You Heard Me!

Not too long ago, I talked about how I don't believe in swear words. In there, or at least it should have been in there, was a tacit acknowledgment that I'm well aware that my feelings on this are very much in the minority. I try to temper my language accordingly.

But of course, there was always the etiquette/protocol/what-have-you about what one could say in front of your parents.

I remember saying "cock-knocker" at a New Years Eve party when I was about 11 or so. I didn't even know what I was saying. I was parroting a movie (Stand By Me). I got it good for that one. I probably got it worse for yelling "CHILD ABUSE!" when my father started giving me a butt smacking, but cut the kid me some slack...I had no clue what I said was "wrong" at the time. Both cock-knocker and yelling abuse.

My father was the more lenient of the two parental units, by far. My mother wouldn't tolerate the use of "sucks," in the context of something being bad, or unfavorable. She was always a bit old-fashioned, though. A few months before she died, we were at a family gathering. She made some remark that was startlingly quaint, and I asked her if she was actually able to hear us all the way back there in the '50s.

Once, while driving her back from somewhere or another, as we were close to home (I know exactly where for my readers who are geographically inclined to know: the stop light off the Rt 10 S Furnace Branch Road exit ramp), I dropped a fuck in to a sentence. I immediately got the earful. Unfortunately for her, she summed it up with "what if I were to just say it, huh? Fuck! What do you think of that?" Ruined her poor argument, as I retorted, "I think it's pretty funny, and kinda cool." Ah, Mom. The woman who told me only weeks before she died that she didn't think I'd like a guy like George Carlin because he was so "blue." As in his language, not his mental state of mind.

Now, Dad...well, he could curse with the best of them. Kind of like the father from "A Christmas Story." Except he was pretty careful not to drop the f-bomb around me. But hells, damns, sonuvabitches...dropped like crazy. But I remember distinctly when I learned how lenient he would be with me. I was probably right over the age of 18. I think had I been under 17 he'd been more strict, out of the notion that 18 magically makes you an adult. But we were in our backyard, and moving these cinder blocks. I dropped one on my foot. My reaction was as natural to me as scratching an itch, or blinking. "OW FUCK!" sums it right up.

Pause. Dad looks at me. Sizes me up. "What did you just say?"

No hesitation, I look at him and say "You heard me! I said fuck, I just dropped a cinder block on my foot!"

He gives me a another sizing up, followed up with a patented father stare/appraisal that I think is imprinted in the Raeke DNA, then when I don't back down, says, "That's what I thought you said. Just don't say that in front of your mother."

Fuckin' duh, Dad.

Tales From The Past: Bananas, Bananas, Those Freakin' Bananas.

As anyone who knew me from 1996-2004 can personally attest, if there was one thing I detested beyond anything else was bananas. Not the taste, nor the fruit itself, really. But the fact that I was the banana fetcher.

See, my mother had muscle cramping. Her doctor said it was from low potassium, and said the easiest way to remedy that would be to eat more bananas. So, no matter where I would be, and it would always seem to be the most annoying or inopportune moment (like 11pm at night), I'd get a page (yes, in the days of pagers) or a cell call from my mother telling me to pick her up some bananas.

Oh, how many times did I rail against the yellow, slightly curved, loved by primates fruit. Those damn bananas, man. You know how they say you spend X amount of time in your life sleeping, in line, etc? I think I spent 10% of my life fetching freakin' bananas. That and milk, but we've all had to make late milk runs. You know how much of a dumbass you look like at a grocery store at 11:30 at night with a bunch of bananas...and only a bunch of bananas?

My mom's been gone for over a year now. But I still get a chill down my spine when I see a banana, smell a banana, someone talks about a banana.

I still eat 'em though. I'm a monkey at heart, after all.

I Think It's Been Long Enough...

And I honestly need to let this out, catharsis if you will.

I killed my mother.

Not literally. I'm not Norman Bates. However, I had to "make the call."

They day she died, I was working a football game. Right after halftime, I got an odd call from a doctor at the hospital she was in at the time. Mostly odd because he was hard to understand. Anyway, he was telling me that she was having breathing problems, and that they wanted to put her on a respirator. However, she didn't seem to be in her right mind, and so they were calling the people who were in her living will. My aunt, and me. They couldn't reach my aunt. I immediately froze up, and had no clue what to do. The doctor told me they could temporarily use CPAP as a form of respiration until we could assess it better. I okay'ed that, then after a few minutes of frantic contemplation, called my aunt. Between the two of us, we figured she needed to go to the hospital (she was much closer, I was 30 minutes away) and figure out what was happening.

