Category Archives: Laughter

the kayak and the bunny suit

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I own a bunny suit. I can’t remember why I have one. I think that seven or eight years ago, Old Navy came out with one-piece pajamas, and the bunny onesie just sounded like a good idea after that. The first one I had was pink, but I left it in Ireland for someone taller than me (not hard to find), and P.J. got me this one. It’s gray with a white belly and has a hood with big floppy ears, a full zipper, and unlike most bunny suits, it’s footed with fleece that’s warmer than wool socks and elastic at the ankles that makes it perfect for a short human pretending to be a bunny.

This is in my possession because, while I’d be mortified to the edges of the Universe if someone besides P.J. saw me in it, the bunny suit is the warmest garment in the history of ever. It’s doomsday material. The fleece is miles thick and except for your face and hands, the suit has you covered. It’s the thing you put on when you have a fever and are having chills. It’s the thing you put on if you were stuck outside and just came back in and you’re shivering and need to get warm quickly. If you wear it when your heat goes out, you sleep soundly anyway. This is a bunny suit to be reckoned with.

It even has a carrot zipper pull and a fluffy white tail.

That’s not what I came here to tell you about. I came here to talk about the kayak incident.

There is little that P.J. and I have found in nature that is more beautiful than autumn in Vermont as seen from a lake. Call it a cliché, but it’s only that because it’s true. The lakes in Vermont are dotted with sailboats and kayaks long after the summer swimmers and paddleboards disappear. People picnic on the shores, bundled up in flannel shirts and windbreaker jackets and scarves. Red-cheeked artists set up easels. Photographers carefully step out onto rocks.

The kayakers are braving those waters knowing that they’re downright dangerous. By mid-October, the water in many lakes has fallen to 55 degrees. That water is cold enough to cause muscle rigidity, a pounding heart, rapid breathing, and confusion. It shocks the body. Even without shock, the colder the water, the shorter the amount of time the body can stay in before blood pressure begins to do interesting things and words like “embolism” can enter the chat.

That’s why when P.J. took her Hobie out onto the lake, she was appropriately dressed in wetsuit gear and aware of the risk.

And it’s a good thing, because after a wonderful time kayaking around the lake, within ten yards of approaching the boat ramp, something in the water behind her went KERPLUNK SPLASH. P.J. turned quickly to see what it was and the Hobie rolled and dumped her right into the waiting frigid waters. That’s when she learned that her wet gear was completely inadequate, and she hurriedly walked the kayak the rest of the way to the ramp and hoisted it onto the trailer and went home, blasting the heat in the van the whole way and thinking only of getting warm.

When she got home, she realized that a piece of the kayak was still in the water. The important piece. The Hobie has a drop-in component called a Mirage drive that acts as flippers under water and lets you paddle by pedaling. It’s basically a kayak pretending to be a duck.

It was non-negotiable. We had to get it back.

“We’ll have to agree on sections to search to minimize the time we’re in the water,” P.J. said. We planned it out. She would wear her wet gear and other things on top of that. We’d have poles to feel around and swim shoes so we could feel with our feet. She gave us four minutes, tops, and then we had to get out of the water, no matter what.

“I don’t have any wet gear, though,” I pointed out. We thought hard. Then it occurred to me. “I do have the bunny suit! I could just wear whatever in the water and then change into the bunny suit as soon as I got into the van. That would totally work! Were there, like, other people around at the boat ramp, or was it pretty deserted?”

“There was one truck, nobody else. You could change in the back.”

The next day, we returned to the lake in late afternoon, when the sun was aimed at that patch of water and we’d be able to see the bottom. We told the crew working on some renovations to the front of the house that we were going to grab some dinner, knowing they’d be gone by the time we got home. They didn’t need to know why we threw large bags of towels and clothing and two paint roller extension poles into the back of the van.

