Not Just Another Father's Day Post (Mostly Because It's No Longer Father's Day)

This generation is obsessed with lists. Everyday there is a new buzz feed list/article trending on Facebook, like, "20 things you'll recognize if you grew up in the 90s."

And I scroll through the list and I click through each picture and I think,

Yup, recognize that. Oh yeah, recognize that too.

And at the end of it all I feel an overwhelming and completely unjustified sense of accomplishment.

Did I really need affirmation that I grew up in the 90s? It's like taking a test to see if you actually like your favorite kind of food.

But regardless of how silly they may be, lists are trending, and I'm hip, so...

Here is my list, my father's list really, in honor of him on father's day (or in my punctual spirit, three days afterward). It's pretty much the ultimate life hack list, but back before we felt the need to hack life and were content to just live it.

1. Learn to drive stick. Besides the fact that you will be really cool, you should always have a way to leave a situation. Jason Bourne also learned this from my father.

"Sure you can get a Wrangler. If you learn to drive stick. No daughter of mine is going to drive an automatic Jeep."

My experience with Wranglers at the time of this conversation was limited to the pink Barbie PowerWheels, but even at 6 I knew I wanted one (as long as they came in other colors). It was news to me that you needed any knowledge beyond pushing an on/off switch, but whatever the mysterious terms "manual transmission" signified, I was going to learn how to use it.

Fast forward to sophomore year in college. Taking a left across 3 lanes of traffic in my first lesson was not the way I anticipated learning. I turned on my right blinker.

"What are you doing? We're going left."

I calmly explained, "I don't feel comfortable taking a left. I'm afraid of stalling and getting hit. We can try in the next lesson."

My friend leaned over and switched the blinker. "If we take a right, I will be late for class. And if we get hit, it will be on the driver's side." Well I'm glad you have your priorities straight.

I stalled.

But I survived to tell the tale. And when every once in awhile I rest my hand on the gear shift and pretend I'm cool enough to drive a manual, I remember. "Oh wait. I AM that cool."

2. Read. You will always have something interesting to say. Reading broadens your perspectives, improves your attention span and makes you an interesting conversationalist.

Reading also improves your vocabulary. Make sure, however, that you double check how to pronounce these new words before you try to use them. Take the advice of someone who never paid attention in Phonics and then thought it was a good idea to use words she had read but never heard spoken. A Philly accent can only cover so many of those mistakes.

Only last week my statement about surviving summer camp with "aplomb" (which I pronounced "a-plume") met first a blank reaction, and then...

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was confused. Are we talking about feathers?"

3. Learn how to tell a good story.

My father is a master story teller. Every inflection is perfectly rehearsed, every punch line delivered with excellent timing. Every part can be timed to the second, even the point when he turns to you and says, "Stop me if I've told this one."

But of course you never would, because they are that good.

4. When you can, drive there.

And if there are any presidential birthplaces on the way, stop (Eastern seaboard? Seen 'em all).

5. Always fill your tank up all the way and change your oil (regularly).

You will save a lot of time and money. If you want to go places in life, take care of your vehicle. Don't play that game where you put in 10 gallons here, 5 gallons there. Ain't nobody got time for that (Also, if you're waiting to get to that station priced at $3.50 a gallon instead of $3.59, recall that you are saving $.09 a gallon, factor out the gas you spend to get to the cheaper station, slap yourself in the face, and fill up your tank).

6. Country music is cool.

I may not have realized it at the time, but in retrospect I appreciated the character building of having my father blast Hal Ketchum with the windows down in Center City Philadelphia.

I apologize for hiding in the seat well, Dad. I was so young and ignorant.

7. If you spend money on a night out, you can afford to tip well.

Also, don't order salad and fill up on bread while you drink water and stare hungrily at your date. Trust me, she'd rather go to Taco Bell than watch your cheeks slowly hollow as she drinks and dines on your dime.

8. Get dessert.

Enough said.

9. Remember birthdays and anniversaries.

With the advent of social media, it's become pretty easy to remember important dates in people's lives, but a Happy Birthday doesn't have the same effect when it has been reduced to a red notification flag on a Facebook wall. And if your post wasn't the most recent, it doesn't even say your name. Just something like, "Suzy Soandso and 3 other people posted on your wall."

Is that really where you want to be lumped? In those 3 other people, with Suzy getting all the credit?

In the barren years before iCalendar and Facebook, my father used to give each of us a wall calendar for Christmas. And in Bro's Sports Illustrated calendar, B's Impressionists, M's Norman Rockwell, and my Defining Events of US Military History, he would write all of our relatives' birthdays and anniversaries. And a few others that were practically family. Like Ronald Reagan and Babe Ruth.

10. Call your mother.

She put up with you for a long time. And she loves you (Even if it's because she has to. My mother's exact words, if I recall rightly, were, "I love you right now because I have to. But I don't like you very much.")

Plus a girl can tell how a man will treat her down the line from the way he treats his mother. So gentlemen, it wouldn't hurt to have a pretty girl or two overhear that weekly conversation.


The 10 items comprise some of the best advice I've gotten from my father, and yet he never came out and told me I had to follow any of it. The best advice you can get from someone is the advice that they follow themselves. My dad's got it pretty locked up, if you ask me.

