"Cut Out" is Troublesome

Language, what a funny thing. We use it all the time, yet we don't give a whole lot of thought to what happens with it after it leaves our mouth and or hands. Naturally, we all assume once we have shared what information we are trying to get across to another person, that's the end of it. We shared the information; they received the information; mission accomplished. That's what I thought till one day I arrived at Kisha's after school program to pick her up and take her home.

I walked into the building not suspecting a thing. All was the same as any other day I had picked her up. Then, out of nowhere, Ms. Cherry descended upon me. (Ms. Cherry isn't the real name of the after school program director, but being a typical CODA I acted deaf and gave her a smile and nodded the first time we were introduced and walked away hurriedly. Hey, I admit I may have been more polite and paid attention that first meeting, but there wasn't an interpreter there that day Farah and I met her and I for one did not want to see Farah walk away smirking as I was cornered and became extremely uncomfortable while this strangely kind and caring lady invaded my personal space, the whole time telling me how "special" I was to marry a "def" lady. Har har, it is not funny. So now I have no clue what her real name might be. I gave her the name "Ms. Cherry" because she had a plump, round, reddish face...excuse me, I grew up thinking visually and a cherry was the first thing I thought of the first time I saw her head.) I didn't see her coming as I was signing out my little Amazon Princess from the program that day.

 Quietly Ms Cherry said to me, "Mr Leland, may I have a word with you?",as she looked at me through huge doe like eyes that just dripped sucrose and empathy. ( Let me tell you, I was instantly freaked out! I have seen that look in hearing peoples eyes before and heard that tone in a hearing person's voice and it is always followed by some comment about how sorry they are that I have "death" parents, or how "amazing" it is for to "def mutes" to get married and have hearing children. The memory makes me shudder.) "I require just a moment of your time to share with you, from the whole staff here at the after school program, how sorry we are to hear about your wife being let go from her teaching possession. We all know how hard it must be for someone of her "condition", you know, being "def" and all, to find a job."

I stood there a moment, totally perplexed and stunned as my mind did mental gymnastics in an attempt to put together how my "def" wife had lost her job and how Ms. Cherry used the word "condition" in place of the word "deaf", as though it made it better some how.? (Believe you me, Ms. Cherry had had me swearing bullets when she said Farah had a "condition". I kid you not, the last time Farah had a "condition" we got the blessed tax deduction known as the Amazon Princess. I nearly needed the defibrillator broken out  at the mere thought of Farah having another baby. There are no words to explain how relieved and ecstatic I felt to know Farah's "condition" was only deafness. ) "Excuse me... what's this about my wife loosing her job and she doesn't have a  "condition" she is simply and happily 'D-E-A-F', not 'D-E-F'". ( I have found it always helps hearing people to understand when you slowly and clearly enunciate the word "D-E-A-F" to them the first few times you talk to them about deafness and or Deaf Culture. Just a bit of hard learned advice when you attempting cross cultural, or cross lingual mediation.)

"No need to be embarrassed, loosing a job is nothing to be ashamed of Mr. Leland. We don't mean to pry, nor do we mean to ask for any sort of explanation as to what happened. Lord knows we have seen a good many people in our town here loose their jobs in the past few years. Good people with no "condition". I'm sure your wife will find another job soon. All she needs to do is keep plugging away."

All I could do was  look at her and cock a single eyebrow in utter dumbfoundedness. She totally missed the whole "D-E-A-F" versus "D-E-F" comment. ( This is a common Politically Correct Poisoning  situation . Oh trust me, hearing people somehow, for some unexplainable reason, are under the baffling and mistaken idea that not saying the word "deaf" will somehow make deafness less painful for them, but in reality in only makes their ignorance about deafness and Deaf Culture all more bewildering and laughable to the rest of us.)   

Taking a step closer, cocking her head to the side while making direct eye contact with me, Ms Cherry put my hand on my shoulder in that creepy, compassionate, mortician sort of way and said, "Kisha has been explaining to us all about her mother's "condition". She got all teary eyed and near close to hyperventilating trying to talk about it and her mothers loosing her job. "

Incapable of speech, I gestured for Ms. Cherry to wait, spun around and looked for Kisha. Naturally, she was holding court with her friends across the big room. I did the only thing a CODA would do at that moment, I stomped on the cement floor, began the dance one does when attempting to get the attention of someone across the room, admittedly all the while looking much like a crazed baboon. Once I finally had the attention of a highly embarrassed Kisha, I signed in the overly exaggerated way one does when signing a message across a long distance...it's equivalent to raising your voice to be heard by a hearing person far away, yet only making loud noise, not clear communication. Signing loudly usually further embarrasses the person your signing to by creating an overabundance of garbled visual noise, entirely lacking any clarity of message. Reigning in my signs, I asked Kisha, "What did you tell Ms. Cherry  Mom lost her job? Mom didn't..."

 "Who is Ms Cherry?", interrupted Kisha with her head tilted to the right, all the while arching one eyebrow above her one wide open eye and squinting the other eye.

"You know, the lady in charge", I told her, discreetly pointing and giving a repeated sideways nod at Ms. Cherry, all in a vain attempt not to draw any more attention than the few kindergarteners already watching us.

Still having her left eye squinted, right eye wide open and brow arched high, Kisha  tilted her head to the left side and signed, "Who?"

Back and forth Kisha and I went as my signs got much more descriptive. ( Understand this, when your getting more and more descriptive about someone's appearance, the descriptions start to take on  unflattering characteristics as exaggerated gestures and tendencies of the person you are describing get added in. By the time your done, even an ancient Egyptian Mummy could understand who is being described, regardless of whether the Mummy knew how to sign or not.) With all the highly animated signs and gestures both Kisha and I used as we went back and forth, vainly trying to establish who Ms. Cherry was, the entire room of 30 overly active and loud kindergarteners had ground to a total standstill. All 30 of them moved backwards toward the walls fearfully, in an attempt to give us more room to continue the odd gesticulating show.  Finally, totally exasperated and caring not for polite etiquette, I just walked right over to Ms. Cherry, stood behind and over her and emphatically, being all too much of a smart alec, pointed with both hands right at Ms Cherry's head, making a facial expression of "DUH", just to make the point.

With a look of total enlightenment, my little Amazon Princess signed, "Oh yeah, her. What about her?".

Taking a deep breath, I recapped my question, I re-signed what Ms. Cherry had told me. With a look of puzzlement, Kisha signed she didn't tell her any such thing. "Yes you said...", I signed over and over. "No, I did not", signed Kisha over and over. Back and forth we went for ten minutes, all the other kindergarteners, still up against the walls, bouncing their little heads back and forth between us and knowing nothing of what we signed, till Kisha finally said with her voice, "N-O  I  D-I-D  N-O-T", in an highly enunciated and slow manner so as to ensure her mentally deficient Father finally understood her.

