Discovering a Different Perspective

The Fairy Tale.

Cinderella and her Prince.

Butterflies, flushing newness, and happily ever after.

I can't truly speak for all American girls, but I can say that I grew up with a horribly misrepresented notion of happily ever after and the fairy tale. The handsome prince who was perfect and flawless. The certainty of being swept off my feet and worshiped and treasured surely meant a lifetime crammed full of sweet nothings and blushing cheeks and intestinal flip-flops, right?

The bookworm that I was as a young girl ran into book after book about the beautiful girl and the prince (or cowboy or dark and mysterious rogue rebel as I grew older) who supplied her life with the promise of happiness and flowers and suave romance and heart palpitating lust every moment of every day for eternity and forever. To my 20th century American girl mind, that was the definition of happily ever after.

I never once read a book about the day Cinderella woke up and realized she would spend the rest of her life eternally retrieving Princely's skivvies from the floor next to the empty laundry hamper. I never read any of her rants about how at least the ugly step-sisters left their clothing inside the hamper and left the stinking toilet seat down and they for freaking sure never ever supplied her bed with so many pillows she dreamt about being choked by marshmallows.

Nor did I encounter a book about how to continue loving your prince through bouts of extreme anger and frustration and tears and hurt (aka P.M.S.) and how to come to terms with the realization that life and love and marriage isn't the idealistic fairy tale I once thought it was.

Now that I'm older and I've experienced a great deal of marriage and love I realize that while fairy tales do exist, it is my concept of both the fairy tale and happily ever after that was grossly askew. Here, I'll explain.



This is a photo of one of my most beloved, highly prized possessions.

It's a poem written for me by my very own Bonehead while he was out at sea for the first time after becoming my husband. It is about both him and (a highly romanticized concept of) me. I'd share the story of the inner romance but some things in a marriage must always remain sacred. What I will say is that upon his return after our first prolonged separation as husband and wife he presented me with this poem.

A few years later he secretly commissioned my high school best friend and maid of honor to turn the poem into a beautiful one of a kind piece of art. For the longest time I kept it tucked away safely in a closet so no harm could come to it. Occasionally I would take a peek, run my fingers lovingly over it and allow the words to once again fill my heart with love.

One day Bonehead took it from it's safe place without my knowledge, grabbed my toddling Smoochie, and the two of them had it professionally framed for me. Almost 10 years into our marriage I walked into our bedroom and found it waiting for me on my pillow.

I know now that happily ever after is different for each person. For me, it is the scattering of joyful moments that tie together the mundane. My fairy tale is knowing the continuing love of a man and being able to share the ins and outs (and yes, the frustration and anger too) of every day life with him. My happily ever after lies with this poem and many other unexpected moments like these that fill my heart with joy.

Pillow Talk

I got spoiled. Due to Critter’s sleeping habits and my desperate need to HAVE sleeping habits, Bonehead got bumped to the bed in the spare room upstairs while Critter claimed his Dad’s spot next to me. It wasn’t a long term arrangement and only lasted between 2-3 weeks until I got Critter on more of a ‘sleep through the night (mostly) schedule.’

Last Friday, with the arrival of Bonehead’s friend for the weekend and my own Mother’s visit with us through the holidays, Bonehead and Critter had to both go back to their actual beds. Critter has been doing awesome. He wakes up once a night. I roll him over, give him ‘Woofie” to snuggle with, cover him back up, and that’s the end of Critter for the night.

However, I didn’t realize how spoiled I was with a 13 pound infant next to me as opposed to Bonehead. In the span of 3 nights I have gone from mildly annoyed to wanting to plant my feet on the horizontal figure of my husband and push for all I’m worth. That’s a pretty mean thought to have for the beloved husband I’ve shared a bed with for 14 plus years. What would bring me to such drastic measures?

Pillows.

