How I Met Your Mother

People often ask me, "How did you meet your wife?"

Now, there's two versions of this story.  Her version and the truth.

Let me begin with my version.  But before I do, you have to understand something about me...

I am a modern-day Adonis.  Saturated with smoothness, I perspire a chemical that is collected by Pfizer to supply men around the world with an opportunity to have a chance to carry the manliness that is my existence, even if only for a few hours.  My voice rolls off my tongue like honey off of a rose petal.  Barry White winced with retreat the day I was born, knowing that his true rival had arrived.  The words I speak on a regular basis can cause the eardrums of women to explode with passion and men to writhe in the agony of envy.  I also have been deemed by the Geneva convention as a weapon of mass seduction.  Imagine Billy D. Williams speaking into a velvet microphone and that oration being played through silk speakers and multiply that by 10,000 and you're still nowhere near what it is to have me spread the power of smooth...I've never been to college, but yet I carry a PhD in man-powered karate chops to the trachea and round-house kicks to the dome.  Chuck Norris makes motivational pictures of me.  And my thoughts are so deep, James Cameron has led an expedition in a tiny submarine to find the source of all my philosophical wisdom...I don't look directly at the camera when being photographed...And every time I walk into a crowded room, I release doves into the souls of everyone present...

It was a cold November night in 2006.  My friend Mike and I went to "Jerry's Bait Shop" to listen to some live music. Mike was on the prowl.  I, however, was not.  I have always followed the motto: I am not one to pursue, but to be pursued...After a few drinks, letting down almost every girl's hopes with my gentle rejection and winning an arm-wrestling challenge from a biker named "Murder-Punch," I noticed a beautiful, young lady across the bar.  I confidently approached her.  My steps and my movements were so profound that the band started keeping their rhythm to me and their cover of "99 Red Balloons" morphed into a powerful mash-up of Al Green, Otis Redding and the Rolling Stones.  They were presented with a Grammy instantaneously.  I looked her right in the eyes and said...

To actually write what I said would violate the pact that I have with the universe.  My power is only to be witnessed, not taught...But, I can tell you it involved the following phrases:

"Horse-drawn carriage of love..."

"I'm sorry if I seem too confident, but I have no choice..."

And, "Excuse me, for a second. But I have to flex on that dude abusing that poor woman..."

Next thing I know, I give her my number (because, Justin doesn't call the ladies, the ladies call him) and headed out to feed an orphanage full of blind babies..

But her version goes something like this....

I walked in unnoticed and sat quietly at the bar with my friend.  She glances at me and wondered when the cute Guy would come talk to her.  Finally, after receiving some not so subtle hints, I sat down next to her.  After twenty minutes of silence, she initiated a conversation.  We spoke for about ten minutes and she got up to go to the restroom.  By the time she got back, my friend had almost gotten into a scuffle and I had to take him home.  But before I did, I wrote my name and number on a napkin and begged and pleaded to her friend to have Gina call me.  Which she did the next day...

I don't know about you, but I think we can all agree that nobody likes an exaggerated version of the truth, Gina!

Sleepwalking, Cotton Balls, Traffic...

As a father, you get to live everyday, for a while, as a superhero.  To children, your strength is unfathomable.  Your wit is sharper than a diamond-edged razor.  Your knowledge of any and all topics puts you in the same realm as Einstein or Tesla.  Your humor can lighten the most sour of moods.  And you can drive.  That makes you strong, smart, funny and cool...

But, just as any hero from any comic book, they will eventually find chinks in your otherwise seemingly impenetrable armor.  And once that curtain has been pulled back and you are exposed as just a common man, it's a tough image to restore. 

For me it's been sleepwalking, cotton balls and traffic.

To my children, I've always been somewhat calm and collected.  I don't normally have to raise my voice to them.  I can handle anything that they throw at me with a gentle manner and smile.  I am, in their eyes, cooler than the other side of Billy D. Williams' pillow during a slumber party with Motley Crue (which is, for the record, the coolest thing in the world).  There is one thing that can always throw me off balance, though.  Traffic. 

When my two oldest are with me for the weekend, it is my responsibility to ensure they are at school on time Monday morning.  Living thirty minutes from the school, it always seems like we are pushing the tardy bell to its limit.  But it doesn't help when I pull onto the interstate and I run right into a wall of the most insane, frustrating and idiotic drivers on the face of the earth. And God forbid there is the slightest bit of precipitation... Anyway... As I'm maneuvering through this quagmire of stupidity, my children become witnesses to the violent, stressed and abusive driver I am. I completely lose it. Passive aggressive comments turn into questions of other drivers' intelligence.  Those turn into affirmations of their lack of intelligence.  Those turn into threats of physical violence.  (Not to the drivers directly, of course.  I don't want any of them to potentially pull over and oblige me by beating me up in front of my own children.)  And as we turn the corner onto the street where their school resides, I can see the expressions on my children's faces.  Not of fear, but rather a severe disdain and disgust.  They have been privy to the fact that I am not that "amazingly cool under pressure" guy that they have known me as their entire lives.  I try to play it off like it was all a big game by saying, "Well, I guess I won that round of 'Make Up New Swear Words With a Vengeance,' didn't I?"  But as they say their goodbyes on the way out of the backseat, I can hear the disapproval in their tones.  So, I've lost the whole "too cool for school" image with them...


