It's golden...

Twenty five years ago this May, I graduated from high school.  If I remember correctly it was a very pleasant evening.  We heard the obligatory “it’s not an ending, but a beginning” speech.  We shared laughter and tears.  Somewhere during the pomp and circumstance a girl I didn’t know sang a song about birds, or possibly sunshine.  An Evel Knieval-like daredevil jumped a row of school-buses while doused in flames (since my last name is early in the alphabet, I tuned out after the G’s got their diplomas… some of this stuff might not have happened).

Class of 1988, are you ready to part...yoooff!?!

After the ceremony, I brushed off the party invitations that were flying around so I could promptly go home and fall asleep in front of the TV.  For me, it was the perfect end to a perfect evening.  It’s not necessarily that I’m anti-social (I am, who are we kidding), but I’m not really comfortable with crowds.  After the first 5 minutes or so at any party, my fight or flight instincts kick in.  And by “fight” I mean excessive drinking accompanied by belligerent outbursts and by “flight” I mean excessive drinking, belligerent outbursts all while attempting to jump off the roof.  Usually my non-attendance is for the collective good as well as insurance premium purposes.

Screw you all

Fast forward a quarter century.  As news of my 25^th high school reunion begins to percolate, I’m finding myself having the same desire to “skip the party” and fall asleep in front of the TV.  Is that wrong?  Part of me says it is… the part that desperately wants to go to the party because it could be fun.  Unfortunately that’s the same part of me that hopes for world peace and the end of hunger and for the original Guns n Roses to reunite.  The more rational side of me is usually able to bitch-slap that ninny back into line. 

The "jungle" is apparently full of cake

So for the record… I haven’t officially made up my mind yet.  I still have a few months to decide.  At this point I’m leaning “no”, but things could change.  I’m sure I’ll blog about this some more as the date approaches.  Stay tuned.

Rebearded/Debearded

Facial hair rocks.  Okay... not really, but I was hoping to start this off on a positive note. 

My journey to beardedness began at the end of last July.  It was just after my wife's birthday.  Why after?  Two reasons really.  First, I threw her a surprise party in mid-July with a lot of friends and family... many of whom had known me for 20, 30 even 40-plus years of non-bearded glory.  I didn't think it would be an appropriate time to debut a new "look".  It was "her day" after all.  Grizzly Bossart had no business upstaging the guest of honor.  Second, right after her birthday I had scheduled a small dermatological procedure that would address a couple of skin tags that resided on my left cheek.  Nothing major, just a little clean up.  My thinking was that if I could distract the casual viewer with a God-awful goatee or something, they would laugh about that instead of any small scars on my face.  There's a subtle majesty to my logic, don't worry if it alludes you.

...and his best friend Bear

Luckily, growing a beard is fairly easy for me.  I typically have a 5 o'clock shadow around 10:30 in the morning.  After a shave-free, three day weekend I'm well on my way to auditioning for the next season of Duck Dynasty.  Plus, I REALLY hate to shave.  I have extremely sensitive skin.  The more often I take razor to chin, the more I look like I face-planted off my bike on the way to school.  Besides... I'm pretty sure in my hirsute history, I've only had two really good shaves.  Neither of which occurred in the last 15 years.

But anyway... I decided to give my beard a go.  The picture that graces the "about me" section of this blog was taken early in the growing process.   Even though it in no way represents what I normally look like, it wasn't awful... so I went with it.  Plus, there were some unforeseen benefits to the beard.  First, I noticed that my "kiss hello" acquaintances were less likely to greet me with their lips with this anemic skunk growing on my face (score one for the beard).  Second, I noticed that I don't have much of a chin.  Somehow I had missed that over the last four decades.  But there was something about how my beard grew that gave me the appearance of a well-chinned individual.  How manly is that?  Third, I've been told the beard gave me the countenance of a "pissed off English professor".  That's better than putting in the endless years of college and the requisite hard work... right?   

look ma, no chin

Well, my first foray into beard-dom lasted all the way through Christmas.  Then, all was hacked away in time for the new year.  I had a clean face again.  I looked younger, cleaner.  For the first two months of 2013, I continued to shave regularly (and poorly) as per my custom.  I was happy the beard was gone.  It was a fun thing to do, but I was over it.  No more beard.  Ever!

