PAPATV

Swim, baby, swim

Recently, we started prenatal classes at Golden Bridge Yoga, which offers a more natural and holistic alternative to the more traditional antiseptic hospital class room.  Instead of folding chairs pushed together and harsh fluorescent lights, we relax on cushion couches spread out on the hardwood floor.  Lighting is soft and minimal.  Mantras spill out of the speakers of a small Ipod.  Marney, our teacher, sits cross legged on the floor.  She welcomes us with a smile that lights up her face.

This is more than a class; it's an experience.  As first time parents I'm immediately put to ease. 

Inside, though, I'm a big kid just itching to start.  My mind is charged.  This is something fresh, exciting, new.  I'm an addict for novelty. 

There are about six other couples in the room, mostly mid to late 30's.  (It's LA, after all.)  They hold hands, rub their pregnant bellies, and smile.  Their faces glow.  It's a reawakening of love.  It's couples on their first date.

I remember when Ana first showed me the class handout.  She had just come from prenatal yoga.  I looked at it and put it aside.  She immediately snatched it back up.  It could be the Bible.

"Did you read it?"
"I read that it was $210 dollars."

Which is funny considering what I wrote HERE.  But, of course, there was never any question of me taking the class. 

We are here for Sienna.  We are here for beautiful, perfect, and healthy.

Things get exciting quickly.  One of the biggest fears for a first time mother is pain.  This class is about laying fears to rest.  It's about finding calmness.  It's about empowerment. 

Instead of concentrating on fear, Marney asks "How do you handle your pain?"  Great question!  I grab my notebook and look around the room, ignoring the obvious fact that the question isn't directed at me but my pregnant counterparts.

First up is Angela whose covered with tattoos and, sure enough, she uses this as a jumping off point.   "I get tattooed a lot," she says to our laughter. "I don't know if I can compare getting a tattoo to having a baby but it's something to relate to, I hope."

Marney smiles and says "Yes, good point."  She will say this often throughout class.  "Good point."  "Excellent question."  It is reassuring and encourages us to more sharing.  We feel valid.

The sharing continues.  One woman says she focuses on something in the room and lets her pain fall away.  Another says it's okay to acknowledge pain, but allow it go through you, spread it throughout your whole body not just one area.  Another says she lights candles.  The woman beside her says she's created a play-list of songs she know the words to and "I sing them."  Another finds peace with aromatherapy.  Ana shares the secret of her essential oils.  "Lavender's really good."

"Yes, good point.  Good point."

Just when I'm about to lose faith with all these naturalistic yogi ways for addressing pain, we get to the last woman.  She looks around the room and throws up her arms.  "I don't do well with pain at all.  I go banshee."

Finally!  A woman after my own heart.  I make a mental note to buy her an Acai smoothie or some prayer beads after class.

Marney continues.  "It's important to remember pain doesn't last forever."  She smiles then adds, "A baby WILL come out, you WILL see a baby."

We smile.  Rub bellies.  Kiss foreheads.

Marney passes around a handout with more options for helping ease pain.  We talk about exercise, about breathing, changing position, massage, running baths and, yes, acupuncture. 

I immediately cross that off my list.

Marney continues.  "It's important to put the pain into perspective.  It's pain into production... Something will be the result...your baby."  She smiles at Heather whose expecting twins. "Or babies...It's not like a headache where there's only pain and the result is a headache."

...Of course, funny also helps.

"So work on your humor," Marney adds. "Or get yourself a funny friend."

Ana squeezes my hand.  Nice.  So now I'm her "funny friend".  Why can't she squeeze my hand to "or the guy who blows your mind away with hot, tantric sex."

Four big words

Awhile back, a friend asked me "What's the best quality you like about yourself?"  I answered, "That I'm easygoing."  She said, "Ok, what's your worst quality?"  And I answered, "That I'm easy going."

Okay, okay, I actually read that in a film script, but if I HADN'T read it, and a friend DID ask me, I'd have the same answer.  Because that's me all right: Mr Easy Breezy.

