Your'e Not a Mom, Dad!

Click here to listen to: Live from the Hovel on the hill, No.25


You’re not a Mom, Dad

One of the really difficult tasks for a single father is to develop social connections. I am not talking about anything even slightly romantic. I am talking about being able to interact with other parents in the same way that “real” moms do. While I am not a mom, I long to discuss the benefits of being able to find the jacket as the school bus arrives, the wonder of a house that is still clean 5 minutes after I finish vacuuming, or the mystery of discovering a dinner everyone likes.
Sadly enough, it is not to be. Something inescapable about me makes it so. I have a two part handicap. I am a guy, and if that isn’t bad enough, I am also a guy from a different world.
The world I used to inhabit was populated with desks, cubicles, computers and co-workers. The world I live in now is populated with unmade beds, Lego, snack foods and hairy pets. This world has a whole set of new rules, new people and is run by Moms. Moms hold the power by living in this world every day as they have for the entire lives of their children. Moms meet and collaborate at school, sporting events, and impromptu play groups and play dates. They have “history”. They have vast experience. They are a tight nit society of powerful home management executives. They even understand the arcane science of coupon dates and ‘buy 4 get one free’ specials. They react coolly to some new-comer, yokel “guy” who shows up at “pickup time”, and says:
“Hi, I’m a stay at home dad, are you my assigned friends? Say, which vacuum sucks the most?” No matter how sweetly It’s said.
I could insist that I’m a “mom” too, but I’m not. I’m a displaced dad. I don’t have “history”, (well I do have some, but it’s mostly academic, gained from hearsay, over a drink, at the end of a long day in the other world). I am not part of the order of “Moms”. Not to say that Moms in general aren’t a very sweet and helpful group. They are. It’s just that they have all the experience. I am like a guy “just off the boat”, wearing underwear on his head, with his pants on backwards, asking if he is buying enough butter. I don’t need butter, I need a clue!
The second part of the handicap is I belong to the wrong sex. It didn’t matter in my old world, I was a co-worker.
As we all know, or are least willing to swear in court, co-workers do not have a specific sex, by law. In that world, I worked with the people I encountered at different jobs or projects. If I had the bad taste to deal with them on the basis of color, creed or sex I would have had an immediate interview with a less than understanding executive in human resources. This would be followed shortly by the cold wind of the outside door closing behind me.
In the world of “Mommyland”, the sex of the inhabitants counts, a lot. In this world “impropriety tracking” eyebrows flare violently at the mere mention of a guy spending time with any mom he is not specifically married to. It doesn’t matter if you are talking about lost shoes, are draped with sticky children or discussing the best method of removing cat pee. Time spent with a mom, by a “guy” is suspicious, by law. Making friends with a “mom” is a dangerous activity and calls for immediate discussion by the “Moms Guild”.
I will have to get some kind of special dispensation from the Mom’s Guild, an official button or something that says “I don’t want sex; I want less food on the floor”.
Until that happens, I will be restricted to lurking near enough to overhear key conversations on spot removal or effective methods of discipline or maybe even Pop Tart logistics.
If there is a point to this discussion, it came from one of my readers. He, yet another single father, asked if I had figured out how to make social connections for information, friendship and support. I have thought about that question a lot. I haven’t tried it yet, but you might get a wig and a dress, and go undercover. If you get stuck for conversation, talk about how bad you look and how fat you are and above all, blend, baby, blend! If you are caught or killed during this mission, I will disavow any knowledge of your activities.



Please visit my website www.prentissgray.com

Communicating with Boys

Click here to listen to: Live from the Hovel on the hill, No.24

(apostrophes and quotes back by popular demand! (Kind of glad to be off that website))

Communicating with boys
My oldest son has asked that I only “Text message” him on his phone.
“I don’t want to be disturbed in class” he said. I have never called him during school. It could be because he knows that it takes so long for me to type something on a phone that by the time I’m finished, he will have graduated.
Recently he had an audition at a prestigious university. I say prestigious because there is still a chance that he might get in. Not that I would know for sure either way, or even have enough information for hope or despair.
However, I did get hourly bulletins on the proceedings, via nasty text messaging on my cell phone. He sent:
First message: “I am at the school”
Second message, 1 hour later: “I just finished the theory test”
Third message, 2 hours later: “I am leaving now”

