One Whole Page!

It was the Best of Times, it was the Blurst of Times

I’ve written the first page of my novel. I’ll be the first to admit, it’s not spectacular, but rather than hit select all > delete, I just keep telling myself “first draft, first draft, it's just the first draft”. I will probably be too lazy to do a second draft, if I ever actually do complete a first draft. But telling myself that makes me feel better. I will at least go through it and cut out all the shitty run-on sentences, and over punctuation, and spelling mistakes. I’m not that lazy. Not quite.

It went better than I expected though. I wasn’t too sure how to start it. But I persevered. You’ll be riveted to know, in the first page alone, there have been a bunch of swear words (come on, it’s me – what did you expect?), sex, drugs, a hangover, vomiting and potentially a murder. Also some domestic abuse, which I’m not proud of, but was necessary for the drama. Stop looking at me like that. It’s fiction. Really, I’m very much against it. Someone just got murdered ferchrissakes, can we focus on that? Actually, after reading American Psycho, I’m convinced Bret Easton Ellis is a sociopath. You can’t think that shit up without being a little disturbed. It’s still a great book, and he’s still one of my favorite authors, but if you are at all squeamish, don’t read it… says the guy who has sex, drugs, domestic abuse and murder on the first page of his (wannabe) novel.

Anyway, you can’t read it. Yet. I’m way too self-conscious,for that right now, but maybe as I get deeper into it, I’ll send you lovely people some tidbits from it. If you ask really nicely. But it genuinely was nice to get behind the keyboard and let my imagination go. I haven’t done that in a very long time, and I realized how much I miss it. So I’ll keep on trucking, and hopefully someday, you’ll see my name on amazon and download it onto your kindle for, I dunno, probably 25 cents, or free, or I might even offer people money just to read it. So I can tell people I “sold” 15 whole copies of my novel.

The Writer Who Wouldn't Write

We've All Felt This Way, Right?

I’m starting to believe that my creativity has died. That it has vanished into the ether, like my youth and my disposable income. When I was 23 I had the imagination to write whatever I wanted. I wasn’t as good a writer as I am now, in the technical sense – I was full of the energetic impatience of youth. I was cocky, using unnecessarily big words and glib cliches. I’m a better writer now, but bereft; back then, I was full of ideas. They fell of my fingers and onto the screen like the alcohol and drugs that got splashed and swallowed and snorted into my young body. Now it’s difficult for me to even come up with an idea for this fucking blog. I try to find funny, interesting stories about my domestic life to write about – and I know they’re there, because my kids are fucking mental – but there’s only so many blog posts I can write about not getting enough sleep, or trying to be a good parent while depressed. And outside of my domestic life, I have no life. Save work, which I don’t write about much, because I would like to remain unfired.

When I was twenty-three, I didn’t have the time to write. I was a burgeoning alcoholic. My weekends were spent on booze-fueled quest for trashy chicks in trashier nightclubs. My weekdays were spent fueling my weekends. I was young, drunk and full of spunk. My passion for writing was pushed aside as I lived the life of a typical twentysomething with more balls than brains. I guess I assumed my writing would be waiting for me. That it would marinate, and I would come back to it. But that's not quite how it works. As I grew older I became frustrated by my lack of forward momentum. I wrote bit-parts of novels and essays with little or no passion or direction. The people – family and friends – who encouraged and lauded me, stopped asking me about my writing "career", some asked when I would get a real one. It became an embarrassment, a noose around my neck. David the writer, became David who can't find his direction. So I quit.

Slowly my depression grew. I'm not going to tell you that the loss of my dream and the acceleration of my mental illness were in any way analogous, but they certainly complemented one another. Eventually the party started to wind down. When the music stopped and everybody left, I sat at the bar drinking bottom shelf liquor and bemoaning the gaping hole in my life.

I met my wife around the time I decided to wind down the partying lifestyle. I kept drinking; I just did a lot more of it alone. You can strip away the friends, and the music and the flashy lights, but as long as you have the booze, as long as you get the buzz, none of that matters. I hadn't yet realized I was an alcoholic, because I hadn't tried to stop. That's when you know she has you in her clutches: when you try to leave her, but you keep on coming back. 

It seemed the more I drank, the less I wrote. The less I wrote, the less I felt like a writer. Until I stopped completely. Of course life moved on, as it always does. My wife and I got married and had kids; we eventually faced my addiction, and I failed and failed and failed at conquering it. I had some dry spells, but I'd gradually ease back into casual drinking, and then one night I'd get fucked up and vomit in the bath tub, and I'd start again on the long path to sobriety.

