Allow me to introduce myself

Emelia always has a big morning greeting waiting for me in the kitchen. That's just one of the reasons I love her.

She is one of many who Robert Mugabe has it out for, so she's here on political asylum from Zimbabwe. I have scarcely known someone so full of joy and energy. It's contagious. To top it off, she wears a beret. How charming is that?

Emelia also helps clean our house, which is why once a month she's in the kitchen to give me a big morning greeting. This morning was no different. Well, a little different.

In sync with my first step on the cold tile kitchen floor, Emelia turned and said, "Goooood Mohning, Baba Simeon!" I asked for her to repeat herself, which I often do; my ability to find the English language deep within her Zimbabwean accent is still a work in progress. "I said, good mohning Baba Simeon."

She went on to tell me that in Zimbabwe, when a person has a child or grandchild, you no longer use your first name. Baba means father. That makes me father of Simeon — Baba Simeon.

It's wonderful, a perfect reflection of how I feel nowadays. I have never felt so selfless in my life. I spent a good many years as Ryan Noel; Then, I spent a good many more learning to be Husband Sarah; Now, I have another name to grow into.

Hello, my name is Baba Simeon.

'Tis nesting season

You know those lazy cold weather days when you just want to put on your most comfortable lounging clothes, make a warm beverage of choice, curl up under a blanket with your beloved and watch a movie or four?

I wish every wintry day was like this.

Spooning on the couch, when combined with the elements mentioned above, is nice — and perfectly lazy. But spooning comes with a few impositions that stand in the way of complete relaxation:

• My bottom arm always falls asleep.
• What if I need to go to the bathroom, or get a refill of my warm beverage? I don't want Sarah to have to get up every time and then have to get the blankets situated all over again.
• Sarah's hair sometimes gets in my nose - and that really tickles
• I can't see Sarah's eyes to know if she's fallen asleep on me; She needs a friendly nudge on occasion.
  

I concede that these two problems aren't major, but there's no reason we can't do lazy better. Doing lazy better — this is what motivated me and Sarah to create The Nest.

It's simple:

• Pick your spot. We find that nestled in next to the love seat and couch is best (the cushion-free furniture makes a nice spot to place snacks and beverages),
  
• Pull all the cushions off of your couches, love seats, etc.
• Arrange cushions neatly (pile extra cushions an pillows at the head)
  
• Move an ottoman (makes a handy remote control holder) or other piece of furniture in so the only open side of the nest is at the foot (where the TV is)
• Pile in loads of blankets
• Press play

The term "nesting" often refers to expectant parents getting the house ready for the newest member of your family. Maybe that is why Sarah and I often dreamed of a time when our own kid(s) would join us in The Nest. Between Godfather films, we would talk about how fun it would be to Nest as a family; it could be a Noel tradition.

Well, we just had our first Nest-worthy days of the season this past weekend. So, while Sarah changed Simeon's diaper and put him into his cuddly blue fleecy sleep sack, I prepared The Nest and queued the movie — Sweeney Todd.

I know, Sweeney Todd is totally inappropriate for a child. But, I got to cover his eyes, like my mom would have done to me (and probably still would), every time ole Sweeney decided to slash an unsuspecting patron's throat — which was roughly every 47 seconds.

Even with Tim Burton's creepiest, Simeon knew what to do in The Nest: curl up with his beloved and relax.

Grow up? Nah.

I'm not sure I'll ever grow out of getting Dum-Dum lollipops from the bank, bubblegum toothpaste from the dental hygienist, plastic spider rings for 10 skee-ball tickets, or stickers for showing bravery when faced with a flu shot.

Love my little law breaker

The quickest way to creepy

I spend every October growing a beard, such as it is. My beard isn't very full the way beards are supposed to be — not like my dad's beard. My dad's beard is so even and fine that my mom threatens divorce at the mere mention of him shaving. We'll never know whether she means it, because my dad loves her too much to risk finding out. He's had a beard for as long as I can remember, with one notable exception.

I was 3, maybe 4, when my mom and I came home from somewhere — probably a fabric store (My admittedly selective memory places me in a fabric store with my mom for about 72% of my formative years.) The bathroom door at the top of the stairs slammed shut in perfect time with my mom opening the front door. Half a beat later my mom cried, "Daaaaave! Did you shave your beard?!" That was the first and only time I've seen my dad sans facial fur.

