My Name Is
Mudd
Facebook Posts and other (A)musings
Jeff Mudd
Copyright 2011 Jeff Mudd
Published on Smashwords
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ISBN – 13: 978-1463742386
ISBN – 10: 146374238X
All rights reserved © 2011 Southpaw Books. First Printing: 2011. The editorial arrangement, analysis and professional commentary are subject to this copyright notice. No portion of this book may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
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My Name is Mudd
Facebook Posts and other (A)musings
Jeff Mudd
For Jennifer, McKenzie,
McCoy and Mitchell.
In loving memory of my pop,
Joe Mudd
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Table of Contents
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Foreward
I post; therefore I am…
…planning to get the kids a Christmas gift that keeps on giving the whole year through - a paper route.
…getting so old that I have a few blue chest hairs.
…wishing my wife would look at me the way she does her shoes.
…wondering if an obese person goes swimming if it’s still considered skinny dipping?
…thinking that the new mystery novel by weatherman Al Roker has a 90% chance of sucking.
Since joining Facebook in 2009 and reacquainting with friends both past and present, I have been tossing such tidbits on my wall. I have some 400 pals (some of whom I can’t quite place, and vice versa), and I would love to have them all over two weeks from Tuesday for coffee and bundt cake. But that would be against HOA regulations. Instead, I try to add a dash of spice to the daily grind. Some posts stick; others don’t, as the laws of humor (and pasta) dictate. Not everyone can be made to laugh. Such is the fate of the funny.
Facebook in itself is an odd place. Lots of people to see, stuff to do, hours to waste. It has replaced soap operas and game shows as the daytime time suck. Mark Zuckerberg is the new Bob Barker, our resident Bo Brady. But I don’t poke or politic or tomcat or tag, nor do I hold any affiliation to the make-believe Mafia or reside on a fictional farm. I rarely share vacation photos of places you haven’t been or highlight snapshots of food that you wish you were eating.
I don’t begrudge those who do. A plate of meat and a family in Crete both deserve their due. It’s just that my Facebook nook has always been to try and add some levity to the everyday. Many of the posts focus on love and marriage and family, others on pop culture/sports and current events and holidays. Health (by day, I’m a fitness trainer) and beauty (by night, I live in suburban Austin) also both make appearances. Just Seinfeldian, routine stuff, and everyone and everything are fair game. To be sure, celebrities are roasted, but, in fairness, so is my family and, especially, myself. I also pepper in some jabs at the world and its many wonderful warts, delivered in a cynical manner that is decidedly deadpan.
I never intended to do anything with these swings at humor, other than to perhaps, well, humor. But there are some 129 million books in print, including a novel by renowned scribe Hillary Duff, a book of poetry from noted philosopher Keanu Reeves and a puzzling number of books on the subject of dirt. Just. Plain. Dirt. Surely, I thought, there’s room for one about just plain Mudd. Just to cover myself, though, I also chose a smaller book size that can double nicely as a coaster for your highball.
There’s a sign in my place of business that reads “Live, Love, Laughter.” I always keep it turned over so that the well-worn slogan is reversed. To me, the world, too often ridiculous in the worst of ways, is to be laughed at and often flipped on its head.
Herein, I rarely post about the many things about my family – my lovely wife Jennifer, daughter McKenzie and sons McCoy and Mitchell - that make me proud. I could write an entire book, or at least a large pamphlet, about such moments. And in each chapter introduction, I even steer from sarcasm for the sake of letting them know, as they say, how I really feel.
In large part, though, the following is written with tongue planted firmly in cheek. It is my Hallmark card to the world, only it’s located at Spencer’s Gifts, in between the whoopee cushions and the poster of Erik Estrada.
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Baby
I speak to him, and he briefly looks my way, then away. I am nothing, a stranger, a whisper in the dark. This baby, it occurs to me, doesn’t yet understand that his mom isn’t the only boob in the house.
I am hovering above Mitchell, and he couldn’t care less. He is just eight weeks old now and still has a trace of that wonderful new-baby smell. He is shifty and fat and lazy and needy. Essentially, he is my Uncle Stu in a onesey. I couldn’t love him more if I tried. Mitchell, not Stu.
To report that the kid was an outright surprise would be inaccurate. With already two in tow, the wife and I were pretty sure how to cook one up – and how to avoid such. But after a couple of years of misfires and misadventures, we were pretty sure, the way you sometimes just sense, that our family was destined to be a foursome. This was fine. This was our family album.
It’s said that watched pots never boil, and a year later our incidental, accidental miracle arrived. Mitch was bigger than the two before him, tipping the scales at nine-plus pounds, and is just now mastering a big, toothy, goofy smile. He is happy and hungry, and his eyes are wide with wonder. As with all my children during their infancies, I just can’t stop looking at him. I stare with amazement. With gratitude. And, sometimes, with envy. His entire story lies before him. His biggest concerns, like that of Uncle Stu, are gas and bloating. He is a miniature life in waiting, an empty cup. My wish is that he fills his life to the brim.
Parents in the know (and oddly, people who have no children at all) like to joke that three kids are one too many, that the man-to-man defense must be switched to a zone. And in these matters, it is true: three is to two as the population of Texas is to, say, Delaware. But to me, five feels right. Five fingers. Five toes. Five Mudds.
We are whole. We are one.
Got a McCoy and a McKenzie. This stick tells us to start soliciting McNames for a new McMudd. Early frontrunner: McJagger.
Doc said that the baby should be beginning his descent. I asked her if we should put our tray tables up and turn off our cell phones.
She wrote something down.
Readying for the hospital, it occurred to me that I was wearing the same shirt as the day my 9-year-old daughter was born. This speaks volumes for my memory and absolutely nothing for my wardrobe.
The drive home from the hospital with a new baby is always an extra-safe ride. An Amish couple just trotted by and flipped us off.
He’s slow and chunky and can hold a squat for hours. Heading to Academy Sports to get the baby a catcher’s mitt.
This new kid is cute as can be. Not much
for eye contact, though. Gotta work
on that before his first job interview.
There’s no denying that most babies, regardless of race, religion or gender, look a lot like Buddy Hackett on a bender.
Enjoy your first day at home, sweet boy. There’s a stack of newspapers to fold at 4 a.m.
I stared deeply into the eyes of my newborn son, awestruck by just how much joy the human heart can hold, and he peed on my face.
Baby’s probable first words: “Okay dude, you just gotta stop staring at me. It’s really freaking me out. I can see you.”
With a first child, a dropped pacifier is cause for a thorough sterilization; with the second, the five-second rule is in effect; this third kid just needs to understand that pacifiers come with carpet fuzz and other shrapnel.
Toss-up as to what’s more complex – unraveling a terrorist plot, splitting an atom or correctly buttoning this onesey.
Relearning the slow, stiff-legged walk employed while nearing the crib with a sleeping baby. Perfected by parents. And zombies.
Well, I guess this little guy is going to stick around. Back to the bottom of the totem pole for me.
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Work