Going for Gold! Oh wait... DID IT!!!

This is my 50th (which is gold in "day-iversaries;" there, I just explained the title to you; it's not about the Olympics) published blog since I started this thing in June.  I am still amazed that I have been able to come up with something to type every day.  Really, there's a lot of junk stored in my brain.

I've come to realize that my thoughts are like a rats teeth.  Rats have to chew every day.  If they do not chew, their teeth will grow too large and will eventually kill them.  If I don't get my thoughts out there and off of my chest, they will build up in my head.  I hope they don't kill me, but they do cloud my mind and keep me distracted.  Perhaps I'd be so distracted I'd walk out in traffic or something and get hit by something as simple as an Amish horse cart.  So, yeah, there you go; I must get these thoughts out of my mind because, you know, Amish horse carts!

It just dawned on me that it says a lot about my self image that I thought of myself as rat teeth as opposed to beaver teeth.  It's the same deal for beaver's as it is for rats and beavers are cuter and less disliked.  Yet, I type "rat."  It even says more about me and how lazy I can be that, rather than go back and simply change all the instances of "rat" to "beaver," I've simply kept trucking along, calling myself out as a rat, rather than making sure you think I see myself in the best possible light.

If it matters any, my first instinct was to refer to my daily posts as "cognitive flatulence" but that seemed too graphic, gross and self deprecating.  And yet, I've gone off and told you about it anyway.  I really shouldn't have.  I should have withheld that bit but I already withhold so much.

And there is part of the "crux" for me in this blogging thing.  As much as I am writing, this is only about 50% (if that much) of what I am thinking about.  I just either do not wish to, or feel it is inappropriate to, blog about some of the things on my mind.

I've seen many blogs, very good blogs, that are angry rants.  I see no problems with these blogs but they aren't for me. 

But, at times, it takes everything within my will power to keep my mouth shut or more like my fingers from typing. 

For example, when I witness the misuse of religion(s) to pass militant judgement on others.  For me, this stems from the fact that pretty much every "God Fearin'" religion stresses the whole "Judge not lest ye be judged" and the "let he/ she who is without sin cast the first stone" basis for their beliefs.  This has really brought home the whole "oh wow, look at all the outspoken hypocrites" type response within me.  But then I figured it out; they've all read the quote wrong and think it's "he without stone should cast the first sin...."   Ohhhhhhhh... so there you go, game on... sin away!

My Church has a lot of "defined sins" almost too many to keep up with.  You get used to it and almost find comfort in knowing you're a sinner and you need to pray and try to improve upon myself.  How do I know I'm a sinner?  I got out of bed today. 

So there you have it, Athiest or any religion, Democrat or Republican, Chicken sammich eater or Oreo eater,  the list goes on... unless you're comitting a blatant crime, I'll be doing my best to pass judgement on no one.

And then there's all the political rant blogs.  Rant away.  I don't blame you for your feelings, nor necessarily disagree with you, but, damn.  Some people really do fear change and politics.  I might just be too ignorant to get it.  Ignorance can be bliss!

Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but I am tired of being force fed anger and ignorance on any and every subject, so I will withhold from forcing my anger or ignorance upon you.  Well, my anger at least.

Also, I get sad but I don't want to blog about it or even make it my status update.  Really, "I made a sandwich and my lettuce was bad... :(" 

Actually, I get down right depressed.  Depression is a very real thing and sometimes it happens for an emotional reason and other times, I firmly believe, it can happen for chemical reasons.  

I've actually noticed within myself that I have been overall happier since I started doing this blog.  Not that all of my posts are rainbow launching joygasms, but they are typically a non-miserable spin on my perspective.  Like exercising the brain and using cheesy cliche's at the same time, "thinking happy (or non-depressing) thoughts makes you a happy (non-depressing) person!"

Sadly I have witnessed friends and loved ones who have destroyed everything they've worked for and everyone around them because they refuse to get help for depression.  They spiral into misery and tell themselves that it is not their fault and they are very happy; everyone else is just mean.  It's very sad, but I am not going to spend time blogging about that.  I just want to focus on other issues.

I LOVE to blog about the joys of being a parent!  I actually had no desire to ever have a kid until right around the time I became a Dad.  I was fine with my life and was more terrified of "breaking" a child than any desire I could have to raise one.  Then I became a Dad.  In an instant, I became "CAPTAIN PUSHOVER!!!"  Not really.  I am relatively strict but I remember what it was like being a kid and I try to help my kid capture those moments and have those memories.  I had a GREAT childhood, in a disciplined household.

What I try my best not to blog about is how awful divorce has been for her.  It has been terrible.  She talks about it occasionally and it still bothers me.  It doesn't really bother me anymore for what I have lost but it tears me up for what she has had taken away from her.

I could spend days upon days upon days blogging about the pain and realities of divorce when kids are involved.  It is sad to me how common of an occurrence it has become.  I've heard soldiers talk about "walking through fields surrounded by dead bodies" well, sometimes, that's what it feels like walking around the playground, but it's not dead bodies, it's divorced parents or children going through it.  What's worse is that the majority of divorced people I know aren't in that situation because of abuse, they are in it because their spouse opted to destroy the family to go search for something better or happier.  And the kids are left to pick up the pieces.

I cannot always blog about many of the everyday occurrences I have shared with some of the people I surround myself with.  I am surrounded by many wonderful people and I am soooo grateful that they are there.  Some I see daily, some I see when I'm in my driveway or walking down the street.  Some I only see during the school year because our kids share a class.  That's fine, I appreciate whatever time we get.

But I can't always blog about these people, mainly because I don't want them to misunderstand me and be offended.  I'm thinking someone out there right now is upset with being referred to as "these people."  Sorry. 

And if I say "one of them is great even though they smell awful... you know who you are;" well, now I've got every one I know upset thinking "OH MY GOD!!! I SMELL?  How could he publish that?!?!?!"  Well, I was kidding.  You don't smell ... most of the time (Andy G.).

And then there are all of the inappropriate thoughts that I cannot blog about.. EVER!!!!  Just between you, me and the fencepost, I have A LOT of inappropriate thoughts go through my head every... ohp; just had one... twenty or thirty seconds or so.  It's annoying. 

You know that point in growing up where you are supposed to learn to control these..... awwwww yeahhhh; sorry.... thoughts?  Well, I slept through the days that those skills were supposed to be learned and completely missed a few of those aspects of becoming a responsible adult.  I can't blog about those thoughts for fear of being ostracized from the civilized world only to end up banished to somewhere like Hoboken.

Seriously, I try not to stir up any controversy when I type out this stuff.  It's definitely on my mind and I've probably just hit the tip of the iceberg today, but I would rather simply not blog for a day or two than have to spew forth my anger, pain, sadness or disgust.  The world and those within can send us enough of that every day.  You don't need anymore from me.

I think people need to learn to appreciate what they have before them.  I think this blog has helped me appreciate more of what I have and have had. 

Look what I've done.  I've gotten all sentimental and deep.  I'm sorry.  I hate it when I do that.

Allow me to make it all better by ending on an inspiring quote from Dr. Johnny Fever:

"BOOGER!"

But I don't WANNA let you grow up!!!

As I've mentioned before, I'm a single Dad.  I am blessed that I get to spend 50% of my daughter's life with her, but I feel I am equally cursed in that I only get to spend 50% of my daughter's life with her.  Regardless, it could be worse.

I cherish my time with my child very much.  I am happy to see her and sit with her.  I am thrilled to play games with her (most of the time) and I am in heaven when she "helps" me in the kitchen, or wash the car, or clean the house, or etc....   Of course, whenever she asks "Daddy, can I help?"  I instantly know that the task at hand is about to take twice as long to complete if it is even ever completed. 

When I was about 5, I once "helped" my Dad change the air filter in the car.  This was a simple process; unscrew the wing nut, lift up the filter cover, take out the old filter, put in the new filter, put the cover back over the filter, screw the wing nut back on; 5 minutes!  Until his dying day, my Dad reminded me constantly that it took him almost an hour and a half to change that air filter.  He gave me a hard time about it, but thirty years later, he still cherished that moment. 

So, I get to relive these moments with my kid.  And that's the key for me, time.  Cherished moments in time spent with my kid.  I've got to make the most of it now because in a few years she'll want nothing to do with me A.) because I'm her Dad and B.) because, as I've already been informed, I'm a "BOY!!!"  followed by an "ewwwwwwwwwww."

Now, the catch 22 for me is that when she is with me, I want her to have as normal of a life as possible and part of that is the whole growing up and playing with friends thing.  Where we live, she is surrounded by her school friends as well as kids in the neighborhood that she has gotten to know.   We live over by a playground; this is like pre-tween mecca!  So we have an almost Norman Rockwell-esque scenario where I am in the kitchen cooking looking out my kitchen window occasionally catching a glimpse of my child playing but constantly hearing the giggles of the kids.  It is a nice memory.  It reminds me of being a kid.  

When dinner is ready, I step out the front door and say "DINNER'S READY!!!"  After about three more tries she'll come home and eat.  Why three tries?  I have no idea?  What kid doesn't want to come in from playing to eat?  Oh yeah, me and every kid....

Of course, the self-centered Dad in me wants my child to stay home and not play with friends so that we can spend more Daddy-Daughter time together, but the kid in me knows that she needs this.  The kid in me wins out most of the time  except for when it comes to AC outlets.  Well, of course, the kid in me loses often enough to the adult me but the outlet thing is pretty serious.

Yup, when I was a kid, before knowing what electricity truly was, I was flipping a light switch, in one of those poorly planned light switch/ ac outlet combos that used to be prevalent in bathrooms, when I missed the switch and stuck my finger into the outlet.