Bambakophobia is the fear of cotton balls.  It's a real, and amazingly not uncommon phobia to have.  And I suffer from this fear.  And by suffer, I don't mean, "I suffer through talking to the parents of my kid's friends, even though I think they are even weirder that the funny-smelling kid that my kids are playing with."  I mean, I SUFFER!  The touch...the feel...of cotton... real or synthetic, will make me go mad with anxiety and paralyzing fear.  If I see cotton balls on the floor of a room I am walking through, I will circumnavigate the entire room to avoid even the potential of having to encounter what I see as the dreaded white, puffy, droppings of Satan himself.  When I buy aspirin, I will look to see if it has cotton in the bottle before I even put it in my basket to bypass entertaining the idea of having to shove my fingers into the squeaky, stringy horror that lies beneath that child-safety cap.  I won't even listen to Aaron Neville anymore after he did the commercial for cotton.  I hear "Crazy Love," and I want to pull the stereo out of the dash of my car.  It's that real and that bad.  Now imagine having as silly as a phobia as this, and trying to put on the image of the strong, fearless dad.  I will take on any challenge: kill any bug that's above their bed, walk through the scariest, darkest basements to flip the breaker after a power surge, check on any noise at any hour in any part of the house with nothing but my clenched fist and a rumble in my growl...But if any of these situations included cotton balls, forget about it...My biggest fear in life is that someone will break into my house in the middle of the night, armed with nothing but cotton balls glued to his hands and holding a pistol that shoots cotton bullets.  I know it's a ridiculous fear to have...and so do my kids.  My son, Danny, once asked me why I was so scared of them, and I just said, "Superman's weakness is kryptonite.  My weakness is cotton balls."  He said that was a silly weakness to have.  "Well," I replied, "Wonder Woman's weakness was to have her hands bound together...but only by a man...so, how silly is cotton, now?"  Regardless, I know that the superhero's cape my kids once put around my neck has been hung up in the coat closet (along with my magician's top hat from the time they realized I wasn't actually pulling off my thumb and my monocle after it was discovered that $100 in the bank isn't really a lot of money for a grown man.)  In fact, I have even found wads of cotton in my shoes in a primary attempt at a practical joke.  So, I'm not the fearless guy they once knew me as...And they know it.


Up to this point, I have successfully allowed my children to see me freak out at complete strangers over something neither they nor I can control and I have dissolved the illusion of my bravery and fearlessness over something that is used as clouds in a kindergartner's craft project.  My third weakness is something they have yet to see, yet still I wince at thought of the day it happens.


I sleepwalk...Not all the time, but it happens.  My wife has told me some wonderful stories about things I have done or said in my journeys from the bedroom while sleepwalking.  The problem with dreams is that they can be extremely dangerous.  And when you act them out in an enclosed environment, they can become even more dangerous.  Not so much physically dangerous as much as emotionally...

Case in point:  When my wife was 7 months pregnant with our son, she woke up to me running in my boxer briefs out the bedroom, down the hall and towards the front door.  As I was running, she screamed, "Where are you going?"  I yelled that the house was on fire.  "You're dreaming!  Come back to bed."  I snapped out of my slumber with my hand on the doorknob.  I was only half a turn away from running through the neighborhood in my underwear screaming like a loon.  I turned around and walked back into the bedroom.  As I crawled back in next to my wife, she sat up and said, "Really?  The house was on fire and you were just going to leave your pregnant wife behind?"

That's my fear when it come to my kids witnessing my somnambulisms.  I worry that my actions in my "live for TV audience" dreams may be perceived as real decisions I would actually make while awake.  It's not fair when you think about it.  Other people get to keep their dreams a secret unless they want to share.  But there might be a day when I decide to trade my children to an Armenian tailor that has made a jacket that has an endless supply of Hostess' chocolate mini-donuts coming from the left pocket.   And that's something I don't want to them to manifest years later while stretched out on a leather couch paying $200 an hour because at age nine, they thought I would do that in real life.  (Note: In real life, I would only trade them if the other pocket on the jacket issued Super Bowl tickets ever year as well.)


We all remember those things that our parents did that revealed them to us as nothing more than a regular person.  Growing up, my father was one of the toughest, funniest, smartest guy I knew.  And he still is.  But, there was a point when I realized that he wasn't a superhero, but rather, a great man.  And I realized it the first time I saw him do the "monkey dance."

The "Monkey Dance" is a move my dad would do when a project that he was working on would go sour.  Usually, it involved a car. 

You see, my dad is a talented carpenter.  He had a small construction business when I was young and I was amazed with how easy he would make complicated projects seem. Like Bob Villa.  He was a paramedic for years, as well, and is now an RN.  His knowledge of complex medical conditions and procedures astounds and amazes me.  But, even with his fine craftsmanship and tool skills, and his ability to track the tiniest of issues through the human circulatory system, put him in front of a car and his eyes grow big and blank like he is a deer about to plowed down by said car. 

The "monkey dance" was a waltz, consisting of three very different, but equally important steps.  Step one was to begin cussing.  A lot of times this was caused by a socket slipping off a bolt, causing his hand to slam into something or a fluid leaking uncontrollably from underneath.  My dad doesn't really cuss, though.  He cusses like Fred Flinstone after Wilma tells him that her mother is coming to visit: "Snigglefragglegrubbledarble!"  Step two came a little while later.  The second step was to throw a tool.  So, after the same bolt that caused him to start cussing still won't come loose, he would throw the socket wrench and cuss louder, even though it was still incoherent.  He learned to throw the tool against something after an incident in which he threw a wrench down the street on a Saturday when every neighbor was out in their yards with their families.  Now that is a walk of shame...And then, about an hour later, the bolt might break, which would lead into the third and final step.  Step three was the actual "Monkey Dance." 

The dance looked something like this: 

Both hands outstretched at his sides...
Feet shoulder width apart...
Head tilted down slightly...
A panicked, hysterical, confused, apathetic and slightly psychotic expression on his face...
Grunts...
And, finally, a jerking back-and-forth motion on the balls of his feet.

It resembled Frankenstein's monster doing the Mashed Potato.