The next 20 minutes or so was agonizing. I sat on the floor of the 3rd floor of the Unitas Stadium press box, by the windows near the elevators, outside of the Presidents private suite. Thankfully I knew the woman manning the door, and the woman who basically organized those suite events during games. They both "took care of me" during that time, getting me water and stuff, while my awesome game day crew shouldered the load of the game.

About 20 minutes later my aunt called, and her message was to the point. "You need to get down here." I went to my crew and told them I was leaving, and they assured me they could handle things, and then I broke quite a few speed limits on my way down there. I was having deja vu from when my father died. I was also called by my aunt, and I also sped like hell to get to the same hospital, but in that case, I started from halfway to Wilkes-Barre, PA and didn't make it in time. I didn't want that to happen again.

When I got there, my aunt made it clear that it wasn't very good. The doctors wouldn't give a 100% assurance that she could come off the respirator if they put her on one, nor would they commit that a respirator would even work, though they were "confident" that it would. And that was something she didn't want, to be on a respirator on any sort of permanent basis. But at the same time...doctors never give 100% assurances on anything anymore. They have to be careful and protect themselves. So after talking to my aunt, and briefly talking to the doctor about what exactly was happening came the moment of truth.

My aunt and I looked at each other.

Finally, she said, "You have to do it...I just can't do it." For anybody who knows my Aunt Sherry, that might come to a surprise to you. She's a very strong woman. But when it came to making the tough call on her little sister, she couldn't.

I stood there for I don't know how long. Felt like forever. Was probably only a few minutes. Finally, swallowing my selfish pride, and trying to look at it clinically as I could, I said, "she wouldn't want the respirator. We can't do it. I really wish it were other wise...but this goes against her wishes." My aunt nodded in agreement, and we notified the doctor.

That's when we "robed up" and went in to her ICU unit. She was in and out of coherent consciousness, both according to the doctor and my aunt. But when she saw me, she gave me a weird look, and said "What are you doing here?"

She knew. I know in my heart that she knew. I was rendered speechless and looked helplessly at my aunt. I had just made the decision that would kill my mother minutes before, and now I was face to face with her, and she knew by my presence of what was going on. Aunt Sherry helped by saying something like "he wanted to come see you," something generic. Something I'm very grateful for her for, because I jumped on that to have something to say. Luckily she didn't stay that coherent long. I spent most of the rest of the time adjusting her CPAP mask, it was a bit small and kept creeping off her chin. It didn't help that she obviously didn't want to be wearing it in the first place.

I took a few moments to call her oldest friend, my godmother, and told her she should drop everything and get up to the hospital. She was there within 15 minutes. I think Mom recognized her when she came in, but its hard to tell, she didn't last much longer after that. From that point things are something of a blur, but I do rememeber hugging her, sobbing, and pouring my heart out. I don't even know if she was still alive at that point. I'm not sure I want to know, I'd rather believe she was. But it wasn't long after that the nurse came in and told us she was gone.

That was about the point where I grew numb for awhile. The next day I started writing her eulogy, and that helped "dethaw" me.

But, it still haunts me that I had to make that call. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. I'm not sure anybody should ever have to be put in that position. Her life was in my hands. I'm pretty sure I made the right choice, but there are times when I look at my beautiful child, and I wonder...I wonder if I had decided to be selfish, maybe she would have seen her granddaughter. She was so looking forward to that. I was so looking for that. I wouldn't have admitted it at the time, but I was very much looking forward to "presenting" Erin to her grandmother.

And then, as I fumbled my way in to parenthood, I realized I also wish, again for selfish reasons, that I had my mother around for the advice. I've leaned a lot on my wonderful mother in law (I lucked out in that regard, big time), but I never realized how much I expected at least one of my parents to be there when I became a parent. I could have gotten advice ahead of time, but I didn't. So now, I'm flying almost blind, trying to just think of what my father or mother would have done.

Luckily I have a wonderful wife, and I also have an astounding child who makes it easy for me by being absolutely fascinated by her dada. I think I'll be okay.

But I did kill my mother. Not directly, the infection that ran rampant through her system was the direct cause. But I was given the decision to extend her life. It's very possible that she might still be alive today.

But. What if. Maybe. This tale is full of a lot of those words. A person who I respect a great deal, when I told him about this stuff, told me that I shouldn't second guess myself about this. That, in the end, things probably worked the way they should have. But he also admitted that he had never been in quite the same position.

