Month: June 2017

Wondrous Women

We watched Wonder Woman over the weekend. I liked it. I have some questions but I liked it.

We can get the big questions out of the way first. I accept that this movie is based on a comic and that Zeus created a race of warrior women who are all extremely fit and fight in brass bikinis. I appreciate the selfish, if not sexist, designer who went to great lengths to protect the important parts of a woman while leaving vulnerable things like arteries and connective joints fully exposed. All that is good with me. At least they don’t glitter in sunlight and turn into rocket fuel when their heads come off. I understand all of the above. There are, however, two points in the movie that stumped me.

First, the battle scene where the German soldiers row up to Amazon Island and have a back and forth murder fest on the beach with deadly archer women on horses. After all the soldiers are dead the women grab up super spy Steve and go to the house. No one mentions the fact that there is a German battleship anchored in the harbor. I assume it has deck guns and lots more than the thirty soldiers who came to shore in a row boat. Did the captain just say never mind?

Second, super spy Steve crashed his plane near the beach of the Amazon Island. What is the average flight range of the paper airplane that he was flying. His flashback shows us that he took off from Turkey at a secret weapons installation. Somehow, he is still in flight all the way back out into the Atlantic Ocean. They never really say where exactly but in the following scenes they sail a wooden boat to London, in what appears to be, two days tops. If this is World War I, which I assume it is because of the aircraft and heavy use of trenches and mustard gas, then they didn’t have sophisticated radar to track a small paper plane. This means that once he eluded the ground crew it would be almost impossible for a naval group to pick him up and track him quickly.

Third and really small, the porcelain faced lady who makes the gas. If she was testing a gas that could crack the eye pieces on a gas mask… what was she using to contain it? Wouldn’t the glass bubble have exploded too? See, that one was nit-picky. I’m sorry. I’ll get back to the heart of the matter.

This movie was really, really good. It took someone who was naïve to the horrors of war and someone who was experienced and helped bring the audience along through the tough reality. The action was action-y. The writers did a great job with the sexism of the times. They showed us that sexism is very real but if you are a half-naked gorgeous Goddess then you can ignore the social norms. Cast off your trench-coat and strut in your bronze undies with pride. For the children.

I liked that her powers increased as the movie progressed and that she didn’t become fully “woke” until her final fight with Aries. The latest Star Wars jumped the gun a little with Rey’s powers going from mind suggestion to Jedi ninja in a couple of scenes. The tie-ins with Batman were good and should be helpful to the franchise to try and accomplish what the Avengers has done in the Marvel Universe.

One thing that bothered me, external to the movie, was two teenage girls sitting a couple of seats to my right. They giggled the entire movie. They are the exact reason that Jimmy Fallon made the “EWW!” characters. There was one place in the movie where Wonder Woman lands hard and the camera angle is on her legs as she hits the ground. The girls both gasped and said, “Oh my god! Did you see that jiggle?” They were talking about the back of her thigh. Of all the take-aways from this movie that is what they came up with. Here before you is a woman protagonist who is badass in every sense. Smart, powerful, independent, beyond beautiful, and pure of heart and her biggest critique comes from two tweens who thought her leg jiggled too much. (I was there. It didn’t. It was a very normal leg jiggle after landing from a thirty foot leap.) As a father of girls, it was a disheartening moment to be reminded that a woman’s biggest opponent is other women. I hope my girls don’t pick up that toxic attitude. Where no matter who you are or what you accomplish, if your leg jiggles, then you could have done better.

I hope my girls grow up knowing the dirty little secret… that women could rule the world. They allow men to play the leading roles but we all know that is a façade. A fluke. If women held a secret meeting and all agreed that man rompers were the sexiest thing since Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall, guess what? Department stores couldn’t stock them fast enough. Women are trained well enough to follow a man’s lead and take a role of support. That’s fine and well as long as it is a conscious decision and they agree with the direction the man is going. But don’t follow an idiot just because that’s how life works. Oh well. I’m wandering here so I’ll wrap it up.

If you like action movies and heroine stories, this post is for you. Not like the drug heroine. Women heroes. See. I told you women were powerful. There is a drug named after them. One of the most gripping addictions known to man. Synonymous. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Party Pegasus

Lady Bug recently had her birthday weekend. A two day run of festivities. We celebrated the birthday weekend because of parenting guilt for not preparing a party or bothering to bake a cake. In fact, we had no real plans for how to celebrate with our four-year-old until about two days before her big event.