I got lucky and was fine, but I got shocked.  Of course, all I could remember was the fuzzy sensation all down my arm and I ran out excitedly telling my Mother, "Mom, Mom, I went to turn off the light in the bathroom and I think I shook hands with Chewbacca!!!"  It was that fuzzy!  So, as much as I'd really like to shake hands with Chewbacca, as an adult, I've learned that this is a bad idea. 

So I need to let my child grow up and experience real life. 

Is this why the Playdate was invented?  I have absolutely no recollection of such a thing from my childhood.  You either had friends nearby to play with or you played in your room.  Now we schedule appointments with other parents to get our kids to play.  It's a great concept, don't get me wrong, but it is such a new concept that spell check doesn't even like the word Playdate.  Ergo the word is encased in yellow. 

My little girl likes to have Playdates.  I like it when she has them too, especially when they are at my house.  This way, if she needs me I am there and in the meantime, I can listen to all the giggling and fun, while I rest on the couch.  Other parents, who have their kids 100% of the time and even have multiples, tend to be grateful for the break.  I understand entirely. Even I could use a break during my "Daddy Weeks," I just don't want them.   "I'll clean the kitchen next week!"  is what I tell myself.  But then next week comes and I have too many dishes to wash, so I just toss 'em instead!!!  Sure... why not?

There is a problem that I am now learning about Playdates.  See, as previously mentioned, I am a boy and I have a girl.  When girls get together they make high pitched squealing noises.  These noises hurt my ears; I may be part dog.  These noises also hurt the dogs ears especially when the dog hears the noises that sound like "let's dress her up... where's the dog?"  That big dog finds a way to hide like a cat.

Then there's the Barbies.... I was never prepared for Barbies.  I know from experience that dolls are okay, especially G.I. Joe Dolls with Kung Fu Action Grip or whatever.  And Evel Knievel Dolls who really do ride their own motorcycle.  These dolls go outside where the action is (unless it's rainy, or cold, or hot, or something good is on TV).

But, Barbies?  Barbies, get dressed up and down.  The play all over the house, and sometimes, they have a spa day, in the only bathroom in the house.

It is hard to Pee on a Barbie Spa day.

I have to say that nobody , NOT ONE SINGLE SOUL, ever warned me that, as a single Dad, I alone would have to tolerate a "Barbie Makeover" in my bathroom....

Also, during these visits, I am expected to eat, a lot!  Usually it's plastic and make believe food.  This past Saturday, whilst watching History Channel, the visiting friend played "waitress" while my daughter stood back in her room and played "cook."  The waitress would come out and ask me what I wanted to eat and I would name anything I could think of.  Then she would go back to the cook, find out what plastic foods they had and come back and tell me what my choices were.  I knew what they were.  I am the customer every other weekend, but it's still fun. 

After my dining experience had ended, I had the waitress ask the cook to come out so I could compliment "the chef."  My daughter came out.

"Chef, I just wanted to compliment you and your waitstaff on another delicious and well presented meal."
"You didn't eat your peas."
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't, I know you and I can see them right there." 
"Who are you my Mother?"
"Eat your peas."
"I did.  I ate the peas, the yogurt, the sandwich, the strawberries and the pretzel."
"I don't believe you, I can still see them."
"Baby, It's all plastic.  You can see all of it."
"DADDY!" 

I ruined the moment by stepping out of character too soon.  On top of that, I missed so much of the documentary I was watching that I now do not know who won World War II.

Also, when girls come over, there are a lot more Easy Bake Oven moments than I EVER had in my youth.  I had all of none in my youth. 

Playdates with boys still happen from time to time.  Technically, these are not Playdates as boys are rarely ever requested play guests.  Playing with boys usually only occurs when the parent(s) of a boy happen to be hanging out; but it happens.  The boys find themselves playing with the Barbies and even giggling at high pitches that should only be hit by castrato tenors.

This past weekend, I had a moment from my nightmares when my girl and another girl were playing with a boy in her room.  Luckily, it was the boys Mother who went in to check on the kiddos.  She came out all casual and giggling.... "They're Playing Doctor!"

There is a small nerve in every Daddy's brain that goes into instant DESTROY ALL BOYS mode whenever they hear the words playing and doctor combined with their daughter.  Luckily this mode was curtailed by how casual and unaffected the Mom in question was about it.  "No really, they have a belt around his arm for his blood pressure, a stethoscope to listen to his heart and they're taking his temperature on his forehead."

Kids are just practicing for real life.  Running outside and playing with friends is a way to become more responsible and more independent in the real world.  I have to let her have a real childhood and grow up as much as it kills me.

Maybe the games they play are there to help them grow up and figure out their future careers?  Perhaps the waitress/ chef gig will help her get the doctor gig? 

If that's the case, I'd really like her to start playing "Multi-millionaire philanthropist who pays for her Dad's life of luxury!"

Спасибо за чтение!

I love it when musical artists collaborate.  Like, Willie Nelson with anyone else, and Frank Sinatra with anyone else, Run DMC with Aerosmith and so many other collaborations.

One of the best and most meaningful collaborative efforts I have embraced in my life was that of Sting and Prokofiev; Sure, lil' Gordy (as I'm sure he was called) was born in 1951 and Sergei passed away in 1953 but what they accomplished in that time was beautiful. 

Together they wrote the song "Russians."  Okay, Sergei Prokofiev wrote the brilliant score of "Lieutenant Kije'" which is an amazing piece of music and Gordon Sumner (Sting) utilized Kije's theme for the music to Russians, a very touching song.  Russians came out at a time when I was just starting to understand the cold war.  Ironically, what I understood was that it didn't make a whole lot of sense.

"So let me get this straight.  The Russians want to blow us up because we don't agree with them but they know that we'll just blow them up right back so neither of us will have anyone to disagree with or even agree with for that matter?  That seems stupid?"

I likened this to that time in the 7th grade when a big bully told me he was going to "beat me up" because I didn't like him.  Of course, my smart ass self replied with something like "and you think beating me up will make me like you?"  He beat me up anyway but I'm pretty sure I got my point across.  I never did like him.

So Sting and Prokofiev's song suddenly got me to think on a different level.  Maybe Soviet kids were sitting over there in their country thinking the same thing I was: "Mom, Dad, they want to blow us up? This sounds stupid!" of course, they probably said it in a language other than English.

Growing up a Navy brat I was always aware of a "cold war" but didn't fully understand.  My friends and I actually discussed, and at times even argued over, what number we were on the U.S.S.R's list of Nuclear Targets.  "It goes, New York, Chicago, Washington D.C., Pascagoula and Goose Creek!  We're in the top 5!"  And if some kid suggested that maybe Philadelphia, or Miami, or California was ranked higher, than us, there was a fight to be had!

But my Dad was a very sensible man.  As a hardened submariner I pretty much expected him to be very "GO TEAM, WIN!!!" but he was more practical and level headed than that.

"Dad, do you hate the Soviets?"
"No son, of course not.  I just don't like their submarines."  He would say with a somewhat serious smile.

But that was enough to help me grow up not being a world damning fanatic!  If Russians felt the same way as my Dad and now me and they really loved their kids, then maybe there was hope for all people. 

In my adolescent mind I thought maybe the U.S.S.R. and the U.S.A were just the big kids on the block trying to impress some cute girl.  Of course, her name was "Afghanistan" and I'm sure the Russians got to the point where they said "she's too complicated and high maintenance, you can have her" and now they're looking at us saying "Oh MY GOD!!!  You're really taking her out?  We were sooooo KIDDING!!!  High Maintenance though!  Am I right?  Yeahhhhh I'm right!"

But another point that I took away from the song Russians was that all the nations in the middle of us were none too pleased.  They were like the last few items left on a buffet, with two really hungry fat guys on either side trying to pick out who gets what, all the while hoping that the sneeze guard really works!

So, here I am, 27 years after hearing a beautiful piece of music that changed my soul.  Of course, my Mom introduced me to Prokofiev, Shostakovitch, Tchaikovsky and many other amazing Soviet composers (as well as Mozart, Beethoven, Bach and The Beatles) and my Dad introduced me to the reality of level headed thinking (unless I forgot to mow the lawn, again) but Sting introduced me to a human mindset shared by Americans, Russians and Europeans.

And now I have a blog.  For my own theraputic purposes I type pointless thoughts that come to my head and I really hope I don't offend anyone.  I've come to realize that I have a really good following in my home nation but my second largest following is from Russia.  I have no idea why or how this has happened but I really appreciate you for reading. 

So thank you Russian Readers for checking in each day... and thank you for Beef Stroganoff, Chicken Kiev and Vodka!  Those are three of the best secrets my people ever stole from your people!  I hope you are not trying to steal any secrets from me.  I don't know any.

Okay, so yeah, there's some residual cold war stuff still in my head. Sorry.

Maybe I just need pants that breathe?

I was walking my dog in the local city park a few mornings back when I happened upon a gentleman whom I am going to assume is homeless. 

I'm making this assumption because I've seen him around from time to time at odd hours acting all homeless.  I've also seen him asleep in the park a few mornings as well as some nights and one time I saw him asleep on a park bench somewhere else in town.  So, through deduction, I'm left to assume he is homeless.  Or he is an undercover cop.  Or he is just very eccentric.  I don't know.  I do know that if you are extremely wealthy and live life by your own rules and sleep in a park sometimes they call you eccentric.  If you do it because times are tough or you've wasted your life or some tragic story, you're homeless.

Whether he has a home or not, is not my point.  He seems pretty harmless.  He does have different clothes on when I see him.  So maybe, he is homeless but his clothes have a lavish bachelor pad?  Again, I don't know how it works.  I hope I never do.

His clothes are what have brought me to today's subject though.  Typically he is in jeans and a raincoat or a leather vest sometimes with a white t-shirt on under the coat or vest but most times no shirt.  I've only seen him in the summer months so I am not certain of the extent of his wardrobe.

