I know it’s been a long time since I’ve updated the site, other than links. Sorry about that. I’ve spent the last week setting up my business, so I’ve been busy. Thus far I’ve picked up a fair amount of work. Not bad for one week in business. I’m working to improve that over the next few weeks by sending out query letters and getting my portfolio out to local and national businesses, publishers and magazines.

I’ve also been working on a book proposal with a friend. We’re going to go over it this weekend and hopefully get it polished into final form. Then it’s off to an agent and we’ll see what happens. I honestly think this book can sell. Let’s hope. If it does, it means we’ll have opportunities for several other books we’ve been talking about. My fingers are crossed.

Eventually I’ll also post a piece I’ve been working on about the evolution of “Dad Humor.” It traces dad jokes from the Neanderthal times of “Pull My Finger” to the modern times of “Pull My Finger.” As you can see, dad humor hasn’t changed much.

Mostly my time has been spent with a beautiful girl every morning. We cuddle and talk and eat together. She’s a very coy young lady and I have to admit she’s stolen my heart. Here’s her picture:



Yes, I’ve been playing daddy every morning. Unlike other Mr. Moms, I do shower and shave.

Being a full-time dad has been a blast. This little girl is perfect. She’s smiling and cooing all the time now. It’s amazing to see what was once this little helpless lump turning into a thinking being.

Plus, she’s happy!



Her big sister is completing her migration to total weirdness, as you can see below. She’s working on becoming the world’s first child contestant on Survivor.



That’s all for now. I have to go feed a hungry little baby. After that we’re going to play!

You can run, but you can't hide! I am the polyp that hides inside!

There's something poetic aboutthis.

I don't want to cause alarm or anything. I mean, doomsaying is not my style. I usually find it rather uncouth and irritating. However, The Sky is falling!

Another odd day. I do have some stuff to post eventually. I just have to finish it. In the mean time . . .

One can only hope, eh?

Sorry I didn't update today. Very odd day. Good news is I'm going to pick up work tomorrow. Plus I'm working on a book proposal with a friend and his wife. But, best of all, I spent the day with a little girl who cooed, smiled, laughed and drooled. All in all, a good day.

In the meantime, check this out. Something is killing the frogs of England. I guess they heard the new Robbie Williams CD.

Random Friday Notes:

Do saints have to audition for the job of Patron Saint?

If a dot com failed and noone was around to hear it, would the employees still sue?

Only Canadians would have this problem.

Is this guy an ass?

Darwinism at work.

Check out the liner notes for the soon to be reissued "Brutal Youth" by Elvis Costello. Few musicians these days have the eloquence or wit that Mr. Costello possesses.

Finally, today marks my final day in a corporate structure. My family and I are rather excited about my impending new life. I've always wanted to be a full-time dad. Now I can be. Yay!

You know what? I have nothing to write about again today. It seems like things have been pretty normal this week, so I have no fodder for subjects. Odd, ain’t it? So, if you’re looking for entertainment below, stop here. What follows is a bunch of random thoughts. And when I say random, I mean totally random. You were warned.

The coffee grinder is working out well. I’m apparently the only human being in the house capable of operating it, but I’ll get over that. I like coffee. Coffee likes me. It’s a good match

Technically I’m not supposed to drink coffee anymore. It’s bad for me. My stomach isn’t supposed to be able to handle it. However, my doctor has never spoken to me early in the morning. My wife said, “I know it makes your stomach hurt. However, if you don’t drink coffee you snap at me in the morning. And I swear, if you snap at me one more time in the morning you will find out what real pain is.”

See? I have to drink the coffee. It’s to save my marriage.

I guess I haven’t talked about the kids lately either. I’ve been too obsessed with coffee. Matilda: Still a kid. Gertrude: Still a baby.

Well that was interesting? What next? Ooh, something shiny!

Seriously, I just don’t seem to have much on my mind today. I suppose I could talk about a million things, such as the American Taliban, Camp X-Ray, Anthrax, Tax Spending, Medical Breakthroughs. But . . . that’s all so serious! I’d rather talk about something silly. Thing is, I can’t think of anything silly.

Doctor! Gary’s brain has gone code blue! Get 10CCs of great entertainment STAT!

Hey look! I made an Amazon Wishlist. Go look at it.

Funny word of the day: Defunct.

Best color of the day: Clear.

Best song of the day: Birth, School, Work, Death by The Godfathers.

Best movie of the day: Horse Feathers

Best element of the day: Hydrogen.

Must leave now to go locate my brain. Here brainy brainy brain.

No real update today. I've got way too much to do and too little to say.

However, I've been listening to a groovy new tune by Newton & The Immutable Forces. Check out the link.

CNN.com - Detector listens for mysterious gravity waves - January 23, 2002

I was talking to a friend today about the coffee thing. (By “talking” I mean, “typing.” By “coffee thing” I mean the previous post. By “friend” I mean someone who is highly talented and creative who needs to take a leap of faith for his art.) He expressed sympathy for my flavored coffee dilemma and explained to me that is one of the reasons why he drinks tea. He has complete control of the quality.

(Interjection: That’s not the only reason he drinks tea. The other reason is that coffee has an odd effect on him. It’s like over winding a toy. He goes into fast forward. I’ll never forget the time he was laying on my floor clutching his chest, panting and yelling, “I’ll be fine! I’ll be fine! I just need some water and some cookies. Start the movie without me. I’m sure normal blood flow will resume in a moment.”)