As the day broke we realized that something must be done. When I got home from work everyone loaded up into the car for a trip to Toys R Us. Up and down the aisles looking at all manner of cheap plastic shit to step on. Why do we constantly buy this stuff? Each child selected something that they couldn’t live without and the birthday girl got a larger budget than the others. A total first-world way to handle the issue. Once everyone is satisfied with their selection we pay the lady at the front and get into the van. The children immediately open the new toys and lose 53% of all the accessory trinkets in each box.

All that shopping made us hungry so we went to the number one choice for when mommy says, “I don’t care..” when asked where to eat. Cracker Barrel. It was 7:40 at night so we hoped the dinner rush was finished. As we pulled in the parking lot I noticed a charter bus with a large Cruisin-for-Christ logo down the side. I don’t suppose the logo is relevant to the story other than I found it humorous as I imagined what road tripping for the lord in a charter bus and stopping at the Cracker Barrel actually looked like. I found out. Inside the lobby was a group of 40+ septuagenarians who refused to group up and share tables so they were being sat two at a time. I was disappointed. I feel that Jesus would have encouraged sharing of tables. Especially in the midst of a cruise in his honor.

I could see that my family of six was out of luck for quick eats. We had to fall back to the always decent second choice of Olive Garden. The only place that I go into with the intent of eating soup and salad and end up bingeing on every carb ever created. This trip went exactly like that. Pasta speaks to me in a dark and romantic language. As I crammed the last scorched end of a buttery breadstick down into my stomach I remembered that we promised ice cream as desert. The girls were smart enough not to touch their dinner while I ate like a land based catfish; hovering over uneaten scraps. Shoveling the precious pasta into my pie-hole.

Once I felt totally defeated from the inside out I sat in my self-loathing for a few moments until I overheard a conversation that was happening a couple of booths down. A grandmother person was angry at a child person and was berating her. The child spilled a drink and it ran off the table into this grandmother person’s purse. Grandma proceeded to pepper the child with frustration and f-bombs to the point I thought she was going to become physically violent. The mother of the child was there but remained silent. Obviously, she was a victim of the same type of abuse. It was very disappointing to watch.

I noticed my girls starting to stare at the action and I got their attention.

UD: See that lady. (I pointed)

Kids: Yes.

UD: No one should ever talk to you like that.

Kids: Okay daddy.

UD: Don’t let them!

Kids: We won’t.

UD: There’s a second part…

Kids: What?

UD: Don’t ever treat anyone like that. No matter how frustrated or mad you get. Look around. I mean it. Everyone here has an opinion of that woman now and it isn’t a good one. Her kids will grow up thinking that treating people that way is normal. You can’t be part of that.

Kids: Okay.

UD: I love you girls.

Kids: Love you too daddy.

They seemed to understand that not all people are nice and that calling a child a “stupid little f*ck” is generally in poor taste. It was hard to get out of my head because those scenarios are tricky. I have trouble deciding on action because nothing big will change and my saying something might make a bad situation worse for the child. I do report people who are really shitty but I don’t confront people directly as often as I would like. We paid off the Italian overlords and got up to leave.

As I lumbered into the parking lot, smelling like garlic and shining from the greasy glow of alfredo sauce, I realized that I would need a minute before heading to the ice cream shop. We went to the literary purgatory known as Books-A-Million. Everyone got a book because of course they did. I turn my back for one minute and they had made their selections. I didn’t really turn my back. I actually took a dump in the world’s most uncomfortable bathroom. The only stall is handicap accessible which means the door is five feet away so you already feel like you are pooping in the middle of a room but the extra gaps in the partition walls really help bring the feeling home. When you can make eye contact through the small gaps in the wall and feel the social impulse to wave or do the head nod thing, I think the gap is too big. Toilets should be caves of solitude. Regardless, I am a man of action. A second critique of the bathroom… washing up I learned that the water pressure at Books-A-Million is amazing. The slightest turn of the knob ignited a geyser that soaked my pants in the general region where incontinence would have done the same. I returned to the sales floor with a large wet stain on the front of my pants and I tried to not make eye contact with the gentleman who ventured into the bathroom and stared at me through the partition gap.