I don't know. I'll probably live with this for the rest of my life. One day, when Erin is much older, and ready, I may tell her this story, as I promised my mother on her deathbed that I'd tell her all about her, and her grandfather, and thats obviously part of it, and an important part of her own fathers life. I'll tell you this though, writing it down (or typing it out, as it were) and putting it out there for mass consumption does help. It doesn't change the past, or the future, but it does make me feel better in a way. Catharsis.

Happy Mother's Day (a bit early), Mom. I never thought I'd miss you as much as I do. You and Dad.

My Mother's Eulogy:

I've set this to post at 1:30 EST. This should be right around the time that I'm actually giving this eulogy at my mother's service, or have completed it. But I wanted to share with it more than only the people in the room today:


A little over two years ago, I had very little difficulty speaking off the cuff and without a net about my father. Today, I know I’ll have to use the medium in which I find myself most comfortable expressing myself, or I’ll be unable to get much, if anything, out. In fact, I started writing this Sunday morning, knowing I would need it.

Maybe this was because with Dad, I was silently mentally preparing for years, and with Mom, it came as a great and sudden shock, as I know it was for all of us. I had completely expected Mom to have many more years, despite her MS.

Maybe this was also because my father and I had a much different relationship than my mother and I had. A much simpler, easier to define relationship. Mom and I had much more difficult to define relationship, beyond “mother/son.” In fact, one of the things people tend to ask me, when they first meet me, is “how can you talk to your mother like that?” They always seemed to assume that because I would occasionally yell at Mom, that yelling meant I didn’t love her. Well, they were wrong. Because I do. I’m not sure she knows how much because of our unique relationship, but she probably did. When it came to love, she is, was, and will always be much wiser than me.

One of the best books I ever read was the Pulitzer Prize winning biography “Growing Up” by Russell Baker. If you’ve never read it, I highly recommend it. If I could write a book like that about my childhood, I would, but unfortunately, where my mother lacked in short term, I seem to lack in long term memory. I can remember vague things, but the details tend to elude me. The one person I could turn to, to help fill in the gaps, or to get me on the right track simply because she was slightly wrong, but right enough to get those memories unlocked in my own brain, is now no longer here. But, I’ll try to do my best.

I entered my mother’s life a little shy of 31 years ago. Setting a trend, I gave her trouble that day as I tried to enter this world literally ass backwards. I have always said that I started my philosophy of mooning the world early, she would always admonish me for that sentiment. But no matter how much trouble I gave her, she always supported me. When I decided, somewhere around 6 years old, that, for reasons I can not recall and I don’t think I ever expressed back then, that I didn’t want to go to church anymore, she supported me, even though I’m sure that was a great disappointment to her. She drove me to countless baseball practices and games. She encouraged my interest in playing a musical instrument. When I came home in grade school and thought for sure I knew where babies came from because Davey Powell told me, she patiently listened to what I thought, and firmly let me know I was wrong. For the record, I was close, but also very very far off at the same time. I don’t think I ever trusted Davey Powell again.

As I grew older, and her MS progressed and she starting losing more and more mobility, she helped teach me the small, yet important stuff. Like cooking. I continued to be surprised by how many people, especially men, my age are not only unable to cook, they are uncomfortable with even trying. My mother made sure that was not that case with me, and whether it was recognizance on her part or simply necessity, the end result remains the same. I may have gotten my tendency to want to improvise while cooking from my father, but I learned how to cook from my mother, so we’d have dinner on the table when Dad came home from work. As a surly teenager, she always took my stock answer of “fine,” to the question “how was your day?” in stride. When I would tell her that if she wanted my name to be “VanKenBart,” the cycle she would normally run through in the morning when trying to wake me up, she should have named me that, she wouldn’t be too offended. It might surprise some of you to learn that, primarily, my mother taught me how to drive. Conversely, though, it was me who told her, in no uncertain terms, one day that she was never to drive again…luckily this was the day she drove the two of us to get her passenger seat converted in to one that swiveled out so she could get in to it.

When I dropped out of college, she was obviously disappointed, but as was her way, she rolled with it. But I could tell that when I got back on track with my education she was proud, and the expression on her, and Dad’s, face, when I got my bachelor’s degree was worth every hour of class and every annoying test.