I like tea as well, thanks to him. He introduced me to brands and flavors (is that what you call them? Flavors? Leaves? Twigs?) that I hadn’t been aware of. Granted, I was brought up on Lipton teabags. I thought tea grew in bags. Who knew that there were actually dried leaves in there! Go figure!

At home, I’ll drink tea when the mood hits me. I prefer coffee. It has weight. It feels like it’s going somewhere. It’s like drinking a magic elixir. Tea is more of refreshment. Granted, when I’m sick nothing hits the spot quite like tea. In that respect it’s magical.

Since this conversation occurred while I was at work, I explained that I couldn’t drink tea here. First, our water tastes AWFUL. Out of the tap it tastes like I’m licking a geological survey. Even our shipped-in filtered water tastes bad. Once, I swear this is true, it tasted like a basement. An old, musty, dirty basement where someone has hidden the bodies of missing vagrants.

The other issue is the fact that the only means by which to warm the water is a microwave. Normally that isn’t so bad, if I’m at home, that is. Here, no matter what you do, the machine smells like the Ghost of Lunches Past.

So, if I make my tea here my refreshing vanilla blend comes out tasting like fluoridated Dinty Moore Beef Stew, now with scaly minerals!

Tea’s just not my bag. Besides, part of my freelancing fantasy has never been to sit at my desk drinking tea. Let me paint you the picture of my perfect day as a self-employed man:

I’m a successful writer. Or perhaps I’ve won a large settlement in a class-action lawsuit. Hard to tell. Things are fuzzy. Anyway, I wake up in the morning and put on a fuzzy, green, ratty, terrycloth robe.* I pad downstairs in my Mickey Mouse slippers and put the coffee on. I wake up the wife and tell her it’s time to get ready for work. She uses bad words. I laugh. I wake up the kids to get them ready for school.

I head back downstairs to make breakfast and watch the news. The family comes down and has some breakfast. Wife leaves for work. I take the kids to the bus stop. They beg me to stay inside, but I refuse. The other kids ask “who’s the scary guy in the ugly green robe?” My girls lie and say they don’t know.

I go back inside, finish the first pot of coffee and shower. I put on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and the fuzzy green robe. Second pot of coffee is prepared. I check my email and answer my massive amounts of fan mail. Or maybe it’s hate mail. There’s a fine line.

I crank up some good indie music. Maybe Cherry Twister or maybe Linus of Hollywood, or perhaps some Splitsville. I guess it depends on the mood. I finish the second pot.

With the third pot brewing I sit down and do some serious thinking about the various articles I’ll be writing that day. Having three syndicated columns is rough, you know! By noon I finish the third pot. So, I have lunch.

Around one I get back to work. I start jotting notes down. I watch a squirrel running by. I change CDs. I get tired and start the fourth pot. I finalize my topics and get more coffee.

By now I realize it’s 2:45 and the kids will be coming home from school soon. In 30 minutes I pound out all three articles. They are all brilliant. Pulitzer worthy. Then I make dinner for the family. Start the fifth pot of coffee. Put the kids to bed, watch a movie or two and go to bed around 3 a.m.

Somewhere in there would be a heart seizure or two.

My friend ended his tea proposition with, “Doesn’t really matter anyway. You’ll be working from home and in control. Hey, you’ll need to take on an extra project just to pay for your extra bean consumption.”

True. True. But, it’ll still be much more affordable that scotch. Even if that did work for Faulkner.

*Green fuzzy robe idea is copyright 2002 Pengelly Enterprises. All rights reserved, but not deserved. Void where prohibited. Not valid with all offers. Pengelly Enterprises is not responsible for any rashes, welts, hives or other socially embarrassing side-effects from its products, or the products of its subsidiaries.

I have won the war on coffee. For this, in part, I must thank James Lileks who finally fueled my ire into fire. Without his rants, I’m not sure I would have finally taken action.

Admittedly, I am a coffee snob. The coffee must be good, it must be hot, and it must be strong. No Yuban or Folgers for me. I need freshly ground coffee that was hand picked by a Guatemalan who needs the money. My coffee must come from South America, Africa or some other place I’ve never been. Coffee grown in Ohio . . . that’s bad.

Also, I don’t like companies that try to prove how good their coffee is by promoting “100% arabica beans.” Whoopdedoo. Roasted coffees are generally made from Arabica beans. There is only one other option and it’s CRAP!

So, traditionally we buy coffee out of the bulk bins at the grocery store. We have three options, good, better and best. Each blend has a varying degree of success. The problem is that people use the same grinders for real coffee and imitation flavored coffees. So, I’d grind up a nice pound of Mocha Java and get home with coffee that tastes like a melted Russell Stover chocolate box. Including the cardboard. No matter what I did, the coffee would invariably come home tasting like a hybrid between what it was supposed to taste like and a vending machine.

So, many moons ago, we bought a grinder. We were happy for a bout a day. That’s when it broke. So, we went back to suffering with the masses.

We hit a good streak for a while. Seemed that the sales of flavored coffees went down in our area and I was free from Mocha-Almond-Hazelnut-Vanilla-Crunch. We went through all three brands, decided one was too expensive, one was over roasted and the other was just right! (Goldilocks then went and slept in our beds.)

Well, when the wife was preggers, she couldn’t have coffee. Consumption went down and I started to get lazy. When she came back to the world of caffeine-induced zealotry, we hit the racks with vengeance. Quickly we discovered that our beloved brand of coffee has gone down hill. Or the same beans had been sitting there for quite some time and were about as fresh as Mariah Carrey’s music. It was like drinking muddy water. Awful, awful.

