That Certain Something

What is is about little boys and their dads?

Bert loves his Dad. To him, The Man is... THE MAN. The other day Bert told me, quite seriously, "My Dad is a super hero."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He said so."

I know what he means.

At dinner I can't get a word in. Bert just wants to talk to his Dad. He has "so many questions to tell him". He'll make up endless stories just to keep his dad's attention.

Sometimes we argue over who loves The Man. "No no, Mom. You don't love Dad. You love me and I love you, and I love Dad myself."

And I love that.

WWJD?

Dear Fagin,

We have recently been making a greater effort to say the Rosary each night. Bert registers bits and pieces of it, and tries to pitch in when he's not too busy wrapping his Holy Beads around his toes. It's a nasty habit that I'm trying to break, but he is only three so it may take time. I digress.

Tonight we were listing our intentions and he says in his quietest, most reverent voice, "Thank you for our Sins."

Please Advise.

Hook

Red Meat and Fire

Dear Hook,

I so solly about the bats. So very solly. Here's a happy memory to take your mind off the tragedy that is your bat-filled but Edward, Bella, and Jacob-less life.

Remember these beauties? Nothing makes me smile like steak. Slightly charred, perfectly pink inside (thanks to The Man!). I think it was the best dinner I've had in I don't know how long.
And since I'm already forgetting exactly what was done, here's what I do remember:

- you marinated the beef, so I can't say exactly what you did to make it so delicious, but you did say something about lots of soy sauce, worcestershire, and garlic, no?

-potatoes were sliced, boiled (and not mush!) , cooled and tossed with cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley, chives, and tarragon. I think I splashed some red wine vinegar over everything, too. And s & p of course.

- I just couldn't include a picture of the homemade mayonnaise. As lovely as it was, all pungent with garlic and lemon, the photo didn't look lovely at all. Very congealed and slithery looking. Which isn't to say I didn't dab pretty much every mouthful with it. And tasted garlic all night long. All night.

So that's that. It was the kind of meal after which I should have announced, "I am replete." They seem to say that in books, don't they? I'm not even sure what it means, but I figure it something like "I am satisfied and then some."

Fagin

Blubbering In My Belfry

Dear Fagin,

It started a few weeks ago when we noticed "droppings" on our garbage can. Mice? Up there? Ew. We ignored it, but then there were more.

We got home one night last week and spotted something ominous flying around and around our house. A bat. My cute, tiny Georgian suddenly looked like something out of Dracula. And I don't mean that in a cool, vampires-are-so-in-right-now way. More like Lord-help-me-we-are-all-going-to-get-rabies-and-die-foamy-deaths kind of way.

So, we're suspicious. The next night I'm washing dishes and I ask Bert, "Hey, buddy, what's Daddy doing?"

"He's outside flashin'."

To be honest, I might have preferred indecent exposure. The Man was galloping around the house at twilight, shining his flashlight at the roof in the hopes of finding the bats. And did he ever. He counted eight that night. All tucked up cozy in our soffit. Our soffit that has a three inch gap it shouldn't have. I stayed just inside the screen door, and I may have peed my pants a little.

Last night The Man's whole family was over for Fathers' Day, and everyone counted aloud as the bats flew out for the night. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. EIGHTEEN.

Send help quick.

Hook

Some Summers

Dear Fagin,

Do you remember that one Summer we spent holed up in Mom and Dad's room? It was one of only two air conditioned rooms in the house, the other option being the library with the couch that stunk like sweaty boys.

Probably because of the sweaty boys.

Who sat there and sweat... ed.

So we picked a corner of Mom and Dad's room, shoved the piles out of the way, and made a home for our dolls. Kirsten with Fagin, and Samantha with Hook. And one of those teeny weeny (ha ha. teeny weeny) Tobasco sauce bottles, and tiny little newspapers you made, all rolled up and cute. I think my contribution was little wads of bread that I molded into loaves of doll bread. No, I'm gonna say that was your idea, too. I bet Mom appreciated it.

Wasn't it fun, though? I think of it whenever the Summer gets very hot. I also think of Margaritas, but who's perfect? Honestly, though, sitting there in the cool mooshing little balls of bread around was about as good as it gets.

It sure beat sitting on the sweat couch.

Nostalgically yours,

Hook

Eight Years Ago Today

Dear Fagin,

Eight years ago today you married a fabulous man. I was so proud. I remember telling you, when you had just started dating Mr. Fagin, "That's the one. You should marry him." Good thing I'm so S-M-R-T, and good thing you listened to me. Ha. You already knew, didn't you?