We laugh about it now.  But it was the first time I can remember my dad being human to me in my youth; frustrated, losing his temper over something silly and being somewhat vulnerable.   It's not a bad thing to be human to your kids.  It happens to us all.  I guess, as a father, I just didn't ever want it to really happen to me...or at least not so soon...We never really know what is going to disillusion our children.  The littlest things we do can cause those pieces to crumble.  And there's no glue to put them back together.  But we can always laugh about it later.

Attention!

The following is an important message from the M.E.N. (Male Emergency Network). This is not a test:

As you men may know, we have an unspoken agreement with women. They, being more organized and better thought out than us, will occasionally find a project for us to do around the house.

"Move this here."

"Hang this picture."

"Paint that blue."

And we do it, but only in exchange for the belief that we are actually in charge of the household (an illusion that we are okay with). But these "projects" have always been few and usually seasonal: Christmas, Thanksgiving, spring flowers, Halloween, etc. The rest of our time was "our time," reserved for sporting events on TV, drinking a beer, or napping.

But a silent, new enemy has been threatening this delicate balance...

Pintrest.

This growing terrorist organization has been recruiting our women over the last few months. This network of evil allows women to share ideas and directions for insane projects and organize them at a rate that baffles the average man and leaves them defenseless.

As individuals, we cannot defeat this monster. But as an informed, unified front, we will prevail!

We must rise up! It's time to lift our voices high and be heard! "I am a grown man! I should not spend every minute of my time at home with craft glue and glitter on my fingers! I shall no longer see salmon, avocado, and Merlot as colors, but rather as the delicious foods they are! The only things I am "clipping" and "tossing" this weekend are my toe nails!"

The M.E.N. is also working to provide an online response to this Evil Empire. "MENTRIST" will allow men to share ideas and plans for "man projects."

"Silhouettes for your tools on your peg board: know when she has used your tools without asking."

"Picture in picture in picture in Picture: Watch pre-season football and the MLB playoffs simultaneously."

"The best place to keep 30 year old scotch: Your belly."

Stay strong and we shall overcome!

Knight to Queen's Rook

Someone once told me that marital disputes are a lot like a game of chess.  You have to think carefully before each move, weigh the possible consequences and strategically place each piece to ensure a victory.  The problem is that I am TERRIBLE at chess.  My wife, on the other hand, is obviously a relative of Bobby Fischer.

Don't get me wrong.  I am excellent at raising my voice.  Anyone who knows me can tell you that.  Boy, can I yell.  But it's broad, and barbaric.  She, however, has the "Art of War" locked down. 
So, when we are on our respective sides of the proverbial "chessboard," (I on the black, she on the white) there is this odd, unfair glaze over the entire situation.  (And because this is MY blog, I can continue the belief that she instigates the conflict.) 

She confidently makes her first move. 

"Why is there no more Mango Peach juice?" 

You see, she had bought two juices the day before.  Mango Peach and Banana Mango Pineapple.  She hates pineapple.  I love pineapple.  That's why she bought me my OWN carton of Banana Mango PINEAPPLE juice.  But when I poured myself juice, I finished off her carton of Mango Peach.  So, now the only juice in the house was the kind she hated.  This, in chess terms, is nothing more than a basic pawn move.  But I see it as a full invasion and she must be stopped.

"Because I wanted some." 

Aha!  Bold, proud and confident!  Deal with it.  How could she possibly overcome that one?

"But you know I bought you your own juice.  Why did you drink mine?  I hate pineapple."

Another pawn.

"Well, like I said...I didn't want to drink that.  I wanted peach mango.  Am I only allowed to drink certain juices now?" 

Now this was putting my king in a castle.  I would only make this comment if I was prepared to go on the defensive.  Which is where I spend the rest of this conversation.  I have implied that I am under her control and she treats me like a child.  Which any married man can tell you, is a quick way to a night on the couch...Because she will tell you to sleep there...which only concretes your statement...but it's to be known, and never to be spoken of.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

This is a brilliant question.  And most men can't think of it first.  Because this question puts the entire burden on the other person to try and defend the idiotic thing that just came out their mouth.  And everything that is said to defend the statement in question will only come out as even more idiotic and to the woman sounds like slobbering gibberish.  This was the move where the bishop breaks through the line and starts to clean house.

Note:  This conversation that follows runs its course over three hours.  For the sake of the length of this post, I will only post highlighted statements from the argument...You can use your imagination to fill in the gaps...

"Well, maybe if you could actually manage to...."

"I'm sorry!  I'm sorry I'm so selfish to think that you..."

"Well, if you want to figure out a way to make that happen, go right ahead!"

"Fine!  Call your mom!"

"How is that my fault?"

"How long has it been since I was able to just go out and bungee-jump whenever I wanted?"

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"Watch this!  I'll drink anything in the fridge I damn well please!"

"Don't drink the soy sauce!  You're going to make yourself sick."

"Baby....Can I please come back inside?...Baby?"

If these arguments were really like chess, then she should have to give me the warning that I'm about to lose,  like in chess.  After my comment about "being allowed to drink juice," she should have been required to yell "Check!" to let me know that I was already about to lose that battle.  But because there's no warning, I continue to go on and on and end up looking like the baboon that I am...

Finally, after two hours of silence, she takes the gag off my mouth and unties me from the chair in the basement.  I apologize and she forgives me and we kiss and make up.  The rest of my day is spent trying to make up for being "so stupid" and "a bad husband."  (My words, not hers)

I love my wife.  She is smarter, wiser, more patient, and I must say, quite prettier than me.  I know I am not easy to live with all the time.  But she handles me so well, even with all my faults.  I love our life together and I am glad that she can always put in me "checkmate."

