Half Past Awesome

A few years back on the Central Coast

Last weekend I took the Heathens to the movies. Just they and me, us just three. We saw “We Bought A Zoo”, a heart-wrenching tale of a father and his two kids who undertake ownership of a zoo as part of buying a house, all brought on by their attempt to move past the death of the mom in the family. Heathen #2 took the opportunity to nap, #1 took it all in and wrestled with the concept of death and roaring lions, while I took the chance to weep like a damn baby every five minutes. Yeah, I don’t recommend you go into that movie with the hopes of a comedic romp, but if you feel like staining your sleeves with tears and snot like a child might, then by all means, go.

The movie highlighted the struggles of family dynamic, of a father trying to connect with his son and daughter, trying to find purpose when his has seemed to vanish into the ether. I haven’t lost a spouse to death, nor have I up and quit my day job, but nonetheless, I’m struggling. We all are. In this time of Facebook and Twitter, where everyone is trying to sell either the very best versions of what they WANT you to see, or in the case of the  latter, bitter snark, it’s easy to feel as though you’ve fallen off the Normal Train.

Lord knows I’ve made horrendous errors. My propensity to only learn things the hard way has cost me pride, dignity and self-respect on more than one occasion. I’ve had friends, good friends, take a look at me and just say “nahhh, I’m not dealing with you.” The ability to take everything too personally has slowed down my personal growth to the point where the middle finger is often my primary reaction to people who may, or may not be, just trying to help. And the sad truth is that is it’s probably going to be that way in many aspect of my life, always. I never wanted to grow up thinking “well I better not experience THAT part of life, because I’ve been told it’s not good, or it’ll hurt.” I’ve NEEDED to grab the stove, so that I could KNOW what getting burned felt like, to hurt like that, to live.

So how to reconcile this rocky path I keep choosing with raising my boys with a semblance of stability? I looked over at them during the movie, as the father in the movie was in the middle of arguing with his son, and I felt distinct chest pains; already my boys like to push the edge of the envelope, and although it’s a normal part of establishing your individual identity, it still hurts sometimes. People in this life will let you down, as I have to many, and I’ve had done to me; but these, my boys, my most rewarding endeavor in this life….they’ve changed the game completely. At the age of six and eight, they’ve taught me more about being an adult than any other adult I’ve known. It is they who continue to teach me how to be a parent. Those two giggling spasms of drive-me-loco energy are who prop me up from my darkest moments. From some unknown paternal well of inner resolve, I’m able to put aside my selfish drive and focus on strength for them in return. From the moment they arrived into this world, naked and screaming, nothing has driven me quite like the sense of protective love I feel for those lunatics. Nothing else could.

Our paths together will continue to wind around unknown corners, little hurts and big heartbreaks testing our will and resolve. But I didn’t get to town on the Normal Train myself, so to bend to convention seems an unlikely option as a parent for me. I’ll love those boys ferociously, for all their lives and then some, and maybe they’ll grow up to question just what kind of unhinged dad they’ve inherited. That’s okay, I’ve never claimed to be normal, or stable for that matter. They’ll grow up with many questions about this fantastic, mean, beautiful world, but one thing I hope they never question is my boundless love for them.

As heart-wrenching as it was, it really wasn’t the movie causing my eyes to leak so prolifically. The sheer enormity of this journey of fatherhood can, at once, cause you to buckle at the knees and give you the kind of strength you never dreamed existed. What a crazy blessing. Thanks for having my back, boys. I’ll always have yours. Always.

The Dad We Wish We Had On Turkey Day

You know, we have so much to be thankful for, you and I.

If you’re reading this, you have access to the internet, which means you’re not spending you time hunting down raccoons for a meal. Likely you have a roof over your head, the ability to live outside of the yoke of an oppressive regime in the heat of the Middle East and enough money to buy that latte you’re drinking at Starbucks with your Power Mac laptop which is how you stumbled across this page.

