Does a dead crow mean bad luck?  I have a vague recollection that some negative consequence will befall someone who comes upon a deceased crow.  Maybe I’m thinking of the “black cat crossing your path” thing, which undesirable circumstance is only undesirable on Halloween.  Or maybe it’s undesirable the whole year ’round.  I simply can’t recall.  But I can report that coming across a crow lying flat on its back, prostrate (except face up), whilst walking with one’s family to the morning bus stop is unpleasant.  I will admit to a bit of a jump-scare, in fact.  Perhaps “shuffle-scare” is the better phrase, given that I ran some stairs yesterday on the heels of a couple days of skiing with heavy borrowed skiis, and I am out of morning bus stop shape. In any event, that crow is dead. 

I say “that” crow because he or she and his buddy have been tormenting our own black animal for a year or so.  Screeching blood-curdling caws upon catching sight of her during one of her many neighborhood strolls.  Dive-bombing her and her adult companion.  Wailea barely seemed to mind.  I think she may have misinterpreted their loud reactions as a show of friendship.  She would perk her nose up in the air after a kamikaze swoop.  I would pick myself up off the ground from the push up position, and scavenge around my front pockets for a spare Doan’s back pill, cursing.  My body is not conditioned to twisting and contorting, Matrix-style, in the face of aggressive crow behavior. 

I had developed a real dislike, bordering on hatred, for these two birds.  I tried to find some sort of empathy for them.  Tried to rationalize what could possibly trigger this perpetual, crazed behavior.  Maybe they were protecting some new hatchlings nearby?  That could be true if they churned out baby birds year-round.  Because their reign of terror lasted year-round.  No seasonality.  Maybe we were somehow encroaching on their territory?  Forget it, birds.  We’ve lived on this block for 15 years.  And when we moved, we only moved across the street.  Same block.  I don’t think those birds were 15 years old.  I don’t think crows even live that long.  If they do, one of their clocks stopped counting as of this morning (or maybe last night).  Because he or she is officially dee ee aye dee. 

And so you know, we are a family that basically treasures all living things.  We have never let our boys swing plastic wiffle ball bats at bees buzzing in the grass.  We gave a humming bird a proper burial under our front bushes when we found him there writhing on the ground in his death throes.  The boys even painted a couple rocks with his likeness, marking his final resting place as headstones.  Now, I readily admit to no such mercy shown mosquitoes.  And that juvenile rat snuffed out years ago with a peanut butter-laden, bible-sized trap?  That death blow was delivered by a hired professional, and we maintain plausible deniability in that particular case.  Dead rat?  What dead rat?  The grotesque concoction my grade school buddies and I cooked up 40 years ago to pour on the heads of innocent ants queued up on our sidewalk?  I would thrash my kids if I caught them with that mix of Aim toothpaste and generic hydrogen peroxide.  I might even make them drink it.  In fact, I think you can probably buy this exact ant-killing mixture now as a means of achieving a blindingly bright smile.  So that means even at my most sadistic point, I was actually trying to help those ants.  Make them more attractive, more appealing to their human neighbors.  Not drown them in a blue and bubbly paste.  No sir.  Not this guy.

Well, I felt nothing close to sadness or empathy about the flat-on-his-back crow this morning.  That felt more like karma.  And there will be a cost-savings here, too, since I can cut way back on my Doan’s back pills purchases.  Yessir, I will kick the Doan’s habit completely.  Yahoo!  Though I will need to add in some extra push ups here and there in the course of the day, to make up for the lost, teeth-saving push ups I won’t be doing on my local sidewalks any longer.  That’s fine.  I can live with that.  Collateral damage.  Cost of doing business. 

What a fantastic way to start the new year.  Not so fantastic for the homeowner who stumbles on the crow carcass on his or her way out to work.  That poor bystander — presumably not locked in the same battle to the death as my dog and I have been with those crows — will likely have the bejesus scared out of him or her this morning.  If I weren’t so traumatized by the crow myself, I would be helpful.  Give some advance warning.  Maybe leave a note.  I certainly don’t have it in me to go retrieve the body and dispose of it properly.  But I could maybe ring the doorbell with a broomstick end — the longest broomstick I can find — and then stand there, mute, pointing to the carcass with my cheeks puffed out when the nice man or lady came to their door.  I could do that, maybe. 

