All Comes Out in the Wash

I recently had the pleasure -- and by pleasure, I mean responsibility, and by responsibility, I mean soul-crushing duty -- of needing the services of a laundromat.

Our dryer went on strike. The drum would still tumble, but the motion was accompanied by a metallic shriek that echoed through the entire house and scared the dog.

Thinking that discretion was the better part of valor, we pulled the plug.

But in a house with three girls who can't seem to wear an outfit for more than 10 minutes without tossing it into the wash, and a Labrador Retriever who has an affinity for slopping into rain puddles, causing a steady rotation of towels through the laundry, doing without was not an option.

And for some reason, my idea to string a clothes line across the backyard and let Old Sol do the heavy work was met with equal measures of scorn and laughter.

Go green my eye!

So for about two weeks, the drill was to send the clothes through the washer (still operational, thank you), load the damp output into laundry baskets and shlepp it to the laundromat for the industrial-sized dryers there.

I am not unfamiliar with the charm of the local laundromat, unfortunately.

About a year ago, our washer went on the fritz, and for the same reasons noted above, deferring laundry for any length of time had to be avoided at all costs. So armed with a fistful of quarters taken from my coin-saving jar (which always seems to get raided, despite my assertions to the family that it is to be used only to collect coins that we will someday redeem on a trip to Walt Disney World), I entered the magical world of do-it-yourself commercial clothes cleaning.

It's a weird place, especially for a male. I got a lot of stares. And side-glances. And smiles from women I didn't know or want to know. Kids were bouncing around, and I was reminded about what a lousy place a laundromat is for kids.

A claim I make from experience.

You see, beyond my recent exposure, I've got history with laundromats.

Back in the Stone Age, when our family vacation consisted of two weeks in a crackerbox of an apartment in Ocean City, NJ, Mom would schedule one day -- and one day only -- for a trip to the laundromat. Among the amenities our seaside palatial estate did not have (air conditioning, post-1953 furniture, more than one bathroom), laundry facilities were one of the most dearly missed. We were promised year after year by our landlord that they were "...coming next year for sure!" But they never arrived.

So the jaunt to the laundromat at the shore was a yearly ritual.

It was also hell on earth.

And why I was roped into this particular chore, I'm not really sure. Without fail, the designated day sported outside temperatures and humidity levels in the triple digits. So entering a cramped room where dozens of hot air dryers were humming in unison made comfort impossible.

Mom would stake her claim, and I remember a lot of jostling and elbows, getting two machines next to each other. She'd fill the drum, jam in her change, toss in soap and shoot the slot home.

My recollection is that the machinery was spacious, but achingly slow. Processing a week's worth of laundry for a family of five took the better part of an entire morning. I remember being placated by the purchase of a few comic books from a grocery store next door, but not even that pacifier was really sufficient, as the stock seemed to comprise nothing but that wimpy Richie Rich brat.

 Dump. Sort. Wash. Dry. Fold. Repeat.

It was dull at the shore.

And it's even duller at home, where there was no promise of "hitting the beach" when finished.

Luckily, our dryer at home has been repaired, thanks to an able fix-it guy who replaced a melted ball bearing. 

So we're now back in fluffy operation under our own roof.

And my change-jar is again safe.

Unless, of course, I get a sudden urge to revisit Richie Rich comic books.

 

Faithing Tough Questions

Cradle-Catholic here.

Born and raised in the faith. Somewhere between the GOD IS WATCHING YOUR EVERY MOVE, READY TO DAMN YOU TO HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY of the 1950s and the HEY, MAN, GOD'S COOL vibe of the 1970s.

And so, in the name of all things midlife-crises, I'm questioning everything.

No, it's not along the lines of Why Does God Allow Bad Things to Happen to Good People... I get it. Parents die. So do pets. And it sucks for a while, but then the memories turn more sweet than stinging and the tears subside.

I'm currently struggling with God's love.