Last night something happened that made this pop into my head again. 

Ana was on the couch watching the Olympics and she said, "Do you want to have hot pregnant sex right now?"  Nikki's ears shoot up.

Actually, that didn't happen, either.  She said, "When's your family having their baby shower for us?"

PART A

I feel my stomach tighten.  This is Part A to a Part B question.  Part B's the prickly part.

"The 21st...Why, baby?" I add not because I don't know what she's about to ask, but because I DO, and I want to see if I can be out of earshot before she asks it.

"Where you going baby?"

"I think Nikki needs to go outside."

"Nikki's sleeping."

Nikki's on her bag, legs in the air.  Stupid dog.

"Later, baby.  I have something I need to ask you."

Here it comes...

Ever since my family announced they were having a baby shower for us, a sort of satellite bash for the non LA folk back in Kansas City, Ana's been on a mission to see what kinds of goodies we'll be receiving.  There's still a few big things we need. Key word: big.

That's where are fathers differ.  And our cultures collide.  Mr Castro gives generously.  He does not think about it.  He just gives.  Many South American families are like this.  Their Northern counterparts, on the other hand, and in my own experience, are different.  You do not ask Mr Papa for money.  You do everything but ask for money whether you need it or not.  You take what's given.  Then you call your sister.  "Melissa, dad just gave me forty bucks!"

PART B

Ana:  "...Because I was thinking we could just make up a list for them with a few of the big things we really, really need.  That's a good idea, no?"

Silence...

"We'll see..." I say.
"We'll ASK..." she says.

Which makes me laugh.  Because those four words say so much.  In fact, if someone were to ask me what's one difference between you and Ana in your relationship, I'd say there you have it.

So anyway...

Anyone want to guess who I'm calling tonight?

-- PAPA

What big difference is there between you and YOUR partner?  Or you and their family?

A Foreshadowing of Things to "COME"

A lot of people ask me: "PAPA, did you always know you were going to be a PAPA?"

I think about it for a minute.  Then I faintly recall...

There was this one trick I used to do when I was younger.  Really, really, younger...

Watch it now.

-- PAPA

What's your secret talent?

Stalking just got easier

You know when you stalk someone and you're like "God, I wish there was like a one-stop shop where I could go and learn EVERYTHING about that person?

Now there is.  If it's ME you're stalking. 

Neil Kramer over at Citizen of the Month did a little interview experiment, and I had the pleasure double the pleasure of being interviewed by rockstar and 80's Karaoke grand champion legend: preTzel.  She's also been a mother for 19 years!

You can find the full interview HERE.

Go read the interview, explore her site, and see which posts she voted most popular.  Leave your own answers in the comments. 

Warning: You may never look at your Oral B toothbrush the same.

Spin, spin sugar

Ana and I are having a debate.  It's about leftovers.

Imagine you have a Baby Shower and your neighbors bring food.  Lots of food.  Imagine the party is over and you have leftovers.  Lots of leftovers.  Do you bring the leftovers BACK to your neighbors?  Or do you eat them and return the empty plates (washed, of course) at a later date?  Before you answer, let me add one final twist: we are talking a culture smorgasbord.  Brazilian, American, and Armenian.  For example, what is the leftovers protocol in Brazil?  Do they say "Nice party, great time...now give us back our leftovers."

What do YOU do?  Take the quick poll.

Ana's convinced we should bring the leftovers back.  Her logic is: "There's so much food, therefore, they want it back."  Even though I've learned Pregnant woman are always right, I waver.  "Whoa, if you bring the leftovers back they might perceive that as an insult like 'Your food was good, BUT I'm giving it back to you.'...Let's just finish it".  Ana says "No, no, no" you weren't here.  They want it back."

How can I argue against something that I wasn't part of?  Actually, funny enough, people do it all the time.  Welcome to Corporate America.

So we gather the leftovers, all four trays of them, and take them back. 

Ding!  Dong!

Our neighbors open the door and stare at us with blank faces.  Ana, unaware, starts to hand them the food. 