Any-hoo... that brings us to today.  As you've probably guessed, I've been re-growing the beard over the past few weeks.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe I like it.  Maybe I miss my phantom chin.  Who knows.  What I do know is that it's itching like crazy and as soon as I post this blog, I'll probably run screaming back to the bathroom and shave.  Such is life.

Eeww

Earlier this week, my wife and I received a note from my son's school regarding an upcoming video that would be shown to his 5th grade class.  To be more specific, there are two videos.  One for the girls and one for the boys.  To be less specific, you probably know what these videos are about.  I saw the boy version in the 5th or 6th grade.  I don't really remember the details, but I do recall being let down.  I'm pretty sure my friends and I expected to witness to an erotic cross between an After School Special and Debbie Does Dallas. Instead, we were treated to a 1950s-era epic named Your Gonads and You (or something like that). 

Spot the virgins

I wasn't overly concerned about my son watching the video.  In fact, my wife had "the talk" with both our boys over a year ago.  At the time, she said they took it fairly well.  Even though they were young, they acted maturely.  There were a few questions, but nothing she couldn't handle.  I was happy it happened when it did... and extremely happy that I was nowhere to be found.  I hope that someday soon she'll have "the talk" with me (there are still several things I'd like sorted out).

Knowing that my son had been exposed to this knowledge previously, I asked him tonight when his class would be watching "the movie".  I was confident this would be a quick conversation... merely a formality.  After about three questions it became apparent that not only did he have no clue regarding what I was talking about... but he had no memory of "the talk" with his Mom from over a year ago.  Trapped in a conversation I was ill equipped to lead, I figured the best way out would be get things over with quickly.   As I tested the "what's" and "how's" of his knowledge base, I realized I'd have to go places I was hoping to avoid.  When all was said and done, he looked me in the eye and simply said... "ew".  As far as I can tell, that means he got it. 

This brings me to my own father.  I don't recall that we ever had such a discussion.  In all fairness, we didn't need to.  I have an older brother.  His job from day one has been to ruin things for me.  Santa Claus.  Babies.  After his ten year old world was crushed, I usually had my eight year old world destroyed ten minutes later. 

"and that's why they call it a puppy mill..."

As far as I can recall, here's the closest conversation that my father and I had regarding the birds and the bees.  In fact, this is a story he has probably told a hundred times over the years.  He usually tells it when there is somebody around that I'd like to impress.  It goes like this (told in my Dad's voice)...

"When your mother and I first got married, we decided that we wanted A LOT of children.  We had hoped to have eleven sons.  That way we could have our own football team.  Eleven strong boys.  Well... after you're brother was born, we realized that having a child is more difficult than we thought.  So, we revised our plans.  We scaled back.  From then on, we dreamed of having five boys.  Five's a great number.  With five we could have our own basketball team.  Then... after YOU were born, we realized we should have stopped at one".

Not quite "the talk", but it sure makes me laugh.

Home Alone

I started this blog just over a month ago.  The main reason was because my wife said… “go write a blog”.  Not being one to search for hidden meaning in the subtext, I immediately poured myself into it.  Looking back now, I realize it may simply have been an attempt to keep me busy/out of trouble (the equivalent of handing me something shiny to play with while the grownups talk).  I admit… those concerns could be valid.  About a month ago I had just gone to part time at my job, and the prospect of me, plus free time, was frightening.  To be fair, I’d say she has history on her side.  My track record is spotty at best as evidenced by the following:

October 1998:  My wife comes home early from work to find me wearing only KISS makeup and shorts.  My explanation… it WAS the week prior to Halloween and I felt it was only proper to test the makeup first.  Plus, I didn’t want to mess up my shirt.  After the initial shock wore off, she grabbed our Polaroid camera (remember those) and took a picture of me holding one of our dogs.  I thought it was a hoot.  Again, I missed the larger point.  The picture wasn’t for our keepsake box… I’m pretty sure she was gathering evidence.

 “Exhibit H, your honor”

December 2001:  While she was at work and I was at home, I accidentally left the gate to our fence open letting all three of our dogs escape.  It also just happened to be the day we were waiting to hear some very important news from the fertility clinic.  Luckily it only took about an hour to find the first two dogs.  The third dog… a little longer.  The silver lining is that we GOT good news that day.  The rest of the dark cloud is that we got the news prior to finding dog #3.  I’ll always remember my wife telling the nurse over the phone… “yeah, that’s great, but I can’t find my dog”.

