My Life Is Already Crazy So Why Are You Trying To Drive Me Insane?

I knew this holiday season would be hard. My parents would be visiting for the first time since we announced our divorce. I knew I’d be crashing on a mattress in the basement of my home that I no longer live in so that my parents could stay in the guest room and we could all be there together (with my soon to be ex) to watch my kids open presents on Christmas morning.

I knew my parents would have a lot of questions and that they would ask them every night. I knew it would be awkward around the house for everyone, no matter how well I get along with my future ex.

I knew it would be a long week with me having the kids the whole time while also basically taking care of my 81 and 78 year old parents. I knew it would be weird to essentially skip all the holiday festivities with friends that in the past I did with my entire family. I knew it would be a hard week.

But I didn’t know my parents would in their own sweet unintentional way drive me to the brink of insanity. Let me just focus on what I haven’t totally repressed from my mind (yet).

I don’t drink coffee, but my parents do. I never know what they want and we usually need other rations, so I took them to the grocery store on the way home from the airport. I told them to grab their coffee and that I’d pay for it and whatever else they wanted. They spent over ten minutes examining the various options for instant decaf coffee. They looked at labels, sizes, and of course, overall price. They lamented how all the prices were so much more than in Florida. They paced from one end of the coffee section to the other. They had furrowed brows, scowls and contempt for whomever had the right to charge ten cents more for coffee in Colorado than the good grocers in Florida. They couldn’t believe there were shelf-talker coupons for hot chocolate and tea nearby, but no offers for coffee. Nothing was on sale.

They asked if I had my King Soopers card because they forgot theirs. There are no King Soopers in Florida. I couldn’t believe they had their own shopper card for my grocery store.

I finally asked what coffee they drink. And when I reached for the package of their hometown choice, while completely oblivious to the price and size; they nearly had a synchronized heart attack. Their bony crooked little hands reached out to stop me from so carelessly selecting a major coffee brand of such ridiculous price. All the other brands were within a nickel of the same price. They rebuked me for my extravagance and debated among themselves between an off brand of swiss vanilla decaf something and some other caffeinated flavor. It was clear that neither of them liked either kind, but they were by far the cheapest on the shelf. So they selected one of them.

FYI, my dad had a grand total of one cup of that coffee the entire week. And my mom? Well, every morning, I went out to get them a newspaper and brought her back a fricking Starbucks because I knew she hated their cheap ass swiss vanilla shit.

My dad loves pickles. He likes the kind with no sugar added. There were only two kinds on the shelf with no sugar added. But they weren’t on sale. A different kind, with sugar, had a coupon for fiddy cents off at the register. He held on to that jar of sale pickles while he quadruple checked the shelf for discounted no-sugar options that might have escaped his first perusal. He even asked a passing grocery store employee for help. I began to scowl and furrow my brow. He selected the sale pickles.

My dad doesn’t walk all that well anymore. He was using the cart as a walker and limping along at a snails pace. I put four potatoes in the cart and I noticed him very slowly limp from the cart to the potato bins to check other options (to see if there was anything cheaper). As he limped back, my mom asked him to grab a few handfuls of green beans that were about twenty feet away. The cart was just five feet away. He chose the cart and then slowly and dramatically tried to weave his way through the produce obstacle course of narrow aisles and random displays of fruits. After three cart bumps and stalls, my mom rolled her eyes and got the beans herself.

I kind of felt sorry for my dad until we got to the back of the store. I was picking something up and when I turned around, I saw our cart was abandoned. I glanced around and spotted my dad briskly walking to the donut section of the bakery. He loves his maple glazed donuts, let me tell you.

When we got to the self checkout, I scanned everything, paid and was about to throw away the receipt. My dad protested loudly and insisted on getting to look it over. I think he spent ten minutes going over everything line item by line item with various comments on how prices compare to Florida.

We drove by the one and only gas station in about a five mile radius from the house. My dad noticed how our gas prices are lower than in Florida. Ha! He asked what the average price has been lately. When I told him I had no idea, his jaw dropped. I told him when I need gas, I go buy it. At the closest station to wherever I am when I notice I need gas. Which often times is the place we just passed – the only one in the neighborhood. I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna price shop gas and drive five plus miles to do it.