As a cynical raconteur and avowed skeptic, I find it easy to take the “not only is the glass half empty, it’s cracked and leaking but I’m too lazy to do anything about it except complain to no one in particular” approach. On a related note, this is precisely why I’d make a crappy religious zealot; I wouldn’t believe myself most of the time. I could stand to be a little less jaded, I suppose, a little peppier when I get into a fender bender, a few more “woo-hoo’s” at CrossFit when I see someone skipping rope really, really fast. And truly, in this life, there is so much for which to be grateful.

• The unconditional love your children have for you (at least before their age gets into the double digits)
• The way in which your dog acts upon your return home, even if you were only gone for 5 minutes; the maniacal tail (or nub) wagging, the eyes, casting about wildly, the incessant pawing. You’ll always be the biggest celebrity in your dog’s world.
• Waking up in a country where you can be as free as you’d like. Free to be informed, free to be ignorant, but most importantly, free to be.
• Thermostats in the winter, and the ability to use them.
• Enough leisure time on our hands that we pay the Kardashians of this world exorbitant sums to basically live in front of cameras and date/marry professional athletes at their casual will.
• We can choose to run for health or sport as opposed to running for our lives from a pride of hungry lions with low blood-sugar issues.
• When Wall Street’s greediest chowderheads choose to abscond with others money, and our faith in man falters, we still forgive our neighbor for running over our garbage cans or that jerk who swiped your parking space….we forgive him too. Or we oughta.
• A well stocked liquor store on virtually every corner. Turns out, that’s quite handy.
• Family. Even the one’s you’re not talking to right now.
• Friends. Even the one’s who won’t talk to you right now.
• A house to clean. Laundry that needs to be done, because that means you’re still needed for more than just operating the dishwasher.
• Want bacon? Go buy bacon. Want a big-screen tv? Go buy one. Wanna meet a disease-infested tranny hooker in a park after hours? Go to Craigslist. My point? We don’t lack for much, except for an appreciation for what’s in front of us.

And I may well be the worst when it comes to a basic appreciation…..but not today. So thank you, one and all, for mostly just being you; friend or foe, you’re shaping the landscape of this life for me, and I’m grateful for the challenges and gifts of this life. I’ll get back to my regularly scheduled pessimism soon enough, but today, I’m just thankful.

Only They Know What They're Thinking

There’s an old school song lyric that I recently saw made into a tattoo, and it’s one that’s been rattling around the confines of my addled mind for more than a few minutes:

“Gaudemus Igitur

Juvenes Dum Sumus”

Translated from Latin, it means:

“Let us rejoice therefore

while we are young”

This summer I got to witness my son go from inflatable water wings and clinging to the sides of the shallow end of the pool to diving for rubber snakes in the 6′ deep section. He figured out how to throw a baseball without looking like he was having severe muscle cramps. He rode the bike without training wheels. His drawing skills keep getting better and he can draw a better SpongeBob than I. My other son is a young comic with disarming charm – he held the door open for a lady at the movies tonight, and he’s only six. His memory and recall are what I rely on almost daily to find my car keys or that one shoe I keep losing.

They’re growing up, those boys.

As we slide into Fall, and seasons and lives continue to evolve and change and grow, so too do my young Heathens. Their futures are unwritten, as are all of ours, but their slates are clean. You and I, we are living with the battle scars and badges of life’s choices, for better or worse. When they run across the lawn at full speed, with reckless abandon, I want them to cherish that very moment; I am. They won’t, they’re just busy living life with the throttle pinned wide open, much more concerned with which Transformer can defeat which Jedi than with drinking in the heavy, proud emotions I feel as I watch them. Before long they won’t want to spend their free time playing catch or Lego’s with me so much, and that’s as it should be. Here’s what they will know: no matter what, I’m right there for them with every step from learning how to drive to learning how to deal those uncharted waters of first loves and unwanted teen acne. For now, today, they’re still right here, and yet I miss them already. Perhaps it’s time for me to kick off the shoes and jump on the trampoline with them for a while, or at least till I get motion sick.

