Cell Phones Are Making Us Antisocial! Argh! Grrr!

I would like to dispel a myth here. Cell phones do not make people anti-social, or ruin family dinners, or keep us from our loved ones. Being an asshole does that.

I was eating at a restaurant with my wife the other day. A couple came in and sat down. She was thin as a rail and obviously pregnant. He was a big, burly guy. They looked pretty young, and could not have been married long.

They did not talk. Not once. Not to each other. In fact, they barely LOOKED at each other. They came in, ordered, ate, and left while my wife and I were still enjoying our weekly date together.

Another couple came in shortly after. Middle-aged or older, perhaps in their fifties or a bit older. He held her chair for her when she sat down. Right after ordering, they both whipped out their cell phones and began surfing, texting, etc.

The difference between this couple and the other? They talked. The whole time, they talked. They showed each other things on their screens, shared funny comments and texts they received, laughed, and had a great time. All while playing with those dreaded CELL PHONES that are destroying interpersonal relationships.

When I was young (born in 1970; do the math), we watched dinner in front of the TV. We barely spoke, unless something funny happened on-screen. After ward, I would go to my room and read, or listen to music. My mother would sit and smoke and watch TV. My father disappeared into the basement doing... whatever.

Before TV, there was radio. And newspapers. There have always been books. People are going to pay attention to one another or ignore each other depending on their personalities. I've watched older couples come into McDonald's, get a coffee, and then bury their noses in today's newspaper or a magazine, never communicating. I've watched a group of teens in the same location, all on their phones, talking and laughing and teasing one another.

In short, quit blaming cell phones for people being assholes. They are just assholes.

You Say It's Your Birthday (na-na-na-na-na-na)

It is currently 12:40am on (what is now) March 14th. My son's fourteenth birthday is today, which explains why he's still awake at this ridiculous hour. Not that he is disturbing me, mind you. I am a night owl by nature. As in, I stay up late, not a washed-up psuedo-superhero with a latex fetish.

Where was I? Oh, right. My son's birthday. As I have mentioned before, my youngest son is extremely tall for his age. He stands 6'3" at the moment. I assume. I haven't measured his height in a little while. Not out of laziness, but because it frightens me. The boy is a behemoth, the proverbial bull in a china shop. Every time he adjusts to his size, another growth spurt hits him like a ton of bricks, but without the subtlety. Then it's back to bumping into walls and furniture.

I mean, clumsy runs in his blood. On both sides, I hate to say. It's a wonder how two ridiculously klutzy people even managed to have two kids. Needless to say, both kids were a surprise. On top of this natural oafishness comes a body that just won't quit growing, and a mind thinking We're 14 years old. What's with the extra-long arms and legs, and really low ceiling fans? You see his dilemma.

Why is he so excited, then? He's getting his own laptop. Nothing too expensive, mind you. Until my book sales go up (hinthinthint), a refurbished Toshiba will have to do. But that's good enough for him. We may not be rich, but our kids appreciate the little things in life.

And to my son, EVERYTHING is a little thing.

Dodging The Bullet (At Least One of Them )

We dodged a bullet last week. Well, to be accurate, my youngest son dodged a bullet.

A little backstory: I tend to be a little lax about updating this blog. But this time I have an excuse. Things have been nuts lately. Aside from some legal troubles (which I'll discuss in my next post), our main concern has been Oscar. Particularly, his legs.

Oscar is 12 as of last month. He is also 5'10" and nearly 200lbs. He already wears bigger shoes than I do. At first, we were strangely excited by his sudden growth. Big guys run in my wife's family. Her brother is 6'3", and her great grandfather stood over 6'7" and had such broad shoulders that he had to be buried in a piano case.

Being Autistic, Oscar has some odd physical quirks. Occasional finger-flicking, humming, and other acts of self-stimulation are not uncommon. When he tells a story, he walks in circles, not looking anyone in the eye. About 19 months ago, he began walking with his left foot rotated outward. He was in Occupational Therapy at the time, and his therapist said it was likely an affectation due to his Autism. She, and his regular doctor, were none to concerned by it. Heck, with a gentle reminder he would bring it back to true.

Fast-forward a year. Oscar's foot has steadily turned further and further outward, and the right is also beginning to follow suit. He complained often of slight back and foot pain, and long walks become almost impossible. Growing concerned, we took him to a orthopedist in Hays, KS (about two hours from home). After examining him and taking x-rays of Oscar's feet and hips, the doctor gave us the news: It wasn't his feet that ere turning outward.

It was his hips.

We were devastated. The general consensus in the office was that his body had grown too fast and certain parts developed too slowly. The fear was that his hip bone was underdeveloped and unable to accommodate the leg bone (forgive the lack of technical jargon; that stuff goes right over my head). It was believed at that point that surgery, perhaps several, would be needed to correct it.

Cue parental panic.

On the orthopedic clinic's referral, we made an appointment with a pediatric orthopedic surgeon in Denver, CO (about 4 1/2 hours away). So we sat for a tense month, wondering and worrying and making plans, trying to decide how to break the news to Oscar when the time came. I lost a LOT of sleep those 31 days.

Finally, last Wednesday, we went to the Rocky Mountain Pediatric Orthopedics' office. More examination, more x-rays, more consultation. Finally, after two hours, the doctor got back to me. He explained the situation in detail, showed me the x-rays (and gave me copies to take home), and gave us the good news. Oscar did NOT need surgery. In fact, he recommended against it. Oscar's hip bones were developed normally. It was the muscles in his legs that did not grow properly. With a specially-made set of foot braces (that will also correct his falling arches, also a result of his odd "duck-walk") and regular exercise, specifically walking and swimming, his feet should turn back to true in time. He may need some physical therapy in the future.