One day, three or four May's ago, the air tingling with the onset of summer and my wife's trust returning, I asked her could I spend some time alone writing. Our son was 6 months old and we lived in a small apartment where space was an issue. So every Monday morning, for a few months, I took myself down to the public library and wrote for a few hours on end. This was perfect, because I was doing a lot of reading: and discovered some wonderful novels in this time. Anyway, I had the idea of writing a thriller/revenge novel. The idea wasn't blistering, but it was okay, and I figured if I could write it well, it would be unique and interesting. After four weeks, I read over it, and it was shit. Absolute garbage. The pacing was all wrong; it read more like a synopsis than a script. It was cheesy and without of any kind of originality or ingenuity. I was gutted. I sat in shock for about twenty minutes, then I got up returned my books to the lady at the counter, and quit writing. Then I went for a beer.

And that leads me to this blog. Which I started sometime in January. Some two and a half years later. I wasn't writing for popularity, or for traffic, or to promote anything; I was just writing for the sake of it: For myself. Although I have to admit I am absolutely thrilled that I have a small few regular readers who seem to love what I write. I'm grateful for their support. So what's this post all about then? Why do I feel my creativity has left me? The answer is: I don't know.

I'm not quitting writing again, or anything rash like that. I need to return to fiction. I need to start reading again, and writing down the ideas that come to me. I need to work those mental muscles so I can produce ideas I'm proud of, not staring at the screen wondering if I should buy a puppy just so I can write a blog post about him shitting on the floor. So maybe this blog will take a back seat a little. Maybe it'll be the stepping stone back into serious writing – which is what I intended it to be in the first place. 

So if I occasionally disappear for a little while, don't panic; I'm not gone anywhere. I've just got some other stuff going on. And maybe I'll even send you all a signed copy of my first novel. After all, guy can dream.

Oedipus, Simple!

Lock Up Your... Cats

My son sleeps with my wife. I sleep in the next room -- his! It’s an arrangement that would make Oedipus himself puce with jealousy. There’s a simple enough explanation for this, and no it doesn’t rhyme with divschmorce. The reason: my son is a fucking bully.

My wife and I have obviously discussed the situation. It used to be my job, but now she’s taken the reins of putting him to bed every night. She claims he won’t go to sleep in his own bed. “Mommy’s bed; Mommy’s bed!!!” he demands, when she takes him up. Mommy doesn’t say no, so the kid winds up passing out on my side of the bed.

In the beginning, I’d simply carry him back in. This was about as effective as eating soup with a fork. Within minutes, the child would be straight back in. Lodging himself between me and my wife. I should point out my wife sleeps with about fifty pillows under her head. No joke, she’s practically sitting up. It’s kinda creepy. But it means me and the kid effectively share half a bed, because he’d need a fucking Sherpa to climb up onto her side. One time, after I returned him to bed for the tenth time that night, I went to use the bathroom. An when I got back to bed... there he was, IN MY BED! It was like a fucking cartoon: you know Pepe Le Pew – the skunk who rapes cats... for the amusement of children – when he’s chasing down his lady, and she keeps running away from him, but there he is wherever she hides? It was like that.

So one night I just climbed into his bed, and had the best sleep I’d had in weeks. I know this, because when he came running in shouting “Daddy, daddy”, at 7am, I actually felt capable of functioning like a regular human being, without mainlining a gallon of coffee. Of course, I had a gallon of coffee anyway. I like coffee.

The only person who wasn’t pleased with this new arrangement was my wife. She missed her husband? I kept her warm at night? She liked to occasionally watch me sleep, serene and vulnerable, but still somehow oh so masculine? None of the above. She had nobody to share baby-feeding duties with (and by share I mean get-him-to-do-all-of-them). Conveniently, she soon discovered that whenever our 5 month old awoke, wailing for a bottle and a new diaper, she had to use the bathroom. Every fucking time! “Baby, would you mind getting Eva? I have to use the bathroom”. And I would trudge down the hall to my (old) bedroom like a zombie – an old-fashioned zombie, not one of those terrifying modern, ultra-fast zombies – and feed my daughter at the foot of the bed, while my son and my wife slept soundly.

At least I like coffee.

It's All About The Money

Under That Jacket, This Guy is RIPPED!

