Looky, Daddy!

I'm Three!

For simplicity, I am discontinuing my inside-voice service. Outside Voice will henceforth be renamed All-Purpose Voice.

While you are free to disagree, "Poopy head" is comedy gold. I think the numbers back me up on this one, too.

Yes, I will tell you when I need to use the bathroom. Listen for it as you unload the grocery cart at the cash register.

Somewhere people are doing things wrong. I will go and look for them, then report it all back to you in detail. Don't go anywhere.

I accessorize with Band-aids.

Everything that has taken place from five minutes ago way back to when I was born happened "yesterday." I apologize for any confusion this may cause.

Based on my can-I-have-some-candy investigation, I have determined that you are a bad father.

And a poopy head.

The Golden Pig

In the Czech Republic, it is said you should fast on Christmas Eve. When I taught there for a few years back in my early twenties, my students told me this. They said anyone who fasted until Christmas dinner would get to see the golden pig.

I was an English teacher to Czech high school students and it was not uncommon for there to be gross misunderstandings between us, and those misunderstandings were not always related to my frequent visits to the pub that was run out of the school's first floor. I thought the golden pig might be one of those misunderstandings, but it wasn't.

I'll take a minute here while you reread the last paragraph to confirm that I did, in fact, say there was a pub in the high school. It served beer, wine, and a Czech-brewed liquor called Fernet Stock, the alcoholic equivalent of a colonoscopy for your throat. The pub opened at 10 AM on schooldays. Never has there been a more perfect match of workplace environment to my workplace skills.

Now back to the pig. Apparently, I learned, if you didn't eat until Christmas dinner, you would be rewarded with a hallucination of a golden pig. Some students said it appears on your dining room wall. Some said it shows up anywhere. One student said you'd see it floating out of your window, but I think she said that just to freak me out.

Name that movie!

Not a single student of mine could answer why you would ever want to see the golden pig. To this day, it still escapes me. But here's the thing: As a Christmas legend, it's brilliant. It can neither be proven nor disproven. It doesn't happen every year and if it never happens to you at all, that still doesn't mean it's not true. It kicks the stuffing out of, say, a fat man in a red suit who brings you presents for no apparent reason whatsoever.

A fat man my daughter announced at dinner last night she no longer believes in.

She said it quickly, not so much a declaration as a belch, gas that had built up in her until it could be contained no longer. And then it was out there. I think she would have darted under the table if she could have, but doing so would have meant touching all the vegetables she has been squirreling down there since she was three.

"Oh ho!" I said. "You don't believe in Santa Claus?"

"No. I think you are Santa Claus."

"Hmm," my wife joined in. "So what does this mean? Are you not going to write a letter to Santa this year?"

Kathryn turned her eyes to her mom. "Here's what I was thinking," she said. "I know there's no Santa. But these guys," she gestured at the twins who were busy trading green beans and probably would have been traumatized by this whole exchange if they didn't live on planet goofball, "still do. And they are too little to write their own letters to Santa. So I'll keep writing one letter for all of us until they are old enough to do it on their own."

She speared a piece of pork with her fork. "You know, as a favor to them."

We watched her eat in stunned silence, and by silence I mean listening to the twins ask for syrup. After a few minutes, Kathryn asked, "How many more years do you think it'll be before they can write their own letters?"

"Two," I said. "Maybe three. Why?"

"No reason. I was just wondering."

Your Days Are None the Better For What You Have Done

I woke up this morning at about 6:30 AM and I rubbed my eyes. They hurt. Everything near them hurt as well. They would continue to hurt until coffee was brewed.

There was a noisy queue for our house's single toilet and I joined it at the end. Everyone in front of me was wearing footed pajamas. Two-thirds of them asked to have their butts wiped. Two-thirds of them were disappointed. No one flushed. The water in the bowl was impossibly yellow by the time it was my turn. I told myself not flushing was better for the environment, then I made the water even more yellow. The sight of it would have surely burned my eyes had not closed them against the pain.

Three pairs of pajamas were exchanged for three sets of school clothes. Some people thought this was a better idea than others. Protests were made and ignored. I poured three bowls of cereal: Two bowls Frosted Mini-Wheats, one bowl Cheerios.

Later, school lunches and backpacks were passed out and shoes were wrestled on. I handed the car keys to Lila. It was her turn to hide them. Each morning, one child gets to run out first, unlock the car, and hide the keys somewhere inside. That's my way of ensuring at least one of my children goes to the car voluntarily. I can sling the other two over my shoulders if I need to. Even the eight-year-old. Lila always hides the keys in the glove box. I always know this, and she always knows I'll check at least five other places before I find them. This morning, when I opened the glove box, she screamed with joy at her own cleverness.

Nothing that happened this morning was affected by California passing Proposition 8. Had voters rejected it instead, my morning would have been identical. Proposition 8 has not touched me. Making gay marriage illegal in California has left me unaffected. My days haven't changed.

But listen, 52% of California: Back when gay marriage was legal, your days didn't change, either. When there was marriage equality in your state, your mornings transpired exactly the way they had before. Your head probably hurt before your morning coffee. Your kids probably protested getting dressed. It's even possible that your daughter also hid your keys in your glove box, and when gay marriage was legal, she still squealed with joy when you found them.

You didn't need to vote away a people's right. Your days are none the better for it. Your days are none the better for what you have done.

November 4th, 2008 11:00 PM EST

The cork from the champagne left a dent in my ceiling that I have no intention of ever patching.

Election Night Cocktail

The Ginger Martini

3 oz vodka
1/4 lime, squeezed
ice
1/2 oz ginger syrup

Ginger Syrup

lemon peel from one lemon
2 cups chopped unpeeled ginger
1 cup sugar
2 cups water

Chop the lemon peel and ginger in a food processor, then throw it in a saucepan with the sugar and water. Bring to a boil, then simmer 15 minutes. Strain and cool.

Shake, strain and serve.

(Editor's note: Originally, the last line of this post read: Shake, strain, and serve. Or pour it in a bottle, top it with a rag, and let the revolution begin. It speaks volumes about the climate of this nation, and of my own head, that when I reviewed that last line, it didn't seem as funny as I had hoped.  In fact, it seemed about as far from funny as I could get. I hope, I sincerely hope, when this day is over and the votes have been counted, this country begins to confront, correct, and heal the tension that has slowly built up over these past two years. It's beginning to really cramp my style.)