However, the other morning when I saw him at the park, he was curled up in a ball, sitting upright with the base of his feet level with his rear end.  His elbows were on his knees and his face was in his hands.  He was wearing slippers as well as a nightgown which he had pulled over his knees to cover his legs.  Yup, a nightgown. 

It wasn't a sexy nightgown by any means.   No, it was nothing lacy or satiny or frilly in anyway but more of your practical get up with curlers in your hair, fix the kids breakfast and then mop the house while smoking a pack of cigarettes kind of nightgown.  If your spouse is wearing this nightgown, it kind of says "STAY AWAY" loudly and clearly.

It was a light blue nightgown with puffy shoulders.  Okay, so maybe the puffy shoulders were a little frilly, but it appeared that he had cut the nightgown at the armpit so his arms could best fit through; so much for the frillyness.  The nightgown was older and worn and had been washed so much that the fabric had thinned out enough so that it was now somewhat transparent.  His back was facing me as I walked past and I could see his hairy back and the space separating his glutious maximi (much better than just saying "crack" dontcha' think).  It was awful.

I only did 2 of my regular 4 to 6 laps that morning.  So, I got to see this twice.  Ughhhhh.... 

But it got me thinking, which, if you follow my blog at all, you should now know that damn near everything gets me "thinking."  Also, what you will most likely not be the slightest bit surprised to hear is that what it got me thinking about isn't anything I've typed so far.  That's right.  What you've spent the last 10 or 15 minutes reading so far is just the introduction to what's on my mind.

I think this is why my Father would usually lose his temper about two to three sentences into me trying to tell him anything. 

"Why are you bleeding?" Hypothetically he would ask.
"Well, yesterday morning when I got up 'Wake Me Up Before You Go' was on the radio and..."
"What the hell does this have to do with you bleeding today?"
"Well, my girlfriend told me that if that song was on the radio in the morning yesterday that I should wear my blue Chuck T's.  So I couldn't wear them today since I wore them yesterday. So....."
"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?!?!?"

Once I passed out from blood loss, the doctors were able to explain what had happened.

But 25 years later, I've still got the Chuck T's!

Anyway, why did men ever stop wearing skirts and robes?  They really look comfy!  That's the point I've been working towards.  Sorry if it's a let down.

I'm serious.  Throughout history men wore skirts and they dominated the world!  Look at Rome. The soldiers wore skirts and the politicians wore sheets.  Levi's were hardly popular and Wranglers weren't sold ANYWHERE! 

Now, at least in the US of A, if a guy dresses up in a skirt he is either nuts, looking for a fight or trying to relive his family's "ancient" heritage.  And if you dress up in a sheet, you're either a racist ass or a drunk college kid at a party.

In other countries robes or kilts or grass skirts are worn as a tradition but not often as every day style.  Yes, you might see a Scot in a tuxedo with a kilt, but he's not wearing that every day.  People would just stare at him  for such a strong everyday fashion statement.  But my opinion is "fashion statement HELL!!!  They look comfy!"

The world has become so form over function that style has outweighed practicality.  Why?  I do like a nice fitting pair of jeans, but let's face it, they don't offer too much freedom.  Without being too graphic, that freedom sounds really nice.  I would think men would want and even need that freedom more than women, yet women get the loose fitting clothes.  It's like the cross bar on a bicycle.  Why do men's bikes have to have the raised bar?  If you slip out of the saddle going up a hill you're gonna hit notes that Mariah Carey can't reach.  Trust me, I know.

I wish kilts were common or even socially acceptable in the states.  I'd like to give it a try but I am no trend setter. 

On my way to work yesterday I passed an old guy wearing a blue and black tartan kilt and black combat boots whilst mowing his lawn.  He looked like a nut and not just because of his outfit.  He was an older scrawny pale white guy.  He was balding on top of his head but had long stringy white hair in the back and on the sides with a scruffy white beard and, as a matter of fact, he was missing some teeth.  He looked exactly as one might imagine some shipwrecked pirate who had been living alone in a cave on an uncharted island for the past ten years would look.  Of course, while on the island, he was psychologically stable enough to realize the dangers of skin cancer so he avoided the sun at all costs and that is why he is still so white.  HE LOOKED CRAZY!!!

So basically if you're insane and/ or you have nothing else to lose, like a homeless guy in a park or a shipwrecked pirate mowing his lawn, you can get away with wearing a robe or a skirt for every day activities.  If you're a celebrity or a "traditionalist re-enactor" it's a lot more acceptable.  But if you're me or someone just like me, you can't.  Life is just not fair for an everyday guy like me. 

I'd love to go just one day without having to make an "adjustment" because my pants are too constricting when I sit, or do lunges, or walk, or make a sandwich, etc...

I'm always curious how fashion went from men in skirts to men wearing pants with a codpiece?  I'm sure I could look into this and research it but why bother.  I NEVER want to wear a codpiece.

I got my morning workout. How about you?

Yet another Sunday morning stuck between a dog waking me up before 7 AM and a child who needs sleep!  Now, there is also a guest dog staying for a week to add another level to the challenge.. So there I was at 6:53 AM trying to feed two animals while trying to be silent and not wake up the child thus creating a monster!

If the dogs aren't used to each other's normal routine, feeding two dogs can really be an amazingly complicated process.  Of course, as with any dog, you have the constant excitement of "OH BOY.... dog food AGAIN!!!"  which is very sincere coming from them.  I would be much more sarcastic if I were fed the exact same meal twice a day every day of my life.  "Oh boy... People food.... again?"  imagine that was VERY sarcastic sounding.

Both dogs have different dog food and as excited as they are just to have food, there is now an increased level of excitement for both of them because they might have the opportunity to try something different.  However, knowing that if they get a hold of different food I'll have to deal with doggie gas all day, it became my ultimate goal to prevent this from happening.

Doggie gas is a horrible thing.  Not only is it just nasty but it comes at very inopportune times.  You might be entertaining a lovely lady when all of the sudden, POOF!  Without a sound, that smell wafts between you and the lovely lady and you start to think to yourself,

"Oh.  Oh my.   That... that is simply awful.  Oh God I hope that was the dog and not her.  She seems so nice.  I couldn't stand it if that was her.  She'll totally have to go if it was her.  Oh Man... I hope she doesn't think it was me!!"  And then, almost out of necessity, you break the barrier and state "That wasn't me... I'm hoping the dog fluffed!" 

This is bad on two levels.  First off, it is never a good idea to let women know that we men know that they sometimes have gas by implying that it might have been them.  Also, this is bad because of how the word "fluff" is being used to make something so horrible sound cute thus ruining the word fluff for ever after.

Seriously, we grew up using that word for doggie gas.  Then the first time I ever took my clothes to a laundromat to have them wash my clothes for me because I was so overwhelmed studying for exams I saw the sign that said "fluff and fold" and simply turned around with laundry in tow in complete disgust.  I could wear these a few mores days.

So, yeah, I didn't want the dogs to share food which leads to an experience that only the childhood game of Twister could prepare me for.  I filled both bowls at the same time and then had to magically put them down at the same time five to six feet apart.  I cannot reach that far.. so my attempts were pointless.

Of course both dogs always seem to gravitate to one bowl so I was stuck trying to shoo one away in a herding method by tapping it with my foot saying it's name followed by "no, that's not yours" you know, like the dog understands.  And all the while, I can only whisper because the child is still asleep.  Whispering just seems to excite dogs all the more, as if they're thinking "I can't quite make out what you're saying to me, so you must being saying that there's a steak in that bowl"  which escalates the complexity of any feeding.

With a bowl in one hand and a bowl in the other and one foot off the ground trying to gently push one dog away, I was left to act out the summer Olympic gymnastics individual something or other in my kitchen.  My left hand put the bowl on the ground, while my right foot was pushing a dog away and my right hand is keeping the other bowl level all while I whispered.  As the left bowl was finally down, both dogs went for the bowl in my right hand because you know, there's no steak in the left bowl, so perhaps it is in the right bowl now, I guess?

In a teeter totter motion, I alternated from my standing on my left foot and pushing a dog away with my right to standing on my right foot and pushing the other dog away with my left.  It was a thing of beauty.  I wished you had seen it.  I imaged that there were judges behind me giving me 9s and 9.5 for my effort, except for that judge from Naughty Korea; always handing me 8s or below because of politics.

After I got the right bowl down, I foolishly assumed that all would be right with the world.  It was not.  Now I had to keep the dogs from eating each other's food.  I was lucky this morning.  It only took about three minutes of me directing them to their own bowls before they finally got it.

So the dogs are now back to sleep.  The child is still asleep.  And I am exhausted and on my second cup of coffee.  As much as I am trying to relax, I still have Khachaturains "Sabre Dance" stuck in my head for that is a good song to have in your head for a dual dog feeding.

Sorry I got sidetracked on the gas.

Variation on a Theme: The Saturdayman's Creed

This is my Saturday. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My Saturday is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.

My Saturday, without me, is useless. Without my Saturday, I am useless. I must fire my Saturday true. I must shoot straighter than my work week who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will...

My Saturday and myself know that what counts in this life is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, or the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit...

My Saturday is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my Saturday clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will...

Before God, I swear this creed. My Saturday and myself are the defenders of my sanity. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.

So be it, until retirement is Mine and there is no enemy, but peace!

The Legend of Shiga Dembo!

At my first job in live television I had a co-worker whom I saw as an authority figure and a friend.  I'm not certain he ever liked me, but I really did look up to him. He was not my supervisor and really played no role in my career growth, but his personality deserved respect. 

He was a southern gentleman, much older than me, and was always there for you with a good laugh and a story about his life growing up in a sleepy southern town.  The antics he and his friends shared were wonderful.  I would sit at the office for hours with nothing to do other than listen to him tell his tales.  I was mesmerized and I laughed heartily.  He was a very entertaining soul.