No I couldn’t.  I’m just about broken from the crows’ reign of terror.  My nerves are shot.  My ability to think rationally is severely compromised when it comes to these birds.  In fact, I would peg the odds of that bird actually being dead at no greater than 23%.  Far more likely is the notion that he or she is merely taking a nap.  Might even be embarrassed, chagrined, when it wakes up and realizes he had likely been spotted by his arch nemeses in the vicinity of the morning school bus stop. So probably best if I steel myself and tip toe back out around the corner, just to see what’s what. 

But this will have to be a solo mission, no dog in-tow.  I’ve just flushed the last of my Doan’s.

Thanks for reading.  And Happy New Year.

And so it begins.  The boys’ Winter Break, 2014-style.  Only one of my sons is currently awake as my fingers pop the keys of this keyboard.  Hunched over a Santa-sized bag of Legos, clawing away at them, since I rebuffed his first attempt at turning on the television.  Coughing loudly every 3 or 4 minutes, wearing T-Rex and Skull and Crossbones-print pajama bottoms and a blue and grey “Duke” beanie.  No shirt, of course.  The shirtlessness likely explains the coughing, at least in part.  But I don’t demand a shirt.  I’ve long-since learned to pick my battles.  And I don’t pick this one.  Cough Cough.

This is a busy time of the year for my wife (and my sons’ mom) at work, as people suddenly realize they need her to do a bunch of important stuff for them.  Like now.  So that means that at least until Wednesday afternoon, I’m mostly solo.  I like solo.  I like my wife, too, of course.  But I also like solo. 

I’ve already got today and Tuesday accounted for:  I’ll finish this blog post in the next 30 minutes, accompanied by Everett raking through his thousands of Lego pieces and by our dog staring at me from her bed.  The dog won’t become a priority until her staring becomes so persistent that other recipients of said stare would anticipate an imminent attack on the jugular.  To me, that just translates into “take me outside or I will for sure poop and/or pee right here and right now.”  No such stare at the moment; I just checked.

I aspire to fire up some eggs (fried or scrambled depending upon which son’s preference is the morning’s squeakiest wheel), hash browns and bacon on the stove top grill.  The grill’s surface is scratched from heavy use, and I harbor some concern that I will be feeding my kids a dose of non-stick chemicals.  That’s an ongoing risk that will have to be addressed another day.  Because after breakfast, we are headed to the Academy.

The California Academy of Sciences, that is.  When the boys were younger, the Cal Academy was a go-to.  One of the few places where a parent could lower a toddler’s feet to the ground and, more or less, let the toddler explore on his or her own, while the parent trailed behind.  On a crowded day, this admittedly made for some nervous moments.  I have run-walked some shallow-breathed loops around the trippy blue underwater rooms downstairs, picking up my pace as my eyes scan the dark corners for my progeny, calculating the odds that he could drown in a starfish pool, crack his head on the stairs near the Gar tank, wind up in some stranger’s stroller, or topple into Claude’s den.  Did I mention that Claude is an albino alligator? None of those things have ever come to fruition, though in retrospect, I always sort of admire my creativity in terms of all the incredibly terrible things I conjure up before I find Max or Everett at a water fountain.

Fortunately (or maybe, unfortunately), those days are over now.  My kids only disappear if they choose to.  And they know my cell phone number, combined with absolutely zero fear of asking a surprised stranger to borrow the stranger’s cell phone.  “Just real quick, if you don’t mind, so I can call my dad.”  I’ve grown accustomed to seeing incoming calls bearing completely bizarre, I-don’t-know-anyone-in-Alaska area codes.  That just means Max or Ev is calling from some bemused person’s iPhone.  Fun for the kid.  Strange mixture of pride and mortification for me.  Pride for their resourcefulness.  Mortification if the owner of the cell phone is the type that will admonish me or give me that look when I show up to claim my offspring. A similar scene plays out if there is no stranger’s cell phone readily available.  Both of my kids are adept at commandeering the public address announcement system at grocery stores, museums, even airports.  In those situations, the mortification is magnified by the hundreds of disapproving eyeballs.

