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Womenology – 100 – Introduction To Womanry

Part 1 of 3
Being And Mystery

by WildMan aka, George Palczynski

September, 2019

Preface

Women, ladies, dames, broads, damsels, lassies, chicks, sheilas, squeezes, babes, gals, and girls – I have anticipated your… female… reactions! They are on the order/variation of:
“Oh no! Not another one of these boasting gloaters that hadn’t ever read ’50 Shades of Grey’, going on about knowing ALL about women!”

Well no, I’m not one of those boasting gloaters who believes he knows everything about women… omg… don’t you just HATE THEM!

Though… though… though with what I do know about women, I could lecture at the Sorbonne. And more the wiser the world would be about women, which is presently altogether too willfully obtuse and preciously deluded.

In The Beginning

Woman had been formed from the man’s rib. This tale may be parable but it is medically sound. Bone is reliably chockablock with pristine DNA.  And GOD apparently gave the plumbing some thought but little revelation. GOD does NOT push the envelope – I think Einstein had first made that discovery.

The human is a dichotomous creature. Either it is male or female; and then, to the higher form, man or woman. i.e., the mold and the molded.

It was bone that made Eve human, gave her substance made her near as much, physically, as Adam. But what had made her woman beyond the aforementioned plumbing? What had made her pysche womanish? What had made her think as a woman; feel as a woman; perceive as a woman? There’s a mystery here and it’s going to remain one… and with reason.

“Insofar as something retains mystery it commands interest.”
– George Palczynski

Mystery, Thy Name Is Woman

“I am not a woman—I am a world. My garments have but to fall, and you shall discover upon my person a succession of mysteries.”
– Queen of Sheba (to St Anthony)
Gustave Flaubert (The Temptation of St Anthony)

The Queen has not even broached the subject revealing mind/soul. Just at that level, merely the flesh, she is mystery – and don’t men know it.

In whatever of the brain’s nodules and relative synapses this ‘sex stuff’ is contained, however widely or narrowly dispersed, lies the greatest mystery of all, excepting the one – the WHY? of it all. But of everything else it is the greatest. Long after deep thinkers and esotericists have resolved the Theory of Everything into one neat beautiful equation, the mystery between man/woman will remain unresolved.

Men are crazy; Women are nuts. Fact – crazy and nuts are NOT the same.

What’s The Big Mystery?

Crazy is digital; nuts is analog.

Men are digital, binary. Women are analog and multivalent. Note the inherent complexity as to women… multivalent! Already, just sixteen words in, and a guy’s gotta start looking stuff up in Websters.

Men are on/off, yes/no, ones and zeros.

Women are yes and no – simultaneously; they are mostly maybe; yes with a little no; ‘no’ with a scaled down ‘yes’ micro-organically inserted.

You see the dilemma… yes?… no?

Men think digitally, expect to be responded to digitally. A man’s response to a man is digital/binary; yes/no, agree/disagree; drink/fight; or, rock-paper-scissors.

Women think multivalently… good luck with that. I’m not writing a damn book.

Men are mechanical; women are mechanical. Aha! Yes!

…Not so fast.

Men are simply mechanical; women are quantumly mechanical. Acquaint yourselves with the overwhelming complexity involved with the quantum microcosm – convoluted is the worst that can be said about it – maddeningly counterintuitive the best. THAT is woman.

Men are 1 or 0, or 1000101001, always precisely there and nowhere else. Woman, on the other hand, being an analog wave may be, quantumly, at two places at the same time; can be both at the crest and trough of the wave – simultaneously. I mean WTF?! How maddening is that… to have to deal with.

Yeah, no… I don’t have to hear it to know. Misogynist!… Terrified! Angry! Broken! Hurt! Damaged! STOP reading COSMO ladies!

Everyone Knows

It’s long been known. To say it is all not much understood is true; to say it is all not much true is ornery contrariness.

Women are idiots; men are lunatics.
Rebecca West

Women are wonderfully gifted with powers of observation. This is their wheelhouse. Ms. West was twice again a powerhouse. She was not only pithily observant she was pithily expressive. In the above quote, she reveals one of the truly great observations regarding the psychic chasm that separates the sexes. She’s not been proven wrong.

Women are idiots; because women are complex. Women make note of detail – all manner of details; and will overload their capacity for them. Women will make too much of details; conclude much the wrong thing based on details. With enough detail, ‘x’ may be inferred where ‘y’ had, in fact, been implied. In other words, women, to be repaired, if any man dared an attempt to repair them, would be fitted with a fine filter.