Fuck. I have written four pages along these lines. I’m editing this down into multiple blogs. The stories about our dinners are getting cut out for next time. I am going to end now before I get caught up in how they refuse to dirty up more than one glass regardless of the fact that in one day they will consume coffee, water, juice, beer, wine and booze.

I am related to these people. God help me.

My Wife Really Needs to Get a Boyfriend

Seriously. I was over there for like three hours the other night basically being her house boy. I thought the honey-do list got tossed out when you are going through a divorce. Why do we have to be so damn amicable! Of course, I’m very happy we are getting along so well. Keeping lawyers out of it has been great.

We have a law firm as a client and just walking into their office to talk about good things like marketing and making money still feels different in their mahogany clad corporate conference rooms. Their lobby costs more than my entire office space. Lawyers totally give me the heebie-jeebies.

We had a big meeting with them yesterday to talk about 2010 advertising. Denver is a laid back business town and I haven’t worn a tie to work since I lived in Chicago. But I do have to dress up a little for this client. So, I had on a nice starched button up shirt.



Note how I look constipated (the picture was taken in the bathroom after all) and that I appear to have a mini showerhead growing out of my head. I also wore a black sport coat. I can often get away with that getup and a nice pair of jeans; but I broke out the formal black pants for this meeting.



I also wore my nice watch instead of my ratty velcro Timex Ironman watch that hasn’t timed any runs of mine in fricking months. Good to go for the big law firm meeting, right?

I was running around all morning doing other things in Boulder near my condo. I got a lot done and finally had to head into Denver for the meeting. I was driving to the turnpike and realized I forgot something at my condo. I was just five minutes away, so I turned around.

I unlocked my door and dropped my keys. That is when I noticed this:



Yep, I had on two different shoes. I almost wish I hadn’t noticed. It would have been a fun game to see when I or someone else would have noticed. I’m sure I would have been leaning back in the law firm conference room, crossing and uncrossing legs, switching sides and tapping my shoes with my pen or something to unconsciously draw attention to the mismatch.

They say “if the shoe fits, wear it,” right? There is nothing in there about making sure they match.

SexyTimes

A friend of mine has an interesting theory about why older women like younger men. My friend is a woman, by the way. So I think her theory has more validity than if it were coming from a man. On the other hand, this same friend has tried to convince me that there really is nothing wrong with people having sexual relations with animals. I have to admit she put up a good argument and even consulted with outside resources to make some points. But I’ve always followed my heart more than my brain and I gotta tell you that fucking a sheep just doesn’t seem right no matter how convincing my Ivy League friend is.

On the other other hand, is there some sort of level of acceptance for how much sexytimes with animals is too much and how much is okay in a freak show and/or entertaining kind of way? I’ve heard of the Donkey Shows in Mexico and there are all kinds of nasty animal porn out there. What about when my other friend’s best friend had to jack off a dog for work (so she claims it was for work)? That story wasn’t as gross as it was just damn funny. Is sex with animals supposed to be funny?

Why is this blog beginning to give me the heebie jeebies? Who came up with heebie jeebies anyway? Checking The Google. Huh. An American comic-strip cartoonist named De Beck is getting credit for coining ‘heebie jeebies’ in the first decade of the 1900s. There is a time when it would have taken hours at the library sifting through card catalogues, encyclopedias and old books to figure out what The Google just told me in about five seconds. Amazing. Like me.

Anyway, my friend that must want to have sex with animals and is therefore trying to justify the legitimacy of it; has this theory about older women. By older women, we are defining them as over thirty. She says that when a guy and a gal are dating in their teens and twenties, the guy always wants to get laid, but the gal will require there to be love involved. She wants to be loved and cherished forever before she bends over.

My friend the animal lover is in her thirties and back in the dating scene. She of course wants to be loved and cherished forever. But it isn’t necessarily a key requirement for intimacy. I’m not saying she is dropping her drawers on the first date, but she could if she wanted to, or at least she expects some lip locking if she likes the guy. But she is finding the situation has flip flopped. Now, these guys in their thirties and forties are taking things so slowly. They want to get to know her and develop a relationship before they even kiss!