But when there was work to be done, he was the first to motivate us all.  When you made a mistake on the job and needed to be corrected and learn from your error, he was there to guide you.  Often he would lead by example but he always led by inspiring!  He would often, passionately shout out a name.  It was a foreign name, but it was a name that through his mouth and with his voice would command you; it would control your will; it would motivate you to go beyond and above!

"SHIGA DEMBO!"   He would decree.

"Shiga Dembo... We need to clean the studio, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... That set needs to be re-lit, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... This is how you focus a camera, son!"
"Shiga Dembo... You don't know where that finger's been, Son!!!"

Sentences often ended in "Son."  It was comforting, as if, we were all the children of the great leader, Shiga Dembo.

I never knew anything about Shiga Dembo.  My co-worker would never discuss the great leader.  I saw this as a way to inspire me to learn of his greatness on my own.

Shiga Dembo must've embraced all cultures although I cannot identify his race solely by his name.  I assume he was either comparable to a Zulu Commander or perhaps a Japanese Shogun.  Maybe, he even crossed all borders and was a Zulu Shogun (hey, if Richard Chamberlain, Tom Cruise and Keanu Reaves can do it...).

I could only assume that Shiga Dembo was a great commander of armies and inspired them to push themselves to the limits to protect the goodness of their families and their spiritual way of life.  He would protect his nation from foreign raiders who wished to corrupt the purity of the Utopian society he alone had been able to provide.  When all hope was lost on the battle field, it was Shiga Dembo who would grab a symbol of his people and charge into his enemy motivating his people to raise up and survive!

There are no books about Shiga Dembo.  No monuments are dedicated in his honor.  Google cannot find him.  But I knew he existed.

One man, a man who grew up in a much more prejudicial world where other cultures were not equal let alone accepted even for their astounding contributions to modern society, was able to see through the ignorance and was willing to use the lessons of Shiga Dembo to inspire future generations.

When this particular co-worker left our station and moved on to a larger market, I refused to let the legend of Shiga Dembo die.  So, when I had a crew of my own to supervise and interns to educate, I would use the name to inspire them!  "SHIGA DEMBO!" I would announce as I walked up to my crew lounging about with nothing to do..."get to work!"

Then one day, an intern asked "Why do you say Shiga Dembo?"  I had made a breakthrough.  And so I shared the assumed stories in the hopes that they might one day bring peace to future generations.  And that's when it happened.

Another older southerner from a different department, heard me talking to the intern.  He too was witness to many of the inspiring statements that had been made by our former co-worker inciting the spirit of Shiga Dembo.

Out of respect, he waited for the intern to leave before taking me aside and saying:

"He was sayin' 'SH#T GOD D%MN BO' ya dang'd ignerent yankee!"

As it turns out, I don't always understand a southern accent too clearly.

Just the "Regular Cards" huh?

Last night I opted to spend some quality time with my child playing a card game.

It's not always as fun as you might think.  I mean, playing with my child is always a blessing and a great joy, but, one can only play Old Maid, Go Fish, Memory, Uno and Crazy 8's (remarkably similar to Uno) so many times before one goes a little crazy. 

Kids, on the other hand, can play these games over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, as long as they win most of the time.  If they lose the game too often, they lose interest.  So as parents, unless you are just a militant parent, you will often throw the game because, "hey, the kid is cute and they're having fun.  I don't need to prove anything.  Let 'em win!"  And that kind of thinking will ALWAYS backfire and get you into trouble; sort of.

Essentially, as they get older, the kids will start to get cocky and be pretty much convinced that they cannot lose!  This makes playing against them a lot less fun.  It starts to become demoralizing to you, the adult, that this kid thinks they are so much better than you because you, the adult, keep drawing bad cards from the "fish pond."  So, you snap!  With a vengeance, you make it your goal to clobber that kid at cards!  And so you do it for two rounds and the kids starts to cry.  "Okay, they're humbled" you think to yourself, and so you throw the next round.

AND THE KID IS COCKY AGAIN!!!  So, you opt to clobber them a few more times and you do but then you lose once or twice even though you are not throwing the games anymore.  This goes back and forth until both of you are on such an emotional roller coaster of joy and sadness, for the child, and victory and guilt combined with a little bit of failure for you, the adult parent.  It's a vicious cycle. 

You get to the point where you just can't even look at each other anymore.  You simply slide the cards into the coffee table drawer and you leave them alone for a month or two.  You don't speak about what happened to each other ever again.

Once a few months have passed, then it's the time to teach them grown up card games!  This is the time for them to learn, BLACKJACK!

My Grandfather taught me how to play Blackjack and Poker when I was about 7 and I thought it was the coolest thing EVER!  We did not gamble all you ney sayers out there.  Go ahead, say "ney"... good.... work it out of your system.  He had chips and a whole card set.  I think you are assigned these things when you reach 70.  I'm not exactly certain.

Me, my siblings, my uncle, my Dad and my Grandfather would all play until late into the night, like maybe 9, and at the end, I would count my chips!  IT WAS AWESOME!!!  I had blue ones and yellow ones and red ones and I don't remember caring about whether or not I had more than anyone else.  I just needed enough to make a tower or even a castle out of my chips.  In fact, we didn't necessarily have to play cards.  I liked the chips.

Quite recently, I was reminded by a friends children who have recently started playing Blackjack that this is a fun game to share with a kid.  So, last night, I decided to teach it to mine!

"Honey, do you want to play cards after dinner?"  I asked sheepishly remembering old conflicts.
"Are you going to win?"  Her greatest concern.
"You're not playing against me, you're just trying to beat the dealer!"  I am so comforting at times.
"Well who's the dealer?  It's just us."  She's too smart for her own good.
"Well, I'm the dealer, but that's not important"
"Then I'm playing you?  Right?"  I was losing her.
"Yes, but.. you know what, here are the cards we're going to use..."  I needed to move on.
"There's no pictures on them.  Where are the animals?  Why is that lady holding a stick on that card?  Why is he wearing a crown?  Ooooooh a Joker!"  This went on for some time.

So, we sat back and I explained all the cards and their values.  The Ace was a toughie. 

"Yes honey, it's an 11 and a 1."  I tried to explain.
"so.... it's twelve?"  poor kid.

Then we counted out pennies from our "charity box."  We put loose change in a box with the plan to fill the box and donate it to a charity one day.  I'm pretty sure Oliver North saved something like $15,000 in loose change.  Sadly,  I don't appear to have that much in my cars cup holder.  So right now the charity box is also the "play money" box.

Then we played.

On a serious note, this is an excellent game for teaching a child how to count.  They count out their ante and they learn to do very quick math counting up to 21, or higher if you "bust."  I was amazed at how involved and excited she was to do math and just play. 

Overall she broke even, but she finally understood that she was playing the dealer and the "luck of the draw."  It was a lot of fun.  She got a little cocky but it quickly went away when the dealer beat her.

If she gets too cocky, I'll teach her another fun counting game... 52 Pick Up.

For those of you who don't know this game, it's when one person throws all of the cards from a deck in the air and waits for them to all fall on the ground. The key to the game is that the "dealer" convinces the other player(s) that the person who gets the most cards first wins the game!  After about three or so rounds, kids just get tired and go do their own thing.

I remember this well.  I beat my Grandfather at 52 Pick Up all the time.  In fact, he was so slow, I was almost always able to get all 52 before he even got up from watching tv!!!  I RULE!!!!

And the worms ate into my brain....

Music is a wonderful thing.

It speaks to us.

It calls to us.

It can touch our souls.

I remember growing up listening to groups like The Cure or The Smiths or The Fixx and yes, there was even The The.  I didn't listen to The The, but apparently they are still around.  It just never dawned on me how many bands started with "The" until I started typing.  Anyway, I also listened to The Beach Boys, The Beatles, The Bee Gees.... oh forget it.

Music is there to help us in expressing our emotions and comforting us when we feel no one else understands.  Throughout my adolescence, when I was a hormonal wreck, I mostly listened to either depressing music or angry music.  The Fixx always comforted me with their songs about how any day now we would all die in a nuclear war so why worry about anything else.  The Smiths and The Cure, well, they were just mostly depressing but they helped me to feel better about wearing black on occasion.

If I was feeling more rambunctious I would listen to The Clash or The Motley Crue, The Quiet Riot or.... oh, sorry, "The" is just so easy.  And then I would kick a wall and try to be all mayhem-ish, within limits so that I wouldn't get in trouble with my folks.

Often, on less teen angsty type days, I would listen to Cheap Trick, Van Halen, Led Zepplin and the previously mentioned "The B-" bands.  Yes, even The B-52's but before that Love Shack crap.

There is one particular night that I will never forget where a song, that I had heard before but had never truly listened to, reached me.  It reached me in a way that really made me a ball of nerves.  It scared me, but not because of anything I was doing wrong in my life that the song felt was bad; you know like someone saying "I was coked out of my mind ready to jump off of a ledge and then Freebird came on and I said to myself  'well this really sucks.  I think I'll get off this ledge, clean up my life and go visit Forest.'  damn Freebird!"

This song was not looking into my soul and helping me purge any feelings, or comforting me on any level.  No, this song was in fact looking AT ME.  It was obviously watching me.  If a song could become an entity, or a spirit on some level, this song had become a ghost and was in my room with me.

I had gotten home late one evening after a hard day working as a bag boy.  It really is a tough job, what with having to pick stuff up, put them into bags, make small talk with people who just came in for milk and then remind them as they walk out to their car that they forgot to get milk, and then they get mad at you and end up going back in for the milk but they "accidentally" spill something on aisle 6 and you have to clean it up even though other shoppers trudge through the mess you are trying to clean up, tracking their footprints all throughout the store so you have to just keep cleaning up footprints for the rest of the day, all for minimum wage...  So, to blow off steam we had a little party after work. 