I began to wonder if there had been a bad crop. Did a big storm hit the port? What was wrong with my beloved coffee? Why was it stale? Was there a fish in the percolator? It was awful.

After several weeks of this, we had gotten a good streak again. Then, Saturday morning disaster struck. I guess we didn’t sniff the grinder well enough because . . . my morning cup of joe was flavored.

Here’s what I don’t understand about flavored coffee. When you brew it, you can’t tell what it’s supposed to be. Chocolate? Maybe. Maple? Possible. Hazelnut? Dunno. Isn’t the point of a flavor to be . . . well . . . a flavor? Coffee flavors seem like an idea. Or perhaps an after thought. Either way, it’s ill advised.

To quote Mr. Lileks, “Coffee IS a flavor.” ‘Nuff said. And don’t get me started on the fact that MOCHA is a PORT and has nothing to do with FLAVOR, unless you are tracking flavor by region (which you should). It certainly isn’t chocolate, though they do export chocolate in Mocha as well. (Hence, Mocha Java. Named after the ports in which the coffees were exported from. Then, they mixed the two beans together and roasted them. Hence the term “blend.” Got it?) In fact, Mocha is in Yemen, a country that suddenly everyone knows because they don’t seem to like anybody.

We went out and bought a grinder. It’s a sweet little deal, too. More than anything else, I like how it makes me look. Like a SNOB. Now when I ask if someone wants coffee, I can grind it. Make them feel guilty for giving me Folger’s Crystals when I visit them. Bastards.

We also bought a gold filter. Paper filters soak up a large amount of the oils and acids that give coffee its flavor. So . . . a metal filter will allow them to get through.

Naturally, we had to test the sucker out when we got home. Stopped at the store and picked up some new beans. Listened to the magical electric whir and crackle of the new grinder and popped the coffee into the new filter. And we let it brew.

What can I say? I’ve rediscovered coffee. I’ve been worried because I was starting to not like coffee. Anyone who knows me knows my life is defined by my coffee. Family members ask me to make the pot at functions; for fear that they offend my palate. I like that power.

Now there’s a new level to attain. My freshly ground, fully robust cuppa joe. Can you beat it? I think not.

One side effect . . . Couldn’t sleep last night! Tested too much coffee.

I think it’s a plot. The coffee cartel in Yemen is trying to get rid of me by depriving me of sleep and causing me to use the bathroom every two minutes. Bastards!

I have nothing to write about today. No stories to tell. Nothing to say. So I’ll sit here and listen to you for a while, okay? Tell me, what’s going on? Are you feeling okay? How’s that (insert minor medical problem here)? Has it cleared up?

We discovered this morning that Gertrude has a preferred parent based on time of day. Mom is morning, I am evening. She will not budge on this issue, despite bribery.

Usually in the morning I’m alone with Gertrude for about 20 minutes while Mom showers. We cuddle and talk about digestive problems, thin hair . . . you know, baby stuff. After Mom is dressed, she takes over the kid and I shower and then get Kaitlyn ready for school.

Gertrude likes this, I guess. Because today, we did it differently. I showered first while Mom got Kaitlyn ready.

Mistake. When Gertrude was turned over to me she had a fit. I’m not talking about the usual “Gee I’m unhappy, placate me” crying. This was the type of cry you’d expect to hear an innocent man make if he were convicted to death for a crime he didn’t commit. She wailed, as if being in my arms was akin to being dipped in acid. She wasn’t going to have it.

Great way to raise your confidence in the morning, eh?

Nights are my time. I come home and take her downstairs with her big sister and the three of us watch Sponge Bob Square Pants or some other silly drek. We enjoy ourselves, decompress and relax.

Maybe I should be encouraging my kids to watch something a little more complex. Something that will stimulate their minds. What am I saying? A talking sponge that lives under the sea is friggin’ genius! (Though I’d rather be watching Playhouse Disney. Rolie Polie Olie, PB&J Otter, Bear in the Big Blue House. That’s some brilliant kids programming there. What? So, I like kids shows? Sue me? Who do you think is the one who turns on cartoons on Saturday? Kaitlyn? Get real.)

Sorry. Got a little sidetracked. After we all eat, Gertrude and I usually dance. Badly, I might add.

Her music of choice used to be Irish Folk Punk (Pogues). Now, she seems to enjoy French Pop and Lounge. Esquivel, Jean-Pierre Perrey and Air are her favorite artists for dancing. Go figure. Maybe tonight I’ll try the Magnetic Fields. I’m thinking songs like “Hall of Mirrors” might be properly attuned to baby slumber.

I certainly understand her hatred of me in the morning. I’m a grump.

I give up. Told you I didn’t have anything to say today. I’m going to see if I can discover antimatter in my office.

Snooooore. Gary isn't being mentally stimulated. Maybe I should stop listening to Electronica at work. I'll need to go get some Classical. Let that stimulate my brain. Snooooore.

Don’t skip my other post, from earlier today!

A few days ago, Kaitlyn and I were eating dinner. Mom was feeding the baby so it was just the two of us chatting about whatever came to mind. Markers, school, our favorite stickers, French colonialism. Then Kaitlyn turns to me and says, “Are you going to die?”

I almost did, right there. Whatever we were eating quickly became lodged in my throat.

As I regained my ability to breathe, and my composure, I quickly began to think of a response while I stalled.

