My dad is better than your dad.

The DNB tells a story about his childhood!

"So, I was playing in the sandbox..."

"Wait, what kind of sandbox?" I interrupt. "In the ground or raised?"

"In the ground." He seems puzzled that there would be another type.

"Oh, because my dad made us a raised, child's-height sandbox with a top to keep the sand dry," I brag. That was an AWESOME sandbox.

"Oh, because my..."

"Also," I continue, "I'm pretty sure the sand was the purest sand from the Indian Ocean."

The DNB is not amused. "Yeah well my dad wanted to make sure I experienced the kind of sand that the neighborhood cats experienced. They played with their food, ate it, and then crapped in my sandbox."

When I Scammed My Neighborhood

I start a zoo!

I gather the other 7- and 8-year-olds in the neighborhood and discuss my plan. We're going to capture all kinds of animals and house them in my garage. And when I say that "we're" going to capture animals, I mean they are going to. As if I would touch a frog, ha!

We first head to the creek, where I stand back from the water's edge and helpfully point out the frogs for my friends. We collect them in one of my mother's kitchen pots. SORRY MOM. But good news - apparently ingesting pasta laced with frog germs doesn't kill you!

Next we turn over rocks to find roly-poly bugs and dig up anthills to make an ant farm in an old Sea Monkey container. The crowning achievement were the two honeybees I trapped inside a jar. They only survived about 30 minutes in there, but everyone was amazed that I caught them. Perhaps because it was the first time I'd ever willingly encountered an insect.

We set up the garage, using my father's metal shelves as displays. Ant farm here, bees there. Caterpillars in this jar and a centipede in that one. My yellow plastic pool was home to the frogs, many of which escaped under the workbench or into open bags of mulch. Again, SORRY MOM. Glad you weren't done in by that heart attack you had when a frog jumped out of the mulch at you 3 years later.

I decide to CHARGE ADMISSION, that's just how great this zoo is. I set the price at five cents, and the neighborhood children line up eagerly, ooing and ahhing over tiny creatures they encounter on their own literally every day.

"Next week," I announce authoritatively to the assembled crowd, "We'll be having a Teddy Bear's picnic. It will cost ten cents."

He didn't go for "I Heart Dudes" either

We get tattoos!

Well, I do. The DNB won't.

"I don't understand why you won't get a tattoo with my name on it," I pout. "It's like you think our marriage isn't permanent."

"I do think it's permanent," he replies. "But I'm not getting your name tattooed on me."

The DNB is fairly conservative when it comes to Alternative Expressions; I'm the one with the rebel's heart and the tongue ring.

"What if it were someplace hidden?" I suggest. "Like just over your pubic bone."

"Still no, and even more no," he says, crossing his arms.

"It kind of feels like you hate me."

Has anyone NOT done this?

When I was in first grade, I accidentally used the boys' bathroom at my school.

I was downstairs, at the library, and I had never used the nearby bathrooms before. The fifth and sixth grade classrooms were down there, and I was intimidated to enter the space owned by the older children.

What amazes me to this day is the fact that to get to one of the stalls, I had to walk past a veritable row of urinals. I must not have noticed - although HOW DO YOU NOT NOTICE? - and the bathroom was empty when I walked in.

When I walked out of the stall, however, the place was bustling. At least, it was until they saw me. No one said anything. At least, not while I was in there. Bright red, I walked quickly to the door and back to the library. I didn't tell anyone what I had done.

To this day, my stomach drops with nerves when I think about it. I check and re-check the symbol on the bathroom door before I enter, and if we're at an ethnic restaurant that thinks it's cute to label the doors in some native tongue, forget about it. I can hold it.

Even flowers from the grocery store would've been a better way to go

I was home schooled for most of my life. But in the early years of elementary school I went to a public school.

It was there that I met a kid named Chris, who was clearly in need of some positive male role models. With longish hair feathered back on the sides, a rat tail, and protruding front teeth, he was the bad boy of second grade. Somehow he always seemed to have a black eye.

He teased me mercilessly: a thug with a crush, or just a thug? I couldn't tell until one day at recess.

I liked to swing, pumping higher and higher and then jumping at the peak. It was a daily contest to see who could jump the farthest, and we learned at what point in the forward arc to hurl ourselves so as to fly the longest. I was working to reach my ideal coordinates when I was hit on the arm, hard, with a rock.

I looked around to see Chris smirking up at me from beside the swings. Had I been a more aggressive child, I would have jumped off - height and length be damned - and pummeled the little bastard.

But I was a good child, and sweet, and so I ignored him.

And so he threw another one.