My mother and I did argue a lot, though. I couldn’t deny this even if I were inclined to try…too many people saw it first hand. I’m both ashamed and unashamed of these arguments, and it’s hard to figure out why. They mainly stemmed from our personalities plus her MS clashing. She had horrible short term memory and was stubborn. I have little patience for repeating myself and am also stubborn. I also wasn’t very forthcoming about myself, so on many occasions we’d have our unique problem of her thinking things about me that were completely different. She would either have pictured something as her ideal for me, or simply remembered something about me from when I was younger. For instance, a few Christmases ago, before we were married, Jessie wanted to help Mom shop for me by going to the house and helping her shop online. When she did, she also mentioned that I was in need of underwear, and told her the kind I wear: boxer briefs. Jessie asked if Mom wanted her to write that down for her, but she said no, that she knew her son. Well, come Christmas day, I open a package with underwear: tighty whities. I had worn those when I was younger, but had changed styles when I went to college. But I never told her that, and I wasn’t walking around the house in my underwear (like father like son) anymore, so she didn’t know, and to her, I wore regular briefs underwear, not that boxer brief stuff. So it’s no wonder we’d argue, so why should I feel ashamed? I think it’s because of what I spoke of earlier…it made people think I didn’t love my mother. I would have to tell people occasionally: “sometimes I really don’t like my mother, but I love her.” And I think when people got to know us better they understood our weird relationship. I would do anything, and on some occasions, DID anything, for my mother. Like right now, pouring my heart out in her honor. Ask anyone, especially my wonderful wife, I’m not someone who talks about his feelings. But for Mom, today, I am, even if I had to prepare them ahead of time, though I’m crying right now as I type, and I’ll probably be crying as I speak. She deserves that for all the trouble I gave her.

My mother was an eternally optimistic woman, which went well with her stubbornness. Besides the normal time a son should hear his mother say “no,” I rarely heard it out of her. She would continue to try and do things, well beyond the point in time where she really should have stopped (like driving). She was warm and loving, and made friends very easily. And I know she cherished every one of those friendships dearly by how she spoke of them. I wish I could make friends the way Mom could make friends. If that skill was a job, Mom would have risen fast and become CEO very quickly.

I want everyone, her family and cherished friends to know, that she wasn’t alone in the end. She had me there, she had her blood sister Sherry there, and she had her life-sister Mary-Ann there. My only regret is that she never got the chance to meet her granddaughter. But believe me, I will let little Erin know who her Mom-Mom was whenever I can. Simply because a person is gone doesn’t mean they aren’t a part of your life. Mom just taught me my first lesson as a parent. Thank you Mom. I love you.

I’m not a religious man as I mentioned before. But I know that right now, Mom is with Dad again. She’s with Dad, she’s with her parents, she’s with her life-brother Evan, and with so many others as well. And when we’re done here today, she’ll smile. Then she’ll hold Dad’s hand. She’ll smile at him, at Grandmother and Grandfather (or Mom-mom and Gramps), and at Evan, and everyone else she’s with, and she will say “let’s go for a walk.” And she’ll stand up, and walk with them, wherever, simply because she can.

For Those Interested:

For anyone that is interested, here are my mothers arrangements.

Everything will take place at Singletons Funeral Home in Glen Burnie
1 2nd Ave, Glen Burnie, 21061.

The viewings are tomorrow (Monday) from 3-5 and 7-9. The service is on Tuesday at 1pm.

We strongly ask that in lieu of flowers donations are made to the National Multiple Sclerosis Society.

Also, this home provides online guest book stuff, and it also has their tribute video they make up which is chock full of pictures. I don't know when it'll become active (I think sometime tonight or tomorrow morning) but you can access it from www.singletonfuneralhome.com when it does go up. There's a list of "current visitations" on the left. Her last name is the same as mine, and well, that should be easy to figure out, just look up.

Thanks everyone for your kind words.

When It Rains...

Mom passed away earlier tonight.

Infections spread through her very quickly, and septic shock set in.

So, I may not be around much.

Surgery - Part Three...The Reboot.

So, here we go again...the surgery is back on for this afternoon. So those good vibes and prayers and such that you sent and recalled a few weeks ago, go ahead and resend those. Thanks. I'll try to put updates up there on the Twitter box on the left, if you're interested.

Surgery - Part Three

Well, the nursing home (hole) effed up, and now she's not having the damn surgery. They just didn't do the pre-op stuff she was supposed to have last night.

I am so pissed right now.

Surgery - Part Two

So um...I was misinformed.

