our house.

"What do you mean you let me be in charge?" I asked huffily. That is about as bad as letting me win at games.

"I let you make most of the decisions because we agree on everything, for the most part," he explained.

"How many times have I asked you your opinion before making a decision? A lot!"

"True," he admitted.

"I guess I didn't mean 'I'm in charge' in this relationship; I'm the one who usually takes action. We are both in charge...this is a partnership, right?"

"Right," he agreed.

There was a moment of silence and then he said, "Can I have that in writing?"

"You want me to blog about this, don't you."

"Would you mind?"

I don't mind.

Here let it be written:

We are neither of us in charge of the other in our marriage. I tend to make most of the decisions, but Doc has veto power. On the rare occasions when Doc makes the decision, I get the same rights.

In Monopoly, Doc is spelled G-O-D.

If you are Doc and you’re reading this, I know you just got a blast of the blasphemous and you are feeling very uncomfortable with the title of this post. Forgive me Doc; I do know what I’m doing.

For those of you who haven’t had an opportunity to play Monopoly with Doc, I will tell you this: His skills are godlike. In the eleven years that I have known him, I have beaten him once at Monopoly. Once. If you know me at all you must also know that this makes me crazy. I don’t like to lose. I know how to lose graciously because I am a good sport. Please don’t mistake that for pleasure.

Mind you, Doc is the kindliest Monopoly player you’ll ever have the misfortune to tangle with. He never taunts you or screams “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” when he gets a good roll. But if he agrees to deal with you: you’re screwed. And there’s something godlike in that, I believe.

Doc has this freaky aura of the predestined when he sits down to play this game. He is the one who wins. You are at his mercy. He’s in control of the game from the beginning. If you make a deal with him that seems like it will get you farther ahead in the game, it ends up cutting you off at the knees. Better to trust your luck on your own, play by the rules and make incremental progress.

Because he’s a nice guy, he usually doesn’t toy with you, but he could if he wanted to. He’s got the loopholes covered. It is a rare case when Doc, like the gods, ends up with the fuzzy end of the lollipop. It is usually the lowly human who is stuck tied to a rock being eaten by hawks, damned to wander the earth as a donkey, or doomed to lose against him in a game of chance. Don’t let those dimples and baby-blues fool you; inside all gods is an unbendable core of steel. Rather than try to work around them, it’s best to keep your eyes open, mind your p’s and q’s, and look for a chance to advance on your own.

When The Moon Hits Your Eye Like A Lemon Merangue Pie, That's Amore!

I believe Doc was moved by Sammy Davis, Jr. (and an overt message from me) to provide a memorable gesture for our 10 year anniversary. It was a little more Sammy than it was Flannery, but I'll take it.

There were many memorable things that happened today. For instance, Lucy, when she got out of the tub, wanted to be Super Lucy and insisted in the way only a three-year-old could, and I obliged. I loosely tied a blanket around her neck and she was transformed.

I told the girls I needed two super heros to help me on my mission: To find the DVD remote. They gamely agreed to help me in my quest. Lucy even went to get friends. She ran into the bathroom and said in the mirror, "Mommy needs some super heros to find the remote...do you want to help? [pause] Good! Let's go!" And she raced back into the bedroom.

I told the girls to check under the bed while I stripped it of its sheets. "Not here!" I said.

"Not here!" said Riley popping back up from under the bed.

"Now I need you to help me remake this bed!"

"Yay!" they yelled as Riley jumped on the bed. We had some fun flapping the sheets around and then we decided to straighten the covers. By this time, Lucy was on the bed too, jumping and superheroing. Riley and I got the sheet and one blanket on and Riley lost interest. I straightened my side up and looked at Lucy.

"Ok?" I said.

"NO!" she yelled and started stumbling around.

"Are you caught in your cape?" I asked, looking at her feet.

"No, no, no, no, no!" she said and then pointed to the covers, "It's not straight!"

"Well, why don't you straighten it?" I asked.

"Super heros don't do that," she said and leapt off the bed.

*****

After the girls went to sleep, I came out to the garage to see how Doc was doing.

"I've been thinking about that gesture," he said.

"Oh?" I asked, "What is it?"

"Well, I want to make sure the kids are asleep first."

"Hmmm...they're out," I said.

"Ok," he said, "Follow me."

He lead me outside and into the driveway, under the nearly full moon. He walked me clear out to the spotlight of the lampost at the end of the drive and said the following:

Tonight is our tenth anniversary. I want you to stop and think back and call up all the memories of every time I've been late or screwed up or forgotten anniversaries and hold that image in your mind. Got it? OK. Now wait here.

He walked back to his Jeep and started shuffling things around. Oh, God, I thought, He's going to shoot me. But the thought passed as he finally got everything how he wanted it. He turned and started walking toward me with a pie in one hand and the other hand behind his back.

He leaned into me in that way he does when he really wants to make sure you're listening and said the following over a lemon merangue pie: "Now, I want you to take this pie and shove it in my face."

"No," I said, "I won't do that."

"Come on," he prodded.

"No..."

"You can do it."

So I stuck my finger in the cream on top and wiped it on his chin.

"There," I said.

And he got this look in his eye and his right shoulder dipped. In a half second I caught sight of a second pie.

"Oh no you don't, you bitch!" I yelled and ducked as I brought the pie up and over and hit him square in the face. My duck saved me (ducks will usually do that for you), all but the right side of my head.

"I can't believe you did that!" I yelled as he laughed, wiping pie off his face.

I started walking into the house pissed and amazed. Who does that? I wondered. He followed me in and we went into the kitchen and started to rinse off. He's laughing and I'm still trying to recover.

"I can't believe you did that; you're such a little bitch!"

After we were nearly cleaned of, the joy of it started to wash over me. God, that was fun. And you know what? I think I kind of liked landing a pie in his face. We talked later about how ten years is a long time and we've both driven each other nearly crackers and we decided that we both deserved what we got.

Phase two of Operation Gesture was much more Flannery. Doc went back to the Jeep and fetched a dozen beatiful roses and a cool bottle of Asti, my favorite.

"Now," he said, "I want to tell you: the pies were reduced, but I paid full price for those roses."

And my heart melted.

Blood Of Atonement: An Anthology Of Mormon Metal!

1. The Lonliness of the Long Distance Prophecy

2. White Sabbath

3. Diary of a Bigamist

4. Yeah, More Mr. Nice Guy!

5. Judas Priest

6. I Want To Pray

7. Talk Tidy To Me

8. Quit Smoking in the Boys Room

9. Girls, Girls, Girls

10. 21:12

11. I said stop calling me DAVE!

--Executive producers: Doc & Flannery, thanks to Frank for the idea.