Category Archives: The Wise One

In Which I Want To Be First Dude.

The following is an unpaid political endorsement, emailed today to our friends and family in Washington State:

Dear Friends,

Rarely do I make such a blatant appeal to sway your vote, but this is an important election and I cannot stay silent any longer.

Like us, you may have been following our WA governor’s race with a little bit of nausea in your stomach at the tone the campaign has taken. Gov. Christine Gregoire hates babies, while her Republican challenger Dino Rossi doesn’t believe in trees.

You can see the conundrum: depending on who you vote for, either our streets will be overrun with sex offenders, or Dino Rossi will invade your privacy in ways you cannot now imagine, even calling you on occasion to ask, “Are you going to eat that last piece of chicken?”

It’s gotten to the point where neither of us feel like we can vote for either one as it would communicate support for the ugly, exaggerated campaign they have run (which seems ridiculous even by political standards).

Therefore, I offer you an alternative write-in choice: My wife, The Wise One.

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The Wise One for governor.
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In Which The Olympics Have Ended, and Other Observations by Peanut.

Sunday night we started watching the closing ceremonies and Peanut says, “Daddy, why are all the people leaving?”

“Because the Olympics are over.”

“Does that mean Michael Phelps finally gets to go home??”

“Yep.”

” . . . Can we go see him?”

———————

Apparently, he’s having a hard time with the whole city/state/country distinction. The Wise One and the boys spent the better part of a week in Olympia at Grandma & Grandpa’s, having fun without me. They were watching the Olympics and Grandma started yelling, “Go USA!”

Peanut stopped his own cheering long enough to tell her, “Grandma, root for your own city!”

———————

At one point during the week in Oly, The Wise One and the boys drove past the cemetary where my mother is buried. The Wise One pointed out, “Look, boys, that’s where Grandma Dianne is.” Chester was quick to point out, “Peanut, remember, Grandma Dianne died, and that’s where she lives . . . well, not where she lives, but where her body is . . . ”

The Wise One looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see Peanut look out the window, wrinkle his eyebrows, point his thumb over his shoulder, and say, disappointedly, “Mom . . . that was heaven??”

This is so not going to help us with the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-Sunday-School problem.

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In Which We Celebrate Twelve Years of Marriage.

prom

Sixteen years ago, I took The Wise One to prom. Yesterday we celebrated 12 years of marriage. As we discussed yesterday over dinner at the Keg, some of those years have been better than others, but we’ve been blessed to have each other all this time.

In our wedding, Jim Lyon read to us Song of Solomon 2:15:

Catch for us the foxes,
the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
our vineyards that are in bloom.

He warned us to be on the lookout for the little foxes, the little things that would sneak in and steal from what we have together. Over the years there have been many little foxes (and a few bears), but we have beaten them with sticks.

So my advice, since you didn’t ask, for a long and happy marriage:

1. Laugh together. A lot. My wife is my best friend, in part because she understands my twisted sense of humor. We tease each other. We joke around. We want someday to have our own radio show, but we don’t think anyone would listen. But if we had our own radio show, we would listen to it.

2. PDA is AOK. I’m still learning this one — and she lets me know when I’m not doing it — but little things like putting my arm around her in public, holding her hand, etc., mean a lot. Actually, it’s not so much that it means a lot; it’s that the absence of those things means more.

3. Keep a stick around. Be on the lookout for those little foxes, because they’re sneaky. The bears, they tend to make themselves known. The foxes, not so much — if you’re not watching for them, you only really notice they’ve been there by the crap they leave behind. Don’t be afraid to beat them. Hard. Unless the foxes are your children. Never beat your children.

Happy anniversary, my love. May we have many more, and may the best be yet to come.

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In Which My Children Are Informed, And Not So Informed.

Conversation 1:

This weekend, while cleaning out the car, Peanut said to me, “Dad, hand me that cane.”

“What cane?” I asked.

“That cane. On the floor.”

“Oh, the candy cane?” (Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve cleaned out my car.)

“Yeah. Hey, Dad, that sounds like McCain. Candy cane, McCain. You know, McCain, the Democrat?”

The whole thing sounds better in 4-year-old. Yeah, he was wrong. But he’s 4. And he knows there’s a McCain, and he knows there are Democrats.

Conversation 2:

Chester, age 8: “Who’s the Dalai Lama?”

Me: “He’s a big leader in the Buddhist religion. And kind of the President of Tibet.”

Grandpa: “You know, kind of like the Pope is the head of the Catholic Church? He’s kind of a leader like that.”

Wise One: “Do you know what Buddhist means, baby?”

Chester: “I think so.”

Wise One: “It’s the religion where they follow the teachings of Buddha.”

Chester: “Oh, I know who Buddha is. Isn’t he that famous sumo wrestler?”

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