Mad 'n Hairy: Adventures of a Stay-at-Home Dad

Shameless Self-Promotion, Part 2

2011-12-16T14:33:00.000-06:00

So, My Love's book has been on sale through Amazon's Kindle Store since November 20. Sales are going great, but we're still waiting for a review. Good or bad, just say something, people! Get the word out to potential readers, that's all we ask.

Perhaps those who have read "Diana's Dreams" are still in shock*, unable to function due to fear and having their worldview shattered. That's okay. I understand. I spent three days in a coma after reading it, and that was the first draft! Just relax; you'll get though this. Take a deep breath and repeat to yourself: "It's just a book, it's just a book..."

On a side note, fellow writer and Blogger Matt Ballard, author of Diary of a Nerd King, is giving away a free Kindle Fire or iPod Touch on his website. Check it out, buy his book, and buy Brenda's book on Kindle, "Diana's Dreams". You'll be glad you did, once your vision returns to normal and the palpitations stop*.

*symptoms may vary due to age, health history, and exposure to Lovecraft. If reading this book results in an erection lasting more than four hours, consult your doctor. A psychiatrist that is, you sick bastard.

Oh, The Horror!

2011-12-08T12:58:00.000-06:00

So, you might not have heard that My Love is now a PUBLISHED AUTHOR! Her first full-length novel Diana's Dreams has been available through Kindle's website since November 20. So far, sales have been good, but word needs to get out. Nobody has left a review yet. I've been appointed to Brenda's marketing department, and am trying to get the word out.

Now, her adult horror novel is available through the Kindle Owner's Lending Library. This means that Kindle owners can now borrow books for free, and the author receives a royalty. Granted, this is far less than what she would earn from a sale, but it gets the book out there, hopefully garnering some praise (or even hate, at this point any press is good press).

So, what are you waiting for? I love the book, not just because the author gives me sexytime, but because it's a damned good read. Scary, touching, suspenseful, this book will keep you up at night. Give it a try. The more books we sell, the happier My Love will be.

And that means more sexytime for me!

Zombies: A Love Story

2011-11-25T10:50:00.000-06:00

I love zombies.

Well, not literally. Figuratively. I don't have a zombie blow-up doll or anything.But zombie movies, games, t-shirts, songs about zombies? Yeah, I'm all over that. Again, NOT literally.

I currently have three shirts featuring zombies, play two games about them, own seven movies based around the zombie apocalypse (no, not the crappy Resident Evil ones, or the "Return of the Living Dead" ripoffs), watch The Walking Dead religiously, and so on.

Of course, this raises the question: Why? What is it about zombies that so fascinates me that I would immerse myself in the culture? And no, I'm not jumping on any bandwagon. At the risk of sounding hipster-ish, I was into zombies long before they became culturally relevant. When I first caught Night of the Living Dead on late-night TV I was 17, and I was hooked. I'm 41 now; do the math (I don't want to).

Again, why? I'm not normally into gruesome stuff. I don't have a weak stomach. I can watch a gory horror movie, or a medical procedure being performed. Hell, My Love watches those true crime stories like Forensic Files and fictional ones such as CSI, and I watch right along with her. But I'm not a gore fanatic. I avoid crap like the Saw movies and Hostel. I'm not into torture porn for a cheap thrill.

There's something else about the zombie genre that appeals to me. It took me years to realize what it is: I'm afraid of it.

Most people, I think, enjoy horror movies because they represent something they fear. Whether it be vampires, werewolves, zombies, alien invaders, ghosts, or what have you, people like to face up to those irrational terrors. I'm not sure exactly why this is; I'm no psychologist. It's a need of some sort. That's good enough for me. Other movie monsters don't give me that thrill/chill like zombies.

It's deeper than that, though (bear with me here). The nightmares I've had regarding the walking dead don't revolve around being chased by them. It's always a fear of becoming one of them. That, I feel, is what makes the zombie such a gruesome and formidable enemy in the horror genre. Sure, in most tales, a vampire or werewolf's bite can make you one of them, but not always. Besides, being a vampire means still being you, essentially, and a werewolf only need fear the moon three nights a month.

Zombies are forever.

To me, the fear of losing one's self, one's humanity, is what makes the idea so appalling. Zombies were once ordinary people, like you or me, who now shamble about, rotting, filthy, devouring their own kind, mindless. And there it is: mindless. The thought of losing who I am, my identity, individuality, personality, memories, hopes, dreams, loves, LIFE, frightens the hell out of me.

Some zombie purists (what the hell does that even mean?) complain that movies such as 28 Days Later (one of my favorites) are not really 'zombie' movies. "No," they sniff, "they are Infected, not zombies!" Well lah-de-freakin'-dah! To me, the Borg from Star Trek are a classic example of the zombie mythos. Infected, Borg, zombie... it all boils down to stripping one's humanity away. And that scares the hell out of me.

I'm about to go off on a tangent here. Just hang in there. It relates, trust me.

I don't use drugs, nor do I drink alcohol. No, I'm not going to start preaching here. To each his own. Now I've never smoked pot or taken anything stronger than a prescription painkiller, and that was only in extreme conditions. Normally, I'd rather bear up under the pain if I can. As for alcohol, I beat that particular demon years ago. I've been sober for over 20 years, and the world is a better place for it. What I learned from my drinking days was this: That's not me. I lose my temper when drunk, want to fight anyone and everyone (and everything, including walls, cabinet doors, mannequins, etc.).

I lose control when I'm drunk. Motor control, emotional control, mental control, all gone. And that loss of control scares the hell out of me. I can't imagine getting high, especially on a powerful amphetamine or hallucinogen, and not being me. Not that I'm any treat sober. But, I'm a control freak, at least when it comes to my own life. Relinquishing that control to something or someone else is unconscionable to me.

By the same token, I fear diseases of the mind. Alzheimer's, dementia, Bovine spongiform encephalopathy (mad cow disease), all of them steal your memories. I avoid stories about Alzheimer's because the concept frightens me. Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost sympathy for victims of these terrible diseases. I can read the stories of cancer victims and feel empathy and compassion. But I can't face the possibility of my mind being robbed from me. I know that makes me weak.

Hence, the fear of zombies. The fear of a simple scratch on the arm stealing away who I am and leaving a mindless beast in it's place. Compared to that, becoming a vampire or werewolf sounds almost pristine in comparison. Unless it's one of those sparkly vampires or shirtless man-child werewolves. In that case, I'm terrified of losing my masculinity, not humanity.

Nanowrimo no mo'

2011-11-22T18:53:00.001-06:00

So, I found out about Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month, last year near the end of November, far too late to participate. I'm not sure where I got my information, but was under the impression it was a contest of sorts, with reviews and prizes.

Guess I should have investigated further...

I'm over 2000 words into my novel, a new story idea that had been banging around in my head for a few years, when My Love asked about Nanowrimo. So, I started looking up what the contests and prizes were, and what publishing houses participated. The site is murder to navigate; we actually had to use Google to find the information page. And I was dumbstruck.

The only "prize" offered is a virtual badge if you hit 50,000 words. No publishers or other readers review your work, no offers are made for publication.

I know it's my fault for misunderstanding, but we're sorely disappointed. I don't need motivation to write. (I do, however, need motivation to finish a project before starting another. Seriously, I have 14 unfinished stories on one USB drive.) So, now my Word Count sits at around 2000. I'm done participating. My Love has a finished novel (and yes, I'm jealous) recently submitted to Penguin publishing. They rejected it, kindly, so we've self-published on Kindle.

Seriously, Nanowrimo, what's the motivation? I already love writing; it's my favorite hobby. Setting aside what I was already writing to contribute to Nanowrimo turned out to be a big waste of time.. time I could have spent on one of my half-finished stories. Plus, there's no real guarantee someone won't steal your idea, or even your work, once you submit your story.

Sorry, Nanowrimo fans, I'm sitting this one out. So will the story I started writing. Maybe if you offered an incentive beyond "motivating me", then I might continue.

Diana's Dreams

2011-11-20T10:23:00.000-06:00

Time for a little self-promotion.

Sort of.

Kinda.

My Love, my wife, Brenda just published her book on Kindle: Diana's Dreams. It's a dark, very dark modern fantasy/horror novel. The protagonist, Diana (duh) is kidnapped by an obsessive stalker. Her husband and former lover join forces to try and find her. The catch? Her husband is infected with lycanthropy, a werewolf. Her kidnapper is a dark wizard using magic to hide their whereabouts.

I love this story. Of course, it's filled with magic, monsters, sex, gore and graphic violence, so... right up my alley.

Yours too. Give it a read. Only $2.99 in the Kindle Store. Read it. You know you want to. Doooo iiiiiiiiit...

The cat's Out of the Bag

2011-11-20T00:53:00.000-06:00

So, we adopted another cat.

I'd like to say I was coerced into it by my pleading wife and wide-eyed children, but I'm a pushover when it comes to tha kitties. I grew up surrounded by cats, none of them fixed. Therefore, there were ALWAYS kittens around. Suffice it to say that, unlike a lot of men, I like cats. No, let's be honest: I love them.

Of course, I take a lot of grief about that. As if caring about an animal that isn't a slobbering bundle of destruction is unmanly. A lot of guys love cats, even famous men. Winston Churchill, Ernest Hemingway, Albert Einstein and H. G. Wells were all cat owners.

Don't get me wrong. Being a cat lover doesn't make me a dog hater. I've lived with dogs, but only so long as I lived with my parents. Dogs are too much work, and therefore I've never owned one since leaving their place. They're cute and lovable, and certainly prone to more affection than a cat; but, dogs are a hassle beyond what my busy life can accept. For example: say you have to go on a trip, be out of town for three days. Can you leave your dog alone all that time? No. With a cat, just leave a bog bowl of food and water and a clean litterbox, and you're golden.

Try doing that with a dog. Seriously: it will eat all the food and drink all the water in the first six hours, then suffer for over two days. Crapping everywhere. Yeah, I'll take the cat.

As of three weeks ago, we had only one cat: Magic. We found her six years ago when we still lived in Columbus, OH. Someone had abandoned her one wintry January outside of McDonald's, in the dumpster. My Love found her, scrawny, starving, shivering and miserable, but affectionate. She brought her home. I didn't want a pet; I'd buried too many over the years. Three begging faces won me over, and now we have a 22-pound lump of black-and-white fur that lays around all day doing nothing. That's my job, damnit!

A few months ago, three stray cats showed up on our porch. The little Kansas town where we moved is home to quite a few strays. It's mainly a dog town; the cat lovers are few and far between. The red-headed stepchildren of Jennings, KS. The three siblings were fairly young. We've never seen their parents. We and two of our close neighbors put out food for them. My son named them, to my dismay. The whitish-gray tabby and his dark calico sister became Yin and Yang; the orange tabby was Morris.

