I'm a Selfish Prick

The family and I took a stroll through downtown Chicago yesterday to snap a few photos of my boy’s Flat Stanely for his “what Flat Stanley and I did during Spring Break” homework project. As we’re walking around Millennium Park I notice a family with four kids come strolling by.

My normal response to seeing families with three or more children is to drop to my knees and give big props to the magnificent creature who thought-up the procedure to make a man’s testicles incapable of producing baby-batter ever again.

After completing this feat, I dusted off my knees and continued to watch in amazement to see how this family would deal with four young kids in a tourist-infested area. And what I saw was the wife, slowly, strategically backing away from the family and then disappearing into the crowd. It was absolutely magical.

I so badly wanted to call her out on it…but in a cool way—like offering her a beer to celebrate her efficiency. You know…while the wife and kids continue on and I promise to catch-up later.

The wife and I always wanted kids and knew we wanted them while we were still young so that when we got into our early 40s they would hopefully be moving on to college; or signing their multi-million dollar football deal; or marrying some incredibly rich dude who pays me to never work again so I can hang out, drink with him and make him laugh all day while my daughter makes us meals.

We were amazingly fortunate and able to crank out two little nippers pretty quick and thus the journey began.

I feel there are two majorities of people out there: those who LOVE children and were born to raise them, and those who love children, enjoy raising them, but subconsciously can’t freakin’ wait till they’re 18 years old.

It’s not really something you 100% know about yourself until you have a kid or two of your own. Then it hits you out of the blue and you realize which majority of people you fit into.

A couple months ago the wife and I were riding in the car, alone, when I reached over, grabbed her hand and said, “thank you for letting me pay that nice young doctor fellow to take a knife to my coin purse.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“I love our kids more than anything and you know that. But I can honestly say that I’m way too selfish to ever have more than two kids.”

I cringed because I’d just crossed that line of things you should never say out loud. We clearly already knew we were done after two, but we never revealed to each other why.

A reassuring smile of relief crept across her face as she held her hand up for a high-five and said, “me too!! Waaaayyy too selfish. I love my sleep, my blanket, and my quiet way too much. But I do love the kids…don’t get me wrong. I really really love them!”

“Oh yeah, no…that’s a given. We have stupid love for them…but still…can you imagine more of them?”

“NO…no…I can’t.”

We made love later that night. She made me wear a condom… “just in case.”

My New Road

Yesterday I officially became unemployed. My severance ran out, Cobra kicked in, and the wifey and I stood staring at each other holding calculators and shaky, hopeful grins.

Three months ago I was given a choice from my employer – take half the pay immediately and you won’t be guaranteed a job come the end of the fiscal year, or take your full pay and benefits for three months and look for another job. After a weekend of sleepless nights and long discussions, the wifey and I chose the latter.

I’ve had one iron in the fire the whole time—a great job working for an organization that would allow me to rock a newly created position. I’ve worked with, and known, the executive director for a couple years and she is eager to bring me on. The only constraint thus far has been the internal bureaucracy requiring dozens of people to sign off on the job description and another dozen to oversee the posting of the job before it’s awarded to the “qualified candidate.”

Supposedly I’m to start work a week from today.

I’ve changed quite a bit over the past three months. I’ve spent a considerable amount time alone…in my home…on the phone…on the computer….but very little face time with people. I’ve seen my Achilles-heel. I’ve seen it look me dead in the eye with its “sexy come-hither” look. I’ve been angry as shit. I’ve been depressed. I’ve taken it out on my wife, my kids, my friends and family…myself.

I’ve drank too much, felt too sorry, looked for oblivious forces to blame it on such as…karma. I’ve looked back at my life and picked it apart… “what if I didn’t move to Chicago?” “What if I’d taken that job in North Carolina..?”

What if…

And at the end of the day, after all that wondering, I’m still here, in Chicago with my family and friends, about to start a new job after ONLY three months. I’m still here…in my life…not my life’s past…but my life now.

Where it is…right now.

