I often share overly personal information about my family on Mostly Teachable, but neglect to share some of the honest to goodness details of my happy life here in the wilds of Southern Michigan. This year I plan to post my photo collection from each Week That Was. To kick off 2013, I thought I’d go back into my vault and share some of what turned out be a really nice 2012. Here are some of the pictures from the last 12 months:
I don’t expect my blog, or any of its readers, to sort out my various life hang ups. That would be asking a lot from paid professionals, let alone the people who stumble across Mostly Teachable. One mental mutation I recently overcame was refusal to drive anywhere. Other than the mile to work and back each day, I’d park the car and live as a passenger. There was no earthly reason for this. My wife, full of saintly patience, would chauffeur our young daughter Anna and myself from place to place, while I shouted absurdities from the back seat. When Anna was a preschooler this was fun for her. Like having one’s very own overgrown idiot for company. I’d make up songs, or we’d develop a life for her old dollhouse boy who’d lost his clothes years before. The odd little doll boy enjoyed adventures, such as the thrill of flying a helicopter, or being smashed over the head, while wearing only shoes.
All odd behavior comes to a natural end. If it doesn’t, rifts start to form in relationships. For Anna, the final straw was having her not-quite-all- there companion making up alternate lyrics for boy band songs. Did you know that any Justin Bieber song can be re-written into a show tune with lyrics about teenage male incontinence? Absolutely. She’s over him, partly due to his advanced age, and partly because dad besmirched his bladder control in song. Anna’s moved on to the dark side of rock and roll, but in her Bieber days I was banished from the back seat for singing one non-pee ditty about J.B. entitled “Gravy” (‘And I was like ‘Gravy, Gravy, Gravaay. Gravy you’ll always be mine’). My wife started handing me the keys each time we left the house. “Might as well drive so you don’t annoy her.” I now pilot, yelling “Don’t make me come back there!” like a normal parent. Sometimes I hum a forgotten song about mashed potato toppings.
My nine year-old daughter received a battery operated Justin Bieber musical toothbrush as a Christmas gift this past weekend. What did the world do to satiate it’s oral hygiene needs before the Bieber brush? I no longer can recall, because all that rattles through my mind is “I’m like baby, baby, baby.” The brush plays two and a half minutes of Bieber music in an attempt to instruct children that proper dental cleaning is equivalent to the amount of puppy love yearning soundtrack a reasonably sane person can stand before finally jamming the toothbrush through the roof of their mouth. Thank goodness there isn’t a Lynard Skynard musical toothbrush. Kids would be tearing up their gums before making it through half of Freebird.
Justin Bieber is not such a bad kid. He probably brushes his teeth at least once a week. He might even sing Baby as he gargles mouth wash. Not that it would sound any different. I wonder if he’ll look back at his early career and marvel at the amount of crap that featured his face. I’d like to see him really cash in on his fame. Why does he have to stop with toothbrushes? Justin should explore becoming the new Mrs. Butterworth. As we pour pancake syrup from the top of his glass noggin, Bieber could remind us of how thick and rich his buttery syrup is. I predict that Justin will one day become a famed music critic and prattle on about pentatonic clusters, while the rest of us are haunted by his teen idol music from brushes that won’t die. I guess that I shouldn’t complain about the singing toothbrush. I had the “Snoopy Brusha Brusha Toothbrush.” The thing had D cell batteries and weighed six pounds. Lousy for teeth, but I ended up with huge biceps.