April 2003:  My wife goes on her first over-night trip after the birth of our first son leaving me at home to care for him.  Things went extremely well at first.  We played.  We watched A LOT of Elmo.  We hung out… like a father and son should.  When it was time, he went to bed without a problem.  Easy-peasy.  It was only after the third time he popped up from his crib fussing that I realized I forgot to feed him dinner.  He ate like a champ that night.  No harm, no foul.

I’m telling Mom

I could bore you with other examples, but that’s not really why I called you here today.  So, let’s move on.

The REAL main reason she wanted me to write this blog was because… she thinks I can write.  Plus, a blog is an easy way to get it all down and out of my system.  And, who knows… maybe somebody else will read it and like it, too.

Well, apparently that’s happened.  A couple of weeks ago I was contacted by an old college friend.  She had read the blog and wanted to know if I would be interested in writing some things for her company (i.e. for money).  Needless to say, I jumped at the chance.  And what’s even better, I’m writing educational material for a 4^th grade audience.  While that DOES mean I can’t write about my balls as much, I AM finally connecting with my intellectual peers.  Everybody wins.

So thanks to everyone who’s been reading this.  I really appreciate it.  AND, if anyone else wants to offer me money, or fame, or toys… to write stuff, you know where to find me.

I don't know

I don't know.  It's a pretty simple phrase.  Hell, Ozzy wrote a song about it.  I'm really not sure what the words are, but I hum the melody right up to the chorus and then belt out... "I DON'T KNOW" before embarrassing my family further with some wicked, left-handed air guitar prowess (I'm not even left-handed, and they totally miss how much more kick-ass that is). 

 "mwawhn sheapson wu tannshid morr" - direct quote

I don't know.  It's three little words (four if you break up the contraction).  You'd think it would just roll off the tongue.  However, the older I get... the less I hear others use it... especially people over the age of 15.  How is that?  Am I just the dumbest person on the planet (debatable) or are most of the people I deal with totally full of crap?  (I guess those things aren't mutually exclusive, but humor me on this one).

I'm constantly finding myself in conversations with these geniuses.  You know the ones.  They're experts on... well, everything.  Did your furnace stop working?  They'll probably tell you how the fan casing is really the culprit instead of the motor that has black smoke pouring out of it.  Is your dog afraid of thunder?  They'll tell you that the time you flinched (showing weakness) during an F-5 tornado is the root cause of your dog's tendency to fertilize the carpet every time there's a slight mist outside.  And my personal favorite... you mention you're getting a tax refund, and they tell you how you've been loaning the government money... and if you'd only had less withheld from your regular paycheck, you could have turned that extra 17 cents interest into an ownership stake in a Puerto Rican Krispy Kreme franchise.

sticking it to Uncle Sam, every morning at 3 am.

These people are often the same ones who suffer from "one-upmanship syndrome".  Your good news is apparently a threat to their well being, so they will tell you BETTER news.  Your bad news is trivial because, I mean come on... they've REALLY suffered (and you should just shut your pie hole and count your blessings).  I recently shared some good, sports related, news regarding my nephew with one of these people.  Within 90 seconds I was told about two people in his immediate family who were bigger, stronger and faster than my nephew AND that the best my nephew could hope to achieve would be a meaningless existence playing semi-pro ball in some third world country.  The effortlessness with which this information rolled from his tongue was astonishing.  I felt sorry for my nephew after being presented with these "facts".

Hola Senor Pelotas.

The sad thing is that I'm usually drawn to these people BECAUSE they seem so confident.  Maybe because I'm so filled with doubt,  I seek out the person who seems to have more solid footing.  They know the answer.  They have the confidence.  It usually takes me a few years to figure out just how full of it they are.  At that point the damage is done.

Now in the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that I'm sometimes guilty of these crimes against humility.  However, my version is a little tamer.  You know that TV show we talked about?  The one where I said I knew what you meant.  I didn't.  I've never seen that show.  I saw part of a commercial for it and then extrapolated an answer I thought you wanted to hear.  Sorry.  It just seemed easier at the time.  And, oh yeah, that advice I gave you about refinancing your house... you might wanna disregard that, too.

Up at night...

For my oldest son, middle school begins next year. 

I'm not worried about him academically.  This is my brilliant child who TAUGHT HIMSELF the alphabet when he was two years old.  He's the same wonder who TAUGHT HIMSELF to read less than two years later (those things still blow me away).   It's the boy with perfect pitch and natural ability in math and science.

