The Naked Canadian Guys

What is it about the 4th of July that brings out odd behavior among middle aged white guys?

We were watching the second to last episode of Mad Men – where Peter attempts to black mail Don Draper (is this only the first time?). Our television is in the den, and in lieu of a real adult couch, we use a futon. We’re splayed out, when all of the sudden, the motion sensor light comes on. Samson goes nuts. Susie jumps. It is a fat naked white guy, running across our back yard, along the cement court, and then up the stairs to our driveway.

I’m outside right away. Samson is too, and he’s in pursuit. I’m out early enough to get a good look. He’s one of those young fat guys, with shiny skin unblemished by odd spots, funny bumps, or too much hair. Still gross, of course. He seems to have something in his hands. Maybe he had to take his clothes off outside. He’s well beyond the steps by now. Samson is barking at the edge of the perimeter of his electric fence. He’s pissed, but he’s not going to take a shock for this guy. That is when I see the flags.

The next naked guy is running down my alley, wearing some kind of shiny hat. He has a large German flag – maybe six feet by four feet  – strung to a long pole. There is another guy, also in the buff, right behind

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I Had Jury Duty

When it is your time, its really just very simple.  I opened the letter from Durham County, standing at the mailbox in my front yard:

You are required to report for jury duty at 8:30 am, Tuesday, June 9.   

Now, I am not one of those people who wants to get out of jury duty.  Actually, I think I understand the reasoning that says that every citizen should have to fulfill the obligation to make up a “jury of one’s peers.” So my first reaction is not what you might be imagining.  It is not, “hey, I definitely can get out of this.”

Maybe that reflects poorly on me in a world where the law is, first and foremost, a business.  Maybe I am some kind of dunce to want to participate in a system whose very practitioners seem willing to move beyond its ideals.  Well, bully

A Natural-ness

I knew one thing: I didn’t want to waste my summer sitting behind a desk, hoping for a big chance to write a draft of a constituent letter for Congressman.  I knew I didn’t want to deliver Chivas in the Dirksen Office Building for a hyper Cuban ex-pat with a grudge. I knew that I didn’t want to work for the “Electronic Industries Alliance,” or the “National Association of Corn Extruder Processors,” or the  “Americans for Responsible Recreational Access.”

After two years living in Washington, DC, I knew that those jobs did exist, and that plenty of absolutely bored people got totally snockered at a K Street happy hour after working there.  Then they stumbled onto a Farragut West metro and fall asleep in Falls

Mac is Tired

I was excited when Rosie stood on the pew and whispered into my ear, “Mac comes today.”

Indeed, it was true.  Susie met Phyllis in Greensboro at a lunch place.  They had made an arrangement to hand Mac off, to share the driving and accommodate everyone’s schedule.

She’ll be at our home through Wednesday afternoon (back in time for the game.)

When I got back, later on Sunday, from a 43-mile ride that made me more familiar with my limitations, Mac was in our living room, monitoring a game of Monopoly.

“I will trade Rosie a dark green for a purple,” John says.  If you know Monopoly, then you realize the problem with this transaction.  It is like predatory lending.  Someone has to keep people from being hurt.  In this case, it is John who wants to make a foolish transaction.

“Oooh,” says Mac, “Pennsylvania for Baltic.  I don’t know if you should do that, little boy.”

Mac folds her arms and looks out the window as she says it.  I am thinking that she has great patience to sit and mediate.  Then again, it could be that she is merely unable to get away from our large pink couch.  It is deep.  It can swallow even the sturdiest back.

Either way, monitoring the game is a good job for an adult.  For a Mac.

—

This evening, I’m again the one out and about.  I get back and its story time. Rosie is trying to read about the Tortoise and the Hare.  John is reading to Mac.  Yet Rosie is livid, she’s been waiting for Mac to read for ten minutes and that never panned out.

“Forget about it,” Rosie says, throwing her heels down upon the bed.  It’s a lot of madness in 28 pounds, made all the more daunting by being cloaked inside a Superman costume.

Mac is tired.  She was browning some onions, and that wore her out.  And, earlier, she was on the phone.  Walking down the steps from the driveway in the back wore her out, too.

I think what we are witnessing are the differing reactions to Mac’s condition among our children.  John is older.  He has spent more time with Mac.  He has more maturity.

Rosie can’t remember Mac from two years ago.  She’s just discovering her right now.  And, what she discovered even a month ago isn’t all there anymore.  Rosie had a bad nightmare last night.  She was crying that her mother was sick. She really doesn’t want to play with Mac anymore.  She wants to be left alone by the whole situation.

I think, maybe, that Rosie is crying about Mac.