I was more than ready when we left for ice cream. Not just any ice cream. The good place where they mix all the candy you want into the most glutinous pile of sweet cream ever scooped. My children have a terrible habit of touching, licking, or face pressing any glass display cases that they come across. The only problem is that other kids do the same. I noticed Donna Threeto sliding her hand across the glass just in time to tell her that I think she ran her hand through a smeared and dried booger. It was crusty and slightly green. What did she do? Smelled her hand and then licked it. I suppose to see if I told her the truth. I don’t even try to understand anymore. All the girls devoured their ice creams and we realized that it was way past bedtime so we started for home.

We managed to bribe the kids into bed solely on the fact that we still had birthday festivities the next day. We had promised a night at the movies to see Captain Underpants. I started to question the whole birthday weekend concept.

Captain Underpants was exactly the kind of movie that it promised to be. Fart humor. Funny banter. Crazy plot lines. Everyone had a good time. We snuck in some half -filled bags of candy and finished them off with popcorn once we got settled. Lady Bug set her bag down beside her chair and during the movie she started reaching down beside her seat by muscle memory to find her popcorn. Her eyes were glued to the screen. The bag fell away at some point and I noticed that Lady Bug was still reaching down beside her seat and eating something she picked up. Further investigation showed that she was eating the long forgotten pieces of old popcorn that fell between the seats sometime within the last five years. I only put the time limit of five years because surely, they manage to vacuum the seats at some interval? I shuddered in the darkness and then told her to stop eating the seat treats. What else could I do at that point? Charcoal, induce vomiting, stomach pumping? I leaned over towards Supermom.

UD: (in a whisper) I think Lady Bug just ate old seat popcorn.

Supermom: Nice.

UD: I told her to stop.

Supermom: Good.

The movie ended. We left the theater and Supermom decided that she needed a new bathing suit for going to the river the next day. We went to Target just before closing time; with four children who were jacked up on Sprite, popcorn, and a movie about flying around in underpants.

It was a test of my patience. It also tested my humility because my job was to take pieces of the swimsuits back to the rack and exchange sizes as needed by Supermom. The only worse job would be taking the four girls tampon shopping and having to explain the features of all the wings and strings and where each might fit in their future active lives.

I thought we were nearing the end of the punishment when Lady Bug announces that she needs to poop. Supermom disappeared to the bathroom with Lady Bug. I was left holding a striped blue swimsuit top while standing near the entrance like a creeper guy who got a job as a greeter. If Target even bothered with greeters. Honestly the store feels a little too arrogant for that. A few minutes later Supermom emerged with the blank stare of a parent who is done for the day. The exact same stare I had for the previous 45 minutes. Turns out the seat popcorn might have triggered diarrhea. Awesome.

At that point I knew we had achieved birthday success. It started with indulgence. Progressed through entertainment. Ended with shitting of pants in a Target bathroom. The tale of all good birthdays!

If you enjoy a good celebratory binge, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

River Days

Yesterday we took the girls to the river. What river? THE River. Anytime a place becomes a familiar hangout it loses any associated proper nouns. The river. The lake. The farm. The movies. Our river is a place on a bluff against the Tennessee River.

It was a work trip. Our goal for the day was to get the boat dock secured in place after the spring floods. The dock had been stored on a trailer all winter and now that it is June, the red wasps and mud wasps had built lots of nests. No worries though, I didn’t get stung. Dad used a broom and water hose to send most of the bees away. The few that hung around were murdered in a brutal chemical attack from GJ. We put the floating dock into the water at the boat ramp and embarked on a voyage to float it back to its home. Granddaddy, Supermom, and I paddled like an out-of-shape group of river rafters from a Mark Twain novel. A neighbor tried to bring his Waverunner out to help us but he discovered that he was out of gas and needed a paddle of his own. No good deeds go unpunished.

The dock and gangway were installed with zero life-threatening events. A definite improvement over days gone by. We had an audience from the local water police agency. They were watching us through binoculars. I assume they were trying to figure out what the hell we were paddling down the river and if we should be ticketed for not having running lights, registration numbers, using an unregulated paddle, or not being properly secured within a coast guard approved life jacket. Ultimately, they seemed satisfied that we were not going to die and the raced off to more important violations.

