01.18donkey
And that’s all I have to say about that.
What is that? A duck blind?
Apparently, just before you die, your bushes start eating your windows.
Aha! It’s a residence!
Tame that bush, little shaver! 1-800-TAME-HER.
There’s much left to do to the outside, such as painting, re-landscaping, replanting the grass, fixing cracks in the driveway, and replacing whatever chunk of pipe was shooting water through the front yard and down to the street all last night. But at least the bushes are gone and the leaking roof replaced.
Inside, there’s ripped out carpet, ripped out linoleum, ripped out walls, new paint colors, new appliances, new kitchen counters, new windows (not yet installed), new flooring, a new furnace, and a bunch of new furniture to go with the six new people living there (with the prolifically shitting rats in the basement). There’s much left to do with unpainted trim, an unfinished basement, and a horrendously homely master bathroom. But at least the termites are gone.
And at least the excessive bush is tamed.
I realized I claimed 2008 was the Year of the Muskrat, but I was foolish and naive back then. Here’s why 2011 was, in fact, The Year (especially in comparison to 2010):
I start writing for DadCentric, and it almost immediately gets voted the #1 dad blog in the world by Babble. And then again by Parents magazine.
I attend my first Mom 2.0, and they announce a whole new version just for dads!
I do my first product review of Dove soap products for men, and it becomes the most successful soap ever produced and marketed, and I get a 5-Star Friday award.
I participate in my first Movember, and we raise so much money that cancer is virtually assured to be cured by Thanksgiving ’12.
I go to Mardi Gras dressed like Buddy the Elf and spread so much good will that they cancel Lent.
I help educate a sheltered white lawyer on urban lingo and sexual harassment and make the world a better place for employment.
After FOUR DAMNED YEARS of trying to sell our house, we do it. And leave for vacation a few hours later.
I attend my first paranormal investigation, and Ray Parker Jr announces he’s writing a “Muskrats ain’t ‘fraid of no ghosts” ditty.
I visit Minnesota for the first time, and the state publicly apologizes for the politicians it has produced the past decade+.
I attend my 3rd BlogHer, bring Pretty Bride for the first time, and spend the whole conference learning how lucky she is to be with me.
I give the Sandusky victims the courage to speak out after accidentally emailing my 3-year-old’s teacher about legal steps taken to prevent my touching children.
After over six months of looking and numerous rejected bids, we buy a new house!
I eradicate child sex slavery in Atlanta and poverty in Nicaragua.
Big shoes, 2012. Big shoes.
12.25merry christmas!
Because family Christmas photos were meant for Buddy the Elf costumes.
12.20matagalpa, nicaragua
We chose the longer trail, the two of us. The rest of the group opted for the short trail, as it was getting dark, and none of us had a flashlight. We crossed winding paths past large trees, across foot bridges, up hills and back down them…about a mile total. Darkness filled in around the canopy, and we were about a quarter mile from the end of the trail when I heard it. A deep, guttural growl that told me, “I know you’re approaching. Go away.”
I stopped. “Did you hear that?” I asked. Silence. But then, more growling and barking, as if fifteen beasts were sternly admonishing us to leave or be torn limb from limb and eaten for supper.
The trail map indicated there were howler monkeys near the end of the trail, which I assumed meant 10′ hairy carnivores that hated gringos.
I froze, unable to see from which direction the howls were coming. Then they got closer. My friend, who was in front, turned and sprinted past me toward the trail head we’d left a mile ago. I followed.
“I think they’re coming after us…the barks are getting louder…closer!” I bellowed while trying to keep up with my former pro soccer playing companion.
“Just keep running til we can’t hear them any more!” he called over his shoulder.
A mile later, we were muddy, soaked, and panting for air in the parking lot where the other 7 from our group waited.
Me: “We were nearly killed by howler monkeys!”
Him: “You mean the little creatures that live in the tree tops and eat leaves when they’re not sleeping 15 hours a day?”
Me: “Eat a dick.”
I can’t help others’ jealousy over my uncanny ability to survive in the face of tremendous peril.
During the rest of the weekend, we played soccer, made craft projects, and picked up trash on the sides of the road with a couple hundred children. We scouted lots to purchase and on which to build additional classrooms for their school. We met with parents and teachers to learn how we can improve on the past 5 years of partnership.
We had a pinata party. They were INTO it.
I spent much of the first day with Jeremy (5) and his brother Rafael (11).
And was even invited home with them to meet their parents and be served coffee and Ritz crackers.
We walked down the side of a mountain, past homes like these:
I tried to pull from that one semester of Spanish in undergrad 15 years ago.
After two days that went by too quickly, we promised them we’d be back in May to visit again and start construction on the additional buildings.
Lunch:
Upon visiting a coffee plantation shortly before dinner, a young woman approached me.
Her: Hello. What’s your name?
Me: Michael.
Her: You staying around here?
Me: Yes.
Her: Where?
Me: I…I don’t remember its name. Is someone making you ask these things of me? Are you–you know–being forced to get money for…
Her: I just wanted to practice my English and find out what you thought of my country! (walks off)
The rest of the trip, any time a local was friendly, my travel companions took great pleasure in insisting she was NOT a child prostitute.
And then I flew home, again realizing just how blessed I am and how eager I am to continue to donate time and money to helping these children, and how essential I believe introducing them to my own children is, so that they never take what they have for granted as we move into the season of “I want!” perpetuated by American culture and doting grandparents.