I said, “Yes honey. We’re all going to die some day. Even you. And your baby sister. And then we’ll find out that the existentialists were all right, and there’s no heaven. We’ll wallow in a dark afterlife that’s filled with despair, boredom and Donny Osmond.”

Then she cried.

Actually, I wondered if she knew something and wasn’t sharing. You know how dogs can sense earthquakes? Maybe kids can feel their parents’ imminent doom. Or maybe she was planning to bump me off for the insurance money. Perhaps she was still upset because I told her that she wasn’t allowed to marry Ben. Not now, not ever, not with any boy!

We had a nice conversation, actually. We talked about what it meant to die. That I would be around until she was very, very old and I would always take care of her. I explained that I would do anything to be around for as long as possible. I swore that I would never be away from her. That I would never forsake her. I wrote a freakin’ epic poem about how I’ll always be by her side.

“So, you’re not going to die,” she asked.

“No, sweetie. Not for a long time.”

“Oh, okay.” Then she went back to eating.

When she was done, she licked my arm and barked like a dog.

Nothing all that amusing has happened over the last few days. I’ve had a headache since Monday, if that counts for anything. Seems like I’ve just been this heavy weight that drags everyone down lately. But that will change! I’ll start being more chipper. I’ll skip and run and sing little songs!

Right. Gertrude’s learning how to smile and laugh. The process is amazing to watch. She’s learning that this “thing” that’s attached to the things that make her see is controllable. She eats her hands as though they are hamburgers and she’s the remaining contestant on Survivor. What’s funny is she has no couth (how many two month olds do?) so she makes horrible, sloppy slurping sounds. It’s like a giant leech has landed.

But the smiles and laughs are the best. They just seem to come out of her, as if she’s suddenly overcome by joy. When she smiles, it’s with her whole head. When she laughs, it’s not a giggle, but a full belly laugh.

It’s hard to say what triggers her humor. Sometimes it’s silly voices, or rubbing her cheeks. Other times, she’ll spit up an ungodly amount of milk and then laugh, as though she’s part of a medieval king’s court and vomiting is just part of mealtime. It’s gross . . . but funny.

No one can really explain how you feel when your little baby smiles. As an uncle I just thought it was cool. As a father, it’s a different matter entirely. I want to call everyone I know. Take pictures and share them with complete strangers.

“See that? She smiles! I mean, really smiles! How many kids do you know who can do that? One? Maybe two total. See? We’re good parents! She’s a happy baby. No pouting little babies for us. Nosirree! We only have the happy, laughing babies!”

Of course, it’s totally normal. And it’s probably all gas, as the old wife’s tale claims. Why is that? Were babies not allowed to be happy once upon a time?

”That’s not a smile. It’s gas. Doesn’t this baby know there’s a war/depression/global catastrophe/evolutionary change/tidal shift on?”

Luckily, we aren’t living in the times of baby denial. Gertrude is allowed to be as happy as she wants to be. As long as my credit card and boys aren’t involved.

Well. I feel better now. Almost happy! But, it’s probably gas.

More later . . .

(Please note in the paragraph above I referred to an “old wife’s tale.” This was not a reference to my wife in any way, shape or form. My wife is quite young and beautiful. She is not, nor has she ever been, nor will she ever be an old wife. She will always be young and jubilant. She will always be beautiful. And her butt will never look fat in those jeans. On this I swear, so help me God.)

“And so I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Actually, make that ‘I run through the valley of the shadow of death’ -- in order to get OUT of the valley of the shadow of death more quickly, you see.” --Woody Allen

I’ve discovered that I’m the different one. I’ve always suspected it. In fact, I guess I’ve always known it, but I’m finally beginning to accept it.

I’ve always thought differently than the people around me. Perhaps I’m a little more liberal than most, however you want to describe it. I grew up differently than the rest as well. I lost dad at five, meaning the majority of my childhood was spent with only my mom as a parent. My siblings had a chance to develop a relationship with him. Be it as a human being, hero, role model or antagonist.

At five, he was still larger than life. More a legend than man. It was he who hung the moon. It was he who was a cowboy solider, raced Tarzan in swimming, and played professional ice hockey (despite his inability to ice skate . . . . luckily, they allowed him to use roller skates).

I’m the only one in my family who has a chronic disease, and had to face all the accompanying difficulties. I hated growing up diabetic. It labeled me as different from the rest of the kids. It meant I couldn’t chow down at Denny’s at 2 a.m. with everyone else. It means if I wasn’t careful I could pass out on the floor . . . or much worse. It's hard for someone without that sort of cross to bear to understand how difficult it was.

I guess I just have a different view of the world than most people I know. A world that was ruled by a woman, rather than a man. A woman who sacrificed everything for me, for my health, safety and happiness. What did that mean? It meant that my widowed mother worked from her home in order to provide for my siblings and me. Sacrifices were made, but she rarely made us feel that way. We never lacked in anything. Sure, instead of an Izod, I had a shirt with a dragon on it but, hell, it was close enough.

My mother was someone who was able to provide for her family through working at home (Social Security helped as well). She was a woman who was also available to be a room mother, soccer mom, attend every play, assembly, concert, game, practice or any other event in which I participated. She was always there for me. When I was sick, she was minutes away. When I was injured, she was minutes away. When I made a stupid choice, she was minutes away.

Mom sacrificed everything for what she felt was the best life for her family. After I was in junior high or high school, she could have scrapped the stay at home thing and gone on to work elsewhere. She didn’t have to take care of her grandchildren and neighborhood kids. But she did. For me. For my brothers and sisters who needed daycare and neighborhood kids who needed a loving place to go after school.