Time to rejoice a little. Love a lot.

Even if I’m not so young.

For sale: 5 acres, 2 shovels, 1 broom. Children not included

Vapor lock.

Two words when that come to mind when I wrap my warped mind around the concept of moving back into town: “vapor lock”.

We bought this house 5 years and 10 months ago, an excited and younger family, eager to get out of the suburbs and onto our 5 acres of the American Dream. It was a larger, kinda run down house with lots of, um, potential, but the real selling point for me was The Shop. 24′ x 80′, it was the ultimate man cave, built by the previous owner for his cabinet business. I owned a small excavating concern at the time, and although none of my equipment would fit INSIDE the shop, all the tools, beer fridge and other necessary manliness trappings would. 5 ACRES. I envisioned my boys on dirt bikes, I saw digging out a large pond that would freeze over in winter for some outdoor hockey, I pictured throwing big fall parties with a corn maze that I would create. I failed to look for the money tree that would fund all of these endeavors, but hey, when you’re dreaming, you can’t let a little thing like financial realities come crash the party.

As time and income would allow, we fixed up the things that needed it. The Dirtbag came out from the Northwest and we remodeled the former garage/family room into a fully functioning hair salon so that The Wife could work from home and the boys could come off the school bus to a home with at least one parent in it. I built things from salvaged barn wood in the shop, installed a stove and created a social haven for other off-duty firemen looking to escape their own homes. We half-built a garden that’s half the size of our former house. We have a guest room so that our out-of-town visitors aren’t fighting disgusting small boys for bed space or worse, toilet time.

Like the American Dream itself, though, it’s about the pursuit, not necessarily the arrival. The day arrived when the acquisition of more, bigger, greater wasn’t fulfilling anymore. It leaves a void, a void in which I was missing some vital aspects to being a father. Maybe smaller COULD better. Maybe I didn’t need as much.

I sold the business because I was never home, and it wasn’t worth the chump change I was able to claim as profit when my boys were growing up in my absence. I wanted to give writing a shot, even if only as a hobby. Then, the economy decided to jump the fiscal shark, and new realities really hit. We probably weren’t going to put in that swimming pool, much less a garage or a pond or a life-size re-creation of Mt. Rushmore in the back yard. And, like many people these days, we were asking “do we really need all this stuff, all this space, all those weeds?” We don’t. Mowing through the summer in Missouri equates to trying to drain a swamp with a shop-vac, humidity included.

“Let’s move back into town!” I boldly declared. My family looked at me like I just informed them that I was having recreational sex with feral cats. It took a while, but I sold the idea. Mostly, I sold it by telling them that we’re doing it. But she saw that we were spending all of our time in town anyways, that it doesn’t take a 1,920 square foot shop to house a laptop for writing, that she missed the social interaction of business in a salon. It was decided. We contacted a reputable Realtor, who guided us through the steps it’s gonna take to maybe, barely, hopefully break somewhat even on our house after all this time and money spent on improvements. We know what neighborhood we want to live in, what sort of tile & carpentry work I have to do get our house ready to put on the market, how to purge all of my hoarded treasures that are living in my shop.

I want to do this. She wants to do this. The boys could care less.

So why am I vapor locked when it comes to getting the house on the market?

I think it may be a mix of lamenting emotion, trepidation at the unknown and abject laziness. My boys have begun to grow up in this house, the only one they remember. It’s nice to have my own bathroom, whereas the historic old bungalows we’re looking at in town mandate that we’ll probably all be lucky to crawl into an old water heater for family bath times. I like that, on the rare occasions when the weather isn’t similar to either Vietnam in summer or Hoth in winter, my boys can go tearing around chasing each other with lightsabers, screaming at the top of their lungs to no one in particular. I like interacting with her clients in the salon, where I can get salacious and worthless details about people I don’t even know.

But it’s time.

