Long before Leslie and I met, I used to date around... Alot.
I was a fairly indiscriminate, serial dater. I'd take out a different girl just about every night. I mean sure, I had my standards (teeth), but it didn't matter to me if I met someone at the bank, at the mall, the MiniFoods store, or at a bar. If I met somebody and I was attracted to her, even in the slightest, I'd ask her out.
One Saturday, I went to visit my sister at work. At the time she was an X-Ray tech at the neighborhood "doc in a box" emergency room.
When I walked in there was a new face at the reception counter.
"New face", that's putting it lightly. Actually, this girl was MMMHOT! She was tall, had dark hair, blue eyes, fantastic figure, great smile. She was drop-dead, breathtakingly gorgeous. It's a wonder I didn't dry hump the front desk.
I introduced myself and within five minutes I had her phone number, and plans with her later that night.
Yeah, I was on my game.
Later that evening I picked her up and we went out for dinner. As we talked over drinks and the meal, I found out that she had just moved to town. Me, being the smooth operator I was, asked if I could have the honor of showing her around (go ahead and roll your eyes). Of course she agreed and we set off on the rest of the date.
We were hitting it off pretty good. I was making her laugh, she was sending out *THE* signals. We both had the appropriate amount "touchy feely" action going on. All the signs pointed to the fact that there was new romance in the air.
Cool.
It started getting late, and our conversation had found that momentary "too quiet" lull to it when she reached over, kissed me and told me it was time to go home. We went back to my car and I drove to her apartment, quietly talking all the way.
We pulled into her parking lot; as soon as I turned off the ignition she gave me "one of those looks" then asked if I want to come inside.
Yeah, I was pretty excited at this point.
We go in.
We make small talk as she pours me a glass of wine.
I take the glass of wine and walk over to her couch and sit down. She turns and goes into another room, once there she turns on a light and I see it's her bedroom.
I'm gulping the wine, practically snorting it, but outwardly I'm sure I seem calm and in control.
"You wanna come in here?" she says in a playful tone.
I cup my hand over my mouth and nose to check my breath, stand up, stretch my shoulders and roll my neck around to loosen myself up. Then I casually, slowly and confidently, strut to her bedroom.
I don't run in though. I get to the door, then in the sexiest way I can manage, I kind of slink around the door frame.
I was expecting to see a beautiful, half-naked, pouty lipped, heavy breathing, Cosmo Girl splayed out like a centerfold, quietly screaming my name.
What I got was a beautiful, headcase introducing me to all of her stuffed animals.
"I want you to meet my fami-wee. They liiiike you. Dis is Happy. Dis is Amy. Dis is Tommie, he's my most favoritest..." I met every single one of her damn furry beasts, and there must've been thirty.
All of them lined up just so.
Needless to say, we didn't doink. Not sure if I could've anyway, what with "everybody" watching and that yant-yant-yant Psycho knife music in the background.
I managed to get the hell out of there as soon as I shook the last teddy bear's hand. Kind of scared, but relaxed in the fact that she didn't know where I lived.
She was into her tenth day. Her tenth day since her birthday.
Leslie and I had been married just over a year, we had only dated a few months before saying "I do."
We barely knew each other.
Now our couple was a triple. We had a baby.
---
Leslie didn't come standard with the requisite set of mothering skills. She wasn't into dolls as a little girl. She had never baby sat when she was a teenager. She was a tomboy. She didn't automatically *know* what to do when she was handed her baby.
Good thing I had taken care of my niece and nephew when I was growing up. I knew how to change a diaper, and I could swaddle up a newborn tighter than tube sock on a cankle. The day we left the hospital, I had the baby bundled up ready for the Iditarod. To bad it was one of those sticky, humid, 82 degree, Georgia January days. But she was swaddled... My god was she swaddled. If you ever need tips on swaddling, I'm your guy.
Thankfully Les was a quick study in all things maternal. Within a couple of hours of getting the baby home, she had gotten out of that stunned, "oh shit. Now what do I do." stage and had stepped up to the plate and fed the baby and actually managed to give her a bath. Why she gave her a bath when she did, I still haven't figured out. It's not like the hospital didn't hose her off good just a few hours earlier. But "Momma" said baby needed a bath, so a bath baby got.
I had taken the first week off from work to be home with "MY" family. Leslie had taken a couple of months off. The first week was a breeze. The child was basically a lump of protein. Occasionally she'd squeak, but she slept almost around the clock. Whenever she woke up hungry, there wasn't much for me to do other than nudge Leslie and tell her it was "tittytime".
The second week, not so easy.
I had gone back to work. I was a delivery guy for UPS at the time and my hours were pretty long. Being a new dad I would stop and call home to check in on "the wimens" every chance I got.
"She's been crying all morning." was the first report I got.
"I think we've got a colicky baby." Les said on the next call.
The next call my mom answered. The baby was screaming like a banshee. My folks had come over to help out.
The last call I made before I left the UPS Center, Leslie answered. She was crying. The baby was still crying, hell even my parents had come unglued and started crying.
I clocked out and bolted.
When I got home everybody looked like they had been rode hard and put up wet. They were spent.
The baby was still crying.
I went and picked her up. Walked into another room, and slow danced with my daughter by the light of the stereo while the song "Advice for the Young at Heart" by Tears for Fears, played softly.