I’m writing this from the sanctuary of the bathroom today. My family keep assaulting me with hugs and love, and demands of my attention. Can’t a guy get some peace. My wife is on a crusade to find all our legal documents. We’re trying to extract as much money from the government as possible. Today’s mission: to claim “Child Allowance”. For the uninitiated, child allowance is essentially free money from the government for having kids. Yup, that’s one of the few perks of living in commie, left-wing Europe. If you cut us, we bleed, eh... red. It’s not insignificant either: I get 260 Euro for my two kids. That’s about $350. A month. That buys a lot of diapers and crayons.

We’re also trying to get registered as a married couple, which will lower my tax rate, because here in commie, left-wing Europe we pay insanely high taxes. It’s so that we can pay everybody “Child Allowance”. I know; I’m from here and I don’t get it. Trying to understand the reasoning of some of our laws would push you to the limits of your sanity, and beyond. I just do what I do whenever I’m faced with something I don’t understand — I just smile and nod. I seem do that a lot. I think it’s weirding people out.

I don’t look at my bank statements much; if I want to read a horror story, I’ll pick up a Stephen King book. But I needed to log in to get some details for my wife. Anyway, I noticed a charge of 67 Euro for something called “Ripped Muscle”. I don’t have ripped muscles, so I’m feeling a little short changed by that. I think I remember signing up for a free sample of some kind of supplement though. I must have given them my debit card number. Why? I hear you ask? Well, isn’t it obvious? I’m fucking retarded, clearly.

I also saw a charge of $167 from Hertz Rent-a-car. I called customer service, and they have no idea what the charge is for. They said they’d call me back. I feel like maybe karma has bitten me in the ass on this one, but we’ll see. I’m sure they’ll find a reason for the charge. Either that or they’ll give me a coupon for $167 worth of car rental, that I’ll never need to use. Either way, I won’t hold my breath for a refund.

Well, I gotta go now, my son is knocking on the door looking for “love” and “affection”. Can’t I get a damn moment to myself?

Giant Cock

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Sex Or The Beard

The Holy Grail of Fat Guys with Beards

“You really need to do something about that… that thing on your face,” was the delightful greeting from my wife this morning. “It’s not even a proper beard; you need to trim it, groom it. It looks like a 1970’s vagina.” I’ve never been a beard guy. I know beards are manly, but what’s more manly than drawing a razor sharp blade across your face every morning? That’s fucking hardcore if you ask me. But I guess every guy, at some point in their life should grow a beard, right? I mean it’s one of the defining qualities of being a guy – our ability to grow a big fuck-off beard. So this is my time.

I had never actually intended on growing one. It just happened when I stopped shaving. It’s a depression beard. When you just about manage to bathe and clothe yourself, shaving is decorative folly. But as the fog lifted, I found the beard to be quite fetching. “It really brings out my lips.” I told my wife. “It makes you look fat.” She countered, unfairly in my opinion. “Actually, you’ll find it’s my fat that makes me look fat; my beard just makes me look awesome.” “I’m not having sex with you ‘til you shave that thing off.” “You know withholding sex only actually works with people who actually have sex with each other.” This statement thus began a huge argument about me not understanding her needs, and never listening to her, etc. (at least I think that’s what she said). But that's ok; it takes the heat off my precious beard.

My kids like my beard too. My three year old keeps asking what it is. “It’s a beard,” I tell him. He seems satisfied. And my 5 month old daughter keeps trying to grab it. I assume that’s an endorsement. Of course, I’ll shave it off eventually. I’m not a beard guy. And anyway, that sharpened steel is calling for my face.

Then my wife can go back to her regular list of reasons not to have sex with me. My morning breath, my bad moods, my inability to communicate with her, my lack of understanding about her illness, my intimidatingly large penis, and a hundred other character flaws that don’t make me Prince fucking Charming. Of course, all I hear is “It’s because you’re fat.”

Of course we have sex sometimes. We have kids, dammit. Kids that look like me. Sometimes we go through spells where the sex is flowing like cheap beer at a frat house. And then, zip… nada. The rain stops falling and the ground becomes arid and desert-like. Right now I’m somewhere in the Sahara. I think I just saw a camel.

I know it’s not going to be like the old days, we have two young kids who give us literally minutes of time to ourselves daily. My wife suffers from a chronic illness, and I’m a depressive, recovering alcoholic. But it’s just sex. Can’t we just fuck in the bathroom at 4 a.m.? I’d be game for that. Either way, until I get some sex, the beard is here to stay!