I'm not worried about him emotionally.  This child has the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met.  He's often moved to tears by music that, in his words, is "just so beautiful"... even when it's Bugs Bunny in drag singing opera to Elmer Fudd.  He's the first to come to your side when you're feeling blue.  He has empathy to burn.

I'm not worried about him being late for school.  His obsession with order and routine (not to mention time, clocks and calendars) means I'll never have to worry about that... ever.  He's our official family time keeper. The people in charge of the atomic clock could save money in the future by simply getting their time from him.

I'm worried because he's different.  

I'm worried that the wonderful faculty and staff who have befriended him from kindergarten through fifth grade won't be there next year.  Who is going to introduce him to the group and crow to the others about how awesome he is?  Who will make sure he's included... even when he doesn't want to be.

I'm worried about the bully who will pick on him simply because he's an easy target.  This worry keeps me up nights (including this one).  And I'm slightly less worried about the prison time I'll do once I find that bully and turn him into soup.

I'm most worried that the friends he has now will grow in directions that don't include him.  I'm afraid new friends will be harder to come by.  It is middle school after all.  Not to be popular... is simply not to be.

I'm worried about the things I haven't even thought of yet to be worried about.

My guess is... I'm not alone in my particular brand of worry.  I know others face similar and oftentimes more difficult circumstances.  My best hope is that if we keep tuned in and participate as parents, things will be okay.  If we stick together, we can get through this.  We WILL get through this.

I also know that I love my son more than is humanly possible.  Unfortunately, in middle school... that's not necessarily the coolest thing to have hanging out there.  

In regard to...

Here's another exciting entry into my "damn, I'm getting old" series.  Last night as I lay in bed, I was thinking about the events of the past day and of things to come.  It WAS the beginning of daylight savings time after all, so I had the ultimate Dad responsibility of resetting all the clocks.  Usually this isn't much to stress over, but I had accidentally "fallen forward" last October (causing all clocks in the house to be ahead by 2 hours).  I couldn't handle another Sunday morning mock-fest from the 10 and under crowd.  I was extra diligent.

After setting all the clocks (and triple checking they were right), I finally went to bed.  Flush from my "Spring forward" victory, my mind was a little overactive.  Images popped into my head of the cheers that would greet me early the next morning.  My adoring children celebrating  my ability NOT to mess up the obvious.  Then my thoughts turned to other topics... random thoughts.  As I closed my eyes and tried to get comfortable, a running dialog was racing through my head... a multi-topic "conversation with myself" if you will.  That's when it happened...

Now before I get to the details, I need to give you a little background regarding my pillow.  For years I've prided myself on having the thinnest, limpest pillow known to man.  Basically, it's a pillow case with a hint of pillow inside... essentially a non-pillow.  I've justified this arrangement to myself and others because... look I can fold and bend and wad my "pillow" into practically any configuration I want.  It adapts to my ever changing pillow needs. 

For decades, this strategy worked.  Call it youth, ignorance... whatever, but I usually woke up refreshed the next morning.  Of course, my pillow looked like a sad, wadded up rag at the head of the bed.  But, it had served me well during the night.  Thank you pillow.  I've left cab fare for you on the dresser. 

come back to bed, baby.

All that has changed over the past few months.  Now... whenever I wake up, I have a headache.  The cause is fairly obvious.  I've found that each morning my head is lying at a severe right angle to the rest of my body.  It's the position you see in movies when someone has jumped to their death from a tall building.  Nothing is exactly where it should be... legs, arms (and in my case) head akimbo.  This awkward position has led to neck pain that continues up to my head.

As much as I hate to, I blame my wisp of a pillow.  It is simply not substantial enough to keep me from playing sleepy-time twister every night.   A change was needed.  Luckily I was able to "borrow" a pillow from a family member.  I'm not sure what this new pillow is made of (it's either filled with space age memory foam or baby goat's teeth), but it does the trick.  It's solid enough to keep my head and neck in check through the night.  The only downside... the pillow is as hard as concrete, or more accurately, wet concrete.  It's extremely firm.   It takes several seconds for my head to actually sink in (and then it's only a fraction of an inch).  That means when I change positions (turn from my back to my side), I have to reacclimate  the pillow to my head. 

And this get's me back to last night...

