BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“Nyah, nyah, I win…” Mike said to Luets.

You remember Mike and Luets, correct? I wrote about them just the other day in the blog about how competitive Luets is, and during that blog I also pointed out just exactly how non-competitive Mike happens to be. However, I also noted that he “lives to get one over on Luets”, so I guess in a weird sort of way, he is competitive. Just with Luets and nobody else.

However, none of that explains why he was giving her the, “Nyah Nyah” treatment. But, trust me, I was just as confused at the time as you probably are now. So, are your seatbelts fastened? Good, because it’s subject whiplash time.

We live in a small house.

It’s not tiny, mind you. It’s definitely larger than the duplex apartment E K and I lived in early on in our relationship. And, it’s also much larger than several other houses I’ve been in over the years. But, by the same token, it’s just a 100+ year old, 1.5 story bungalow in a relatively quiet neighborhood. When we bought it, we were after a fixer-upper, and that’s exactly what we got. And, fix up we have. While it isn’t a showpiece by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not bad for what we started out with – as well as the limited funding available to us in our earlier days. Suffice it to say, the house is small but nice, and more importantly, we own it, not the bank. Yes, the house is paid off. Free and clear. Our little corner of the world. I could secede from the union if I wanted… And, still might. But, that’s a different story.

Still, small as it is, it was always just fine for us – until the o-spring came along, that is. The thing being, children are sort of like that foam insulation you spray into cracks to seal up drafts. Once you let them out of the proverbial can, they just expand exponentially – and I’m not just talking about their physical growth. What I mean is that everything they own takes up every available inch of space in your home. Even though it will all fit into said child’s room, it grows legs and deposits itself everywhere BUT said room.

But, I’m digressing… Although, only a little…

You see, when O-spring came along, E K and I gave up the master bedroom (which happens to be the only one on the main floor) and turned it into a “nursery” which has since become the o-spring’s room. This meant that we moved up into the half story. To accomplish this we turned the old loft-like storage room into a bedroom. Well, actually our contractor buddy Steve (see the hell house blogs) did. And, the room directly across the stair landing remained our office.

So, whenever you see one of my status updates on a social networking site or one of these blogs mentioning me being in my office, that’s where I am. Across the landing from our half story bedroom. Said office – with the exception of a few airplanes, hotel rooms, and a stint in our dining room when the A/C was broken – is exactly where all of the Rowan Gant novels have been written. That also goes for the novelette, and just about every article I’ve ever penned for any magazine, e-zine, website, or whatever. It’s my office. It’s where I work. I really don’t think of it as much of anything other than a room where I go do my job.

Seriously.

It’s nothing fancy by any stretch. A sloped, peaked ceiling, some walls, a counter, some cabinets, and a couple of desks. Sure, I’ve networked the hell out of it, but then I’ve done that to the whole house. That’s just something that came along with being a computer tech for so many years. But still, all in all, it’s just a room. A room where I go to work.

So, imagine my surprise when Mike looked at Luets and said, “Nyah, nyah, I win…”

And then, she proceeded to pout.

Being the curious person I am, it was a moral imperative that I ask what was going on. And, they told me.

You see, Mike and I had just returned from being upstairs in the office where we had gone to grab something we needed. I honestly can’t even remember what it was. It was no big deal to me. We just ran up the stairs, grabbed whatever it was – or checked whatever email it was… Or whatever. My point being, we ran up to the office, then right back down.

But, apparently, there was wayyyyy more to it for Luets and him. It seems they’ve had a long running bet about which one of them would be the first to actually, physically see “Murv’s Office.” Apparently, it is some manner of Holy Shrine or something. Granted, there are a few nail holes in the wall but none of them look like any biblical personages… Nor do they look like any of the characters from my novels. There are the OOAK action figures on my desk of Ben Storm, Felicity O’Brien, Constance Mandalay, and Miranda… (Never have been able to create a decent Rowan, but that’s another story)… But, what I’m trying to say here is this – the nail holes just look like nail holes.

Honestly, this confuses me. While I’ve had a few personal epiphanies during the times I hang out in my office, I don’t think they really translate to shrine material… I mean, it’s just an office. And, it’s not even clean, because I can tend to accumulate a lot of paper and such when I am researching. It’s not filthy, mind you, but it is definitely in a state of disarray. And, like I said… It’s just an office.

However, now that I’ve been made aware of this little tidbit of info, I suppose I should straighten it up a bit then invite Luets upstairs to see it. Maybe I should even get myself some of those stanchions and a velvet rope to cordon off my desk. Of course, I’ll also need a sign that says “Please No Flash Photography”…

Hmmmm… Maybe I could charge admission… And, now that I think about it, what with E K being so much more popular than me, I wonder how much they’d pay to see the secret room in the basement where she tortures people?