My husband has a fetish for pillows. To him, they are like shoes on a woman’s mind. He can never have enough. Two body pillows. Three big pillows. A couple of smaller pillows if he can find them. And sometimes my pillows too. Sometimes I think he sits at work and daydreams about pillows. Because when he comes home sometimes, to unwind, he walks straight to our bed, moves my pillows out of their strict formation and mashes them beyond belief, twists them like soft pretzels, and sprawls like a chalk line profile. It takes me days to get my pillows back where they should be- just enough time for him to do it again.

I keep waking up at night and wondering why I’m half off the bed, and my pillows are half off with me. It’s the pillow push. The man has so many pillows he sleeps against the other edge of the bed and then pushes them ALL MY WAY. My pillows are sliding off the bed because his are attacking them. I wake up choking on a stormy sea of fluff.

At one point in our marriage, he was losing his pillows to the space between our headboard and wall. I got an almost nightly wake up from the ‘flump’ my head made as it hit the mattress when MY pillow was yanked out from under it.

There are reasons I call him Bonehead. He threatens to steal them from me, my pillows. I have to keep a tight eye on them or they wind up mooshed beyond belief, sitting sideways and discarded inside their pillowcases. He has turned me into a giant pillow scrooge.

But I am home all day long while he is at work, and I can exact my revenge. Maybe they’ll be held for ransom. Maybe they’ll just be m.i.a. But whatever the case, whatever the revenge, he might find out sooner rather than later if he brings one. More. Pillow. Into our bed.

Evil laugh goes here.

The Race

After losing 67ish pounds since April, and working very hard to get back in shape, Bonehead participated in his first Cyclocross race yesterday. It was fun to watch, and while the boys and I parked ourselves outside the "slip and slide" area of the race, I missed most of the action because I was trying to take photos of Bonehead en route. The irony of it is that most of the pictures I took turned out very fuzzy. And since I am sure he will be blogging about the experience on his blog later tonight after things settle down and using the couple of good pics I did get, I will only include the before picture he had me take. I left the experience with two insights.

1. If you ever get a chance to go watch a Cyclocross race, take it. I had a blast.

2. I am very proud of Bonehead for all of his hard work and accomplishments in the past few months.

As a side note, It has not escaped my notice that my 100th blog post is quickly approaching. This post is #92. I wanted to take a moment to hint that big things are in the works for the celebration. I'll make an in depth celebration announcement on post #100.

Birds of Prey

Our 6 year old has recently become quite attitude prone and argumentative. Especially with mom (and that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that mom is way too nice in a push-overish sense of the word nice) and even at times has dared to become so in front of dad.

Mom occasionally will get worked up with all buttons pushed effectively and be in the middle of a rant before she realizes “Hey, I’m arguing with a 6 year old here. Who’s the boss?” It is at that point I usually repeat my first statement (If I can remember through the haze of frustration what it was), followed by, “I’m not arguing with you. End of discussion.” And then Smoochie be-bops away like nothing ever happened leaving mom trying not to flop and twitch like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Now Dad, on the other hand, generally chooses the squash it before it becomes an issue like using an entire can of raid on the line of red ants on our front sidewalk approach. And while Smooch seems to show no remorse for working his mother into the frothing at the mouth stage (which to give credit where credit is due, few do- I have a mother and sister who both will do it for the sheer entertainment value) he will think twice before ATTEMPTING to argue with his father. Because he knows dad will squash him. Like a bug.

Which is why I was surprised when Saturday night, smack in the middle of the popcorn making ritual, Bonehead came sauntering into the living room with the “I give up” look I often have myself and plopped in our wingback chair. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was waiting. I hadn’t heard the exchange in the kitchen, but apparently it was over how the new can of Boy Scout popcorn needed to be opened. I’m thinking I should take a detour here to explain the importance of popcorn in my home.