I'm told over and over that God loves me. But the concept is hard to grasp. Love. Love is a human emotion. God's not human; He's superhuman. So is He capable of human emotion, given that he's not human? And can He exhibit a feeling that he was powerful enough to create?

I can write a book. But can I be a book?

And if God is capable of the human emotion of love, is He capable of other human emotions?

Can He hate? Can he be bored? Depressed? Manic? 

We're told our God is a jealous God. Jealousy is another emotion. In fact, jealousy is a vice, isn't it? So God is capable of some green-eyed envy?

Isn't that weird? Do we want a God who is jealous?

"Hey, Mohammad, I wish I had half your followers. Dang."

"Geez, Christians, look at all the folks into Buddha. <kicks a stray planet with His toe> Wish I had some of that..."

Heaven is another puzzle to me. God created us. He loves us. He wants us to be with him for all eternity, having created a place for us. Which always sounded like the prizes on The Newleywed Game, whose announcer always informed winning couples that they'd been chosen "...just for you."

But to get the "prize," you need to approach God for judgment, where He'll assess your life and either reward your steadfastness against sin or send you down the chute to live in the basement.

Meanwhile, the world sets up so many obstacles that sin seems inevitable. And when God created us Himself, he made us weak in constitution and prone to temptation.

Not exactly worthy tools with which to combat our way into Heaven, are they?

So it all comes off to me like this: Stripped naked, we're set before a forest of brambles. And the challenge is this: Run through it without getting a single nick on your skin. Ready? GO. And if you emerge from the other side with just one scratch -- just one! -- you're through. So solly Cholly.

I know we're reliant on His mercy. But it still seems so... poorly thought out.

I end up picturing heaven as either full of people I know. Or completely devoid of people I know.

Heaven also seems, forgive me, boring. I'm worried about heaven being dull. No chance for an invigorating bike ride. No scrumbling a dog's coat with my fingers. No chance to drink from a long, tall glass of iced tea that is so cool, the moisture on the outside of the glass dribbles to the bottom. No gorgeous sunsets to see. No bracing swim in the ocean.

Just the "bliss" of looking into the face of God all day.

Hmm...

What if he's cranky that day?

 

Humor Me

I am, I believe, the beneficiary of a sense of humor honed by both sets of parents. My mother, ever-proud of her Irish heritage, had the gift of Blarney and instilled in me a sense of how to tell a story.

She was also a voracious reader and a deep lover of words. She taught me all about puns and double meanings and wordplay.

My dad. half-Irish, had an extremely dry sense of humor. He was, by nature, quieter (the other half of his genealogical cocktail was German), but he had a large, infectious laugh and could cut a room in half with a quick observation.

His comedic viewpoint was shaped by the movies. Dad loved W.C. Fields (master of the withering remark), The Marx Brothers, and the Blake Edwards Panther films involving Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau. He adored It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and A Christmas Story, and there was not a time they appeared on television that he didn't tune in.

So my first exposure to funny was seen through those lenses. I remember cutting my teeth on the knockabout comedy of the Stooges and the silliness of the Little Rascals, both on a steady rotation of weekday UHF channels. Bugs Bunny emerged as a sort of animated Groucho Marx, and the multiple layers of those Warner Bros. shorts began to reveal themselves. As did the sophisticated humor of Rocky and Bullwinkle (The Ruby Yacht of Omar Khayyam, anyone?).

I migrated to Abbott and Costello and still enjoy their routines, even when they get tired. The 1940s vibe of their filmography appeals, and their best work, to me, is in Who Done It?

Guilty pleasures:

• SCTV, which, in its heyday, was funnier to me than SNL. The problem became when the series exploded in popularity and, IMHO, lost its edge (I don't think it ever really recovered from the S2 loss of Harold Ramis [RIP]). 

• Whose Line Is It Anyway? I've found this show funny since its first appearance on our shores from its home in Great Britain (Clive Anderson host). Drew Carey almost killed it, thinking that he was as funny as his cast -- he wasn't -- but it somehow survived. And it's back.

