On I-95 (For The Weekend)...

Contrary to popular opinion (popular being that of my wife), I do not hate to travel. I mostly hate to travel. It’s not as if I believe that the location I’m in is the end all be all…nor even the bees knees. I could stand to see other parts of this country…maybe even the world…well, minus Antarctica. My dislike of migration is primarily due to the method of transit and not so much that I just hate the concept. I think that if we ever did develop some sort of transporter device like they have in Star Trek, I’d trot…I’d trot the globe in fact.

I do loathe car travel though. There is seriously not one redeemable quality about car travel, except with the possibility of its conclusion at your destination. Not the packing, not the driving, not the stopping for gas…or lunch…or urination… The very first thing I do when I get in the car before a long trip…even before turning the key in the ignition, is wish that it was already over. Sure, I've participated in road trips during my college days. Every one of them started with the heady exhuberance and excited chatter of our nation's youth. After about two hours though, the serious thoughts of suicide to end the...whatever you want to call it...settles in.

Most of my travel has to do with going to see family in South Carolina. I guess that is redundant to say, because as you already know, I don’t actually have any family that doesn’t reside there. Virginia, for you non-geography types (or products of the New Jersey education system), is only two states north. In other words, it is just close enough that a plane trip isn’t really justified, but that a car trip…especially from Northern VA, is murderous. If you recall high school English, it’s one of Dante’s rings of Hell he wrote about in…that book he wrote. It’s 8 hours of soul reducing tedium.

One of the “joys” that my wife and I added to the travel process a couple of summers ago was a dog. In general, I don’t find dogs odious…not like cats anyway. My wife waged a successful campaign against me to get a dog, but it took two years for her to claim a final victory. At the end of this two years, we have finally found the perfect pooch, one that could always be counted on…to yack every single time he was in a vehicle. Every. Time. It doesn’t matter what we do, or try, that dog is going to vomit up the entire contents of his belly within the first 30 minutes of the trip. It’s not all bad though. Our Boy Bailey will not be with us the whole time. We’ll be dropping him off at the in-laws in Richmond. So I will only have to survive two hours with His Wretch-edness.

This trip to SC also features another article of stress…K-Mad. Besides the fact that this trip is primarily due to The Patriarch calling a “family meeting”, we are also using this is our official victory tour for the birth of our daughter. This is her first long trip. The fear of the unknown is causing all sorts of stress. Usually K-Mad loves the car…in a passed out sort of way. Will she love it for 8+ hours. Let’s just hope she doesn’t share Dad’s genes on that issue. At least she's wearing a diaper... If I could get my wife to do that, we' make it down there much faster.

So, tomorrow the Halls of Mental Midgetry will be taking this show on the road. You will not see my words of wisdom for nigh on a week. I’ll need a couple of days on the flip side to decompose…er, decompress. Until then…this post makes four straight days suckas… Bet you didn’t think I still had it in me!

On 50...

Could it be? Could I really be writing a two-fer today? Are you so lucky as that? Well, most of you can tune out I guess. You see, one thing I am known for both inside and outside the confines of my family is that I am fairly horrible at keeping in touch. The phone and I have a relationship that is stormy at best and depends a lot on my proximity to it at the time it indicates an incoming call. I’m not sure I was even aware that my phone could make outgoing calls at all. And letter writing is so archaic. I cannot be relied upon to affix a stamp on anything (unless you won one of my Ebay items, in which case I promise your item is in the mail).

So it goes that I have to use this blog as my primary form of communication with the outside world…

And the thing that I simply must communicate today is: “Dude Martha, you’re like…old. You turned 50 today. How does that feel?”

Happy Birthday Martha! You are not long for this world, so I just wanted to send along my congrats before I’m placing flowers on your grave…and reminiscing about all those family events…that I missed.

See you this weekend. Try not to blow out a knee...

On Basketball Tournaments...

I’ve certainly dug myself a hole with my ill advised promises of blog fidelity for the week. I don’t know why I feel like I have to fulfill that particular vow. It’s not like the blog and I stood in front of some clergy type and proclaimed a sort of matrimony. Yet nevertheless, my pappy always told me to make good on my word, so here I be…

I have never had much use for this thing that you call basketball. It’s not because of any height issues either. I stand a respectable six feet vertically and can sometimes actually see over people’s heads. Besides, I love to play volleyball…a sport where height does make some sort of positive difference. My athleticism, while never astounding, did exist as my peewee days of baseball and soccer will attest. I dabbled with tennis and played a mean game of two-hand touch. Sometimes there were even flags... A respectable amount of the wiffle balls I hit did land over the fence, although I was a bit of a line drive specialist.