Imagine details as dots to connect. There is a point reached of too many details/dots, so that when they are connected they are not so much a shape, as a Jackson Pollock abstraction; and at that, left more to surmise about than know of.

Men are lunatics. Because men are simple, Men see things as though by moonlit silhouettes, without much, if any detail. It has the shape of a house? It’s a house. The shape is horsey? It’s a horse. What matter the detail, what can it matter if it’s a roan, palomino, or piebald – a horse is a horse… The recognition of the essentiality of a thing is knowledge of the thing – done. Men would be better off seeing things in the morning’s dawn, with some detail. But this is not about men but about women.

And on her we shall continue in Part 2 of 3:

Womenology 101 – Basics of Womanry

A Word About Flying with Firearms

Flying today is bad enough, but if you’re flying with a firearm, pack your patience. I’ve had to declare a firearm a number of times when flying, and for the most part, it hasn’t been too terribly bad. But one time sticks out in my head, and looking back, I can now find a modicum of humor in it.

When you check in, you have to tell the ticket agent you have a firearm, show it and the empty magazine, and show there is no round chambered. Put it in the case, throw the lock on, and pray it’s in your suitcase when you land.

So I am checking in and quietly tell the agent (a “wee” fella) that I have a firearm to declare, and I start to pop open the case…I look at him and the expression on his face is one of abject horror. He stammers “One moment” and flees, flapping his wrists. I half expected him to wail “I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies!” Well, I don’t know about babies (doubt he ever had to worry about that) but he sure as hell didn’t know his airline’s protocol for checking in a gun.

The next thing I know, there’s a supervisor, two other agents, and Butterfly McQueen standing in front of me…supervisor says, “I’m training these two…can you start from the beginning, so they know what to do?” Sure, I’m fine with that. Meanwhile, all the people in line are watching in fascination, much to my chagrin.

I start from the beginning, go through all the steps, show the gun, etc., lock it up, put it in my suitcase, and wait…then the questions to the supervisor begin. “What do we look for?” “How do we know there’s no bullet in the gun?” (Pay attention, Scooter – I just racked it back to show you) and the best: “Do we need a key for the lock on the case?” (That’d be a big fat NO, sweetie)

Paperwork finished, suitcase closed, and the supervisor says “Any last questions?” And I hear “Lady, what kind of gun is that?” I just smiled.

The kicker is I was coming home from my mother’s funeral, and in my carry-on was a very large amount of cash and her jewelry…gun, cash, jewelry…all I needed was a kilo of cocaine, and I was Scarface’s sister. Makes me wonder if I’m on some “list” with HSA?

On Becoming A Dad (Part Two)

It was time…

The ride to the hospital was quick and uneventful, largely because the hospital was around the corner and down two blocks from our apartment.

At this point, my wife and I were pretty badly sleep deprived; her by virtue of her feeling like someone had parked a Honda Accord in a mailbox, and me because I was sleeping on the floor next to the couch on which slept a mailbox that someone parked a Honda Accord in.

As soon as we hit the emergency room, there was chaos. Sick people shocked by the language my wife was using and the detailed threats of violence, my mother, busy stroking my wife’s forehead and humming Christian hymns softly; as if preparing for the exorcism that was going to have to be performed. Two nurses and an orderly appeared, having just graduated clown school, and, for the safety of herself and others, strapped my wife into a wheelchair and rode her into the examination room while a small person who looked like a bridge troll kept following me and asking me questions about my insurance.

Insurance. What a joke. The love of my life had just minutes before threatened to gut me and use my skin for curtains. What insurance was going to give me assurance that she was going to be all right, that our child was going to be born healthy; that I wouldn’t spend the best years of my life with a curtain rod up my ass?

I answered no to all the questions I was asked about my wife’s health, possible allergies, and whether or not I wanted fries with my order, flung my insurance cards at the bridge troll, and signed my name on pieces of paper. I had no idea what the papers said, for all I know I own a nice plot of land in upper lower Slobovia and pledged my epiglottis for important medical research.

Of course, in this day and age, it had long been assumed that I was going to go into the birthing room.