I so dread the mortification part, I sometimes catch myself considering ways to avoid or diminish the shunning.  Maybe I should wear a suit.  Or a tuxedo.  I have a tuxedo, it’s the one in which I was married.  Still fits, pretty much.  And I’m always looking for an excuse to wear it.  I imagine there are peer-reviewed, double-blind scientific studies supporting the notion that a man wearing a tuxedo is less likely to be admonished for delinquent parenting than a man wearing fleece sweats, a striped beanie, and goofy green running shoes.  If there is no such study, there ought to be.  Perhaps I’ll roll the study out this morning.  Given what I’m wearing at the moment, I’m thinking the beanie and green running shoes should probably be the control group.  The tux may have to wait until next time.  It’s been awhile since I’ve tied a bow-tie, and I don’t think I’ve allotted enough time for that this particular morning.  

On the other hand, a tux today might just be the perfect choice.  I imagine the scene:  Responding promptly to the fully-expected page using my first and last name (combined with the delinquent parenting part).  Mock surprise on my face, eye brows raised phonily, maybe even mouthing a “who, me?” I glide gracefully, with purpose, towards the Customer Service kiosk.  The spotlights normally trained on the enormous Blue Whale hanging from the ceiling — they snap onto my me, illuminating my path towards the kiosk, allowing me to cut through the admiring throngs.  (Slowly, the mortification begins to transfer from me over to my sons.  I can see it on their faces.)  Somewhere, a drum roll pounded out on a timpani reaches a crescendo.  I reach for (read: yank from the grip of the nervously-smiling Customer Service representative) the mic.  With the entire place holding it’s breath now, I scan the crowd.  Take it all in.  I smooth down a slight cowlick with one hand, pinch a corner of my black bow tie with the other.  Then maybe a quick flattening of the cummerbund.  I clear my throat, “First, I’d like to thank the Academy.”  I don’t get the rest of my speech out, though, due to the heavyset security guards clutching my elbows.

So on second thought, I think I’ll just go with the beanie and green sneakers. 

Thanks for reading.

One December night maybe six or seven years ago, we vaguely heard a thud in the front of our flat whilst we slept. I don’t remember it all that well, truth be told, so maybe my subconscious managed to weave the real-world sound into whatever I was dreaming about that night. Could’ve been the muffled slam of my high school locker door, for example. The one for which I can never remember the combination, as I struggle in a frenzied panic to loose a text book critical to the Calculus final exam I am missing while I fiddle with the numbered dial. That might have been the one.

The relief I would feel upon waking up and realizing I didn’t really need the locker combo after all? (And please, Late-for-Calculus-Final-Exam Dream, release me from your grip.) That morning, the relief was replaced with dread as we discovered our over-sized Christmas tree (do I have the capitalization scheme right on this?) had toppled over in the night. Smashing to smithereens a number of ornaments we had slowly gathered thusfar during our early years together, my wife and I.

The facade of the Heritage House, a great little bed and breakfast in Mendocino to which we’d escaped one weekend early in Hilary’s first pregnancy for our now-teenager. (Yes I know I am not using one of those little sickle marks on the c in “facade.” I took French. But I can’t find the mark as a choice on my iPhone keypad.). Broken into 3 pieces, the bright red front door split from the yellow trimmed windows.

A medicine man of some sort. Green face, black and white striped horns, yellow teeth, bulging eyes circled in black eye liner. Maybe wearing pants made of buffalo hide or something. A little terrifying, actually. Think we picked him up in Sedona or Sante Fe on our move out here from the east coast in 1999. I’d guess he is supposed to be some sort of ceremonial figure. Probably my favorite tree decoration. Well, he survived the trip west unscathed, but lost a horn on our carpet, thrown down unceremoniously by our own strange ceremony involving a chopped down pine tree propped up in our living room for a month.