Something to think about. Could be a whole new source of revenue. Then maybe we could buy a bigger house.

More to come…

Murv

Yeah, I’m a YES fan… Pretty hard to be my age and NOT at least be familiar with YES. And, yes, I’m “sorta” kyping the title of this blog entry from YES. Although the actual title of the song wasn’t quite right, so I had to dig a little deeper into the lyrics.

And now, I probably need to stop saying yes so much…

The truth is, my heart isn’t actually broken. To be perfectly honest, it isn’t even mortally wounded, nor is it shattered, cracked, dinged, chipped, or otherwise severely damaged. I will say, however, that my feelings are just a bit hurt. Not irreparably, but definitely a little dab. But, I have to admit, I saw it coming. In fact, I’ve seen it coming for better than a decade now. Screaming headlong in my direction, on its way to bowl me over without apology.

But, for any of it to make sense, as usual, I need to start at the beginning…

Christmas season last – that being 2009 – it was time to set about doing the limited shopping. I say limited because E K and I only trade small gifts – after all, I shower her with gems and such all year round. But all seriousness aside for a moment… Really and for true… We only buy small gifts for one another, and the rest of the budget goes to the O-spring and the nieces & nephews under the age of 18. It’s an overall family decision and it works well.

Now, in recent years, the O-spring has decided that perhaps she should purchase gifts for us as well. This is pretty neat in and of itself because it’s one of those hallmarks of growing up. Of course, we didn’t make her go out and get a job. She just saves up her allowance for a couple of weeks and then we supplement it a bit if necessary. Normal parenting stuff.

So… Christmas 2009 the O-spring kept joking around and telling me that she was going to buy me some BBQ’d ribs as a gift. Along came “national present opening day” and sure enough, there was a box under the tree with my name on it. When I dug into it I found that my daughter had definitely inherited my sense of humor, for while there were no actual BBQ’d ribs in the box, there were in fact two very important items which hinted at such:

A high-heat resistant silicone basting brush and a bottle of Carolina style BBQ sauce.

And, as I said, the munchkin’ inherited my sense of humor. She had executed this joke of her own accord, with only the absolute necessary help from E K – i.e. driving her to the store, etc…

So, we had a good laugh. Then, we decided that as soon as the weather was nice and I had some free time, we would do the Dad and Daughter BBQ thing. We would get ourselves a slab of ribs and have at it.

This past weekend just happened to be the one.

I was on schedule with my manuscript, the predicted weather was to be absolutely lovely, and the supermarket had ribs on sale. O-spring and I planned it and for the entire week I looked forward to it. After all, I’ve been trying to get the kid interested in cooking forever and she hasn’t really taken a shine to the idea. She finally seemed like this was something that just might hold promise where such was concerned. Plus, I would get to spend quality time with the kid, doing something fun…

The Q’ing day came round, and her friends starting calling. I didn’t think anything of it at first. After all, we had plans… Then, I found myself standing at the grill with a rack of ribs, a pair of tongs, a silicone brush, and a bottle of Carolina style sauce.

And, a beer. By the time all was said and done, several actually.

Because you see, there was no O-spring to join me in the Q’ing of the ribs. Her friends and social life took precedence over the plans of the day. Eventually, she came back. But, she was still hanging with her friends. E K convinced all of them to play Boccie Ball in the back yard where I was “manning the grill”, which at least put her in the general vicinity. However, as far as the ribs went, I was on my own – until time to eat them, of course.

I was just a little bit devastated, hence the multiple beers…

I’ll get over it. I’m a big boy, and I am well aware that this is just the beginning of a long string of dented feelings. Like I said, I’ve known it was coming since the day she was born. Hell, I was a kid once myself, so I know what it’s like, and I’m certain I hurt my parents feelings in similar ways as well.

But, she’s arrived at that age where her developing social life is all important, and E K and I, as her parents, are sort of like ATM’s that talk back but don’t say anything important – at least, as far as she’s concerned. That’s just how it goes and something I have to accept. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, of course, but there’s little I can do to change it.

Now, I just have to sit back and bide my time… After another decade passes by – or maybe just a little more –  she’ll come back around and realize Dad is an okay guy to hang out with. And, when she does, I’ll find a sale on ribs, Carolina style BBQ sauce, and a bag of charcoal.

With a little luck, maybe I’ll still have that silicone brush she gave me for Christmas in 2009.

More to come…

Murv