Popcorn is the bomb. Do people even say that anymore? Oh well, I just did. We refuse to buy greasy smelly microwave popcorn. The only way it gets cooked in our home is in the hot air popper. There really is a ritual which is started off by the preparing the butter and the offering of complements to be sure it is in the correct mood of coatingness. While certain aspects of the ritual may vary, there will always be a loud “WOOOOAH! HEHEHE!” issued by Smoochie as the first few kernels fly with enough force to make a whacking sound on the other side of the giant bowl placed underneath. And there is always grated parmesan (the refrigerated kind not the canned kind because we are, after all, popcorn snobs) and oregano on the finished popcorn results. And now back to the regularly scheduled programming which left off at the frustrated plopping into the wingback chair…

Bonehead was waiting. Apparently there was a mild discussion about how to open the new package of Boy Scout popcorn, and Bonehead refuses to argue with a 6 year old. So instead of arguing and insisting his way was right, he came into the living room to wait for the sad, slumpy be-bop of Smooch into the living room to admit that yes, in fact, Dad was right, and ask for help.

It never happened. Approximately 45 seconds after Bonehead sat down, we heard the crinkle crinkle crinkle of the plastic safety seal being slid down the can followed by a smug little “Got it, Dad.” To which dad muttered something like “Unbelievable” and then went to continue with the popcorn ritual shaking his head as he went.

However, I do believe Dad lost it in the car on Sunday. We were on the way to feed a friend’s fish- which is a 45 minute drive there and another 45 minute drive back. We finally broke down and purchased the new Fratelli’s CD, which Smooch had in the back seat with him. When Smooch asked if he could open the CD for us, Bonehead responded with a “Sure kid, knock yourself out.”

And sure enough there was another fwip fwip crinkle crinkle, and Smooch handed it up front with a “Here you go.”

This would be the point where Bonehead lost a little bit of his sanity. He looked at me incredulously and stated, “What the heck did we do, breed little birds of prey? It would have taken me 30 minutes a pocket knife AND a razor to get that packaging off. (And with a swooping of his hands towards the CD for the visual) Does our kid have freeking talons or something?”

Regardless, the CD was open and ready for our enjoyment, Bonehead had finally lost a bit of his sanity, Smoochie was playing his DS like nothing had ever happened, and I was giggling at the sheer madness of our family existence. Poor Critter. He has yet to discover what he’s been born into.

Smell This

In high school I vaguely remember watching a movie of sorts in English class, and having a head full of little paper wads when the lights came back on. Bonehead was “watching” the very same movie directly behind me.

I remember being chased with a spider once within the first month of marriage. I think I might have either broken or spilled something in my attempt to get away from it, so it hasn’t happened again.

Over the years there have been many instances of being picked on, but they come and go. His most recent method? Sweaty workout clothes.

Inside Bonehead lives the heart and comic genius of a 9 year old boy who thinks trying to get me to smell his “sweaty ass pad” is hysterical.

“Here, smell this.”

“Come on, you know you want to.”

In general, I am a pushover. I have a hard time saying no to all but my son. Sometimes I even have a hard time saying no to him.

But I can safely say that a good solid whiff of workout clothes that even if currently dry were at one time dripping wet is not something I desire, nor do I crave that kind of intimacy from my husband. I’m pretty darn certain that in this instance I’m not EVER going to cave and say, “Oh OK big boy bring it on.”

And yet, I do think he’s so desperate for me to smell the darn things I almost got chased with them this afternoon. Or maybe the call to pick on Chas has been dormant for too long and must be made up for.

Either way, I can say one thing with certainty. If I were ever faced with making the decision between being chased with a spider or smelling “the pad”, I would most certainly choose to implode.

Chain Grease and Green Beans

Earlier this afternoon, I watched Bonehead make about 4 trips to our basement with bike stuff in his hands. I sat in my chair, holding our napping son in his preferred horizontal position, and watched. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his plans, but I know him. I know when something is brewing in his scheamy little mind, and after being married so long, I recognized the feisty tunnel-visioned determination with which things were being carted downstairs. Something was definitely up.

Sure enough, after I laid Critter down and began dinner preparations, Smoochie came upstairs and said “Mom, Dad needs you downstairs.” What on earth was going on down there? I took the bait and down I went.