From beneath....

Well this is awkward. I kinda feel like the family member who borrows a bunch of money, and then disappears for a few years, before showing up at a funeral or some shit. I’m not good with awkward conversation and platitudes, so we’ll gracefully move on and perhaps you’ll listen while I fill you in on the past 3 months of my life.

So on May 6th of this year, my family and I were sent kicking and screaming back to Ireland, by my work. I had tomporarily relocated to Oregon in January 2012 and we had hoped to stay a bit longer there. Somewhere in the region of forever. Alas, it wasn’t to be, and we were sent back to the old country. My wife who is American, didn’t seem to mind a whole lot, despite the loss of our not insignificant expense account. Like I said, she’s American, and I think she is still waiting to see a leprechaun or some shit. Me, I’ve lived here all my life. People tell me all the time how great a place Ireland is to visit, or if they’ve never been, how much they would love to visit. The key word here is “visit”. That is: fly in, kiss the Blarney Stone, drink lots of Guinness and get the fuck out of dodge. When you deal with the high taxes, and shitty infrastructure, and abysmal healthcare, and shitty weather on a daily basis, it becomes akin to a kind of large insane asylum with bad food.

Ok, ok, I’m being harsh. Truth is, our move didn’t go too smoothly, and I’m perhaps a little bitter. Plus there’s fuck all to do when the national past-time is drinking, and you’re an alcoholic. We arrived with nowhere to live and no car. We were staying in my Mom’s and driving a rental, so there was pressure to buy a car and get somewhere to live. After a week I bought a used BMW from the archetypal greasy used car salesman. And as you would expect, within a week, the engine fucking exploded (not literally, it was the exhaust manifold, but I spent a month waiting on the guy to get it fixed). After about three weeks, we found somewhere to live: a slightly overpriced -- but the only place in our search that felt like it could be home -- house in a quiet little neighborhood near work. Unfortunately, this was about two and a half weeks after living with my Mom had become un-fucking-bearable. We hadn’t seen the woman in 18 months, and within days she made it clear our welcome was eroding on pace with my sanity. Disclaimer: I love my mom, and she’s been wonderfully kind to us. It just was way too crowded for us all, and the feeling that we had invaded her privacy swarmed the air like a siren call.

I also realised that I hate my fucking job. The perks, and the cameraderie that I had with the guys in Oregon was not there when I got back to the Irish office. So all I was left with was work itself, which I have little interest or passion for. We’d also eaten into our savings a lot more than we’d anticipated, and then I remembered that alcohol existed. So I started drinking again. Because that’s what total fucking idiots like me do.

So the blog -- this blog -- just kind of died. There was no place for it in my life with two small kids, and settling into a new home, and trying to get your car fixed from a sheister who kept trying to get me to go halves on the cost of repairs (yeah right, pal), and drinking, and guilt, and drinking some more, and a job I hated, and hangovers. Eventually, about two weeks ago, I put the bottle back down. I was deriving little pleasure from it; just numbness. Which is kind of when you know you are an alcoholic. If it’s not social, it’s poison. And my wife and I talked things through. We got some long-standing issues out of the way, and things were better... much better. And I thought about maybe writing again. But it just didn’t happen.

You see, all that other stuff is only half of the story. Because during it all, and maybe because of it all, I fell into a pretty hardcore depression. Not gloominess, or sadness, but a bitter unyielding malaise. Those that suffer from depression can maybe Identify. I’ve been suffering from it for a long time -- it comes and goes with me -- and I’ve been on antidepressants for about 3 and a half years. Those that don’t suffer... it’s almost unexplainable. For me, it’s just an unbearable hollowness -- like somebody just scooped out my insides, everything important about me, and now I’m just left wandering around like Heathcliff’s Cathy, banging on windows and shit, looking for all the important stuff I’ve lost in my life. And that relentless emptiness just wears away at you, until it’s raw and agonising. It’s like heartbreak and  profound apathy rolled into one horrific psychologically scarred ball. And to just play with my kids, or shower, or hug my wife, is a grappling, struggle, like swimming through honey. So yeah, “fuck this blog” was kinda where I was at.

But another part of me missed it deeply. I was aware that I was treading water, that I was barely going through the motions of living a life, and that there were a lot of holes that needed filling, and part of me was desperate to fill them. But when everything is so painful, it’s hard to even know where to start. And in all honesty, there has never really been a time in my life when there haven’t been holes to fill.