Guys: DON’T GO INTO THE BIRTHING ROOM! For the man, the birth of the child should happen just like it used to happen on TV: the woman off camera in some mysterious room behind double doors that flap open and closed when nurses and doctors are rushing to and fro, the man pacing frantically, wide-eyed, smoking constantly, occasionally stopping one of the nurses to ask pitifully, “How is my wife, Nurse? How is my WIFE?”. Ideally, this scene should be in complete black and white as well.

Guy, I’m telling you, if you go into the room, you are going to see horrors straight from the very heart of hell, horror that you will never forget. Is the birth of a child a beautiful miracle? Miracle, yes. Beautiful? Short answer: No. Long answer: NNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!

I got strapped into my gown (It was a lovely floor length affair, taffeta, v-neck, I felt like a PRINCESS!), put on my paper shower cap and mask (gorilla) and entered the arena with the chair and whip that someone had given me.

My wife was on the gurney; her legs akimbo with her feet in the metal stirrups, and I made a mental note that it was a scene very much like this that got me into all this trouble in the first place. My wife insisted that my mother be present and she was; standing at the head of the gurney, stroking my wife’s forehead and humming softly to her.

Wait a minute, my mom was standing where I WAS SUPPOSED TO STAND! Where am I going to be? I was counting on being on the side of the little waist curtain that was NOT the business side! IF ignorance is bliss, and it is, I wanted to remain as blissful as I possibly could!

The Doctor came in, took a look at the situation, clapped his hands together and smiled. “Well Dad, with a little bit of luck, we will have this baby out before the Superbowl!”

I had forgotten, this was Superbowl Sunday. That’s when I saw the TV in the room, the sound of the never-ending pregame banter adding to the cacophony of the room.

“Dad,” said the eager physician, “I have to go down the hall. I will leave you in the capable hands of my nurse practitioner until the baby crowns.” Then, with a smirk, he added: “I want you to grab a leg and hold on!” and then he turned and walked out of the room.

Wait…WHAT???

“You heard the doctor,” said the nurse practitioner, a woman who looked like she paid for her education in healthcare by playing linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, as she assumed the catcher’s position.

So, there I was, looking down the business end of the Birthing Process. There are some things a man is not supposed to see when he is looking at this part of his wife’s body; a small, scrunched up face is one of them.

I won’t go into too much detail about what happened during the process of my daughter being born, partially because I believe discretion is the better part of valor, and partially because I like sleeping inside my house and, if my wife reads this and I go into the real details, I will be sleeping on the porch for the entire summer and no one wants that. I hate it, the neighbors complain because, in the world of snoring, I am known as a “Window Rattler”.

They told my wife she couldn’t have an epidural until it was time to push because, with the epidural, she wouldn’t know when it was time to push. I didn’t understand that, and neither did she. The baby was in the birth position, turning her head as if trying to drill out of her mother, her head grinding on my wife’s pelvic bone.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, YOU BASTARD! I NEED THAT F#^%#ING EPIDURAL NOW!”

Now, let me just say that the staff at the hospital we were at was more than competent, but I found out later that, because this was a Catholic hospital and the staff thought my wife and I were unmarried because we have different last names (she kept her maiden name), had a little disdain for us; an attitude that was aggressively dealt with when my wife saw her own doctor after the birth. He kicked some serious ass and after that, our every wish was their command.

The baby became stuck. A pelvic bone was keeping the baby from exiting the birth canal. My baby’s heartbeat was becoming irregular, and my wife was minutes away from going into shock.

Then, my mother kicked in. My mother, who had been a nurse for my entire life, had a certain…way, a certain otherworldly quality to her touch…you immediately felt better, calmed down, breathed easier when she touched you.

She continued to stroke my wife’s forehead, ran her fingers gently through my wife’s hair, and softly murmured, “Relax, honey. Everything is going to be all right. Just listen to the sound of my voice…”

Then, the doctor appeared with the industrial strength salad tongs and, after some work, I remember my baby daughter being held by the doctor in the light…everything in that moment ceased to exist. There was just me, in the darkness, with some hands holding my baby up to the light. She was crying, a big, healthy cry; a cry that sounded like a little lamb. It was a cry so distinctive that my wife and I could pick it out from all the other babies in the nursery down the hall.

“My baby is crying,” my wife would tell a nurse from her bed in the recovery room. “Could you bring her to me?”

” I’ll check, ma’am,” said the nurse, sure that my wife was wrong. Then the nurse would come back with our daughter.

“How in the world could you tell your daughter’s cry from all the others?” said the astonished nurse.