Well, last week it happened again.

No more than 30 seconds after I snapped the above photo of the newly-clamped and ornament-strung tree next to our fireplace, that bad boy came down.

Moments earlier, the five of us (including our dog) were, for once, actually quiet. The boys were drawing up their (ridiculous) Christmas wish lists. I was engrossed in the final pages of a book about exploring the ocean’s depths. Hilary was maybe catching up on emails. The dog was lying at my side, tongue lolling out, probably fantasizing about licking our dinner plates clean once we’d all gone to bed. The fire crackled.

Suddenly, Hilary let out a primal scream. As I jolted my head up, the tree began to fall in slow motion, the dog bolted upright and got the hell out of Dodge, and our youngest was suddenly under the 8-foot tree.

Me: “Everett, are you OK in there?”

Everett (presumably still clutching his pen, scribbling madly to ensure every possible aspiration is included on his list, possibly not even noticing the tree covering his upper torso): “Yep.”

The only damage, really, was the thin (too-thin) glass ornament we’d picked up at Zion National Park last spring. That was a once-in-a-lifetime trip filled with memories we’ll be reliving for years, likely even years after the actual participants are long gone. That hand-painted orb was fairly shattered, its sharp pieces set delicately on our dining room table even now, nearly a week later. As if we’re mourning the ornament.

The Heritage House also broke again, along the same fractures as last time, apparently not glued together as well as we thought. I think I can fix this one, though. Hopefully without Crazy-Gluing my thumb and forefinger together.

And the Sante Fe Medicine Man?

Where is he? Where is he? I may even have said those words aloud as I combed through the debris. His medicine must be good. Somehow, he survived this calamity without a scratch. He still only has the one horn, but his medicine is good.

Until the next time.

Thanks for reading.

We need to hire a hit man. Or a hit woman. We need to get someone, er, something six feet under. Dead. Kilt. Gone.

We need a Fruit Fly Assassin.

I have had it with these sonsabitchin’ Drosophiladae. I’m cool with an occasional little fella carving his little squares in the air above out compost container. That’s actually helpful — a sign that it’s time to bring the compost tin’s fermented contents down to the big compost bin in the garage. Thanks, little fella. I would even give him a gentle pat on the head if I could.

But we are way past the cute, living in concert with nature, we are all God’s creatures phase. We are officially in the Rod Steiger in the Amityville Horror Attic Attack Besieged by Flies stage.

Yesterday I lifted the fancy cardboard box top containing a leftover fancy chocolate cake from dinner this weekend. I was salivating, even, at the prospect of topping off a bland lunch with a slice or 3 of said cake. Apparently, fruit flies are attracted to leftover chocolate cakes. And human saliva. When I cracked open the lid no more than half an inch, a couple flew straight into my mouth. Which was open, because I guess I was making the “oh man I can’t wait to eat this” face.

I staggered backwards, cursing, coughing, and causing my dog to run downstairs to hide in her crate. I was a little shell-shocked by the sudden ambush, and the part of my hypothalamus that controls hunger had yet to be overcome by the part of my brain that manifests a proper response to disgust. And so, still trying to call up the intruders clinging to my epiglottis, I lunged back at the fancy cake. I guess I was trying to evaluate, in my compromised state, whether the cake was still edible. I don’t really know, it was like an out-of-body experience for a few desperate moments.

I regained my senses, calculated the embarrassment factor if quizzed by the emergency room doctor as to whether I had “eaten anything unusual recently,” and slammed the lid shut. To the extent that you can “slam” a fancy cardboard cake box shut.