Time to move on. Time to get out from behind the financial 8-Ball. Time to accept that without an excavating company to house, 5 acres just translates into a lot of mowing. I have no desire to become a hobby farmer. I would prefer to be a hobby coffee-and-bullshit consumer. Rural living has it’s benefits, not including some of the redneck mindset that my neighbors have (although I will miss trying to understand how one of them truly believes that a Kansas-born African American man as President is a sign of the impending terrorist apocalypse).

Home is a state of mind, and this one has been good to us. Hopefully, this vapor lock will pass, I’ll get off my rump and do what needs to be done, and we can begin our slow shuffle into town. And the memories? We’ll take those with us into town and start making new history.

Dad?

We become our parents.

It’s a fact of life and one that makes me want to chew on rocks when I think about it too much. This point was driven home the other day when I was pointing a finger at one of my boys and telling him to “sit up straight, I’m not raising boneless chickens here”. Karma, revenge, God’s Master Plan To Mock Us, whatever you may call it, it’s seemingly inevitable and heartbreaking all at once. Here are the signs that I’m sliding down that slope; you may well be joining me. Let’s get together and complain of our health woes in the near future, shall we?

5 Signs I’ve Become My Parents

1. Hey! Your hat’s on backwards. When I was a kid, I was told the only two reasons my stepfather would accept for someone wearing their hat backwards were if they were playing catcher in baseball or they were welding. The lame excuse I concocted of not wanting the wind to blow it off as I rode my BMX bike at a blistering 4mph was met with the cold stare of intolerant incredulity. Now? I think anyone wearing a baseball hat on backwards is telling the world “I’m still being financially supported by my parents.” I actually told my son in my big outdoor voice the other day that “no, as long as you’re riding in MY car, you’re not wearing that hat backwards and sideways. I’m not chauffeuring Justin Beiber here, dammit.” While my stepdad might be proud, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this. Pass the throat lozenges and hot coffee, please.
2. Don’t call me after 9pm. This was a hard and fast rule in our house growing up. It was also The Great Paradox Of The Teenager – if you wanted to stay out past your 10pm curfew, how could you call and make that request if it was 9:08pm? Inevitably, I’d make the bad choice of just skipping the call and the usual response of “do you have any idea what time it is? SOME of us have to work tomorrow, you know” and just enjoy some risky freedom, only to be met at the door at 11pm by crossed arms, a glare and a grounding. And now? I’ll actually fake sounding all sleepy if someone calls after 9. I have no idea why – we’re always up later than that, but that somehow crept up on me, made it’s way into my Standards of Acceptable Behavior. Go ahead and call, I’m not really asleep, I’m just being grouchy.
3. Shut up, the weather’s about to come on. Concerning oneself about the weather really is just a pastime in frustrated gambling, and yet if it’s 5pm and I’m watching the news like a responsible senior citizen, I’m addicted to the weather report. I really think that Missouri has one month of good weather – two weeks in the Spring and two weeks in the Fall. The rest of the time is spent either melting in humidity or chattering your teeth out in the icy gray of winter. So why the hell do I care about the weather? It’s gonna rain, or it won’t and yet I stay glued to the weather portion of the news like I’m responsible for delivering life-saving serum across the Midwest, and my journey hinges on mold-spore counts and potential rainfall totals.
4. Volume. No matter what channel, no matter what song, if my kids are playing it, it’s too damn loud. My music? Can’t get loud enough. Sorry boys, you’re not living in a democracy here, and there’s no way I can tolerate iCarly at volume level “4″ when we could be cranking Credence Clearwater Revival at “11″. My own father and I went through this in 1982, when he was determined to blast Pink Floyd on the Hi-Fi while dancing in his striped bikini underwear and all I wanted to listen to was Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s awesome sonic effort “Come On, Eileen”. He won, every time.
5. Comfortably weird. Reference the above statement; it’s no exaggeration – my father would wear speedo-style underwear and little else the moment he was freed from the shackles of the working world. It was horrifying for a kid trying to have friends or anything resembling a social life. And now? If our boys have a friend over to spend the night, I’ll try and convince them at the dinner table that I know how to use The Force. I’ll drink scalding coffee on hot days and late into the night. Three showers a day seems to be a reasonable number. I’ll drag the garbage can to the end of the driveway in a robe…in the snow. And when I found out a co-worker picked up a set of bagpipes for $25? I fumed with jealousy for a week. Yeah. I’m there.