Time to Get Political for a Moment

I try not to get too political with anything that I post.  I've learned over the years that discussing politics can be a pointless pursuit in today's age.  Not that I discourage people from pursuing change in the system, as that is one of the rights in the first amendment (the right to question the government).  However, I've never really enjoyed starting a public debate, as most people are not too easily swayed from their personal beliefs and it usually alienates people from each other. 

That being said, I feel there is a group of citizens in this country that are virtually unprotected from abuse in "the system."

Divorced and/or "non-residential" fathers. 

Simply put, real men who are paying child support diligently who cannot afford to be fairly represented in the legal system or in legislation.

For the sake of this post, I will be using Kansas (my state) as an example, because every state regulates support differently. But all in all, I've found that almost all are fairly identical.

In the state of Kansas, support is figured using the infamous "Kansas Calculator."  This device, in a nutshell, takes the income of both parents, allows for adjustments for child care, health insurance, and other "fixed" expenses.  The calculator will then "beep" and "boop" and spit out a figure of how much the couple would be spending together on the kids if they were still together.  The personal responsibilities for each parent are then calculated using their individual income.

So, for easy math, we'll assume the following model is actual figures. But, it's really just to illustrate the state's approach to figuring totals and obligations.

Mother and father both make 50k/year.

Combined = $100,000

After fixed expenses, the Kansas calculator says, "If you were still together, you would be spending,on average, $1000 per child per month."

For two children, that equal $2000/ month.

And because each parent has the same income, that amount is split 50/50. And the non-resident parent is ordered to pay $1000/per month for the support of two children.

Seems fair, right?

And it would be if it wasn't based on "assumed spending."

If the mother receives $1000 every month from the father, it is assumed that she is spending $2000 a month on the children.  But if, in actuality, she is only spending half ($1000) of that assumed amount, where is the protection for the father?  Keep in mind, housing cost, utilities, car payment and such are not figured as "fixed expenses," because those are costs that the parent would have without custody of the children.  I have never heard of a single mother saying to the father, "I got all this money from you last month, but I only used half of it...Here's the difference back to you." 

The only expenses that child support is figured for is the direct costs of raising a child.  (food, health, education, child care and mild entertainment.)

This begs the question:  What could be done to ensure that the "proper" amount of support was being paid by the non-custodial parent?  Also, what could be done to ensure the money being paid to the custodial parent is being spent properly on support?

I have two suggestions...

1.  All support is paid through the state as it currently stands.  Could the payment be offered onto a state issued card (similar to Kansas' EBT program) that would allow the state to monitor the spending habits of the custodial parent?

Yes. The payment received through the state by the non-custodial could be deposited onto a state-issued debit card (with a credit card logo for "credit" needs).  It could look like a regular debit card.  But it would allow the state to monitor and regulate on what the "support" is specifically being spent.  The card could easily be restricted to prevent money that is supposed to be spent on the children from being used for clothes, entertainment, and other expenses for the custodial parent.

For example:  If both parents make the same, and each are supposed to be spending the "same" amount on the children, how could the custodial parent be able to afford a cruise in Europe, while the non-custodial parent is barely able to scrape enough to drive to work to continue to make payments.  If the custodial parent was contributing the same amount of the financial burden, they should both be in the same financial boat after all is said and done.

Let me pause here to make some things clear.  I know that being a single parent is hard.  I understand that have residential custody of children requires a lot of time-management and self-sacrifice.  But nobody gets paid just for being a parent (unless you count the millions of dollars refunded to parents at tax time).  I know a lot of non-custodial parents that would LOVE to share some more of that "parenting time."  What we are talking about here is the financial obligation of the parents.  Parenting time is outlined in a different hearing under the "family plan."  Custody and support are two different conflicts.

So, by loading the money onto the card and restricting the use of the support money, we can now look at the second tier of this program.

2.  If the "assumed" amount is not used to the maximum every month, the amount will be adjusted to an average of the last three months spending.  But the only way that this can be accurately calculated is to have both parents pay their portion onto the card.

Let me explain this way, using the model from above:

The state calculator has figured that the "assumed" support amount for two children equals $2000.  The amount is split between the parents equally.  Obviously, whomever is paying for health insurance through their employer would have that discounted from their obligation.  But everything else is paid out of their net pay, so both would contributed their share to the card.

NOTE: And to be clear, for any non-custodial parents that do not cover their children on their employers insurance:  Make sure the "amount" for health insurance cost is figured using this formula.

."Family Coverage - Single coverage = Child's insurance cost / parental percentage of obligation"  Ex. 350-175=175     175/2=$87.50

Every quarter, the amount required for support would be adjusted up or down based off the average amount spent every month.

Example:  State declares $2000 support for two children based off both parents income.  That leaves an obligation of $1000 per parent.  Assuming that the mother deducts $125 for health insurance, the total amount deposited onto the card would be $1875 per month.  During that quarter, the custodial parent only spends $1000 every month.  The new total deposited on the card would be $1000.  That would come out to be $625 for the father, who is not carrying insurance through the employer,  and $375 for the mother.

On the flip side, if the total amount ($2000) is used to the max for all three months in that quarter, the amount would increase 25%.  So, if after three months the amount is spent fully, the amount would be increased to $2500 total.

This is not about trying to "screw over" custodial parents.  This is NOT about trying to "weasel out" of payments for the non-custodial parent.  This is a way to make sure that the amount being PROMISED to be used on the children is actually being SPENT ON THE CHILDREN.  Too often, custodial parents begin to "live off" of child support.  How about letting the people for whom the support is being paid live off of it?

I also know that the custodial parent has to move money around sometimes while waiting for money to be deposited.  A limited amount of cash withdrawl every month could also be available.  (10%, maybe).  Also, any out of pocket, non-included costs could be sent in to the state payment center if unable to be resolved between the parents. 