 I'm now surfing comedy on the Interwebs. The YouTube series Kid Snippets has had me in stitches most recently, but I'm finding a point of diminishing returns, where overexposure is lessening comedic impact.

Anyway, as a sampling, here are some of my comedy favorites from across the ages of funnydom:

Taxi!

I know it's curmudgeonly of me, but I've got a major gripe regarding the Younger Generation in general.

Or maybe it's just my kids specifically.

But what is it with them being picked up in the car?

First off, it's constant. Amanda, our eldest, is driving, so she's pretty much off our radar. Claire, our middle-button, just got her license (causing me to almost wear out my rosary while teaching her), but she has limited access to wheels, so she's still in I-need-to-be-driven mode.

And then there's Kristin, the 13 year-old, who pretty much needs to be ferried to/from everywhere.

I know I'm speaking prehistorically, but when I was 13, I was either on my bike or hoofing it to whatever activities I needed to attend. But that was pre-Stranger Danger days when kids could dare leave their front doors and not immediately be swept away by a drug-addled molester and never seen again except on the side of a milk carton.

And I recognize those days are over. Our neighborhood is pretty isolated, and the roadways nearby are choked with traffic and drivers who aren't paying attention. Frankly, I'd worry about any of my kids commuting on them on bicycles or on foot. I know how dangerous they can be just from walking Parker twice daily. Just this morning, a pinhead driver blew by me going at least 45 in a 25 zone. God forbid one of these pea-brains behind the wheel is under the influence of alcohol, email, texts, Facebook or Google.

But when I did need to be picked up, back in the day, the rules were quite simple: If mom or dad was coming at 2 p.m. to get me, I darned well better be waiting at the corner (or outside the store, or sitting on the stoop or whatever) of the designated spot. As Dad would say, "You wait for me. I don't wait for you."

The implication was clear: Be late and be warned. Dad's leaving without you. Find your own way home, Tommy Tardy.

Part of it comes from being raised by a Navy man. Early for Dad was on time. And on time for Dad was late. And that maxim held for doctor appointments, church start-times, baseball practices, dinners, and party invitations.

So we were never late for a pickup. Never!

The cellphone has changed all of that. "Text me when you get here," is ubiquitous in our house, meaning that a study session or playdate need not end until the phone jangles the signal that the young'uns' ride is awaiting.

There's just something a little too Princess Cinderella about all that for me: "Oh, M'lady. Your carriage awaits..." "Thank you, Mr. Footman. We shall depart for the ball posthaste, I take it?"

Grr...

So I've started pre-loading the conversation. When I leave for an appointed pickup, I will text the passenger: "I'm on my way."

And once again when I arrive: "I'm here."

The trouble is, the warnings are ignored, and I'm left at the curbside, flashers blinking, traffic angrily sliding around me, while my blood pressure builds.

The worst part is that none of my passengers seem to get the reason for my displeasure: "What's the big deal, Dad? I wasn't ready..."

Oy.

 

Uncle Oscar

Watched the Academy Awards Sunday night.

For the 38th time in my life, I watched the entire broadcast. From jokey opening to final envelope.

My earliest memories of the Oscar telecast are from 1976, seeing Rocky take the statuette. Actually, I did see a lot of the year prior's ceremonies (1975, when One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest won best pix), but this was a clandestine viewing, not sanctioned by my parents. At the time, my bedroom was across the hall from theirs, where our one-and-only television set was. If I leaned out of bed and propped myself up by anchoring my left hand flat on the floor and locking my elbow, I could see the screen.

That's how I ended up watching a lot of Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher picking up awards.

Mom and Dad were both "into" movies. Mom loved those sappy MGM musicals and the Rogers and Hammerstein mega-hits. Dad loved comedies, from the Marx Brothers to It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. So I inherited a lot of this interest.