Amazed, I was momentarily at a loss for signs due to her response...then I signed back, "Ms. Cherry said that you were almost crying and telling her your Mom lost her job. Why would you say that?". Walking closer to me, Kisha spoke and told me she had not said any of that. I kept signing and Kisha kept speaking and walking closer till she was right in front of me and said, "Dad, why are you signing to me? I can hear you know?!".

Taken back by the fact I had slipped into signing mode without realizing it, I quickly came up with the best explanation I could when put on the spot by my kindergartener daughter, "Because I can".

As Kisha and I talked over the teary eyed conversation she had had earlier with Ms. Cherry, parents started to arrive and peal their frightened kindergarteners from the walls where that had stayed the whole time we had our give and take. Silently they all left us alone with Ms. Cherry. Slowly, cautiously, Ms. Cherry approached us just as a mental picture of the entire conversation between Kisha and Ms. Cherry gelled in my brain and came into befuddled focus. "Ms. Cherry, did Kisha say her mother had been "cut out" and thus left without a job?"

"Yes, that's what she told us and we all understand how harsh that must be for someone in your wife's..."condition", she said slow and quietly, all to make sure I understood what "condition" meant.

Sending Kisha to get her shoes and coat on, I explained in my best grown up hearing person way, slowly and quietly so as to be sure she understood what I meant, that this had all been a misunderstanding due to a clear clash of cultures and languages. The night before, Farah had had a serious talk with Kisha about how her talking all the time in our home without signing was "cutting out" Farah and Jaden from the collective family life in our home. Kisha listened closely as Farah told her how when a CODA refused to sign around deaf family members, it is rude and insensitive, "cutting out" the deaf family members from the CODA's life. If Kisha "cut out" Farah, then Farah wouldn't be able to do her most important job, being Kisha's mommy. She asked Kisha if she wanted her to loose her most important job? Eyes welling with tears, Kisha said she never wanted that to happen and held Farah tightly.

I believed I had done an excellent job of clearing up the misunderstanding and made my move to get us out of the building as quickly and painlessly as possible. This sadly was not to be. Much to my dismay, Ms. Cherry launched into a lengthy and  dramatic soliloquy about how relieved she was that this was all a misunderstanding. On and on she talked in the way only hearing people can when they don't fully understand the cultural, or linguistical clash between hearing and deaf, but are too proud to admit it, yet continue to talk as though they do. I simply continued to nod my head and inched us out to the parking lot, started the van and began to pull away as Ms. Cherry wound down and stopped talking.

At that point, Kisha and I did the only thing we could, we waved quickly, turned our heads and we left. Never looking toward Ms. Cherry again, fearing if we did she'd start to talk once more. ( It's a self defense tactic CODA's learn from deaf people when they try to escape overly verbal hearing person. Comes in quite handy at times.)

So now you see why I say language can be a funny thing? See the confusion that ensues when we talk and believe all we say is understood exactly as we meant it? Kisha knows this lesson now.

 

Sweetest Day

Today is Sweetest Day. The finest example of mass marketing  hysteria every created. Where else in the world could such hype be thought up? Only a true evil genius would concoct a holiday that masquerades as a celebration of romance, when its nothing more than a sham to enrich the greeting card companies. There can be no finer example of capitalism.

Yet, I am given pause and my days of wooing my lovely wife come to mind.

What? How did a guy like me, manage to get such a wonderful and beautiful lady like Farah? In a word: CHARISMA. ( I hear all that laughter, knock it off! I'll have you know, there were many a young lady smitten with my James Bond like charm and style. Stop laughing!) Let me enlighten you with a tale of our first date.

 For those of you who don't know, Farah and I live here in Appalachia. Everyone who knows anything, knows that Appalachia is the most blessed place upon this green Earth. (Sociological and Archaeological studies have time and again placed Appalachia as the most likely spot for the Garden of Eden. I kid you not.) The big city where Farah and I lived when we first met, had some of the most chic and sophisticated establishments for romancing a lady.

 In our city, there was no more fashionable or trendy eating establishment than Nick's Diner. Nick, the chef and owner of the Diner,  had studied at the finest restaurants in Europe.( He was destine for the big time of the culinary world. His face and name were known to all the epicurean fat cats...that was till the Foie Gras Catastrophe of  '83 in Schaan, Liechtenstein. Shunned by the gastronomical elite, Nick turned his back on the gourmet world he once ruled and brought the height of culture to our city.) Always one to be prepared, I had called ahead to reserve two stools with the best view of the palette Nick used to create his master pieces, the grill. With the delectable fragrance from the greasy grill wafting over us, my hands danced in the air, seductively wooing Farah with signs of flirtatious intrigue, spiced with passionate affections as only a CODA coquettishly smitten can manage. Before we knew it, Nick plopped his signature plate, "European Sampler", before us. Deftly Nick unscrewed the wine bottle and poured it into the matching jelly jars, then he served us. What could have been more romantic for a first date than a European dinner, accompanied by the fizziest wine from the fertile grape fields of Lodi, Ohio?


After dinner, I whisked Farah away to see a movie.  Like Fred Astaire I gracefully dance down the street, all the while poetically signing sweet nothings into Farah's alluring brown eyes. All I could see was total adoration shinning from her eyes... that was till fate delt me a crushing blow and suddenly, without the slightest warning, stuck a newspaper box out in front of me.  Unable to rip my eyes from Farah's captivation smile, I struck the demon newspaper box and inelegantly hobbled around, attempting as best I could to keep my suave persona intact. There was no choice but to look away, so as not to let her see the unmannly look on my face as pain ripped through my screaming knee and raced to my mortified brain. When I was able to gaze back into those saulty eyes, where I once saw loving veneration, I now saw, and heard, uncontrollable laughter. ( Hey, you try keeping a Sean Connery debonairness when your fighting the urge to cry like a little girl.)

Buster the Projection

Limpingly, I made it into the movie theatre with Farah holding me up. We picked an action packed movie. Action movies are much more deaf friendly, eliminating mind bogglingly long scenes of heartfelt dialogue that sucks all the enjoyment, and comprehrnsion, out of an uncaptioned movie. As luck would have it though, Buster the Projectionist left the projector on after the afternoon matinee, thereby burning out the filiment within the projection bulb. Being as in love as we were, that didn't damper our evening, so we walked around downtown, hand-in-hand, signing. ( That was not easy as you would think. You try walking hand-in-hand all the while signing and keeping an eye out for demon newspaper boxes. Trust me, it isn't easy.) Finally we made our way to Pop' Caffee and Fillin' Station for the best coffee in our fair city. Sitting at the counter of Pop's, it was made clear to me that this lady, who I was making goo goo eyes with, had ended my carefree days of bachlorhood.

