Tagged: commute

Two Easters

ONE YEAR AGO…

I awoke to a pixie whisper in my ear. “Daddy!” my daughter hissed. “I fink da Easter Bunny came!”

“He did?” I yawned. “Well, I guess we’d better go wake up your brother and see what he left you. Do you want to?”

“Yes!” she hissed. “Yes, Daddy! I do!”

“Shh!” On the other side of the bed, my wife did a half-kick as she insisted, “Wait. I need five minutes. My stomach’s killing me.”

I plodded alongside my skipping daughter across our one-story rental house’s living room (past the two baskets expertly hidden by the Easter Bunny) and into my son’s room to begin the twenty-minute process of waking him from a sound sleep.

Aside from it being Easter Morning, 2014, this was pretty much business as usual–my daughter being the first one awake, my wife wanting “five more minutes,” and my son seconding his mother’s sentiments by demanding the remainder of the day to sleep, as he had already “telled me firty-seven times” to “stop talking to me. I don’t want to do nuffing!”

Sure, my world was pretty nuts, but things were also looking up. With the Twins in a school we’d grown quite fond of and my doctoral coursework in the bag, I had just taken a job I was fairly happy with–one requiring me to wear a tie and commute 45 minutes to downtown Phoenix. While I was not particularly a fan of the obscene amount of time I was spending ironing, attempting to color-coordinate shirt-tie-pants-socks-shoes combos, and coming to a complete stop on the freeway, I was very much a fan of the sudden influx of real, actual grown-ass man income I was earning after slumming it as a student worker for years.

This was also about the point when I had about 30 pages of my dissertation written, and was just starting to kick my own ass every frickin’ night once the Twins went to bed with ice-cream-and-beer-fueled “THIS!IS!SPARTA!” thesis-writing binges usually lasting until about two in the morning. Although the topic of my wife and me having more kids would occasionally come up from time to time, it was primarily as a ridiculously funny joke, as several medical professionals had deemed our reproductive organs to be barren wastelands of fossilized sperm with no tails and one of those egg cartons everyone leaves on the grocery store shelf because it got dropped by that guy who wasn’t paying attention while he was checking the expiration date because he was obnoxiously talking on his cell phone about his entire life story for everyone in the store to hear. These, of course, are highly technical medical terms.

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If MacGyver Were a Ninja…

If MacGyver were a ninja, he’d be unstoppable. His unmatched improvisational found-item remedies have gotten him out of many a jam, and if melded with the stealth, agile, disciplined strength of a ninja, he would be vulnerable only to Chuck Norris and God himself.

Ninja MacGyver

Ninja MacGyver's mullet would flow freely, unencumbered by his mask.

Now let’s say someone besides Ninja MacGyver were to exhibit these qualities. It would inspire an amalgam of awe, respect, and just a dash of fear in this amazing individual’s fellow man, right?

You’re darn tootin’.

Well, I am here to tell you that I have found such a person, and that I am he.

Ninja MacGyver Twinfamy

Allow me to explain.

We moved this past weekend, and while moving is never the greatest thing since Al Gore single-handedly invented the Internet, we’re thrilled with our new place. Sure, many of its major appliances were either nonexistent (washer and dryer) or broken (dishwasher and refrigerator) when we arrived, but we’ll get there. The important part–the reason we moved–is that we’re back in Phoenix. For financial reasons, we moved 30 minutes away from our family, friends, and civilization in general a year ago. The hour-long round trip essentially forced us to be more antisocial than we’d prefer, cramming multiple events, errands and visits into marathon weekends with the Twinfants and their feeding/changing/playing accessories in tow. While the constant commute wore on us, the Twins made it all worth it.

But now we’re back, and the country roads that took us home to a place we didn’t belong are fading from memory, as if all a bad dream.

However, the week before we achieved manifest destiny, I entrusted the Twinfants to the care of their Grandma and made trips to the new house to drop off fragile items (you know, ice sculptures, taxidermic animals, cinderblocks…) and make preparations to facilitate the influx of boxes we are still tripping over. One of these tasks was to acquire and program new garage door remotes since we were not left any by the previous occupants.

I’d done this before and selected my go-to universal remote, as it is one of few automated products with instructions that actually mean it when they say setup only takes five minutes. Behold the Chamberlain Clicker:

Anterior View

Posterior View

However, the five minutes it usually takes to sync this remote was thwarted by the bane of many consumers, the dreaded plastic packaging:

Manufactured Sadism

Upon seeing this, I thought, No problem. I’ll just go get the scissors… Oh. Sh!t.

It was at that moment I realized I had no scissors.

I had no knife.

All I had was the aforementioned fragile odds and ends we were too lazy to box.

I wasn’t about to drive 30 minutes back to our other house and 30 minutes back, and after spending three hours store-hopping for new house supplies, I really didn’t want to buy new ones, especially since we already own five.

My gut reaction was to channel my inner Larry David.

But after a deep, calming breath, I decided to survey the house and see what I had to work with. None of my keys were sharp enough, and too-thin picture-hanging nails left in the walls were also a bust. Even Christopher’s (our mounted sabre tooth tiger) fangs were too dull. I paced from room to room, about to give up.

Then, a heavenly beacon of light shone upon these:

Yeah, that's right. Ninja swords.

I’ve stated previously that my wife and I are ninjas, but I’ve suspected your skepticism, O Loyal Reader. Maybe now you’ll believe me.

Enlarged to show badass detail.

A smile slashed clear through my peeved demeanor. YES.

This life-changing moment immediately reminded me of a certain Bruce Willis scene in Pulp Fiction.

Figuring it would give me the most leverage (and since I have nothing to prove phallically) I selected the shortest blade.

What now, inanimate object?

I strategically positioned it.

This angle allowed me to pull the other end toward me while jabbing forward.

Before the first incision.

Then, remembering my internship with Pai Mei, I harnessed my chi and lashed forward in one powerful, lighnting-quick motion.

The moment of penetration (huh-huh), as captured by my high-speed camera.

Kee-yah!

The impenetrable seal had been vanquished. The heavens sang.

VICTORY!

Out of respect for my adversary, I switched to more civilized hand-to-hand combat to finish it off.

Good night, sweet prince.

Between Semi-Durable Plastic and Stay-at-Home Ninja MacGyver, I am The Deadliest Warrior.

Having watched his brother fall to a gruesome demise, the package for the second remote was already waving a white flag as I scissor-kicked towards it. No contest.

The battle won, I flaunted my bounty in an elaborate procession to the garage, where I found the garage door opener sealed shut with Phillips head screws.

And I had no screwdriver.

I eyed the sword for a moment. Maybe if I… No. Bad idea.

Sighing in defeat, I backflipped into the house and started looking for a Phillips head.

.

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If not, you probably shouldn’t say it out loud. I may hear you.