After some lunch and cleaning out mud wasp nests from the boat, we were ready to take a river cruise. The girls had been waiting all day to ride in the boat and swim in the river. We slowly migrated down the 42 steps from the pavilion to the pontoon boat. Everyone took their seat and we set sail.

The sky was a deep blue with a healthy supply of cotton ball clouds. We had a strong wind in our hair because the first cruise of the year must be enjoyed at full throttle, for the good of the engine. The girls were riding on the front of the boat with their faces in the breeze like four happy Labrador puppies. The music was rocking some summer-boat-country tunes and the girls were dancing along. Supermom was sitting on the back reading her kindle and soaking up some sun.

It was one of those nice moments that exist in the midst of the chaos of life. In that moment, everything was simple and right with the world. It made me wonder if they would even capture the day as a memory. I think so.

We landed the boat on a sandy bank that we call a beach. A river beach. The girls played in the water beside the boat and tried to bury their legs in the muddy sand. Granddaddy’s dog, a sometimes mentally challenge chocolate labra-doodle, ran up and down the beach as fast as she could go. We played until the sun started to set and we went back to the pavilion for some chicken, corn, and macaroni & cheese dinner. Jane got to drive the boat for a few minutes and learned about navigation buoys. We played some side-yard whiffle ball. I learned my children have better hand-eye coordination than I give them credit for. Darkness settled in and Granddaddy started a fire in the fire pit. Everyone gathered around in chairs and told funny stories while the logs slowly burned.

Around 10:00, everyone was way past tired and ready for bed. Supermom and I loaded everyone up in the minivan and headed home. We rolled in the door and all four girls marched straight to bed and went to sleep. Supermom and I did the same. It was a good day.

I know the girls will remember the river as they grow up. They will remember being able to ride on a boat, play in muddy sand, run wild in the yard beside the camper, sit on the deck and watch the barges, hunt for fossils in the crumbly limestone rock that lines the river bank, smell meat cooking on at least one grill, and hear a constant backdrop of music that drifts from country to rock and back again. I’m thankful that they have those opportunities. I know that I am loving dad and a fun dad, most of the time. I also know I’m not the dad that is going to own a camper or a boat or be really motivated to put those experiences together.

Thankfully my dad is. Happy Father’s Day. I love you and all you do to create space for all the memories we enjoy!

I have a second father who my children call Papaw. He has a lot of the same motivations albeit more farm and horse oriented. I’ve learned from both that doing things creates more memories than having things. We’ve done lots of things over the years.

If you have a dad who is awesome, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Summer 17 Notes

I have lots of good notes in my phone about things to mention in my blog. How about I just mention them and we have several disconnected laughs.

First note. A couple new rules. Toilet Seats do not double as armrests. I may have covered this before but it is still a relevant concern. Just because you can fit your narrow behind into the toilet doesn’t mean you should. I had to rescue a child who was panicked from being stuck. She looked like a bully had crammed her into the toilet down to her armpits. Legs were all hanging over the side like crab legs on the side of a buffet pan.

We also still have to discuss not using technology while on the toilet to prevent rooster-tailing the underside of the lid. I thought twice would be enough but apparently My Little Pony LARP is some fascinating stuff. I need to throw away their iPads.

Second note. Don’t wipe your face down the glass display case for the fancy meats and cheeses at the deli. Having a greasy booger streak mark across the assorted meat selection is not good for business. There really is zero need for it. Lady Bug was the culprit in this one. She was staring at the Oven Roasted Turkey loaf and suddenly pressed her nose into the glass with a thud and started sliding her face to the right. What neurons must fire in a brain for it to say, “Hmmm, I should rub my face on this surface.”?

I can’t take these kids anywhere. I shouldn’t take them to eat at fast food places because they don’t like anything. I’ll never understand how people who eat boogers and lick random surfaces can be completely disgusted by a ham sandwich and proclaim, “It’s GROSS.” They ended up with a small drink and a bag of chips. Restaurants should really research smaller straws for the small drinks because kids have a preset notion of where a cup should be located, in relation to their mouth. They end up gagging themselves on the large sized straw because it extends six inches past the top of the drink. Donna spent half the meal licking her straw like a mother cat cleaning a baby. She is encouraged by the phrase, “Please stop.”