The last part of our first Sweetest Day was spent driving up into the  hills outside of our town. It wasn't hard to impress Farah with my car. I was the proud owner of a 1974 Volkswagen Thing. Bright yellow, four door, rag top to be precise. One of the finest examples of German engineering ever known. Nothing sets a romantic tone like the distinctive putters of a Volkswagen's air cooled, four cylinder motor. That is till you run out of gas. ( Here again is a hazard of signing and driving. All my attention was on what Farah was signing to me, so I never noticed the fuel gage. ) Being stuck on the side of a hill in the dark with a lady as stupefyingly beatiful as Farah was not an unpleasant time. After watching the stars for a time, we pushd the car till gravity helped and we coasted down hill and into town. ( Do you really think I would elaborate on what we were doing on that hillside at night? I think not.)

 We have had many Sweetest Days since that first one, but none as memorable. That day set a pattern of hand holding, fine dining and Farah laughing uncontrollably at my slapstick blunders at the hands of demon newspaper boxes. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Instant Communication

There comes a time in a CODA's life when he needs to post a cautionary tale. This tale I post today has the sole purpose of warning innocent blog readers about a gloomy fate awaiting them  should they make carelessly thought out wishes.

The grocery store has to be one of the most vexing places to a man. Many a good man has lost his way amongst the produce, only to be found mumbling to himself in the health and beauty aisles months later. ( I remember reading a story bout a husband who had been sent to the store by his wife back in 2003. When he finally emerged he kept jabbering incoherently about the "Aisle of Doom". After in-depth therapy and forensic psycho analysis, it was discovered that he had had serious damage done to his psyche by the never ending wall of unimaginable and mind warping choices in the feminine products aisle. The man is still unable to talk about his experience...the flash backs are all to real to him even to this day. I hear Congress is debating legislation to have warning signs posted at each end of the feminine product aisle, warning men of serious adverse health problems caused by prolonged exposure to these aisles. I guess it's like the warning on cigarette packs.)

Only a man can walk into a store, a store he has walked into a thousand times before, and have his brain entirely wiped of all cognitive ability, thus rendering men unable to find a single thing. This temporary psychosis happens when men attempt to shop alone without their wives.( I kid you not, being doomed to shop alone for all eternity is one of Dante's levels of hell specifically created for men.)

While making my third round of wandering the grocery store, up and down every aisle ad nauseum, unable to find the simple three items Farah had asked me to pick up for her, my iPhone went off with a buzzing which very nearly had me jumping out of my skin.  It was from Willa, an old deaf lady I had grown up knowing as more of a family member than a friend.  All families have one of those old "Aunts" or "Uncles", who aren't a real family member, yet have been so entwined with your family that they are given the honorary title of "Aunt" or "Uncle". Willa was that person for me. She may not be a relative by blood, yet she is a member of our family non the less.

You need to understand something about Willa. She is the kind of person who has that special knack of saying just the right thing, at just the right moment, to enrage whomever she is assaulting with a communicative bludgeoning. To make matters worse, due her greatly advanced years, Willa was just the right age to get away with saying whatever she thought, without any concern for rebuttal, retribution, or repercussion.  (It has been rumored that Willa dated both Edward Minor Gallaudet and Alexander Graham Bell at the same time, and that she made comments to both men, comments that only Willa would find to be innocent and unintentional, stoking the rivalry between these men. Deafies around the world have Willa to thank for starting the feud between Oral v. Manual education.)

"Why you answer not?"

Puzzled, I amusingly responded, "Simple, I haven't got a message from you.  Can't answer messages I haven't received, now can I? Are you trying to use deafie mind meld and send me psychic messages again? I've told you many times, deafie mind tricks don't work on CODA's. lol "

CODAs around the world break out in a cold sweat recalling the stern, no nonsense fire that burns within the eyes of a elderly deafies when they are not amused by a CODA witty remark. Even more astounding is how some deafies are able to cause the same response in a CODA via a text message. Such was my reaction when I read, "Send, send, send all day you. Not you answer, why? Willa serious biz talk. Understand Willa, I Willa old, you young, family have you, Willa not real family. Sorry Willa pest you. Die now Willa. Alone, no help. Talk at hearing can't Willa. Worry not you. Love you and family. Now Willa shut up for die." I stared in total agnst and stultified bafflement. Not only had the trauma of grocery shopping with Farah caused me near total brain cell paralysis, now I had Willa killing off the few brain cells still able to function.

Texts were being received and send in blinding speed. "Willa send you ", "Willa did not send me", yes, no, yes, no, on and on it went as I wildly gestured at my iPhone, all the while making odd facial expressions. All around me, parents grabbed their children and rush them away in fear.

With strange NERDAs giving me annoyed looks as they try to get around me in the crowded aisle, I typed, "I'm sorry Willa. I haven't got any texts from you today. What is the important business?"

"No, you too busy to help Willa. Willa solve important biz self." This is the one retort a deafie can give that cuts even the hardest CODA heart. I clutched at my heart as I wheeled when I read this text. In the middle of produce, surrounded by shelves of over priced, green leafy vegetables, that had a suspiciously similar appearance with garden weeds and strange names like "kale", "Swiss chard", "collards" and "endive", waves of CODA guilt washed over me. All I could say was, "I'm not too busy. How can I help?"

No response...

The true meaning of crushing silence can only be understood by a CODA who is waiting for an unamused deafie to respond. As I endured the texting blackout from my Willa, I continued to wander the store helplessly and thought back to dark days before we had cell phones.

I realize to some who read this post, the idea of a world before we had the ability to text and gain instant communication is simply unbelievable, yet it is true. When I was young there was no way to contact deaf parents when they were gone. All a CODA could do was tough it out and wait. Endless, mind numbing hours of my youth were whiled away waiting for my parents to return home. NERDA kids could call their parents. ( How the knowledge of this unjust twist of fate drove me crazy. Yet, I now see how young CODA's have their characters built and developed, not to mention the development of their gluteus patience-mus muscles. Heaven knows, CODA's must learn to be patient during a marathon "Deaf Parent to Deafie Friend" goodbye. Such goodbyes between deaf parents and their deaf friends have been known to out last the life span of the Aldabra Giant Tortoise...200 years. I kid you not.)

I can remember vividly how when I was 12 years old, I stood outside our home in Kent during a torrential downpour that the National Weather Service later classified as a Class 5 hurricane, because I forgot my house key and my parents were gone.  My best NERDA friend asked me why I didn't just call my parents and have them come home and let me in. My answer was delivered with such a brilliantly blinding string of obscenities that caused him to run away in shock, covering his ears and praying. ( I've been told by my Astronomer friends, that my string of obscenities can still be seen circling Neptune.) After that, I was left standing there on the front steps, shivering as I felt the rain soaking through my new jeans and making a denim blue puddle below me...not to mention how my underwear was quickly being dyed blue...all I could think about was how I wish I had a device to let my parents know what catastrophe was befalling me. I wished and wished and wished, all to no avail as the denim blue puddle grew below me.

BBBBBUUUUUUZZZZZZZ, suddenly went my phone, awakening me from my memories. "Did you change phone number?"

"No, I have the same cell phone number I've had for over ten years", I told my Willa.

