Republican think tank: Oxymoron?

This painting by Andy Thomas is entitled, "Grand Ol' Gang."

I can't remember how I stumbled upon it, and I'm not sure what to make of a collection of Republican presidents yukking it up in a poker game, but I couldn't pry my eyes away.

If this group of great and not-so-great leaders actually were to assemble in one room, what might they say to each other? Well, it's your lucky day, because a certain fly on the wall just happened to be eavesdropping on their dialogue.

Abraham Lincoln: Well, well, well. I'm seeing more dead presidents in these chairs than I brought in my wallet. I'll tell you guys, it's good to finally have a little fun. Preserving the union can become mighty tedious.

Ronald Reagan: Preserve the union? Why would you want to do that? I busted up as many unions as I could!

George W. Bush: Heh, heh! Good one, Ronnie! Hey fellas, I brought some seegars.

Dwight Eisenhower: Go ahead and set them down right here. You seem kind of old for a cigar boy. Oh, well, here's a nice gratuity for you.

George W. Bush: Come on there, Ike. I was a president just like y'all...number 43. Although, a lot of folks called me "number two." Not sure why.

Richard Nixon: Since all of us have shared our nation's highest office, I've got a question which has been bugging me. Get it? Bugging me? Anyway, am I the only person in this room who's run roughshod over the constitution?

George W. Bush: Hell, nah, Dicky. We all done it, except maybe Abeous Corpus over there. The best way to get around it is to never read the constitutional.

Richard Nixon: Hey, George...yeah, you...the older one. Tell your @#$%ing monkey boy son not to @#$%ing call me Dicky or his @ss is gonna end up on my @#$%ing enemies list. Clear?

George H. W. Bush: Gotcha, Dick. Wouldn't be prudent.

Theodore Roosevelt: Before we start playing, does anyone want to wrassle?

Gerald Ford: I would, Teddy, but I can't stay long. Matter of fact, I'm not used to hanging around anywhere too long.

Ronald Reagan: Fellas, I didn't bring much money with me. (smacks himself in the forehead) What was I thinking? I can just spend my children's money!

Dwight Eisenhower: Well, gentlemen, what do you say we hike our slacks up, and I mean way up, and get started.

George H.W. Bush: Sounds good, Ike. Hey, Georgey. Vamoose to the other room and play crazy eights with Quayle, will ya!

George W. Bush: Sure thing, Poppy!

One day, one dream.

This year was number twenty-four for me, but it's been going on far longer.

I attended my first "cabin party" at age twenty-four, accompanying my unsuspecting future wife and mother of our children. Back in 1987, I was simply Terri's new boyfriend, coming out to meet her friends from college. In those days, our gathering encompassed a lean, well-scrubbed collection of recent college graduates, and some still attending school, eager to get its kegger on.

Couples and friends pitched tents in the expansive field leading out to Hood's Point, a majestic peninsula along Puget Sound's Hood Canal, in the shadow of the Olympic Range.

If heaven = unbridled beauty and unbridled beauty = pie, then the cabin party setting is one whopping slice of heaven pie. The bald eagle, the seal, the starfish and the crab share in the gala—but enough about people's nicknames.

The day passes like a dream, where any direction leads you to a softball game, a beachside chat, a horseshoe pit...a friend. I equate it to human Pong, only no one has actually held paddles since the mid-nineties. As afternoon turns to evening and evening melts into dusk, the light morphs into an amber gold and the air is still and perfect.

What was once a twenty-four-hour hootenanny has evolved into a rich, well-seasoned, celebration of mid-summer. We all began as young, childless couples, our futures spread out before us. Now most of us witness that future through the eyes of our nearly grown children.

We've learned to cherish these times. This is Steph. We lost her three years ago to cancer, but her presence at the cabin is everywhere—I see her sitting in that sun washed camp chair or wearing that stray flip flop by the campfire. She is a hardy soul and whenever her name comes up, which is often, the words flow warmly and with humor. She was the only human on the face of the earth who could sway and groove to my lame guitar-chord strumming like I was a founding member of Phish. I miss her a lot.

Here's to friends.

Here's to family.

Facing our fears: a survivor's tale

Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.

Mageirocophobia- Fear of cooking.

Proctophobia- Fear of rectums.

Nomatophobia- Fear of names.

Ochophobia- Fear of vehicles.

Peladophobia- Fear of bald people.

Teutophobia- Fear of German or German things.

Have any of these? Come on, do you? Who doesn't have just a touch of Teutophobia? If you'd like to check yourself against a really thorough phobia list, just follow this link to, oddly enough, the Phobia List.     