As I lay in bed thinking a series of meaningless little thoughts... I started to hit upon something worthwhile.  An intelligent concept began to emerge.  A concept that I'd be proud to share with the outside world.  Something I could nonchalantly slip into a normal conversation, just to impress others and show off my big brain.  Yep, I was really on to something.   As my idea grew and I continued to develop my ground breaking hypothesis, I distinctly remember expressing the phrase "in regard to..." as part of my internal dialog.  And yes, the idea I was hatching was so brilliant that I was compelled to use phrases like "in regard to", even in my own head.  Like I said, this conversation was going somewhere deep and meaningful. 

"and that's when I discovered cheeseburgers in a can"

That's when it happened.  Call it fate, call it bad Karma, but at this exact moment I decided to adjust my position in bed.  I needed to turn from my back to my side. 

As the words "in regard to" were forming in my brain, another thought popped in.  This thought said... "hey, remember your new pillow?  You're turning your head now and it's going to be uncomfortable for a second until things settle in.  Just wanted to warn ya".  It was a quick thought.  A split second is all.  The problem was... it was long enough and disruptive enough to completely derail my train of thought.  My cure for cancer or my scheme to end world hunger was gone.  The only thing that remained was the phrase "in regard to". 

I couldn't remember what came before it.  I certainly couldn't remember where the idea was headed.  Sure, I tried for a while to recreate the magic.  I repeated nearly every possible way you can say "in regard to" in your own head.  I hoped that effort would jump start some synapse that would bring me back to my main idea.  It didn't work.  After about 10 minutes of repeating "in regard to" in my head, I realized the moment was lost.

Oh well.  At least I got the clocks right.  Oh, wait... dammit.  I was going to record SNL last night.

Date Night

Last night, my wife and I had a date.  An honest to goodness, kids are sleeping over at Grandma's house, night on the town.  Excitement was high.  The possibilities were endless (by that I mean we both knew we'd be home and asleep by 10pm).  By 5:45 we had completed the usual bartering, begging and bribery to get our sons squared away.  We were on our own.

Since spontaneity is not our strong suit (i.e. we're too old and too far out of the social loop to just "go out"), we had our nightly activities planned with military precision.  First... grab some dinner at 6.  Then, hit a comedy show in St. Louis that started at 8.  Even if the comedian did an encore, we would still make our 10pm curfew.  That's how we roll.  Don't judge us.

Let's get this party started.

In our BK (Before Kids) days, we were a little more foot loose and fancy free.  Heck, our first date consisted of an afternoon matinee showing of Dazed and Confused followed by a quick stop at the local Dairy Queen.  Our second date was even more exciting.  She came over and we watched City Slickers on VHS.  Those were wild times.

After we got married, our options expanded.  We'd go to the theater, restaurants... we were even invited to parties once in a while.  I distinctly remember the last fiesta we attended (circa 1997).  It was one of those nights where I felt really "on".  My jokes were met with thunderous laughter.  My throaty rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" had them spellbound.  At the end of the evening (when all the other guests had left) the host and hostess sadly announced that they were moving to Alaska in a few weeks.  They thanked us for coming, and we said our goodbyes.  Oddly enough about six months later, we spotted them buying charcoal and a party platter of veggies at the grocery store.   To this day, we choose to believe the Alaska gig just "fell through".

 

or bust.

Enough about that... it's 16 years later.  My wife and I were out on a date! 

Long story short... we had a great time.  Our structured evening kept us moving and entertained (and home and asleep by 10).  But beyond the structure, we found greater joy in the little things.  You know, those things that only your long time partner and you think are funny.  For instance, I noticed that nearly everyone at our restaurant had an oddly shaped nose.  Hook noses, pointy Bob Hope noses, overly aggressive Roman noses... it was a plastic surgeon's wet dream.  My wife missed that one, but we talked about it for several minutes in the car.

At the concert, we both noticed at least 30 women with the "angled bob" haircut (or the Mom Bob as I like to call it).  I want to like this haircut, but I just can't.  Now I realize it looks passable from the front.  But ladies... c'mon.  Once you leave the salon with this 'do, you should immediately be issued keys to a mini-van and $20 in Kohl's Cash.
 

the good, the sad, and the fugly.

The funniest sight of all was the couple in their 30's wearing matching Adidas sweat suits. They were breathtaking to behold... almost as if they'd magically breakdanced out of an old Run-DMC video.  My wife was sure they had to be married.  I chose to believe they were having their own best "date night" ever and secretly laughing at us.