"Change number you mean. How Willa call you when Willa die? You want Willa die alone, no more bother you. Why you not answer Willa? Important business!"

I stood in the ethnic food aisle and looked at my iPhone in total befuddlement! How was I to escape from this web of craftiness Willa had trapped me in?! If I make a joke about what Willa just said, instantaneous messages will be plastered all over the "Deafosphere" about how mean I am and how I wish poor old Willa to die. Then I'd be wide open to scathing messages from my mother, Deaf Bob's Wife, telling me how embarrassed and horrified she and Pop are to know that I want Willa dead. How are they to go to another deaf function? Then Pop, will text me and say, "You not worry what people say about Deaf Bob. No, you think hard, what people say about Deaf Bob's Wife? They say, 'Look, there Deaf Bob's Wife, her son hate all deafies. He kill Willa with hate. True biz.' Think how Mama, Deaf Bob's Wife, feel. Think you, think." Then there would be the reception I'd get at home. Jaden asking me, "Say it ain't so Father, say it ain't so...You want Willa and all deafies to die? Mother and I too?" Then Farah would say...well, I can't say what Farah would say...what was I to do?! Then, out of the blue, the totally radical and uncharacteristic answer came to me...I'd just tell Willa the sweet, simple truth, so I said to her, "Willa, I am not mean and I have not changed my number. I don't want you to die. Your not a bother. What is the important business? I will answer you and help in any way I can once I get a text from you telling me about the important business."

"Willa ask, you sure your number same? You didn't change it?"

"I am sure I have the same cell phone number I have had all these years. I can prove it is the same number. look at all the texts I'm sending you. I'm using the same number you have been sending me texts with today. Sending texts using the same number you've used to text me for the past ten years", I typed in the most sarcastic key pounding I could muster. ( I know, I shouldn't be sarcastic with a person as old as Willa was, but I was suddenly struck with the fear that I may suffer the same fate as her past four husbands...texted to death! The Sarcasm Reaction is an even more primal survival strategy than the Fight-or-Flight Reaction. So, it was an instinctual response that I couldn't suppress.) 

I am unable to write the response Willa sent back due to FCC rules...let's just say I once again turned pale and broke out in a cold sweat when I read Willa's words. Clearly CODA sarcasm via texts is as unwelcome and unappreciated by elderly deaf women as is badly timed CODA humor. During the next excruciatingly long series of texts, I kept all my texts to Willa serious and sincere. 

Finally, the issue was resolved when Willa sent, "Willa know now, Willa figure out happen what. Willa not text you. Willa sent at you emails. Email you same?" This brought on another hour of standing around in the grocery store, investigating why I was not responding to her emails, filled with the same gesturing, facial expressions and scaring of parents with young children, as earlier.

_______

I would like to take a moment now and make a public service announcement. For all of you reading this post, should you be of the mind that typing classes are a waste of time... rethink this you dolt! Typing classes are some of the most useful classes offered in this day of computers and instant communication. Please save yourself great angst and consternation and indescribable embarrassment, by learning to type well. Thank you for your time. Now back to the post.

------

You would think at nearly 45 years old, I would learn that old deaf women are always right. Once again I had this proved to me when Willa sent me the email address I had sent her weeks before. Seems I had sent her a typo...I had mistakenly typed an "a" instead of an "s" in my email address. (Hey, my fingers are too big for the touch screen of my iPhone and I never took typing in high school. Excuse me people.) Once I humbly asked for my Willa's forgiveness for my faulty typing, and she finished recapping all the erroneous  protestations I had sent for the past few hours regarding the fact I hadn't responded to her, my CODA guilt was eased when she told me all was fine now and she was glad we solved the problem and she was sure I would do better from then on. (Nothing can sooth the raging CODA guilt as patronizing words from a wronged elderly deaf woman.)

Having solved the message problem with Willa, I was beaming with relief till I took a few steps and the weight of realization crashed upon my head; I still hadn't found the items Farah texted me to buy four hours ago. The blackness of total despair was enveloping my mind when an angle of mercy came to my aid.

Within minutes, I was driving home with two thoughts pressing on my mind. First; how do I explain to Farah the four hours filled with aimless wandering and inability to find the three items she wanted, all the complications of Willa's texts, and how I was saved by the kind mercy of a six year old girl looking to earn her Brownie "Help a Hapless Male Shopper" merit badge? Secondly; it struck me that after all the back and forth of the wild text chase with my Willa, my failed attempt of humor, my CODA guilt, my unwelcome sarcasm, my realization that high school typing classes would not have been a waste of time as I had thought before shopping, and my redemption, I still had no idea what "serious business" Willa had tried to email me? After all that time, Willa had never said. (To this day, I still have no idea what the "serious business" concerned.)

The lesson in this post is to be careful what you wish while standing outside of Deaf Bob's home during a torrential downpour of a Class 5 hurricane in Kent when you are 12 years old. Take my carelessly thought out wish for a device by which I could instantly communicate with parents as proof to be careful what you wish, that wish maybe granted. Little did I know the day I made that wish, how it would haunt me. My wish created the twin danger of deafies and CODAs texting.

Conquest of the Back Seats

Last week, Farah and I went out on a trip. A long trip, in the family mini van. A long trip, in the family mini van, with the kids. A long trip in the family mini van, with the kids, without any mind numbing video entertainment for the blessings in the back seats.

It started out easy enough. Farah was driving and I was riding shot gun...that is, I was riding in the passenger seat, locked and loaded for the inevitable behavior melt down from the back seats. I was tense with anticipation of the moment when all civilized behavior evaporated, calling forth the blinding flash grenade of fatherly discipline as I move in to dispel the sibling riot.

It is a scientifically proven fact, from the moment the starter engages the engine, meshes gears and the family mini van begins to move, it is only a matter of preciously short time before the idle minds of children will mesh brain gears and engage their hands in all kinds of unimaginable destruction and annoyance in the back seats. ( Einstein wrote one of his most famous theoretical physics papers on this phenomenon of this exact Relativity. I kid you not.) Many a family outing has been smashed on the rocks of sibling riotousness and rivalry when left unchecked. I for one, was not prepared to permit this from happening.

Then it started...

 "Ah Dad, Jaden is back here touching me. Tell him to stop.", came the first shot of sibling war from my little Amazon Princess. Her voice carried that tone that only females can manage to produce and make grown men break out in a cold sweat. (Oh how I envied Jaden at that moment. Deafness was never a more pure blessing then at the moment Kisha used that tone.)

For those of you who haven't been raised with deaf parents, or spent much time in the deaf community, front to back seat conversation isn't a comfortable experience, let alone front to back seat discipline an effective parenting technique. ( Let me tell you, both deaf and CODA children learn early that the heavy sword  of parental discipline is greatly blunted from the front seat to the back, when parents cannot readily assume the  proper obedience demanding stance. Its a sad sight to see a parent break down and weep from the loss of total parental dictatorial power.) 