Our neighbors: "Those are for YOU." 

Ana grabs the trays from my hands and puts them on their table.  "I know.  Thank you.  We like them so much that's why we want to share with you because you have a big family and you didn't get that much."

Did I tell you Ana's major was marketing?  She a master spinner.  (Oh and Sienna's really craving chocolate wafer cookies lately.)

Anyway, back on scene.  Confusion.  Awkwardness .  Papa the Peacemaker, a role I was born to play, springs into action.

I pull out paper and pen.  Every peacemaker, every adept peacemaker knows: switch the focus, switch the mood.  I pass the pen around. 

"Can you do me a favor, please?" I say, handing one of the girls, the shy-est and most likely to comply, the blank piece of paper.  "Can you write your names down because we're sending out thank- you cards, and I want to make sure we spell your names correctly." 

Well, guess what?  Their names are not Yseult, or Cimberleigh, or Edwinnah -- you know, difficult names -- so now not only have I insulted them, I've made a complete ass of myself.  Like I don't know their names.  They look at me with blank faces.

Crickets in the background.

Switch the focus, switch the mood.

I point to the white bakery box. "That cake you brought was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.  Where did you get it?"  Which leads (slowly) to "We have their business card" which leads to "Awesome!" which leads to "Do you want more cake, we bought it for you?" which leads to "Yes, please  -- oh, (the light goes on) and a big, big slice of that five layer jello." 

-- PAPA

Special Thanks to: Nvard, Silvia, Margarit, Anna, Lucy, Karine, Nvard, Maria, Yvonne, Leticia, Dani, Silvia, Hana, Adrianna, Patricia, & Michelle.

The Big Day

Tomorrow's the big day.

No, not the BIG, BIG day.  That's still two months away.  (We think.  Sienna's boss there.) 

Tomorrow fifteen women will descend upon our home -- BUT I "can't be here".  Which would, of course, suck BIG "you know what" except it's not that kind of party.  It's...

The Baby Shower.

And that means one thing: SPOTLESS.  As in the apartment must be absolutely perfect -- 100% clean --before tomorrow.

Ana shows me the breakdown:

The best part's not that she's delegated everyone duties, or that she's assigned "dusty" as one of them, but she's even recruited K (Key), our Japanese home stay.  Works for me!

I grew up middle class, so I'm certainly no stranger to cleaning.  My mom was the ultimate perfectionist and thus an expert at making up some mean cleaning lists (vacuum the ceilings, wipe the toothpaste off the cap, clean the toilet, underneath, too!), but Ana takes the cake. 

I examine the list again.  Clean the oven?   Wipe the blinds?  Switch out the kitchen drawer liners?  ALL of them.  I haven't been to too many baby showers, in fact, I haven't been to any baby showers, but I can't imagine switching out the kitchen drawer liners tops that many lists.   

"When's your baby shower?" 
"Sunday."
"Don't forget to switch out your kitchen drawer liners."

Or cleaning the oven.  Babe, did you have to save the best for me?   Is there some kind of secret payback involved here?  I mean the oven was doing fine before, right?  Just yesterday we had a California Pizza Kitchen and it came out hot, right?  Remember how you said "Careful, let it cool."  That was the oven.  Working.

When I open it up, it laughs, mocking me.  "Haha, can't hide from me any longer, bitch!"  It's a big black hole.  It's a thousand black holes full of burnt pizzas crusts, tater tots, and melted cheese. 

No, it's the dark portal from Being John Malkovich.

I have to clean THAT?  How do I even start?  Couldn't we just wait?...Until the next tenant?

I can hear the ladies now. 

"Looove the apartment.  Love it!  But the stove -- OMG!  So dirty!  How do they live?"

Ladies, you don't really notice stuff like that, do you?  Do you?

As far as the blinds go...well, that's just as easy as ...

I pull down the string, bunching up the blinds.  There. "Done."

K laughs.  Ana bites down on some ice.  "Not funny."