But, for the time being, the news is all good. We're at peace, at least for the time being. At least, until we have to go to court next week. Stay tuned for details...

Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost, Too

I'm trying; I really am. I try to teach my kids right from wrong, good manners, kindness, forgiveness. To love their fellow human beings. But, I'm weak. I have my foibles, my weaknesses. One of these is, unfortunately, a bad temper.

Don't get me wrong: I don't beat my wife and kids. I don't go to the bar on a Friday night, get loaded, and punch everything in sight. (I used to be like that, years ago; that's why I no longer drink.) But I am easily offended. Worse yet, I hold a grudge. It's a family tradition. Back when I was still close to my parents and relatives, I used to joke to friends that the Coffman clan was so vengeful, the Mafia would tell them to chill out and let things go.

My father once got bad service in a department store not far from our home. In 25 years, he never shopped there again. Mind you, businesses were few and far between, and there weren't many choices. This place had low prices and decent staff, but one bad employee and he never set foot in the place again.

I'd like to think I'm better than the old man. In most ways, I believe this to be true. I don't abuse my kids, and I'm not afraid to tell them I love them or give them a hug. Until I moved out of my parents' home, I believed men simply never touched or embraced one another, except in movies. Even today, I'm still uncomfortable if someone who isn't a member of my close circle (which currently only includes my wife and kids) touches or embraces me in any way. I know it's a character flaw, but I'm working on it.

Anywho, back to the temper thing. Several weeks ago, my wife volunteered to help out at the local VFW with some baking project the retirees had going on. I was replacing damaged ceiling tiles for a few extra $$$, as we were kind of strapped for cash at the time. My work went well and received more than a fair amount of praise, which made me feel good. It wasn't until after that I found out that my Beloved did not receive the same welcome.

The kitchen was overfull, with more hands than work. Now, anyone who knows my Brenda knows she hates being idle and loves keeping busy. Enough so that it sometimes drive me nuts. Long story short, there wasn't anything for her or the other (only under-65) person there to do. So, they ended up discussing the town's upcoming plans to open a grocery store in between the infrequent requests for help. Our new hometown is over 20 minutes away from the closest grocery store, and their prices are outrageous. It's at least an hour drive to any decently-priced groceries.

The town council is looking for someone willing to open a store and run it, with a little financial help from the residents. My wife, having years of management experience running large and small accounts and businesses, had already offered to do this. Considering that most of the ladies working the VFW kitchen that day were either members of the council or wives of them, the conversation drew a fair bit of attention. Up until this day, we had received nothing but kudos for her ideas and plans, and a fair amount of encouragement.

Unfortunately, this was not to remain the case. Towards the end of the day, two of the women made disparaging remarks at my wife's expense, one of which I heard personally.

One of the women at this little shindig happened to be the mayor, and up until this time our biggest supporter in our endeavor. The other is a close neighbor who had helped us out when times were tough, and who I repaid as quickly as possible doing work around their property they were too old to perform themselves. I won't name them, of course, but they know who they are should they come across my blog. Well, the mayor, whom I overheard, commented to another old biddie smug tightass woman this about my wife: "Well, just because she has a college degree doesn't mean she understands anything." Our neighbor later made the comment that "It must be nice to stand around and talk while everyone else is working."

Now, to rebut: First off, my wife is in MENSA and is much smarter than myself or most anyone I've met. I'm not saying this because I'm biased, but because she's fucking smart as hell. Second, I personally heard her ask repeatedly what she could do to help and being constantly rebuked if she even so much as touched anything. The few times she did assist the crabby old bats Cryptkeeper lookalikes ladies corrected her every move, no matter how trivial.

Anyway, rant over. My point is that, after finding out how she had been treated, I went ballistic. Being that the perpetrators were all elderly women, my usual response to making my wife cry (i.e. beating someone senseless) was not an option. So, I was left with impotent rage and passive-aggression. We haven't been to church since, as looking at their smug faces makes my blood boil. When one of the women from that day wave or says hello, I turn away and refuse to acknowledge them. My Love no longer trusts anyone in town, which is sad because we moved out of the city to get AWAY from this kind of bullshit. Since this series of events, several other incidents with residents of this town I once fell in love with have tested my patience and temper, two things I'm not known for.

This all goes back to being a parent. I'm trying to teach my boys love and patience, tolerance, kindness, forgiveness, the whole package. But it's difficult when you just want to scream into the faces of the hypocrites and double-dealers that seem to infest every community and infect it with their cynicism. It's a kind of "Do as I say, not as I do" kind of situation. I want my kids to do what I've tried to do: be a better man than the examples I grew up with. If they can learn not only from my words and lessons, but from my mistakes, then I will be glad. My worst fear is that they will grow up to emulate me, as I am a serious collection of faults.

So far, my boys seem to understand that their dad is not perfect, not Superman, and maybe not the best example of leading a good life. Were I a better man, I would be more forgiving, less aggressive, a little bit less reactionary. My hope is that I can relay the ability to recognize my own faults and my desire to overcome them to my boys in a way that allows them to apply such a philosophy to themselves.

Also, I would love for them to realize that some people are just assholes, regardless of age, race, religion, creed or color.

Shameless Self-Promotion, Part 2

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!

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

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'

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

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

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!

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)

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

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

-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?

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?

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

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.

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...

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

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.