It landed in my lap, and here, I've got to give the kid credit for having a great arm with decent aim. A piece of paper was wrapped around the rock, which read like most elementary notes do:

"I like you. Do you like me? Check yes or no."

Had I been a more aggressive child, I would have chucked it right back at him along with a lecture about wooing the fairer sex.

But I was a good child, and sweet, and so I stopped pumping and slowed the swing. Hopping off, and marching past Chris' hopeful-but-incredibly-casual face, I tattled without shame, rock and note in hand as evidence. I probably even cried a little for effect as I pointed him out, skulking then by the teeter-totter.

I held my head high as he was lead to the principal's office. And because I was a good child, and sweet, I refrained from heckling.

This One has a Future in Litigation

Once when the brother I call George was young enough to still be in a high chair, I was babysitting he and my sisters.

At dinner, George actually ate every bit of his meal and asked for more. My youngest sister obliged, and emptied her plate onto his. He ate a few bites, and then began pushing it around his plate, tossing pieces of it onto the floor, and smashing it onto the tray of his high chair.

"George," I said sternly. "Don't play with your food."

"I'm not," he replied simply. "I'm playing with her food."

50-50 is so sad.

LSB, on being in her mid-twenties and single: "Well, at least I've missed my first divorce."

There May Also Be Some Silver Missing

My brother colored on the wall!

My father was furious, and immediately sent him to his room, despite George's repeated denials that he was at fault.

A little while later, a tiny voice called down from George's room. "Dad? I think I know who colored on the wall!"

My father, pleased that George was finally ready to tell the truth, went upstairs to receive his confession.

"Yes?" my father said. "Who colored on the wall?"

"Well," my brother replied hopefully, "I think maybe it was a burglar."

When I'm Not a Raging Inferno of Hotness

I shut the air conditioning vents on my side of the car. It's 90 degrees outside, and although we're in the DNB's Vehicle of Death, the barrage of frigid air is too much for me. The DNB is drinking his usual super-heated venti coffee and has turned the air conditioner on full blast.

I shiver.

Out of nowhere, the DNB says a truly hurtful thing. "You're such a cold person."

I pause, stunned. "Well, I know I can be a little dispassionate sometimes, but I'm really working on that. I'm trying to become a nicer person, it's just that being nurturing doesn't really come that naturally to me. I'm sorry I can be so horrible sometimes." I'm nearly in tears.

He lets me go on for another minute or two before interrupting. "Wow. I just meant that you're always freezing."

S Gives Truck Driver Taste of His Own Medicine, He is Presumably Chagrined

In the Days of Yore, when the DNB and I were deep in the thros of our budding romance, our relationship was long-distance. Every other weekend, one or the other of us would drive 12 hours round trip so we could spend 36 hours together. Looking back, WHAT WERE WE THINKING?

During this two year period, I grew to hate truck drivers. Not all of them, but a good 80-98%, roughly. I try to respect trucks, realizing that their length and weight make them more difficult to drive than a passenger vehicle. And in return, truck drivers try to see my boobs.

The worst part of the drive was the trip through Louisville. Of the two years I spent regularly driving through the city, my main route was under construction for one year and 360 days. I was usually on edge, traffic was busy, and I had witnessed a car accident immediately in front of me during a past trip.

Which is why I did not need some Pervert Truck Driver making obscene gestures at me as we approached the south side of the city. To clarify, because that was a figure of speech, there is NO POINT at which I will need some Pervert Truck Driver making obscene gestures at me.

He pulled up beside me and formed his hands into a symbol which indicated that he was hoping for some action of the type Mommies and Daddies engage in. Noticing, I steadfastly and disgustedly ignored him. Still hopeful, perhaps because of the endless stream of willing women this type of behavior producesNOT, he drove immediately to my right as we headed into the downtown traffic. When I slowed, he slowed. When I sped up, he sped up. When I moved, he moved (just like that). And so on.

I was considering calling the police, or at least the "How Am I Driving?" number on the side of his cab--NOT WELL--when I spotted my opportunity to both solve the problem and teach the Pervert Truck Driver a lesson. I do love a 2-for-1.

Ahead, a large sign proclaimed that Pervert Truck Driver's lane was soon to become an EXIT ONLY onto another major interstate. I could tell when he noticed because he suddenly tried to pull away from me.

"I don't think so," I said with a smile, speeding up to remain beside him. "I thought you wanted us to be Lane Buddies."

As the interchange loomed, Pervert Truck Driver alternately slowed and sped, trying unsuccessfully to make his way into my lane. When it was nearly too late for him, I waved and zoomed ahead. Truck bumping, he swerved in time and followed slowly, far behind me.