I guess I’m out of the deepest part of this depression. I hadn’t seen her face in years, and had almost forgotten her touch, but when you’re gobbling Cymbalta and valium like they’re movie theater popcorn, it’s easier to avoid. It still lingers though. I almost cried tonight, leaving my son for the night shift (crying’s good though -- it’s the numbness, the void, that’s so hateful; crying is a fucking vacation from that). But I’ll keep pushing on. I’ve upped my dosage of meds, and will try to find a good therapist nearby. I might even start meditation again. And as cliche as it sounds, I need to start liking myself. I’ve been through a lot of pain in my life, and most of that was self-imposed. There’s an anchor of guilt and shame hanging around my neck. I’ve hurt people: ex-girlfriends, discarded friends, family... my closest family. Christ! It’s hard knowing there are folk out there who actively despise you, even years after our last countenance. I haven’t just burned bridges; I’ve scorched the earth behind me. Those closest to me have forgiven me, but I’m just not sure if I have.

So I’m back. I can return to describing the zany machinations of my everyday life, while we guffaw in unison at my mild misfortune and embarrassment., m’kay? So just forget you read all this, and we’ll talk soon.

Old Man

Get me off the damn Interweb!

I’m dealing with getting older well. At least I think I am. No longer do I pass frivolous nights in garish bars, trying hard to drown in a well of booze, trying hard to entice women who maybe pass for a seven (when drunk) back to my place for coffee – coffee and sex, trying hard to fit as many pills or powder into my stupid young head, trying hard to balance a lifestyle of excessive vapidity and vapid excess with my sanity. I spent most of my twenties (and some of my teens) living for the weekend, a weekend entailing the above, but with hangovers – I never mentioned the hangovers. Of course, I don’t miss it. It sounds hideous to me; ok I’ve just written it to sound hideous, but looking back it was a truly grotesque way of life. And yeah I’m dealing with the absence of that in my life really well.

 Don’t get me wrong, the hardest part of being a teetotal dad of two younglings and husband of a wife, who’s been unwell of late, is the boredom. The incessant, merciless torrent of boredom. You might think your Saturday nights have dried up a little recently: a bottle of wine and some friends around for a DVD, perhaps; maybe some take out and an early night with your significant other, and a cuddle before the lights go out, wink wink; fuck it, maybe you’re in prison or homeless or a ten year old. Doesn’t matter. You’re still having more fun than me. Last Saturday night, I had the pleasure of watching the movie “Hop” three times in a row before being puked on by both my kids. Meanwhile my wife was upstairs, herself puking – I alone was the only non-puker in my family, and still I would have killed to swap places with her. So later I had to change my daughter’s shitty diaper, which was a fucking delight, because she wasn’t yet finished, so I got to watch that. It went from green to a mustard-yellow color (it looked a bit like mint and butterscotch frozen yogurt, but it did not, repeat: NOT smell like mint and butterscotch frozen yogurt). My wife then felt better just long enough to hold my baby girl (Eva the Diva, as we like to call her, does not like not being held. Ever. I mean EVER… ha ha ha, it’s enough to drive one crazy. Weird huh?) just long enough for me to put my son to bed. Upon his insistence, I told him Goldilocks and the Three Bears about twenty times before he finally settled long enough to sleep. At Ten. Fucking. O. Clock! Finally, I got some alone time with my wife, which lasted about nine seconds before we both crashed into Slumberville.

So yeah, I’m dealing with that aspect of getting older real well. But as I approach my mid thirties (34 is NOT yet mid-thirties; it’s late, early thirties), I’m starting to notice a few …changes. I have bona fide white hairs now. There aren’t many, only one or two, but they’re there, and they weren’t there before. I’m getting aches and pains: I have this tightness inside my shoulder blade that I can never seem to stretch out; and my back… my back is like a game of fucking Jenga. And I can’t get away with eating crap, and not working out anymore. My metabolism is like a steel mill in the rust belt in the 80’s – grinding to a fucking halt. I have zero baldness yet, but I’m getting back-pubes to match my chest-pubes. It’s gross, and I’m too lazy/cheap to get it waxed. Seriously, if the hair doesn’t stop, I’m gonna look like I'm wearing a sweater... under my shirt.