The subject of irrational fears surfaced the other day while driving with my ten-year-old daughter. During a casual conversation, she abruptly yelped, "Dad, spider!"

"Where?" I blurted out, as my autonomic nervous system launched into fight or flight mode.

"Right there. It's huge, Dad." I looked down and indeed, it was a spider, but one barely the size of an M&M (and not the peanut kind). That's when I realized that phobias do not discriminate based on size. They simply terrify those who suffer from them.

Acknowledging and facing our fears, whether irrational or not, is healthy. My younger daughter will readily cop to her arachnophobia. She suffers, however, from a couple other maladies, which she refuses to face, like her fears of slightly damp towels (moistaplushaphobia) and re-supplying the cat's water (aquafeliphobia).

My older daughter, the teenager, will be the first to admit her paralyzing fear of raccoons (raccoonaphobia, nothing fancy) and high waves (cymophobia). What she won't fess up to is her fear of being seen in public with her parents (embarraparephobia).

My wife, bless her heart, fears nothing, except possibly unencumbered idleness (stareatthewallophobia), a disorder from which I certainly don't suffer. She gets a little freaked out by crows, too.

Lastly, I'll admit to an irrational fear and loathing of rats (musophobia). I freakin' hate those creatures, with, as my teenager would say, "a fiery pash." I've experienced a singular, defining moment with a massive rodent, and I'd be happy to tell you about it, but some of you may be eating.

Actually, I lead my family by a wide margin in untreated diseases, such as fixthegateitis, obnoxia nervosa and are you gonna eat that syndrome. 

And last weekend, I think someone may have slipped me a see-what's-causing-the-leak-in-the roofy.

Sorry, I milked it a little too much.

I feel like you are an idiot

It is ever present, lurking in the weeds. It surfaces when we least expect it, and often where we least anticipate it. It throws a wrench into the seemingly finely oiled machinery of our lives.

It...is conflict.

We see a man on a crowded bus, occupying his adjacent seat with a stack of Reader's Digests and half a pack of Juicy Fruit, refusing to clear it away for the elderly woman standing in the aisle. Then, we notice the teenager sitting behind us shove his empty McDonald's bag under his seat.

The slow burn begins. We fantasize about what we'd like to say to these cretins. We weigh the benefits and costs of confrontation. Ultimately, no reprimand is made, and life continues with the residue of the incident coating our thoughts.

When we finally decide to act on our emotions, to meet a conflict head-on, it's usually not with a stranger, but with a child, a spouse a co-worker or a service provider.

I'm sure many of us have learned that "I feel" statements work far more effectively than "You..." statements. Here are some examples to illustrate conflict resolution tactics, first with the accusatory "You" reprimand, followed by the conciliatory "I feel" method:

(To our child, incorrectly) "You're torching me with such an inferno of fiery anger that my spleen feels like that tree the Keebler elves live in, and they're stabbing me with little fudgy swords."
(To our child, correctly) "I felt strange when you spent your birthday money from Grandma on Marlboro Lights."

(To our spouse, incorrectly) "You're really, really mean to yell at me for eating all the bacon."
(To our spouse, correctly) "I felt confused when the FedEx guy rode away on my bike."

(To our co-worker, incorrectly) "You suck at your job and you need to stop wearing Old Spice."
(To our co-worker, correctly) "I felt angry when you told everyone about my male support hosiery. They help my varicose veins and I feel pretty in them."

(To the food service worker, incorrectly) "I ordered the angel hair pasta. You brought me pasta with a hair angel in it."
(To the food service worker, correctly) "I felt ill when you put my five dollar footlong in your armpit as you handed me my drink."

Hopefully, the preceding examples clearly illustrate how simple it is to resolve conflict in a constructive, rather than destructive, manner. Try it tomorrow. On the bus. With the crazy, smelly guy.

It's morning in Seattle

Today, I'd like to briefly discuss a class of people, a group of which I am a member. I'll refer to us as the "people of the morning."

During the summer, I enjoy a vigorous bike ride every morning at six. It's a great time to take in the sights and smells of summer, without having to worry too much about getting clipped in the temple by a large truck's side view mirror.

It's also a good opportunity to observe the others who own the morning:

The old guys—actually this can be broken down even further.

We've got the elderly men who stick close to their homes' peripheries. They walk around, raising flags and washing driveways. In fact, one guy actually hoses down his driveway every single morning. Come on now...how dirty can a driveway get in one day? I suppose I could return around lunchtime to see if he spreads out Kraft Singles, baloney and Wonderbread on the pavement.