I got downstairs and asked Bonehead what it was that he wanted me to do. Apparently, by the look he gave me, even he was doubtful I was actually going to follow through and help him out with his request.

“I need you to crawl under the tool bench and hold this screwdriver on the back side of this round spinny thingy here.” Yes, he used a technical term, but I have never claimed to have a photographic memory when it comes to mechanical stuff. Now, every word Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson muttered on the talk show I watched last night I can regurgitate verbatim. But Bike terms, no.

I looked at him like he just sprouted fangs and told me he “Vanted to Suck my Blooooood.” Our basement is not finished. There are scary creepy crawly things down there. There are cracks and crevices I’m afraid to LOOK in let alone place precious limbs in. So I did the only thing I could do. I looked at him and with all of the love in my heart said, “No. Huh-uh. Not gonna happen.”

At that point he gave me option #2. “You can stay right here and torque this tool thingy if you want and I will crawl under there and keep the round spinny thingy from spinning.” (Again, my interpretation of what actually came out of his mouth)

I chose to torque the tool. Which didn’t budge, of course. So after trying for a few minutes and getting looks from Bonehead which I interpreted as “Oh for crying out loud, crawl under the freeking tool bench so I can hurry up and get on with my diabolical plan already!”, I finally caved.

I crawled under the bench that had been free to gather cobwebs and all sorts of creepy crawlies since the dawn of time and held the screwdriver just where he wanted it so he could torque. I snuck a look at my hands which just mere moments ago were preparing green beans for dinner, and they were covered with chain grease. I sat on our cold concrete basement floor and looked at him square in the eye across the bike frame hung up on the hooks and told him, “The things I do for love.”

It turned out that the tool he had was the wrong one, so he and Smooch had to make a quick trip to our local bike shop for the proper one. I traipsed my way back upstairs to wash my hands and continue with the beans; only to discover that the beans I bought two days ago fresh looked pretty sketchy tonight.

So I asked him if he could stop and get me new beans on his way back home. Now, I know how geared up he gets when it comes to bikes, bike things, bike rides and bike accessories. So when he rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll stop for you”, I knew it was the same as saying “The things I do for love.”

We’ve been married for 14 years. I learned a long time ago that fairy tales and ultimate romance happen not so much. It’s all about the chain grease and green beans.

Unemployment

Today I officially joined the ranks of the gainfully unemployed. By choice. Bonehead and I have decided that the best thing for the family at this time is for me to be home to take care of the kiddos. Of course, our decision might have a little bit to do with the 3 cheese, mustard and oregano sandwich Bonehead had to make himself for dinner tonight because I’ve been too tired to grocery shop and Critter woke up before I could get Smoochie’s pb&j made let alone 2 of the darn things. Our decision might also have something to do with the fact that daycare is currently costing us more than our mortgage each month, or the fact that our laundry is currently clogging every pore of our home.

Now I get to make the switch from a full-time fast paced phone answerer, problem solver, shipment tracker, fire putter-outer, feather un-ruffler to a fuller-time fast paced diaper changer, peanut-butter face wiper, shoe tracker-downer, feather pillow picker upper. I think I may even start with the dishes that are currently taking refuge in my kitchen sink, and save the grocery shopping for tomorrow.

And maybe thank my husband for not complaining that he had to eat a pepper jack, American and parmesan cheese sandwich for dinner. And for not complaining about the labradoodles of Kepler hair growing in the corners of our living room. And for not complaining about the giant 24 roll package of toilet paper sitting on our kitchen floor that I haven’t felt motivated enough to drag into the bathroom all week. And for…..well, you get the picture.

Which leads me to wonder, is the man blind? I’ll be in big trouble if he ever takes off his rose colored glasses I guess.

What IS that smell?

I was 19 years old when Bonehead and I got married. I have a feeling at the time there were many bets on the table-

I give it two years.

I give it 5.

I bet she’s pregnant.

I give it 6 months.