My animal desiring friend is gorgeous, smart, funny and is a catch for anyone. But it seems that most of these older guys want to be loved and cherished before they round first base. What does a woman have to do to get some sexytimes? Not all women are comfortable turning to animals, so this is a serious matter!

Her theory is that women over thirty are turning to younger guys because they are the ones who still just want to get laid. And guess what? Sometimes the women just want to get laid too.

Older women and younger men just want sex. Older men and younger women want a loving relationship. Interesting theory.

Oh What a Feeling

I am easily amused and easy to please. Yes, I am easy. Get out of the gutter; there is not enough room for you with me in there anyway. I am easy going. Many things make me happy. Some things cause a greater feeling of joy than others. I am lucky that one of the greatest feelings in the world, for me, is something that actually happens fairly often. I never know for sure if it will happen, but I know when the possibility is there. If it doesn’t happen; I’m not disappointed. But when it does happen; I am the happiest person in all the land.

What makes you happy? There are so many things.

When an old friend calls you out of the blue.

Winning a game of backgammon.

That feeling your body has after a great workout.

That magical moment in bed with your somebody special.

When you win new business.

Going on a trip.

Winning the lottery.

An ice cold beer on a hot sunny day.

Sitting with friends around a campfire.

Hiking around the next bend.

Making other people laugh.

The bleachers of Wrigley Field.

Standing on top of a mountain.

Shiny things.

A strong hug.

Hot fudge.

That person’s smile you can’t stop thinking about.

Writing.

Sushi.

Laughs that make you tear up.

An awesome book.

I could go on and on. That was twenty happy things in no particular order. I think your mood and circumstances can play into different things making you happiest at different times of the day or points in your life.

But I have one single thing that rules the Happy Meter. It makes me happy 100% of the time, no matter what. The physical happy event lasts just a couple seconds, but the happy feeling lasts forever. Okay, please get out of the gutter again. Yes, *that* makes me very happy too. But I’m going to rank this particular happy moment as the very very best.

Sometimes when I come home to see my boys, they say hi and pretty much ignore me while they go about their business. Other times they are more enthusiastic and pay me more attention, which I love. But sometimes, with Will in particular; the very best thing ever happens.

It happened on Thursday evening last week. I walked in the back door of the house. Drew and his mom were hanging around the kitchen and said hello. Will was upstairs. We were talking and Will came downstairs. We saw each other at the same time, just as he made it to the bottom of the stairs.

I smiled and yelled out, “Will!”

He smiled and yelled back, “Daddy!” He did a hop skip and started running to me. I kneeled down and spread my arms out. At about four feet away, Will jumped into my arms and wrapped his body around me. I stood up and squeezed back while spinning in circles. He leaned his head back so he could kiss me hello.

I put him down and I don’t really remember what happened next. He probably started talking about his day or maybe even left me to play with Drew or do whatever he was about to do. It doesn’t really matter. It is a feeling that is so true, inside and out.

I’ve had that feeling before. Even this past weekend I had it. But when it comes from my son, nothing beats that moment of happiness.

The Happy Meter was maxed out.

Found a Tree, Lost a Kid

One time, at band camp, I lost Drew during the Christmas tree cutting festivities. I tried to write about it the other day, but I got on a tangent about Fruity Pebbles and never made it back. Which is hard to believe because I am usually so focused and I never get distracted by anything like Boggle, Scrabble, shiny things, a mild breeze, an odd noise, the phone, a person, your blog, posable thumbs (cuz opposable are so yesterday), an inanimate object that I imagine is talking to me or anything like that at all.

Where was I? I started this about a half hour ago. For realliouis. Reallious should be a real word. For reallious. It is a good way to emphasize how real and serious one is about something. Unfortunately I can’t take credit for creating the word, but I have no problem stealing it and claiming it as my own.

Another half hour just went by. At this rate, it will take me six hours to do twelve paragraphs. Did I do that math right? I think I did. Do you ever have trouble adding eight plus five? I think trying to add 85 to 58 is nearly impossible without an abacus or two really big sacks of apples.

Okay back to the time I lost my boy in the wilderness.

Drew is four. Four and a half if you ask him. And he will also inform you that his golden birthday isn’t until he is old. Cuz twenty is old. And people need to know people’s golden birthday.