Not long after arriving, Yang became pregnant. Seven weeks or so after we noticed this, she suddenly showed up, no longer pregnant. I assumed she'd lost the litter, as she was quite sickly. Then one day she showed up with this little, pale gray fuzzball. I was relieved. The next day came a dark gray male kitten. How cute. For the next three days, she introduced her litter one by one. At this point I was actually begging her to stop.

Now we had five kittens and two adults on our porch (Morris took a disliking to the kittens and wandered off). We couldn't take them in, for Magic would eat them. We tried to find homes for them, but only two of the litter were adopted. Then, Yang disappeared and hasn't been seen in weeks. Their uncle Yin takes care of them, and does a wonderful job, even when the little morons try to nurse from him. His long-suffering looks are an amusement to me. "Sucks to be you!" I say to him, enjoying my rapier wit. Then he craps in my shoe, and I say "Touche".

As it started getting colder, the kittens found three homes with warm shelters on their porches, the only cat lovers in town living around us. Still, the biggest one wasn't coping well. It wanted our companionship more than its siblings. Finally, the pudgy little dimbulb, which My Love named Chumlee, got adopted into our home.

Chumlee is loving, enjoys cuddling, and is playful in a way the long-spayed and quite content Magic isn't. He also loves to crap in my bathroom if Magic blocks the path to the litterbox, loves to climb my back until it resembles hamburger, and constantly baits our other cat, even though she obviously hates him.

Yeah, pets are soooo relaxing.

The Terrible Teens!

2011-07-11T01:23:00.000-05:00

My boys are 11 and 13, respectively. Actually, they don't give me much respect, but that's to be expected. They're teenagers.

I never understood parents who gripe about their children's "teen years": the sullen attitude, talking back, disobeying rules, fits of depression, fits of anger. As if they themselves didn't put their own parents through the same thing lo those many years ago. We tend to look upon our own youth through rose-tinted glasses. WE were saints, right? Never gave mom and dad an ounce of trouble? Yeah, right.

If they're still around, go and ask your own parents what your teen years were like. What they went through with you. Then, quit griping. They're teens, just like you were, with the same rush of hormones to deal with. The same increase in responsibility without a like amount of respect. The same disdain from adults to bear with, the same mistrust and fear of authority. The same temptations: sex, drugs, fast cars, theft, disobedience.

Being a teen sucks. Not to pat myself on the back, but I tend to consider myself enlightened when it comes to that little revelation. So many parents scoff at the idea of the teen life being difficult, as if all the above issues mean nothing when compared to adult concerns. Sure, we have bills, jobs, responsibilities they don't have. But they live in a tight little microcosm that includes school, home and friends and not much else.

Junior high and high school are a crucible, constantly pounding away at a kid's individuality. It exists to mold the future adults from the primal clay of adolescence. Does it ever feel good to be molded, to be fit into a little box and told "This is how you should be,"? Even if it's for 'their own good', nobody likes being told what to do. And that's what being a teenager consists of: being told what to do. Day in and day out, do this, not that, look this way, don't be different, follow the rules, sit quietly, keep your opinions to yourself. Then we tell them to 'just be yourself'. No wonder so many teens become sullen and depressed.

Your reputation as an adult is based on many realms. You are one person at work, one when out at the bar with friends, another at home with the family. You can leave work stresses behind at the bar or the game, or come home to your significant other, who hopefully eases your troubled thoughts. Husband or wife driving you nuts? At your job, you can throw yourself into your work, or shoot the breeze with friends. There's always another option. But high school is work, friends and family all rolled up into one. If someone at work is spreading nasty rumors, you can report them, confront them, ignore them, or find another job. In school, those rumors are part of your whole world. It's a vile little world, and what happens there is your everything. There is no escape.

I remember my own teen years as one would recall a particularly vivid nightmare upon awakening. I was the 'odd' kid, with looks and mannerisms that didn't fit the status quo. As if facing being poured into the societal mold wasn't enough, I faced humiliation from my peers, my parents, even some cruel teachers. Junior high and high school sucked. Security followed me around department stores, even though I never shoplifted in my life. Nobody wanted my opinion, even on those rare times I had a valid point to make. Yet I was expected to work hard at school, make my teachers and parents proud. Responsibility without respect.

So, when our own teens start going through those years of angst, why do we act surprised, even affronted, at what we have to face? It reminds me of a comment a friend made recently, mentioning how angry he got when people complained about rush hour traffic. "As if it were a new thing," he grumbled, "like you didn't do the same thing yesterday, and the day before, for weeks on end!" So when your teen starts acting out, talking back, getting into trouble, try a new tactic besides yelling and complaining. Try understanding. Be strict, but be fair. Because being a teenager sucks.

Long Time, No See (or, No, I Haven't Met Dorothy Yet)

2011-06-21T01:24:00.000-05:00

So, we've moved. I mean, in the physical world. My blog is still where it used to be. Blogger's been good to me, no need to leave it. No, I mean we have relocated to a different part of the U.S. Namely, the family has traveled to Kansas.

So ends our love/hate relationship with Columbus, which stopped seeming like a home and began taking on the aspects of an abusive boyfriend. The crime, the poverty, joblessness, new government, everything was getting ugly. The city lost its appeal. My Beloved and I were looking for someplace quiet to raise the boys.

Boy, did we ever find it...

Jennings, KS is in the middle of nowhere. There are no sizable cities near us. One has to drive an hour to even find something that can be called a city. The town has a library, town hall, fire department... and that's it. No grocery store, no Walmart, no school, no playground. Just a quiet, sleepy little neighborhood filled with retirees and empty plots of lane.

In a word: perfect. I love the quiet. No more loud music at 2am, no more underwear showing above saggy-ass pants, no more police helicopters droning overhead almost constantly, no pimp wagons, no more bad drivers (sorry, Columbus, but you people cannot drive). The weather is mild, the wide open skies make the land seem to go on forever, the lack of light pollution opens up a sky full of stars for the boys to observe (and big thanks to http://simplefather.com/ for the Klutz Guide to the Galaxy giveaway).

Now, when I say the weather is mild, I mean most of the time. There are storms, big ones. We just had a tornado warning last night. Not watch, warning. Scary thunderstorms rip trough this area from time to time, and I have seen a couple funnel clouds form, and then break up, as we traveled around the area. But I'd rather deal with the occasional storm than the constant gang-bangers, racism, and hateful sports fans we left behind.

Yes, hateful sports fans. We've lived in several states over the years, from Pittsburgh, PA to Milwaukee, WI, to Houston, TX to Los Angeles, CA. Some of those places have themselves serious sports fans, but the Buckeyes lovers take the cake for being bastards. Even Packers people and the extremely narcissistic Texans are pretty friendly in their sports rivalries. But Buckeyes fans are, without a doubt, some of the rudest, angriest, most heartless sports enthusiasts I've met. Which is pretty funny, coming from a football team who's name is used as a nickname for a certain body part in other parts of the country. I'll lave it to your imagination what the "buckeye" is...

One last thing to all my friends, no, damnit, I have not "met Dororthy" yet. Please stop thinking yourselves clever. I can take a joke, but it's getting old. There's more to Kansas than The Wizard of Oz. Just like there's more to Ohio than a football team.

The End of The Lego Wars

2011-01-28T21:25:00.000-06:00

Once again, I find myself apologizing to my numerous followers -all 3 of you; hi guys!- for the delay between posts. I did warn you...

Truth be told, we've been busy. My last update from my Mad 'n Hairy world was in August (not counting my "Observations" of a couple weeks ago), just as school came back into session. As I've mentioned before, homeschooling my 2 boys takes up a large part of my day. Add to that working 30+ hours a week, and all the other concerns in the average American's day, blogging takes a back seat more often than not.

Of course, there have been "adventures": My Beloved (nearly) breaking a toe and spending all night in a busy ER. In our defense, the doctor thought it was broken until the x-rays came back. Our crappy van finally died. Wonderful Ford engineering... Then riding the bus for a week, including 2 to work and 3 back home, until finally overpaying for a newer vehicle in desperation.

Then, 5 weeks later, My Beloved wrecked the new car. We're still waiting on the insurance company's verdict on whether it's totalled or not. In between all that, our shower, dishwasher and washing machine all broke down.

Through all this, Felix and Oscar have held strong. Better than their mom and dad, at any rate. They continue to excel in their classes; Algebra for Felix, Vocab and Grammar for Oscar. They both hate History, though. While teaching them I continue to learn things I should have been taught when I was in school.

We've had a minor breakthrough with Oscar. Being the youngest, he's had to watch his brother complete things, achieve new freedoms, and garner praise for achievements currently out of his reach. But last month saw him "graduating" from Occupational Therapy.

Anyone with a special needs child will recognize OT. For some it's torture, for others, fun. I assume most find it to be another tedious chore in a long string of tedious chores that come with raising a slightly bent kid. For both boys, it was both fun and a chore. Felix left OT 2 years ago. While Oscar loved it, he was still jealous of his older brother's freedom.

Just 2 weeks ago, Oscar was freed from his weekly sessions. For those unfamiliar with Occupational Therapy, it is similar to Physical Therapy (his, in fact, took place in a PT office). Through a regimen of exercises and practices, the child improves impaired fine and gross motor skills, including walking, running, catching and throwing, handwriting and finger manipulation.

Both boys have seen huge improvements over the years. Mrs. Rearick and Ms. Savage worked wonders with them, and I am ever grateful for all their hard work. Now, Oscar has his Thursdays free. Granted, they're filled with more schoolwork, but small victories are still victories

Another breakthrough may not seem like much to outsiders who missed all the battles: The Lego Wars. Felix loves to create: drawing, painting, Roblox, Boom Blox on the Wii, Tinkertoys, and, of course, Legos. He seems quite talented at all of these, but that might just be a proud dad's skewed perspective.

Nah, he's a genius.

Oscar, on the other hand, never took to those things. In Kindergarten I was called to a Parent/Teacher conference, the purpose of which was to warn me of Oscar's unwillingness to color. What a tragedy! Our son was doomed!

What does he love doing? Computers. Not just playing games. The little bugger can make our desktop do things I didn't know it was capable of.

But all of that is off the subject. I was speaking of the muy terible Lego Wars. For years, since he was old enough to crawl, Oscar has been a practicing Deconstructionist. Translation: He tears shit apart.