We’ve somehow managed to defy all of the marrying young odds and lasted for a while, and after about 10 months of marriage opinions on the baby topic changed as well. I’m sure bets were lost. In retrospect I wouldn’t recommend my oldest niece marry at 19. But all the same, I wouldn’t change a day of the last 14 years.

Bonehead and I married on a Sunday afternoon in front of the picture window in his parents’ house. We spent the night in a local hotel and promptly got up the next morning and drove to Dubuque, Iowa so I could take my final exams for the semester. Our plan was to get me through finals week, and then spend a couple of days at home packing and putting things in order before driving cross country together to start our life across the sound from Seattle. At the time, he was in the navy and that is where he was stationed.

The drive from the greater Chicagoland area to Dubuque was pretty uneventful, but we did get at least one toll free due to the “just married” décor theme of our Ford Tempo.
Finals week went pretty well too- all things considered. Looking back now, the week was a giant blur of testing, eating out with Bonehead due to the fact that I was super tired of cafeteria food by that time, spending time with our mutual friends, and packing up my room full of belongings.

Towards the end of the week strange things began to happen in my car. Bonehead and I would be on our way somewhere and one of us would notice the hint of an unpleasant aroma.

Bonehead- “Do you smell that?”

Me- “Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”

Bonehead- “It’s gone now, I don’t smell it anymore.”

A day or so later we’d replay the scene but with opposite rolls.

Me- “I smell something weird.”

Bonehead- “In the car, or outside?”

Me- “I can’t……quite…..(sniff sniff)… tell……never mind it’s gone now.”

And then on the way back home at the end of the week, the real trouble began.

Bonehead- “Oh man- WHAT IS THAT SMELL?”

Me- “I don’t know but (pulling my shirt up over my nose) it’s killing me.”

Bonehead- “I think it’s coming from our back seat.”

Me- “Do you see anything back there? I’d check but I’m a little busy driving.”

Bonehead- “No, I don’t see anything. And now it’s gone again.”

A while later the mysterious odor reappeared. This time Bonehead asked me to pull over. Neither of us could stand the stench that seemed to be permeating the car- even with both windows rolled fully down. I found a parking lot to pull into and stopped the car.

That Bonehead, he’s so brave. He got out and dove into my back seat head first looking for the location of the smell. After a moment or two of digging he came up for air with a triumphant, “Ah-ha! I found the culprit!!”

Our first night in Dubuque we had gone out for Chinese. We got our leftovers wrapped to go, put them on the back floorboard of our car, and never gave them another thought. After being buried by the beginnings of packing up my dorm room and a week of sitting in a warm car they had taken on their very own identity of the odiferous sort.

We left that smell in a dumpster on the side of the road somewhere between Dubuque and Chicagoland. And other than to laugh and giggle about it every couple of years along the path of our marriage, we never gave it another thought.

Signs

Did I mention that Bonehead used to pick on me?

We were in theater together, Bonehead and I. My junior year in high school we were in Macbeth together. The play was long and drawn out, really. I give my parents kudos for coming to see it, and my Grandparents hold a sacred place in my heart for enduring a 4 hour drive in order to sit through 3 hours of Shakespeare. Not JUST Shakespeare, but high school Shakespeare to boot.

My grandparents actually spent the whole weekend the time they came to watch me in Macbeth. They hung out with my parents while I did the usual theater traditions- the play followed by various after party activities. To be completely honest, I don’t remember which particular after party activities I attended for that particular play.

What I do remember is the wake up I got at about 6am Sunday morning. I vividly remember being all warm and toasty in bed and being brought from a deep sleep by the sound of my door creaking open. And then there was the whisper from my mother. “Chasity Lynn, there’s something you need to get up and take care of before your step dad wakes up and sees it.” Chas is what most people call me. Chasity Lynn is what my parents saved for when I really screwed up.

If I did something worth waking me up at 6am on a Sunday morning AND using my full name, this could not be good. My mother’s words demanded immediate obedience- not only because I wanted to avoid any trouble that might be brewing, but because my interest was peaked as well. To the best of my knowledge I had done nothing wrong.