I always admired how, on Oscar night, when the camera panned the audience, they could call out: "There's Cary Grant." "There's Richard Burton." "Ooh, look at Lee Grant." "Doesn't Olivia DeHavilland look terrific?"

They'd do the same thing watching those compilation films like That's Entertainment: Howard Keel. Lena Horne. Cyd Charisse. Bobby Van. Margaret Dumont. Spencer Tracy. Joan Crawford. Mickey Rooney. Roddy McDowall. Ann Miller. Even Asta, the dog from the Thin Man films.

And so I went to school on old-time Hollywood. Until I, too, could identify Jack Lemmon or Shirley Booth on sight.

And so Oscar Night became my Super Bowl. I looked forward to it ahead of time. Jittered my way through school (or later, work) that day (remember, it used to be a Monday night, until the 1999 move), took the phone off the hook, and glued myself in place.

There were terrific moments (Jack Palance's one-armed pushups, 1992) and dumb moments (Rob Lowe/Snow White, 1989) and hilarious moments (Billy Crystal's yearly sung overture) and moments of unbridled joy (Roberto Benigni climbing over the seats, 1999).

And a whole lot of overblown production numbers, boring tributes, sketchy montages, political statements, egos run amok, dreadful best song slogs and truly touching "In Memoriam" segments.

What killed me about watching in the east was the timeframe. Oscar telecast kicked off at around 8 p.m. Which meant that at around 10:45, we could count on the whole ride grinding to a halt for a large-scale production number that would stretch on interminably. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we present our tribute to the film reel!" "Join us, ladies and gentlemen, as we salute the concession stand popcorn man!" "Tune up that orchestra, Bill Cont; it's time for a song-and-dance retrospective of famous movies featuring clothespins."

Oy.

This year's broadcast was... okay. Ellen pushed rather hard, I thought, and gags went on too long. Selfies and pizza were funny for a while, but she didn't seem to know when to move it along. I thought the only out-of-the-park laugh she had was appearing as Glinda the Good Witch, albeit late for the Pink rendition of "Over the Rainbow."

Speeches were fine. Nobody was outlandishly dressed (Cher!). And then there was John Travolta.

I thought, like other years, that the whole evening could have used an extra dash of class (but it was certainly an improvement over last year with Seth McFarlane). Proposal: Academy rules are changed so that Julie Andrews presents every Best Picture winner from here on out.

Nothing classier, in my book, than a dose of Julie Andrews.

So there's another notch in my Oscar-watching belt. I guess when it comes to this yearly overblown tribute to the glitz and glamor of Hollywood, there's only one thing I can truly say:

I like it. I really, really like it.

Walking the Walk

In the realm of pet ownership, there are dog walkers.

And there are dog-pottyers.

Dog walkers are out there every day -- often multiple times per day -- exercising their dogs and allowing them to attend to bathroom issues.

Dog pottyers either have fenced-in yards or other means of sending the dog out to attend to nature's call and then return inside. Exercise is handled via other means.

I don't judge. Each method has its advantages and disadvantages.

But me? I'm a dog walker.

The habit may actually be genetic: My Dad was a devoted dog walker. He and his Basset Hound, Murphy, used a time-tested route through the neighborhood, and Murph was so accustomed to it, he would not vary it. Not one step. Which my grandmother found out when she tried to shorten it one day, and Murph protested by plopping on the sidewalk and refusing to budge.

Dad had to go rescue her after she failed to return about an hour after her departure (this was in the pre-cellphone dark ages).

So when we got Wesley, our Black Lab, he and I walked. Mornings. Evenings. For more than 10 years.

And when Parker came along in Wesley's wake, I maintained the same routine.

It's just the way I handle dog ownership. I've said more than once that if we had a fenced yard and I let Parker out, hopeful that he would do what he needed to do, he'd merely stand there and stare at the glass.

"Dad... Dad? Hey, Dad! What am I doing out here while you're in there?!?"