Now, if you are a non-custodial parent, and you don't pay, or if you play the system, you deserve what's coming.  Not paying child support is the same as not feeding, clothing, educating or tending to the medical needs of a child in your own home.  You can and should be in jail. 

Life happens, though.  Even "intact" families go through periods of unemployment, medical illnesses, and other situations that prevent income.  But again, this is a more real-ime approach to take all sides of the matter into consideration.  If the custodial parent is getting too much, it will automatically be figured to adjust it down for fairness to the non-custodial parent.  If not enough is being used, it will automatically be figured to adjust it up for the aide of the custodial parent.

But to all the men out there, who continually pay ridiculous amounts of their income to someone who turns around to spend that money on personal trips without the children, new furniture or fashion intended only for themselves, or their own personal technological gadgets and entertainment, keep doing what you do. 

The Day the Music Died

There are certain things that I realize now which my kids will never have the joy of doing.

...And fun with audio is something that is going to be lost forever...

When I was about 11 or 12, I used to sit in my room with my friends and we would make our own radio show using a boombox and a cassette tape.  I was "DJ Lion-O" (a quality "Thundercats" tribute, I must say), and my friend John was "John.  He was the creative one of the bunch.  It was a "shock Jock" show, along the lines of Howard Stern or Don Imus.  We would tackle the tough issues like "Why are sixth graders cooler than fifth graders?" After many calls from listeners (our best voice talent abilities spoken through a handkerchief to make it sound muffled, as if we were actually calling on the phone line), we concluded that it was simply because sixth graders knew exactly what was not to be touched in MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This."  And in between these debates, we would plug in music from edgy artists like Weird Al Yankovich and DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. And for the rest of the day, we would sit and replay it over and over, laughing at ourselves and critiquing our performances.

As I got older, music became more and more important to me.  When I was 15, I started listening to Leonard Cohen, Nirvana and Velvet Underground. I became that "fan" from the song "Guitar Man" ("...and you like to sing along, and you listen for the meaning in each and every song").  But internet downloads were something of the future, only accessible to guys like Johnny Lee Miller in "Hackers."  So, my evenings were spent in my room with a boombox and a cassette tape listening to the local college radio station.  With my finger constantly atop the REC button, I awaited in great anticipation for the next song. I had many tapes that were littered with the DJ's voice at the beginning instrumental lead in or the fade out on the back end.  Even to this day, when I sing along to "Mr. Self Destruct," I end the song by saying, "What a lovely romantic song for Valentine's Day..." Because, all I had heard in my youth was "Kermit the Hog" commenting on his special selection for the holiday during his afternoon show.

Ultimately, most of these tapes were destroyed by cheap tape decks in my vehicles. I used to keep a pencil in the console of my car just to spin the spokes to reset the tape after my cheap Sylvania head unit would consume most of them.  Nada Surf's "Popular" will forever be garbled in my mind during the middle speech about the time limits for going steady.

And what better way to express your feelings during the courting process of young love than with a mix tape?  How do kids do it now? Email a playlist?  There's no time involved!   How will that girl know how you care if you haven't spent an entire weekend transferring every sappy love song from one cassette to another? You were able to proclaim "Au contraire, Meatloaf!  I WOULD do anything for love, including that!  If 'that' is admitting to a girl that you know not one, but three Air Supply songs..."

So, just remember as your kids get older: it's not their fault they have no creativity.  Everything has become so easy and user-friendly that it has sucked dry the processes of actually creating.

A Woman's Bathroom is a Sacred Place.

A woman's bathroom is a frightening place for a man.  There is a vast array of machines, devices and tools that, to men, can resemble something like a terrorist interrogation kit.  The only thing that helps soften the look of these tortuous devices is the fact that they are now made smooth and bulky with purple and pink plastic pieces scattered throughout the design.  I remember my mom's equipment growing up.  The curling iron was straight, black and hot...much like a soldering iron, or a probe from "Total Recall."

The "fairer" sex doesn't seem to get a "fair" shake when it comes to daily preparation and grooming.  I have a medicine cabinet in my bathroom with two shelves.  All of my personal hygiene and grooming utensils fit on one shelf.  The second shelf is for random things that don't belong in a medicine cabinet: receipts and tissues from my pocket piled up, old razors that should have been tossed out years ago, and loose change.  My wife's bathroom, on the other hand, has an entire wall of electric devices and primping tools. Each item has its place carefully placed for a smooth daily routine.  A man has his pegboard in the garage. A woman has the shelf and drawers and cabinets in her bathroom.  It has the same maddening, chaotic organization as a militia member's personal arsenal.

What's even more frightening is the fact that they use the majority of these things on a daily basis.  I hear the roaring of the blow dryer, the clanking of makeup containers, and the clicking of different switches on a plethora of straighteners, curlers, teasers, and flatteners and a bunch of other "-ers". 

Meanwhile, I shave, brush my teeth and throw some pomade in my hair and I'm done. 

And that doesn't even include what's in her shower. Pre-wash lotions, body scrubs, foot scrubs, face scrubs, shampoo, conditioner, color treatment, body wash, exfoliates, loofahs, pumice stones, lady razors...she has an entire "Bath and Body Works" in her shower!  I have a bottle of "hair and body wash" in mine because, frankly, I'm just too lazy to have to open two bottles during my shower. 

And what is that thing that looks like a cheese grater?  I used her shower once and saw that thing.  After a while, I painfully ruled out some obviously incorrect uses....

Ask a woman, "Why do you do all that to yourself?"  Almost every time, she will tell you, "Because I want to feel pretty."  But I don't think that's the real reason...