My beard is partly a celebration of my favorite season, autumn, but mostly it is so I can have a mustache for Halloween. While scary is Halloween's calling card, I settle comfortably into creepy. My hypothesis is that the quickest way to creepy is to shave your beard down to a mustache. Below is my Halloween experiment (I call it: 1980s Disney Dad) that supports this hypothesis, and also supports my mother's position that my dad allow the razor to continue catching dust.

Privy

Priv•y
adjective (privy to) sharing in the knowledge of (something secret).
noun (pl. privies) a toilet in a small shed outside a house.

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This past August I went for my annual pilgrimage to Somewhere, Kentucky, with some of my best friends on the planet (I wrote about the impending trip here.) What I did not mention was the amount of food consumed over a course of 3 days (snack cakes, trail mix, hobo pies, oh my). And what I don't need to mention is that food, once eaten, has to go somewhere; and that somewhere is the bottom of a ditch with a cathedral and throne straddling it.

After a day or more of eating our weight in campfire fried potatoes and downing a few cups of french-pressed coffee we were collectively, well, creating something.

I liked it. I was proud of it. I did what I could to make sure I wasn't going to be like the jerk that yanks the Jenga® peg out carelessly and makes the tower collapse. Carefully, I would adjust my position so I might leave our creation taller, stronger, than I found it. During this adjustment period, I noticed I wasn't the only one in awe of this work in progress.

A giant mosquito! It was like one of those mosquitoes you'd see along the Amazon. (Okay, I've never been to the Amazon and am not altogether sure they have giant mosquitos. But, it's a good bet. Let's just say the Amazon has mammoth mosquitos so I can finish my story.) Where was I? Oh yeah — A giant mosquito!

You won't believe this, but that little bugger wasn't even flapping his wings. He was just hovering on the updraft like a pterodactyl on the coastline. It's true.

While I was impressed by his gliding acumen, I've never liked mosquitoes, for all the obvious reasons. And I certainly wasn't going to risk him biting me in the only spots I've managed to keep mosquito-bite free my entire life. In that moment I thought, "Ryan, how cool would it be to make a meaningful addition to the tower and give this mosquito a proper burial." What's that old saying? Oh yeah. That would be like killing two mosquitoes with one bomb.

I made one final adjustment. Bombs away!

Bugs-eye.

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I'm really sorry about the puns. I'm a dad, though. It's my right.

Smiling through tears

My friend, Rod, said to me, "when you're expecting a child, people warn you about the wrong things." I agree. 

Don't get me wrong, people generally have good intentions when it comes to helping you prepare for parenthood. But, what they're usually preparing you for is lack of sleep, hundreds of dirty diapers, whether to pacify or not, etc.

What people should warn expectant parents about is the inexplicably large love you'll have for that child, and the reward and challenge that come courtesy of this love. 

In the moment Simeon was passed from Dr. Hurry to Sarah, I could instantly see the power I had as a child to bring unspeakable joy and heartbreak to my parents. Suddenly, the familiar parental refrain, "when you're a parent, you'll understand...,"  didn't seem so trite. This week has been illuminating in that regard. 

When I get emotional, my cheeks tighten up, like I've got Gobstoppers stuffed between my upper gums and cheek bones. I feel like I've had a mouth full of Gobstoppers since Tuesday. 

Tuesday was Sarah's first day back to work, which coincides (not coincidentally) to Simeon's first day of daycare. I knew the day was coming, but I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know how difficult it would be to turn over the child, whom we've been life and love support for three solid months, to strangers. Sarah says they're really sweet strangers, but still — strangers.

The emotions inherent to this event have tested me and the civility of our marriage for a couple of days. It has not been easy. In the midst of such tumult, it's difficult to understand how a coo or a half-smile can light me up, but it does.

This morning, on the heels of a very difficult week, Simeon beamed as I changed his diaper. It was a great gift he gave me. He showed me that I can still smile — even with a mouth full of Gobstoppers.