Well, you just could.

After that timeless moment when I first laid my eyes on my daughter, the Marx Brothers came running in, grabbed the baby and put her into a something that looked like a clear plastic freezer drawer. They were counting toes, listening to her breathing, just bothering her in general. My wife was frantic, trying to get off the gurney to see if the baby was all right, the nurses were holding her down…everything was fine.

They laid my daughter in my wife’s arms, and at that moment, I lost the ability to complete a sentence or speak in any way that sounded like a reasonably intelligent human being.

I was a Dad.

Well, all that was twenty-seven years ago as of this writing. A lot of things have gone on since then.

I remember reading to her and noticing that she wasn’t looking at the pictures, but looking at the strange marks on the page and trying to figure out how those letters were making the words that I was reading to her. I remember her first word (Dada), her first steps, “naked baby time”, where she would run through the house without a stitch of clothes after her bath, giggling as we “tried” to catch her to dry her off.

She had me play video games with her, watch her favorite movies OVER AND OVER again. She turned me on to Japanese metal, I turned her on to Led Zeppelin. She turned me on to Naruto and One Piece, I turned her on to Hunter Thompson, Kurt Vonnegut, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. My wife and I showed her what marriage really looked like when you take the vows seriously; she grew up to find her right man and begin the journey that my wife and I begun thirty years ago this year.

I changed her first diaper. I changed a lot of her diapers, but I take pride that I was the first to change her diapers; and now we come to the point: the real question I wanted to ask and the reason I wrote this screed in the first place.

What the hell was that in that diaper? It didn’t smell, but it was some kind of black…what? Tub grout? Something to patch drywall? Some substance that they use to fill potholes?

I have no idea, but soon after that, we were home. My wife was taking a well-deserved rest in our actual bed, I was sitting with my brand-new daughter in her bassinet in the living room. I looked over the side, and saw her looking and me. She seemed to smile at me, and then she farted.

My girl!

The Accidental PUA

Wildside Tales

by Wild Man, aka George Palczynski

Once Upon A Time I Was A PUA… Once, Kinda

What is a PUA? A PUA is a pick up artist; the envy of schlubs the world over. What is a schlub? A schlub is a male human who routinely trips over his tongue and most anything else when in proximity to a girl with distinctly girlish features… i.e., pretty. In other words, the PUA and the Schlub are on opposing terminals of a great lineal near cosmic spectrum. Where am I on the spectrum? Somewhere in that great place that’s called “the middle”. I insist it’s the middle nearer PUA. If anyone has reason to insist that assessment takes liberties with reality… keep it to yourself.

The following is based on actual events. Where memory does not well preserve the dialogue, it meticulously preserves the essence:

The place is crowded. A handsome female sits alone at a generous table for two. Twenty minutes later – status quo ante. I’m standing. I don’t mind standing. I am a young enough buck. I could strike a pose with the best of them – power, strength, elegance, and grace.

Aside: Bear with me. I claim, here, dramatic license. It’s my experience, my story, my memory, my perception, my finer points. Deal with it as best you can without resorting to speculative ornery dubiety… all right?

Resumption:

But I will not lead you astray. Let’s work backwards. I had grace… …when I was not moving. When I moved I was not clunky/awkward but… nearer them than graceful. To look upon me for the first magnificent moment, the better part of the population would have bet this bloke had it – grace. I hadn’t; just looked it. Mind, I was not a bumbler/stumbler. I could successfully dodge the furniture with seeming aplomb, but I could not dance on and around it like Astaire and Ginger.

Elegance! Yeeeaaah… …not so much; even though it didn’t require movement. I would cut a better figure in coat and tie than anything casual – but… but that’s true of most any guy; and I wasn’t wearing a coat and tie. It’s a bar with a big screen TV, a big ball game and happy drunks… and it was still morning. Power, strength, yeah, no sham there; it was unmistakable, though, not Promethean.

So, there I was, a mixed bag… and didn’t any of what was in that bag appear to be Adonis. So, there again, the record – stripped down to the truth. Now for the tale that’s as true.

To The Chase

I saunter over to the table for two with two sturdy chairs and the one handsome woman.

WM: Might I sit down… my name’s George?

Her: There must be an empty seat somewhere.

WM: Maybe, but none have you sitting next to it.

Her: (LOOK-THINK… near imperceptible eye-roll) SILENCE.

