Ad Hudler's Blog, page 18

A sneak peak at the memoir in progress ...

This from the chapter "Drop-off Day":

Two hours after my return from Home Depot, the hustle-bustle suddenly slowed to a stop. Carol, Haley and I found ourselves standing in the middle of the room, looking around for any unfinished tasks.

"Well," Haley said with a forced but polite smile. "I guess that's it."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, scanning her new home. "I can get the rest myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked again.

"There's not much left to do."

As the three of us walked downstairs, my eyes began to sting, my breathing grew shallow, my throat tightened. There were two events I'd dreaded since the birth of my daughter: walking her down the aisle, into another man's arms and life, and dropping her off for the first year of college.

The time! What had happened to all that time? Granted, those first few years in diapers seemed to drag on forever, but then a few deep breaths and, suddenly, there was pre-school, and then, a few breaths later, junior high – and from that point on our lives together zipped by with the speed of a bobsled. It got away from me. I missed the finish. Was there even a finish line? Who won?

I'd practiced this moment so many times in my mind over the past year. It was right at this point when I was supposed to gently cup my daughter's face in my hands, smiling serenely, and tell her that I wasn't worried about her in the least, so sound were her wisdom and confidence and abilities. And that if I should die that afternoon I would do so peacefully because I knew she'd be just fine without me. And then, I'd share the karmic wisdom my mother had passed on to me at this very same moment in my life nearly a quarter-century ago: From this point on, the good things in life will come from you, not to you.

The three of us stopped in the parking lot and faced each other. "Oh, Haley," I said, unable to finish a sentence. "Oh, Haley."

I placed one arm over her shoulder and the other over my wife's, and I pulled them into a tight huddle, our heads lowered as if in prayer, scalp touching scalp.

"Oh, Haley," I said.

I began to sob, loudly enough that I could feel eyes upon us. We continued standing there, hunched together, long enough that we began to collectively sway back and forth like an empty rocking chair in the wind.

Finally, I felt Haley's hand pat my back: a request for release. I lifted my head, a long string of snot hanging from my nose.

"I have to go – it hurts too much," I said. I love you, sweetheart. I love you so, so much. I'll never forget the time we had together."

"Dad, I'm not leaving forever."

"It's never gonna be the same, sweetie."

I retreated to the rental car as Carol lingered to talk with Haley. Despite the humid, hot day, I quickly rolled up the windows. I didn't care that people had seen me cry, but what I needed now was to wail in pain, and I wanted no one, not even Carol, to hear me. I climbed into the back seat, curled up on my side, and wailed as I hadn't wailed for decades.

I'd never felt such pain. No one close to me had ever died. Something here, now, had just died.

When space is tight ...

Bars in the kitchen are great for sitting at to eat breakfast or lunch, but, in my opinion, dinner needs to be a slower, nicer event. I just can't relax while sitting on a high stool at a bar. I feel as if I have to rush, as if I'm catching a bite in an airport or a bar somewhere.
Until very recently we had no dining table in our Nashville condo ... and then my very-cool mom sent us a black drop-leaf. It's perfect for small-space urban living because, when folded up, it is only 12 inches deep. Take a look. It sits at the end of my kitchen counter. Hardly takes any room at all.
[image error]And looky here, at a small dinner party with our friends Mary Jayne and Steve (Steve, incidentally, is the Official Kansas Correspondent for this blog; he's the guy who sent us the photo of the eyelash on the hotel-room chair)
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Now isn't that better than sitting under harsh light at some kitchen bar? Wine and cocktails were served along with the lamb stew. Wouldn't the meal have been more dangerous if we were sitting on high stools?
Thanks again, Mom.

Amazing new product!

And now you can finally take your e-reader to the beach without fear of ruining it with sand.
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[image error] Whether you're enjoying an intimate moment with Proust or Steele or Hudler, know you and your partner are safe with this affordable, ingenius invention.

DISCLAIMER: Kindle Kondoms do not stop the spread of Internet viruses.

Excuse me, sir, but where is your marijuana? I can't find it in the produce section.

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My daughter and I thought this was funny enough to stop and take a picture. I don't know about you, but when I say "drugs" I tend to mean something illegal and fun, not something that loosens your stool or eradicates your headache. (Though some drugs can do that pretty well.)
And the word "Food." When was the last time you ever saw this on a grocery store? Were they afraid that we wouldn't be able to read "groceries" or "pharmacy?" This neighborhood, after all, is relatively poor and uneducated. Do you think they were trying to help us out by using preschool-size words?
Food and Drugs: It's got a grunting, cave-man quality to it -- right?