Countless creations of Mega Block, Lego, Tinkertoy, Lincoln Log, etc. have fallen to his terrible ministrations. Tears have been shed, punishments doled out, tiny people dismembered. And still, like an addiction, the boy would turn around and do it again.

So, what changed? Just before Xmas, his brother built a little castle for Oscar. Nothing much, just 4 walls, a roof & a drawbridge. I waited for the pile of tiny, multicolored, foot-piercing blocks to appear. The holiday came & went, but the castle remained. I paid it little mind, until a week or so after New Years.

"Oscar, can I use the Legos from the castle I built you?" Felix asked.

"Nononono! That's MY castle! Don't take it apart," Oscar answered.

Three people stood amazed. Further investigation showed that the modest creation hadn't lay dormant. Little by little, Oscar had been adding parts, changing others, making it his own. The most disorganized -nay, messy- kid I'd ever met (since I was his age, anyway), had been reverentially putting the mini-castle back in the same spot every night. The kid who lost 2 cell phones (we never did find the first one). The boy who leaves a trail of food wrappers, game discs & Wii accessories in his wake.

Yes, Dr. Destructo was being careful with something he owned.

Since then, nothing has been torn apart by his hands. Although interest in the castle has waned a bit, it still sits in the same spot. And Felix is forbidden to touch it for fear he will cannibalize Legos from it, like a block-themed zombie.

We still don't know what caused this sudden change of tune. Overall, Oscar is more respectful of others' property. Perhaps all of our teaching an disciplining finally got through. (No, I don't buy that, either.). Perhaps a new maturity set in with the onset of puberty. More likely, it was the fact that his brother made something special *just for him*.

Whatever it is, we're all a little happier and secure knowing Dr. Destructo has retired his claws of doom.

Now, if he would just stop chewing on things...

Random Thoughts While Waiting For My Bus

2010-12-31T14:37:00.001-06:00

-There sure are a lot of ugly people in this neighborhood

-Why do people in wheelchairs have to have a bus pass? Just let them on!

-This is a bus stop, not your living room..

-...or your bathroom, you pig

-Pull your damn pants up, you scrawny gangsta wannabe

-Ok, THAT guy is *really* ugly!

-What IS that smell, anyway?

-*sniff* Is it me? *sniff*

-No, THAT guy is damned ugly!

-My bus is he- Nope, wrong one

-Wait, am I one of the ugly people in this neighborhood?

-There's my bus! Yay!

What's My Age Again?

2010-08-31T19:15:00.000-05:00

I turned 40 earlier this month. This frightens me beyond belief, especially considering I couldn't see past 30 before becoming a dad. Although I try to ignore it, this scary fact keeps coming back to smack me in the chops.

I feel like 40 came charging at me with a vengeance after being so docile for the last few years. My late thirties weren't so bad; I may not have had the energy and stamina of my youth, but I still retained my good health and good humor. I was a SAHD of two wonderful boys. Perhaps my fourth decade wouldn't be as bad as expected.

Riiiiiight! (Cue ominous music)

Now I'm dealing with Diabetes, arthritis in my lower back and both hips, high blood pressure and low cholesterol (the good kind). Add to this a son just entering his teens and a ten-year-old who already stands 5'3" and wears a size 10 1/2 men's shoe.

In short: I am afraid.

Also, there's the writer thing. I took the moniker Mr. Write both as an inside joke and an inspiration (if that makes sense to you, you're as disturbed as I am). Since the age of 15, I have seriously considered writing as a profession. Oh, I'd written before that, plenty of short stories, poems, letters, and, especially, AD&D adventures. But, until tenth grade, I lacked confidence in my ability. Then I took a Creative Writing course in high school, and was praised for my words for the first time. Mr. Edney was a great teacher, and I still think of him whenever sitting down in front of an open notebook or keyboard.

The problem is this: as much as I love writing and desire publication beyond any other pursuit, it still hasn't happened. No, I'm not going to regale you with anecdotes about a stack of rejection letters. The problem is still confidence. I've never sent a single thing out to a publisher, beyond a poem I wrote in third grade for a school project, and the newspaper published EVERYBODY'S poems.

So, here I sit, 40 years old, with a dozen short stories and one unedited novel at my fingertips, and nothing really to show for it. Hell, most times I sit down to write, I end up on Twitter or Cracked, wasting the day away. What with homeschooling both boys, working part time and taking care of my share of housework, little time is left for creative pursuits.

What does all this have to do with hitting 40? It just goes to show how my mind wanders so easily at my age, off on weird and only-slightly-related tangents. Listening to me talk is like trying to guess which way a football is going to bounce next. Anywho, I've stumbled upon a new group of friends lately, people who share my and My Beloved's interests in books, games and movies. What troubles me is their age. All of them are in their 20's to, at the oldest, 30. How do I relate to them? Am I that creepy older guy at the movies with all the young people, looked at slantwise and whispered about? Shit, I hope not!

More than anything, getting older has been pointed out to me by the internet. Not just because I don't understand half of the memes or pop culture references anymore, or that my ten-year-old can figure out how to fix the computer when I'm left staring at it, slack-jawed. After blogging and Twittering (I still refuse to use the term "Tweet" in any way not related to little yellow birds) about being a SAHD, I've noticed that most other SAHD either have babies, toddlers or pre-teens. As I said before, mine are 10 and 13, reminding just how old I am. Granted, that sometimes makes me cool, like when watching the Star Wars Trilogy (you know, the good one) and knowing all the words by heart, thereby impressing the boys. OR explaining a cultural reference to something from the 70's or 80's that went over their heads.

Maybe hitting 40 isn't all bad. It sure beats being a little kid and not being allowed to do anything, or being a teenager with more hormones than self-control and being watched disdainfully by every adult in range. Even the insecurity and adjustment period of adulthood we all suffer through in our 20's is long a memory. At least I have My Beloved, Felix and Oscar to cheer up my days. And all you other hooligans on Twitter and Facebook to give me a grin once in a while.

Yeah, life is good. As long as I can find the ibuprofen, that is...

What Kind of World?

2010-06-18T16:39:00.000-05:00

I think the Fates are trying to tell my wife and I something.

Many years ago, when My Love and I were first married and living in the big city (okay, Pittsburgh), our apartment was robbed while we were at work. They got the Nintendo, small TV, my GameBoy (this is way, waaayyy back) and our jewelry. In the jewelry box were not only my wife's engagement ring, but both of our wedding bands. We both avoided wearing jewelry to our jobs for various reasons, in case anyone was wondering. Mine would get scratched up on carpet backing, and My Love's hands were constantly dipping into either hot water or food. Ah, the Good Olde Days.

To make a long story short: we lost the symbols of our marriage. I know, they were only symbols, but it still hurt. And, the first couple years of matrimony are the most fragile and unstable, as any married couple will tell you. It was frightening and a little ominous. Eventually, we replaced the bands, and the engagement ring (I have yet to find one as beautiful as the original, though). Life went on. The trials and tribulations passed us by, clad in the symbolic metal rings of our loving bond.

Fast forward to today. After hitting the bank (making a withdrawal, not robbing it,) I headed over to the pawn shop. A couple months ago we hit a financial tough spot and took out a loan against some of our jewelry. Normally, that's not something I would do, but the guy who runs this place was a real gentleman: friendly, polite, honest, and willing to make allowances and give you a break if you were in a tight spot. Name another pawn shop that does that. Hell, name another business that does that. I've dealt with him on and off for the past few years, and it's always gone well.

The place is Fast Cash Pawn here in Columbus. I never knew the owner/operator's name. Due to his thick accent, we always called him The Russian, but privately. Every time i called or entered his shop, I was greeted with "Hillo, MIS-tear Cuffmin!". I liked the hell out of this guy, is what I'm getting at. He had a big safe in the back room, bars on the front wall and door, all the security measures. And, he had our jewelry.

It was under $100, but most of our "good" stuff was there: including both of our wedding bands and her engagement ring, plus a couple of charms I bought her when each of the boys were born. Nothing we haven't done before. Whenever money got tight, I "took a trip to The Russian,", as if it were some desperate act of espionage as opposed to a low-interest loan for a few weeks. Today, i stopped by to pick up our stuff. And saw the sign:

"Closed for Business"

Oh, crap.

The Russian was gone? I'd just been there a month earlier. Closed? As I was copying down the phone number on the sign, for those looking r\to retrieve their items, I heard a loud buzz. Looking up, I saw The Russian and his assistant (also with the same accent) waving me in as they deactivated the lock. Inside, i got the whole story.

He'd been robbed. Nine days earlier, someone had broken in through the back door and simply taken the safe away, as well as pocketing a bunch of small electronics. In a few short minutes, some bastards had wrecked this man's business, his livelihood. And taken the symbols of My Love and my eternal love. Again. At first I was devastated for our loss. Our wedding bands. The replacement engagement ring. The cute little gold charms. They'd only been out of our sight for a few short weeks. Now they were gone.

Then it hit me. Our minor loss was nothing compared to this man's. AS he explained what happened, this meek, kindly immigrant shop owner expressed a grief I've rarely seen. Apologizing again and again for our loss, he nearly broke down, wondering aloud what he was going to do now that his livelihood, and much of his retirement, was destroyed. With all the lost merchandise, he couldn't afford to stay open. A hardworking man, I'd never been in the shop without seeing him there, working 10-12 hour days. At 57 years old, the man was starting over.

Someone, some heartless, lazy bastard, had taken the time to plan this, to bust open an honest businessman's livelihood and take an entire SAFE in a matter of minutes. I work for a living; part-time granted, as I am a full-time SAHD. My Love works her gorgeous buns off pretty much every day. Our boys do their share, taking care of chores and the like to make things run more smoothly. So where did this prick get off taking what wasn't his? From hardworking people, like us. Like The Russian.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of world I'm raising my boys in.

The Cake is a Lie

2010-05-07T20:18:00.000-05:00

I apologize to any readers for the long delay between posts (about two months... a new record!). Between more hours at work -everybody went on vacation except me- and final exams coming up with the kids' homeschool, I've been occupied. Besides, those Farmville crops aren't going to harvest themselves, damnit!

Anywho, I mentioned previously my bout with diabetes. It has now been over three months since I was diagnosed, and things are going very well. My blood-sugar level went from 250 when I was diagnosed, to under 120 for the past two weeks. For those not in the know, the average B/S level is 80-120. And yes, that pun was intended. Despite the good numbers, the massive weight loss (down at least 35lbs.) and generally feeling pretty damned good, it's still rough.