It's really in hope that we men will TELL them that they are pretty.  You see, guys, we are the reason they put themselves through all of those processes everyday.  And we are so pompous and self-centered that we rarely acknowledge it.  We expect it, when in actuality, we should be thanking them every morning that they care so much for us that they would go through all of that for our hairy, stinky kind.  So, try to give them the response that they are hoping for...

"Honey, you are beautiful."

The Art of Gift Giving

There has been a common misunderstanding between men and women over the years: the idea that men are terrible at picking out gifts.  But there are some major circumstances that make it an extremely challenging task for us.

1: Men are practical gift shoppers.  When we look for a gift for anyone, especially our wives, we want to make sure it's something they need and can use.  But women seem to want things that make them feel special. And that's why we get you the "top of the line" electronic device or appliance. Because you are special. We save the generic, cut-rate electronics and appliances for those people for whom we don't really care. The large, deluxe Foreman Grill equals true love.  The $10 Sunbeam knock-off grill equals office "secret Santa."  We could have bought that diamond pendant necklace. But you don't need it...because you're so beautiful without all those unnecessary "accessories" that only only distract from your natural loveliness. (Did I mention that I'm in sales?)

2: Women always have a constant tab on their men. If I get off the sofa to get a glass of water, I automatically get the question, "Where are you going?"  My wife is always suspicious of me.  It's not that she doesn't trust me.  She just wants to know what I'm up to at all times.  It's impossible to sneak around to get anything. They know where you are and what you're doing every second of every day.  And if they don't know, they begin looking for you like they are investigating a murder at the White House.  So, gift shopping becomes a "beat the clock" situation.  Lunch breaks, emergency runs to the store for toilet paper, and on-line browsing become the only opportunities we get to actually shop for gift ideas. They wonder what we are always clicking out of...it's eBay, amazon or overstock.com.

And cell phones make it even more difficult, now. We are constantly forced to lie about where we are or the signal strength or battery life of our phone just to buy more time at the store. "Okay," we'll think to ourselves, "I told her I was twenty-five minutes from home, but I'm really only five minutes away at the store.  So, that means I only have twenty minutes to find something, pay for it and get it wrapped in the car.  If I shut my phone off and tell her my battery died, maybe I can squeeze an extra seven minutes in..." Which leads me to the next reason...
3: "Oh, honey, please don't get me anything."  Following that order is a mistake you only make once. But it's a loaded statement. If you don't buy anything, you'll hear about it.  If you do buy something, you'll hear about it.  But trust me, the latter is steeped in smiles and pleasant sighs.  But even though you know that she really wants something, she will stand by her statement and refuse to actually tell you what she wants.  So, this leaves all the burden of gift buying on the men and their ability to notice subtle hints.  Which is a incredibly daunting expectation.  We have the same capacity to figure out subtle hints as much as a woman does of figuring out why men insist on buying decorative accessories for their game console (if you must know, an X-Box doesn't look right without a custom-made college team faceplate).

Now, tie all these together to put it into full motion, and you'll see my most recent excursion into Valentine's Day gift shopping.

My wife said last month, "Let's not do anything for Valentine's Day." Immediately, I know I have to find a gift.  I, however, have learned the subtle hints.  For example, after Christmas, she said, "Please, don't buy me anything that plugs in from now on."  So, I'm thinking, "Okay...Something that needs batteries...A remote controlled model boat!"  But, last week, I saw that her curling iron was in the trash.  A curling iron plugs in...herein lies the dilemma...Suddenly, I had the brightest light bulb I'd ever had...I can't buy her anything that plugs in...but the  kids can!

So, yesterday, I picked kids up from the babysitter, and we quickly drove to the store. I shuffle them through the store as fast as we can.  I'm pulling on arms and jackets as little eyes get distracted by toys, movies, and video games, like I'm the foreman on a cattle ranch herding the latest stock into the corral.  I'm on a mission!  We circle through the cosmetic aisle and grab the replacement curling iron.  But it looks lonely.  I start grabbing lotions and bath gels.  "She likes to bathe, I'm sure."  I'm just about to haul my load of goodies (which, at this point, has had a candle and a card added to the purchase), and my almost catatonic children through the check-out.

And then I feel it:  My cell phone vibrating in my pocket.  I ignore it.  I know it's her, but I just need to get back to the car.  If I answer it now, she'll know we are in a store, and that raises questions.  If I can make it into the car, I can cover by saying I'm running late because of stoplights and traffic.  About one minute later, it vibrates again.  Now, I have to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, honey.  Where are you?"

"Ummm...(mumbling) at the store."

"Why are you at the store?  I thought you were just picking up the kids."

"I just needed to pick up a few things."

"What are you picking up?  I just went to the store."

What do I say?  If I tell her what I'm buying, it will ruin the surprise.  If I don't tell her, then I have to spend more time going back to buy something that I can use as the excuse as to why I stopped...

"Just some stuff."

"Why can't you tell me what you're buying?"

"Because...Oh!  My phone is about to die.  I'll see you when I get home."

At this point, she knows what I'm up to...So, I have the kids sign the card as soon as we get in the car.  I am driving down the highway trying shove all these items into a gift bag and tuck tissue paper in between it all.  As soon as we get home, I can see she has been practicing "the speech."  If it something that she likes, she will say, "I thought I told you not to get me anything,"  with a big smile.  If it is something that she doesn't like, she will say, "I thought I told you not to get me anything"...with no smile.  The children present her with the bag, and as she opens it, she smiles.  A pampering kit, full of washes and lotions, a relaxation candle and a brand new curling iron, is apparently a great Valentine's Day gift...

...And, of course, the kids received all the credit...

I say, "DON'T shake the sillies out!"