Then the part of my brain that conjures up bloodlust, vengeance, murderous inclinations, vaulted to the fore. Through the tunnel vision of my blind rage, I saw that the Mini Dyson was within arm’s reach. So I spent the next several minutes jumping around the kitchen, sucking the little bastards into the plastic nozzle. With the “MAXIMUM” button pushed in. I wasn’t messing around. Typically, under calmer circumstances, I cannot reach the flies clinging near the tops of the cupboards or hanging upside down from the ceiling. Like the old ladies who lift Volkswagens off pinned children, my adrenaline fueled superhuman leaps. I could have put my head through the ceiling if I wanted to. I mean, I got up.

My flyocide didn’t do squat. This morning they’re right back there. Laughing at me, most likely. Damned things reproduce at such a prolific rate, they probably multiplied even while I was foolishly trying to decimate their ranks with my plastic vacuum.

I’m man enough to admit when I am beyond my depth. I’m officially there. So we’re calling in the big guns. I’ll be publishing a Craigslist post, titled “Need Fruit Fly Assassin to Murder Chocolate Cake-Eating Flies Who Flew In My Mouth, Rod Steiger-Style,” forthwith. Wish me luck.

Thanks for reading.

I had an epiphany at 75 miles per hour this afternoon. 

I was hurtling back home to San Francisco after a couple travel baseball tournament games in Manteca.  About a 90-minute drive, depending upon how willing you are to risk a speeding ticket.  My eldest son, Max, has been playing on this particular baseball team for about a year.  The spring season was all-in, culminating in a family trip to a very cool tournament last summer in Cooperstown.  For this fall season, we decided (Max included) that he would focus principally on soccer.  Fall is generally and rightly regarded as THE time of year for soccer.  That meant Max had to sort of demote himself to a “practice player” on his baseball team.  The team stocked up on several new players, many of which I know nothing about.  Except that they all elected to put baseball first this fall season. 

Max chose to put it second. 

He worked so hard to make the baseball team in the first place — think hitting balls off the tee for weeks, at night, in the backyard after dinner, with a headlamp on, until his calloused hands bled.  That experience alone, make the team or no, was worth the price of admission.  I never worked hard for anything until I was probably already in my 20s.  If then.  So to see Max out back last fall in the pitch black, ping ping ping the sound of his bat in the throw of his headlamp’s light?  Pretty cool. 

But there are consequences to choosing one thing or another.  As a practice player, Max would not be playing in tournaments.  He would regularly miss practices.  And the practices he could attend, he typically showed up 30-60 minutes late, arriving on the heels of a soccer practice down the 101.  Other players would make every practice.  And they would be there early.  And they would show up at every game, hungry to play every single inning. 

Max’s voice would be conspicuously absent from the dugout, as he basically left vacant the spot he worked for — harder than anything he’d ever worked for before.

Interesting choice.

Today marked the first time Max was available to play in one of his baseball team’s fall tournaments and his coach invited him to come.  Hence the drive to Manteca this morning.  The morning after Halloween.  After cutting himself off at a fistful of Halloween candy and getting to bed earlier than he otherwise would.  Max was fired up, warpaint on his cheekbones, ready to go.

Only it didn’t happen.  As much as I had tried to manage our expectations — Max is the only practice player; everybody else has put in their time and worked hard — neither of us was prepared for the consequences today.  Max never played so little as he did in his team’s two games today.  The times when he would generally be popping out of the dugout racing to his spot on the infield?  Those times never happened.  The times when he would step up to the plate, ready to get on base anyway he could?  None of those times happened either. 

He was crushed.  I was crushed.  I tried desperately not to let my bubbling anger show on my face.  I refused to catch his eyes when he looked for me, peeking out of the dugout.  I didn’t trust myself enough; I was afraid he would see my strong emotions and adopt them as his own, uncertain as he was as to how he should deal with this unfamiliar dynamic. 

In the aftermath of the second game, I found myself melodramatically hurling my large cup of Coke into the trash can.  I muttered (probably louder than just “muttered”) a number of F-Bombs I couldn’t help but sprinkle into my neck vein-bulging rants.  Directed at no one in particular, just expressing my frustration.  I don’t know that any of the other parents heard me.  I hope not.  But at the time, I didn’t care.  I was angry, disappointed, embarrassed, confused.  My adrenals were squeezing and it took everything I could muster not to say something stupid to someone who would not forget what I said and which I could not take back later.