Drew, Will and I trudged up a lightly snowed upon mountain with about twenty other parents and kids in search of the perfect Christmas tree. As we got up higher, pickings were slim so we all began to fan out. The three of us spotted a great looking tree nestled between two big boulders. It was tall enough, full, and quite beautiful. On the side we saw it from. The other side was bare, flat, and nearly devoid of branches. Cut a tree in half from top to bottom and this was our tree. The thing is, the good side was awesome. So we cut it down. We yelled timber and did a happy dance. The lack of branches on half the tree made it really easy to put over my shoulder for the walk back to the cars.

We were probably five minutes from the cars, although we couldn’t see them yet, when we came to a hill with lots of rocks that looked extremely climbable. We played up there for awhile with a couple other kids and their moms before I told the boys I wanted to bring the tree back. Will was ready, but Drew wanted to play some more. One of the moms said I could leave Drew with them and they’d walk back together. I said cool and that I’d come back to meet up after I dropped off the tree and Will.

It took me five minutes to get down, five to load up the tree in the truck and then five to walk back to where Drew and the others were. I was almost there when I saw the mom that said to leave Drew. She was walking back with two other kids, but Drew wasn’t one of them. I said, “Where is Drew.”

She said, “He is with Katie. They left five minutes before us.”

I didn’t see them, but it is easy to stray off course and they could have gone by me. But Katie is six years old, so I was alarmed. I said, “With Katie? Alone?” The mom said yes and that they should be back by now. I had a majorly puzzled face and the mom realized I thought she meant Katie the six year old.

“No, no, no. Katie (so and so), the mom!” I breathed a sigh of relief and we actually had a good laugh. Although I didn’t know Katie the mom, I was sure they were back or making their way back.

Long story short, if it’s not too late and I don’t go off on Fruity Pebbles or discussing the best location for my future tattoo, if I finally do it (the back of the wrist, middle of forearm or by the elbow), I should say that 45 minutes went by and no Drew or Katie mom. There was no cell service. I was worried. I had made numerous little forays in five to ten radiuses of the cars calling out their names, as did the horrified mom that I originally left Drew with and a couple other people.

I was trying to stay calm. It was only 11am and I wasn’t thinking they were abducted or attacked by a mountain lion. I was sure they were just lost and that we would find them happily playing on rocks, examining elk poop or having a sword fight with sticks. But my heart was beating in a way I have never felt. My body was motored by adrenalin. I felt nothing around me and yet I felt everything.

We were just about to launch an all out organized well spread out search with all the adults when I flagged down a passing car heading deeper into the woods. They had seen a woman and a small boy all the way by the forest road entrance at the highway, over a mile away. It must have taken them the full 45 minutes to walk that far. I mean, they started five minutes from the cars. How, after even 20 minutes, the Katie mom thought they should keep walking down the forest road, I don’t know.

I jumped in my truck and discovered four-wheeling driving capabilities I didn’t know I had. Sure enough, just over a mile away at the highway, Katie mom and my little Drew were standing there talking to other xmas tree cutters. Drew was happy as can be. He never knew he was lost. As mad as I was at Katie mom for walking so far off course, I was happy she made Drew feel like they were on their own fun adventure. It wasn’t until they got back and all the other kids told Drew he was lost did he even know what really happened.

Like I said, they never were in any danger. But if you have kids; think of the feeling in the grocery store or Target when you turn around and your kids are gone. You find them ten seconds later in the next aisle, but you still have a mini heart attack. Make that ten seconds turn into 45 minutes, even if you know they are with a responsible (supposedly) adult, and it’s an unsettling feeling.

The Katie mom felt bad and of course I’m in charge of my own kids. So I thanked her for taking care of my boy and not scaring him. And I think back wondering if I can’t leave my kid with friends in a situation like that again or if it was a total fluke.

Ohhh, cupcakes! Somebody brought cupcakes to the office!!