I’m turning into an old grouch too. I don’t like modern music; I don’t understand modern clothes – skinny jeans on girls are great; on guys, not so much. I complain a lot – Exhibit A: This blog. I yell at slow drivers; I yell at fast drivers; I yell at pedestrians; I hit people on bikes. If I had a walking stick I’d shake it at people. A lot. The weather is a fairly prevalent recipient of my wrath; I’m an Irishman living in Oregon, go figure. I’m a pre-middle aged fogey, and guess what? I love it. If I didn’t have anything to complain about, I’d complain about that too. It’s the best thing about growing old, and the older I get, the more cantankerous I get to be.

Now where the hell did I leave my damn pipe and slippers?

More Less Of Me... And A Kitten

I have have zero time at a PC or a laptop for days now. My life this week has been a mixture of screaming, demanding kids, lack of sleep, poor life choices, and a sick wife. The poor life choices were mine and involved alcohol (as 99% of shitty choices are), reminding me why I've abstained for the last few months. It's self-control, people, or lack thereof. I don't have it. If you watch me drink, or spend money, or "snack" before bedtime, it will become apparent why I'm poor and slightly pudgy around the edges. Or at least it becomes less of a surprise.

Anyway, as a consequence, very little action has occurred on my blog for almost a week. To make up for this, I promise I'll spend more time tending to my grubby little corner of the internet, and all you have to do is read the thing. That's a fair deal? Right?

Ok, I've got to go feed and bathe my kids, clean the house, then pick up my poor, sick wife from the hospital. All in all a pretty rock star way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Woohooo!!!

And because you guys loved the hamsters so much, here's a kitten being super-cute ('cos he thinks he's a people):

and some alternatives, for the less cutesy minded:

Surprised Kitty - Darth Vader

Surprised Kitty - Toast

Surprised Kitty - Lego

Some Hamsters Being Hilarious.

I'm exhausted this morning. I was up late with her, I was woken during the night to feed her, and I was up early with her. She has a Mother too, apparently. We should try to find that lady.

Anyway, for those of you in need of a good laugh, and because I have two kids to look after and am, at this moment, unmedicated, and therefore not going to write anything, I bring you: some hamsters being hilarious:

Have a great day :)

Video Killed The Dad Blogger

Why can't the TV eat my Kids?

Last week, I had to leave work early a couple of times and even take a day off. My wife has been unwell, and seeing as how caring for our two kids would drive a perfectly healthy person into the realm of madness, it’s been a bit too much for her while sick, so naturally I’ve had to miss some time to help out. Truth be told, I wasn’t too pleased about this. Understand something: I fucking hate my job; it’s tedious, boring and perfunctory, except on those occasions when it’s hectic, stressful and perfunctory. I suppose in many ways, you get what you put in, but I have no passion for it. It pays the bills, so I swap my time, and some labor for cash. Yes, I’m a whore. And yet, I wanted nothing more than to stay there until quitting time today. Because my house is fucking nuts.

Today, my wife and I have been working on a system of segregation, which has worked reasonably well: she’s been upstairs, napping with the baby in a mellow Lennon-Ono style love-in, whilst downstairs I have gradually been losing the will to live trying to keep my son happy. And by happy, I mean not yelling and screaming and hopping up and down making the floorboards shake (his latest trick). The changeovers have been the worst; he’s up with her now, trying to sleep, while she’s currently vegging on my lap, in that glorious, post-bottle stoner haze. Unfortunately, for the child trade to take place, they had to be in the same room as one another for two minutes. And so my wife and I were treated to a fucking world-class mini person scream-off. Two tiny kids screaming in some kind of perverted, fucked-up harmony, perfectly keyed to drive my wife and I out of our minds. Dante, if you’re reading this from somewhere beyond the grave… there was a tenth fucking circle.

Anyway, most of the day was spent hanging out with the little dude, watching DVDs. And if you don’t have kids, you probably just read through that line like it was nothing… right? But if you do have kids, you’ll know the pain involved in sitting down to watch a movie with your child. My favorite movies range from comedy, to action, to drama. Films such as Star Wars; E.T.; The Shawshank Redemption; Planes, Trains & Automobiles; Goodfellas. The list is not perfect, but there are two notable things about it: 1, the target market of these movies is above the age of six; 2, I’ve only seen these movies a few times each (I’ve seen Star Wars maybe 5 times). My son’s favorite movies, however, include the groundbreaking “Alvin & The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel”, the award winning “Smurfs”, and the timeless classic “Stuart Little 2”. And guess what? I’ve seen each of these movies, and more – many, many more – about five hundred-fucking-thousand times each.

