Let Them Eat Crab.

It’s been a great summer; best in a long time. I can think of a few reasons why, but number one on the list is an unprecedented preponderance of household harmony. The home and hearth, while fully occupied, has emanated the aromatic bouquet of tranquility.

Why? Because the kids have gotten along.

Why? Because they haven’t been around each other much.

And for the last time, why? Because the older kid’s been working! 

Gives me goosebumps to say it. All summer she’s been whacking the alarm clock and punching the time clock, packing a lunch and coming home spent like a two-for-one Applebee’s Groupon. To a skeptical parent, how soothing flow the foamy waters of the Protestant work ethic. 

By the same token, for a college sophomore who typically brims with the boundless energy of a seven-year-old, what more serendipitous summer vocation exists than an opportunity to professionally frolic with genuine seven-year-olds? None that I can think of, so let’s see how things went.

I caught up with our YMCA-camp-counselor-in-residence, codename Zebra, last weekend during a ninety-minute car ride down to Olympia. Able to nap at a moment’s notice, I felt compelled to engage her prior to her succumbing to the taunting luxury of our ’06 Hyundai. 

They call you Zebra. Why is that?

All the counselors have nicknames. It’s to keep the kids from finding us on social media. Like a little kid would actually do that.

Hey, you never know. Did you name yourself?

We all name ourselves. There’s T-Rex, Sharkzilla, Scooby, Snickerdoodle…let’s see… Razzle, Flounder, Puppy…

Sounds like a mushroom-inspired Barney episode.

Good one, Dad.

So what was it like having to wake up at 6:30? 

Really hard. I haven’t gotten up that early since eighth grade. It made naps even more crucial than they were before. I still managed to get in eight hours a night.

Yeah, that’s not true. But moving along, was there anything that surprised you about this job? 

It’s fairly unstructured. Each counselor gets a group of ten kids, and it’s up to us to find things for them to do. We go on field trips a few times a week, but the rest of the time is sort of our choice. 

How do they behave?

Overall, they’re pretty good. The worst time is when we’re lined up for the bathroom. It takes a full 25 minutes to get everyone through, so they start messing with each other. They throw rocks and pine cones at each other. They use acorns like currency. 

Sounds like a prison yard.

I still can't figure out how their faces get so dirty. Did my face get dirty?

Filthy. Just disgusting. Yes.

The other day a kid came up to me holding a little crab he found on the beach. It was still alive. He said “Zebra, can I eat this crab?” I said “Absolutely not.” He said “Well, how come Tristan gets to?” I went down to the beach and Tristan had already eaten a couple of the legs off a live crab. I said “Tristan, why are you doing that?” He said “Because people eat crabs all the time.” I said “Tristan, you have to kill the crab before you eat it.” He said “I didn’t know that, Zebra.”

What part of your job did you enjoy the most?

I always liked it when we ate our lunches. The kids were always content and liked to talk about stuff.

What kind of stuff?

This one kid, whose name is Joseph, is so cute. When he makes the “s” sound it sounds more like “sh.” The other day, he said “Zhebra, I have to tell you shomething. Well, remember when I told you one of my momsh ish dead? Well, I feel bad. That wash a lie. She’sh alive. I jusht wanted to shee what you would shay.”

They don’t care about hanging out with the opposite sex. A couple of kids even became boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re so adorable, you can tell by the looks on their faces that they really like each other. They give each other acorns.

Sounds like quite a learning experience. Do you think working with kids may be something you’d like to do for a career?

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dad.

Thanks for your hard work with the little ones, Zebra. Relating to them is easy. Taking care of them isn’t.

The Fanny Diaries

The following account of my colonoscopy is intended for both mature and immature audiences. In documenting this experience, I'll try not to get too brown. Butt I'd also like to encourage you, my friends, many of whom are 50ish, to consider getting screened, because I love you and so do a handful of other people.

My friend calls me a verbal flasher. So be it. At least I'm not jotting this down while sitting in my car next to a playground.

Monday, 7:21 AM—Hopped up on two hollow-gutted coffees, I board Metro, T minus twenty-four hours, nine minutes until the glovin' starts and the lights go up.

I nestle into my favorite seat, the one in the back corner with a little extra elbow room for either writing or etching a sick tag on the window. I pull out my colonoscopy prep sheet. "No solid foods all day, only broth, coffee, soda or Popsicles. Beginning at 5:30, drink eight ounces of Golytely every ten minutes."

Golytely? Awesome name. I've heard the company has a friendly but competitive relationship with the three other giants in the power laxative market: I Shit You Lot, Fecease, and Jell-O Instant Pudding.

