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.

You think pimpin' ain't easy? Try homeschooling

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...

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

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?")

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?

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?