Items from the DNB's Youth - A Photo Sequence

The Day They Beat Final Fantasy 1
(And Then They Ridiculed the DNB's Disney Shirt)

The Day I Learned to Give

When I was five or six, I wanted a Barbie more than anything. More than ice cream for dessert, or sugary cereal for breakfast, or World Peace.

My mom, as all good conservative mothers should, determined that Barbies create unrealistic images of what a female should look and act like (check out those knockers). No unmarried skeevtastic dolls for me! Fortunately, Mattel came out with the Heart Family. It was Barbie, only as a mother! She looked the same, but now she had finally married Ken and had a couple of kids. Good, wholesome Barbie.

So I set my sights on obtaining the Heart Family. Because there were four of them, they cost more than Malibu-Airline-Zookeeper Barbie. I saved my pennies, doing extra chores to earn enough.

And then Christmas approached. My elementary school held a Winter Wonderland! The cafeteria was covered in fake snow, and table upon table contained precious Christmas treasures we could buy for our friends and loved ones. I spent all of my hard-earned money buying mugs and candles and snow globes for my family.

It hit me later that I didn't have anything left in my Heart Family Fund. But no matter, there were Christmas presents to wrap, and I had bought them all myself. With my money.

Three days later, a package arrived. Wrapped in brown paper, with scrawling anonymous handwriting, it was addressed to me. I tore it open. Inside was the Heart Family.

If my mother knows who sent it, she has never admitted it to me. Instead, it remains a kind of Christmas miracle. A real-life give and it shall be given unto you.

Items from the DNB's Youth - A Photo Sequence

The "Genuine Old Indian Weather Rock," because Old Indian Never Wrong, especially when it comes to Ways to Rip Off the White Man's Spawn:

Fear

I don't like nights when the DNB is on call.

Of course, it's less because I enjoy his company and more that I don't like being alone at night. Yeah, I'm a big baby.

When I was younger, we lived in Panama. Our first year there, there wasn't enough housing on the military base, so we lived in downtown Panama City, on a dead-end street with nice neighbors. But the city wasn't very safe, and Americans were victimized often. We had an alarm system, and my biggest fear was being frightened awake by its shrill siren.

It seemed like it went off regularly. When it did, my dad would prowl the house, baseball bat in hand. Once he discovered that the wires around one of our windows had been cut. I couldn't sleep that night.

When we moved on base, I thought I would feel more safe. Until our next door neighbors had their home burglarized in the EARLY EVENING while they were upstairs. The fear came creeping back. I would lie awake at night, my body tense, each distant sound amplified.

The DNB is remarkably understanding of this particular neurosis, unlike the others which he exploits to annoy me. He has often willingly climbed out of bed to examine the bumps in the night that terrify me.

But when he's gone, I still lie rigid, listening. Anxious.

Items from the DNB's Youth - A Photo Sequence

Shop Class.

Items from the DNB's Youth - A Photo Sequence

We had a visit from the DNB's mother and stepfather this weekend, and they brought us some boxes of the items they removed from the DNB's childhood room when they remodeled it.

Ah, the items. This post kicks off a photo series of some of the best. This first one goes out to K, who recognized it, interestingly, from the DNB's picture below.

Apparently obtained through less than legal means by the DNB and a friend.

On Immersion

"Grow where you're planted," my mother taught me.

We lived in some odd places, but she wanted us kids to experience different cultures and immerse ourselves in our new communities. I guess she believed this could best be accomplished through unbridled participation. It didn't matter that we were no good at the activities or that we weren't interested in the events. Oh yes, child, sign us up.

Out most notable venture into planting ourselves came when we lived in the Netherlands. We lived in a converted vintage barn in a very small village in the Dutch countryside. It was a beautiful rural setting. My mother decided we would join the local children's choir.

None of us could sing. Really.

The Eckelrade Children's Choir seemed to be comprised of every child in the village. Boys and girls, they flocked en mass each Tuesday night to the main community building in town. During the day, it housed the village preschool. By night, it was a tavern. Even on nights when we had rehearsal in the center of the large room, weathered farmers would sit at the bar, talking as we sang.

To this day, I have no idea what qualified the director for his position. It seemed we sang slightly out of tune no matter how many times we repeated the lines of the songs. Which were nearly all in English, ironically. So if my mother was hoping we'd pick up some more of the native tongue, well, the only Dutch we learned were the swear words the director would shout at us. He was a hot-headed fellow with a baton he would frequently use to rap the heads of the first row of children. I was tall, and stood in the back row, well out of arm's reach.