As I padded my sleep deprived body to the living room to see what was up, my mother directed my attention to the front picture window. My grandparents were chuckling and my mom was trying not to chuckle as well.

My front porch was bathed in the shadow of a 15 foot sign. It was tied from one end of my porch all the way to the other side. I vividly remember the conversation I had with my grandparents after removing the sign that was large enough to be seen by satellite.

It didn’t take two guesses as to who put the mammoth sign on my front porch. Bonehead. When my Grandma asked me who he was, I pointed out who he was in the play. “You mean the young man with all the curly red hair?” In fact, it was. Her granddaughter had just had a sign posted on her front porch sometime after the hour of 1am on a Saturday night by a strange boy with long wild red hair and her response was this:

“I would kill to have his hair.”

My thing

Bonehead has been known to pick on me from time to time. Occasionally. Sometimes I realize it right away. Other times, even after 14 years of marriage, I don’t see it coming. I have no idea why- even our 6 year old is onto him. But I never learn. I will probably never learn.

In high school I used to have this Yamaha Jog. It was this periwinkle blue scooter that went 45mph, tops. I loved it because before I had a car to drive it brought me a freedom I had never encountered before. I was 14 when my parents bought me this scooter – the legal age to drive one where I grew up in rural Michigan. I had a brief taste of the freedom it provided before I moved to Illinois at 15 and met Bonehead. It had to be put away until I turned 16 in Illinois, but the second I could legally drive it again, I was on it.

Scooters were not real popular at the time I drove mine. Whenever I would tell someone what I drove eyes would glaze over and fruit flies would gather. I soon began to call my scooter “my thing”. Then, when I talked about “my thing” it would become interesting. Your thing? What’s that? How fast does it go? You get HOW MANY miles to the gallon?

Some of my friends would pick on me about it, but I became accustomed to picking rather early in life. My mom has 4 older brothers, so essentially Bonehead just walked in and picked up where they left off. In the grand scheme of things there’s not a lot of difference between walking to the shot gun cabinet muttering about pesky “wabbits” when your niece trick-or-treats as a bunny and hiding your wife’s curling iron on top of the entertainment center above her 5’3” height level.

For a brief time Bonehead and I worked at TJ Maxx together. On the nights we would both work, a group of us would meet afterwards and go to the burger joint across the street for shakes and fries and whatever other junk food struck our fancy. Sometimes I would ride my thing, and other times I would hop on the back of his motorcycle for a ride.

One evening I left work and walked across the dark parking lot to my thing. I trudged along putting my helmet on as I walked. The closer I got, the more puzzled I became. I got to the spot where I parked my thing and stood there in the darkness, helmet on, looking around.

My thing was not where I’d left it. My thing was no where near where I’d left it. In fact, my thing was nowhere to be seen.

Through my panic about what my parents were going to say when they learned my thing was stolen, I heard snickers from behind the brick wall nearby. Bonehead and his friend had picked up my thing and moved it.

I think I might have made him pay for my fries that night.

San Diego Rendezvous

Bonehead was in the Navy when we first got married, stationed on a submarine. After we’d been married for about a year and a half, his time was up on the submarine and he went to San Diego in order to attend Corps School. Because the length of his school was just under six months, the Navy would not pay to move me with him. We’d decided it was best for me to wait at home with my parents until he had the location of his next station, so I went home to live for a brief time with my parents and await his graduation.

The weekend before my 21st birthday I flew to visit him for the first time. He went away to Corps School in August and my birthday is in November, so we hadn’t actually seen each other in about three months. I had been away from Bonehead for 3 months before, but this time was different. This time I had not watched him pack himself like a sardine onto a nuclear powered tin can. This time I didn’t have to worry about anything flooding, catching fire, blowing up, or sinking. This time I could talk to him at least twice a week.