We stood at the edge of the water and reiterated the four-minute rule to each other, then thought long and hard about the beauty of the lake and the joy of kayaking and how important it was to get the Mirage drive back. But love of P.J. was the only thing that was going to get me to enter that water, so I thought about that, too, and steeled myself, and counted to three, and then counted to three again, and resolutely waded in with my pole to catch up with P.J. We braved it.

Four minutes later, there was no sign of the Mirage drive. We’d only struck mud and grass.

There were two trucks in the parking area for the boat ramp, but as we peeled off wet clothing in the van and dried off, we decided they were hunters and off in the woods somewhere. P.J. dressed warmly and I put on my bunny suit. Within a minute, I was cozy and warm. We got into our seats in the van and stared at the water, perplexed. Where was the damned thing?

Discussion on the drive home concerned submersible metal detectors and next steps, which found us rational right up to the point where we crested at the top of our driveway and saw that the work crew was still there. P.J. made a casual remark about how it was sunset and she didn’t understand how they could even see what they were doing, but I said, “OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST I CAN’T GET OUT OF THE VAN THEY’RE GOING TO SEE MY BUNNY SUIT!”

There was nothing for it. Not only did we return home without a key bit of kayak, I also had to walk across the driveway to the front door with a fluffy white tail shaking behind my butt and floppy ears. The workmen were intelligent and ignored me, or maybe it was too dark to see, in the dim of twilight. The walk from the van to the door took more fortitude than wading into the water.

Epilogue: The next week, we traded a six-pack for the loan of an old jon boat, and we tried for an hour to find the Mirage drive using rakes. It’s still at the bottom of the lake.

wrapping paper

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I’m in my forties and there has not been a Christmas since I was a young teen that I haven’t thought of an English teacher as I’ve struggled to wrap gifts. In eighth grade, she assigned us a quite reasonable demonstration/speech project, and to this day I will never understand why I chose to show how to wrap a gift box in paper.

It wasn’t just that I was choked with anxiety and mumbled incoherent sentences throughout the eighty years [one minute and fifty-two seconds] it took to get the box wrapped. It wasn’t that the sound of the Scotch tape dispenser seemed to echo through the halls each time I pulled a piece. It was the sheer audacity of the undertaking itself. I’ve never been so thankful for a C-, reflective of generosity and grace. The truth is ….

I cannot wrap a gift properly. I simply cannot do it. I’ve had three decades of practice since that late-morning debacle. I’ve watched tutorials. I’ve observed others. I once unnerved an employee at Cracker Barrel by staring at her with fascination as she was wrapping gift shop items.

My corners bulge unless I’m careful; if I’m careful, the paper rips and the corner of a box protrudes. I gauge and trim ends so they’ll tuck neatly; they’re too short and I have to tape some paper under the other paper to hide the contents. We won’t discuss wrinkles, lining up patterns, copious use of tape, or the end result having a discernible top and sides. Those are advanced functions reserved for the unimpaired.

That day in eighth grade, I may as well have attempted to take apart a motorcycle or groom a real horse. But I have a wife and kid who have never complained in earshot, and my efforts have been tolerated. For others’ gifts, she gently offers to wrap while I write out the card, on the supposed grounds of superior handwriting.

And to Mrs. Huffines, a teacher’s dream is to know a student took something away that stuck for life. I’ve mangled plenty of curled-up strips of tape that were sticky, and I’ve never wrapped a Christmas present on a quiet Christmas Eve morning without thinking of you.

family portrait

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Today, I was clearing clutter, and an abandoned sketchbook turned up under two inches of old bank statements and water bills. I opened it and this was the first thing I saw:


James drew the picture when he was six, nearly seven. He had been recently entrusted with the care of a betta fish that developed dropsy three days after it joined our family. This was not a first-grade assignment. This was done in his spare time, to capture his entire family (P.J.’s name is protected), all God’s creatures included.

I notice a few things. P.J.’s foot is mutated and she is holding a purse, unlike the rest of us. Holly, a rather nondescript black cat, is drawn as a mitotic cell. Rose is sniffing the butt of a stick-figure Chester, who looks none too happy about this.