I hate having to remind myself about my condition on a daily basis. If checking my b/s every morning and meticulously watching what I eat doesn't do it, I have what I call my "Three Nutritionists" to remind me. In other words, my wife and kids are my constant watchdogs, barking if I even LOOK at a candy bar. My youngest, Oscar, turned 10 in March. My wife made him a cool cake (Pac-Man chasing cupcake ghosts). Now, I've never been a big fan of cake. I'd rather, if having sweets at all, gobble down some ice cream or a candy bar. I think I just mentioned candy bars twice in the same paragraph, haven't I? Anyway, I hadn't planned on ingesting any of the cake, instead sitting down at the table and having a nice sandwich (on whole grain bread, mind you). As soon as I sat down with plate in hand, Oscar piped up: "No cake for YOU, Diabetes Boy!"

On one hand, I was shocked and appalled. On the other, he's rarely made me so proud with his use of biting wit and absurd humor. I laughed it of and resisted the urge to lick his piece of cake in revenge.

Now, I actually know a lot about nutrition and exercise. Living from the ages of seven to seventeen morbidly obese, I declared "Enough!". My senior year of high school saw me going on a very strict diet of my own devising, eating nothing I considered "junk food": sweets, potato chips, pretzels, candy bars (damn you Snickers! Stop invading my thoughts!), etc. I worked out with weights and cardio six nights a week.

Then i met my wife.

Dear lord, the woman can cook. After marrying the love of my life, I started enjoying sweets and chips again, and slacked off the exercising. Again, the weight piled on. People often offered advice -mistakenly assuming they were being helpful- about diet and exercise. I already knew, I just didn't care at the time. My standard response: "If a priest can be a marriage counselor, a fat guy can know about nutrition,".

Fast forward a few years, and I'm back on the diet again. I don't miss the sweets or soda, really. But the crunchies: chips, pretzels, french fries... *Homer drool* But, I have my wife and kids to think about. Diabetes can be a killer, so i have to fight it. No scrumptious concoction is worth my life. Now, I'VE become the advice guy, turning the tables on my three nutritionists, pointing out the sugar and fat in the foods they eat in front of me.

Sorry, guys. But the cake is a lie.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

2010-03-02T08:52:00.000-06:00

So Mrs. Write took the kids for haircuts while I was at work last Saturday. Seeing as they are ages 12 and 9-soon-to-be-10, respectively, this shouldn't be a big deal. But it was, to them and to me, because Dad didn't cut their hair this time...

For the past few years, I've clipped the boys' locks at home using a trimmer. Granted, it left them looking like Marines, which is funny considering my hair hangs halfway down my back. It worked for us, though. Or so I thought. Apparently, there has been a Haircut Mutiny going on behind my back.

Oddly enough, it wasn't Felix, my oldest, who complained. It was Oscar, my nine-year-old, who was quietly asking his Mom if he could go to "the haircut place" next time. This struck me as weird because Oscar is usually unconcerned about his appearance. This is the kid who went to Occupational Therapy sans socks a couple weeks ago; you know, the place where he has to TAKE HIS SHOES OFF to work out on the mat. This is the boy who would go shirtless everywhere if he could. The boy who walks around with his buttcrack popping out of the top of his pants constantly.

Suddenly, he's concerned about his appearance. Well, his hair, anyway. He's still sockless, shirtless and pro-buttcrack most of the time. But, this seemed important to him. Felix, ever the follower type, wanted to go along with his little brother. So, I acquiesced. Mrs. Write pointed out that it would be less work for me, that I wouldn't have to put up with a squirming Oscar or sweep up the mound of hair left over.

Then why am I so disappointed? Why do I miss what was basically an unpleasant chore? Do I have to turn in my Man Card for wanting to trim my kids' hair so bad I ache a little watching them go to someone else?

Oh well. I have to admit, the stylist did a good job. Of course, I'll bet she didn't give them a super hug afterwards. Loser.

Well, there goes Ice Cream Saturdays...

2010-02-26T18:14:00.000-06:00

Usually, my blog posts (few and far between as they are) focus on my family life, kids, Mrs. Write, or the trials and joys of being a Stay-at-Home-Dad/homeschool coach/amateur author/Interdimensional Assassin/etc. They tend to be tongue-in-cheek and mirthful, with the occasional angry rant. Today, I'm going to be serious.

A week ago today, I was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes. It came as a shock. Granted, I am a rather overweight man pushing 40; but, you know how men are. I rarely think about my age unless something brings it up: a flare of pain from my bad hip, finding it hard to stand up from crouching due to my knees (from working in a carpet store years ago), my class song playing on the "Classic Rock" station, etc. Like most men, I still saw myself as young-ish, a vague sense of existing between twenty-five to thirty-five.

A little backstory: I rarely go to the doctor. S/he never has good news, and it always boils down to "The Talk" about my weight, diet and lack of exercise. I used to have a strict diet and workout regimen, and was in great shape. But, like the fuzzy-age thing, I forget that this was about 16 years ago. Not coincidentally, when I met my wife. (She's a great cook). I also donated plasma once a week, both for a little extra pocket money and for the good that it can do. I haven't done so in a couple months, as I was informed there was some sugar in my urine.

Cue to November, when Mrs. Write, upon hearing this news, makes an appointment with her doctor for me. As if I wouldn't do it myself (I wouldn't). Influenced by her ~~constant nagging~~ loving concern, I went. Got to endure "The Talk", scheduled blood tests, the whole nine yards. Of course, it took ~~renewed nagging~~ ~~threats of violence~~ enduring compassion from my wife to make me actually get the tests done. Last week, the results came in. Normal blood sugar levels are 80-120, mine was 250. I have Diabetes. Now, I've struggled with depression most of my life. With a little pharmaceutical help, courtesy of the same doctor, it is under control. The weekend after I got "The News", I spiraled down. I doubt my family ever realized how close I came to giving up. Around them it was all smiles and sunshine, showing an upbeat we-can-beat-this-together attitude. When Mrs. Write took the kids out Sunday evening so Dad could relax, I finished off a bag of cookies, half a two-liter of Coke, some ice cream, and the rest of the Doritos. I never pig out like that. I may need to shed some weight, but it's due more to the sedentary lifestyle of a SAHD than gorging. This was the closest I ever came to a suicide attempt in ten or more years.

I was angry, at my body, at the doctor, at the world. At everything. Understand, I didn't blame anyone else but myself. But, it all seemed so damned unfair. I don't drink alcohol, I don't smoke cigarettes, I don't use any drugs of any kind. Yes, ANY drugs. Call me uncool, but dope is a drug, not an "herb", it should not be legalized, and I don't smoke it. The only time I take any drug is with a doctor's prescription, and then hesitantly. Even painkillers are used sparingly. If the pain is manageable without chemicals, I manage it. It took convincing from my wife and my doctor to get my on anti-depressants, and I take the lowest possible dosage.

Yes, I eat junk food, and fast food, and love to fry things. When my current employer asked me if i would pass a drug test if administered on the spot, I asked "Depends, do they test for cheeseburgers and Doritos?". But, I am a loyal husband to my wife; never strayed, never will, never considered it. I don't beat my kids. They are homeschooled and parented by two adults who care for their welfare. I pay my taxes, pay my bills, provide for my family financially and emotionally. Why was this happening to me? To us?

What irks the most is how this affects my loved ones. Mrs. Write must now monitor my diet, watch so I don't show any signs of low or high blood sugar, and fret as only she knows how. The kids are learning all they can about Diabetes, not in school, but because they worry.

It's not fair to them, and it's not fair to me.

Now, a week later, I'm managing. The crisis of blues has passed. While taking four different medications a day (to also control mildly high blood pressure and low hdl cholesterol) is no picnic, I'm managing. Never one to harbor a sweet tooth, I miss my potato chips, french fries, tortillas and salsa. I can easily give up candy and chocolate; they were the first things tossed when I started watching my diet lo those many years ago. But crunchy, salty snacks? They are my weakness and my bane. Every time I pass a bag of chips on sale at the grocery store, I have to remind myself of a line from Scrubs: "Doesn't she realize my legs will fall off?".

Most of the credit for my coping goes, of course, to my wonderful wife of 16 year. After many a late night talk in the last week, I have come to adopt the we-can-handle-this-together. attitude for real. Daily pinpricks to test my blood sugar (I hurt myself far worse fixing the car) show a steady decline in my blood sugar levels. I feel better than I have in a year or so, which is surprising as I hadn't realized I felt so lousy in the first place. I miss sugar. Although I harbor no weakness for sweet snacks, i miss cane sugar. A cup of tea or iced tea, a bowl of cereal, just isn't the same without a couple spoonfuls. And those "sugar alternatives" all taste like chemicals to me. My motto for years was "There's no such thing as too much sugar,".

I guess I was wrong.

The Fine Art of Naming Your Children

2009-12-23T14:08:00.000-06:00

It's taken me a while to name my sons.

No, I don't mean their actual names. Those were picked out before they were born. THAT would be weird. I'm talking about their pseudonyms, what I call them when I refer to them online (i.e. on Twitter, Facebook, this blog, etc.).

Why do they need pseudonyms, you may ask? I'll tell you, Oh Inquisitive One. Because I'm paranoid. I refuse to allow my sons' real names, or any images of them, to be available on the internet. Their identities are not to be public knowledge. I know, I know, that sounds paranoid, doesn't it? It is; reread the third sentence again.

Perhaps I am overprotective. The other day my eldest son and I went to the mall for some final Christmas shopping. (On a side note, we got all of our shopping done BEFORE Black Friday. I may be paranoid, but I'm not a masochist.) He's a very loving kid and has so far spent too much of his saved money on us. Once there, he asked if he could look elsewhere in the store for something for his brother while I shopped for Mrs. Write. I froze. Indecision is my middle name, as anyone who knows me will attest. Choosing an entree at a restaurant is likely to induce heart palpitations in me. And here was a biggie.

Granted, he IS 12, and quite mature for his age. He knows all the safety rules, as I and his mother have drilled them into him for years now. And, last but certainly not least, I know his mother would say yes. He is smart, trustworthy and a damned good kid. Unfortunately, when situations like this arrive, I instantly picture that tiny, 3lb., 2oz. preemie I first laid eyes upon over twelve years ago, instead of the preteen he actually is.

After staring at him for what had to be a full two minutes (everyone in the family is used to my indecisiveness by now), I said "Yes,". We went over the rules again; he repeated every guideline for talking to strangers, staying away from exits and bathrooms, keeping his cell phone handy, etc., etc. Then, biting my lip with trepidation, I stood perfectly still as he went off in a different direction from me, my little guy growing up, shouldering responsibility, taking another step toward manhood before my very eyes.

Yes, I did follow him the whole time. I'm indecisive, but still paranoid.