Exercise and booze cruise combined into a strange street phenomenon.

Third note. When should you have the big talk? You know the one… Here are the differences and how your body works and don’t trust men because they only want the goodies until they are around twenty-five, then they mostly want the goodies but they might carry an honorable or coherent thought. This is a topic I want to devote a larger blog post towards. The topic comes up from time to time and we have had a couple of talks with some of the girls. It is awkward and uncomfortable and necessary.

Fourth note. I got stung by a wasp a week ago. It left a mark that was about the size of my hand and it lasted for three days. Then I got better. Then I got stung again this weekend. A small bee got into my shirt and stung me twice before I could crush him into a venomous paste. I spent the better part of a wedding reception dosed up on Benadryl. I hate bees. So so much. They find me somehow. They taunt me at traffic lights and just outside my bedroom window. Flying anger needles.

Fifth note. You really never know what you will find in a house with lots of kids. While cleaning out a kitchen cabinet, Supermom found a tooth in a plastic cap. Dried. Cracked. Un-accepted by the toothfairy and therefore it hasn’t been placed into the official tooth record. We don’t know which child the tooth came from. I think the kids may know but they are testing the veracity of the toothfairy narrative by waiting to see if she gets it right. They suspect us and are working to unravel our lies.

Sixth note. This weekend we attended my cousin’s wedding. (Congrats Mad and Cam!) The same wedding from the bee story earlier. There were several interesting things about the day besides the obvious magic of watching two best friends become husband and wife. None of my kids farted during a silent pause in the ceremony so we are doing better than the last wedding they attended. The reception was in an old car factory that was founded around 1913.

I’ve seen it several times from the interstate but I never knew it had been renovated and repurposed. One of the buildings houses repurposed antiques and oddities. It is associated with the American Pickers show. There was a baby wolfman mummy that was interesting but the giant pig-head that read “Kiss Me You Fool” was my personal favorite item.

During our journey, out of town, there was a slow down on the interstate. We saw blue lights and some activity ahead. Turns out a small aircraft had to make an emergency landing. With all the light poles and overpasses it is amazing that the plane landed in one piece. The pilot definitely channeled some Captain Sully skills.

If life has been busy and the summer has been in full swing, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Potassium Roger

I haven’t had a good old-fashioned rant in a while. At least not in the written form. Usually a good source for finding consternation and inducing ranting is a trip to Walmart. Not today. I have decided to rest those useless protests in favor of another. Fair warning to people with a lofty opinion of me I am wearing my swear-bear pajamas and will probably drop some eff-bombs. I find it therapeutic to type the words. It makes me more “Zen” during my normal day-to-day life. Nirvanish? Placified?

Okay. Let’s talk about Kroger. Alternative to the Walmart grocery oligarchy. The Target of middle-class grocery-only vendors. The comfortable shopping relationship that gives just enough to keep you involved but never lets you know where you truly stand as a customer. We no longer have a Kroger on my side of town and it is a damn shame because that one was a great place. We recently got a Zaxby’s though. But this isn’t about Zaxby’s, it is about the grocery store.

Sometimes I stop on my way home to pick up a few things. Essential items, like bread or milk or some combination of protein/carb/cheese that we are having for dinner. We never have all the things we need to prepare a single dinner. So off to Kroger I go. I walk into the warm lighting (from the old style fluorescent tubes), grab one of the mutant grocery carts (who designed these things), and emerge in the vegetable section. What the vegetables lack in ripeness they compensate for with random arrangements and narrow aisles. Maybe the aisles just feel narrow because I am avoiding the never-ending traffic of the suburban mom. These ladies give two-shits about who or what is in their way. I can see it in their eyes. They are stressed and on-edge. They need one fucking loaf of whole grained organic bread so kindly move your ass out of the way. Meanwhile, I loiter in front of a few while I try and decipher what goods are in what aisles based on the hanging descriptions. The arrangement is awful. If the carts had horns I would be honked at. Or gored to death. I guess it depends on what kind of horns. Hateful glaring is much quieter. I barely notice. I’m too busy giving my own hateful glares at the blank spot on the shelf where the generic item should be. Now I get to buy name-brand whole kernel corn.