I got home, after partying for a little bit, to a house full of sleepy family, as this was high school, it was late and I was still living at home.  I took a shower and then headed back to my room.  I remember turning on my radio which was a radio-clock-phone combo thingy.  It was simulated wood grain plastic with red digital numbers for the clock and an older dial up radio tuner.  Yes, a classic!

I knew the song on the radio but as I mentioned earlier, I had never really paid attention to it.  The singer droned out "Hey You... out there in the cold getting lonely getting old...."

"Whoa," I thought to myself as I dropped my towel to the ground preparing to put on my pj's.  "I am cold!"  It was winter and I now had nothing on.

"Hey You, standing in the aisles with itchy feet..."

"HOLY CRAP!"  I was mesmerized.  I had been on my feet all day and they were quite itchy.  I dropped and sat on my bed having yet to put anything on.  I stared at my radio-clock-phone waiting for this song to touch my soul.

"This is gonna be good... I won't give in without a fight... I promise!"  I proudly said to myself as I sat there, staring, eagerly awaiting what ever giblet of wisdom came out from my radio next.... but then it got scary... it became freakish....

"Hey you, out there on your own sitting naked.. by.. the.. phone?"

Wait-What?  How does the song know exactly what I'm doing?  I mean seriously, we live in a decent society, people don't just sit alone naked by their phone very often.  This is NOT a common occurrence.  THE SONG IS WATCHING ME!!!!!!

I curled up into a tight little ball wrapping my arms around my knees and tried to lay down but instead I just ended up leaning my right shoulder and the right side of my head against the wall above the headboard of my bed.

"Hey you, with your ear against the wall...."

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"  I screamed in my head. My parents were asleep; even if there was an ax murderer in my room it was still best for me to NOT wake them up.  So, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..."

I promptly stood up, turned off the radio-clock-phone, put on clothes, covered the radio-clock-phone with a pillow, walked a few circles in my bedroom trying to figure out what was going on, uncovered the radio-clock-phone and put it under my bed, made sure my blinds were really drawn tight because even though they looked drawn tight, maybe they weren't drawn tight, but they were, unplugged my radio-clock-phone and put it in the trash and then climbed in bed and hid under my covers that, even though I was 17, could still protect me from anything just like they did when I was 7.

Music touched my soul that night and scared the hell out of me.  Granted, there is a slight chance, that something at that party had touched my soul as well.

The next day, I got up and loaded Cat Stevens Greatest Hits into my imitation Walkman cassette player and listened to that and that alone for probably the next week.  Surely Cat would never touch my soul and scare me.

I guessed right.  He did not.  However, to this day I am paranoid that I am being followed by a moon shadow.  A moon shadow.  Moon Shadow.

How the English made me ignorant about, the English. A.K.A. Your accent makes me chuckle, but it's not my fault.

At the very moment I clicked "publish" on a recent blog of mine I felt a rumbling within myself and exclaimed a quick "DOH" in realization that I had forgotten one friend from my Chicago childhood.

His name was Stewart and he wasn't as much of a friend as he was an occasional acquaintance.  The levels of friendship are pretty easy to quantify as a child.  You have a "Best Friend" and then a "Next Best Friend" and so on and so on.  Stewart did not qualify as any sort of "Best" at any level.  It's not that he was a bad guy at all, it's just that he was only my friend because his older brother and my older brother were friends and when my brother would go over to Stewart's house to hang out with his brother my Mother would send me with him if she had happened to have had it with me "this much" that particular day.  He was no part of the planned underground fort me and my "gang" wanted to build under the bushes.  Still following?

Stewart, and more so his brother, had an impact on me that still haunts me to this very day.  Going to his house on Sunday afternoons we would watch PBS.  Please keep in mind that in the 70's there were FOUR NETWORKS and some independent UHF stations if you lived in a large enough city.  I did, but their programming on the weekends was quite boring.  So, on a Sunday afternoon you had ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS.  If you watched one of the "BIG THREE" on a Sunday afternoon you had your choice of  Wide World of Sports, which was awesome and then garbage mostly structured around the whole kung fu/ karate genre; also known as Jack Slap Theater!

If you weren't into any of these shows on Sunday afternoon, you watched PBS.  Of course all of this is based on you being either too hot or too cold  or simply too exhausted to play outside.  There were no video games other than Pong and that could only go on for so long.

So, back to Stewart's place and PBS.

MONTY PYTHON!  There, I said it.

At Stewart's house we were allowed to watch Monty Python.  These guys were HILARIOUS what with their prancing about as soldiers and walking funny and slapping each other with fish and returning parrots...  I wasn't entirely sure at first if I was supposed to laugh, but everything these guys did was funny and all the while their accent drove it home for me!  It wasn't that the English accent was a funny accent, per se, it's just that it seems to lend itself quite well to comic timing. You just couldn't scream "I DON'T LIKE SPAM" like a woman with an American accent. It sounds too threatening.

As the years went on in my life, I found I'd become some sort of an "anglo-humor-phile."  I'm sure there were others just like me but we stayed very quite much like a cheese fetishist trying to make the transition into mouse culture.  I was ruined.

It wasn't just Monty Python though, it was also Dudley Moore and Rowan Atkinson and Marty Feldman and then spun off to the Kinks and Douglas Adams and even James Bond what with his sly wit.  Anything British came across to me as funny!  Even Peter Cook still makes me laugh to this very day.  He's the guy who canned Dudley Moore from their comedy duo so that he could have a better solo career sans Dudley.  Then Dudley Moore had a brilliant career and Peter Cook disappeared until he showed up on film and said, "Mawiage.... Twooo Wuvvvv!"  BRILLIANT!

The English accent had created a Pavlovian effect within me.  I laughed at almost everything I heard or could imagine being said in a British accent. 

"I'm sorry, but I seem to have run over your dog..." said the Englishman.
"........BWAH HAH HA HAH HAHHHHH." said I.

This was not out of disrespect by any means.  This was out of pure fascination and the comfort that this accent had provided me for so many years.  Granted, I did not laugh at all the Brits on the Death Star.  They were evil Brits and they were hardly funny.  Although, that Gran Moff Tarkin could have taken his comedic Darth Vader one liners on the road for a second career, that is, if he hadn't been blown up so.

As the years went by, I pretty much only had movies and television to keep me informed as to what humorous things were being said in a British accent.  Then, fate delivered a British person to my high school.  For the sake of this blog, I will refer to him as "Will" for that is nothing like his real name. Yes, Will is an enigma!

Oh yeah, and on a side note, the movie U-571 was a complete farce.  The British recovered the Germans Enigma code machine and not the Americans.  The movie would have been much better had it been made with British actors, albeit a little funnier.

Anyway, Will actually was hilarious!  He really is a funny guy and a complete joy to talk to.  However, he did help my immature mind realize that there was much more to the Brits than just humor and history.  They had real life issues just like any of us.  Knowing this almost ruined entirely the entertainment value that I had come to find in the comedic qualities of the British accent.  He was a real person and if he was trying to be funny he was milk squirting out of your nose funny, but if he was upset or even sad, he was much less funny.  I'm sure I may have snickered or chuckled from time to time as he may have been telling me about something that made him sad, but I'm sure he would've punched me square in the face had I laughed out loud at his pain. But I don't really recall him ever being overly disappointed with anything.

So, spending some time getting to know him helped me mature and realize how I was type-casting an entire nationality and that was wrong.  Then he moved back home to England.

I still managed to laugh whenever I heard the accent, but not to the foolish extent I had in my early youth.  I think I became a little more responsible and a little more respectable of a beautiful culture with great historical impact on the world.  Then, in the mid-90s, in the States, we got Absolutely Fabulous and The Young One's!

AWWWWW C'MON!!!!!  Just when I was starting to realize I was rude for laughing at anything with an English Accent you sent me more comedy?  AND MR. BEAN!!!!!  The British were doing this to me on purpose.  They wanted to tap into my Catholic guilt.

"Here boy... laugh at whatever I say with an English accent"  The British dared say.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" I replied.
"YOU EVIL SOD!!!!  We're people you know!"  they'd catch me off guard.
"I'm so sorry... I'm weak."  I would beg for forgiveness.
"HAH!!!! FOOLED YOU!!!" Damn cunning of you, British.

So, I will allow myself to laugh.  You have confused me enough to the point where I will follow my primal instincts and I shall let out my guffaws of joy!  You cannot stop me.  I will laugh as Eddie Izzard brings me to hysterics whilst still teaching me something.  I will laugh when Rowan Atkinson says nothing but mumbles and falls down.  I will laugh when Phil Ligget calls the Tour de France and I WILL BE IN HYSTERICS WATCHING THE OLYMPICS!!!!

Ohhhhh and what Monty Python and Mr. Bean and Peter Cook have done to my soul, and any experience one could ever have in a church, may be my ultimate downfall.  But I will still laugh!

As it turns out, we have an English Priest at one of the Churches in my town.  I am simply amazed that I have not been struck by lightning right where I sit in my pew as I listen to him deliver the Mass. 

HE... IS... HILARIOUS!

I made to Ireland a few years back.  I know that that is not England by any means, but it's the closest I've ever gotten.  The people there seemed to have a good time laughing at my accent. 

Apparently, I talk funny?

I apologize if I've offended any of my followers in England.  That was not my intent.  Please feel free to smite me.

Growing Up... BLAH!

I think the two best periods in my life were from birth to turning 5 and the years I spent in college.  But, I use "best" loosely as I think life is overall pretty good.

Of course, it's really easy to look back at these points of my life and refer to them as my "happiest" times, but I don't think I was necessarily happier than I am now.  Well, maybe from birth to five I was the happiest.  I was happy about everything except for when I was screaming about something,  I'm sure.

Babies laugh all the time.  They laugh, play, eat, poop and sleep.   Then they scream when either laughing, playing, eating or sleeping aren't happening and they scream loudest after poop has happened.  Life was so much easier back then. 