There are times when a 90-minute drive is the best medicine. 

After Max vented in an age-appropriate way (fewer F-Bombs), he suddenly fell asleep.  Warpainted cheek pressed against the window.  And was snoring out loud within only a couple minutes.  He had never played less than he played today, but he was exhausted.  Drained.  From his little jelly head trying to figure out what to do with this.

Then it dawned on me. 

His coach had given Max a gift.  The Gift of Adversity.  I don’t know whether he intended to bequeath this gift or not.  But that doesn’t matter.  The best thing about sports, about travel baseball and soccer, about the daily existence both of our kids are currently navigating, is the innumerable opportunities to handle and manage adversity.  Everyone gets knocked on their ass, over and over again.  Everyone gets knocked onto the canvas.  And with your saliva-dripping cheek on the threadbare canvas, you have just two choices.  It’s simple, really–

(1) Stay down. 

(2) Get back up.  Now.

I think Number Two is probably one of those key things in life. 

Max got punched in the gut today, effectively.  And I’m actually thankful for that now.  I get to stand over his prone body, put my hand on his back, and ask him:  “You have two choices, my boy.  You can stay down.  Or you can get back up.  Now I’m going to walk back over to our corner, step through the ropes, and watch.  I’m here for you either way.  But it is your choice.  Not mine.”

Here’s hoping he chooses well.

Thanks for reading.

Three World Series Championships in the last five years.  A dynasty, they say.  My kids have no idea how lucky they are to be living in this Land of Giants.  Their maternal grandfather — a lifelong, long-suffering Red Sox fan (still) — waited nearly 70 years to witness his hometown team win a World Series.  My kids have experienced three, count ’em three!  

And it’s not just the being a fan part.  Forty-thousand fans turn the turnstiles at AT&T Park for every home game.  We go to our fair share of games.  The four of us happened to be on-hand at the ballpark when Cain threw his perfect game.  And we watch or listen to just about all of them that we don’t attend.  Hanging on Kruk & Kuip’s every word while crammed into our Prius or piled on the floor at the foot of the television scratching our family dog’s belly.  We have shelled out our fair share of shekels, too, for the merch:  Orange panda hat, Giants flannel pajamas, “Always October” hoodies.  The whole sh-bang.  Our fandom bona fides are for real.

But the best part is the “hometown team” part.  We and our kids regularly bump into Giants players.  A couple years ago, I passed Brian Wilson walking on Sansome Street.  At the time, he lived around the corner from us, so I lamely offered up a quick, “Hey, you’re a long way from your neighborhood.”  Weezy dryly responded, “Everyplace is my neighborhood” without breaking stride.  Later that same year, he gamely signed autographs for my son Max’s San Francisco Little League All-Star team.  We had spotted him having dinner next to our team’s dinner one night, and after some cajoling, he came outside and made the kids’ day.  He even laughed aloud with Max when Max explained to Weezy that his broken wrist in a cast was caused by falling on the treadmill in our garage.  

A few years back, Everett was invited to say hello to Pat Burrell seated in the rear of the now-defunct Grove on Chestnut.  A quick conversation, but it left an impression:  Everett’s family drawing around Christmas-time that year included Pat the Bat.  And I’m OK with that.  We would regularly see Aubrey Huff at Max’s swim lessons in the Presidio.  I’d leave him alone, giving him his space.  But I couldn’t help myself on the morning after a particularly hard-fought post season win.  Striding out to the pool deck, Aubrey caught my eyes, and we both raised our arms and shook our fists at each other triumphantly.  It was genuine; I felt as if I had played a role in the win.  