Everyday I’m glad she was there. I was able to know my mom in ways that most people could never imagine. She knew my friends. Approved of some, disapproved of others. She was there when I needed help and she held back when she knew I had to learn the lesson for myself. But, when I came back hurt and upset, she was there to comfort me.

She was my role model growing up. And I doubt anyone would ever say she put her family in jeopardy because she didn’t become a secretary. I doubt anyone would ever call her a failure. The life she provided for me was the life I desired for my children. It is the life I still desire and the one I am seeking.

I’m at a crossroads. I have the chance to work for myself, at home. I have the chance to provide an environment for my children that is similar to the one my mother provided.

I’ve stated before that I’m not a career person. This is true, but I think that it may be misunderstood. It made me sound as though I am lazy or uninterested in work. This is untrue, as my previous employers would be more than willing to attest to. Sure, I write my journal entries at lunch, but that’s in lieu to sitting in a cafeteria having conversation. My lunch is my time to reflect.

So what do I mean that I am not a career person? Well, my career development provides me with no sense of pride. No sense of accomplishment. It is empty to me. The fact that by the age of 28, thanks to some very keen decisions, I’ve made it to a point that would propel me ever upwards in the corporate ladder offers me no happiness. I’ve increased my salary by 50% in nearly three years. That also means little to me.

Yet, there is a perception in the world that, because I am a man, I must be the breadwinner. I must be the one who makes the household run on greenbacks. The perception is that the only way I can provide for my children is to work 8-5 in an office, with a copy machine, meetings and supervisors. The world tells me that I must deeply desire to be a manager (been there), supervisor (which I’ve been), a Vice President or some other business related title that looks good on a business card, but provides me with little solace.

Most people I know don’t even understand what it is I’ve been doing since college. They have no idea what sort of experiences I’ve built, nor do they understand my industry. They don’t understand the reason why I’ve left one company for another and where those past decisions place me today. (The answer is very well. In my seeking to go back to my former employer a friend of mine said he’d be happy to have me on his team, though he fears I’d make him look bad.) Do not undermine the accomplishments I’ve made in the past few years because you don’t understand them.

Don’t use my age, or the perception of how I was at 19 or 22 as the litmus test for how I make decisions or how I set goals for myself. Just because the way I approach life is different than Ward Cleaver approached life doesn’t mean I’m making a mistake. It only means that it is something that someone without the desires and goals I have would be unable to achieve.

I come home every day unhappy. I feel like I’m wasting my life, doing things that are expected of me to feed my kids. My wife reminds me that she’s doing a fine job providing money to feed the kids. Whatever I make past a certain point is used to pay debts and save for a house.

So, there is my dilemma. I either have to be the traditional dad who sacrifices what’s in his heart, what was his dream in order to satisfy some sort of societal, cookie-cutter idea on what life is supposed to be, or risk the judgement of those who subscribe to that theory.

So that brings me to my decision to leave my job and become a full-time freelancer. A decision that my wife is behind 100% (probably even more excited about the possibilities than I am). I already have job offers at good rates. In fact, I have the chance to build quite a good list of contacts. Why? Because I’ve always been honest and never burned bridges.

My dream in life is to be the writer who sits in his home office and makes the kids milk and cookies when they get home. I start dinner and my wife comes home from work. That’s my dream. My dream is not to be selling myself short by trying to obtain some sort of career that is expected of me.

I cannot obtain my dream by sitting in an office doing unrelated work. I need to get out of the office and make sacrifices in life in order to seek the work I want to do. I have to be aggressive and irritating in order to get magazine editors to notice me.

And they will. Don’t count me out. I will realize my dream. It’s why I went to college and it’s what I feel I should be. It will take ten times the work and dedication than any job I ever held and any company will require.

If that doesn’t fit with your plan in life then . . . well . . . don’t quit your job to become a freelancer. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

But me, I’ll be providing the life for my family that my own mother provided for me. I’ll be following my dreams; something few can say they’ve ever had the guts to do. And you know what? It’ll make me feel good.

Not to be depressing, but today would have been my dad’s 73rd birthday. I say this because it suddenly hit me as I was sitting at my desk, trying to figure out what to do next. The date just came flying out of the air and hit me like a ton of bricks.

My dad died when I was five-years-old. That’s hardly enough time to get to know someone, especially when the majority of your time is spent soiling yourself and eating dirt (referring to myself, not my dad). Most of the time I’m not sure if I remember my father, or I’m remembering other people’s memories? I can’t say for sure how my dad smelled, but I’m sure he had a smell all his own (most dads do). I imagine it was pretty Old Spicey.

I remember sharing beer with my dad. I had this tiny little beer mug that he would pour a swig into and I’d get to share a moment with him. (I remember this one clearly. This isn’t a perceived memory.) I remember “taking rides” on his stomach. He’d lie on the couch and I’d lie on top of him. He’d breathe. I’d go up and down. (It was the seventies. I was five. There wasn’t much else to do.)

Other odd things I remember were the glasses he and my mom drank cocktails out of. They had the same patter on the bottom that you’d find on a meat tenderizer. I remember visiting his office and usually walking out with some sort of weird trinket. I remember his car. I remember going to the football games he coached.

Anyway, today being his birthday I began thinking about the things that have come about since 1978 that my dad would enjoy.