Watching movies with your kid is a strange sort of torture. At first, you’re not even aware of it: you sit down with your little boy or girl and watch Shrek, or Wallace and Gromit, or one of the many wonderful Pixar movies, and you enjoy it. “This is awesome,” you think, “I don’t see what’s wrong with this.” And you laugh at the jokes aimed at adults, and you even laugh at some of the ones aimed at kids, and your child curls into your lap, and you both laugh together… and all of these things only lend to the nightmarish qualities of the eventual horror in store for you.

So the movie ends, and you wonder what you’ll do next. You could do painting, go to the park, maybe read a story… then a little voice pipes up: “Pwess pway, daddy.” Hmm! Not too sure you’re in the mood to watch it again, you acquiesce as your child’s impatience steadily grows. So you watch it again, and this time you might smile knowingly at the adult jokes, maybe laugh at one you missed on the previous viewing, meanwhile your child cackles manically at the jokes aimed at kids, he or she curls up into your lap, but you nudge them away so you can play with your phone. And then the video ends. “Pwess pway,” your crazy little spawn demands again. What? No! Not again, let’s watch another one… anythi-- “PWESS PWAY!!!” Ok, ok. And gradually your descent into madness begins its inexorable crawl “Do it to Mommy!” you scream, “Do it to Mommy.” While the monster you bore laughs on.

Try it. Put your favorite movie on and watch it two or three times, day after day, after day. If you can handle that shit, you are stronger than me. If it doesn’t forever destroy that movie for you, you are inhuman. Fucking Soviet Russia could’ve learned a thing from this. The Nazi’s, the Japanese, you name it. Unit 731? Dr. Mengele? They have nothing on my three year-old and his DVD collection.

My wife and I are up to speed with all the DVD release dates, just to inject something fresh into the mix, to allow our minds 80 minutes of relief. We obsess over them “Oh My God, look – Wreck-It-Ralph is out next week, honey.” And a round of high fives ensues. As an act of rebellion, I’ve started quoting long stretches of dialogue from the movies. For some reason, my son abhors this. He begs me to stop. But I don’t. It’s all I have left.

Of course, now my daughter is just a few months old, so roughly when my son grows out of this current batch of kids’ movies, she’ll be there ready to take his place, forcing me to sit through them all over again. I think I’m going to need a hobby, or a drug habit, or something to get through this. Anyway, I gotta go… my son is asking (demanding) to watch “The Smurfs” for the eight billionth time.

The Reach Zone

Imma get that shit!

There is an imaginary line in every room, every shopping mall, every street… everywhere. This imaginary line is about four foot high, and anything left below this line will be cause, or consequence, of the most hostile of abuse. For most folk, this line is invisible – non-existent – but for the parent of a toddler, this line is the first fucking thing you see when you enter a room. For you see, this line isn’t imaginary at all; it is the boundary between life and death; between sanity and insanity. We call it ‘The Reach Zone’.

You will always know when you’re standing in the home of a small child – there is nothing… nothing beneath this line that isn’t made by Fisher Price or Mattel. And when you see the parent’s of one of these little sprouts enter the room of a regular person (a “normal”, we call them), you will see the palpable expression of panic appear on said parent’s face. “Holy shit, they keep stuff on the coffee table?”, “What the hell is that? It looks expensive!” and always “Oh Jesus, is that a fucking candle? Save us!!!”

My Dad used to remind us, my brother and I, of the time we shattered my Uncle’s expensive guitar while they sat in the next room chatting. I have no recollection of this, and thus only minor guilt, which I think pisses my Uncle off almost as much as the incident itself. But seriously, who doesn’t hear two toddlers obliterate a fucking acoustic guitar in the next room?

You become so accustomed to keeping stuff out of your kid’s reach, that it becomes automatic. Nothing gets left out. Everything of danger to a toddler (and that’s everything) is kept hidden, not just from arms reach, but from sight too. And everything that is in danger from a child gets the same treatment (that too is pretty much everything). You are a fucking ninja at keeping your house as safe and damage free as possible. The only danger you face is complacency. That, or arrogance, will be your undoing. Because it might take a while, but eventually you will fuck up.

Today, my three year old boy got a hold of the Desitin. Do I need to continue? I could end this post now, and it wouldn’t matter: because already you have a picture of the unmitigated carnage that befell our household today. Thankfully I was at work when this happened, for two reasons: firstly, I’d have been blamed, and second, I’d have had to assist in cleaning it up. Actually, my wife would have diligently rolled up her sleeves and got to work, while I sweated, panicking; dabbing here and there at large mounds of thick, white, glutinous paste (or what the missus calls a Saturday night – kidding, kidding). All the while my wife would clean up 99% of the mess. Which is exactly what happened, except I got to remain relatively sweat free from the confines of work.