Anyway, on to their names. I know my real name is visible on my Twitter, Facebook and MySpace. It's not like their names are a complete mystery to the world. They attended public school until three years ago. But, when that school requested permission to publish their pictures -the ones already in the school yearbook- on the school's wesite, I checked the "NO" box. There's something about the internet. While the yearbook will most likely be read only by other students, anyone could see their pictures online. Anyone. Any creep, pervert or child molester. No, I don't think some random stranger is going to see their picture and come looking for them. (But, I don't discount it, either.) I stand by my decision, however. Just the idea of some sleazy freakazoid fapping to my son's picture gets my blood boiling.

This lead me to my current quandry: What to call them when telling stories about my family online? This IS a blog about being a SAHD, after all. It would be weird if I never mentioned having children, I think. However, every "nickname" I came up with was already used by another SAHD blogger. Thing 1 and Thing 2? Taken. The Little Bugs? Used. Fric and Frac? Nope, sorry. Even the nicknames we call them in real life are used on other blogs.

So, I did what I always do when at a quandry: I asked my wife. (Yes, there are no pictures of her on the internet, either; I KNOW someone would be fapping to them.) She pointed out that our youngest some is pretty sloppy while his older brother is, by contrast, quite fastidious and particular. Once told this, the names became obvious; we even said them together: Oscar and Felix.

"Oscar", my nine-year-old, has no concept of picking up after himself. He could drop a $20 on the floor and not look back, figuring someone will eventually pick it up and hand it back to him. It's not for a lack of trying to teach him elf-reliance, but he's having none of it. I remember a Parent-Teacher Conference back before we took up homeschooling in which Oscar's teacher asked if we could convince our son to hold off pulling his pants down until AFTER he got through the bathroom door. He absolutely doesn't care if his underwear or butt is showing, and just last week went to his Occupational Therapy appointment sans socks, because he "forgot to put them on".

"Felix", on the other hand, is a neat freak. His toys and games have to be put away in a certain order and place. He always dresses in the same manner, including rolling the tops of his socks down (don't ask) no matter the weather or outfit. He likes his plate, cup and silverware in a certain position, and often picks at his food if it isn't arranged a certain way on the plate. Bear in mind, he never actually complains about any of these things if they aren't right. And, if asked, would deny that he does any of them. My favorite story involving Felix and his fastidiousness takes place on Christmas Day, 2001. Both boys were fans of Monsters Inc., so we secretly decorated their room while they slept with MI curtains, rug, blankets (they were heavy sleepers), throw pillows and the entire series of Happy Meal toys arranged on their windowsill. The next morning, Felix wakes up and wanders into our room, asking for breakfast. "Don't you want to open presents first?" we asked. "No, we are apposed to have breakfast first!" he insisted, completely unaware of the new setup of his room or of his little brother happily playing with the toys.

So, there you have it: Oscar and Felix. My boys. They drive each other, and their SAHDad, crazy. Crazy with love. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

You think pimpin' ain't easy? Try homeschooling

2009-11-20T14:24:00.000-06:00

I don't really enjoy being a "Learning Coach". That's my title as a homeschooling instructor, at least here in Ohio under K12's system. They provide a teacher and Intervention Specialist (more on that in another blog); I'm more of a facilitator for their education. I can't legally be called a "teacher". Don't get me wrong: K12 is a great program, my kids are wonderful, and I understand how important and cool it is to teach my children things they never knew before and will carry with them throughout their lives.

But I'm burnt out. The first year we homeschooled, I was all gung ho. It was hard, because we started mid-year (in January), due to having just moved and waiting for the public school to release my son's records (we had to call a lawyer and threaten to sue; way to stay classy, public school system). But, I got an entire year's worth of education in by June that time.
The next year, everything went well. We had a full year to work with, I had the program and schedule all figured out, the kids were starting to realize how much better homeschooling was than the gulag... sorry, I mean public school, it was great. All the required meetings and extra classes -weekly "Class Connects", monthly teacher conferences, Speech Therapy, Occupational Therapy, Spanish classes, Title I, etc.- took up a lot of the time I could actually spend teaching. But, all in all it was a good year.

Now, this year. The kids don't want to be in school and would rather spend their time playing video games or with their new friends. Hell, I feel the same way, except my new friends are Facebook and Twitter. The constant auxiliary stuff is making it hard to teach. Mrs. Write's new job lets her work at home; but, as she spends a lot of it on the phone (actually via the internet, which is kinda cool), we have to be extra quiet. Money is tight, so my lovely wife and I must both work, on top of housework, chores, and, of course, teaching. My oldest has hit puberty and my youngest is showing the signs (hairy legs at age 9! Gah!), meaning moodiness and rebellion.
Teaching has become more of a responsibility than a pleasure.

That feeling of a job well done, of making an impact on their lives, has faded. Now it's: Wake up, make breakfast, do dishes, start lessons, pry the young one -nearly in tears- to class, trudge through lessons, make lunch (in total silence, as Mrs. Write's office is next ot the kitchen), convince kids that lunch is OVER and to go back to classes, go to work, come home late, Mrs. Write is still working so keep perfectly quiet, at 11pm do laundry and run dishwasher, relax in front of TV or computer for an hour, check over lesson materials for tomorrow, wake up, make breakfast, lather, rinse, repeat.

Like I said: burnt out. And every article or blog I read about staying motivated is full of the same empty advice or platitudes. "Remember how much this means to them", "Think of yourself as a superhero", blah, blah, blah. You know what would make me feel motivated again? Winning the lottery so I can stop worrying about money and bills while I try to teach a reluctant, moody and distracted nine-year-old History that even I don't care about.
On top of all that, I have only been posting one article to my Examiner account a week, instead of the required four. Meaning, after seven weeks of employment, I have seven articles instead of twenty-eight. And this is the job I wanted.

Well, that's enough of my ranting. I promise the next post will actually be funny, if the nice attendants in the loony bin let me use the internet. Hey, maybe the anti-psychotic drugs will make me see things in a totally different light and I'll be even even funnier. I am kind of curious what purple tastes like...

Trick or Treat! As long as you aren't starving...

2009-11-05T10:38:00.000-06:00

So, we took the boys trick-or-treating last week. Actually, we went twice, in different neighboring communities. I know that sounds unethical, but they were towns we lived in before, and our neighborhood doesn't do anything for Halloween. Oh, technically they schedule trick-or-treating for certain hours on a certain night, but, as we discovered last year, nobody actually does it. Kids all dressed up, little plastic pumpkins at the ready, and not one house in the area giving out anything.

At the risk of sounding prejudiced, I guess it's just a cultural thing. It's okay to walk around with with giant pants hanging off your ass, a sparkly hat cocked sideways on your head and big, clumping workboots a size too big for your feet, but putting on a costume and meeting your neighbors, sharing a little candy, laughter and joy, that would just be weird.

Ahem. Sorry. I'm, still a little ticked off about last year. Halloween is my and Mrs. Write's favorite holiday. Anywho, THIS year we traveled back to our previous hometowns in the Columbus area (I figured we would go twice to make up for last year: 2008: -1; 2009: +2. The score is now even). The kids had a blast. People in Pickerington and Westerville are awesome! Everyone loved their costumes, put together by Mrs. Write and I for under $20... combined. Much candy was given out, with no old farts handing out apples, raisins or peanuts, going on about "Nature's candy."

I hated that as a kid. "Nature's candy?" I'm pretty sure that's weed, lady. Which I don't doubt you HAD to be smoking to think kids would gladly accept an apple on freakin' Halloween! Mrs. Write admits she and her brother used to go back to those houses at the end of the night and throw the apples at the offenders' front porches. Cruel, yes; but they deserved it.

The only low note on this fine SamHain? Trying to be a little more socially conscious. Trying to teach the kids a moral lesson, we signed up to Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF. You may have seen those little, orange boxes with the coin slot on the top. Both boys got one, and politely waited until the candy was given out before asking "Would you like to give to UNICEF?" They were all prepared with an explanation of where the money went and what for. Unfortunately, the almost unanimous reaction to this was anger, scorn, and even a telling-off.

Okay, people. Here's where I rant. It's not as if you've never heard of UNICEF. They ran the commercials al the time when I was a kid. They've been around forever. I know you probably aren't carrying change around in your pocket, but just how hard is it to dig up a quarter for a kid trying to do a little kindness during one of the greediest holidays of the year?

Man, people suck. Anyway, after a couple blocks of this nonsense, we reluctantly had the kids turn in their boxes to us, carefully explaining that it wasn't their fault. The kids were a little upset, worried they might have offended people. My youngest can be a real people pleaser. As Mrs. Write walked a little ahead of us, I clarified: "Some people just suck," I told them. This made them feel better.

At the end of the night, they had collected a little over a dollar from twelve houses. UNICEF has set up a partnership with Coinstar, so we dropped in a bunch of our change, plus the dollar or so the kids collected. It's a good cause and so convenient there's little to no effort involved (right up my alley!).

We tried to do this so the kids could learn a moral lesson, especially meaningful on a day when candy and compliments are handed out so readily to those who already have it in abundance. And what lesson did my kids walk away with from this?

Some people just suck.

My family has a secret language

2009-10-25T08:19:00.000-05:00

Every family has a secret language, and yours is different than mine. "But wait," you say, "my family doesn't have one." Yes, you do; you just don't realize it.

I'll give an example: Earlier this week, my wife and I were extremely busy, scurrying to and fro trying to get the house in order. She works long hours and I have my hands full with homeschooling and maintaining our Amazon account, so some aspects of housework get shunted aside until we have a free moment or two. Passing her in the hallway -I just having finished a load of dishes and she with a bottle of Fantastik and a cloth, off to clean something or other- I threw her a glance and said "Olive juice." Without missing a beat, she returned the look and grin and replied with the same.

"Olive juice?" you ask. As a kid, I read in a children's magazine (I forget the name) a list of words and phrases that look like something else to a lip reader. "Olive juice" looks exactly like "I love you." It's our own, silly way of saying I Love You. Why say that instead of the actual words? Hell, I don't know. But it's part of our Secret Language. Try saying the same two words to another person, and 99% of the time, they'll look at you with confused look on their face.

The Secret Language isn't comprised only of short phrases. It can utilize single words, long phrases, or whole sentences. We've watched a lot of the same movies, TV shows, etc., and a lot of our Secret Language consist of quotes. Some of these apply to our life, some are just memories of funny situations we fondly remember, and some are just nonsensical, thrown out to give everyone a giggle. For years, all my wife had to say was "Ekky, ekky," and I, unable to stop myself, would respond "... ekky-ekky-PTANG-zoom-boing-z'nourrwringmm!" (Fifty internet points if you can name the reference.) I was like Cartman from South Park when anyone started the intro to "Come Sail Away".