Now you’ll have to excuse me…I need to go organize my sock drawer before bed time.

Heathen #2 On Turning 6

Six years ago today, he came barreling into our lives, a chaotic storm of character, panache and humor. Six years and a day ago, I had no idea I could ever love someone as much as my firstborn child, he who craftily stole my heart twenty three months previously. This one, he was scheduled to come into this world on a certain date, and as I’d later learn, he sets the agenda in his world, whether it was arrival out of his mothers womb or the almost European-like pace of his eating; never in a hurry, always over an animated conversation.

But my life was altered yet again that day, in ways I couldn’t imagine previously. For all of the characteristics we see in our children that reflect our own, I still find the original ones the most intriguing and impressive. Heathen #2 has a disarming smile and a charm that allows him to sell ketchup popsicles to women in white gloves when the mood strikes him. I’ve watched as stern and hardened teachers gush like teens when describing their love of him; his refusal to show an interest in having a girlfriend has resulted in all his female classmates blushing when his name is brought up. When he gets off the school bus, or arrives at a local sporting event, you’d think the President had stepped on the scene: he’s all waves and hellos and glad-handing his fellow citizens. Once, I caught him kissing a baby, I’m pretty sure of it. He’s always described as “funny”, “charming”, “loving”, “peacemaker”, “such a ham”, and all these are accurate, I suppose. I’ll have to credit his mother for those traits. I’ve tried to instill sarcasm, pessimism, and a healthy skepticism towards mankind and organized religion, but nothing seems to curb his sense of adventure and optimism towards life in general.

He is my son, and he, along with his brother, are the very best things to have ever happened to me. I’ve never known an unconditional love like this. When his world hurts, I hurt alongside him. When he hits the ball off the tee and shoots me a thumbs up before he heads to first base, I shoot him one back, his smile and sense of accomplishment a testament to the enduring hope of youth. When he asks about a dog I had long before he was born, he always cries at the end of the story, and tells me how much he misses the dog for me, his empathy an instinct, his compassion pure and without motive. His laughter is infectious, his ability to spin tales from the reaches of his imagination something my creative soul envies and admires. Every night, we have a ritual in which I ask him if he knows I love him.

He tells me “yes, Daddy, I do.”

“How much do I love you, son?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Don’t you ever forget it, son. Ever.”

“I won’t, Daddy.”

He better not. I can’t offer him many reassurances in this world, that it won’t take heartbreaking turns, exceptional highs and unanticipated detours. He’ll go through it all, hopefully, and all that I can offer him is my love, without reservation, always. His safe passage into young adulthood is my responsibility, and it is the one of the few things in this life that I take seriously. I know what it’s like to have conditional love from a parent and quite frankly, it’s a thunderstorm that always lingers on your own horizon, no matter how old you get, how much you can get others to laugh at you. My goal is for my boys to never experience that from their parents. What can’t they accomplish knowing there are always going to be two people in their corners, always got their backs? Go on boys, tackle the world. We’ll be here, for you, for ever.

Maybe when he gets older, he’ll read this and wonder what possessed him to want a mohawk. I hope he does, so that he knows that today we not only celebrate his entrance into this world with carrot cake and swords and musical instruments, but that I’m celebrating an anniversary as well. The anniversary of another day that changed my life forever. I’m so grateful you’re in my life, son. You’ve taught me how to be a dad, how to laugh at the silliest of things. You’ve showed me love, compassion and what it means to be a caring soul. Every single day I’m glad you’re in my life, and today, I nod my head and give thanks for the opportunity to be the kind of father you deserve. I love you son, always.