A couple months ago, I was working at home and fully-engaged in a conference call.  Max stuck a piece of paper in my face with something about Jeremy Affeldt and coffee written on it.  I waved my hand, annoyed with the distraction.  Max disappeared, texting me this photo a few minutes later —

So net net, we’re pretty thrilled with the Giants’ success of-late, for sure.  But it’s the unexpected moments when our kids stumble into the players here and there that we appreciate the most.  We feel like we’re a part of something, rather than just witnessing something.  And we know we’re damned lucky to be living here in the Land of Giants.

Thanks for reading.

Yes, Crisco. 

My 8 year-old was up to his usual tricks with his line of questioning during the walk to the bus stop this morning.  First, he asked, “Dad, what is Crisco?”  Trust me, this question was out of the blue.  I can’t even imagine how that question would ever not be out of the blue.  I don’t cook with it.  I don’t know anyone else who does.  I don’t put it in my hair.  If someone else chooses to, that is their business.  And I don’t believe Everett has developed a taste for I Love Lucy, the Honeymooners or other TV shows of that era in which the word “Crisco” might be included in the script.  In fact, I wasn’t even sure how to answer the Crisco Question.  I caught myself wiggling my lips a bit to try to form a word, having a tough time pushing air up from my lungs to my mouth.  My brisk pace cut in half as I struggled for something sensible to say.  Fortunately, my wife Hilary jumped headlong into the breach.  As my head swirled in my moment of vulnerability, I vaguely heard her say the word “shortening,” and I knew that we would survive this.  Nevermind that my inner Rainman was now wrestling with the different meanings of “shortening,” and how they don’t seem to have anything to do with each other.  Or do they?

Regardless, I picked my pace back up, relieved that Hilary knew how to trot out the word “shortening” without skipping a beat, such that Everett did not likely see me staggering from his Crisco body blow.  Equilibrium now restored.

Once we arrived at the bus stop proper, however, the second shoe dropped.  Everett asked, “Dad, what is a finder’s fee?”  Now, I know what a “finder’s fee” is.  That wasn’t the issue here.  The issue was the close proximity in time between the Crisco Question and the Finder’s Fee Question.  Under a minute.  Maybe less.  So that meant that Everett somehow was connecting the two words.  This was not out of the blue.  Nothing out of the blue about this. 

But what was the connection?  Where in the hell did he hear this? Read this?  Get offered this?  Was he tipping his hand to some God-awful school playground prank to which he was privy?  I don’t recall seeing any substance on any of his clothes or in his hair that, upon reflection, could have been Crisco-esque in origin.  Then again, I don’t take a hard look.  And most stains are good news — suggesting that he actually did brush his teeth, did wash his hands this week, or did eat what he was supposed to eat from the school lunch.   So I have to concede that he could have walked into our house with a Crisco mohawk, and I may not have noticed. 

And I’m not sure, but isn’t this type of “shortening” frowned upon in cooking nowadays due to some mouse studies?  Our kids’ school is all about organic gardens, composting, and sourcing food locally.  So I can’t fathom that Everett would pay or be paid a finder’s fee for delivering up a barrel of Crisco to the school kitchen.  That would be scandalous.  Not the finder’s fee part, but the idea that someone at school was cooking with Crisco.  There would need to be a school-wide email from the head of school with a heartfelt apology and firm reassurance that our kids are safe.  That someone was fired.  And that a thorough search of the area found that NO CRISCO ever made it onto school grounds. 

As all this ran through my head, the school bus rolled up silently.  The kids were all sucked on board as if by some sort of powerful vacuum, scrambling up the stairs.  I managed a weak — and basically rhetorical under the circumstances — “Ev, um, are those two questions somehow connected??”  But by then he had been sucked up into the bus, halfway to his seat, and I could not decipher his facial expression through the tinted windows.  Why are the windows tinted?  As far as I knew, as the bus squeaked away from the curb, Ev was now passing a huge vat of the shortening around to his fellow students, who slathered themselves up with it, crazed.  And slapped dollar bills into my 8 year-old’s outstretched palm.

I expect a call from school any minute now.  Is that the phone ringing??

Thanks for reading.