And I’m so fortunate. I’m so lucky to be where I am. I’ve met more people than I care to have met who’ve been unemployed so much longer than I was.

Tomorrow I’m meeting with my new boss to talk further about the job and to begin signing paper work. Within a week or two I’ll be employed again, making a paycheck, benefits, and picking up the pieces. We’ll struggle to fill the short gap between paychecks, but we’re fortunate it’s only a short gap and confident it’ll work out.

But there’s still one thing that’s keeping me from fully enjoying the knowledge of this good fortune. It’s that I know I’ve changed. I’m not who I was three months ago. I’m not who I was two years ago. In fact, I have no fucking clue who I am right now. I feel like I’ve lost some type of identity, direction, path, or journey. I’ve lost something that I desperately need to recover.

I’ve always felt that our 30s were such a fickle time. The 20s it’s all about starting the career and finding that love. The 30s are all about, “OK, I’m in the career, I’ve got my love, maybe some kids on the way….” and then it all hits home. Like a cannon to the chest. You have no idea who you are…

I am fortunate. I have a phenomenal wife. I look in my kids’ eyes and I undoubtedly know they adore me. I have a job on the horizon. I am fortunate.

And so that will be my focus. Despite this nagging, empty feeling of self-purpose, I’ll funnel my energy and heart into family and my career.

I’ll do that, but not without ignoring the fact that this journey has absolutely ripped my chest open and given me front row seats to my soul and then handed me the keys along with the responsibility to choose my new road.

My new road…

Time To Get Off This Spot

It’s been some time since I last updated on my current situation.

The summary…Big-eared, gap-toothed freak gets job in Chicago, lives in empty house on air mattress alone in Chicago while his family tries to sell their house in Virginia, four months later said family moves to Chicago, freak works at new job for exactly18 months before being given a choice to stay at half the salary or leave and get full salary for three full months…gap-toothed freak decides to leave after searching soul and talking with friends, colleagues and family.

December 1, 2009, was the first day of unemployment and the beginning of a pretty incredible internal journey. I woke up and had nowhere to go. The kids went to school, the wifey headed off to her job, and there I was…disheveled, hung-over from feeling sorry for myself the night before, scratching myself, and looking around the house thinking, “OK…now what?”

I had a brief explosion of support from my kick-ass Twitter peeps. I pimped my resume far and wide, and met and talked to some really great, helpful people.

This is a really bad comparison, but I imagine this is kind of what it’s like when you lose someone close to you. You find out who your true friends are and they rally around you. And, for a short time you feel like you can conquer the world. But then they leave because they have their lives to live. They have their families to take care of…

Then I found myself one early morning seven weeks later standing there, disheveled, hung-over from feeling sorry for myself the night before, scratching myself, and looking around the house thinking, “I have absolutely no place in this life.”

What used to be 5 a.m. daily runs have turned into 6:45 a.m. snooze-bar workouts.

I drink more than I should at night because…well because fuck it, I don’t have to work tomorrow.

I didn’t shave or cut my hair for weeks and was introduced by the wifey to the term “beard funk.”

My son was sitting on my lap the other day and reached out and poked my stomach.

I find myself regularly and randomly telling the cat secrets and make him “pinky-swear not to tell!!”

After interviewing for what would be my dream job, I got an email letting me know they’re “pursuing another candidate.”

Last week I spent the day with the executive director of a great organization here in the Chicago suburbs. I’ve worked with her since I’ve been in Chicago and she wanted to discuss a new position being created that she wants me to take. She has to go through the motions associated with advertising it, but when all is said-and-done, she says the job is mine. Of course I won’t consider it mine till the paperwork is signed and I’m on board, but still it’s a huge relief.

And as phenomenal and fortunate as that is, I’m still here in this spot. The spot where I’ve stood since the day I was let go. Watching life pass by each day. A ghost of me interacting with my family and friends. Self pity lurking in every corner ready to be grasped as an excuse when needed.