There are many things that I enjoy about being a dad.  For instance, when I leave the room for only five minutes and I come back to a hero's applause.  Or when I throw a couple frozen waffles into the toaster and I am received as the world's greatest chef, as if I were the illegitimate love child of Wolfgang Puck and Julia Child. And the look of amazement in my children's eyes, like I am a mutant with super-human strength, when I do something like carry a box of Christmas decorations to the basement.

But I think the thing I enjoy the most is my ability to remain childish.

For those who know me personally, they can say I was definitely the "class clown" in school.  I was always silly.  Prat falls, impressions and first-person jokes were a daily occurance for me.  I even did a stand-up routine for the middle school talent show.  It was a survival tool for me, though.  You see, about middle school, I realized that there were the kids who could breeze through school unscathed, others who would hide in permanent shadow of social awkwardness, and then there were people like me.  I was a rare breed that never had the grace or skill to play a sport.  Nor did I have the brains to look forward to the days when I would run the world.  So, I learned that if I made people laugh, they could never really figure me out.  Especially, when I made fun of myself.  The strong, athletic, popular kids thought that I was self-deprecating and that I could actually do the things I was so exaggeratedly bad at. (So, to all the kids in Mrs Swenson's fifth-grade class:  Yes, that is REALLY how I shoot a lay-up...Even to this day).  The smart kids thought that my stupidity was so over the top, that I must actually be a genius trying to blend in.  (Yes, I REALLY thought the "Labor Party" was when a bunch of women had babies at the same time).  It worked fine...until I hit the real world and I had to actually perform.

But all those years of silliness was just training for being a dad... 

Now I can perform my impression of Popeye buying diapers for Sweet Pea when my kids are in tow during a shopping trip.  Crying baby at church?  The big, funny "ape man" can get him smiling again.  When my daughter seems to be in one her moods, all I have to do to flip her 180 degrees is walk face first into the wall and fall back onto the floor, Chaplin-style. 

I see a lot of dads in public, especially new dads of toddlers, trying to remain cool.  But you can't be cool with kids.  These dads will constantly try to save face at the expense of their own children.  "I can't believe you are crawling on the floor of the mall pretending to be a Transformer!  Get up!  You're embarrassing me!" 

They're KIDS!  They don't understand "being cool."  They would rather watch Finneas and Ferb than anything with Brad Pitt squinting his eyes for two hours.  If your kid wants to be Optimus Prime on the floor at the mall, get down there and be Megatron.  Children are nothing more than small, silly people.  They only want to have fun.  They have their entire life to be serious. 

The other day, for instance, when I was taking the kids to Parent-Teacher conferences, we spent the entire car ride singing our conversation in Opera. 

"Whaaaat doooo yooou waaant tooo dooo for diiiiineeeer?

And the funny part was, we were still doing it in front of the teacher.  Of course, when I entered the classroom, the teacher had me sit in Danny's chair.  The chair is designed for a elementary school child, not a 31 year old man.  I just looked at my son and said, "My name is Bruce Banner, and I just got an 'F' on my math test," and proceeded to go through the transformation into the Hulk and stood up with the chair stuck to my rear end.

You've got to be silly.  It's the only way to make it through parenthood.  If you can't be silly with a kid, you're going to end up just looking at them, thinking, "What the heck are they doing?  They have been acting like baboons all afternoon!  I think we should have them tested."

Take advantage of being a dad.  Walk like an Egyptian around the house.  Let them pelt you with snowballs in the winter. Make silly faces in the rear-view mirror as you sing ridiculous Raffi songs and don't worry about what the person in the car next to you is thinking.  Make up your own language with them while shopping at the grocery store. 

It's important to be the silly dad now....because, in just a few short years, it will be your kid saying, "Stop it, Dad!  You're embarrassing me!"

Going Out on the Town

There is a big difference between a single man's and a married man's idea of a night out. 

You see, social settings (ie bars, clubs, etc.) are designed and marketed towards the young/single people in this world.  There are few places that married men can go to have a good time "sans sponsa" that won't offer up a fight later when they get home.

For a single guy, it's all geared towards hope and fantasy.  They will put on their striped button down shirt, nicest blue jeans and walk down the club district with their "entourage" look-alikes.  They "hope" that some female will look at them with longing.  They maintain the fantasy that they will be sought after, or that they will be smooth and charming and sophisticated and funny.  But as they night progresses, and the drinks keep flowing, their fantasy and dreams become less and less a achievable in reality.  In their hazed mind, however, they are living it out.  With each Jager Bomb, they believe they are George Clooney, Denzel Washington, and Antonio Banderas all wrapped up in one smooth package.  But what the women see is a high-fiving, obnoxious jack-hole that doesn't respect women or their personal space.   

Married men, on the other hand, just want a night out away from everything.  We don't want to stare at women or pretend we are someone that we're not.  We will go out as a group wearing our logo work shirts, khakis with spaghetti sauce stains from trying to feed the little one, and a jacket with a glaze of boogers on the shoulders from holding a sick, sleeping child during  church.  We pass the pressed and dressed single guys on the street and we all lock eyes. Like we are a group of combat vets coming out of the fog of war, and they are the young, fresh-faced new recruits going into the jungle for the first time. 

If we go to the club, we just get mad.  Ultimately, one or all of the men will say, "If my daughter even THINKS about wearing something like that...."

Bars are full of the young guys that think that they have to stare down any other male and claim their territory.  The bars also usually have the really drunk, "fun" girl who loudly approaches the group of married men, "What's up guys?...Oh yeah?...That's cool...You wanna buy me a drink?...No?  That's okay, cause you can't have none of this anyway!...What's that? You don't want none of this?...Whatever! You don't know me!".

So where do we go?  The Elks Lodge?  We're not that group yet...There's always Applebee's (Neighborhood Bar and Grill)...But where are the fun places?