The other type of older dude goes for really, really long walks. Very often, I ride up behind and past one fellow on the local park trail, and without fail, I startle him enough to cause a him to spastically flinch and hop. Hopefully, he's lived a full life, because one of these days, he's going to flat line on me.

The dog walkers—It's difficult to classify these people into one homogeneous group, because Seattle has more dogs than children, and slightly less than farmers' markets. One common characteristic among them is their strict obedience to clean-up laws. They can produce that plastic bag out of nowhere. Fecal David Copperfields, these people.

The runners—Why do they still wear the same shorts we wore in the seventies? Yes, you people have great legs, but please don't think you're merely showing upper thigh...you are actually flashing lower crotch.

The creepers—Last but not least, there's that random guy, slinking around for no apparent reason. These sightings usually occur at the aforementioned local park. I'm thinking these guys are congressmen, since the senators have already claimed airport restrooms as their turf.

I suppose I should categorize myself as well, since I'm right out there riding among everyone, early each morning, clad in spandex and neon.

Nah.

National Lampoon's Camping Vacation

Love me some family tent camping. What's not to love?

A lot of American cultural rituals have evolved over the generations, but I don't think much has changed at all when it comes to backing in, pitching the tent, setting up the camp stove, yelling at the kids for not helping and sitting your southern end in a lawn chair, a frosty adult beverage wedged into the cup holder.

This weekend, the family and I mini-vanned over to a Washington state park situated along the Green River in Eastern King County. Actually, it's just outside of Enumclaw, and the nearest Starbucks is only about ten minutes away.

We co-camped with some old friends who have two daughters the same ages as ours, so everyone was paired up. The two fifteen-year-olds took turns uttering thoughtful phrases like, "Why does there have to be work?" and "Do you think everyone here knows I haven't taken a shower?"

They spent most of their time reading Us and Star magazines, which we parents feel is the perfect summer resource to keep those educational brain juices flowing in their thirsty, young crania. Now we all are fully briefed on the drugs Linday Lohan has been plying herself with, in addition to the size of the cell she's about to inhabit.

I realized I shouldn't have made any references to the Green River Killer around the campfire the first night after I overheard my friend explaining to his daughter what a prostitute is. Nothing beats a good scary camp story, but no parent should have to branch off into the evils of the sex trade while munching on s'mores.

A family of four sleeping in one tent is also a dicey proposition. We rarely slumber together in one room, let alone one room with only a thin layer of nylon separating my loved ones and me from an ax-wielding, deranged ranger, or clown or something else with easy access to our vulnerable selves. It was no accident that I slept furthest from the biggest tent zipper.

Actually, the real difficulty with this arrangement is sleeping next to my teenager, who employs the shark method—if you stop moving, you die. Her elbows are swift and lethal; her knees strike with blunt precision. In the morning, she remembers nothing of the pain she inflicted upon the man who inflated the air mattress, of which she occupied eighty to ninety three percent of its surface area.

But enough of the negatives. I love the taste of food while camping. It seems more well-earned and delicious, even if it's chips out of a bag. Bacon is in another stratosphere, as are burgers, spaghetti and the old stalwart:

The skewered weenie.

So pack up the kids, the dog and the OFF, it's time to head to the great outdoors. Just don't forget your National Enquirer.

Midnight Cowboy

I'm working late. Like really late. Right now.

I'm in the employ of an online division of a sizable fashion retailer, who happens to be having its largest sale of the year beginning at midnight tonight. At ten o'clock, we will yank down our standard website, and slap up a specially branded sale site, which is expected to go live at 12AM.

Believe it or not, millions of customers anxiously await this witching hour, and many of our most popular items will sell out within minutes of the sale's inception. My job tonight is to be on hand to swap out new imagery on freshly designed pages to replace the ghosts of sold-out handbags, shoes, apparel and accessories.

Is what I do rocket science? Nope.

Do I like coming in at four in the afternoon and leaving at three in the morning? Not really.

Do I enjoy the pizza, soda, chips, cookies, red vines, cupcakes and lattes that the company provides? Yes. I do.

Do I care that they also provide fruit and veggie platters? No, I do not.

Am I going to stop asking and answering my own questions? Yes.

It's odd to be in the office when you're usually not. The cleaning people shuffle through, silently dusting and emptying. Voices carry across the cubicles, but they sound more muted, while laughter assumes a maniacal quality due to the fatigue behind it. Conversations are deeper and more meaningful, until about ten.

It feels a bit like a slumber party, where everyone's had too much sugar, except I don't remember slumber parties where my feet retained water.

So if you happen to be sitting around the house at midnight, feeling bored and under clothed, please visit our awesome website. I won't mention our name, but it does rhyme with "fordstrom got mom."