So why am I not happy with this very fortunate news? And I realized, I’m ecstatic with the news, I’m just not happy with myself and how I’ve handled this situation. And even more so—I think I’ve been waiting for someone to come by and pick me up, fix things, show me the new course to follow, then pat me on my ass and say, “now go get em tiger!”

But life doesn’t happen like that. Life’s going to continue with or without me—that much I have learned. And I’ve got such a great group of family and friends—but they all have their lives to lead too.

All you parents out there who’ve seen Nemo 4,398,219 times remember the scene when Marlin and Dory are with the turtles riding the East Australian Current and little Squirt gets tossed out into the still water. Crush, the father, says, “let us see what little Squirt does flying solo.”

It’s time for me to move off this spot. It’s time for me to cut the hair, trim the beard, get back in my regular routine, and leap back into the wild ride of the current of life I’ve ignored for too damn long. No one’s going to come out there and grab me and pull be back in. I’ve gotta do it on my own.

Baseball in Chi-Town Scares Me

So we took the boy to sign up for baseball last weekend.

There’s something people should know about Midwesterners. These snowbound freak shows LOVE baseball almost as much as they love a four-wheel jacked-up snow blower that can run 0 to 60 in three seconds while microwaving a bratwurst and holding their Old Style.

I’ll never forget the first run I took while in the Chicago burbs of Oak Park. It was May, the sun was out, it was about 50 degrees, and I was enjoying my first look at the neighborhood I was temporarily living in. I noticed historic houses, cars, good looking moms walking with baby strollers, and then it hit me. In front of every-other house was a father and son, or daughter, throwing a baseball. Cubs and White Sox flags hanging everywhere.

It seemed like even women gathering along the sidewalk were all “Ya…we’re gonna split season tickets at Wrigley this year with Bob and Marge…” (please re-read with a Fargo midwest accent attached)

When I got home I immediately turned the TV on to try and find a baseball game. The laptop flew up and while dripping sweat all over the keyboard I frantically pulled up the Cubs website to learn everything I possibly could about this cursed team. I was scared shitless!!!

I had that same feeling this past weekend when we walked into the local high school to sign the boy up for baseball. They had “farm” league and “prep” league. I was a deer in headlights watching kids warm up with their fathers as the sign-in lady was sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher as she tried to explain the difference between “farm” and “prep.”

Despite the fact it was 10 degrees outside, sweat was trickling down my back as I watched a six-year-old hum a baseball over a 30 foot space back and forth with his dad. Seven year olds wearing numbers on their back were taking turns running down the first base line while a lady (well, I think she was a lady...come to think of it she may have had a beard) with a stop watch timed them. A line of fathers leaned against the gym wall were intensely watching every move their kids made while fighting back the overwhelming urge to rip their clothes off down to their loin cloth thong and beat their chests.

I was fucking scared out of my mind!

“Ummm…my seven-year-old’s never played organized baseball. Which league should we sign-up for that will keep him away from those kids?” I asked the lady, pointing at the six-year-old pitching a 40-mph strike.

With a half smirk and slight chuckle, she blew the dust off a form and handed it to me to fill out, “Prep. Your boy should DEFINITELY be in prep league. NEXT!,” she yelled as my sweaty shaking hand pulled the form from her hand and I looked around to see if my face was being televised on a jumbo-screen with the words “Deadbeat ‘Prep League’ Dad” written below it.

With that out of the way, and a few sessions with my therapist, I’m actually looking forward to the baseball season.

I look forward to seeing the boy learn basic skills, maybe hit a few good balls here and there, and getting a feel as to whether he’s really into the game or not. But most importantly—I’m fascinated to see how the parents will be. Oh sure, I’ll bring a gun with me to the games just to make sure no one gives my boy shit for striking out or running straight to third base after a good hit.

But I’ll also bring with me my pad and pen…cause you guys are definitely going to be the first to hear the rantings that are sure to come spewing from these rabid baseball fan’s mouths.