All four of us play World of Warcraft, as well as Magic: the Gathering, AD&D*, and plenty of other geek entertainment. Sometimes we'll have whole conversations laden with in-jokes and names from these games, leaving any eavesdropper with the belief he is having a stroke. Example:

Me- "Where is your Tauren?"
Son- "In Org, doing Alchemy until Warsong Gulch opens up."
Neighbor- "What?!?"

Son #1- "ChannelBall!"
Son #2- "Memory Lapse!"
Grandpa- "Do you smell hair burning?"

And so on...

Now that my wife and I have discovered Dexter, our conversations are sprinkled with the kind of lingo and phrases usually reserved for death row inmates. We're watching Season 3, which, as far as we can tell, ratchets up the hot and sweaty sex a few notches. This next Secret Language phrase requires some set-up. Dexter's girlfriend, Rita, is portrayed by actress Julie Benz. She was also a regular guest on Buffy: the Vampire Slayer and it's spinoff, Angel, playing the vampire Darla. Darla was also the name of a character in one of our favorite movies: The Crow. One scene in The Crow, uttered by a character named Skank, was "He's upstairs, bangin' away on Darla!" Whenever Dexter's girlfriend appears, either half-naked, naked, or screwing the main character, one of us is required by matrimonial law to announce "Bangin' away on Darla!"

I know... we're sad people.

What is the point of a family's Secret Language? Nothing, really. But, it's a bond, a way of sharing memories and feelings common words just can't convey. It's a way of letting one another in on a joke, or forbidden knowledge without others comprehending. It's ours, and that's all that really matters.

*Yes, I know there is NO Advanced Dungeons and Dragons anymore. We play with the old 1st and 2nd edition books, so that's what I call it. Deal with it, nerds.

Of Cats and Men (or, "I Can Has Fans Please?")

2009-10-20T14:49:00.000-05:00

I admit it. I love those stupid lolcats. I know, I know, it's lowbrow humor. Yes, the whole site is based around a lame internet meme. They still make me laugh.

Heck, I've even added captions to a few myself. What got me thinking today were the pictures I submitted. Being cat owners, we have dozens of pictures of Magic, our feline overlord. In fact, a picture of her was my previous profile pic on this blog, as I abhor having my picture taken. Recently, I was forced to sit still for the camera in order to be hired by Examiner. (Sadly, that is my idea of "smiling"; I honestly thought I had a smile on my face when my wife snapped the picture.) I've since adapted that picture (by inverting the color scheme) for use on this blog, Twitter, Facebook, et al.

The point I'm getting to (there is one, really), and what got me thinking about the weirdness of life is this: The number of captions my cat's picture has received is far more than the number of people reading my blog, Examiner articles, facebook news and Twitter combined.

This bothers me.

Granted, most of the buzz for Magic came from a shot of her, asleep on my bed, with a copy of Fight Club* by Chuck Palahniuk on her belly. The idea for this shot was my wife's; I claim no responsibility for it. In fact, I thought it would not look funny at all. As usual, she's right and I'm not. As of this writing, there are 52 "lol's" based on that picture, none of them written by me. Some of them are damn funny, at least in my opinion, such as this one, this one, and especially this.

Most disturbing is this photo of my cat. Of the 12 "lol's" made from it, one was flipped and possibly Photoshopped, then added to lolcats' sister site TotallyLooksLike. So, according to the internet community, my chubby, lazy, basically useless housecat is not only more popular than my articles on parenting and homeschooling, but also puts one in mind of Beyonce? The world is a messed-up place.

Now, I have no delusions of my own potential for popularity; but, c'mon! I'm being upstaged by a cat! An animal that craps in a box and licks her own butt to get clean. What do I have to do to draw in readers? Crap in a box and lick my own butt clean. Then again, taking a look at the bumper crop of reality TV stars in the world today, that's probably my best bet.

Well, since we're on the subject of reading really mucked-up stuff into a simple picture, I bring you this:

This is an E. L. Fudge cookie from a pack recently devoured in my home. See the little elf? His name is "Elwood". Looks innocent enough, right? Well, take a look at THIS:

See how the immoral, insidious corporate monsters are trying to turn our kids gay? Or, if they're girls... ummm... straight? Never mind, I'm on a rant and have no time for logic or reason. And if that above image doesn't send chills down your spine, then take a look at what it says on the back of this so-called "cookie":

"Dunk head first"? That's absolutely disgusting!

Anywho, i have a ton of dishes to do, and they aren't going to do themselves (stupid Jetsons and their stupid lies about stupid robot maids...). See you soon.

*Warning: This link reveals spoilers. Don't read it if you like surprises, like I do.

I'm on Facebook! Whee?

2009-10-18T14:38:00.000-05:00

As part of my job with Examiner, I have to promote myself and my articles. Normally not one for social networking, either online or in r/l (real life), I joined Twitter, then Facebook. MySpace comes later.

The problem is, I have been too busy to post anymore articles, which makes posting anything to those sites meaningless, and leaves me feeling too guilty to take time joining any others. Added to that is the vile temptation provided by Mafia Wars on Facebook, and us rejoining the insidious World of Warcraft.

Between homeschooling, housework, Amazon and Craigslist, I barely have enough free time, and I have been wasting it on Facebook. Tonight I need to re-focus on my Examiner articles. Anyone reading this, please check out the articles I have written, maybe leave a comment. It would do a lot for my self-confidence.

Now, how much is a getaway car and machine gun?

How men shop.

2009-10-10T16:42:00.000-05:00

I went to the grocery store today. Not by choice, mind you. The idea was to hit the library; I had a few things on hold and a couple that needed to be returned (i.e. overdue). The library is actually a treat for me. I'm a voracious reader and love movies as well. Considering I'm not into sports, gambling, dating or anything else associated with the average male, the library is where I want to be.

Considering I am raising and homeschooling two autistic sons, the peace and quiet of the Columbus Library is nirvana for me. So, when my wife suggested I spend a little time there today, I jumped at the chance. It was only after I had showered, made breakfast for everyone, gotten dressed, had on my shoes with one hand on the doorknob that Mrs. Write ensnared me. "Can you stop at the store and pick up a couple things?"

My heart sank. First, I hate the grocery store. I'd rather clean the cat's litter box* than shop for anything. Second, my wife has a rather subjective idea of "a few things". As suspected, she handed me a list, a wad of cash, the credit card and a stack of coupons. I actually ended up spending three times as long at Giant Eagle (or "Jaunt Iggle" for my friends in Pittsburgh, and "Roc" for my old AD&D group) than at the library.

There were nine things on the list, including toilet paper and all the candy for trick-or-treaters this Halloween. You know, "a couple of things," Plus, I had to pay part of it in cash and part with the credit card (don't ask), and hand a small stack of coupons to the cashier. Oh, and did I mention that Mrs. Write, who has a mind like a calculator, figured out that the candy bars in the checkout lanes going for 2/$.99 were actually cheaper than the bags of candy, per ounce. Meaning I had to park the cart in an unused lane and pick out 100 candy bars ("At least four different kinds," as per instructions). During this, customers kept queueing up behind me, thinking the lane was open, despite the sign being turned off and the "This Lane Closed" sign prominently displayed on the conveyor belt. Not to mention the odd looks and suspicious glances from the employees. As I've mentioned in previous posts, I am a large and hairy man, the kind from which women tend to shelter their children.

Bear I mind, I'm no monster or predator. On the whole, I'm a quiet, thoughtful person who loves his family and thinks kittens are cute. It takes a lot to raise my ire, and that only if my family is threatened. But, I LOOK like a psychopath. After having my picture taken for my first college I.D., my friend Brian looked over my shoulder and said: "Hey, you look like a rapist!" Everyone came over to look, and the general consensus amongst a group of people I barely knew or hadn't yet met, was that my picture belonged on America's Most Wanted. The hell of it was, they were right.

Anywho, back on track. So, I spent a long period of time at the grocery store today, most of it in a rush because, on top of everything else, I was instructed to be home by noon as Mrs. Write had errands to run. *sigh* So, armed with a foul temper and time in an institution I abhor, I took to observing people around me to relieve stress. Something I've noticed before yet still never fails to amaze me, is how the average man shops for groceries.

Have you ever noticed that men absolutely refuse to use a shopping cart unless forced to by their spouse? I've never understood the reason for this. Is he afraid of looking feminine by pushing a shopping cart? You'll see some guy trying to carry eleven items, including a case of beer and four bags of chips, using only his hands and a lack of comprehension for the law of gravity. Or physics. To this individual: you don't look manly just because you used your big, hairy hands instead of a cart. You just look stupid. And don't get me started on the basket. A guy would rather circumcise himself (or, worse, sit through a "Sex and the City" marathon... *shudder*) than even acknowledge the grocery baskets exist.

Secondly, coupons. Why the hate for coupons? This isn't regulated to men only, but they are the more verbal opponents of those little, innocuous slips of paper. I'll be checking out five items and paying in cash, while some guy behind me, trying to fit 37 items on the conveyor (in the 12 Items or Less lane), while simultaneously talking loudly on his cell phone about all the hot wings he ate last night and how he had diarrhea for hours afterward. Then, when I hand the cashier a couple of coupons, this guy has the audacity to sigh loudly and comment on it to his cell phone buddy. Look, this isn't the 1970's. The cashier can scan the coupons as fast as he could scan your Preparation H. It will take all of fifteen seconds, max, to run my coupons through, but I'll save five bucks or more. And where do you have to be, really?

You get the same reaction to credit cards. Why the hate? It's not like the cash register jockey is going to haul out that old monstrosity with the carbon paper, you know, the one that looks like a miniature meat slicer? I run the card through the card reader (oooh, technology scary), punch in my PIN, and we're done. Hell, half the time it's faster than cash.

Lastly, the actual shopping. I hate the grocery store (granted, not as much as a clothing store, but there's enough material there for another post), but at least I do it right. Most guys go in without a list, even if their spouse wrote one up for them. Sorry, but I'd rather do it right the first time. When you go to the store with the instructions to pick up some food and drinks for dinner, and come back with a case of mac n' cheese and a case of Miller Light, she's just going to send you out again. You know it, I know it, and she knows it. Your ploy won't work. Looking incompetent will not get you out of shopping. Shell just make you do it twice.

Trust me on this. I know. So get ti right the first time. And use a cart for chrissakes, you look like a doofus.

I'm Gainfully Employed! (Sort of!)