Don’t you ever forget it.

Happy Birthday, Max.

Let's not force the issue / copyright, some Italian guy on Flickr

It must be time to lay out another essay: there were 99 comments in the spam filter, almost all of which were either in Russian or advertising porn and cut-rate Cialis. I’d hate to disappoint my perverted Soviet core support group, so I thought I’d write up a little something. How about 5 things I’ve learned this week? Sound good, comrades?

1. I learned of a heretofore unused new term for “hangover” that has been employed by my father: vertigo. It’s much more socially acceptable to use that term when you’re staggering around the next morning, growling for coffee and babbling incoherently. I shouldn’t be surprised, really; he has an awesome laundry list of other claims (read them here!)
2. Pull-ups when you’re as weak as I am can only be accomplished through what looks to others like a genuine and total seizure, complete with grunts and spastic slobbering. Which is why, after one or two, I collapse into a heap and actually have a seizure.
3. There’s nothing that can make a motor mouth like me speechless like witnessing my 1st grade son kiss his girlfriend in the school hallway. In front of parents and teachers. And me. There is no escaping that moment, and the accompanying mix of emotions: pride, fury, respect and a desire to slap them both. That was a fun car ride home.
4. Offering up your writing to various outlets is a great way to learn the many versions of the word “no” that are out there. It’s also a great self-esteem check valve.
5. Yelling at cats doesn’t phase them in the least. If anything, it makes them shoot a leg up into the air and lick their genitals in front of you. I could take a lesson from their self-assured obliviousness.

From The Dirty Churros Archives....

Tomorrow, I’ll be undergoing some sort of exploratory procedure. The details are somewhat murky, but the long and the short of it is that some people who practice this sort of thing will be trying to discover why I can’t hardly eat a solitary slice of apple without having a near death choking experience. Since it gets really, really old to constantly be clutching your throat at restaurants while your eyes shoot off in different directions, I’m on board with this whole thing. But since I’ll be under the influence of drugs the names of which I cannot pronounce, I immediately assume there’s a chance I’m gonna die, violently maybe. That being the case, I thought I’d update my will, the last copy of which was printed on a cocktail napkin one night in the throes of a rum bender and an argument over the origins of the M.A.S.H. theme song.

So here goes nothing, literally.

I, Uli, being of unsound, unstable mind and broken body do leave my entire estate to the following people in the event of my untimely demise in a bizarre industrial mishap or some equally chaotic end.

1. To my children, The Heathens, I leave the bulk of my substantial debt. This seems to be trend of our national leaders, and I’m nothing, if not a patriot. I would encourage them to utilize this situation to learn how to speak multiple languages and enjoy the concept of living abroad, preferably in the company of women of ill-repute.
2. To The Wife, I leave my 5 hockey sticks and my entire metric wrench collection. I never did trust her to use the standard size with the proper amount of respect. Also, I leave to her my collection of dirty and clean laundry, unwashed dishes and vast assortment of paper clips I’ve been hoarding over the last year.
3. To The Dirtbag, I leave my beloved dual-sport motorcycle. I should warn you, it’s not paid off yet, so rip the plate off and head south of the border when you come pick it up. As well, you’ll have access to my motorcycle gang of two, The Dirty Churros, and my friendship with El Jefe, but odds are you two won’t get along. Think of this as a team-building exercise, and my last gift to you.
4. To my shop cats, I bequeath my air compressor and all the associated pneumatic tools. I think it would be awesome if they figured out how to use them to terrorize the feline world. Best of luck, gatos.
5. To ThunderChicken, I leave my vast stash of frozen bacon. Lord knows, you look like you could use some, man. That staying fit stuff might kill you yet….in fact it may be why you’re now reading MY last will.
6. To my brothers, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Nan, and Barbara, I leave you nothing, because you’ve spent your lives making mine miserable, and this is what you deserve. Fine, the five of you can split my sweet collection of old red shop rags. No fighting.
7. To RoJo, I leave all of the books and magazines I’ve been quietly stealing from you since I was 18. Don’t hold a grudge.
8. To The Outlaw Trucker, I leave all the scrap metal in my shop. Weld me something beautiful, preferably a statue of me stabbing a savage, attacking wild beast in the eyes. Use your imagination.
9. To The City of Springfield Fire Department, I leave that tube of toothpaste that’s in my locker, and that itchy, nasty wool blanket I was issued in rookie school and made to swear I’d return in 25 years. Most lower mammals wouldn’t use that thing to nest in, by the way.
10. To my friend The Author, I leave my glorious, luminous and entirely non-grey head of hair and magnificent pelt of manly chest hair. You’re welcome.
11. Finally, to my beloved canine MoJay the psycho-killer boxer, I bequeath all of our domestic garbage receptacles since you’ve spent the last year knocking them over and rooting through them at every chance. Go on, help yourself to old banana peels and coffee grounds. I hope you gag on an old guitar string, you obnoxious bastard. I love you so much.