I have a mean left hook on me. And I am holding his hand.

Ye gods. The feels. This is getting framed.

why I don’t hang out with cows

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Today I bought a bundle of asparagus. Asparagus is the primary way that we accumulate rubber bands in our household.

I’m not big on vegetables.

I first tried asparagus when I was twenty-three. Hell, I first heard of asparagus when I was twenty-three. That’s the age when Those Weird Green Sticks in the store became something not just edible but enjoyable. We microwaved the asparagus back then. Now, I brush it with olive oil and roast it under the broiler and P.J. sprinkles flaky sea salt on it.

I did not try most vegetables, save for the Holy Canned Trinity, until I was appointed as a teenager to run the salad bar at Wendy’s in the summer of 1993. A manager had to patiently drill into my skull the proper names for broccoli (“little trees”), cauliflower (“white broccoli”), chickpeas (“slimy nuts”), Romaine lettuce (“dark green pieces”), sunflower seeds (“the grey ones”) and croutons (“crunchy square things”). I knew the little orange sticks came from carrots, but that summer was the first time I dared to taste carrot, or any of the other mysterious items I was tasked with stirring and filling and scrutinizing for freshness (a task for which I was, to say the least, ill-suited).

I liked most of them, except for the chickpeas and the pickled beets, both of which tasted the way dirt smelled.

Someone was kind enough to warn me about bleu cheese dressing before I made the mistake of sampling it.

It was even later in life when I learned what a zucchini looked like, and that fresh French green beans cooked with some garlic and oil in no way resemble anything in the Holy Canned Trinity. A few years ago, I experienced a road-to-Damascus conversion when I walked into a grocery store where an employee was cooking a stir fry of sweet peppers in the front lobby, and the pepper smell that had once disgusted me was now inexplicably appealing. I bought some and took them home and P.J. stared at me like I had sprouted an extra head when I proffered the peppers and pointed to an onion on the counter by way of a hint.

They were delicious.

The Holy Canned Trinity contained all vegetable matter of my childhood. That’s not entirely true. Sometimes, when we had thin, crispy, well-done sirloins as a treat, we would have little bowls of “salad” that contained iceberg lettuce, bits of broken-up Kraft singles, and dressing my mother made by combining Miracle Whip, ketchup, and pickle relish, to which I was allergic.

The Trinity consisted of Le Sueur early peas in the silver can, canned green beans, and canned corn. It was like owning three pairs of shoes that would go with any possible clothing one could wear. A brown pair, a black pair, and maybe some white Keds. Unless it was spaghetti night, the chain-shaking ghosts of vegetable matter would visit in one of these three forms.

The corn was okay. I could manage.

The peas were iffy. I initially refused them, but after my mother taught me how to take real adult aspirin instead of the chewable orange-flavored baby aspirin, I learned that one could shovel a forkful of peas into one’s mouth while pinching one’s nose with her left hand, set the fork down on the side of the plate, grab a cup of tea, and wash the peas down like pills. To this day, I credit my ingenious technique with my ability to take all my meds with a single sip of milk. My mother was not impressed and was torn between exasperation and resignation, because in spite of the shredded table manners, I was at least getting down a small serving of vegetables. I think she chose to pick her battles.

The battle she picked was over the green beans. I was seven years old, and I had watched an awful lot of Dr. Who up to that point in my life and that’s how I knew that anything gray-green was obviously sourced from alien life and not meant to be eaten in any form.

One night, I dug in my heels and declared that I would not be consuming the small pile of alien dung sitting on my plate beside the erstwhile pork chop and Rice-a-Roni. My mother said yes, I would, and I said no, I wouldn’t, and she said I had to, and I said no, I didn’t, and she said I had to sit at the table until I finished them, and I said okay, and she said no, really, I wasn’t allowed to leave the table until the alien-beans were in my stomach, and I said yes, that was fine, I’d just settle in for the evening.