Of course all this is is just me delaying it.  The hardest part is starting.  I've heard cleaning can be fun and therapeutic.  I've heard it, I've never seen it.  Or experienced it.

I know what I need.  Music!  I throw on some Tiesto. 

Then -- gun shot -- I'm off.  I grab my Mr Clean and I'm Mr Phelps -- off to set another world record.  I spray, I shine, I mop, I dust.  I fill up the bucket.  I empty it.  I move stuff, I move it back.  Half the battle's just putting stuff away.  It would be great to just push everything under the bed like I did when I was a kid but there's no room.  Even the balcony's filling up.  And we're getting MORE stuff? 

With all this hard work, you think Nikki would help?

Nope.  Not a chance.  Not without some Pupperoni's.  Besides, HER name wasn't on the list.  Lucky bitch. 

Surprisingly, the cleaning goes fast.  Three hours later, I finish.  And while I wouldn't call it therapeutic, there's a sense of accomplishment.  I feel good. 

To celebrate, I grab a cold Corona out of the fridge.  Then it hits me.  "I'm done." 

I. AM. DONE!

Question is: What am I doing tomorrow?

-- PAPA

Friendly Reminder

"Did you do your Kegel's today?"

"I forgot, baby."

"Do I have to put a note on the toilet?"

"Might be a good idea."

Okaaaaay...

******************************

And Ana's reaction?

Watch it now.

Celebrity sighting at Target

OMG!  Is that -- ?  Is that --  ?  Is that...PAPA?!!!  Holy shit, that's totally PAPA!! 

That's right, Targetphiles.  That's ME.  And not only am I pushing around twenty pounds of Pampers, look at that smile smacked on my face.  I'm owning that Diaper Aisle. 

I've come along way, baby.

A couple years ago, spending an entire evening at Target stocking up on baby wipes and diaper genies and ass thermometers would be tantamount to asking me to give you a ride to LAX or watching your one man Improvisation sketch show.

Not going to happen.

With or without the free tickets.

Now I say?  Bring it on!  That's huge.  Part of being successful at something is seeing yourself doing it already.  I don't just see myself as a dad.  I see myself as a kick-ass Papa.

So shit in those diapers!  Bust them wide open.  Daddy's got your back.

Hear that, Sienna?

That's not to say I don't have room to learn.

When I see Diaper Genie on Ana's list, I think I'm doing a favor by throwing it in the cart.  She nearly jumps out of her skin as she grabs the box.  I think she's having a heart attack. 

"No, no!  It has to be number II."

She points to the red "II" on the box.  Apparently, there's a Diaper Genie 1...and a Diaper Genie 2.  I see two plastic trash cans.  And a six dollar difference.

"It looks the same."

"It's different. 

"How?"

"Well..., one is...and the other is..."

Fill in the dots.

"And it's the one Leticia told me to get."

Agh...Okay.  One thing I've learned: Pregnant woman are always right.

I remove the Diaper Genie I from the cart.  Ana's heart resumes normal beating.

We carry on looking at more cute little shirts, dresses, and shoes.  Everything is cute and little. 

"Look at this cute, little __________"  (Fill in the blank.)

Of course anything small is cute, except maybe dwarfs.

Ana tosses some more cuteness into the cart.

But after awhile, I reach my point.  The new role is great, but even I have my limits.  That's when I tell Ana we need to get one more thing.

"For Sienna?"

"For me."

And I steer the cart towards Home Improvement.

Right past the drills.  I grab a big man drill and shake it.

The big man tool feels good in my hand.

My heart resumes normal beating.

I might be packing the Pampers, but, damn, if I'm not going to rock out the Power drill.

-- PAPA

OMG! I TOTALLY just got FRANKED!

Before there was MARRIED (ALMOST) PAPA, before there was ENGAGED PAPA, before there was BIG DADDY PAPA there was...

PLAYER PAPA.

Okay, so maybe SINGLE PAPA is a little more accurate.

Introducing the SINGLE PAPA SERIES...Life: pre-preggers.