Aside: My Brain Churns Wildly! In all of a nanosecond, the following crosses my mind:

“CRAP! Did I just say that!… WTF man… Get IT THE FUCK TOGETHER!… Holy and cripes sake!… STOP doing David Niven!”

This was so unlike me, so alien, so out of character, so peculiar, so queer, so freaky-creepy… …but… I got my share of cool too… forgot to mention that.

Resumption:

WM: Look, I got a slightly bum leg – honest. I’ll leave soon as your friend shows… and drinks, on me.

Her: (with a slapdash flash of reluctance): Why not?

WM: (waves over waitress) What’ll you have?

Her:Drambuie coffee.

WM: What’s that?

Her: Shot of Drambuie in a cup of coffee and whip cream on top.

WM: What’s Drambuie?

Her: You never heard of Drambuie?

WM: Heard the name – don’t know what it is.

Her: Scotch and honey liqueur.

WM: (to waitress): Make that two. (to HER) sounds interesting… What’s your name?

Her: Carol

WM: Here for the game I take it.

Her: Yep.

WM: What’ll we talk about over the Drambuies?

Her: Must we?

WM: It’s that or awkward silence.

Her: I’m okay with that.

WM: Yeah right.

Her: Yeah right.

WM: You’ll regret it.

Her: Yeah?

WM: Yeah, all sorts of regrets.

Her: I doubt it.

WM: No one can resist being curious of a stranger. You’ll wonder tonight… hmm… was he rich, or, a cool guy, or… could he blow a mean trumpet?… might…

Her: (Laughter)

WM: There yah go – icebreaker! It’s on Carol.

Her: What’s on?

WM: We’re on. We’re gonna talk – not sit here like strangers, afraid the other’ll bite. Women always want to talk… talk.

Her: About what?

WM: Whatever. No limits. Anything.

Her: You start.

WM: Okay… what’s your favorite color?

Her: (another demure eyeroll… and some strange indecipherable sound nasally emitted – a ‘snort’!?!)

WM: Wait now. Before your eyes roll out of your head, I have first to tell you what your favorite color is by whatever means – guess, educated guess, deduction, induction… prayer…

Her: You swear this is a game?

WM: I swear it. When it’s your turn, you’ll ask me something and then tell me what you expect I’d say… capeesh?

Her: Yes.

WM: So… what’s your favorite color? I say it’s… …green.

Her: How did you get that?

WM: Your scarf has long swirls of dusky green. The thing hanging from your neck has a green stone of some kind… emerald? So… both your highlights are green, so… green!

Her: It’s green. And it’s not an emerald.

WM: Hah! Great, I’m up one. Your turn.

Her: Okay… What’s… your… favorite… … …lady part?

WM: I don’t blush easy… …and you’d say it was…

Her: Oh, forgot. Your favorite is… … …the breasts.

WM: Why so?

Her: I caught you looking.

WM: Looking at the pendant.

Her: That’s probably a lie.

WM: Now, you don’t know me well enough to tell if I’m lying… and… I won’t lie to you.

Her: It’s not the breasts?

WM: Not.

Her: What then?

WM: My favorite Lady Part is the philtrum.

Her: The WHAT?

WM: Philtrum. p-h-i-l-t-r-u-m

Her: That’s not a thing.

WM: You mean, you, a grown woman, don’t know what your philtrum is?

Her: You’re making it up.

WM: you mean to say, you a grown woman, had never had a guy compliment your philtrum? You poor neglected….

Her: You made it up.

WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie and I haven’t.

Her: Okay. What is it?

WM: Tell you what. Let me touch yours. …just for the purpose of pointing it out to you.

Her: Okay.

WM: REALLY! Right here with everyone around?

Her: Sure. I trust you.

WM: You have a page on me written already… or… you’re just hoping?

Her: It’s a feeling, my feelings are usually right.

WM: Okay, I need to get close to you, and I’ll need you to close your eyes.

Her: (Closes her eyes)

WM: (waiting seconds… puts finger gently onto the valley between her nose and upper lip).

Her: (Opens her eyes) That’s a philtrum?

WM: Yes, and yours is near exceptionally…

Her: So help me, if you’re making this up, I’ll…

WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, and I haven’t.

Her: Why is my philtrum…

WM: (interrupting) it insinuates itself onto your upper lip and curls it up and out. Gives your lips the cupid’s bow shape guys like.

Her: You think maybe you have a little too much interest about such things?

WM: I have to.