We were accompanied on an electric organ by one of two older boys. Richard was tall and gangly, with dark hair and a pale face. He owned his own DJing business called "Disco Ricardo," which was not surprisingly hired for every village social gathering. He stood behind his gaudy set-up, miniature disco ball reflecting light off of his glasses, flipping CD cases open and adjusting audio levels importantly. My sisters and I called him "Disco Retardo." Matisse, on the other hand, was lovely, dashing and cute. He worked the nation's orange and zipper fashion trend like it was his job. All of us older girls had crushes on him, and occasionally he would flirt with us before donning his helmet and riding his moped off into the night.

We sang songs like "Heal the World" and "Blowin' in the Wind," heavy soulful lyrics for a group of preteens. Sometimes the director would ask me how to pronounce a word or two.

Who many rwoads must a man wok down, we would sing, and a man at the bar would raise his glass.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking.

I've chosen my airplane seat carefully, avoiding other passengers while still retaining my preference for the window seat. I don't know when I've flown not in a window seat.

As I make my way toward my seat, I notice that a trio of preteen girls has taken over the row, one of them in my seat. I look her in the eye and shake my head.

"But I'm in Row 47," she tells me innocently.

"You're in 47A," her friend points out. "Not 47F."

"Oh," she says. None of them move.

I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out just how bitchy I want to be. 47A is an AISLE seat. I sigh. "Just stay. I'll take your seat so you can sit with your friends."

They resume their chattering without a word of thanks. Typical overindulged ingrates.

I realize what a long flight this is going to be as I take my new seat. Now, I've never been described as dainty, slender, or petite. Neither, quite obviously, has the woman sitting next to me. She is teetering precariously on the border of Needing To Purchase Two Seats. I've always felt badly for those people. But that was in the past, before the armrest between us, designating her seat from mine, became moot.

And then I notice the leg touching. You know the feeling you get when you're in the early throes of a relationship, and as you're sitting, watching a movie, your legs touch the slightest bit? And you're so thrilled it's all you can think about? Does he know our legs are touching? Did he do it on purpose? Does this mean he likes me and we're going to get married in a lavish, yet simple ceremony surrounded by 300 of our closest friends and loved ones?

THAT'S EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE OF HOW IT WAS.

I'm very uncomfortable with incidental contact with people I don't know. And even most people I do know. So instead of being able to really focus on the factors a court will look at when reviewing the decision of an administrative law judge, I am completely fixated on the fact that this stranger's leg is touching mine. There is nowhere to go. I can't even hunch over into the aisle because the flight attendants are serving beverages like it's their job [incidentally], and I risk losing a toe or having my shoulder dislocated by getting in their way.

So I'm fairly crabby by the time I deplane. But then 3 people tell me they love my yellow Ralph Lauren suitcase, LSB's dog pees on her lap, and I am reassured, with mainly firm statistical evidence that I will, in fact, pass the Bar.

Things begin to look up.

Non Sequitur

The cab driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror. "Where are you flying today?" he asks.

"Indianapolis," I reply.

"Is that in Indiana?"

I pause. "Um, yeah."

"That's what I thought. We're not supposed to like Indianapolis," he confides.

I don't really want to talk, but I'm intrigued. "Why not?"

"Because they told us our cab system had to be modeled after the one in Indianapolis, that it was going to make fares more affordable so more people would use us. But I called down there and the fares in Indianapolis are more expensive!" he cackles.

There's a lot in his explanation that gives rise to more questions, but I keep quiet. Also, it's difficult to imagine anything in Indianapolis being more expensive than in the Twin Cities, other than perhaps snow removal equipment.

"A lot of people in Indiana have southern accents, that much I know," he says as he forces his way narrowly between two cars in the rush-hour traffic.

"I guess, maybe, some," I respond non-committally, gripping the seat.

"I want to buy land in Tennessee," he tells me as we exit towards the airport.

"Oh, it's nice there. And there's no state income tax." I gather my things.

"Indianapolis . . . " he muses. "Is that south of here?"

Growing up Girly

When I was younger, my sisters and I played library.

I'll just let that sink in.

It was a house full of girls, and there's just no way around it. We had a chest full of dress-up clothes, and a stack of index cards we taped to the back of our books. The stamping--a la "The Music Man" Madame Librarian--ah, the stamping. We stamped with a vigor seldom seen. Except we didn't have a date stamp for the "due by" column, so we pretended.

My play name was always Samantha or Veronica. Oh, how I wanted to be a Veronica. It sounded so exotic and grown-up. I dreamed of changing my name, owning a German Sheperd I would call Sheba, and wearing white high-top sneakers every day . . . all the things my parents wouldn't let me do.

It's a different day and age. A librarian named Veronica - who hasn't fantasized about that?