What? He’s leaving? What about the audition? There seem to be a few pertinent details missing! Then my phone actually rang, and it was him, coming down to my “voice operated” level.
“Hi! How did it go?”
“What?”
“The audition!”
“Which one?”
“Either….both ….as many as there were. Just tell me what happened!”
“It was cool. I liked the jazz band better that the classical group….”
“What did they think of you?”
“I don’t know, they were pretty stone faced….”
“Did you ask them how you did?”
“No.”
No? He drives all the way to Philadelphia, risking his life and limb and my nerves, and he doesn’t even ask them how he did?
“Put your phone on speaker, I’ll ask them”
“I left dad.”
“Go back!”
“Sorry, gotta go. My train is coming, or bus or whatever…..Bye”
Stone faced? What does ‘stone faced’ mean? Did they have a rough night? Did they look that way before he sang? I don’t think I am going to be satisfied unless I call the judges at home.
He is not my only communications problem, though. It might be all boys. The very night that my oldest took off for Philly, I turned to my two “leftover” sons and said:
“Ok, I will be leaving for the city soon, Dinner is on the table.”
“What! What? Where are you going?” Said my youngest, eyes threatening to ‘well up’ with tears.
“I am going in to see a show, I have been telling you all week, remember?” No, of course not. It wasn’t something Sponge Bob said, so why pay any attention at all?
“You did not!” he accused me vehemently. “What about us? What will we do?”
Before I even got a chance to point out that we get 200 channels in addition to Cartoon network and have every game system known to man, my middle son came rushing in.
“What’s happening, what’s going on?”
“Dad’s leaving us, (sniff, sniff) to go into the city!”
“What! You are? Well, I guess “the older brother” will get to beat us up all night, like he usually does.”
“He left for his audition in Philly. You just said goodbye to him!” Instead of considering that interesting fact for a moment, he decided to go right to panic instead.
“You mean we are going to be all alone?” he looked like the house was on fire and all the doors were locked.
“Guys, I have been telling you all week. This is the night where you take care of the dogs and have….”
“Wait! Wait!” Said my middle son. “Is this the night we have Burger King?!!”
“Yes….”
“Bye Dad!”
“Bye Dad! …..I’ll call you, lots of times!”
I looked at the two “lost boys” attacking the fast food, and said:
“Why don’t you just text message me instead?”



Please visit my website www.prentissgray.com

Pasty White Guy

Click here to listen to: Live from the Hovel on the hill, No.23

(apostrophes and quotes removed on purpose, ...its complicated....)

Pasty white guy
Here in the wild, wild west everything has an Indian name. They have their own regular names of course, but wisdom and experience earns them a special Indian name. Sitting bull, Crazy horse and Yellow hair were all names given to men of extraordinary influence and personal power. Luckily, K-mart was having an end of the season 2 for 1 on Indian names. I have my choice of Pasty white guy or Rubber legs.
Lately, I am too stiff for Rubber legs. When I get off my horse at the end of the day and walk back to my cabin, I resemble someone who is straddling a barrel. There are ways to relieve this. The first day I took a hot shower. The second day I needed a hot shower and two Motrin. By the third day I was really starting to become a real cowboy, so I needed the shower, 4 Motrin, two bourbons and my three boys just to get up on to the porch. I have to call the airline to check on special seating for the bow legged.
I never notice the damage as I ride silently through the pines or splash across the rivers and streams. It is so peaceful and serene here. Only the mountain wind and the bickering of my own sweet children break the peace.
I’m telling Dad!
What? What did I do? Dad! Dad!

I wish the wind was a little louder.

The days here on the ranch start early, and fast. Breakfast at 7:30. That is about mid morning for me. I usually get up around 6 to write. However, these days I am up at 5:30 to get the boys out of bed by 7:00. I am learning many of the things cowboys need to know; How to trot without hurting either the horses back or my own, how to lope without shooting out of my saddle and in to the tall western pines and how to pick up the entire cabin before the housekeeping staff gets there.
We are in one of about 10 cabins on the ranch. It is small, neat and very comfortable. There are about 40 guests staying the week, and a huge staff to take care of them all. I have been to guest ranches before but this staff is exceptional.
The people who handle the horses and the unsteady guests on them are called wranglers. My earlier experience with wranglers is that they are men of vast western riding experience. I could always tell by the deep tans, missing fingers, limping walks and hard plastic back braces that these were men that knew everything there was to know about horses. They had names like Buck, Bill and Quirt. Their life's summers were spent breaking horses, riding in rodeos and going to the hospital. Their winters spent riding through the deep south west, wintering horses and cattle and seeing bone and joint specialists.
The wranglers here are a bit different. The one I rode with today name was Renwick. He has a construction supply business in Pennsylvania, and moved here to retire. He spends his summers coaching guests in riding and winters as a ski instructor. He gets a little sore sometimes but recommends Glucosamine.
One of critical elements that make up a great guest ranch is the kitchen. After a long hard morning of picking up dirty clothes or at the end of a day of riding though country so beautiful that it makes me feel old and smelly, a great meal brings everything into perspective. A long time ago I was told by a ranch hand that all the day’s sores would be relieved by This here bag of dried beans and bacon, messed wit a little crik water, and a shot of ol’ Pete, for starters, the bag and the bottle of Ol Pete had been gently warmed on the rump of his horse all day. As startling as that ‘real western’ dinner was, I think prefer the pork chops stuffed with shitake mushrooms, and the Pinot Grigio we had last night.
Lunches and dinners might be extraordinary here, but the breakfasts are amazing. Cooked to order, delivered lighting fast and always exceptional. Before I can finish saying I’ll have the pancakes, there they are steaming up at me from the plate. A sharp contrast from one of the places we stopped on the long drive from Salt Lake City. There my ham and cheese sandwich took long enough for the waitresses to compare shoes by trying each other’s on, discuss the shortcoming of each and every other staff member in the restaurant and then go for a smoke in the parking lot. Not so bad really, I passed the time watching my 15-year-olds beard come in.