So I’m not sure what happened between basketball and me, but we just never hit it off. Don’t get me wrong. If you gave me a basketball, it’s not like I have no idea what to do with it. There may be a high percentage chance that I’d never get it to actually go through the hoop, but I would at least get it in the area. There was even a time in college that I ran around the courts making a fool of myself on a daily basis. My two roommates were known to “ball”…they may have even had a certain amount of “game”. I guess I figured it was exercise and why not… Because I’m terrible at it is why…but I was in denial at the time. I guess it’s really about the only experimentation I did in college. I experimented with basketball…and I am ashamed.

I think the real reason I didn’t much care for that kind of activity was because I had no desire to watch pro basketball. To this day the NBA seems to me to be a total waste of time. We do have the Washington Wizards, and I do recognize that much of the total idiocy that plagued that team from the past two decades or more is finally over, I'm not exactly glued to the TV...or the stats line in the paper. No, I am not immune to the feats that Michael Jordan apparently performed on the court, but I can promise you that I may have missed some of his more amazing moments behind the yawn I was currently engaged in.

The only time I’ve ever enjoyed watching basketball was in attending the games at JMU. For the first two years of college, we actually had what passed for a team, and even made it to the NCAA Tournament in 1994. You may have heard of this tournament. It’s going on right now…well, maybe not at this moment, but it will resume again at the end of this week. I’m not sure why I caught the bug then. I guess there is something about being in attendance that always makes you feel more into it. I bet I'd feel the same way about a Monster Truck rally.

For my roommates and many of their group of friends, March Madness was something special. Just like most offices around the country we had our “pools” where we meticulously calculated each and every bracket. One of my roommates who eschewed the finer things, like Shakespeare, even created a replica of the brackets that took up an entire wall. He had a lot of free time. Hotel/Restaurant Management wasn't exactly taxing him. And of course, I was one of the lemmings… I even put down my parents hard earned tuition money on this idiocy.

You may think that I bring this up now because, as stated, the tournament is at hand. Well, sort of… But something even worse has happened. Let me provide some warning beforehand though, for those of you who are members of my family. We are about to talk about Virginia things here. Things that are way out of your comfort zone…if not above your head.

I am, of course, talking about George Mason University making the Sweet 16. How this happened, I’m not sure. I mean, GMU, as all Virginians know, is a commuter school. Of the tens of thousands of people who claim this as their institute of higher education, about a dozen of them have ever lived on campus. I’m not saying they don’t have dorms…I’ve seen actual evidence of them, I’m just saying they aren’t all that…used. I'm just saying, you don't think GMU when you are trying to get the normal college experience. You think commute...and traffic...and parking authorities...

GMU has been whooping my alma mater for the past few years in the unsweet science of basketball. They are in the same Conference, the CAA. For years, the CAA, which I believe is one of the automatic bids for the NCAA Tournament, was synonymous with low seed…and an easy win for the big schools. It's not like the CAA ever really proved otherwise, although JMU did almost take down Florida (a 4 seed) in 1994. That GMU is the team that is giving the CAA cred…that’s incredibley embarassing to me. I mean, they don’t even have a football team. No American school can really be considered accredited unless they have a football team. And one of my good friends is a GMU grad…he’s going to be insufferable now.

The worst thing about this whole fiasco is not simply that it’s GMU's accomplishment. It’s that I’m actually rooting for them…in a basketball tournament. I've done some pretty unforgivable things in my life, but this one goes further than I've ever been. I'm in uncharted waters here...and I'm digging it...

On Phases...

Remarkably, K-Mad is still alive. I find this to be further evidence that, on occasion, I am capable of some things. Apparently keeping another human breathing for over two months is one of those things. I take satisfaction in this fact, although my wife does share in the accomplishment. I guess technically since she has the feeding instrumentation that I lack, her portion of the glory is somewhat larger than mine. Still, at the very least I haven’t hindered the life process any…and I do…uh, rock a mean rocking chair. I have mad skills in the art of sleep inducement. I wonder if that can be put on a resume? Actually, I wonder if that is a character flaw…

First time parenthood is certainly an interesting experience. It amazes me constantly how much really has changed…and how much really hasn’t. I think what is more amazing is how quickly you tend to learn what to do, even in the midst of being terrified of failure…or at the very least some sort of damage to K-Mad’s frail psyche. When it comes down to it though, you live and learn and try to sift through the mass of information (much of it contradictory) thrown at you constantly.

