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.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 28, 2011
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...
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...
Friday, December 31, 2010
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!
-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!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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...
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...
Friday, June 18, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, May 7, 2010
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.
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.
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