Her: Why?

WM: That’s my realm of expertise.

Her: What are you an expert on… women?

WM: Hardly. I’m an expert on pretty… cute, and beautiful.

Her: Now that’s a lie.

WM: Is not. It’s a boast, there’s a difference. Guys ought never lie, they must always boast – it’s a genetic imperative.

Her: You are so… … …

WM: What, what?

Her: Full of it.

WM: That’s an evasion.

Her: That was nonsense… ge-net-ic.

WM: What is it when the male of the species fans his tail, splays his feathers, sings his chirps, or thumps his chest?

Her: I don’t know.

WM: They’re ALL manners of boasting. My fan’s greater than his; my feathers brighter, my chirps happier, and my thumps harder than his… BOASTING

Her: (long silence)… And your favorite part is the… philtrum?

WM: (humongous smile – VICTORY!) Yes.

Her: Hard to believe.

WM: But true, entirely… and I couldn’t imagine explaining it to anyone’s satisfaction – even my own. But it’s the first thing I notice on women – not lying.

Denoument

The clock and I made it noon. It may as well have struck midnight. Her friend showed. He was not a boyfriend – he hadn’t an edge to him. My first thought – I could take him – easy, (unless he knew some of that jujitsu shit).

I excused myself immediately. Carol made all the right noises about staying, joining them. I had a previous engagement – friends that had invited me. She bid me wait a second and wrote something on a table napkin – handed it to me – it was a phone number. I requited in kind and borrowed her pen to do so. No problem. I was feeling not a little ‘damn good’ handing it to her and walking away without another word between us.

Aside: Not one moment’s calculation. The natural ebb and flow of girl and guy as it had been ordained ‘in the beginning’. The closest I’d ever been to a PUA, and it had all the good vibrations of pure intentions and not one iota of the craft of cunning.

Life was good that day.

By the by: the home team won the big game.

My Favorite Aunt

Everyone has that favorite relative…it could be an aunt, uncle, or cousin. There was just something different and special about them that made them stand out in your mind. Mine was my Aunt Peg, who was married to my mom’s brother, John.
Peg was a petite woman with bleached blonde hair worn short, with loose curls on top. She wasn’t thin; she was what some would call “curvy” or if mean, “chubby.” Peg also had an eye condition, which caused her to wear tinted glasses at all times. Those glasses, paired with deep red lipstick, made her seem like the most glamorous person I ever saw up close.
But her best quality was she was funny…she was hilarious! And her humor was appropriate to whoever she was talking to, whether it was a 6 year old or a 40 year old. She was my role model growing up.

I’d often spend weekends with her, and she’d spoil me rotten…I was allowed to stay up late and watch TV with her into the wee hours of the morning, and when morning did come, I’d have coffee (with a lot of milk and sugar.) She smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and her signature Chanel No. 5. Peg’s preferred color was black. Black pants, black tops, black sweaters… Occasionally she’d go rogue and wear a beige top. I never saw her in a skirt; always pants, even at weddings. Looking back now, I see how she influenced my fashion choices, as my closet resembles a professional mourner’s.

One of her many quirks was her hair routine. I’m not talking about the bleach she’d apply every 3 weeks (which I started doing for her when I was 12) but her styling method. The woman used cardboard tampon applicators as rollers.
Yes, you read right: the cardboard housing for tampons. The first time I realized it, I was dumbstruck…why? was the first thing that popped to mind. Her answer: “I get two sizes – small and smaller, and they give me the size curl I want.” I howled…when she took the “curlers” out, she’d run her fingers through the curls, messing them up a bit,  then sprayed the hell out of it. Her hair could withstand hurricane force winds.

Peg was full of surprises. She was an incorrigible flirt – she could have guys 30 years her junior wrapped around her little finger. She loved Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett, which was to be expected. But she also loved Elvis and David Bowie, which tickled the hell out of me. I think she envied his hair and makeup from the Ziggy years.

After my uncle died unexpectedly from complications of a routine surgery, her light dimmed…and not too long after, she suffered a massive stroke in her sleep. I arrived to the funeral home early, before the viewing, and realized her hair looked too neat. I reached in and tousled the top of her hair to more resemble her normal look. I felt it was what she would have wanted me to do.

See you on the other side, Aunt Peg…

 

 

On Becoming A Dad (Part One)

It was snowing the night my daughter decided to finally leave the comfortable confines of the womb, almost a week late, establishing a pattern she would hold to this day. The roads were passable, but they were getting slick, but in spite of the typical January snowfall, I thought surely, this child had to come soon.