My Son: If he becomes a clown, I disown him.

Suffice it to say, the Desitin has been placed far beyond the reach of tiny fingers, where it shall remain. And probably three or four years from now, when my son is old enough to know better, and my daughter is patrolling the lower reaches of our home, we’ll find jars of hot pink nail polish dumped across the beige carpets of our bedroom floor. Because it might take a while, but eventually you will fuck up.

Picture Perfect

That good-looking guy in my profile picture, right there at the bottom of my sidebar. That guy in black and white, with the cheesy smile and the scruffy-chic hair? Yeah, he's a lie. He doesn't exist. The guy writing this is an older, fatter version. Don't get me wrong, that's definitely me, it's just me four or five years ago, before I had kids, before I got married, and before I quit the gym and stopped kidding myself that protein shakes were an adequate substitution for cheeseburgers.

"How could you deceive us like this?" I hear you cry. "We thought you were a moderately good-looking youngish man, and now we find you are an average looking, average aged man! The lies!!!! The lies!!!" Well I'm sorry, but there are a number of reasons for my betrayal. Firstly, it's what my mother would call a "white lie", it's technically not entirely a mistruth, and who is it really hurting (aside from the lustful young ladies whose dreams and hopes have been shattered)? I could look like that again, if I liked. Aside from the extra twenty...ish pounds I've added, I'm aging quite well. No crow’s feet, no grey hairs. I could hit the gym, and purge myself of fast food and soda. And chocolate. And ice cream and cake. And... well, and pretty much everything I eat. I could start buying my clothes at A&F again (with da popped colla!), and go back to fancy expensive hair salons (yes, I was one of those guys). I could use moisturizer and exfoliate. And I would look at least as good as that guy. Probably better (truth be told, I was already beginning to tank when this was taken – I'd, by now, hooked my wife into a long term relationship). So really, that guy still exists: I just ate him. 

Another reason I don't have a more recent picture is because there are literally no good photos of me in existence since the turn of the decade. I don't just mean because I've let myself go. I still have the same face, and while I'm no George Clooney, I'm certainly not Quasimodo's twin brother either. I just don't have any pictures where I'm sober, or smiling, or without a wan paper-thin smile draped over thick layers of anxiety and depression. Most of the portraits I've taken recently have been with my newborn daughter. Or with my son. In most of those I look exactly like the dad of two small kids: like I haven't shaved in days, like I'm  about six weeks overdue on a haircut, like I look as if I maybe had a quick shower -- we're talking "Apply, Lather, Rinse". No fucking "Repeat" for me. Not on my son's watch.

There's more to it than that though (and this is where the sad, dramatic, violin-ey music comes in). Look at me. Look at how fucking relaxed I am. We're not talking stiff-drink-and-a-valium-relaxed either. Which was my go-to source of relaxation for most of my adult life. We're talking the kind of relaxation that comes with being in love, without a care in the world, free of all responsibility, with a healthy disposable income, and a penchant for having fun. I’m on vacation, having cocktails and cheesecake Goddammit! This photograph fell within a three month window when I felt completely free. And it shows in that photo. And in all the other photos since, I haven't fucking felt that way. And that shows too. I'm happy, and I'm deeply in love – with my wife and my kids. I'm financially dependent, and I'm healthy, but that's maybe one of two times in my adult life when I've felt like I had the universe by the balls. The other was when I was 20, which doesn't really count. And I probably won't feel this way again until I'm an old man... and that's ok.

After you have kids, nothing is ever the same again. You start to see the world differently; everything becomes a "what if", or a "but maybe" or a "oh shit". You know when you're a teenager and you steal your dad's Ferrari and drive it all around Chicago, and you're worried about your cocky best friend scratching it, well multiply that by a fucking million when you have kids. When the weight of every poor parenting decision, every strange looking rash, every heart-ending moment when you lose sight of your kid for a millisecond at the mall or the playground, stays with you day and night, you know then that you'll never quite relive your carefree twenties. But I wouldn't swap a second with my two little Ferraris for one more photograph like that. Being a parent is the hardest, most taxing, most willfully, endlessly stressful thing you'll ever endure, and yet it's worth every second of it.