I will concede that the meat department is awesome. They have beef that was fed pre-softened grasses and heard bedtime stories nightly before they were slaughtered into steaks. And there is an attractive caring woman on the label which really sells the whole approach. It really comes out in the flavor too. Plus, the flower area is super handy at times. I think they sell free range roses.

But God help me find the bread in that forsaken labyrinth. Do they even sell bread? I circled five times looking for bread. I never found bread. Is Kroger gluten free now? Onward to make my tacos.

I found myself in the Aisle of Varied Ethnicity. It was a puzzling mix of politically correct sensitivity and, at the same time, not. For instance, one of our go-to dinners of choice is Taco Salad. I categorize this as “Mexican Food”. I eat lunch about four times a week at a “Mexican Restaurant”. I feel validated because the packaging and the restaurant sign both use “Mexican” as a descriptor. (It may be the best food on the planet. I know that my idea of Mexican food is extremely Americanized but I like to believe that children growing up in the hot, cactus-y, central American deserts at least have the pleasure of enjoying every meal with a bowl of salsa and bottomless tortilla chips. I can’t live in a world where that isn’t true.) How surprised am I that someone has labeled the area of tacos, refried beans, and jalapenos as the Latin American Foods section? Very. I have zero problems with that but I am confused how the Asia food section still gets a breakdown into Thai, Japanese, or Chinese. Is Panamanian cuisine indistinguishable from Mexican? Are there no foods that are unique to Guatemala? What did Mexico ever do to you? Maybe we should shift to a spicy, greasy, or hippie type of classification on our food so not to offend any group. After all, every culture has a signature meat/carb/cheese dish. Except Asian food because of the whole lactose intolerance thing which is okay because they have soba noodles and sushi which is a fair trade.

I’m veering off topic. My main point is that I can’t find anything. The informational boards at the ends of the aisles list individual items instead of general categories. Example, one board might advertise; Brown Mustard, Black Olives, Ranch Dressing… A real store would slap Condiments on the sign and still have room to describe the rest of the aisle. Don’t woo me with tales of exotic toppings. Just tell me where I am in this Neverland. I get all my fitbit steps just looking for things on my logically arranged shopping list.

When I am wandering around in lost in the vintage-1990-value-shopper food wilderness I am forced to admit a dark truth.

I miss the familiarity of Walmart.

It is my safe zone.

It’s the people that really make it great.

The broken smile of the older lady on register 4 who should be able to retire but Medicare doesn’t cover her diabetes supplies. The man with the bottle thick glasses who has to check items out very slowly and in precisely the right order. He is going to be on Criminal Minds one day played by a more attractive but equally crazy actor who kidnaps remote tollbooth workers to feed a toe eating fetish. Or the lady who rode to Walmart last night on the back of her boyfriend’s Honda Shadow to run in and get some supplies. These people were either camping or cooking meth and given her twitch and what seemed like a few too many scabs, I’m going with meth. That’s judge-y of me. Maybe they had been camping AND making meth.

Totally plausible. These two were in the self-checkout lane when Skinderella realized that she hadn’t eaten in four days and wanted a prewrapped turkey roll from the deli section. She ran and grabbed the lunch meat roll and, with a giggle, launched it towards the checkout like a football pass. It landed in the self-checkout area and exploded a colorful lettuce and tomato burst. Her boyfriend muttered something that rhymed with “Crazy Bitch” and continued to scan his beer. Commerce and comedy at 9:00 at night. I made my trip worth the drive. Happy Memorial Day! This is what the veterans were fighting for!

But not at Kroger. Most of those trips are monotonous grinds of a hurried life. Memorial to nothing in particular. There are crazy and dangerous people at both venues but the difference is somewhat like a well run zoo versus a walking tour safari park where the tigers might eat you in the parking lot because the rangers don’t give a shit. Plus the tigers are high, hungry, and mad that they dropped their turkey roll.

Who knows where I was going with this. Welcome to my week. If you find any piece of this remotely interesting this one is for you. I realize I didn’t manage to swear as much as I felt I was going to at the first. What can I say? Shit happens. Hope I didn’t fuck up the experience. I’m such an asshole. Oh and to Kroger. Nothing but love, locate the bread better, get some real carts with capacity. Carry on.

You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.