There you have it. I expect this will to be faithfully executed, but let’s be honest here: most of you are gonna come over, loot all of my worldly possessions and then burn my house to the ground, pissing on the flames as you pour out your malt liquor over the ashes. I’m good with that, too.

No Hurries

It was only a matter of time before the painful pangs of budding relationships would begin to enter into the lives of my boys, The Heathens. #1 is now seven years old, and within what seems like the blink of an eye, has immersed himself into drama-laden girl troubles that would make soap opera writers salivate. Slowly, unobtrusively as I can, I’ve been trying to make inroads into his mindset, trying to make funny stories out of my own mishaps, hoping against hope that he might take something from my errors. I know he needs to make his very own, and I know they’re gonna hurt like hell, but maybe I can ease just a little of the confusion by letting him know that above all else, he’s not alone.

His problems are currently revolving around a girl we’ll call “Allison”, since that’s the name of my first grade heart breaker.

Turns out that Allison is a bit of a handful herself, sassy, independent and with a jealous bone that just won’t quit. Compounding the issue, The Heathens have known her since birth, so there is  history there too.  The first time I was informed that Allison was his girlfriend, I tried my damnedest to convince him that seven is far too young to limit yourself to one girlfriend, much less even HAVE one. I was casually brushed aside like the ignorant fool I am, and their love continued unabated.

I thought not too much about it, until I was informed that the word “SEX” had entered his lexicon, a fact that roused me out of a deep sleep at 5am one morning. I wrote about it in this post here.

And today, around our tiny and syrup laden lunch table, I broached the subject again, ever so lightly. Turns out that Allison was at the hockey rink on the same day one of his friends (happens to be a girl) was there too. The Wife immediately sensed that the threat level was about to be ratcheted up. Me, being a guy and a fool to boot, I told her not to worry, what was the big deal? It was a very big deal, indeed.

The girl buddy of Heathen #1 has no interest “like that” and was content to wax poetic on the genius of Star Wars while we watched some hockey. Allison was having none of this. None. Not one bit.

Out came the claws; she ferociously kept her arm around him, kissing his cheek at every chance and loudly declaring that my son was her boyfriend. It was awkward, even for me. My son looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Torn between his friend and his girlfriend, he kept his head hung low, confused as to this other gender. He’s gotta fight his own battles, to be sure, but he seemed MOST relieved when I announced that we were going home, mid-third period. His girl buddy was coming with us (she was in our care) and this fact did not sit well with Allison. She continued to glare at me as I backed out of the stands, attempting, and losing, a stare down contest. No six year old girl is going to intimidate me. Not till she’s at least eight.

So it was that we discussed #1′s “situation” around lunch. I made him laugh with tales of how my love for his mother was most unrequited until I started to show less interest. Suddenly I was worth giving a second glance. This is the foundation for all relationships, a mystery that’s plagued mankind since we first brought our knuckles off the ground.