This is MAJOR surgery my mother is having later today. I feel dumb in hindsight because I knew what they were going to be doing, and when you really think about it, it's not a hop, skip and a jump kinda thing. It's not really routine, plus, they're really gonna be doing some cutting...so...

Pray harder and send bigger good vibes.

At least my mom is in good spirits. Hell, she really wants this surgery, and I can't blame her, but yeah, it's definitely bigger of a deal than I thought.

Surgery.

So, I said I wouldn't talk about my mom much, especially heavy stuff, after my other post. I feel this is an exception.

In that post I mentioned that she should probably have a permanent catheter at this point. Well, this Thursday the 21st she's having surgery to have exactly that.

Now, I forget the name of the procedure...I have the paperwork in my car. But the idea is that...they use some piece of her own body as the evacuation point for her bladder, to decrease infection from the foreign catheter. This piece of her own tissue (I forget what exactly they use) is then actually led out of her body at a point off to the side of her torso, where a bag is then kept attached (I guess by a strap) to her body. The bladder then empties that way, instead of through her now ruined urethra.

This is a somewhat new, but not cutting edge, procedure. So, do me a favor. If you pray, go ahead and do that, or if you're like me and that's not your bag, send some good vibes. I expect it to go fine (I think it's considered out patient, which is always a good sign for "not that serious") but weird things have happened to my family in surgery (like my grandmother, another story for another day). I'll be there at the hospital until she's out and fully awake on Thursday. I'll briefly fill you guys in on Friday.

Father's Day

Today being Father's Day, I thought it might be appropiate to speak a little bit about my impending fatherhood status.

I'm not going to lie. There's a part of me that is down right terrified. Not a very large part, but it's there nonetheless. I'm not all that terrified because I have a pretty good template for fatherhood from my own father. He wasn't perfect, but I think he did an okay job raising me. I didn't turn out to be a complete sociopath (just a partial one), and I think I can be the father he was. Commanding of respect, but easy to love. Lenient, but not too lenient, and completely intolerant of bullshit (when it's detected...I won't lie again and say I never lied to him and got away with it, I totally did).

But a part of me is terrified because even though I have this template to go off of...I don't have my father around anymore. I can't get his counsel or ask him advice. I could ask my mother advice on basics, but not about fatherhood. It's a whole different ball of wax. Though, the fact that the Heir is a girl would have thrown him as much as me, I'm sure. I'm the youngest of three boys for him (two from a previous marriage), so there's a bunch of stuff he'd probably would have said "beats the hell out of me, go ask your mother." Not that she had any girls, either. But Dad's logic would have gone something like "female child advice = mother."

And due to general circumstances, I don't even have a father in law to turn to. Though I do have a mother in law to turn to when my mother makes no sense (which is more and more frequent, unfortunately).

So, I'm a bit of a kite in the wind when it comes to fatherhood. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure I'll get advice from the unlikeliest of places, but there's something a bit more reassuring to get it from your own father.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Sorry you're gonna miss it...

Mom

So, I obviously have made numerous mentions of my father. Even had a very well received post about him not that long ago. But I don't mention my mother as often.

Some people that know me might figure that's because even though she's my mother and I love her, she drives me nuts. There are several different reasons for this, one of the biggest ones that she thinks she knows me better than she actually does (Jessie could write a dissertation on that problem, let me tell you). But in all honesty, one of the reasons I don't really talk about her much is because it's a painful subject. Gonna lay it on the line here, as it were, bare the soul, share the pain, all that crap.

For my entire conscious life, my mother has had Multiple Sclerosis. Not a particularly kind or benevolent condition to have. I don't have any memories of her where she wasn't, at the very least using a cane. Most of my early memories have her using one, or two, canadian crutches (the kind with the cuff...you'd know them if you saw them). She has gotten progressively worse and worse over my 30 years. She hasn't been able to walk, or even use her legs, for about a decade now. She's in a nursing home now, because after her last fall about 3 years ago, a social worker decided she needed more care than my father could provide. Which was completely the truth, and somewhat serendipitous since they were able to get her in to a home on their own terms instead of when my father died a little less than a year later. She has a lot of mobility left in her upper body, but I see signs of her losing that lately. And currently, meaning, right now, shes in the hospital. Which she's been going to more and more frequently. Trying to be as non-graphic as possible, she's been catheterized far too long. She should have had a permanent one done years ago, but for some reason didn't. So, she's now prone to frequent UTI's. They're starting to get closer together, and you don't need to be a doctor to see where this is heading. The infections are becoming more frequent, so she's on antibodies more. The infections are only going to get hardier, and her body is only going to get more resistant to the antibodies.