Maybe that's what it is, Easy = Happy?  And that's what it I think it was about these two periods in my life. Life was just "easy" from birth to five and kind of easy through college.  College wasn't easy in a no stress and zero difficulty way but it was more easy in a pretty much carefree kind of way. 

Once you move away from home to go to college, you are "free" for the first time.  That is the biggest thrill!  You are on your own and you can do things your way.  You have very little to tie you down and you have less to really lose.  I think this period of your life is kind of an experiment for your parents to see if they raised you correctly.   They watch from a distance to see how much you mess up.  Theoretically, if you do mess up really bad, they'll let you come back and re-coup before you try again. 

This is by no means ideal for anyone involved, but that is what family is there for, to be your safety net, unless they're not.  Mine was and I am grateful that I never had to go back to them to start over, but Lord knows there have been times I've wanted to.

When you turn 5, life takes a vicious turn.  People start expecting stuff from you.  You have to do things and you have to do them correctly.  If you don't do them correctly, you get in trouble with the authority figures around you.  This sucks and it keeps sucking throughout elementary, middle and high school.

When I moved out, there was very little "authority" in my life.  Sure, I had professors, a dorm monitor and the campus police to keep me in line, but, as long as you coasted within the guidelines that they may have referred to as rules (or laws) you were fine.  Essentially, if you didn't mess with them they wouldn't mess with you.  PERFECT!  I was a coaster and it worked for me.

However, college was difficult in that I had to be my own authority, for the first time, which is really frustrating.  This is the part that my parents were watching out for.  Is he gonna fly out of the nest or is gonna fall?  I opted to glide.  It worked.  I'm good.

So, comparatively, birth to five was much easier than college.  But both were still pretty much carefree and therefore happier.  There was always a safety net.

After college, stuff gets real.  That's fun and happy in a challenging kind of way; you know, fun and happy things like work schedules, marriage, divorce, mortgages, interest rates, escrow and debt.   Yup, a riotous good time is being had, RIGHT FREAKIN' NOW!!!

However, it is fun when you have a kid and get to relive your childhood vicariously through them.  Of course, you can never admit that as your reason for becoming a parent but it is a perk!  Seriously, you can play with legos, matchbox cars, Star Wars men, etc.... and you can play games like Go Fish, Chutes and Ladders, Trouble, etc....  You also get to build forts!!!

In fact, a difficult part for me about growing up has been that I can no longer make a fort in my front yard, unless my kid is around.  It's like, if you make a fort in your front yard just for you, people just write you off as a weirdo.  Then you have to say to them "nuh uh, you're the weirdo!"  After that there's too many questions to answer and then you get locked away.

But for me, I think that the most difficult part of growing up has been that nobody can carry me anywhere anymore.  I am jealous every time I pick my daughter up.  I wish someone could hold me like that and make me feel safe and okay.  I wish that when I fall asleep on the couch at night or am just too sleepy to wake up in the morning, that someone could simply lift me up and carry me to where I want to go.

Of course, I've been able to lift up most of the women I've dated, probably all of them, but most say "no" when you try.  I think that's nuts.  If someone can lift you and they're not so big that they are threatening, say "yes" if they want to carry you.  Once you get to be my size, anyone who can pick you up is going to be big and most likely very scary.

Kids are so lucky.

So to sum up, life was not necessarily easier or happier during the two "best" time periods in my life,  but 0-5 was great because of being carried and forts, and college was great because of the carefree-little-to-lose lifestyle. 

Oh yeah, and as much as I miss it, I NEVER want to meet and be romantically involved with the woman who can carry me to bed!

Next Position Please.

Imagine you are in bed.

You're lying flat on your back.

You have your iPad on your belly and you decide that this is a good time to type and entry for your blog.

As you begin to type you realize that you are having a hard time hitting the correct (virtual) keys because your screen is moving up and down with every breath you take. God forbid you yawn.

Also, at this very moment you are reminded of how much a complete pain in the ass presbyopia is. Sometimes you can see the screen clearly but if you look away for just a moment to see what's on your television or just to look at your dog, wondering why she has to be laying down next to you chewing on "herself," you have to refocus on the screen yet again. It is an experience in vertigo that can drive a lesser man insane.

You could try to move the iPad a little further down your body to lessen the effects of the presbyopia but then you can't reach the screen to type. It's not that you have stumpy arms or anything. It is simply a matter of reaching towards your lap while your laying flat. That's a workout.

You pause for a moment to review what you have typed and are really frustrated at how little you've typed in the past twenty minutes. Then it dawns on you how many typos you keep having to correct what with the screen moving up and down and the constant focus issues.

You decide that blogging in this position is too frustrating and you probably should just stop. Of course you could just sit up to type, but, no, lying down feels nice. You did try holding your breath so the screen would be more stable but after passing out and regaining consciousness you decided that that was a bad idea. So you decide your done blogging for the day.

I bet you feel silly now having gone through all of that just to type such a pointless blog.

God knows, I do!

Nope. I'm not gonna do it... Did it. Drat.

I got up this nice cool Saturday morning and decided to take my dog for a walk. It was very relaxing for me. She's panting like a freight train and pretty bitter about not having caught any squirrels.

While on my walk I decided that I would not blog today and I just wanted you to know. Of course, the irony of this is that for me to tell you that I'm not going to blog today, I actually have to blog.

I know I could've just not blogged and said nothing, but then I fear you would worry. "Where's todays blog? I hope he's okay. I wonder if his dog dragged him through the park chasing squirrels and now he is incapacitated lying in a field unconscious, surrounded by squirrel pelts."

You worry too much! I'm fine. But thank you for your concerns!

Have a nice day.

A toast to what would never be!

I was caught off guard last night when I started thinking about some kids I hung out with in my childhood and how much they impacted my life.

I spent a significant portion of my early years living in the suburbs of a little town called Chicago.  It was very diverse and it has always been the place I remember feeling the most "normal" in my life.

I had a little group of five kids that I hung out with.  Our ultimate goal in life was to build a fort underneath the bushes in the field across the street from my house.  It was gonna be cool.  It would be three levels with two "rooms" on each level so that each of us had our own room.  I hate that we never got around to building it.

I felt so close to these guys and sometimes wonder how we would have all been if we had grown up together.  But it wasn't meant to be as most of us were military kids (a.k.a. Navy Brats) and our families moved often.  These were the days of long distance phone call fees, no answering machines and absolutely no such thing as the internet.  So, unless you were up for writing letters, once you moved away, even if it was just across town, your friendship was over.

There was Kenny W.  He was a great guy and was probably my closest friend in the gang.  He and I were inseparable until I moved away.  Then we were quite separable.  I missed him the most when I moved south.  I think when I first moved away, I might have written him a letter or two, but, man, that was so hard.  So we lost touch.

The coolest thing I learned from Kenny was how to jump my bike.  This was the COOLEST EVER!  We would put a piece of plywood on a cinder block to make a ramp and then ride our bikes over the ramp and totally get some air!!!!  AWESOME!!!  We even turned it up a notch and practiced jumping off of our bikes as we were going up the ramp.  This would heighten the intensity a lot and also prepared us for any time in our lives where we may be riding a motorcycle that could explode at any second and we HAVE TO GET OFF!  This, of course, hasn't happened for me yet, but I'm prepared.  Totally.

Three or four years after I moved I was sitting in my classroom when our teacher introduced a new guy in class.  It was Kenny!  I was so excited, but he had changed.  We tried to re-kindle our friendship, but it just wasn't there.  We had both jumped ramps with too many other dudes....

Next door to me was a guy names Steven and I swear his last name was Pelican.  I don't think that was it, but that's what I remember.  Steven was this little blond haired blued eyed aryan-esque looking kid.  He had a funny accent and pretty much called everything he didn't understand "reetahded."  Of course that is considered a derogatory and hurtful term now, but back then, I had no idea what it meant. 

Steven taught me that when girls wore tight jeans and walked swaying their hips, that they were, or course, "reetahded."  I was shocked to learn this as a 6 year old but I was grateful he had informed me.  Girls were already icky enough as it was.  Of course, in the 80's when Jordache Jeans were on every girl I saw, I was amazed at the number of "reetahded" girls surrounding me at any given time. I was worried about our society!

Anyway, to this day, I really find Pelicans as a great comfort.  His last name may have been "Smith" for all I know, but Pelican works for me.

Then there was Floyd.  Floyd said he was Filipino and at this time in my life, I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.  Sure he had a darker skin tone than me, but so what.  He wasn't "Filipino," he was a boy, just like me! 

I remember his Grandfather would take us to baseball games and always get us hot dogs.  One night, as I was headed to a game, my Mom said "Don't eat a hot dog at the game.  We'll have dinner when you get home."  Sure as clockwork, when we got to the game, Floyd's Grandfather gave me a hot dog.  I thought it would be rude to say "no" so I, of course, ate it.  IT WAS DELICIOUS!!!  Baseball hot dogs always are. 

I got in big trouble with Mom that night.   I don't know how she knew.
"Eat your dinner."
"I can't, I'm full."
"Why? Did you eat a hot dog at the game?"
"No."
"Really?  Then what did you eat at the game?"
"A hot dog."
She was always so cunning....

As it turned out, when I moved south, there was a quite a large Filipino population, much larger than in Chicago.  I remember thinking to myself, "ohhhhhhhhhhh... thaaaat's what Floyd meant..."

Then there was John Paul Francis.  The only thing I remember about John Paul Francis was that he really liked to be called John Paul Francis.   I do not know what his last name was but man, if you just called him John, or John Paul, he would go NUTS! 

"Hi John!"
"It's John Paul Francis"
"John Paul?"
"FRANCIS... John.. Paul.. Francis!"
"Can I call you JPF?"
"JOHN PAUL FRANCIS!!!!"