We’ve also started to recognize the different phases that K-Mad is going through. It’s been a real treat watching each of them. First was the eat, sleep, poo phase of the initial month or so. In this phase, getting the feeding and sleeping schedule down is the prime concern. Of course, there are scientific and soulful discussions about the amount and consistency of poo being produced out of this new, and totally wild animal we’ve created. During this time one notes the changing colors, amount and alternative fuel possibilities of the dirty diaper. There are even congratulations from parent to child on creating particularly righteous amounts of bright orange…excretions. Sometimes charts are kept that identify how many times a day our little bundle of defecation provided desired results…and there is much consternation if poo is not present and accounted for…

You also start to learn the cries of your child. This is particularly frustrating at first. Was that a hungry cry? Is she in pain? Is she dirty or wet? Does she have gas? It’s not like there is some Rosetta Stone of braying babies out there. This takes analysis…something I am infinitely qualified to do if you remember. In the first month, all the cries sound alike to the untrained ear. Thus, a checklist of cry remedies is created. This may be a mental process, but nevertheless, it's real. For example, the baby cries...the parents immediately go into lock down mode. Is she wet...no (check in the box). Okay, is she hungry...no (check in the box)...and on down the line until the crying stops, or the parents give up.

We are currently in a new phase. The crying has become much more identifiable for one. There is a real difference between the “something’s wrong with me you cretins” cry and the “I’m annoyed, bored or cranky” cry. We're a little bit more scheduled on the poo train too. We’re on the two-a-day track now, although when those two come can still be a mystery. Of course, Mom and Dad still don the lab coats to examine just what was produced in this diaper and confer, write technical reports and run test to make sure all is acceptable.

But there is one defining thing about this phase that did not exist before…cooing.

Cooing. This is probably the most insidious part of this phase. Adults, particularly men, are helpless to stop the flood of emotion that comes when your child looks at you with blue eyes that have yet to change and smiles…and then emits some sort of happy noise. It’s unfair really. I mean, I’ve been trying to build up my defenses for when she becomes a teenager. I thought it appropriate to start the process early so I’d be ready. I can’t have my heart melting constantly every time I’m holding K-Mad. Walls have to be made sister, so wipe that smile of your face for goodness sake.

Next thing you know, she’ll be calling me by name. I’m not sure I’m ready for that…

On Regularity...

I figured I’d let the furor of the On Family Ties…post subside before my next installment of these Odes. I like to think that the point I was trying to make was clearly proven by the insanity the ensued in the comments section. Needless to say, although my allusions to “red clay shores” was a fairly obvious jest about the dominant topography of South Carolina, I was truly delighted to get a lesson on the real soil composition of the state from my aunt. I feel both enlightened and tearfully bored at the same time…

And seriously, what’s with everyone trying to claim that they are the actual black sheep of the family? I have reviewed your petitions for my title, but I find them…lacking. Actually, I find them another failed attempt to be like me. Although, as my Dad pointed out, driving Chevy Impalas cannot make the Patriarch happy. Still, I feel pretty confident in my delinquency…

And with that, I move on…

I’ve really been slipping here lately. I want you to know that I have actually been unfaithful to you…although I wouldn’t necessary call it infidelity. I’ve just found other things to do with my time rather than to post Odes lately. For that I apologize. So here is the deal. I know that I’m in the virtual doghouse with you. I endeavor to become the man that you always hoped I’d be…a daily Ode writer. So for the rest of this week, you can expect my missives to be…regular…bran muffin regular if you get my meaning…

You should know that I will be out of town this Friday. Leave it to me to start cheating on the rules I made already. It cannot be helped. I have a date with my extended family this weekend in SC. Needless to say, I’m bringing all my wits with me…and it will be on.

On Family Ties...

If my emails are to be believed, some of you…particularly those of you who are my aunts…have gone into a weird kind of withdrawal from my lack of consistent posting on this blog. My mother has jumped on this bandwagon of…nagging, which I now call the NagWagon, and told me last night that I “really should be updating more”. Right…I’ll keep that under advisement. Seriously woman, I provided you with a grandchild. I thought that guaranteed me a guilt free existence from here on out…

I know why this is happening though. It’s been happening my whole life, and I’ve gotten used to it. It’s not surprising that it finally invaded my internet life either. I’m only surprised it took this long. So forgive me… I’m about to make it awkward here for you. I’m bringing you into the family feud that has existed since the beginning of creation...my creation. I’m going to force you to take a side. I’m going to force you to take my side.

You see, in my family, I’ m the Black Sheep…

I’m that cousin…

There are certain rules that apparently came along with being born into my family. The first has to do with geographic loyalty. Despite where you are born…or even where you currently live, you are expected to pay homage to South Carolina has the finest state of the union. You are also supposed to pine away for the day you will return to it’s red clay shores. Unless you are an atheist, it can be generally assumed that at the end of your life, you’d like to end up in Heaven…or at least a place that allows for guilt free dining at Taco Bell. I firmly believe that my family would tell you that heaven will be great, it just won’t be no South Carolina.