My friend Karl's asked me to do a guest post over at his blog Secondhand Tryptophan and like the big whore (for attention) I am, I instantly accepted. 

A small excerpt:

"Somewhere between rejuvenated vagina’s and double nipple piercings, “getting franked” comes up. Intrigued, but playing it totally casual, I ask “What’s ‘Getting Franked’”? And Deirdre proceeds to explain.

Awhile back, she met this guy Frank.  They had sex and ..."

To find out what it means "To get Franked" or to see if you've ever been "Franked", or if YOU are a "Frank", CLICK HERE NOW!

You'll never look at his sex face the same way again.

-- PAPA

************************************

You can see all the comments on this post HERE. (Apparently, there's been a whole lot of Franking going on.)

Not THAT kind of Massage

I love massages.  I love back massages.  I love shoulder massages.  I love feet massages.  I really love head massages.  (Stop, just stop.) 

Basically, I'm a fan of anything that's simple and relaxing, and not too deep.  You'll never see me getting a Swedish deep tissue rub down for the same reason that I don't have any tattoos.  I believe in the pleasure principle.  All pleasure, all the time.  I like lotions and creams and oils.  (But no Peppermint!) Soft music?  Bring it on! 

Only ONCE have I had a professional massage.

When I was younger I used to pay my sister Aimee for a massage.  I'd just got a job bagging groceries at Safe-way for $7 bucks an hour and even though I loved buying books and Cd's, I needed something to accompany them.  Like a cold Corona when you're sprawled on the beach in your chaise lounge.  So I cut her a deal.  You give me an hour massage, I'll give you 4 bucks.  Before you scream "Bloody Jesus!", remember: I had a job, she didn't.  She loved food, I was creating a means for her to buy it.  As much as I liked massages, she liked 7-11 Slur-pees.   

And Aimee was an expert masseuse.  In fact, she was so good that after awhile an hour wasn't long enough.  Sounds really bad but I quickly learned how to stretch it even longer.  I'd say something like "Are you tired?"  And she'd ask, "Why?" 

"Because I haven't felt anything for the last ten minutes."
"My hand hurts."
"My back hurts.  C'mon, just five more minutes." 

And I'd squeeze five more minutes out of her.  It pays being the bigger brother.

That lasted until I hit high school when having a younger sister was no longer cool.  My next masseuse was my high school girlfriend.  That's when I learned a very valuable lesson: sometimes massages can start out a massage and end up somewhere totally differently.  And you didn't always have to use your hands. 

After that my massages were just an excuse to explore.  I tried to be good but my fingers were just too curious.  My mind too naughty.  It didn't help if the room was dark and we were in bed and her shirt was off and ... I always knew the girls that just wanted to be friends.  When my hands would start to "investigate", they'd say "Whoa, where do you plan on taking those?"  At the time I had absolutely no game, so I'd say "Um, nowhere!" and instantly withdraw my hand. 

Other times -- the very, very few -- I'd be on the receiving end just praying that she (whomever she was at that moment) would go there.  I'd help her out with subtle hints.  I'd lean into fingers, arch my ass in the air, exclaim "Oh....." when she got anywhere close but it rarely worked.  Instead, she'd stop and in a really chirpy voice say "Okay, your turn."  Damn.  At least I tried.

And then there was Ana. 

Elephant Man Strikes Again!

Twice in the same week!

And now he has a posse.

Step forward, Elephant Man!  Introduce yourself.

Yes, can I help you please?

Nikki: "Certainly.  I'll be having the Saumon Tartar with the Roulade de Fromage de Chèvre, a glass of Perrier, chilled, twist of lime.  And a fork."

Date night.

At least once a week, Ana and I try and step away from the daily madness that is life and celebrate US.  It's not always planned and, in fact, more often than not, it happens something like this:

"Baby, all the dishes in the sink are dirty, and there's no clean pans."
"Want to have date night?"

or

"You're going to make Lasagna?  It's 8:15!"
"Want to have date night?"

Date night is a chance to step away from the kitchen, the laundry, the dirty dishes, the TV, the Internet, everything except, well...

