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.)

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