I Would Totally Suck as a Terrorist

So this sack of shit Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab tried to blow up an airplane coming into Detroit on ChristmasDay. There’s so many screwed up things wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to begin. I guess the most important is—why Detroit? I mean seriously…I have a new respect for Detroit living in Chicago and being so close to Michigan – but damn, Detroit is struggling!!! It’s the poster child for our shitty economy! So what in the hell kind of damage is dropping a plane in Detroit gonna do to the bigger USA picture? (no offense people that live there—I only mean that hypothetically!)

Anyway, the bottom line is, this sack of shit made it through security with all kinds of crap tied to his body. I kinda wish I’d thought of that earlier. I totally would have strapped my after-shave, mouthwash, and hair gel to my thighs and hips if I’d known I would have just breezed through security. Damn I hate learning kick-ass lessons from other people.

(Yes, this is really me. I'd like to thank the wifey for having the patience

to take this. I'd like to also thank Baby Jesus for being there, and most of

all, Marmaduke for just being you my man.)

But, I guess I have many down-falls which pretty much would keep me off any potential terrorist list that ever existed. What? What are they? Well…OK – here’s the top 10 reasons why I’d fuckin’ suck as a terrorist.

1)  Literally the second after I walk out of a store from buying the wifey a present, I call 10 people to tell them what it is, and usually within one minute of walking in the door, I’m all “so uhh..you wanna open a present early? I mean, cause you should. Cause I bought you something, wanna see it?!”

2)  I HATE any type of clothing or straps touching my body. Hence the Pants Optional Friday. Seriously, when I had to wear a heart monitor for a day, strapped to my belly with wires attached to my chest…I just laid in bed all day wanting to die.

3)  As much as I’ve flown during my life you’d think it was comfortable for me. And it kinda is…but not so much. So mix that with me being on a plane knowing I’m gonna blow it up!!! I’d drink to try and deal with it, then I’d get all “let’s party bitches!!!” and then I’d rip my shirt off and everyone would see the explosives and it just wouldn’t be pretty.

4)  I get nervous taking my cell phone through security. I mean, what if they confiscate the picture I pic-messaged the wifey last year of my...well, of my "thingy?" I mean, I was kinda proud of it, so I really wouldn’t mind if they stole it…but I’m pretty sure the wifey would be horrified. She called me within two minutes of sex-texting that pic to her, all “what the fuck is your problem? You just sent me a picture of your ding-a-ling? What’s wrong with you?!”

5)  I’m pretty sure that at the rate I’m going with this blog…I would have already written about my potential efforts to be a terrorist before it even happened which probably would have ended badly.

6)  My son would talk me out of it. His soul is still untainted and solid and I love him for that. If only we could all stay that way! He’d totally be all “but daddy why? Airplanes are good. And they’re all shiny and stuff and look cool in the sky and when they fly-by all loud and stuff I can say ‘shit’ and ‘damn’ and you won’t hear me cause they’re so loud!!”

7)  Because I have the whitest, most non-threatening name there could possibly be. And…well….I look like I’m too much of a tool to even be considered as a terrorist. They’d pull me aside for “special screening” and just spend 10 minutes laughing, all “if I ever look this white, just shoot my ass.”

8)  I can’t even light a damn grill without screwing it up. Seriously! I admit it…I’ve walked away from a fully-stocked grill, full gas tank, in total frustration cause I couldn’t get the damn thing light. And I swear as I walked away, the damn thing lit itself.

9)  Cause I’m too fucking tired to plot a damn thing. I mean, I’ve been with the kids for a month, with no job, only a few hours of the day alone, and I’m tired. Checking my email puts me over the edge. I just want to sleep….let alone strap shit on, fight traffic to the airport, sit next to some chatter box, act all normal and shit, then at the end have to remember what mixes with what and why? Screw that man!

10)  Cause I’m just not that angry. I mean…I’m angry when the wifey says, “can’t we just watch TV for a bit” when I ask her for sex, but that doesn’t want to make me blow shit up! Well…maybe it does, but not a plane!

So in conclusion – I’m lucky I can even breathe on my own and tie my own shoes. Oh – and I hope Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab gets a hot poker in his ass…twice.