I was off the road by this time; the band I was working with was rehearsing for an album, the sessions for which were to start a few weeks later and, well, I was not going to miss the birth of my first child. As I drove home through the fluffy, huge flakes falling heavily onto the ground and piling up quickly, I flashed on some of the scenes of my marriage during this pregnancy:

I remembered the day we found out my wife was pregnant. We had just decided to try to have a child only a couple of weeks before. I remembered standing up, punching my fists in the air, and shouting “Ninja Sperm!” as I hugged and kissed my laughing bride, because I am nothing if not classy at all the important times in life.

I took her out to a nice little deli to celebrate but, after we ordered, she got sick before the food had gotten to the table. She was cramping and throwing up, so I took her to the hospital. Just a case of dehydration, it seemed. All was well.

I remembered coming home a few months later after a recording session and finding her on the floor of the corner of the kitchen. She had taken an entire loaf of bread, taken the crusts off every slice, molded the remains into a ball, and was sitting on the floor eating it like a large apple.

Cravings, you know.

I remembered waking up in the middle of the night and finding my wife, seven months along by that time, sitting on the edge of the bed sobbing.

“Honey,” I said, reaching out to caress her shaking shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I-d-don’t,” she gulped pitifully, “I-I d-d-don’t have anything t-to w-w-wear!”

“But Sweetheart, we bought you a bunch of new clothes just a week or so ago!” I said, trying to calm her.

“T-t-they’re as b-b-b-big as CIRCUS TENTS!” she cried.

My mother had come to stay with us in hopes of being here for the birth of my parents’ first grandchild. I remember the day we called them to tell them the news: it was met with stunned silence. For some reason, without saying as much, I felt like many people in the family didn’t think my wife and I would last as a married couple, and I felt like all of our doubters, possibly my parents included, thought that we would be completely unsuitable as a mother and father to a newborn. Still, in a very short time, they came around to the idea and were looking forward with great excitement at the prospects of being Grandparents. (I asked my father how he felt about being a Grandfather. He said: “The only problem I have with being a grandfather is waking up every morning next to a grandmother!). Mom had been staying with us for the better part of two weeks. If the baby didn’t come in the next day and a half, my mother would have to go back home to Dad and would miss out on the birth.

My wife hadn’t been able to sleep on the bed since shortly after the night she woke me up crying about her wardrobe. She slept on the couch and I slept on the floor beside her. The couch was a gift from my parents. In fact, all the furniture was from my parents. When we moved into the apartment, we had our clothes, dishes, my guitars and amps, and not much else. We did like the situation we were in for a time; we bought a futon mattress to sleep on and positioned things on the floor in such a way that things only made sense when you sat on the floor and found everything within easy reach.

However, as my father explained: “You cannot have a pregnant woman sitting on the floor, son!”

I came home from the rehearsal that night intending to slip quietly into the apartment, not wanting to wake up my wife on the couch nor my mother, who was sleeping in our months old bed in the bedroom. Nevertheless, I found my wife awake.

And angry…

“Honey?” I said, as soothingly as I possibly could. “Are you o.k.?”

My lovely, diminutive wife was levitating at least five feet over the couch. Her eyes were glazed over to an almost otherworldly white, and her head was spinning around three hundred and sixty degrees.

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” she said with voice that rang through the apartment as if it had come from the very heart of hell.

“Is it time, Honey? Do you want to go to the hospital now?”

Her eyes turned red and lasers SHOT out of her eyes, burning two holes right through my forehead! She spit what seemed to be pea soup at me! Tables and chairs were flying around the room!

“I HOPE YOU PASS A KIDNEY STONE THE SIZE OF A VOLKSWAGEN!” she hissed as she raised up farther into the air.

Just then, my mother appeared behind me, looking up at my wife floating in the air, dodging plates and cups flying all around her. She was clothed, had her coat on, had my wife’s coat over her arm and was carrying my wife’s suitcase. My Mom had been a nurse since before I was born. I depended on her professional expertise.

“Get her in the car! Let’s get her to the hospital!” she said, ducking and just missing getting hit by the coffee table flying just over her head.

I turned to grab my coat.

BANG!

Hit in the face by a frying pan flying at me from the kitchen stove!

There was no doubt about it. I was about to become a Dad…