Honestly, you’d think we had never met.

At 9:30 that evening, well past my bedtime, after machinations that had included begging, bribery, blackmail, and a trip through the drive-thru at McDonald’s where we never ever went in the first place so how did she even know they were on the menu for hot fudge sundaes that they brought home and ate in front of me, mine melting on the counter, she conceded defeat. I got up from the table, put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, and wandered off to bed, where I would sleep the sleep of the smug.

I was never served green beans again. We had an understanding.

I grew up.

Now I eat corn on the cob. Now I eat parsnips. Now I think cauliflower is awesome roasted with Gruyere on top. I’ll even tolerate a black bean in my chili now and then.

Someone recently asked me, though, if I would be able to eat a vegetarian diet. They pointed out my tender heart toward animals and asked how I can cry when animals suffer and then turn around and eat pieces of them with various sauces on the side.

My brain skitters away from the idea of vegetarianism for two reasons. First, I would die of malnutrition, because I need the protein chains post-gastric bypass and because there is still a whole world of things that grow in dirt that I consider unfit for consumption. Take kale and Swiss chard. My Grandma taught me not to eat the garnish on the plate.

Second, I really love meat. I love rare steak and P.J.’s sous vide machine and raw tuna and brined chicken breast on the grill. I love lamb and leek stew and shredded-up barbecued pig. Remember asparagus? My favorite form of asparagus now is when it has bacon wrapped around it.

I know the vegetarians are right, though. If I hung out on a farm for more than half an hour, I’d end up going soppy and feeling sorry for cattle and pigs and anthropomorphizing the fuck out of them, and possibly doing some research and learning things inconvenient to the carnivorous brain, and then I wouldn’t be able to eat them any more. I already buy cage-free eggs. The situation is tenuous at best. I have to remain callous and unthinking and willfully ignorant. If I don’t, I’ll die of beri-beri or kwashiorkor or just plain boredom.

So when I cook dinner for P.J. and James, I serve fresh vegetables as a side to large, rare to medium-rare rib-eye steaks, and as P.J. and I cut off the first bites of our steaks and dip them in horseradish or steak sauce, we look at each other and say, “Moo.”

red-eyed rhino

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P.J.: “I’ve tried everything I can think of. Nothing’s getting rid of them this year.”

Me: “We need to do the bananas. You remember, the bananas and soapy water in tin cans? That caught a lot of gnats last year, even though they were gross as shit.”

P.J.: “Yeah, and then the bananas gave us fruit flies.”

Me: “They did not! We bought that fruit fly trap and it didn’t catch a single thing.”

P.J.: “I caught one and its eyes were red. That means it was a fruit fly.”

Me: “You don’t know that. It could have just been possessed.”

P.J.: “What?”

Me: “A possessed gnat could have red eyes and then it would look like a fruit fly, but it would still be a gnat and the soapy banana would hurt it.”

P.J.: “Well, I didn’t ask it if it was a fruit fly or a possessed gnat. You know why?”

Me: “Why?”

P.J.: “BECAUSE FRUIT FLIES CAN’T TALK.”

Me: “Neither can possessed gnats. I think you should call up our local Catholic church and ask them about how to tell if a tiny bug with red eyes is a fruit fly or a possessed gnat, on account of you can’t ask it because it can’t talk, and let’s see what they have to say. Be very specific.”

P.J.: “Look, if I was going to possess something, I wouldn’t possess a thing that’s completely defenseless and tiny like that.”

Me: “What would you possess?”

P.J.: “Like, a rhino.”

Me: “And what would you do as a possessed rhino?”

P.J.: “I dunno. Skewer as many people as I could with my horn before I was shot down by poachers, I guess.”

Me: “They’d have to be skinny people, so you could stack more up.”

P.J.: “Good point.”

Me: “That’s why I’m getting seconds on these hush puppies. So I can avoid being skewered by a possessed rhino. It’s the only way, really. See? I can be good at self-care.”