I swear we used to say his name incomplete just to mess with him.  It was so much fun.  I wish Stripes had been out already so we would have known to always say "Lighten up Francis!"  Come to think of it, he kind of looked like Conrad Dunn, the guy who played Francis in Stripes.

I wish we could have grown up together just so I could have given him one of those Chicago style mob names.  I would have totally pushed for him being called "Johnny-P-Franks" as if that was his name.  Kind of like "Franky no neck."  See how that flows?

Now, the friend who impacted me the most in my life was Sam.  Of course, Kenny taught me survival techniques, Floyd encouraged my love for hot dogs, Steven helped me to identify the "reetahded" among us and John Paul Francis taught me about obsession with one self.  Sam taught me that all of us are different from each other in some way and that we could still be friends, no matter what.

Actually, he didn't mean to teach me that and I really didn't figure that out for quite some time.  My Mom actually helped me with that one, but she wasn't trying to teach me anything either.  Well she was trying to teach me something, but I simply didn't understand.

Sam, like Floyd, had darker skin than me.  He was black but that didn't matter one bit to me just like the fact that I am extremely white didn't matter to him.  What did matter was that Sam, had an Afro.  It was the 70's and it was the city!  If you could grow an Afro, you did and if you could grow it BIG, you totally did!  Sam was the epitome of second grade cool and confidence.  He was so laid back and nothing ever phased him!

Sam could not catch air on his bicycle and I never understood why.  As the years went by, I figured out that Sam's Afro probably slowed him down a bit.  It was large.  Not Fletch large, but large enough.  But what Sam could do was hold a lot of pencils in his hair.

In elementary school, we used those fat pencils and you couldn't just stick them behind your ear and be cool.  The older kids got to use thin "normal" pencils and sometimes they'd put one behind each ear and then freak me out saying "look at me, I've got devil horns.  I'm the devil.. bluhhh bluhhhh."  Jerks.

But Sam! Sam could totally hold three or four fat pencils in his hair and it was soooooo cool!  "Sam, you got a pencil?"  Then he would sink his hand into his hair and POOF he would pull out a pencil and just hand it to you!  AWESOME!!!!

I went home and told my Mom,
     "Mom, I want an Afro!" 
But she coldly and heartlessly said
     "You can't have an Afro."
So I tried to explain it to her in a way she would understand.
     "No Mom.  You don't have to worry.  An Afro isn't something you buy, I can grow it.  I want to growwwww an Afro."
     "I get it.  But you can't grow one." 
She was just being difficult.
      "MOM!  Why are you being so mean?" 
She looked at me and smiled and even chuckled.  Oh the disrespect I was being handed was awful.
     "No honey.  I'm not saying you're not allowed to have an Afro, I'm saying that you are simply not able to have one."
Her cruel chuckle continued.
     "You're so mean to me!  The Welcome Back Kotter kids moms let them have Afros!"
I ran to my room and cried.
I'm pretty sure as I ran off she said something condescending like
     "fine, try to grow an Afro."

Well, I tried and over time, I figured out what she meant.  I remain jealous of Sam to this day, wherever he may be.

Well played Mom.  Well played indeed.

My first parenting mistake!

The night before my daughters first birthday, her mother and I took her out for dinner at the restaurant we ate at the night before she was born.  It was a nice memory. 

By this time my little girl could already walk, although it was much more like stumbling in style in the correct direction.  The restaurant was not very crowded that night, so she had free reign.  All the wait staff were excited for her to walk up to them.  Kids at this age are a lot like puppies in that regard.  Everyone wants them to walk up excited, be pet and then go to someone else.  She was great entertainment for the place.

At the end of the night, I went to pull out my credit card to pay.  My little joy bomb decided to take my card along with the bill and kindly walk it over to the waitress rather than have her come over to us.  This seemed like a ridiculously cute idea.  Of course, along the way, she offered my credit card to anyone who would smile at her.  I knew no one would really take the card, but I was still nervous. 

She finally made it to the waitress.

"Oh you are so cute" the waitress said.  "Now you just wait here and I'll give this back when I'm done" she continued. 
"Mehhhh... WAH!"  was my child's response.  I said she could walk(ish) not talk!

The waitress turned to the register and with that they were both facing away from me.  When she finished, the waitress turned back and handed the card and receipt back to my girl and said "there you go, it's all paid for!"

In a stunned silence, my lovely and precious angel (dressed in a "onesy") stood perfectly still simply turning her head to glance back at me over her right shoulder.  The look on her face was the kind of awestruck look that goes perfectly with the realization that "wait, all I have to do is give someone this card and they will give me stuff back?!?!?"

I felt the panic well up from my wallet to my brain as if Mt. Vesuvius just screamed "SURPRISE" at Pompeii.

"MY GOD!  WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!?!"   I may have said out loud, I may have said it internally.  I do not recall.  My head hurt.  At that very moment, I realized that I had just been "cuted" out of my financial security.

I'm sure I had already made other parenting mistakes, but those would have far less of an impact than this.  I had just taught a toddler how to SPEND!

You can never go back from that one.  Sure, you see references to this playing out in sitcoms, where the kid takes Dad's money and runs, but, you simply just don't understand until it happens.

Then comes the birthday cards and gift cards or holiday cards...  Your child tears into them like she's looking for a prize in the bottom of the cereal box much in the same way a pit bull tears into an auto parts thief in a junk lot.  It's THAT severe! 

"Great, it's a card... where's the money!!!!"  They're like some sort of money junkie.  Suddenly they feel power and they're ready to live on their own, as soon as you change their next diaper.  IT'S AWFUL I TELL YOU!!!!

I am trying to help with her spending habits already.  We're working on the "some goes to charity, some goes to savings and some you can spend" philosophy but she may still be too young to fully understand. 

It doesn't seem to matter to her just yet. 

"I have a quarter!  I HAVE POWER!!!"  or "I have a dime.... a nickle ... a penny .... a euro...."  It's all money to her and it all gives her great satisfaction and a sense of power to possess.  As much as I try to teach her, I have come to understand that if kids do not want to understand something, they will absolutely NOT understand it. 

"Money doesn't grow on trees you know!"
"No Duhhhhh.  It's made of plastic!"

It can be that simple.

I tell you time and time again that I fear making that one tiny teensy weensy inconspicuous parenting mistake and then BOOM!  You're raising the heartless multi-national conglomerate CEO who has no passion for real life and suffers in a materialistic love free lonely world of their own (maybe with a nice yacht for their Dad).

I pray it doesn't get to that, but we're quite possibly on our way.  Right now, one of her favorite games to play is "Let's Hide Daddy's Wallet!"  This is not a fun game because by the time I find my wallet, it's out of cash. 

I still like to carry paper money; it actually does grow on trees.  Plastic doesn't grow on anything.

I am what I have?

My first plane flight without my parents happened when I was a junior in high school.  I flew up to Detroit to visit a friend and to spend some time with my Dad who was up there for work. 

As a teenager all alone for the first time, I was a little bit nervous,  and somewhat scared about one particular thing.  I'd never been in a plane alone.  I had to talk to strangers and some people REALLY like to talk to strangers on plane flights (don't sit next to me if you don't want to talk).  But that didn't scare me.

I  was well aware that planes sometimes don't do so well flying, what with defying gravity and all, and occasionally gravity wins before the plane is actually ready to succumb to its grasp;  A.K.A, they crash.  But that didn't scare me.

I had never been on a plane that stopped at another airport en route to its final destination.  Not sure what to do during the layover, I stayed on the plane.  It turned out that I was the only person sitting on the plane at the airport other than the stewardess who sat in front of me and stared at me stating "you know, not all of us can leave the plane if you stay on for this one hour layover."  So I got off the plane at Dulles and stood just outside the door by myself for an hour in the jet way.  I wasn't even brave enough to walk into the terminal.  That shook me up, but that didn't scare me.

No, what scared me was that I was flying Eastern Airlines.  There wasn't any problem with that airline that I knew of.  I thought they were a decent enough airline, right up until they went out of business.  But, no, for me the problem was, that I was going against my family!  As best as I could tell at that young age, we were a Delta Family! 

I had been on one flight with my entire family before then (that I could remember) and we flew Delta.  Ergo, in my youthful mindset, we were Delta people!  I also knew that we were Aim Toothpaste, Kraft Cheese, Rayovac Battery, Dixie Cup, Ragu Sauce, Safeguard Soap and Oscar Mayer people!   There were so many other items that identified my family and these are just a handful of what I grew up with.

And here I was on an Eastern Airlines flight.  I was truly a rebel now.

I had no real self identity and was pretty much reliant on whatever Mom or Dad brought home.  Dad got the batteries and car stuff.  Mom did the rest.  And as a child, I identified with what I had around me; that was all I knew.

But it seems that this is the way it is for kids.  As they are building a sense of identity for themselves, they attach to and define themselves by what surrounds them.  My child does this with me all the time:  "Do we like this team... that color... this milk... that cheese... that air freshener... the French..."  It goes on and on and on as kids are trying to accept what is around them. 

I'll know she is going through a rebellious stage when she starts pulling for the team playing the Cubs.  Well, I've got news for her, she can't stop me from pulling for my Cubbies!  And, chances are, the other team is going to win anyway; I know this already.

So, when I moved away from home to go to college I had a horrible dilemma.  Well I had several I'm sure but this one comes to mind as quite traumatic at the time.  I was 18 years old and I ran out of toothpaste.   It was awful!

We had stores on campus but they didn't carry too much, just the basics.  Whereas they had toothpaste, they didn't have a large selection, so they didn't have Aim.  This was rough on me.  I think I went a few days without brushing because I couldn't find Aim toothpaste. 

Lucky for me, this was right around the time Rain Man came out and I had a lot of dorm mates talking to me about "course three minutes to Wopner... Yeah" as they were mocking my obsession with getting the right toothpaste.  And they were right.  I was afraid to step out on my own and declare my independence... from AIM? 