Nikki. 

Lately I find her joining us more and more.  Ana plays the sympathy card like a true expert.

"Baby, she's been inside all day.  She needs the fresh air."

Is Nikki a plant?

But it's okay.  I get it.  Because even though Ana may not notice, I realize what's happening.  Nikki's become surrogate Sienna.  Mommy's little girl.  And don't think for a moment, she's not loving it.  Nikki sleeps in the bed, she's the first to be served dinner, she's carried, coddled, kissed, dressed -- and, we're constantly picking up her shit.  But just wait.  Wait until Sienna's born.  Then it's a whole new story.  Nikki's in for a rude awakening.  Or maybe it's us that should be worried.

Anyway, this is all to say that Date Night has changed.

Before Sienna, Before Surrogate Sienna  -- Date night was a simple equation.

Date = Dinner
Night = Sex

Now things are a little different.  First off, there's no drinking.  (For her, anyway.  I still enjoy a drink from time to time.)  Second, because there's no drinking, dinner is usually the last stop.  Then it's Homeward Bound.  Sometimes a movie or some late night store browsing, but that all depends on her energy level.  Which is fine.  I totally understand.  Pregnant woman tire easily, I've learned.  Their back hurts.  Their feet swell.  They get headaches.  But no one ever warned me about the secret symptom.  Pregnant woman, I see you smiling.  You know the one I'm talking about.  Yes, gas.

And it hits the moment you get home.  On the couch, while I'm giving you a foot massage!

Ana surprises me with one of her best performances in memory.  She can't stop apologizing.  Neither can she stop the assault.  Gas. Apology. Gas. Apology.  Gas. Gas. Gas.

Help!

Nikki catapults off the couch onto my lap.

I grab a pillow and pretend to take cover.  I hold Nikki closely.  She scratches at my leg.

Ana laughs.  She keeps laughing.  Finally, I can't take it any longer.

"What?"

She smiles. "Guess that means you're the one taking her out."

-- PAPA

What's one of your best/worst/funniest dates?   Details!  Details!  Details!

I'm going to PUMP you up

Awhile back I wrote a letter and mailed it.

The letter was to myself.

It read:

    Dear B:

You rock!  You're an awesome writer and people will read you because you're
smart and you're funny, and you're definitely not ugly.  People need you in their
lives.  You make them laugh and remind them not to be so serious.  Be patient.
Who cares if you don't get a lot of readers right away, you will.  Just keep writing
and laughing and remembering what that one guy said on youtube who's a teacher
and has cancer "that brick walls are there for a reason -- they keep you out only if
you're not truly passionate about something."  But you are.  And that's why you're
writing this and it's 1:30 in the morning.  Tonight you're going to set your alarm and wake up tomorrow and kick ass and even though you have to go to work -
remember, you still have 6 sick days.  So write!  And kick that bitch ass brick
wall down! 

    Signed
    Brian M. Papa

Yes, I actually signed my name.

But let's rewind.  There's a reason I wrote the letter.  For some reason or another that day, I was stuck in a weird funk, all Debbie Downerish and shit which is totally not like me at all.  I'm Captain Positivity.  It bothered me that I wasn't ON.  And that I couldn't do anything to shake it.  I felt fake and weak, like I was being a fraud to my true self.  Like Batman trading in his bat cape for a Ed Hardy Skull V-neck.  Rather than confront myself and give in to these draconian thoughts, I kept pacing and pacing.  Suddenly, I had an idea.  Why not completely shift my mindset?  Anthony Robbins does it all the time. Why not write myself a letter, list all the reasons why I'm great, or as many as I can think of, and then mail it?  Then, one day, when I was feeling crappy or having an off day, the letter would arrive and Poof! I'd instantly be cheered up.  Kick fucking ass, right?

Naturally, with any great plan there were a few flaws that still needed to be fleshed out.  First, I couldn't mail the letter to myself, otherwise, what was the point?  I'd get the letter back the next day or the day after.  How anti-climactic is that?  Besides, I'd just written the letter!  I was flying high.  High! Chances of a sudden depression in the next 24 to 48 hours -- very, very slim.