Just Wondering: #45RS2

Big, big, big, big, big question for my Mormon cousins: How can you raise children without the aid of caffeine and alcohol? 'Can't even get my mind around that one.

Soul Food Ain't Exactly Good for the Heart

You know your friend's a keeper when you have this discussion:
"So both our wives are out of town. Let's get something to eat tomorrow night."
Me: "Sounds good. With cocktails."
Friend: "Of Course. And you said you're getting your Cholesterol screening done tomorrow morning?"
Me: "Yep."
Friend: "Good. That's out of the way. So we're gonna have Publix fried chicken for dinner."
Me: "And potato salad!"
Friend: "Yeah. ... We don't need anything green, do we?"
Me: "Nah."

Hats off to you, Early Bird Diners

This past week I stayed in an historic lodge in Sebring, Florida that had seen better days. Peeling paint, threadbare bedspreads, a restaurant closed long ago. My wife has a phrase for places like this: faded splendor.
Splendor ... of the PAST. And maybe this is why the place was filled with senior citizens. Historic photos adorned the walls. There was a table with a jigsaw puzzle in the lobby. The coffee was weak for a generation that knew weak coffee because they had to stretch every food staple ...
... all which leads me to my point: that I have deep respect for most senior citizens. They and their parents helped build the greatest country on earth. They did so by working hard and sacrificing. Conversely, my Boomer generation is spoiled and narcissistic. We have morphed our wants into needs. I wonder: would we have the gumption to fight and win a world war as did our parents and grandparents?
So hats off to you, older Americans. I may make fun of your land yachts and your demands for free dinner rolls and your Sansabelt slacks, but you all have my thanks and respect for helping to create and sustain my own family's good life in this grand country.

From Stevie, my Kansas correspondent ...

Bedbugs are bad enough, but what if you found this on the chair in your hotel room as he did:
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Hmmmm.....Is there an eyelash registry out there for travelers to use?

Eye of the Tiger

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My high-school friend, Chalmers, invited me to his birthday party ... at a paintball park.
That's "Extreme Rage" written on top of this truck, which was the park's name until it recently was changed to "Oasis Paintball Park." Hilarious 190-degree name-change, don't you think? Did the new mayor come in and say, "If you don't change that angry serial-killer name we're going to come in and shut you down?"
At any rate, I was totally excited ... until I was handed a gun and mask and it dawned on me that this was NOT laser tag but instead a game in which people would shoot paint-filled bullets at me.Oh ... and it was in the woods. Full 360-degree exposure.Oh ... and my glasses did not fit under the mask, so I couldn't see a damned thing.The bruises don't last long, I was told. It didn't hurt THAT bad.
"How do I know who's on my team?" I said. Everyone looked alike: 17-year-olds in blue jeans and dark-colored shirts.
I found on the ground a long piece of plastic barrier tape. Bright pink. And I made everyone on my side tie a piece of it onto the barrel of their guns so I could tell they were on my side. "Okay," I said. "This is now officially the Susan B. Komen Shoot for the Cure."
In the end, I was the last standing member of my team ... probably because I took off running as fast as I could the second the bell went off to start the game. When I returned I found everyone in the "hit" holding pen and then realized it was up to me to win the game.
Except the only standing person on the other team was in a PAINTBALL UNIFORM! Hardcore dude with canisters of bullets around his belt.
Bang. I'm dead.

It's "Moonshine," you American idiots!

Over the past few decades we've slowly been replacing the incorrect American version of foreign cities' names with the proper, more native versions: Peking to Beijing. (I miss the word Peking, I really do.)
There's also Bombay to Mumbai (I miss the word Bombay, I really do.)
There are others; I just can't think of them.
For the record, my hometown of Burlington, Colorado is still Burlington.
And, interestingly, you know who hasn't jumped on this wagon? The Germans, of all people. Those fastidious sticklers for accuracy continue to let Americans absolutely butcher their fine cities' names.
Cologne is actually Koln (umlaut on the o, but I can't find the umlaut key). Koln is pronounced this say: push out your lips, keeping mouth open, and say "cool" with an "n" on the end.
And good 'ol Munich. The real pronunciation is actually closer to "moonshine." Honest. I took six years of the language....though I have no idea why.