“Why’s that, Dad?”

“Son, if I had the answer to that, we wouldn’t be living in Missouri in January.”

And I got a glimmer of a smile from him. He may not listen too terribly much, he may have all the focus of a fly when we talk about some things, and that’s okay. We’re talking, and we’re talking about something that is only gonna get more awkward as he gets older, a fact that is not lost on me. I never got much advice when it came to the opposite sex from my folks except for two things:

1. “Keep it in yo’ pahnt’s goddammit, son. You keep playing wit’ it, it’s gonna fall off” (The Lyin’ Dutchman)
2. “Quit acting like a horned up dog, chasing around anything that’s in heat” (My stepfather)

I don’t blame my folks for limiting their sex talks with me; I was busy running from them at every chance, afraid of death by awkward shame. My own boys don’t need to tell me their details, and they sure won’t want to reveal them; that’s okay, too. I just want them to keep up the conversation with me, even at my own morbidly embarrassing expense.

I have a feeling we’ve only just begun.

and now, we're into to copyright violation territory

I’ve not posted in a long while, long in the internet-based-relative sense. There are a couple of essays in the hopper that go into the trip to California last weekend, and how about that one where most of the Springfield firefighters were wearing pink tee shirts for the past couple of weeks? The Heathens have had some heart-warming/making-me-want-to-shake-them-violently moments too, but none that make sense beyond the immediate family.

I’ve got a bit of a problem.

Let me explain. I’ve been trolling through old posts, working on a new writing gig and trying to cultivate some ideas. This has led to a disturbing recognition: I’ve degenerated into a predictable pattern. The essays all seem to go in this order (aside from movie reviews):

1.) witty/funny/poignant situation, whereby I mock/slander/observe humorous scenario

2.) realization that corny/ignorant/insane protagonist is more than family member/illiterate neighbor/idiotic friend

3.) wax all nostalgic on significance of observation/friendship/shared love of bacon

4.) tie story back around to the beginning with funny ending/pithy insight/verbal group-hug

5.) add in gross/humorous/embarrassing picture to amuse you, the reader

Holy crap. My writing has taken on the tone of the NBC psa-s that invaded my childhood (see picture above). These amusing anecdotes have been informing me for over two decades on the importance of awareness on such topics as bone density and stroke prevention. Always narrated by a television star-du-jour, they were meant to impart a certain seriousness, especially as it came to the topic of prenatal care.They sort of worked in a roundabout way, as I found myself at nine years of age asking my peers if they were appropriately concerned about diabetes prevention.

But the recurring theme with the public service announcements (along with that musical theme song you’re humming right now) was a steady and predictable wagging of the finger at you, as if to say “look, I’m Bill Cosby, and I’m funny as hell most of the time, but right now I want to talk to you about a serious problem we all face: chain smoking house cats who don’t get enough excercise”. As hyper-consumers of all things that came across our screens, we immediately cast an accusing eye at the lazy housecat sunning himself in the window box, curious if we caught a whiff of mothers Virginia Slims emanating from his twitching tail.

My point? It worked, but only up until a certain point. I no longer concern myself with some supposed Real Housewife Of The Greater Tri-State Area offering up 30 second lectures. They’ve lost me, they’ve cried wolf in a boring fashion too many times. And I worry that the essays I offer you are heading down the same path.

So here’s my solution/conditional offer.

I need some new perspective, and I like where a lot of you are coming from. I want to offer you a non-paying opportunity for me to be lazy just a bit longer: I want you to author some posts for me here. If you’re funny, if you’re boring as hell, it really matters not. I just want to see what other people who read this site might say, given a platform. The only requirement is that your work be limited to somewhere in the neighborhood of 1000 words or less.

Maybe you can jar me out of my stilted patterns.

Maybe you can make this site about more than a Seinfeld-ian loop of nothing in particular.

Interested? Let me know at uli@halfpastawesome.com