For my plan to work, then, I need someone I trusted, an intermediary.  Someone that basically needed to fulfill two criteria: A) Receive the letter at an established residence (most of my friends are constantly changing zip codes, so it would defeat my purpose if the letter came back to me with "Return to Sender"); B) Mail the letter back to me within a randomly established date of 25-75 days -- WITHOUT READING IT.  Actually, I know if someone asked me to do a similar favor (but no one ever has, so I guess I'm the only crazy one) there's a good 70% chance I'd read it, even greater if I'd given myself some time (and drinks) to think about it, so I made it a point to stop worrying if they read it or not.  Who cares? 

Just as long as I received it back.

For all my new Readers...A PAPATV Picture Tutorial

Once upon a long time ago, a dashing James Papa and a dazzling Kathleen Reger came together, got married, and celebrated their love.  And celebrated again.  And again, and again...and six more times until a most beautiful thing occurred.

They had a baby boy: ME. 

Boy was my Dad glad to have a boy.

I was a very happy boy.  My future was bright.  My kitchen floor, too.

Mom and Dad must have been so happy with me because they kept celebrating and celebrating and soon there were three more of us.  My mom shouted each one out to the world. Grandma yelled "Hot, Damn!" and threw another one of our pictures on the fireplace mantel.

We were your typical Midwestern family growing up in the 80's with your typical car, typical house, and typical red shutters for that house.

We even had a dog, too.

Actually, that's me in an Elephant costume Mom made for Halloween.  My sisters loved playing dress up.  Me -- not so much.

We grew up quickly.  Mom taught us good values: how to respect others, finish what's on your plate, sit up straight, and write your name really, really nice.

Midwesterners love the word nice.

On our very first vacation, Mom bought me a camera.  A big, big camera.  A Polaroid.  She said "See Dad's boat.  Take a picture of it.  And Dad's sideburns.  Take a picture of that, too.  Take lots of pictures, so you can remember it when you're older."

But first she wanted to take a picture of me WITH my camera. 

Mom's favorite expression was "Drink your milk, "Drink your milk."  I asked why and she said "So you can be tall" and I said "How tall?" and she said...

As tall as the Xmas tree!!!  (Mom didn't really say this.)  Besides, it was a fake Xmas tree.

And then when things were sailing along and everything was smooth and hunky dory, something totally unexpected came along and smacked us in the face: Mom got breast cancer and died.

Just like that.  Gone.  I stopped snapping photo's.  I went inside.  I cried.  Cried.  Cried.  How do you go on playing when you've lost your loudest cheerleader? 

Picture: an empty soccer field.

But life goes on...and I moved to New Yawwk.  I was going to be a screenplay writer...or something.  Who moves to New York to write screenplays?   But I did pick up a dog, a real dog.  I called her Nikki. 

Nikki's the shit.  And she could hold her shit until she determined whether a girl I was dating was worth her shit or not.  Then she let drop.  And always in the loser's home court.  Nikki's loyal like that.

I 9-6'd briefly at a Non-profit but the non profit part of my paycheck was too abysmal, so I left.  On my way out, I made a friend named New York Steve who would later become Sacramento Steve but not before he was Hawaii Steve. 

I waited tables, so I could wait...to make up my mind about "What next?".

Meanwhile, I took pictures.  I was down.  But not down and out.

Searching, more searching, all the way to the Land of the Lost Free Spirits.  Where else? 

LA.

I started writing again.  They say your true path never goes away it just gets buried.  Okay, but where?

It wasn't at Avalon, or Hyde Lounge, or The Saddle Ranch...or Manhattan Beach, for that matter.  And it most certainly wasn't at my new desk job.

Hollywood, you sneaky, little bitch.

Then it happened.  I met Ana..  Immediately, we clicked.  She said funny things like when she brought me coffee in bed the first time I stayed over and said "If you want creamer it's in the fridge, and the fridge is in the kitchen."  She kept spitting out the sayings.  I kept writing them down.  Nikki didn't shit for three days.