Suppose you only turn your hear to look at a passenger in the back seat, getting one eye fully focused on the person, while the other eye is struggling to find a focal point. No child can resist breaking out in uncontrolled laughter when they see their father looking like a chameleon, eyes all wonky, looking in all different directions. Let me tell you, this just plays havoc with your stereoscopic vision.( I won't even get into the serious muscle strain caused to your back and neck, or the fact half of your buttocks instantly falls sleep from this position. No, somethings are better left unsaid.)

There are those who try to have a conversation in signs with someone seated in the rear seats though the mirror on the underside of the visor. I don't think this works well. Just stop and think a moment, all things look backwards in a mirror. That causes all kinds of misunderstanding with signs. Why I remember very well a signed conversation gone bad from the mirror problem. The signer kept finger spelling "live" and the person looking at the signer through the mirror kept thinking he finger spelled "evil". What a linguistically mess that was.

No, the full body shift is the only way to talk to a deafie in the back seat. It is an illegal way to sit in the front seat in 49 states, seeing how you have to unbuckle yourself to do it. ( I'm sure none of the people who wrote those laws were deaf or a CODA. If they were, they would have known better.)

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Let me take a moment to say that I am a strong believer in brevity, therefore, let me just explain that all signed conversations from this point forward have been interpreted for the signing impaired. Now back to the blog.
_______

Shifting my body so as to see Jaden, I give him one of my Dad looks. ( A dad look is a look that can stop paint in mid drip, not to mention stop children in mid misbehavior. Freezing all bodily movements in the exact space they were when the gaze of the Dad look fell upon them.) In my briliance I said, "Why are you touching your sister? Stop touching her."

"What?...Who touched her?", he said with a mock look of astonishment.

Mustering my most authoritative facial expression, "You Jaden, you touched her and I want it stopped now."

As an incredulous smile slowly crept across his face, Jaden said, "Stop what?"

"Stop touching her", I signed with both eyebrows raised and eyes popping.

"Stop touching who?", he said as he looked around quizzically.

You know how some people have a vein that pops out on their foreheads when they get excited? That's what happened to me when I signed, "Stop touching Kisha!"

After I had spatially/gesturally/visually sparred with Jaden in signs for ten minutes,   Kisha had had enough bouncing her head back and forth between Jaden and I and said, "Yeah, stop!  Don't touch me. (Brushing off her sleeve as if some dirt were there.)  I don't like to be touched by boys...boys don't wash and smell funny!" In an attempt to add a visual exclamation point to her last statement, Kisha stuck out her tongue at Jaden.

Unknown to me, since I was facing the two cherubs in the back seats, and getting absolutely car sick, Farah was watching us through the rear view mirror the whole time. Quietly, with one eye brow raised, taking in all that was going on. (Deaf mothers have this way of knowing whats going on at all times. Doesn't make any difference if they are paying any attention to whats happening around them or not. I have seen Farah, freshly awaken from a deep nap, way up in our bedroom, come down stairs, go out into the back yard where the kids and I have been for half the day without her, and comment that what we had been doing. How does she do that?! How did she have any idea what we were doing? Some how she did know and told us so. Personally, I believe it is sub sonic, misbehaving vibes that deaf mothers are acutely atone too. The thought right now makes me go all goosebumply!)

"Father, I strenuously lodge a formal protest and urgently insist that she be made to stop extending her muscular articulation appendage at me. It is exceptionally unbecoming in a young lady ...if I DARE use the term 'lady' in association with Kisha", countered Jaden, sarcasm and contempt dripping off every sign. (What? Oh, you don't understand the interpretation "muscular articulation appendage"...that means her tongue. Hey people! I'm just interpreting what he said.) 

"He said I'm not...(Kisha's eyes widened tearfully)... I'm not...(Lower lip started to quiver)... I'm not...( Chest began heaving)... a LADY!", and with that Kisha let loose a wail I thought would shatter all the van's windows let alone my ear drums.

Round and round we went. Kisha wailed, Jaden not comprehending what had happened to who, and all the while I was bouncing between speaking and signing. Speaking to Kisha in my best consoling Dad voice, only to have Jaden tap me and question how he was to understand who was touching whom, if I didn't sign? Turning to Jaden and starting to sign what could only be a lost Abbott and Costello skit concerning who touched whom, led Kisha to break forth with renewed wailing. On and on, over and over, speaking then signing, signing then speaking, the entire violent cycle kept repeating,  till it all suddenly stopped!

Snapping around, all I see is the fleeting remnant of a coolly constructed, yet highly effective, short sign made by Farah. With just one quick sign, she silenced what to me had been an unending round of uncontrollable adolescent shenanigans. (Once again I ask you, how do deaf mothers do that?!) Turning back to the kids, I saw what can only be described as total submission and obedience...something I had never seen in my children before. Never had my Dadness invoked such instant respect and fear. Nay, this instant silence and behaving can only come from the hands of a deaf mother.

I just sat for the rest of the trip in deep in awe and perplexity. I was awed by my wife's sheer power over, and total command of, the unruly back seats. Perplexed with the effortless manner in which she wheeled such unthinkable power and yet never did a single hair move on her head as she let forth unparalleled authority. (Mind you, I sat up straight for the rest of the drive. I wasn't having what she just did unleashed on the kids turned upon me. I saw what she did to the kids and she never even touched them, let alone look directly at them.)    

Believe you me, deaf mothers are the most powerful beings on this Earth. No doubt about it.
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(Ok all you deafies and CODAs, I know finger spelled words don't look backwards in a mirror, but the NERDAs don't know that, so don't tell them. Let's just keep it our little joke on them, ok? ( What? What's a NERDA? Oh, that's short for "Not Even Related to a Deaf Adult"...NERDA. Hey, if they are going to label me CODA, "Child Of Deaf Adults", why can't I name hearing people NERDA's? Yeah, I like it too.) Now remember, don't tell the NERDA's our joke about finger spelling in mirrors.)

Linguistic Blindness

It had been a gruelingly hard day, slaving away, interpreting my fingers down to the bone. Some days are like that as a professional bi-cultural bi-lingual mediator. (Hey, I know it's a fancy pants title for what I do, but it's one of the few perks of being an interpreter. Refrain from rendering my shallow male ego shattered upon the rugged cliffs of modern American sensibility.)

Fathers are the only people on the face of the Earth who can sit in a chair, look at the television, respond to their wife's questions, and entertain the children all at the same time. While doing all this, a father is quietly throwing all his brain breakers and shutting down all mental functions. (This is true multitasking.)

I was well into this exacting mental shut down when out of the dimming light came the very familiar shriek, "Ah Dad!"  Suddenly, the brain breakers are violently slammed into "on" and I jump out of my seat, with a crazed look in my eyes to discovered what unthinkable tragedy broken the stillness of my home. ( I kid you not, violently slamming brain breakers on can only lead unexpected outcomes. Last time this happened, I agreed that having a baby was a grand idea. Now you've all seen what that has done to me.)