Please visit my website www.prentissgray.com

The Garbage Out

Click here to listen to: Live from the Hovel on the hill, No.22

(apostrophes and quotes removed on purpose, ...its complicated....)

The garbage out

Every once in a great while, one of your children does something so unexpected and spectacular, it takes your breath away. Ok, maybe I just hold my breath for a long time hoping that it wont turn out to be something really bad that I just mistook for something good. Like my son racing to the store to get something I desperately need to finish dinner and coming home triumphant, but with a policeman stuck to the bumper.
Im not talking about parting the red sea though, or even parting his hair (although, that would be nice too). I am referring to the little things that make up the substance of the universe, such as taking the garbage up to the curb when no one else thought to. This one lone deed wipes out a multitude of great sins. This selfless act, done while his family slept peacefully, unaware of the impending tragedy, marks a mighty step into manhood. Of course it might have been a plan to get more cash out of me in the morning, but so what! Its still very cool.
For me, the full impact of this historic event, began the week before. Due to the crippling disease of forgetfulness we missed getting the trash up to the curb for garbage night. For a week we toyed with the idea of tracking garbage trucks surreptitiously, waiting our chance to lure them unsuspecting to our trash. This mission was so fraught with peril, that we determined that we were too chicken to do it, besides my oldest has the van all day and who wants to try to sneak garbage around in their sporty compact.
Meanwhile our mistake was exposed to the world. Garbage was showing in the front or our house! It was peeking out the top of the cans, boldly lolling around the front of the garage (although, every time we open the garage door, most of our neighbors are of the opinion that we are running a garbage dump). In fact some neighbors have asked to bring their garbage over to our pile, because they are having company.

Your house is such a dump anyway, who would notice?

Its not a dump! Its eclectic. I feel very sad for people who lack inner vision.

So, there we were, ripe for a final end to our week long trial, and yet poised for disaster. It’s not as if we had not been reminded many times as well as discussing it among ourselves. It must have been one of those instances where you have all been reminded so much that you subconscious just represses the whole subject. What the Germans call Furgottududen. It didnt occur to me until the next morning at the crucial minute, 6:05am, when I was struck by what we Americans call Garbage panic. Thats when the lilting notes of the garbage crusher can be heard wafting through the neighborhood as it consumes all our non-eclectic neighbor’s garbage.
Racing to the kitchen with thoughts of shooting up the driveway with two fully loaded cans in each hand, in my bare feet, in the dark, alone against town policy and yet another week of shame, I saw the vision. Through the front window I could see them at the top of my driveway, the Generals of Refuse Removal, and what were they doing? They were lifting my cans and dumping them into the truck! The crusher munched, the engine roared, moving the sainted truck off to remove the shame from anothers door. I rejoiced in my savior and resolved to let him sleep an extra five minutes this morning. Of course that would mean all the more yelling when the big lump did finally have to get out of bed, but whats that against this deed of pure goodness?
Instead of waking him up, I wrote this poem in his honor

Who produces a pass when its time for Gym class!
Number One Son!
Who is a bully, a liar and sets things on fire?
Number One Son!
Who probably hauled the trash just to suck up some cash?
Number One Son!
He finagles his life, and work he despises
He considers only himself, with no compromises
He lies like a lump, without a hint of surprises
But in the darkest dawn, to the occasion he rises
Number One Son!




Please visit my website www.prentissgray.com