1. Picture-in-Picture. That way he could watch more than one football game on Sundays.
2. CD/Cassette players in the car. Very few radio stations play Vaughan Monroe these days.
3. DVD players. My dad loved westerns and war movies. If he saw The Searchers on DVD, in wide screen, with a good sound system . . . he’d be in heaven.
4. Borders. My dad loved to read books on war and the Wild West as much as he loved the movies. Borders has both.
5. Microwave popcorn. Five minutes and you’ll have theater corn. No oil, no monitoring.
6. Cable.
7. Being a grandpa.

Things he may not like:
1. I’m not sure they make station wagons in his signature color of red anymore.
2. Brittany Spears (although he’d have some great comments about her).
3. The Kiel Center. Or the Savvis Center, whatever the hell it is. I’d have to agree. It doesn’t quite match up to the Arena.
4. The fact that Dances With Wolves was listed as one of the top ten Westerns of all time.

So, anyway . . . just wanted to say Happy Birthday Dad, where ever you are. Give mom a kiss for me, would ya?

And tell her we’re all okay.

Look for more links in future posts. I’m going to start “Gary’s Random Thought Theater” because, everything I do is interesting . . . to me!

There are certain parts of your life that should never change. Certain rules you should always follow because they make sense. Yes, change is good. Taking risks is good. But there should be a comfort zone that allows you to always know that you are “home.”

For example:
1. Never buy a discontinued food product. There are reasons why it was discontinued.
2. One should not switch major furniture without two weeks of consideration. New couches suck, if you are not fully prepared.
3. Never rent a Pauley Shore movie.
4. Beef isn’t what’s for dinner, unless you want to see what it’s like to watch someone digest a bowling ball.
5. Do not change the auditory settings on someone else’s stereo.
6. A car can feel like an extension of yourself. Changing cars is like changing your personality.
7. Toilet paper should not be purchased based on the cheapest price.
8. Same goes for beer.
9. Stupid people should not be allowed to grind their own coffee. For those of us who break coffee grinders at home, their only refuge is the store’s grinder. Mocha-almond-maple-hazelnut-pistachio-vanilla-pumpkin blend should never interfere with my Columbian.
10. Wives should never change their appearance without providing you with mock-ups.

I’m particularly sensitive to number 10. My wife and I have been together for nearly 4 years. In that time, she has had the same hairstyle, which is long and straight. When I say long I mean LONG. Real long. Long enough to be used as a restraining device, if needed. (Yes, I’ve tied her hair to chairs. Sometimes I revert to kindergarten mode.)

Chris’ hair was something I expected. Something I took comfort in. I knew, on a daily basis, exactly what my wife would look like when I walked through the door after a day at work. I needed her to look like that because she is exactly what I had been longing to see all day.

Right now she’s banging her head on the table because I have just said everything a woman doesn’t want to hear about her appearance. “Why not just call me boring!” I can hear her screaming all the way across town . . .

So, let me explain this first. I’m not saying my wife is boring. I’m saying her appearance was something I liked. I looked forward to it. I needed it as it was because that’s the woman I pictured in my head all day long.

For her, however, it was a shabby old sweater that she finally needed to shed. She felt she was in an image rut and needed to escape. Besides, she was tired of getting baby fluids in her long flowing locks. She decided to make a change.

Now, I’m not against anyone changing his or her appearance for any reason. If she wanted to get a Mohawk, that’s cool with me. However, she needs to fill out the appropriate forms. Plus, there’s a five-day waiting period. I thought everyone knew this.

Well, Chris didn’t. Last Saturday, she got her hair cut. Her once length waist hair is now shoulder length. And it makes her look different.

Her face seems to be a different shape. Her hair seems darker in color. She walks different when she doesn’t have an 18-foot attendant train flowing behind her. She seems to feel freer, looser and it’s reflected in her stature, demeanor . . . she’s . . . different. It was a total shock.

“What do you think” she runs in asking, atwitter with giggles. I couldn’t answer. I was dumbfounded. I was in shock.

It’s a horrible question, too. You can’t ask someone if they like something that’s irrevocable. She can’t just put the hair back on if I hated it. No amount of glue would change anything.

But there I was, faced with the question. She had asked it and I was forced to answer. What to do? Do I say I like it now and then realized a day later I didn’t it? If I’m too enthusiastic, and don’t like it, she will be encouraged to keep doing this year after year. If I’m too uninterested, I’ll be accused of not caring or noticing. If I say I don’t like it at all, I will be considered unsupportive.

My only defense was to truly like it. Every other option put me up the proverbial creek.

I asked her to give me a little while to get used to it. After all, if I came home with a new haircut . . . she wouldn’t notice because it’s a matter of short or short. Need a better example . . . if I came home with a new . . . arm sticking out of my forehead, she’d need to get used to that.

Women don’t understand how integral their hair is to their look. Men . . . not so much. Our fashion sucks. We have three types of pants to choose from, three types of shirts and pretty much two hairstyles. There's only variations on a theme. We’re amazed at women. All those different shoes. Shirts that have wider differences than color.

In the end, I do like her hair. It looks quite good on her. (Told her last night her new haircut made her even "hotter" . . . She said I could buy a DVD next week. Sucker . . . )

Really, I do like the hair. And I support her need for a change. Especially after the baby.

Sadly, she also went shopping that day . . . I have yet another cross to bear.

“Does my butt look fat in these jeans?”

God help me.

I owe an update, which is coming. Been busy day dreaming about superpowers. To be more specific, what super powers would I have, were I to have super powers. I'm thinking the ability to breathe underwater. It just feels practical.