There is no fantasy or hope for married men when we go out.  We are not trying to "pick up chicks." We have someone at home waiting for us.  We don't dance. The last time we WANTED to do that was at our wedding reception.  We don't have to dress up.  We don't have anyone to impress.  We just want to be able to drink and laugh and play bar games (darts, pool, poker, etc) with guys with bar names (Floyd, Mitch, Frank, etc).

Now, I'm not a fan of strip clubs.  But I'm thinking of starting one just for married guys...Now, bear with me on this...

The girls don't get naked or dance or anything like that...

For twenty dollars, they will take you to a private room, and for five minutes, you can say whatever you want and they will agree with you.  That's the married guy's real fantasy!  Just to be right!

"And another thing!  I think that the middle of the bathroom floor is the PERFECT place for my underwear!"

"Uh-huh"

"And don't just sit there and expect me to know that you're mad because you had a dream that I made a spaceship out of Lender's Bagels and went to the moon without you!"



"I definitely see your point...Oh! Times up..."     

But all joking aside, I don't like going out without my wife.  Because when you go out to have fun, why would you want to go anywhere without your best friend...  

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A Two Year Old's To-Do List

There are days I believe that my son, James, has got to have a day planner in order to accomplish the things he does in a day.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I overhead him this morning saying:

"Okay, let's see....I woke up mom and dad today at 3:30 and continued to scream for twenty minutes until they starting singing 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' in perfect harmony.  Check!  And I must say, Dad's falsetto is getting quite good....

"After that I woke them up again at 5:00 by spilling milk from my sippy cup onto Mom's pillow and "Gorilla Stomping" Dad's trachea...So, I can cross that one off...

"Hmmm...I didn't get ink on anything at 8:30. But, I am scheduled to do that again at 2:30, so I'll just double up...After that, I have to torture the dog until he nervously pees all over the sofa.  So, I may switch my 3:30 'spin. around in circles and puke' with my 4:15 'complete destruction of living room as if I was recreating the White House scene from Independence Day' in order to tie it all up into a glorious and epic masterpiece... 

"What's next?  Ah, yes!  Demand specific items for breakfast with righteous indignation!

"Mom!  I want waffles with peanut butter and a light, 1/8 inch wide drizzle of honey in a  uniformed criss-cross pattern!"

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Questions and Answers

There are times when we, as fathers, may not know exactly how to explain things in a way that kids will understand. 


Sometimes, it's because it's hard to explain the complexity of it all:

"Dad, why is there war?"


"Well, daughter, sometimes there are people in this world that want to hurt other people.  And so they have to be told not to.  So, if the people that are being hurt cannot protect themselves, other people go to help them."


"Kind of like the police?"


"Yeah, that's one way to think of it."


"So, when someone hurts someone else, you have to fight them?"


"Well, no, not exactly.  You don't want to go around fighting everyone who hurts people..."


"Why not?  Are you some kind of hippie or something?"


Sometimes, it's because it's something we know nothing about:

"Dad, why does it take so long for light to get from the stars to earth?"


"Umm...because...it has to stop along the way to pee so many times...."


And a lot of times, it's because it's just plain awkward:

"Dad, what's 'gay' mean?"


"Um...why?"


"Well, I just saw you throw that football...I was just wondering..."


However, as the Dad, you are expected to have the answer for everything.  And if life has taught me anything, it's this:  you can give the wrong answer sometimes.  But as long as you do it with confidence, nobody will ever question it...especially your kids.

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The Three Little Words Men Hate to Hear

There are three words that every man dreads hearing from his wife:  "I was thinking..."

You see, men have learned over the years that these three words usually mean that we will have to move, build, hang or buy something.  Usually, this conversation starts in bed, right before we fall asleep.  Women, especially wives, know we want nothing more than to end the conversation quickly so we can sleep.  So, we agree to anything they say just to end it.  The same goes for any TV program that we are actively watching.  Sports, war movies, TV shows about organized crime, or anything set in a pawn shop is a perfect opportunity for a wife to slip in the most insane requests from their husband.

"You know, I was thinking...we should build a canopy over the sofa in the living room...I saw it on Pintrest...Of course, that means we would have to use steel wires to hang the coffee table from the ceiling to complete the look.  We'll go to Home Depot tomorrow to pick out the supplies. Oh, and I will need you to paint a perfect replica of VanGogh's 'Starry Night' on the bathroom, as well..."

"Okay....Goodnight..."

It's really nice that they use the word "we" all the time, too.  That gives the illusion that it's a team effort...But in reality it's a "team" in the same sense that the Pharoah and the slaves were on same team when the pyramids were built...

The next morning, I wake up to a fresh pot of coffee and breakfast made.  That's how I know that something is horribly wrong. 

"Good morning, my love," my wife greets me with a chipper tone.  "Are you ready for the day?"

"Oh, no,"  I think to myself, "What did I promise last night?"

And then the whole conversation begins flooding back into my brain as if I was sobering up from an all night drinking bender, and all the poor decisions I had made became a jolting reality.

There is something about a woman's ability to direct a project that causes a man to long for the days of Basic Training.  At least in the military, the directions and consequences are clear and precise.  Here, it's riddled with "What do you think?" and "Do you have any ideas?"  All the while, I know deep down that any repsonse is going to be dismissed as wrong, but if I don't answer, I am accused of not engaging....

So, as the projects begin, I have to do my duty of constantly trying to remember something that I forgot at the store, just so I can leave for half-hour intervals at a time.  With enough luck, I may be able to waste enough time to get out of the majority of the work.  And it usually does.  The projects are put in the "forgotten" file. 

But the next week, just like in a horror movie, as I'm getting ready to fall asleep, I hear, "Baby, I was thinking..."

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