Finally, I had someone to share my life with.  But it was more!  She let me be me.  And the stupider and the crazier I was, the more she loved it.

I had found my cheerleader.

We moved in together, we took trips, we shopped at Ikea.

Papa!  Papa!  Where's the pictures?

But don't you see?  I'm writing!  I'm writing!

Then one day at work she called and said "Guess what?" 

And I said, "No, we're not getting another dog."

She laughed and said "Congratulations, Mr. Papa!"

And I said, "Are you sure?"

And she said, "Yes,"

And I said, "Shut the front door!"

Or something Midwestern like that.

And that's when PAPATV began...

You can learn more here.

So join the celebration and keep reading!  And if you know someone or sixty-two someones who might enjoy a good laugh, email them this link and put in the SUBJECT: Oprah VIP Tickets or Free Chipotle Burrito! or Tax Rebate check!

Trust me, they'll read it.

-- PAPA

What pictures would you use to tell YOUR STORY?

Missing: Phone charger, watch, car keys...

Lately things at home keep disappearing.  Or showing up in strange places.  Or simply not at all.

Like Ana's phone charger...which she knows for a fact -- one-hundred percent -- was plugged into the wall next to the bed.

"I remember exactly.  So you must have moved it...accidentally."

I laugh, enjoying her subtle transition from full out accusation to cushioning blow.  She's smart, my woman.

"But why would I move it?"

"Maybe you thought it was yours."

"Mine's in my bag."

"Oh, so maybe mine, too."

"I guarantee you it's not."

"But can you look?"

And round and round we go. 

We start looking again.  Well, I do.  She sits on the couch reading because "How am I supposed to find something I didn't move?"

Turns out she's right.  She HAD plugged it into the wall.  But...after a half hour searching every corner of the apartment including closets and under the bed, I learn with laughter (hers) that she must have somehow (laughter) unplugged it (laughter) and put it in her sock drawer (laughter). 

"But I totally don't remember.  Isn't that funny, baby?"

Yes, hilarious.  (unlaughter)

This is just one of many mysterious occurrences lately.  There have been more.  Like putting Special K in the refrigerator but leaving the milk on the counter.  Or getting on the 10East instead of the 110South to go see Amma. 

Or looking for her flip flops, no, not those, her silver flip flops.

"The one's right next to you?"

"Oh, yeah, those."

Laughter.  (Hers)

Who knew pregnant woman could be so entertaining?  Tonight, though, clinches it.  Turns out there's a reason for her madness.

Ana's on the couch reading the classic "What to Expect when you're Expecting" which I bought two days ago to surprise her.  Full into her pregnancy, six months now, my gifts a little late, but better late than never, right?

"What's this 'absentiomeendeded'?" 

"What?"

She takes a few more stabs at the word but her accent's too thick.

I grab the book.  "What is it?" 

Then, I see the word.  I laugh, pronounce the word slowly.  "It's absentmindedness".

"What's that mean, baby?"

Having a non-native English speaking fiance never stops being fun.

"It means forgetting stuff all the time and leaving it everywhere." Then because I can't resist a good opportunity when I see one, I add "like your phone charger the other day, or my keys that you accidentally put in your purse."

She laughs.  "But I'm not so bad am I, right?"

"Baby, the other day you left the stove on.  And turned the kitchen light off."

"Oh, yeah..."  She laughs, then suddenly becomes serious.  "And I lost my watch at the beach."

"The one you had forever."

"Oh, I'm still upset." 

She looks at her bare wrist.

"Oh, yeah.  And I left the laundry downstairs."

"I forgot about that."

She cracks a smile.  "Baby, it's strange, no?"

I laugh.  She yawns, eases off the sofa.

"Baby, I'm going to go to bed."

Kiss.  Kiss. 

"Goodnight."

Ten seconds later, from the bathroom:

"Baby...do you know where you put the toothpaste?"

-- PAPA