Monday, 7:54 AM,—When the pharmacist slides the jug onto the counter, I almost sh.. (too easy). Seriously, this is a gallon jug with the "fill line" almost to the cap. After water and a refreshing lemon flavor packet, it makes a gallon of Poolytely.

Wonder if Bartell's sells beer bong materials. Probably not. 

Monday, 5:26 PM—After fantasizing about New York style pizza all day, I bid goodnight to the family and hop in the minivan for the twenty-minute ride to Motel 6.

Our house has one bathroom. Staying there tonight wouldn't go well for anyone.

I arrive to see families playing in the inner courtyard swimming pool. Not quite the clientele I was expecting being so close to the airport, but hey, that and my ten-percent AARP discount have me feeling weak with excitement.

Monday, 5:53 PM—I enter Room 238 overlooking the pool, and slide the curtains closed. I feel like I'm hiding out after robbing a Fotomat. Might as well get comfortable. I change clothes and throw off the DNA-encrusted bedspread.

Monday, 6:01 PM—I decant the first cup of Lemon Crush. Barely makes a dent in the top of the jug. Bottoms up. "Argh," says Mr. Uvula the dangling pirate. Tastes like chilled poodle saliva. 

Only fifteen more cups to go. I set my phone alarm for ten minutes and turn on the TV. It's Wolf Blitzer with an image of Robin Williams in the corner of the screen—Robin Williams, 1951-2014.

What? No. The guy was a genius. The World According to Garp, The Fisher King, Mrs. Doubtfire, Good Will Hunting, his stream-of-consciousness stand-up routines, and now he's gone. Sometimes it seemed like he couldn't get it all out fast enough. Only 63. What a loss.

Monday, 7:15 PM—Seven doses in. I'm feeling the first gurgles of a new lifestyle, so I'll sign off for a bit.

Monday, 10:47 PM—Feeling stable. Goodnight.

Tuesday, 5:15 AM—Ever the Pavlovian, upon hearing the familiar folksy refrain of my phone alarm, my brain reacts. Shit. Time to drink more of the shit.

Seeing the empty jug on the counter snaps me to reality. I feel sleepily satisfied as I stuff the plastic container into the garbage, take a shower and throw my stuff together. Farewell Motel 6. May our most intimate secrets pass silently into Puget Sound.

Tuesday, 6:01 AM—My wife is up when I arrive home. During the school year, she puts in about eighty hours a week, so she tends to enjoy sleeping in during the summer. Little is said as we climb into the Hyundai under dark dawn skies.

Tuesday, 6:44 AM—I check in at the endoscopy clinic and get a wrist band. Two other dudes come in right after me, also accompanied by female partners. Occasionally we glance at each other, sharing the bond of our impending initiation into the Brotherhood of the Bottom.

Tuesday, 6:57 AM—The nurse greets my wife and me. She's very friendly and pretty. Glad she can see me at my best. I'm led through a door and into a small bay. "Go ahead and have a seat on the bed," she says. "It's going to be your home for the whole procedure; we'll just wheel you around."

"Am I getting a general anesthetic?" I ask.

"It's not general, it's called 'conscious sedation,' a combination of drugs that help you relax and block pain. You may be awake but you won't remember anything. A lot of people just go to sleep."

She starts an I.V. and asks me a list of questions. "Okay, that's it for me. The doctor should be in shortly. Nice to meet you and I'll see you afterwards."

Tuesday, 7:10 AM—The doctor enters through the curtain, introduces himself and explains the procedure: "We wind the scope through the colon and look around. Sometimes we'll see a polyp, which is a lump in the lining caused by abnormal cell growth. If that's the case we insert instruments to clip it off and suture it."

"Are polyps common?' I say.

"They occur in about twenty-five percent of people over fifty. Okay, ready to go?"

"Sure." I watch him deftly perform multiple tasks while chatting with me. Interesting how doctors and nurses are so good at doing that. "How many of these do you do in a day?" I ask him.

"Today, fourteen."

Tuesday, 7:17 AM—The nurse rolls me into the brightly lit colonoscopy room. She asks me to lie sideways, facing the monitors and TVscreen. I always wondered how my grizzled mug would come across in HD, but today the paparazzi aren't interested in my face.

"Okay," says the doctor, "we're starting the anesthetic."

I feel my heart race and watch the digits rise on the monitor: 76, 82, 84. I still don't feel anythi...."

Tuesday, 8:09 AM—I'm sitting in a chair. My clothes are back on and my wife and doctor are standing next to me.