These past two trips have really concerned me. Generally, she's only hospitalized when she shows a certain symptom of the infection spreading: confusion/delusion/etc. This has been going on for five years at least. I remember her thinking her phone was a remote control once about five years ago. I thought it was funny then. Less so now. Last month she went in with a UTI once again, but for the first time...she didn't remember her delusional periods. Usually she can recall them in hindsight, even if they're hazy. Not this time. In fact, she's got herself convinced she was in a short coma because she doesn't recall a span of about 3 or 4 days. Not to mention that when she did come out of it, she had this weird paranoia thing going on. I thought she had a stroke or something. She was convinced that "death was in the hospital" and in a move completely uncharacteristic of her to anybody that knows her, told me she wanted me to leave. You have to understand, this woman begs me to visit her more (I hate hospitals, and her nursing home is basically a glorified hospital...the smells get to me), and the first thing she says after saying hi is "I want you to leave." Yeah, something wrong there. I eventually got her to see how crazy she was sounding that day, but scary nonetheless.

And then this time, she had a seizure, and was unresponsive in the ambulance on the way over. She's stabilized now, but they've done tests and can't figure out where the hell the seizure came from. Also scary. I'm not a doctor, but I'm also a relatively logical person and I know a negative progression when I see one.

I'd really like it if she saw her grandchild.

This is why I don't talk about my mother. Not because she drives me crazy. But because I love her, and have watched her slowly deteriorate my entire life. So, if she comes up again, I doubt it'll be anything heavy, unless it's the one inevitability of life. I simply do not like talking about it, or thinking about it. This post was hard enough as it was.

The Garden Sheet...

So, I got my mom sheets for Christmas. I'd worry about announcing this on my blog when we're a week out from Christmas still, but she doesn't have computer access. Plus, she's fairly computer illiterate, and probably thinks a blog is a naughty euphemism for poo. And plus, her MS has given her the memory of goldfish. She probably already forgot that I even gave them to her already, so I can maybe give her two gifts for the price of one this season. I'm an awful, yet awesome, person, I know. I got her jersey knit sheets. Why? Why not? Jersey knit sheets are effin' awesome. I can't believe you people don't use them. I can't believe that jersey knit isn't the standard, instead of those...uh...other kind. I can't even feel those things anymore without feeling like I scratched my skin all up from the coarseness of the devil fabric.

Anyway, I also got them for her because I wash her sheets for her (most of the time) and one of her sets is pretty much obliterated. I figured she might want a much softer set, because she's crippled and all. Oh, sorry. Handicapped. Oh, sorry, handicapable. Jesus, that's a nuisance. When did we start giving a shelf life to positivity? Give it a few years, and the term will be something ridiculous like handicripple. Simply because handicapable will have earned this perceived negative stigma. Getting the train back on the track here...anyway, she can't move her legs and tends to get like, you know, bed sores. So while I seriously doubt the power of the jersey knit will stop her from getting sores, I figure it might make her at least a little more comfortable. Am I an awesome son or what?

Anyway, jersey knit rules, and you drool.

Next time...my out of nowhere hatred for Rachael Ray.

On Facial Hair

For more than ten years now, I've very rarely gone without some sort of facial hair. Usually a Van Dyke (moustache and goatee), followed by a full beard. For a bit there I had only a goatee. But generally, always chin hair. I have to hide that double chin somehow (thanks awfully Mom, you coulda kept that on your side of your family). Plus, as someone told me once, some people simply look better with facial hair. Guess that'd be me.

I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's the facial structure. Maybe it's the eyebrows. They're thick. Like, I've used them as blunt objects in a pinch before...thick. So thick that a dude working that Star Trek video thing in Universal Studios Orlando sort of mocked them when I did that back in high school (I was gonna be the Vulcan and he was going to make my eyebrows more Vulcan like...except he didn't really have to...and he made sure to say it loud enough for most of the park to hear). Maybe because unlike some of my friends that will remain nameless, I can actually grow facial hair. Who knows. I know my father rocked the 'stache for most of my formative years. Perhaps it's hereditary. Though I doubt I'd rock it like he did. Again...he had a chin. If only I could have inherited his chin instead of his "ability" to sneeze about 6 times in a row.

Why do I mention it? I honestly don't know. Maybe because I was trying to straighten my sideburns earlier and getting frustrated. Or maybe I needed a topic. Who knows.