Another random thought, before I go off to consider what I'll be posting later. The other day would have been Elvis' 67th birthday. I realized I'm glad the man died at 42. Could you imagine what he would be like now? Ugh.

However, it suddenly occurred to me that Elvis was probably the only person on earth whose arterial plaque was bacon flavored.

So, today was the big day. Gertrude went to the sitter. There was much wailing and chest beating. There was crying and kicking of feet. There were cries of “I don’t wanna go!”

But, Chris made me go to work anyway.

They’re doing fine. Chris has called a few times, mournful. I tell her to bite the bullet and face the fact that the baby will call our sitter “mommy” and we’ll be known as those strange people who lock her in a prison to sleep at night.

Of course I didn’t tell her that. I told her that the sitter would probably brain wash Gertrude so that she’s a mercenary assassin for the CIA.

Actually, they’re doing great. There’s a little remorse and longing, but overall they are doing well. I wouldn’t want to be in Chris’ shoes, however. It must be exceedingly difficult to separate herself from the baby after being in contact with her every moment of every day for almost a year. Heck, it was hard enough for me to go back to work after the weekend.

It’s funny; I had a sudden revelation this weekend. I was lying in bed, looking at my slumbering baby and realized that it’s true. I love my kids differently.

You know your mom told you that, “No I don’t love X sibling more. I just love you differently.”

And it’s true. Frightening, but true. Love can’t be measured, but it can feel different. The love I have for each child is as unique as the child herself.

For Gertrude, I have this protective unquestioning love. She needs to be protected, swaddled, held, and nurtured. It’s an almost primal love that seems to come screaming out of every pore of my being. I can’t control it, I can’t stop it. It is not something that grew, but it is innate. It will, however, grow and mature.

It’s Kaitlyn that made me realize this. The love I feel for her is a mature love. It’s a love that has mutated and grown. It’s changed over the years. It’s a love that I HAVE to control, or she’d suffer from it. I have to hold it back because she has to make mistakes in her life. If I were to allow myself to love her in the way I feel inside, she’d be living in a bubble and not allowed to go anywhere, including school, without me.

Hey, let’s face it, life sucks. But I don’t want Kaitlyn to know that. Who knows? For her it may not suck. She may lead a life without disease, war, or bullies. She may never get acne or have her heart broken.

But the odds are against it. Really against it. Friends will betray her. People will take advantage of her. She’ll eventually experiment with things she shouldn’t, be it cigarettes or Top 40 music.

With Gertrude, I HAVE to protect her from the elements, bad food and mean people. With Kaitlyn I have to step back. I can protect her from crossing the street without looking, but I can’t protect her from getting her feelings hurt or failing at something.

In fact, she has to have these things happen to her. It’s part of growing up.

I just wish growing up didn’t have to hurt so much.

And I wish I were done with it myself.

Get this: We have no plans this weekend. None. Zero. Zilch. No obligations, no parties, no guests. Nothing. If I want, I can sit around in my underwear all day eating Cheetos. Not that I would. Too cold.

I remember when I was a kid and I was appalled at not having anything to do on the weekend. I’d whine, I’d complain. Heck, I did that as a single, at least for a while. When I suddenly found myself unimpeded with a significant other in 1997, I went out every night. Was always doing something. After four months, that got boring. At that point, I started watching movies voraciously. Right before I met my lovely wife, I was up to 14 movies a week (on video and in the theater). What good days! To be able to watch all the Man With No Name movies in one sitting . . . ahhhhhhh, bliss. Of course, I also drank enough coffee at that time to kill a horse. Ahhhhhhh, bliss.

So, what will I do with this weekend? I just don’t know. I guess I could do something productive, like clean out the storage area or something. But why bother? All of that will be taken care of when we torch the place for the insurance money.

Uh . . . you didn’t hear that. Heh heh.

Our weekend will probably be spent trying to counsel my lovely wife. Her maternity leave is up on Friday and she’ll be going back to work Monday. It’s only part time but still . . . she has this Mommy guilt about leaving the baby with a sitter. Granted, we’ve known our sitter for four years and consider her practically part of the family. But still . . . Chris is frantic about the return to work.

I can’t say I blame her. It must be tough to squirt a pup and then have to leave it behind. She fostered that baby in her womb for nine months. They’ve been together every day since the birth, in constant contact. How will either of them react to the separation?

It’s funny, though. I still suffer separation anxiety. When Chris and I first got married, I felt it was unfair that I had to leave her for eight hours just to go to work. I wanted to be with my new wife! I wanted to experience life with her. But, sigh . . . it was not to be. I had to work.

The same thing happened when Kaitlyn started school. I didn’t want to work then either. I wanted to be home when the bus came. I wanted to hear about her day. I wanted to see if she was excited or depressed. I wanted to know what she thought of learning how to read. Sure, I would find out all of these things when I got home, but by then her excitement wore off.

When I was a kid, it was the same thing. I hated being away from my family. That was where the action was. I still periodically call a brother or sister just to see what’s going on. They tell me, but I think they secretly think I’m nuts. Okay . . . not so secretly.

I’m currently pursuing an opportunity that would get me home a full 60 to 90 minutes earlier every day. I find that very exciting. I get more daddy time! Keep your fingers crossed.

I don’t know what it is. Why am I so connected to the home? To the family? Is it because I was brought up in such a big, strong family? Or is it because I’m a momma’s boy? I don’t know. I just feel happier when the family’s around.