2009-09-23T12:23:00.000-05:00

Well, it's only been two months since my last post. At this rate, I'll be up to daily posts in about two-and-a-half years. Stay tuned!

Those of you who read my last post (still holding steady at zero) may be wondering what our situation is. Heck, I'M wondering myself. We got the van back and it's running pretty well. The guys at R. J. Wheels in Polaris did an excellent job. The van is still a piece of crap, but it gets us from Point A to Point B.

We've officially ended our relationship with eBay. Their new rules quite simply favor the buyers and screw over the sellers, and the fees are ridiculously high. Anything we sell online goes through Amazon or Craigslist.

My wife is back to the Mystery Shopping/Auditor thing, but I haven't the time, due to my homeschooling duties, housework, and my NEW JOB! Yes, someone actually hired me for something. Scary. I am now the "Stay-at-Home-Dad Examiner" for Examiner.com in Columbus. They expect me to send in a minimum of four articles per week. As usual, I am falling behind. So far I only have three published articles, which you can view through my profile page link above and under the title of this post. I would have linked all three, but i figured there were enough links in this already. (I just recently figured out how to make this link thing work; I'm not very tech savvy, I'm afraid. As a result, everything post anywhere is riddled with links like Amy Winehouse is riddled with STDs.)

I have also published two Topics pages on Cracked, one about Internet Comments and one about The A-Team. As you can see, the Internet Comments one was posted before I figured out how to link URLs. I'll have to fix that one of these days.

On a side note, right before the car was finished, our hot water tank broke down. Seeing as how most of our $$$ went to getting the wheels out of the shop and making the house payment, we haven't been able to get it fixed yet. That's no biggie, though. I just LOVE hauling four or five pots of hot water up a flight of stairs two or three times a night so my family can take baths. Luckily, or unluckily, for me I never really like baths. No, I'm not a filthy pig, I just prefer showers. The idea of wallowing in your own filth, in a pool of water filtered through your own butt hairs, never appealed to me. A shower always feels cleaner to me. Now I'm enjoying the natural way of getting clean: ice cold showers. Whee!

Last, and most certainly least, I am now a member of Twitter. This is something I swore I would never do, but the Examiner expects its correspondents to promote their own articles. Seeing as how I get paid based on the number times people view my articles (hint, hint, Hint, HINT, HINT) I figured I'd try Twitter first. Next comes Facebook and MySpace, when I find the time.

Yes, I'm still alive.

2009-07-15T15:24:00.000-05:00

Well, I did say in my first post that it might be six months between updates. Actually, it's closer to nine. Wow, that's pretty bad. Granted, I have been busy: trying to get an eBay business off the ground, working as a Mystery Shopper (more on that later), getting the kids back to classes (remember, we homeschool, so most of my day is eaten up by that), and trying to keep the house clean and running efficiently.

So, how has all that been going? Terrible. Our eBay account got hacked, draining our linked Paypal account, leaving us with no money available to ship items, so that came out of our household money. I would be more surprised by this, but it happened once before, many years ago. That time we had a pretty established name on eBay; this time it was just starting up. So, to hell with eBay, Paypal and their lousy security.

The Mystery Shopper thing? Pretty interesting, and somewhat lucrative as a part-time income for a stay-home Dad. Just sign up with one of over 200 companies online, including Corporate Research International, Marketforce, Gapbusters (if you love McDonald's), and so on. Then, once you have an account with one or more, pick and choose which jobs you want and when you want to do them. What do you have to do? Just follow the guidelines for the job you've chosen, usually going to a specific store or restaurant, interact with an employee or two, buy something, and head back home. Last, fill out an online report, scan/photograph any receipts or relevant paperwork, and send it off to the mystery shopping company. They compile the results and pass them on to the store or restaurant.

Sounds nice, doesn't it? It was, until my van broke down. The axle on our Ford Windstar actually snapped. Not only is this going to cost us around $900 to fix, but we're without wheels until it comes back. I've had to turn down nearly two weeks' worth of jobs, including some I'd already scheduled. The main drawback to mystery shopping is the initial overhead: you spend money out of your own pocket during the shop (or, as the call it, "audit"), then wait for your paycheck to come in. Most of the jobs you take reimburse you for your purchases -up to a certain amount- and pay a fee for performing the work. Generally, the jobs pay 2:1 ratio, if you spend ten bucks at McDonald's you get around $20 back.

So, in my situation, I've spent about $100-150 in the past four weeks, with no return yet. That wouldn't be a problem, if two of the three companies I work for didn't operate through Paypal. I may never get paid. As for school, dealing with lost jobs, towing the car, negotiating with the mechanic (who has been very accommodating so far), and busing it everywhere, it's been hard to get any teaching done.

And don't get me started on housework.

On a bright note, my wife found this in a bag of cherries she bought a couple weeks ago:

Yes, that's a cherry with a wiener. The ever-elusive male of the cherry species. I call it: The Dinglecherry. Yes, I am childish and sophomoric, thank you.

So, other than the cherry, that's my sob story for this month. Between car troubles, working through the summer (and now picking up a part-time job in the evenings to pay for the repairs), school, travelling, and whatnot, I've barely had time to work on this blog. On a side note, I just got hired by Examiner.com in Columbus as their "Stay-at-Home Dad" correspondent, which means more work for me, but getting paid to do it. Yay! I think.

Feeling Hairy and lazy. Perhaps I should shave for a change.

2009-01-16T16:03:00.000-06:00

This is my first post in a month and a half. Why, you may ask? Because: I'm lazy. Anyone who read my first post (at this moment: nobody!) will know this. How lazy am I? I'll give you an example.

I play World of Warcraft (no, that's not the example; bear with me... ). Those familiar with the game, or with MMORPG's in general will have heard of Guilds. For those outside the loop I'll try to explain briefly. Granted, brevity is NOT one of my strong suits, as you might notice after reading my post about homeschooling. In an Massive Multi-player Online Role-Playing Game (MMORPG), a guild is a group of players who form a kind of club. They generally have a name, their own private chat channel, a shared bank of goods, and so on.

The guild I joined was named ProcrastiNation. This speaks volumes about my personality. I had been booted from my previous guild because i took a couple months off the game when real life got too busy. The officer who recruited me said that wasn't a problem. "Look at our name", he said, and we shared a hearty virtual laugh. After joining, I discovered I could not use some of the guild's features, such as the Vault (the aforementioned shared bank), the ability to recruit others, and others. This was new to me. After putting it off for a while (hint: ProcastiNation), I finally got around to asking a guild officer why this was. She informed me that i had to register on the guild's external website, link an e-mail, and perform a few other tasks. I replied that this was a ridiculous amount of hoops to jump through for a guild named -need I remind you- ProcrastiNation. They stood firm, so I left.

So, let's recap. I joined a club on a video game, who's name was synonymous with being lazy. I joined because their guidelines for attendance were incredibly lax. And I quit because it was too much work. I should be ashamed of myself, but that requires more introspection that I'd like to spend. On a side note, I actually started this post a week ago. It was saved as a draft, and just now re-opened, eight days later.

Lazy, I tell you.

On to a topic less self-flagellating, what say? My wife (who submitted the vending machine comic a little while ago, which I love) suggested I start a section of this blog dedicated to weirdness. not weirdness in general, mind you. I find enough of that in my day-to-day life. No, I'm talking about the kind of weirdness someone mistakenly took time to chronicle. I mean the misprints, errors in judgement, typos, misplaced headlines and other silliness people put into print.

I was inspired by a feature once carried in Maxim magazine, back when it was still funny and more than sixty-odd overpriced pages. This feature was called "Found Porn", and showcased ads, books, periodicals and products that could easily be construed as pornographic. This was one of my favorite parts of the mag, and reminded me of another fond memory of a once-humorous entertainment: "Headlines" from the Tonight Show. I've already gathered (i.e. either found or been handed by my wife; I'm too lazy for research) several items of weirdness, and will be putting them up for the world to enjoy.

So far, that includes myself and my wife. Get with the program, people.

The problem I'm encountering in this: What to call this feature? I can't use Headlines, firstly because it's already taken, and is a misnomer. Half the stuff old Smilin' Jay holds up are pictures or ads, not headlines. Found Porn is both copyrighted and too narrow; not everything I've gathered is a sophomoric attempt at puerile sexual humor. A lot of it is sophomoric in entirely different ways. So, until i either come up with a name or someone reading this suggests one, I'll just call it "General Weirdness".

Once again, get with the program, people.

We live in Columbus, Ohio. This first installment is a flier from a local Mexican restaurant named Tacorriendo. It is unaltered and not Photoshopped (I'm too cheap to buy Photoshop):

Excuse me, waiter. Come se dice "barf bag"? Thanks.

I'm all for truth in advertising, but in this case ignorance is bliss. I love how each is a little worse than the last. Stomach? Okay, that's not too bad. Tongue? Well, people eat tong- What? Intestines!?! Why, god, why?

Now that I've brought a little weirdness into your life, and ruined your dinner, I bid you adieu, or however you spell that in your weird moon-man language.

Homeschooling is NOT what you think.

2008-11-25T15:39:00.000-06:00

In my previous post, I mentioned homeschooling my two sons. Tell most people that you do this, and you get the same aghast look and disapproving sigh. I know, I held much the same opinion whenever hearing that word: "homeschooling". You know the image people form in their minds: flabby, pasty kid with thick glasses, introverted, perhaps the wide-eyed zeal of an indoctrinated religious fanatic. I saw "Jesus Camp" too.

This is far from the truth. Granted, there are many religious zealots who choose homeschooling as an option to protect their delicate children from the dangers of progressive thinking. better they have their heads filled with religious propaganda than hard science. THAT will prepare them for the real world. But this is only a portion of the homeschooling community, and it is a community.

We live in Ohio, one of many states that have accredited, school-supported homeschooling. Several companies provide strictly-structured programs and strong support from trained educators. In fact, many of these programs prefer to be called "Home-based public school", as their guidelines and curriculum are based on regional, state, and national educational standards.

My kids are enrolled in the Ohio Virtual academy, a division of the K12 program. We are provided with a computer and Internet access, an online curriculum with support and links to educational websites, including museums. They send us textbooks published both by educators at K12 and by other publishers, including the same textbooks your kids use in public school, student workbooks and teacher's guides in each subject, supplemental materials including supplies for Science experiments, with graduated cylinder, spring scale, litmus paper, and so on, Math teaching tools such as number cubes and flash cards, handwriting workbooks and worksheets, maps and books pertaining to History, Art and Music supplies with instructional CDs and DVDs, instruments, clay, oil and pastel paints, and more.