"We found a couple of small polyps," he says, "one was three millimeters and the other was seven millimeters. We cut them out and we'll let you know as soon as we get the results from pathology." He hands me a packet of literature.

I lose track of reality again and didn't permanently revive until I found myself riding over the West Seattle Bridge.

"Are you hungry?" asks my wife.

Hunger doesn't describe the feeling, dear bride. I could eat Little Caesar himself. "Yeah."

"Want to have breakfast at Easy Street?"

I've just gone thirty-six hours without lard. I want breakfast, lunch and dinner at Easy Street. "Yeah."

Tuesday, 9:22 AM—After washing down a club sandwich and fries with some of the best coffee I've ever tasted, we return home. I fall on the couch, turn on Dexter and sleep deeply through two episodes.

Tuesday, 11:11 AM—Feeling great.

Wednesday, 1:47 PM—Back at work. I open an email from the clinic which tell me my biopsy results are in. For the past day I've tried not to obsess over it, but Mr. OCD despises uncertainty even more than he hates Howard Schultz. I can't imagine the anxiety cancer patients must feel. Here I am, ruminating over a couple of little colon lumps for twenty-four hours, and these poor people must dance to this number over and over again.

Wednesday, 2:19 PM—I call the clinic and the nurse reads me the doctor's letter:

"Dear Mr. Haywood,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. While the polyps we removed were not found to be cancerous, we would consider them pre-cancerous and thus rightly removed.

"We would like to see you for another screening in five years. Take care."

Relief.

Please do this. It's really not a big deal in the end...so to speak. Do it for yourself and do it for everyone who cares about you.

Get your ass in there.

Abby, Dear.

Today I’d like to again tap into your ample reserves of wisdom. 

A few months ago, I asked your advice about how to handle a delicate situation regarding a near-collision with an acquaintance. You convinced me to traverse the well-paved route of least resistance; you counseled me to do nothing.

I did nothing. Thank you for recognizing my skill set. 

Since you’ve proven yourselves such worthy mentors, I’ve come up with some additional queries, a few issues for which I’d love to get some resolution. I guess you could call this a reverse advice column, because rather than posing as an Ann-Landers-type wellspring of motherly wheedling, I’m going to ply you, the reader, with a few burning inquires of my own. We’ll just call it “Abby Dear.”   

I won’t enjoy the benefit of anonymity, like “Backed up in Baltimore.” I’m also forfeiting the pleasure of exacting judgment on others, but as the Dalai Lama once said, “Do you have any idea how much you yammer, son? Put a lid on it for once and slurp some of the compote drizzling from someone else’s pie hole.”

So here goes. Please feel free to answer any- or everything.

A) Every summer, our 60-year-old apple tree drops so much fruit, we could sign on as exclusive sauce providers to the Seattle Hempfest pork chop tent. What are my options other than pressing a swimming pool full of cider? Open a fruit thrift store featuring gently used apples? Sell fruit leather vaporizers at the farmers’ market?

B) Is it possible to love tomatoes too much? I can eat them like apples, and it makes me feel slightly like a cat lady.

C) Should I feel self-conscious about not owning a smart phone? I definitely do. It’s not easy keeping it stuffed into my front pocket while punching digits, and stretching for the pound sign can be slightly pleasurable yet alarming to fellow bus riders.

D) I’m not asking your advice on this one, but I’m curious—when’s the last time you took off your shirt in a public place? I did it this summer in San Diego, but it was in a beach setting with a large buffer between people. I’m talking about cruising the Taste of Tukwila, your muffin top drooping from the waist band of your Dockers cut-offs. 

I never would have considered it, had it not been for an elderly man I’ve grown accustomed to seeing. Every morning as I ride past a retirement home, I see the same ancient dude ambling down the sidewalk. He’s shirtless, his grey gym shorts pairing pleasantly with a bristly beard and fuzzy mop of hair. 

This man doesn’t give a shit and I love him for it. He’s probably been hot all night, so he just rolls out of bed and into the crisp dawn air. Screw the staring people at the bus stop. After another morning experiencing his boundless freedom, I inched a step closer to a life of carefree toplessness.

E) What should I ask for for my birthday at the end of the month? After racking my brain for the past two weeks, it's a toss-up between a Safeway gift card and a colonoscopy. 

F) Lastly, are the Seattle Seahawks going to repeat as World Champions? I’ve got to tell you I had a dream, like last Thursday, that the Seahawks did win their second consecutive Superbowl. I woke up happier than any time since around the age of fourteen.

That’s everything for now. The nourishment of your guidance is immeasurable.