"Dad!", came the harmonious tones from my little Amazon Princess Kisha. "Make Jaden stop! He keeps antagonizing me! Make him stop!"

Slowly down the steps comes Jaden. He has that look in his eyes that only deafies can manage. It's a cross between befuddled fake innocence and proud unassuming skullduggery amusement. I've seen this look before in his eyes. He gets that same look whenever he is stricken with "linguistic blindness". I swear, it is a true physical phenomenon that without any prior explanation, or warning of any kind, falls upon Jaden and renders him totally incapable of understanding the simplest signed question. Equally as amazing is how "linguistic blindness" will instantly vanish once the topic of discussion is changed and the light of suspicion is no longer shining on Jaden.

"You "J'+shake hand you, for for++ mean pick pick you Kisha for for++?? See see bawling Kisha Wow! Bawling hard her. R-E-D face her see see.  Scream her L-O-U-D++ same ghost ugly scream recent her scream that, head inside me blast "BOOOOOOM" that. Take over devil you mind devil?? For for??"

(Pardon me, I forgot to turn on the linguistic filter for those readers who are signing impaired. Lets rerun what I just said.)

"Jaden, why are you tormenting Kisha?! You see how she's crying now?! The banshee wail she let out just now made my brain explode. What possessed you to do such a thing?"

Nothing but linguistic blindness stared back at me. This line of questioning went on for twenty minutes. No matter how I rephrased, or resigned the question, Jaden was firmly in the clutches of the demon linguistic blindness.

"Dad, he keeps telling me that Mom really isn't deaf. He says that she just acts deaf to me because I'm a girl and she only really loves boys. Spank him now Dad!"


While Kisha gave me that "do as I tell you to do, or die" stare produced by the XX chromosomes all females possess, I was transported back to a sad situation of my youth. It was one of those life altering moments all children go through.

As I've told you before, I am the only boy in my family. Being the only male child in a family does make a boy grow up as if he were an only child, when in fact he may have sisters. Such is my case. I have two older sisters.

One day, my oldest sister and I were sitting in the back of the living room. My parents...you remember my parents, Deaf Bob and Deaf Bob's Wife?...were sitting toward the front of the living room, watching television. In those days, we had just gotten our first Closed Captioning device from Sears and my parents were glued to the television. It didn't matter that the captioning in those days were filled with miss spelling, time lags which made captions of show characters' conversations appear on the screen half way through the following commercial, or that the captions were made of unintelligible symbols, characters, dashes, slashes, dots and figures more a kin to Egyptian hieroglyphics than standard English. No, in those days it was the duty of every red blooded American deafie to watch any and all television programs that were captioned, regardless of the captioning readability or quality. Many a day I was mistakenly relieved to sit in the back of the living room, thinking I need not interpret whats being said on the television due to the captions, only to have my leisure smashed by the call to duty and there I'd sit in front of the set interpreting away...never blocking the field of view of the captions whilst I toiled. Even if I was still needed to interpret, my parents still had to be able to see unobstructed the captions since they may in a split second stop being schizophrenic and start to be readable again. How I prayed to be made obsolete by the captions.

On this day, the gods of captioning were smiling down on my  little home and neither my sister or I had to interpret. I've heard it said that, "idle hands and minds are tools of the devil", and such was the case that day.

My sister looked at me and said, "Steve, you know it's such a shame Mom and Dad only pretend to be deaf because they just don't love you. They love me and don't play deaf to me."

As you can guess, this was a challenge I just just couldn't let alone. I protested soundly how this was all bunk. My sister just smiled and told me to call out to our parents, which I vigorously did. I screamed and yelled like a fiend...never did my parents' eyes ever leave the television. In triumph, I smiled back at my sister. She then held her hand up so as to cause me to pause in mid gloat, and called out to my parents in a voice half as loud as I had used and was rewarded with not one, but both my parents turning their heads to her and asking what she wanted. There are no words devised by the human mind to describe how the Earth stopped dead still in that moment for me. I just stared blankly at my sister, listening numbly as she said, "I am loved, you are not".

In vain I called out to my parents, over and over, never getting the slightest response. How could it be that I, the only male heir to all that was Leland, not be favored and loved?!

To drive her point home, my sister quietly called to my parents again and they looked to her once more. My crushing defeat was sealed.

It took me years to figure out what really had happened on that dark day. The trick my sister played on me was nothing more than a simple slight of hand trick. She knew if she got me overly confident and excited, my keen male powers of observation could be overcome and defeated. While I was distracted by my sister slyly stamped her foot, causing vibrations to crash in the highly toned rumps of my parents. ( It is a scientific fact that the buttocks of an adult deaf parent is 1000 times more sensitive to the slightest vibration caused by their children than that of the average hearing parent.)

Flashing back to the present, Kisha was still giving me the hairy eyeball and demanding I vanquish Jaden for his disrespect. In a split second I was struck down with "linguistic deafness" and rendered totally incapable of reprimanding my son. This acute "linguistic deafness" to Kisha's rants made a tidal wave of vindictive male pride wash over me. The festering wound on my ego, caused by my sister all years past, was instantly healed by my son.

Healed that is till Farah got home and set both Jaden and I straight. Amazing are the healing powers of a Mom over "linguistic blindness and deafness". The cure is but a look in her eyes.

The Confusion Begins.

The confusion set in when I was born. Like all babies, my parents named me. ("Well Duhhhh", I hear you all cry...read on.) But when your born to deaf parents, nothing is simple and easy, including being given a name.


It all started with the day I was born. We all know the typical story of child birth; mom goes into to Labor and Delivery in pain, only to emerge all a glow, carrying her swaddled pain. Dad, he stays in the waiting room, smoking, biting his nails and wondering how he ever got there predicament in the first place. (Yes, the waiting room. I was born long before it was fashionable for fathers to be in the delivery room. Back in those days, fathers weren't permitted anyplace BUT the waiting room. Mom was on her own. Pop was on his own. In those bygone days, shrouded with the mist of ever onward technological advancement, let us remember, there was no such beast known as an "interpreter".)  

My Pop was no different. His job was to hold down the waiting room and answer the most important question of all when the nurse came to ask, "Whats the baby's name". Not to hard you say, maybe not, but of extreme importance. The whole operation for Pop was made a bit more complicated. See, Pop is a proud product of residential school education from the 1940's and 50's. In those days, the goal was to ensure that all the deaf students had an easily usable language that would have future employment and social productivity. For residential schools, that meant teaching the deaf students American Sign Language. English was taught, all students were expected to be able to read and write English. What wasn't focused on was speech and lipreading. Those students who could master speech and lipreading were encouraged, those that were not as apt at those skills had their ASL proficiency built up. Pop was one of the later students. 