Along with the extensive supplies, I have weekly meetings with Intervention Specialists, former public school teachers and administrators who act as a liaison between my students, myself, and the state, making sure the kids are keeping up with their classes, and lending advice and aid whenever they get stuck. Each students has their own teacher, as well, whom I also have a phone conference with each month, who is even more familiar with their individual classes and needs. During these meetings, my kids speak directly with their teacher either via phone or on a shared classroom online, and their do activities to show what they have learned.

Whenever you tell someone your kids are home schooled, the same two arguments pop up: socializing and qualifications. To be honest, while I can understand the latter, the former leaves me scratching my head. What about public school do you remember as positive socializing? Being shoved into large groups of people all the same age as yourself, spending 90% of your day sitting quietly and being punished for "talking" or "laughing"? How does that teach you about interacting with others? Was it fun being judged by others for your appearance and clothes, especially those of us who didn't grow up in affluent families? My favorite are the people (usually without kids of their own) who get that smarmy smirk when I mention bullying. "How are they gonna learn to be tough, to stand up to bullies, if you protect them all the time?" they ask. You just know this is the same guy who made the skinny kid eat his own gym socks in ninth grade.

Yeah, that's how it works. I remember being picked on by groups of sixth graders when I was in seven years old. I should have stood up to those eight kids who out-sized and outweighed me, especially the grandson of the Superintendent of Schools who never did anything wrong, the little angel. What necklace made of teeth? I've been a big guy since I hit puberty, but I always felt smaller than others, a distorted perception of myself derived from low self-esteem and years of abuse. Being bullied didn't make me stronger, it made me hate myself. Eight years and two botched suicide attempts do not a strong person make.

I'm teaching my kids to stand up for themselves without being bullies themselves. Both of them have Autism-Spectrum disorders. They are intelligent, sweet, polite boys, but they lack in social skills, and all the artificial peer constructs public school has to offer wasn't changing that. When my oldest was bullied, he internalized it, blaming himself, no matter how much we told him is wasn't his fault. He didn't, and still can't, understand why people are mean to each other. Hell, I don't get it, either, kid. My youngest had a different solution. When he was picked on, he lashed out, shoving, kicking or otherwise rebuking his tormentors. Oddly enough, this made him the more well-adjusted. To him, the problem was solved. When he kept getting in trouble for fighting, we asked him what was going on, a novel approached the Principal, Dean and teacher at his school never considered.

Turns out he was being picked on by an older girl during recess. She had been held back once, and was bigger than all the other kids in the class, except my son, who is tall and broad for his age. When told this, the Dean (who served no real purpose, considering the school had a Principal and Vice-Principal; I think he was related to someone on the school board) said he never saw anything when he chaperoned the playground. So, living only five minutes' walk from the school, I snuck over with my digital camera and caught her bullying him on video the next day. By this point, he simply stood there and took it, having been told by his "superiors" at the school that it was wrong to hit a girl. So, while this beast and her three friends shoved him around, he stood there, head down, enraged and impotent, then took it out later in class on other boys.

Yeah, public school is a great place to learn social skills.

Our homeschooling program has get-togethers such as socials, skating parties, birthday parties, and more for students in the area. My kids are learning to socialize with kids of all ages, and adults as well. Most homeschooled kids I've met are well-mannered and can speak with an adult with poise and intelligence, unafraid of sounding stupid or being rebuked for having an opinion, a stark contrast to how I grew up. One mother told a story about being asked by the mother of a public-schooled boy how her daughter socialized when she wasn't in public school. She asked this question at a soccer game, in which both their daughters were on the same team. The homeschooling mother just laughed it off.

As for being qualified to teach my kids, I admit that this was the big hurdle I expected to face when I began this program last year. I'm not a schoolteacher, I told myself, How am I going to teach them? Let me tell you, with the proper materials, you can teach just as well as any public school teacher, perhaps even better.

Let's face it: when you were in school, the teacher graded your homework and tests off an answer sheet; the lesson taught from a curriculum. Between the Internet classroom, textbooks and teacher's guide, I can relate any information to my kids. If I have trouble relating the lesson to them, my wife, who is in MENSA, can help. Otherwise, I can call either one of their support teachers or Intervention Specialists. In college, I took classes aimed at future educators (A Liberal Arts degree leaves a lot of flexibility for the undecided). In the Math and English courses I took with this theme, we were taught how to relate the subject to a group of students, how to make it understandable to students at all levels of understanding. Loosely translated, future educators are trained to present the course to the smart kids, the average kids, and the booger-eating mouthbreathers.

I know my kids, even better now that I've been teaching them for a year and a half. I know the right references to make something come alive in their minds, to make it something they can relate to, whether I use a favorite book, cartoon, video game or TV show, I can teach them anything. Instead of asking how many apples are left after giving three to a friend, I ask my son how many Krabby Patties he has left if he serves three off the grill. And he gets it right.

No, school isn't all fun and games. Some days, they don't want to start class. But they aren't going to be skipping out of class or playing sick to go home. I can adjust their schedule to the right fit for them. What does that mean? well, if I teach my son how to measure angles in one lesson, and the next is about supplementary and complementary angles and measuring three-dimensional shapes, I can simply go on to the next lesson while it's all fresh in his mind, instead of putting everything away and witching rooms so we can weave baskets out of reeds. Last year, we made it all the way through every subject, even though the state only requires 90% of the subject be covered. It's even less for public school. Remember the days leading up to and after holidays, and the last three weeks of school? My wife dubbed those "Disney Days", as you spent them watching videos, coloring pictures and making crafts. We work. I clearly recall never reaching the end of any school textbook. Heck, most history classes never taught us anything past WWII, and I remember blank worksheet pages in at least 1/4 of every English class.

When my sons tested to enter K12's program, by their standards he was one year behind in Language Skills and Literature. According to public school, he was near the top of his class. Literature? They didn't even offer Literature. I'm not necessarily bashing public school, but you'd be hard pressed to convince me they were better off there. Yes, many people who homeschool make up their own curriculum. Sometimes they do an excellent job. Other times they're like my former neighbor, who's son was kicked out of tenth grade. They began "homeschooling" him, which meant he spent all day playing video games, throwing the football around with dad, or pummeling a guitar that did nothing in any of its former lives to deserve the torture he put it and us through. All the while, his mother is inside, taking his tests for him and sending them in.

But people like that, or like the ones in "Jesus Camp" who suggested that global warming was impossible because the earth is too big, or that the Earth is really only 6000 years old and scientists who say otherwise are only guessing, are a small portion of homeschoolers. I'm an atheist; i didn't pull my kids out of school because of any religious beliefs. I did it because they weren't receiving a proper education. They both have Autism Spectrum Disorders, and their homeschool provides Speech and Occupational Therapy services the public school wouldn't. They socialize with people of all ages and aren't afraid to speak up and ask questions for fear of looking foolish.

They work hard, they learn, and they have a sense of accomplishment, all without being pigeonholed into a certain social group, being abused by older kids, sat in neat little silent rows of other third graders, peeing only when given permission. The next time someone suggests that public school prepares a child for the real world in ways homeschooling can't, ask them the last time they had to carry a wooden block with "Lavatory" written on it in Magic Marker, just to go to the bathroom.

That's what I thought.

Nature's Vending Machines

2008-11-24T21:25:00.000-06:00

A funny, simple comic by my wife. Hope you enjoy it as much I do.

This is my first real blog...

2008-11-22T16:15:00.000-06:00

…please be gentle with me.

Seriously, this IS my first attempt at making a blog. Not my first attempt STARTING a blog, mind you. Anyone who knows me personally will attest to the fact that I am great at starting things, not so great at following through. I have a MySpace page, technically, with two blog entries. I haven’t updated it in, probably, two years. Granted, it was pretty dull and uncreative, done more on a dare than with any purpose in mind. I have some strong opinions about things, and I tend to rant. From what I’ve seen, that’s the prime requisite for having a blog. I plan on sticking with this one. I hope. I do tend to get distracted easi… oh, hi kitty! Do you want a treat? That’s a good girl! Come he- Oh, sorry. Where was I?

Like many other trends I've picked up over the years, I decided to start blogging once the individuality and initial popularity has faded from it. I've never trusted trends or trendy things. I am not a fashion plate, and basically pride myself on NOT being trendy. Rifling through old photo albums would show you a parade of looks each about two years out-of-date, including the fedora I bought roughly between the second and third Indiana Jones movies, when NOBODY was wearing them anymore.

Why do I do this? No idea. I guess it's because I've never been one of the popular kids. I'm pushing 40 now, but I still feel and act like I've just graduated high school. No, it isn't a mid-life crisis, nor one of those "You're only as old as you feel" kind of things. I just refuse to grow up all the way. Oh, I take care of my responsiobilities. I am the father of two wonderful boys, husband to the best wife in the world. Life is good. Granted, the world is a slime-encrusted cesspool, but I try to keep our little corner of it clean. But I still love cartoons, action movies, loud music (although I have to turn it up a little more every year to hear it clearly), porn, and bags and bags of chips.

Growing up, which I'm apparently not done doing, I was always the outsider, the weird kid. As a result, I tend to view "normal" people, the majority of polite society, with an air of suspicion. So, I refuse to wear the clothes they tell us to, listen to the music that's popular, and accept that the likes, dislikes and ideas of "normal" society should just be accepted without question.

I love to write: short stories, novels, articles, you name it. I’ve actually finished some of them, which is a major accomplishment for me. At this rate, I should get something published just in time to start collecting Social security. I have an account at Helium.com under this username and have contributed 14 articles so far. Check them out. I read voraciously, and watch TV to veg out. Considering I'm a Stay-home Dad and homeschool teacher to my two sons, I need my veg-out time. Other than that, Digg, World of Warcraft and some random porn, that’s the whole of my internet interests.

I’m hoping to start posting a webcomic, and thought this site might be a good starting point. My wife and I share a wicked, twisted sense of humor, and are always bouncing funny ideas for sketches and standup routines off each other. Since neither of us have time to launch a career in standup or pitch a sketch television show, I’m hoping to present some of the weirder, and hopefully funnier, ideas in a comic. I've titled this blog Mad &Hairy, because that's how I see myself. I'm a pretty big guy with long hair and a barely-maintained thatch of facial hair (too big to be called a goatee, too small to be called a beard). It also describes my personality: I'm either really, really outraged about something ("Mad"), or laughing heartily ("Hairy"). Most likely, I'll alternate between comics and text posts, depending on my mood and level of laziness.

Well, that’s about it. I’m sure there’s more to say about myself, but my brain has run out of happy juice. And, by the way, if someone should read this, then notice that I haven’t posted anything else in six months, I’m not dead. Just lazy…