For the most part, I don't mind these walks at all. In the mornings, it's a terrific chance for me to just.... think. Quietly walk. Sift through some of the issues of the day prior. Brainstorm. Pray. Spend some time in peace. I do an awful lot of "writing" during these walks. Thinking up blog topics for example. Or rolling around ideas for work projects. They're a great time to fashion headlines, I've found.

This winter, however, walking Parker is a challenge.

For one, we've lost almost all our sidewalks to snowpack. That means he and I are in the streets, a dangerous place to be when the sun's not even up (No worries, though: He wears a lighted collar and I carry a high-powered flashlight). Or when we do manage to find a cleared sidewalk, I'll encounter the "snowblown path to nowhere," which is a homeowner who will clear his/her own walk, but not one square inch of snow off a neighbor's walk. So the path leads to a solid wall of nowhereville. Leaving me to tromp through the drifts and get back in the street.

Bad form, Mr. Snowblow. Can't you at least clear to a nearby driveway, where pedestrians and dog walkers can exit to the street without climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro?

My nadir was about three weeks ago, when the morning was dark and dreary and a cold rain was soaking the roadways. Within seconds, my jeans were wet, and a bitter wind was causing the denim to freeze to my thighs. Insult was added to injury when a car roared by us, spraying me with salty, mucky, slush that hit my cheeks, slid down my neck and ended up somewhere between my sweatshirt and my skin.

Parker, for what it's worth, didn't seem to mind any of this at all. In fact, the cold and snow don't bother him in the least. He loves romping through the drifts: "C'mon, Dad. C'mon. c'mon. c'mon, c'mon!!!"

Ah, the eternal cheeriness of the Labrador Retriever.

It's hard to fault him for it.

But I somehow start thinking it would be easier to take at 10:30 a.m. on a 75-degree day in May.

Cold Hearted

Eileen gave me a chocolate Reece's Peanut Butter Heart for Valentine's Day.

And a card.

I immediately put the heart in the freezer.

You see, I do like chocolate. I'm not over-the-top crazy about it, but I do enjoy the taste.

But for me, it's enhanced when cold. Especially anything from Reece's, where the cocoa and peanut butter marry into something truly decadent when they're brittle-hard.

My family teases me about this. A lot. They wonder if this is a holdover from my childhood; that perhaps I got in trouble at some point for making some kind of chocolatey mess with a dessert. Messy Marvin-style.

I'm not sure... I don't remember any trauma resulting from punishment for a face smeared with the remnants of a Three Musketeers.

But I suppose it is possible.

I do remember being dragged to my older brother's football games and, in an effort to placate my whining, being given a Styrofoam cup of cocoa. But I don't think I knew it was cocoa; I think I thought it was merely chocolate milk.

And I can still recall the bitter feel of a burnt tongue, which was not at all mitigated by the sweet contents of the hot chocolate.

I do, therefore, have an iffy relationship with melty, gooey chocolate.

Two years running, I tried to make Eileen a lava cake for her birthday. She's a dyed-in-the-cocoa-bean chocoholic who I knew would appreciate a serving of soft, fudgy cake, centered with a gush of warm, molten chocolate in the center.

Trouble is, I am 0 for 2 in trying to pull this off. Mine was edible, but more like a hockey puck filled with a soft Hershey kiss.

Maybe it's a general feeling of meh when it comes to chocolate things in general. I'm not a big brownie guy, even though my family will dicker over a pan of uncut brownies, choosing either a "middle" or a "corner" as the best cut. And hot fudge leaves me kind of cold. As far as candy goes, I like other flavors mixed in with my chocolate, rather than just chocolate alone. So Reece's is a favorite. As are Peppermint Patties. And chocolate-covered strawberries.

But all in all, I'd rather have a good slice of cheesecake, thank you.

Still, when it comes to desserts, there is one thing that I enjoy being soft and mushy.

Ice cream.