Besides, Gertrude’s cheeks are filling out. She looks like a chubby little baby. She’s cute! But, having an infant around makes Kaitlyn’s growth all the more apparent. She’s huge! I carried her up to bed on New Year’s Eve and just about died. She’s a lug!

I have no point. Just that time moves on, kids grow up and I like to be at home with my family. But I guess that’s a good point. Here, I’ll mold it in to one:

Life is too short to waste your time worrying about pointless things. Find out what’s important in your life and dedicate yourself to it. Make no apologies. Make no excuses; just show the world how dedicated you are to your passion.

My passion is my family. Now I have to go before they grow up and start using credit cards.

Christmas time is here. And gone. So quickly. It’s amazing how we spend weeks planning, shopping, baking, wrapping, preparing and then . . . . in a flurry of non-recyclable paper it’s all over. What’s left are a few extra holiday pounds and pieces of children’s toys that inexplicably end up in impossible places while they weep in search of them.

“How did Barbie’s shoes end up in the refrigerator’s compressor?”

This year Kaitlyn did her traditional vomiting a few days early, so we weren’t quarantined for Christmas for a change. That was nice. We went out to actually enjoy ourselves rather than search frantically for grape flavored Pediasure at the local mini-mart because every other worthwhile store was closed to celebrate the holiday. It’s also nice to be able to enjoy Christmas cookies without hearing retching in 5.1 digital lifelike surround sound. “So real . . . it is!”

We broke one of our major rules and gave Kaitlyn an electronic toy. We tend to avoid toys that play with themselves. “No kids required! Hasbro’s new Electronic Crap is fully self-playing. Now your kids can do what’s really important, like get a job so they can afford the multi-million dollar accessories that go with this toy in order to make it do half of the things claimed on the commercial!” This year she got a “Leap Pad.” It’s an electronic piece of plastic that can read, or something. In truth, it’s a very helpful tool in helping her read and do math. Prior to the leap pad, I doubt she would sit on the couch for an hour engrossed in the human skeletal system or long division.

Still . . . I can’t help but think it’s just a more expensive version of those books that came with tapes. Remember those? They’d make cool noises when you were supposed to turn the page. I always imagined they were for lazy parents who can’t take the time to read with their children. Or, maybe they’re for kids who have annoying parents and don’t want them around anymore . . . hard to say .

Of course, this was Gertrude’s first Christmas, an occasion on which we place extreme importance . . . and about which she could care less. We got her presents, Santa gave her a stocking full of candy (that mom has claimed . . . chocolate is payment for childbirth, allegedly), but Gertrude was more interested in gumming my collar bone.

Still, it was a nice Christmas. Everyone was pleased with their gifts, the family was healthy and nothing exploded. All in all, a good day.

However, leading up to the day was more exciting. My stalwart vehicle, known in my household as “Whitey” (wife’s car is named “Squerpy” . . . go figure) died a violent death. Sadly, no purple monkeys were involved.

However, I had just invested three hundred dollars in the brakes. Stupid machinery. The mechanic cried. I told him he did all he could do, but after eleven years it was this car’s time. We then buried the car in the flowerbed.

Eleven years. That’s a long time to own a car. Do other people do that anymore? I suppose not. But the thing worked, why get something newer that was just going to break anyway. When a car is eleven years old, it’s easier to justify maintenance. With new cars, replacing the brakes is like discovering wrinkles on wrinkle-free pants. It just can’t be! “I’ve only had the car for a year? How can something be wrong with it” Well . . . you [I]use[/I] it . . .

I had to buy a car. I have only done this once, and poorly at that. I decided I wanted to go for gently used, as I didn’t want to invest in a car that I only had a week to pick out. So, I settled on a car and test-drove about a hundred of the model. Chris stayed home with the kids while a friend and I (both of us about as qualified to buy a car as Bill Gates is qualified to perform neurosurgery) trolled the lots. It was cold. Damn cold. Too cold.

We found a place with good prices and spent three hours on the lot, driving a poor sales guy nuts with questions. He, in turn, drove us nuts with his apparent knowledge of the car. Or I should say lack thereof . . .

“So, Kevin . . . what sort of maintenance does this model require?”

”It has plastic wood grain! Look Gary! Wood grain!”

So, we gave him a sugar cube and he wandered over in the corner and sucked on it for a while. We gave each of my options a once over and left, with poor car guy in frenzy over the money we didn’t spend.

We went back the next day and found a car we didn’t see the day before. I fell in love with it and it was only $300 more than the car with the broken CD player.

And now I own it. It’s the most expensive portable CD Player I’ve ever purchased, but it has cool features like power windows, power locks and a little button on my key ring that makes the car honk until I turn it off. That way, when I get attacked in the parking lot at night, onlookers will know where to find me so they can watch my assailant hurt me. I love technology.

We’re all happy, though. I have reliable transportation and a car that will serve the family well. Plus, in the past week Gertrude’s little cheeks have gotten nice and chubby.

She’s a cute kid. Though, she might be cuter with plastic wood grain. Wonder if they have kits for that . . .

Happy New Year!

True, it's been quite some time since I've checked in. However, fear not! I will fill in the blank spaces soon. Christmas time is always nutty anyway, but when your car commits ritualistic suicide because of holiday stress . . . well . . . it's tough.

Enjoy 2002! Here's hoping it doesn't suck. Heh heh.

(Shameless plug: Buy "The Complete Pet Soul" by Splitsville. Damn fine disc.)