When Mom and Pop went to the hospital for the first baby, the pressure was on Pop. (The pressure was on Mom too, so please ladies, don't get all outraged at me. She had her own trials with the hospital during that time. Sure, she had it all explained how babies came about, but the all important information of what the nurses and doctors did to a lady once she is in the hospital to give birth was woefully neglected. But that's a different blog, for a different time.) Think about the years of abuse any husband would be liable for should they inadvertently give the wrong name to the baby. ( Oh the humanity! Hell hath no fury like a wife with a wrongly named baby! A cold sweat pours down me at the mere thought.)  


As I was saying, Pop was in the waiting room, clawing the arm of the chair, eyes glued to the door...the Doorway 0f Accountability...from whence the diabolical nurses come. Slowly the wall clock mocked him. The other father-to-be, who kept talking to Pop in unintelligible facial distortion, once friendly due to shared doom of paternity, were all now bunched on the other side of the room, looking at him with quizzical expressions as to why he was "too good" to talk with the rest of the condemned men?  


Then the moment was at hand. In swept Nurse Ratched, calling out a name. Terror gripped Pop as  his eyes bounced from her nonsensical lips, to the other terror tricken men and back to Nurse Ratched. No one moved. Again Nurse Ratched made the grotesque mouth manipulations, yet with greater purpose and annoyance. no one moved...she asked the other men in the corner and in unison they pointed at Pop. She approached Pop and again moved her mouth, but slowly and with apparent volume judging by the burst of coffee flavored breath with which she fanned Pop's hair and dried his eyes. Squinting at her lips, he searched for any morsel of intelligible language...then there it was...Pop drew back with his right eyebrow lifted in recognition of "Deef Bob". With a deep, slow breath of acceptance, Pop nodded his head yes with a flat expression.

Now was the time of truth. She asked him more...Pop began to sweat, desperate to get the meaning of the barely quivering lips. Then salvation came as Pop reached into his right shirt pocket and produced his pad of paper and a pencil. (No self respecting residential school graduate would ever be caught in those days venturing out into the wilds of the hearing world with their trusty pad of paper and pencil...maybe even a few in case of an emergency.)

Pop wrote, "What say you? I am deaf, do not yell, it will not help and annoys others. Must I also remind you we are in a hospital, which I remind you is a quiet zone".

Unamused, Ratched wrote: "What's the name of the baby?"  


Carefully, Pop wrote out the name and she nodded her head. Clicking her heels, she turned and stomped off. He had done it!


Then came the second baby for my parents. Pop was ready and cool. Nurse Ratched appeared;he wrote the name; all went like clock work.


The third baby quickly come unexpectedly and Pop was relaxed, full of confidence. (You know how parents get on their third babies. Look how they handled the baby bottle with all three kids. Should the bottle be dropped on the floor, the parents rush in to grad it as it barely skims the floor. All is are a mad frenzy, frantic to sterilized the contaminated bottle of filth and disease in such a way that Louis Pasteur would be proud to behold. The second baby, the bottle hits the floor and the parents rush to rinse it under scolding hot tap water. By the third baby, should the bottle roll around the floor, be kicked under the couch and matted with bust bunnies, the seasoned parents blow on it, give it a wipe on their jeans and stick it back in the baby's mouth with no thought of germs what-so-ever.) Such was the contentment of a seasoned father.


In walked Nurse Ratched. Up jumped Pop, pad and pencil in hand, beaming at his efficiency, only to be met with a scowl of disapproval. Head tilted and drawn back, brows squinting, Pop read the word "name" on her Septuagenarian pieces of flesh that once passed for lips. Pointing at the pad, he held out what he had written. Again Ratched said no. This went back and forth till Rached walked out. Pop saw her go over to a doctor and exasperatedly, and very animatedly, explained the problem. The doctor looked at Pop and thought and proceeded to then walked away.


Deeply concerned what this all meant, Pop paced the waiting room. Puzzled as to the queer behaviors of the hearing, he looked at the pad, checked it was all written correctly and scratched his head. The doctor walked in again. This time Ratched was carrying a bundle. Again Rached asked "name" and Pop pointed to the pad. No they both shook their heads as the doctor took the bundle and unwrapped it. 


COMPREHENSION blessedly flashed across Pop's fevered brain. He looked at the pad, disdainfully scratched out the wrong name and wrote the appropriate name. The doctor nodded yes approvingly. Ratched curtly nodded yes. Pop pulled out cigars.


Naturally, after two daughters, Pop just assumed it would be a girl and so wrote a girls name. Once I had my splendor flapping in the smoked filled waiting room for Pop and all else to see, my rightful name was written on the pad. 

That was the beginning of my bewildered and befuddled life. CODA-hood had reared it's unforgiving head.


Not being satisfied with his attempt to give me a girl's name, Pop further confused me with my sign name. Sign names are a precious and highly personal sign given to each child by their deaf parents. Sign names are to be cherished and beloved. Parents spend endless hours studying their children's personalities, physical features, distinctive manorisums; all in the hopes of creating the personification of their children in a sign name. A sign name so perfectly matched to each child, so as to render an instant mental image of the child in everyone's mind when the sign is produced.


I was not any different. My sign name had been careful thought out and crafted, as had my two sisters' sign names. Yet, that's where my Pop once again sent me down the road of confusion.


See, every time I innocently did something when I was growing up, Pop would slap his forehead, point at me and make sign for my name, followed by a statement much like, "Ugggh...What are you doing boy?! Stop! Just come here now...", then sign my name again.

(I refer you dear friends, to the top of this story. There I have posted a a video clip of the sign name Pop had me believe was my name. I have been so kind as to repeat the name a few times for those who are signing impaired.)

 What Pop had me believing was my sign name, till I reached the tender college years, was in fact not my name at all. The sign Pop constantly used in reference to me was the sign for "incompetent", "inept", "moron"...(I"ll stop here, for the point has been made.) All along Pop had been signing, "You, nincompoop! Uggghhhh! What are you doing boy?! Stop! Just come here now...Nincompoop!" Not, "You, Steve! Uggghhhh! What are you doing boy! Stop! Just come here now...Steve!".


You see now why I'm so bewildered. I had it impressed on me from the start by Pop. CODA-hood is not a spectator sport and clearly not for those of weaker constitutions.

The Most Dangerous Day

Well, I survived the most dangerous day for any married men; Valentine’s Day. (Shudder!) Tell me, what criminally insane mind thought that day up? Billed as the day to “express your undying, unbridled, passion filled love for your one and only soul mate; rendering meaning and purpose to your otherwise pathetic and meaningless single life”. The fact of the matter is, as the entire Western world knows this to be the gospel truth akin to that of Beta tape's superiority over VHS tapes, this day was created by a diabolical female executive of an Easter Block, Communist greeting card company; expressly for the sole purpose of undermining the Western Democracies' dominance by showcase how inept the entire capitalist system has become. How did they plan to do this dastardly deed, I hear you ask. Simple, by making it humanly impossible for a husband to practice the essential tenet of a capitalistic nation; go forth and freely purchase the gift which will set your wife's heart aflame by your masterly use of the superior male romantic essence. This disconcertion of the natural order of matrimony, sows the seeds of discontent in the idealized "Ward Cleaver" American home, thereby bringing an end to the Western lead world as we know it.