You two made sense right away. You still do. He's whip smart; you (don't think you are but you) are, too. He's mellow, you're passionate. You're one of the funniest people I know. He's got a great laugh. You're both forgiving, humble, generous. Things you need to be to make it eight years. I'm still so proud of you both, proud to be your sister, grateful to be your friend. I could go on and on, but if I did I might fluster your Irish Freeze, and then where would we be? Yo-ho. Har har.

Happy 8th anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. Fagin. I'm so happy for you!

much love,

Hook

Man to Man

Dear Fagin,

Have you ever "Googled" yourself? I just did. Yo-ho. Wikipedia describes Fagin "(pronounced /ˈfeɪɡɪn/) [as] a fictional character who appears in the Charles Dickens novel Oliver Twist, referred to in the preface of the novel as a "receiver of stolen goods", but referred to more frequently within the actual story as the "merry old gentleman"...Born in London, Fagin is described as "disgusting" to look at."

Mwa ha ha ha ha. Yar.

Were you ever. Right down to the matted hair and the liver spots. Oh, the liver spots! And of course, the beard. Which in your case may have been a goatee? And yes, fake eyebrows.

Much like our friend, Alec Guinness. Yes, that's him. As Fagin. For REAL. So ugly it changed my font. And I can't change it back. Not with all the pixie dust in the world.

In your last, you brought up a long-buried memory. I am referring to the dreaded "adhesive-induced acne mustache" or, as you so aptly put it, mustacne. Yes, I remember it too clearly now. Raw and bumpy. Sticky. Because Spirit Gum is designed to adhere to the skin for no-less-than-but-not-limited-to-three-weeks-plus-one-ill-advised-trip-to-Baker's-Square. Yes, the Captain clearly remembers hustling off to the pie-house after a performance, eyebrows firmly glued to her head, the yellowish cast of spirit gum highlighting the bits of faux mustache and eyebrow still stuck all over her face. All to see a boy. A traumatized and freaked-out boy. A boy who was re-thinking things. "Reviewing the Situation", if you will. Moving on to greener, less manish pastures. Ah, young love! So reckless. So... useless.

But it was fun, wasn't it? Playing the villain, instead of Snow White (Captain Hook played her, too, but no one remembers that, do they?). Getting the laughs. Trying our best to sing like men and walk like men, and coming off more like this.

But with more hair. (Side note: Really, Paula?)

Let me splain. No, is too much. Let me sum up. Going to an all-girls high school and playing the male villains is an indelible part of our make-up. Maybe we learned valuable lessons about men that later prepared us for marriage?

Nah.

Maybe the heavy disguises allowed us to express ourselves with abandon. To be confident in our personalities and choices! To say to the world, "I am who I am, and who I am is as fabulous as Alec Guinness and Paula Abdul (REALLY, Paula?!?!).

Naaaaaaah.

I got nothing. It was weird. And it still haunts me. Like the crocodile with the ticking clock... always following. Always hungry. Speaking of which, peanut butter and jelly for breakfast is soooo not jolly. I'm off to make "suffin to eeeeeaaat" for Bert. And then go to the "pork". Hope your day with your rabble of boys is wicked awesome.

Yo-ho,

Captain Hook

Poor Disguises

Dear Captain Hook,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry your disguise didn't work... again. I really thought it was flawless this time: twenty-five year old female in party dress, strappy sandals, lipstick. Even earrings. Two of them and not of the large gold hoop persuasion. And yet they still sniffed you out. Eight years after the fact, too.

I can just picture it. There you are, cocktail in hand, clutching your girly clutch as the parents of your high school past approach.

you: "Hi, so good to see you! Have you met my husband? Do you like my girly clutch and my mascara?"

them: "Oooooo, look, it's Captain Hook!"

I don't know how they remember. Even little Bert bought your disguise when you picked him up at the end of the night and was fully convinced you were his mom and not a mustachioed pirate. Is it the creepy oddness of all that facial hair glued onto the face of a sixteen year old girl that leaves some sort of indelible mental association?

Not that the depth of your delicately nuanced performance didn't also touch the hearts of your audience. That's what I like to tell myself anyway. It takes the sting out of being told how much one's performance of Fagin was enjoyed when pictures absolutely prove that one looked exactly like one's older brother might look in forty years. Or now that I've seen it, Will Farrel as the Old Prospector on SNL. And did you ever get the adorable adhesive-induced acne mustache? That was cute, and just in time for prom, too.

"Thanks for the corsage! Do you like my pretty dress? Do you like my mustacne? Let's go dance, they're playing 'With or Without You'!! No? Really?"

And there are people who want to relive high school?

Grunt.

Fagin