I’m a Virginian…

You see the problem now…

Further exacerbating my familial non-compliance, I did not graduate from The Citadel. There is an understanding among the males of my family that extends to those cousins who do not share my last name. Basically, if you have the blood of Beeley Jr. in you, there is only one acceptable establishment of higher education. My grandfather, father, one of my uncles, and two of my three male cousins have all graduated (or in the case of one, hoping to graduate) from said institution. I grew up on The Citadel like Catholics grow up on Notre Dame. I had a “provisional appointment” to the Citadel hanging on my bedroom wall…since birth. If The Citadel were a lonely country street light, my family would be the moths mysteriously attracted to it. I ain't no moth...

I went to James Madison University…

In Virginia…

The picture may be getting clearer for you…

Now, I’m not trying to get you to believe that my family harbors any ill will towards me. In fact, they get great pleasure in reminding me of my…shortcomings. Let me tell you how the next family gathering is going to play out. My grandfather will tell me that I can “still get an education at The Citadel” if I’m so inclined. My aunt will remind me that her son is currently there. My other cousin will remind me that not only did I not go to The Citadel, and that I do not live in South Carolina…but that I did not produce the first great grandchild either.

The honest truth of the matter is though, that they are enamored with me. How could they not be? I am, in point of fact, dead sexy…in a love handle kind of way. I represent something totally foreign to them. Mystery. I don’t think they know what I’ll do next. I have them totally of guard…and it makes me giggle. Maybe I'll move out west...or overseas. Maybe I'll cheer for Furman...okay, that's a little too much even for me. I think that’s why they flock to this blog seeking some sort of entrée into my mind. They want to know exactly how a brain produced by the Beeley line went so totally in the opposite direction.

Okay, maybe not in the totally opposite direction. I still refuse to live above the Mason-Dixon line for crying out loud. I do have limits to my rebellion after all.

On Inoculations....

Have I really neglected my bloggish duties for over two full weeks? Did I really leave up a post about my obsession with a video game as my last public offering? I am truly ashamed of myself… Okay, I’m really not, but I figured I offer you some note of contrition…even if it is clearly forged. I will lay the blame squarely on my job though. I remember, vaguely, a conversation we had about my job being feast or famine. Let’s just say I’ve been eating well lately. Let’s also just say that I’d appreciate a little forewarning from my bosses when they are expecting me to actually produce. And while we are saying so much, let’s all agree that Stacy Keibler was totally shafted in Dancing With The Stars.

I feel like there is so much to say to you. I hope I’m not being awkward, but I’ve actually missed you these past few days. Not to the level that I miss the A-Team, but you are way ahead of Jimmy Carter’s presidency if you must know. Okay, so I was barely alive during Carter’s reign…but I’ve heard…things. I just don’t want you to think that I’m apathetic to our burgeoning electro-literary relationship…At least not more apathetic that usual.

So it took a particularly jarring emotional incident to remind me that I actually do have a venue to vent my parenting…angst. Today, as many of you will note, is K-Mad’s two month birthday. The fact that she has made it two months under my jurisdiction is an accomplishment worthy of accolades…and a pay raise I’m thinking…or maybe just a big screen TV? Don’t just do it for me, Kaleigh needs to watch Baby Einstein videos on the largest screen possible…so it permeates. I think she would like a kickin’ surround sound system too…for those sing-alongs…it makes her feel like she’s part of a group…

But I digress…

We here in the Unites States celebrate two months of life on earth by stabbing our infants with sharp objects in the name of inoculation. I’m not sure when it is that my heart is supposed to harden. In fact, I think that I’m on medication that prevents that sort of thing. It would have been nice if someone gave me a little more time to not care when my daughter is in pain before jabbing needles into her though. Like, when I’m 80…and comatose would have been preferable.

I knew today would be rough. Two of my friends had warned me. One told me to be a man and stay in the room. I thought that was a ridiculous statement until I got there. The other wisely stated to not be the one holding her as she got stuck so she didn’t associate me with pain. I figured if the nurse was going to stick her, she could hold her too.

So I’m wondering why I found myself having to hold her arms down as the nurse pinned her legs. K-Mad knew something was amiss, but barely had time to register her displeasure before the real fun began. Let’s just say that I have never heard her do that…sound before. She looked at me as if to say “You wait until I’m 13”. I looked at the nurse as if to say “I’m giving her to you when she turns 13”. I also looked to my wife for some sort of emotional support. She was near tears though and looking at me as if to say “Now she’ll hate you when she’s 13”. Seriously, she’s the female in the relationship, she’s supposed to be the strong one.

All in all we survived. K-Mad held me accountable for her pain for all of 1 minute after her shots. Then she fell asleep. I mean, all that sound and fury and she didn’t even remember it 2 minutes later. Must be nice to have such a short-term memory. I’ve been thinking about it all day…