Even so, I counted down the days until I was able to see Bonehead again. As the weeks got closer and turned into days, I got more and more excited. The day of the flight, it was all I could do to concentrate at work long enough to form a complete thought. It seemed to take forever, but finally my work day was over and it was time to go to the airport for the flight out. The flight took an eternity and I surprised myself by actually sitting still on the flight from Illinois to San Diego.

Bonehead met me at the airport. We took a taxi to the Navy Lodge. I thought for sure the taxi driver was trying to kill us all, but I tried to focus on conversation with Bonehead and not on the cab darting in and out of traffic with a terrifying speed that would put the space shuttle to shame.

I have to admit once we got to the hotel we got a bit lost in the moment. I hadn’t seen my husband in about an eternity and a half so we forfeited the conversation and began to do, well, what husbands and wives are known to do.

After all was said and done and reality came flooding back to us, I heard Bonehead say, “Uh-oh.” Which of course was followed immediately by my, “What?”

It was at that point that I saw what he saw. It was that point that I wanted to crawl under the covers and hide for the rest of the weekend. I actually thought about leaving the hotel through the window from that point forward. I never imagined that a two inch gap could feel as large as the width of the Mississippi at its widest. It was at that point I flushed so hard that Crayola could have created Rendezvous Red in my honor.

It was at that point that Bonehead got up and closed the hotel room door.

The Ninja Hat of Death

I am of the opinion that my life is for all practical intents and purposes pretty boring. I have two children, a husband I love very much, and outside of the fact that I have to return to work in 3 days, I pretty much stick around the house to hold and nurse a 3 month old, grocery shop, hold a three month old, load the dishwasher, hold a 3 month old, and that’s pretty much how my days go. So when I tried to think of a topic for today’s blog entry, I drew a total blank. I could talk about how my baby, affectionately known to us as Critter, is the grouchiest baby on earth today due to the shots he received at his Doctor’s appointment yesterday. We should have nicknamed him bear, he’s so grouchy……….

Or………..

I can foray down into my basement for a little while and dig out the Ninja Hat of Death for a portrait. The Ninja Hat of Death isn’t just any hat, and although it’s been packed in a box in our basement for a while, I think the time may come soon to pass it down to our oldest son, Smoochie. The hat belonged to Bonehead in high school, which amazingly enough keeps getting longer and longer ago- but I’ll not say how long ago in order to avoid the embarrassment.

You see, Bonehead was a bit of a nonconformist in high school. He never cut his hair, which was curly and red. He usually wore ripped jeans, and if my memory isn’t too fuzzy, his tennis shoes may have been duct taped together on more than one occasion. He also had an accessory that accompanied him everywhere he went.




The Ninja Hat of Death.

If you ran into Bonehead in the hall, there it was in all its glory, crammed onto his thick hair with purpose. In the lunchroom again- keeping his intelligence warm while he dined on Dr. Pepper and Peanut Butter Cups. I think he might have even worn it while he was running makeup laps in gym class. After school in the theater- still there.

In fact, the only time this hat came off his head during waking hours was when he felt like lobbing it as a Frisbee at unsuspecting victims. Namely me.

Now, my husband has a very long and very distinguished career of picking on me. I was 15 when we met, and I still have not seen the end of it. I can’t tell you how many times I would hear my name called by him and turn to acknowledge him, only to get biffed in the face by a camouflaged cloth Frisbee. Generally, it played out like a spliced together gag reel. Biff! Whoosh! Whack! Plunk! I began to have a very special relationship with The Ninja Hat of Death, and an even better friendship with the wearer of said hat.

The time came for Bonehead to graduate and I was a year behind him in school. At the end of the summer he went away to college and I stayed behind. A few days before he went away to school, he knocked on my door (he was my neighbor three doors down) and we talked for a little while in my driveway.

I forget exactly what he said, but it had all of the necessary ingredients. I was a good friend, he could tell me anything and I was never judgmental- that’s about all I remember of the conversation. What I do remember is that he removed The Ninja Hat of Death and gave it to me.

It was one of the sweetest gifts I have ever received.