I think I found some at the 7 Eleven (or was a Circle K) across the street and I bought up all the tubes they had.  These were the tiny tubes that get you through about 4 days but I didn't get 4 days out of the tubes. As I recall my roommate "donated" my tubes to a bunch of drunks who used these tubes to write on the walls of our hall.  It turns out these tubes are perfect for using as gel ink crayons.... dammit.  I hated that roommate.  But his bad-roommate-ness actually helped me evolve as an individual.  Well, that and the girl who wouldn't kiss me until I brushed my teeth at that party on my hall.

"Let's kiss,"  I was such a romantic.
"No.  Your breath smells like ass."  So was she.
"Be right back.  Don't move!"

I grabbed my roommates toothpaste and my toothbrush.  I ran down the hall to the bathroom (shared between 40 guys) and brushed my teeth with some salty tasting non-gel, and definitely not Aim, crap.  I cupped my hand over my mouth and nose and huffed.  Breath smelled clean.  I ran back to my dorm room and....

She moved.  I never saw her again.

But she helped me move into a new direction.  Once I broke the Aim barrier, I was able to make all sorts of moves.  I could start washing my underwear again even if I didn't have Tide... Big stuff, like that!

When I was in school I studied a lot of marketing and we learned that our target audience for most products was the 18 to 30-ish age group.  These were the people spending the most money and learning what products they liked on their own.  I thought this was very timely for me to be learning as I was in that age group and I was learning to spend on my own as well. 

However, for the most part, men weren't so high on the list of "target audience."  It was the women we were to market most things towards.  Historically, women were the big decision makers when it comes to family spending and as much as I fear sounding sexist, I think they still are.

I've grown accustomed to this.  I was 100% fine with my Mom choosing what I needed and I still go with her input when she visits me and buys me groceries (I LOVE HER SO MUCH).  I've considered passing the reigns onto my daughter, but that is too much power for one elementary kid to have "who need toothpaste Daddy, buy CHOCOLATE!"

I can clearly remember my Dad watching television in the evening awestruck.  "What the hell was that commercial even for?" he would ask in utter digust.  "It's not for you Dad," I would say "You're 30 years too old and your a man."  That didn't seem to help.

Of course, when advertising is aimed at men, there's a hot woman involved.  Seriously, I don't know why that girl in a bikini is holding that blender, but, I FREAKIN' NEED THAT BLENDER!!!  We're too easy.

Hell, some complete stranger got me to turn my back on 18 years of Aim just for one chance at a kiss that was never meant to be..... 

The skank.

Do not steal. Do not kill. Do not fall off of the planet!

My father had it too easy with me.  Some of the most challenging, tv inspired, questions I had for him as a child were "Daddy why can't coyotes catch roadrunners... how did that duck survive that gunshot... can dogs really talk and say 'ruh rohhh'... can that girl really tap her brother's ring and turn into an eagle?"  His response was always similar.  "It's a cartoon.  That's not real."

Modern day shows are great in that my child is getting an education.  I think she is learning a lot.  Frustratingly, I too am having to learn a lot to keep up with her shows.

For example, this past weekend, while I was doing dishes she was watching a show that shall remain nameless (but rhymes with Hineeous and Herb) when she came up to me and asked "Daddy, what's a law?"  Of course, in my head, I started singing to myself "I'm just a Bill..." which I did learn from, but School House Rock wasn't a show, it was an educational platform to air between the mindless shows of my childhood.  It's soul purpose was to inform children but to a level that we had no need for follow up questions for our folks. 

So I answered her, "Well honey, a law is a rule made by the government to keep us safe from harming ourselves or others.  If we break a law the police will arrest us and there will be consequences.  They are there to keep the peace!"  I felt pretty good about myself with that one and I still do right now having just looked up the word law finding it defined as "the principles and regulations established in a community by some authority and applicable to its people, whether in the form of legislation or of custom and policies recognized and enforced by judicial decision."

"So, if we break a law, the police might arrest us?"  she asked sheepishly. 
"Quite possibly, yes" I felt like we were having a moment and I was really reaching her.
"So, if I break Newton's law of gravity and start floating, the police will come get me?"  My head hurt almost immediately. 
"Wahhhhhhhh" I mumbled in a Fred Flintstone-esque manner.
"His Law of Gravity.  If I start floating I break physics laws and the police will come get me?"

Now, I actually knew about Newtonian Physics because I remember a few things from school, but mostly because the most recent version of Battlestar Galactica was cool enough for some drunk in a bar to accost me one night and explain to me how "this series is following Newtonian Physics in the way the ships travel in space."  But in NOOOOO WAY did that bar conversation prepare me for this moment with my child!

I would have thought I had at least 10 to 14 more years before I had to deal with this sort of questioning and by then I'd be able to just fake being asleep at any given moment.

I was really stumped.  I knew this was a simple yes or no answer, but if I just just gave her a one word response, there would be more follow up questions and I'd sound like a complete idiot trying to stumble my way through "see, there was this apple and Newton was sitting under a tree..." and then bring it on home with "and now Starbuck is a girl!"  I'm sure I've lost a lot of you, but the Starbuck thing is totally a part of this and every conversation ever if it can be!

I simply looked at her and said "what show are you watching?"  She explained to me the show and reminded me that it is my favorite cartoon, which it is, and that everyone was floating and Carl was in trouble with his "Dad."  "Carl doesn't have a Dad" was my reply and our crisis was averted.  The conversation had changed to why Major Monogram was acting like he was Carl's Dad. 

You know what, don't worry about where our conversation went.  I realize I totally avoided answering my child and now she'll turn to some bad influence to help her with her gravitational concerns.  Just help me understand how to answer my child the next time this comes up.

I swear, other than the whole School House Rock library I learned very little from cartoons.  It was fun and mindless.  Although I did learn from an episode of Spiderman that the Swastika was originally a Hindu symbol about being good or something.  Oh yeah and when one bad guy saluted the non-nazi flag with the swastika on it, his partner called him a "dummkopf" so I also learned that Germans called the dumbest among them dummkopfs. 

I also learned that Fearless Freep was an AWESOME diver.  It's true.  Dad said that part was real.

The Beast Within

It's very sad when you feel unsure about your own house. 

It is, at times, discouraging and concerning to know that you do not have free will to move about on your own.

It is awful to have to live in fear, not knowing what awaits you around each and every turn.

I often lie awake at night, afraid to move.  Afraid to turn on the TV.  Afraid to get up and go to the bathroom (which happens far too often overnight these days) or to simply move just enough to have a sip of water by my bedside.

I think the overnight fears have actually gotten worse in the summer.  As the heat of the day drifts and my house settles making the loud thumping and occasional cracking noises I might regain a hint of consciousness.  In the winter, some of those noises are still there, but most of the activity happens during the day when I am not around.  Also in the winter it is too chilly at night, but during the summer, overnight is the only time cool enough for the beast to play.

Have I told you I have a dog?  Well, I do, and she loves me!

She loves me almost more than I ever cared to be loved.  She seems to worship me at times and her level of devotion is unmatched!  She shows her affection by being ever ready for me to pet her or play tug of war with her, or by always being there for me to rub her belly, or throw a ball, or let her lay on my chest (whether I truly let her or not), or to let her try to climb on my lap because everyone needs a 55 pound lap dog, or to give her a treat, or to open the door for her not so she can go out but just so she can look over her dominion that is the backyard at any time in a given 24 hour period, or.....  Love and Devotion.  Ugh!

So there I am in the middle of the night.  Laying in bed at 1:47 wide awake.  It would be nice to get up and go to the bathroom and have a sip of water.  That always puts me right back to sleep. But I cannot. The beast of adoration will find me.

As a child, whenever I would wake up in the middle of the night and opt to risk an attack by the bogeyman in an effort to see my mother one last time, I would walk right up to her side of the bed and just stand there. 

Within seconds, she would open her eyes and say: "What's wrong?"
"I can't sleep" I would answer as I trembled.
"Go to the bathroom and when your done, have a sip of water" she would mumble wisely, half asleep.
"Ok"

And like a mindless zombie, I would do what she said and BY GOD IT WORKED!!!

To this very day, I am unable to get back to sleep most nights unless I go through this procedure.  This has been going on for probably 39 years of my life!  We do not need to discuss how I handled it for the years before that.

Back then, the only dog we had was a little rat like thing that slept under my parents covers and wanted nothing do with me.  If I got up in the middle of the night back then, she just ignored me and hid further under the covers. 

Now if I get up its "WHOO HOOO, ZIPPIDEEDODAH, WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO NOW!?!?!?!?"  That's of course what the dog is saying.  I'm saying more of a "murbleglahburundle, harumph, no!"

I love my dog greatly and I am blessed to have her in my life.  She does help me feel like I am not a terrible person.  But, DAMN.  Sometimes, I am sad to say that I would just like to sleep. I do not want to pet her, or play, or stop at the pantry door for a treat as I am walking by, or... you get it.

So, when I wake up and lie in bed, I cannot move.  If I lift my head, just to look at the clock, I'll hear the heavy breathing coming towards me.  No matter what room of the house she is in, if I move, she will come to check and make sure I wasn't getting ready to throw a squeaky toy at 2:16 am.

Sometimes I imagine I am like a coma patient laying in a hospital bed.  I open my eyes for just a second, it's the first time in years, and then the family member who is waiting in vigil watching for some sign of life sees this and says quite loudly, "Nurse, he blinked!  I'm going to climb on his chest and breath as hard as I can right in his face."  And the nurse just says in reply, "yup, that's what we recommend here!"

Maybe this is how people who aren't morning people, and need their coffee before they can be the slightest bit joyful about anything, feel when they wake up next to me.

Hmmmmm.... I know that I'll miss my dog having that much excitement and energy one day, but at 1:47 am, I have a hard time believing that.