Crack for Breakfast

I took my boys up to the mountains to chop down a Christmas tree. Before any tree huggers complain, let me just say that this is a good thing – it is in designated areas by the U.S. Forest Service and helps with fire control. The Xmas tree cutting has become an annual tradition. A buddy named Tom; I mean Thom (identity protected!!) always organizes everything. He gets the permits, sets up the time and date and everyone convoys up there. People bring morning yummy food, hot chocolate, sleds and we make a long morning out of it. The kids love it!

Since I now live in Boulder, the boys and I had to meet up with the convoy in the foothills as opposed to the starting point in Denver. The problem was I forgot what time everyone was leaving and when I saw my little angels sleeping peacefully in their bunk beds, I just couldn’t bear waking them up. Plus, I’ve had a lot of kid time lately and I was enjoying the peace and quiet.

So I read the paper, got stuff ready, and enjoyed a big bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Oh my god, that stuff is like crack. Not that I know what crack is like, but I imagine it’s like Fruity Pebbles. Colorful sugar pellets of goodness that you just cannot stop inhaling. Until it’s too late and your stomach is cramping, your hands are shaking and there are green and purple soggy flakes of the devil in your hair and glued to your cheek. You look at the box and it’s empty despite it previously having been unopened when the binge began. Your whole body starts shaking as your blood is made of sugar and you panic because you know the two monsters in the bunk beds are gonna be really pissed when they find out Daddy ate all the Fruity Pebbles.

So you bury the box in the recycling, after you pull out the plastic bag that you can never get opened just right and always end up ripping straight down the middle causing the rainbow of crack flakes to fall into the box so you pour the box down your throat like you are drinking milk from the jug so you can get every last bit of sugar hell and then you lick your finger and poke around the bag for more remnants of pebbly crack dust before finally doubling over in physical pain and acknowledging the breakfast drug of champions is gone.

I was so fucking hyper at that point; my kids woke up to the commotion. You know when you are really sleepy and someone else is totally wired and rarin’ to go? It’s really irritating for the sleepy ones, even if they are seven and four. They came out of their room all bleary eyed and I started yelling “timber” as a fun rally cry to get them psyched up for the day. If my kids cursed, I’m sure they would have told me to fuck off and shut the hell up. Instead, they rubbed their eyes and asked for breakfast. Uh oh.

I suggested a fruit medley with yogurt and toast. They suddenly became Olympic style synchronized breakfast eaters as they rushed the cereal cabinet eager to find their box of kid crack. They pushed the Honey Bunches of Oats aside, ignored the Cheerios and even knocked over the Honeycombs. All I could see were their little pajama clad asses wiggling around as the rest of their respective bodies were burrowing in the cabinet looking for their Fruity Pebbles vice. I yelled out something about pancakes and waffles and they yelled out, “Daaaaaaaaaaaadddddy! Where are the Fruity Pebbles?”

“Here, have some orange juice. Mmmm, these bananas look yummy!”

In unison, “Dad! Where the fuck are the fucking Fruity Pebbles!!!!!” Okay, they didn’t swear, but they were coming at me like two thugs sporting brass knuckles.

My body twitched. Not in fear of my own little monsters; I mean I helped created the little greedy Fruity Pebble addicts, but rather cuz I was coming down off of my own cereal buzz and I was awkwardly touching my face, neck and hair hoping I could find a stray Pebble granule to feed the fever without the two kid angry mob noticing anything.

“Boys, there aren’t anymore Fruity Pebbles. You will have to have something else. And aren’t you excited to go chop down our Christmas tree?”

Amazingly in unison again, “What the hell are you talking about? Did you eat all the god damn Fruity Pebbles? We bought that box last night!! You are an asshole Daddy!.”

Like any good drug dealer, I tried pushing off some other stuff. Even though it’s not half as good as Fruity Pebbles Crack, I had a box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts. We negotiated a good deal – a banana and Pop Tarts with the promise of more sweets at the Christmas cutting location since I knew the moms would bring lots of goods.

My buzz wore off and then I just felt like shit. Those things need to come with hamster feeder controls so you can’t eat a whole box in one sitting.

I started this story with the intention of writing about the actual cutting of the Christmas tree and how Drew got lost with a mom for about 45 minutes to the point where we, especially me, were beginning to worry and panic. But see what crack and Fruity Pebbles can do to you? It totally throws you off your game.

Just say no to Fruity Pebbles.