Happy Campers

Well it's been two years, but I finally moved past the bros, hipsters, good ole boys, and hip hop stars to experience the real south, the south everyone warned me about, the south that Jeff Foxworthy prepared me for. This past week I hung with the toothless crowd.

And those 22, 3-5 somethings were the toughest southerners this Yankee has encountered yet.

Have you ever tried to imitate every motion that a toddler makes over the course of their day? You'd be dead by 9:30 in the morning. And yet I was the one falling asleep during nap time (on that note, can we bring back that institution?).

I decided pretty early on that the only way to keep order with my tiny summer campers was to establish a military state. I instructed them to call me "Sarge," which, in respectful southern fashion, they changed to "Miss Sarge." Except for the Korean students, who called me "Teacher Sarge." (I'm considering that title for my college professorial career).

http://37.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzgn5hTWGm1qi67s6o1_500.jpg

It was pretty difficult to keep up my stern military persona though, especially when one approached me with tears in his eyes (well, I assume, but his face was completely swallowed up by his wailing open mouth so there would be no way of knowing for certain) to tell me he had hit his elbow.

"Don't do that," I told him. "It hurts."

Apparently my Irish father's tough love methods do not work universally, because this only produced more wails.

"Are you going to be okay? Do I need to call in the Marines? What about the National Guard?"

"I j-j-just..." he paused mid-wail, sniffled, gulped, continued, "I just need a hug!"

Melt.

On Wednesday, we took a field trip to the library. The women who let us in the door glared at me like I had just run through her quiet sanctum with a ghetto blaster.

"That is a lot of children." She said it like I wasn't aware I had a small army of toddlers following me.

"I hope you weren't planning on bringing them to the show."

Now, those kids may have softened me up a bit over the week, but the Philly bristled right up at this.

"Well, actually yes. I was planning on bringing them to the free show at the free library." And what are you doing working here, lady? Did you just wake up one morning, think 'I hate kids and noise and disturbance' and then decide, 'I should be a children's librarian!'"

"Well, we have a strict policy to not accept groups of 6 or more."

I looked back at my crew and the 4 chaperones accompanying them.

"I have an adult for every four kids."

"I'm sorry, it's the policy." Don't you mess with me, lady. My people threw snowballs at Santa Claus. I will not spare a mere librarian.

"In that case, we can stagger our entrance to make sure we are letting all of the other children get a chance."

She glared and then conceded. "I will make an exception this time. But don't count on doing it in the future. And don't," she stared down my 5 year old line leader, "line up until 10:20."

I looked at the clock, noted that it was 10:17, and decided to let that battle go.

It was playground time that saved my sanity. A fenced-in area with 100% visibility, filled with play structures that will occupy a three year old attention span for at least 15 minutes? Mecca. I began to look forward to it more than the kids. They saw it as 15 minutes of play time, I saw it as my sole chance to sit down during the day.

Not that it was uninterrupted Me time. Or even uninterrupted sitting time. On that note, children should not be allowed on swings unless they are self-sustaining swingers. I mean, seriously, kid? This is my sitting time. You say you just want one under-doggy but we all know where that leads. It's the gateway to endless pushing.

"Miss Sarge, do you have a kid?"

"No." But if I did he would know how to pump by the age of two: max.

"That's too bad. If you had a kid, he would be like you but he wouldn't be in charge and he and I would be best friends." Hopefully he could teach you how to use a swing.

On the walk back from the playground, Charlie held my hand and pointed to the cars as we passed.

"That's a KIA. That's a BMW. That's a Volvo."

I pointed to a Mustang. "What's that one?"

He looked at me and I sensed a distinct loss of respect.

"That's a Horse." Duh, Miss Sarge.

By day three I was moving in a zombie state, drinking straight espresso and praying for an incident free day.

"Teacher Sarge. What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"Why?"

"To give me energy."

He giggled. "That no work, Teacher." Well, yes, I've been realizing that myself. Do you have a better alternative?

"Batteries make energy." Ah, of course. I just need some batteries.

An honest brochure of the camp would have included the following, "Every morning will include 15 minutes of playground time. Please provide a healthy, peanut-free snack for your child to eat during this time. The remainder of the morning will be spent using the potty and washing hands."

One child stood for a full minute with hands extended under the faucet before turning to me and explaining, "There's no water coming out, Miss Sarge."

"That's because you have to turn it on, Caleb." Apparently the hands-free activists hadn't gotten to that bathroom yet.

Add to brochure: "Campers will learn essential survival strategies such as the use of non-sensor plumbing equipment."

At the end of the week I was presented with a token of love from the smallest of my campers. He proudly handed me a red and black caterpillar, asked if he could give me an eskimo kiss, and then trotted away, only to trot back and announce solemnly, "He will poop on you."

The gift was hastily dispatched to its former habitat.

In unrelated news, I made really good food over Memorial Day weekend. So good, in fact, that pictures even made the social media rounds (so maybe there was a little strong arming involved...but what else are best friends for unless to broadcast your victories and pretend like it was voluntary?)

I almost considered writing an entire blog post just to celebrate, but then I forgot the milk in the laundry room for a day or so when I was using my blender in there, and the shame humbled me.

But eat these enchiladas. I have no idea what I did to make them turn out so I will stick to merely listing ingredients. For the rest, you're on your own.