Her crying stopped. She fell fast asleep on my shoulder.
Sorry to be gone for so long. I haven't even had a chance to catch up on any of my regular blog reading lately. Much less write anything.
Forty (Ha! Spelled it right this time!) came and went. I can't say that it was the best of birthdays. I had some teenager problems I had to handle. *Problems* that I've been politely commanded not to go into here, or anywhere else for that matter.
All's better now though.
In other news, I literally came to within an inch of meeting my deadline yesterday. Les and I had gone to see RZ in a play, afterward I was walking Leslie back to her car, as soon as she got in the car a sideload dump truck came by. The steel door to the truck wasn't latched and when it came by, the door swung open and just barely missed me (by "just barely" I mean, like it touched my hair. My freshly cut, very short hair). Then it took out the driver's side mirror on Leslie's Honda instead.
I know, I know, you're thinking big whoop. Actually it scared Leslie more than it scared me (I am a *MAN* after all, you can call Captain Courage if you like. I'll also answer to Dr. HugeLove, but that's another story). In retrospect, the reason it scared Les is she's more aware of what's going on than I am. Only thing I knew at the time was that I was wearing new shoes.
That mantra got me out of the house Saturday night to go to "The Big Dance". A friend of mine, GregM, and his band were headliners at The Big Dance. Weeks earlier GregM had asked me to take pictures of the band for their website. Of course I was glad to help out anyway I could... In theory. The photography, that I'm happy to provide. Spending Saturday night listening to golden oldies-- eh, not so much.
The Big Dance is just not my kind of thing. I don't care for beach music, and watching a bunch of folks "shag" is just plain annoying. At one point, a crowd of dancers started this boot-scootin'-shag-line-dancing thing. That sight almost made me convulse, but I had a job to do, even though the music was making me less than social.
About the time the Drifters began playing "A Double Shot o' My Baby's Love", GregM's wife, Jane came over to start up a conversation. We were right beside the speakers and couldn't hear each other if our lives depended on it. The conversation went something like this:
Jane: shouting inaudibly "HEY MARK! HOW'S IT GOING?"
ME: in normal voice, knowing damn good and well she couldn't hear me... "My ears are bleeding."
Jane: nodding "GREAT! HOW'S LESLIE?"
ME: "Better off than me. I bet you can't hear a word I'm saying can you?"
Jane: "GOOD! TELL HER I SAID HELLO. GREAT NIGHT FOR MUSIC."
Me: nodding in agreement "An even better night to jab sharp pencils in my ears. I think a couple of number twos would do the trick nicely. Hey, does my breath stink? My mouth feels like I've been eating burnt hair."
Jane: "I THINK THEY'RE GOING ON AT 10:45."
ME: pointing to my camera "I guess I got to get busy. I want to be outta here as soon as I possibly can."
Jane: "YEAH, I BETTER LET YOU GET TO WORK. GOOD TALKING TO YA."
Me: "Yep. Nice beaver to you too... Next time bring ham."
She walks back to her table and I continue shooting. Maybe I was being mean, but it was all in fun and kept me sane. Besides, knowing her, she probably felt the same way I did about the whole "shindig".
Another fun moment happened when the frontman for The Tams asked the audience if there were "...any Parrotheads in the audience?" Of course the crowd claps, hollers and woots. If you know me, you know I'm anything but a fan of Jimmy Buffet. Anyway, the band cranks in with their rendition of "Margaritaville".
The crowd goes apeshit.
Halfway through the song the band starts with a break beat and begins hip-hop rapping the lyrics.
The crowd dies down. The band is committing a crime. A sacrilege of epic proportions. It was great fun to watch. I was fully expecting to see a Confederate flag pop up in the distance at any moment.
Soon, The Tams finished their set, and GregM's band goes on stage. They're the hometown favorite. They are playing their requisite hits-- "Unchained Melody" and "I Love Beach Music". The crowd goes wild. "Wild" in that frothy, liquored up, let my hair down, gonna get me some tonight, kinda way.
I continued to shoot.
Finally, I figure I'm done. I got the shots I need.
While the band continues to play, I load up and head out to my MidLife Crisis Mobile.
I get in, drop the top, and pop in the most hardcore CD I have.
Driving home, frigid, listening to Rob Zombie scream "I Can Never Die" at 90 miles an hour seemed to balance things back out.
In lieu of the post you should be reading, the one where I detailed almost falling 60 feet to my death on Saturday while taking pictures. I give you this... Blogger ate my post.
A preacher, a rabbi, and a depressed guy walk into a bar...
I'm here and I'm better.
I told Leslie that she really needed to call off the suicide watch though. Sheeez!
Monday night when I got home there was so much care, and concern flying around my house that I felt like it might start to puddle.
Les was worried. My brother called worried. My parents came over worried. Even RZ was doing everything she could to make me feel better. For some reason when my kid *braved up* and used the term "shit", I couldn't help but laugh. So I probably won't win the "Father of the Year" award. Oh well.
Seriously though, the comments, the emails, the calls, and just the level of care and love (and Nita's white light voodoo stuff) thrown my way over the past couple of days has picked me up, and dusted my ass off. I'm humbled, and glad to know I'm not alone.
Like I promised in the last post, there won't be a pity party. Not my type of thing. But I really do want to say thank you.