Stories beget stories

I have spent two of the past four weekends at storytelling festivals. First, was the Cave Run Storytelling Festival, then came the Hoosier Storytelling Festival. Describing a storytelling festival, for some reason, is every bit as difficult to describe as getting someone to understand what I do for a living (my friends say, "... so you sit around and draw pictures all day?" My reply is, "close enough.") But, I'll do my best.

A storytelling festival — think big tent revival. There's a big tent plus a revival of our almost lost oral tradition.

In most cases, skilled speakers and writers tell tales, some tall, some true, some mostly true, some folksy, some familial, some historical, all to an audience ready to listen and imagine. But, my favorite thing about a storytelling festival is that it almost always blows the dust off of stories of my own that I have nearly forgotten.

A couple weeks back, at Cave Run,  Bil Lepp was telling tales. Lepp, a teller of tall tales, explained that male fascination with how far he can pee is the real reason for hunting from a tree stand. If you put your tree stand 80 feet in the air, guess what — you can pee 80 feet! Well, I have no interest in hunting, but Bil's point prompted me to check eBay for the cheapest tree stand that could still support my 210 pounds plus a gallon jug of drinking water or two.

I've long thought that urination is a competitive sport waiting to happen (so has my friend Art, who made this great TV spot).

As a kindergartner, I remember lining up with my friends Stephen and Darryl Mangus at the urinal and carefully backing away as far as we could until our stream began to weaken; then we'd just as carefully, but more urgently, move back toward the urinal. We tried really hard not to make a complete mess. As you might have guessed the boy who peed furthest won bragging rights until the next Piss Off.

Our game wasn't called a Piss Off at the time, my mom wouldn't let me say "piss off", although that's exactly what our game did to the janitor.*

*I'd like to use this footnote to apologize to the janitor at King's Academy, Oklahoma City, 1981.

The first SPAM-ME Awards

I have spent most of my e-mailing existence getting frustrated with the amount of spam I receive. As a member of the advertising community, I know that most ads are directed at a particular demographic or target audience. So hypothetically, if you're a male enhancement company, it would be in your company's interest to target your communications to men with small ... well, you can see why spam irritates me.

I've spent far too much time being irritated by spam, so I'm embracing it. I want to make spam better. I've decided to start the SPAM-ME Awards, which celebrate the best email subject lines that get captured by my spam filter.

My goal in creating this award is that it will encourage creativity in spam writers who too often rely on disgusting and overt subject lines like, "Get a ma$$ive **** to pleaze all naked Russians of the Univers3." I mean, Simeon is, like, 12 months away from his first e-mail account. I don't want him subjected to this smut. Be more discreet, creative, and grammatically correct, Mr. and Ms. Spamwriter. You can do better than that.

So, let's find out who our lucky SPAM-ME award winners are (please hold your applause and boos until the end of the awards ceremony):

The "Could Be For The Do-it Yourself Pumpkin Farmer" SPAM-ME goes to:

Grow fat ones yourself

The "Maybe It's An Omaha Steaks Promo" SPAM-ME goes to:

More meat is never excessive

The SPAM-ME in the "Anatomical Public Service" category goes to:

Penile Health Publication

The "Entrepreneurial Amish" SPAM-ME goes to:

Horses for loan

The "Bob the Builder" SPAM-ME goes to:

Give your new tool some practice

The "Luis Vuitton" SPAM-ME goes to:

Surprise her with the nicest bag in town

{I just want to reiterate, all of the winners were subject lines of emails I actually received}

Nolte + X = Busey

It occurred to me the other day, that there are only two degrees of separation between Nick Nolte and Gary Busey. You can take a dash of Nolte, add a smidge of just about anything, and you get Busey. Allow me to illustrate my point.

First, let's get our Nolte, stir in a little cocaine – voila! A-busey!

You need more evidence? Okay. Happy to oblige. This time, let's take a Mugshot Nolte, throw in some Mr. Ed...

Woah, buddy! Gotta keep the reins tight on this Busey.

You're starting to come around, I think. But, you need a bit more convincing. Let's try one more experiment.

Okay, this time we're going for the standard Nolte (I love the versatility of this Nolte), add a litte MJ — Ow! I think Billy Jean was Busey's lover. It's easy to see how "the girl" might have mistaken Michael Jackson for his father. I was skeptical before I saw this Busey, but I guess the kid wasn't Michael's son.