Let me tell you, I have had some monumentally disastrous Valentine’s Day gift misshapes. Personally, I believe an award should be given on this day to husbands who show great effort and style, yet bewilderingly still miss the mark. The award is for all the heartfelt gifts which fanned the flames, sadly not of passion, but of an indignant wife.

As an example, I submit the tale of a gift I gave to my wife a few years into our marriage. (An extremely delicate span of time during any marriage. Husbands must carefully construct the "Man-dom" of their home during this highly impression laden time. Failure to do this correctly could spell total doom and destruction.) This was a gift innocently given from my heart. The idea for this gift came to me as the heavens opened above me, a bright light engulfed me, and the answer washed down upon my being in a vibrant glow. (Ok, so I don’t buy that either. Truth is, the heavens did open up as freezing rain of Biblical proportions crashed violently down on my head as I tried valiantly to run to my car without squealing like a little girl. On coming headlights from the other husbands escaping work engulfed me momentarily, a split second before I was bathed in an unseasonal, icy cold, February, parking lot, puddle water bath. Over and over the puddle bath splashes broke against me, leaving the taste of deicing salt in my mouth as I tried to shout obscenities at the overtly amused drivers. There was a “vibrant glow”, one that comes only from the rage seething forth like the froth on an overheated Chevy small block, straight six, engine devoid of coolant. I drove home, dripping road gunk and puddle water run-off all over the driver’s seat. )

 

I pulled into the drive way of my home, put the car into park and the weight of the entire cosmos crashed down, crushing me under its Atlas-smashing weight, as the realization that it was Valentine’s Day and I was devoid of a gift for Farah. Fear ripped through my soul, burning away any semblance of sane thinking left in my feverish brain. The “fight or flight” instinct ground the gears of my tortured mind as I power slammed the car into reverse. Squealing tires created the dense white smokescreen crucial for my hasty get away! I speed like a man possessed to the one place I knew to be safe. Like Quasimodo, still drenched and hobbling my way to safety, I called out beggingly, “sanctuary”, over and over as the electric doors parted and I entered the loving orange glow of Home Depot.

“Think man, think!”, my panic stricken mind rambled. Calming myself, a plan slowly started to percolate and take shape. With the right bits of PVC piping, wires, duct tape and assorted odds and ends, the perfect gift could be created, sure to warm the heart of any skeptical wife on Valentine’s Day. I races around, searching for all the parts I’d need when I ran into Stan. 

Stan was the best friend any Valentine’s beleaguered husband could have, or want to have. Stan had been working in hardware since he helped gather parts and dispense advice on how to build the world on the day of creation. No one knew where Stan came from, no one really cared to ask. All we beaten down husbands cared about was that Stan was there! She was the greatest help when time was of the essence. (Yes, her name is Stan. Look people, no husband running for his very life from a home project crazed wife cares two hoots why a lady is named “Stan”. All we know is that’s the named on her orange vest and she has untold wisdom and salvation when we desperately seek protection.  Many a marriage has been saved by Stan, the Sage of Home Depot.)

Whenever a home project had to be completed, she saved us husbands. Stan always has the wisdom to prevent husbands from taking the "walk of shame". ( Come now, you do know what the "walk of shame" is don't you? It's the moment after your wife has opened her Valentine's Day gift, it's a total dud, and you are left alone, listening to your baby girl say, “Ooooo, Mom won’t let Dad in the bedroom…again. Justice is swift and harsh to all “Mom Rule” breakers! Ah yeah!” All-the-while, your sons hide there faces in shame at the dismantled and destroyed illusion that was "Man-dom".)

After an emotion filled, blubbering plead to Stan, all was resolved. The solution presented itself and I was safe to return home. Words of wisdom had been dispensed; Stan had not let me down.

I went home; stealthfully went into the office and gathered destruction paper and crayons. With Rembrandt-ian talent, I wielded the Elmer's Glue and glitter.  Skillfully, I crafted the best Valentine’s Day card ever created on this cursed day. No preschooler could have done better. The card said:

 

Roses are red, 

violets are blue ,

My heart is filled with thought of you .

Home projects go undone ,

But I don’t want to hog all the fun .

I’ll share the laying of the laminate floor,

I’ll even share the installation of the new front door.

Happy Valentine’s Day, we’re home makeover fools ,

 

I bought you your own pink “Bag-O-Tools”.

I was bracing my self for the on rush of kisses and unbridled affection not known since our honeymoon; I spread my arms for the embrace forth coming and puckered my lips…nothing happened. Slowly opening my eyes, I saw the woman DNA stance: weight on one leg while the other leg is bent at the knee, arms akimbo, the look of fire, instantly singed my beard and removed my eyebrows. Then came the passion filled explanation of "romance”-which this was not, and “shameless covering of one’s posterior”-which this was. I was next enlightened as to the vast difference between cards which are “artistic” and cards that are “autistic”.

Needless to say, my Valentine’s Day gift that year was not the great gift I thought it was, go figure. (As I saw it, tools are always a perfect gift, and I proved I had listened to all the endless hours of “communication” What finer "togetherness" can there be then that created over endless sweaty hours of remodeling? The tools did work there magic in August when I was let back in the bedroom. )
 

Other unfavorable, yet best intended and thoughtful, Valentine’s Day gifts include: vacuum cleaner, (not sure what made me think a Hoover was romantic? Let’s not dwell on this too long.) ; emergency roadside kit, (I was concerned with her safety and wanted to promote my faith in equality of women. Beside, it was all pink.); couple's breast pump, (she was pregnant, I thought it was considerate and here again, I was trying to create “togetherness”. The box said it would enhance “togetherness, intimacy,a loving partnership”. Don’t believe all you read. ); Cupid shaped Chia Pet, (admittedly, a gift born out of desperation); compound, crosscut, adjustable, lazar-enhanced, miter saw, (Ok, that was just a cool! Impulse buy.), Victoria’s Secret: "Win Back What You Lost From Valentine’s Day Gifts of the Past Gift Box", (…with a bow to propriety and my own modesty, it’s best I not elaborate on what was in the “Box-o-Love” and merely say it failed with a cacophonous thud all my deafie  friends could appreciate.)

No, this year was different. I went out early in the morning, filled with the desperation of a big game hunter with an empty trophy wall. Skillfully I had laid subtle questions, worded with such shadowy reconnaissance, sure to glean the information I needed. Out I scurried to bag the elusive prey.

Let’s just say this year’s gift won’t be shelved in the far end of the basement with all the past Valentine’s Day gifts. After many rears of near misses, I was finally able to score with the gift I gave Farah this year. How sweet the victory lap was around the living room when her face lit up upon unwrapping the gift. No walk of shame this year!