who got this?

Tiffany calls and scolds me for not belching enough.

Confused at the receipt of such a message from my oldest, genetically-verifiable offspring, as any rational father would be, I ponder. [I listened when instructors in various Mormon-based classes told me to ponder perplexing matters.]

“What was that again?” I ask.

“You are not blogging.”

I think my eldest child burped. I blame Grandpa Thomas, who, I recall, was an avid burper. Perhaps Tiffany is suffering gastric distress consequential to a syndrome passed through me to my progeny? Perhaps she has succumbed to fermented spirits? Cheap Beer? Old Milwaukee? Excess Pepsi?

“I do….ah…burp, but I do it quietly,” I reassure my daughter.

“Blog!”

“Gesundheit!”

“No. BLOG.”

Pause.

“B-L-O-G!”

“Same to you.” Although disappointed, I appreciate that the belch was launched with admirable velocity.

“Dad, you are supposed to BLOG.” I’m scouring my memory for various bad-taste practices proscribed in the past that may be acceptable, and even encouraged, today. I recall that there are cultures someplace somewhere, where, after a hearty meal, while at the table, burping is a compliment to the chef. Moldavia, I think. I fake a belch. “How’s that?”

I hear a deep breath. Then a sigh. “You set up your blog at Courtney’s. You blogged there.”

“I did not blog at Courtney’s. She forgot to turn on the oven when she put the dead turkey in the oven, but I caught the error and ate nothing that wasn’t completely cooked. And I take Prilosec every morning.”

Tiffany is vexed. “What did you do at Courtney’s?” she asks, hoping to stimulate my memory.

I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and try to remember. It is a strenuous exercise. Just wait until you’re 60.

“I had my teeth worked on by Mike,” I say, rather conceited that I recalled the event. “Mike is a very skilled dentist; I slept through my appointment.”

“What happened before your appointment?” Trying to recall events at my age makes me as uncomfortable as Jerry Falwell at Hooters, but I try and do recall this:

We’re driving to Mike’s office. He’s manning the steering wheel of some ugly minivanthing like I work to earn money to pay for insurance for and to buy gas for. Linda sits in the back seat, quiet and submissive like all good women are.

“How did you wind up as a dentist?” I ask Mike.

“That’s what I ended up as after all that schooling.”

“Where did you go to school? You know- all the way back, grade school on.”

“Several places. Mainly back east”.

“What was your most memorable grade?”

Mike answers without hesitation. “That would be eighth grade.”

“In Junior high?”

“We called it middle school. Eighth grade was the three hardest years of my life.”

I recall that Mike seemed older than the other guys Courtney dated in college, but, having been reared in a good Republican home, I drop the subject.

Mike, on the other hand, and rather improbably, continues on somewhat boastfully.

“But I made it through. Later they sent me on a mission. They knew I wasn’t going to be a rocket surgeon, so the Church thought a mission would be good for me.”

“How old were you when you went.”

“Twenty eight.”

“They must have wanted you really bad.”

“Oh yeah. And let me tell you, when the Church wants you, they take you. Jerked me right out of high school. One day I’m sitting in a desk in sophomore English at Helen Keller High School in Westchester and the next day I’m sitting in a desk at the MTC in Provo. ”

Uncertain how to respond, I lay out a terrific banjo joke: “How do you tell if the stage is level? The banjo player drools from both sides of his mouth.” This, of course, brings hearty laughter.

That’s all I recall of my dental appointment so I tell Tiffany I’ll call Courtney to see if she suffers gastrointestinal maladies and try to get a handle on this blog business.

“Hi Courtney Beth.”

“Dad! Where are you at?”

“Well, I’m out walking with Banjo.”

“Where at?”

“Up by the pool and tennis courts on Austin Bluffs.”

“I don’t remember them being where you’re describing them at.”

“Oh.”

“Where are you going to?”

“Just down the street and back.”

“And where are you going from, you know, the place from where you left at?”

“Count from one to five, Courtney.”

“Why for?”

“You need a grammar refreshening.”

“I know good grammar and how to speak wherever I’m at, and you taught us not to use too many unnecessarily wordy redundancies with too many words to get across the point we’re making when we’re talking at someone or debating a point to argue our side of an issue that has more than one side to debate, it.”

“I’m wondering if I succeeded.”
“Yes, you did. You taught us to prepare to succeed successfully, to be successful successes irregardless of what we work at. Don’t worry; you prepared us for successfulness, and now we are succeeding in achieving that successfulness in whatever job we end up in, or wherever we do the job at. This is the proper order of events as they should occur — preparedness before success. After all, as I was learned by Aryn, the only place where success precedes preparedness is in the dictionary.”

I pause and take a deep breath. “Tiffany said I need to belch more.”

Courtney pauses and takes a deep breath.

“She claims you started me burping when I visited Sacramento.”

Courtney explained the confusion and told me what blogging is. I’d forgotten.

Five bucks to any and all who respond correctly the request to count from one to five. No cheating.