The I Like Book

Divorce is a process, not an event. I get along well with my ex. And we are on the same page in terms of how we raise our kids and how everything we do must take the little rascals into consideration first and foremost. Just as our kids grow and our lives evolve, divorce is right there along the way, no matter what. Going through a divorce is not fun. Brussels sprouts taste like candy compared to divorce. But it gets better – after all, the divorce is to get your life on track. And time really does heal wounds. However, there are scars. Those scars are reminders.

Last summer, I stumbled across a vendor at a festival that was selling a cool idea they had with their own children. It’s called the I Like Book. Every day, you write something down you like about your kids. We made it a nightly ritual and the kids really enjoy it. I’d do our I Like Book once they were in bed. Sometimes I’d do an I Like that applied to both of them, but usually I’d figure something out that was individual so they could both have their own for the night. There are no rules. Examples have been:

• “I like how well you two played together today.”
• “I like watching you do art.”
• “I like how you wore that funny hat all day.”
• “I like snuggling with you while we watch movies.”
• “I like how you invented a new game today.”

The boys really enjoy it. They can be critical though. Sometimes they will rip me for being too predictable. Other times they will just say it was an okay one. Others they really like. Of course they lean to the little boy humor, which I happen to be an expert at.

• “I like how you sneezed a giant snotty right onto your leg.”
• “I like how I had to take a plunger to the bathroom after your smelly work.”
• “I like how you surprised me by jumping on my back while I was folding your laundry on the floor.”
• “I like how you burped six times during dinner.”
• “I like how you save me money on napkins by constantly using your shirt sleeve instead.”

Those are real crowd pleasers to put in eternal writing.

So the I Like Book has been a real hit with the boys and me. I thought with the ex too. But I recently found out that isn’t the case. Lately, she hadn’t been giving me the book on my nights and I noticed she wasn’t filling hers out every day. She’d have to go back and make a blanket entry for the weekend.

She finally emailed me and told me she was going to start up a new routine that was project oriented with the kids and that I should just do the I Like Book with the boys myself. She said she loves the idea but increasingly she was struggling with it. She said I’m the writer in the family and that sometimes she’d read my entries and just get sad. It was a daily reminder of a split family. One of her scars.

Ouch.

I admit I never thought of that. Sure, I guess we are a split family by dictionary terms. But I think we are a stronger family than we ever were before because we are no longer in a marriage that wasn’t working. And the kids seem to be doing great.

I get sad now and then. Like when I watch the Cubs play baseball. Or when there is no hot fudge for the ice cream. Or if Starbucks give me a coffee instead of a chai and I find out the hard way and end up spitting the drink out like a cartoon character. But with the kids I worry more than I feel sad. It’s not an outward constant worry. Just a tinge buried inside me that every parent has with their children; hoping they are continuously healthy, happy and living a wonderful life.

I do worry how the divorce affects them. But I also have confidence that my ex and I are great parents and that our awesome kids will continue to thrive. I hope my ex has a good way to cope with her sadness and worry. It seems to me that she is doing just fine.

Little things help me. As long as I have regular signs of happiness from my kids (and lack of signs of sadness), I’m good. And I don’t think they know it, but they have an amazing power to make me happy.

I admit lots of things make me happy. Like when the Cubs win or when my ice cream is slathered in hot fudge. Or when I’m enjoying a hot vanilla chai. But my happiest moments tend to be with my kids.

With Will, it occurs while we are walking somewhere and I put my arm around his shoulders. He will grab my arm and pull it down over his whole upper body and hold it tight to his chest. It’s like he is nestled under my giant wing. And we will walk that way while we continue to chat about whatever we are chatting about. He has no idea how much I love that.

With Drew, it occurs while we are chilling out on the couch. I will pretend like I’m not looking at him while my hand will slowly creep toward him, fingers doing the walking. He will giggle and then try to smash my hand like it’s a spider. This is fun, but not the part I love the most. The best part is that soon the creeping and smashing will end and Drew will grab my hand. He will intertwine my fingers within his and alternately squeeze and release my hand. Drew doesn’t seem conscious of his hand squeezing, and I can’t help but swoon every time he does it. Someday his hands will be larger than mine and I’m sure that will be long past the time he is comfortable holding hands with his daddy.

Clearly the commonality is the intimacy and contact. I love how natural it is. My boys are so innocent, sweet and caring. Makes me wonder how they are able to be assholes quite a bit too. The asshole stuff is just kids being kids though.

Happiness can be a lot of things. It can be a crazy hat and funny monkey that you wear absolutely everywhere all weekend long. Happiness can be those moments of contact with my boys that I cherish so much. Those moments are love. Love is happiness. I guess I must be the happiest man on earth.

Not That There Is Anything Wrong With That

There were a bunch of fun side stories from the Boston weekend. One of them centered on Jeff and how much action he could have scored. From other guys. Jeff is not gay. He is happily married. To a woman. And I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an ass, so I won’t try to sugarcoat it. Jeff isn’t going to be invited to do any modeling any time soon. He has a face made for radio and he’s not a tiny guy. But he is a great guy with a friendly personality and he shows genuine interest in everyone he is around. That is appealing to men and women, right?

It all started before the Cubs game on Saturday. We were at the Baseball Tavern near Fenway Park. We were pre-gaming on the rooftop which was filled with people – over half of which were also Cubs fans. There were a bunch of us in our group, so I didn’t think much of it when I noticed Jeff talking to a guy we didn’t know. I chatted with my buddies some more and Jeff was still talking to his guy about a half hour later. The waitress came by and I ordered another round. When she came back, she dropped off a beer for each of our gang.

Jeff rejoined us to get his beer and he gave us an uncomfortable look that said “I just farted and drew mud,” or “I just imagined someone scratching a chalkboard” or “I think that guy is gay and that he wants me.” Of course we all instantly looked at the guy because we have zero tact but luckily he didn’t notice the group stare. We turned back and agreed that he didn’t look gay. Except for the neon green sunglasses. Those were pretty gay.

I said, “Who cares man. Be flattered. That is a pretty good looking guy. And look at you. When is the last time anybody hit on you? Plus, I don’t think he is gay.” Just then, the waitress came back and handed Jeff a beer.

Jeff asked, “What is this for?”

The waitress replied, “That guy over there wanted to buy you a beer.” It was the neon sunglasses guy. We all laughed as Jeff gave him a frightened head nod while raising his glass.

“Okay, maybe he is gay. You should go for it Jeff. Would your wife consider that cheating?”

Jeff looked scared and repulsed at the same time. “Shut up. And I knew he was gay when he started talking about civil unions.”

“Dude, I don’t think you can do any better than him anyway. I mean, I know that bulldog nearly humped your leg on the walk over, but I think this guy is a better match for you. Plus, the dog can’t buy you drinks.” Jeff swore at me a few times while he nervously fiddled with his beer.

Jeff is a paranoid guy. He worries about silly things. One time in Chicago; Jeff, Dave and I were starving after a late night party so we took a cab over to a true blue authentic Mexican dive in a crappy neighborhood. Dave and I weren’t concerned – it was a busy place on a busy road and we’d have door to door cab service in and out. But the whole time Jeff was looking over his shoulder and muttering something about getting a shiv in his back.

Based on Jeff’s paranoia, it wasn’t surprising to see him struggle with his beer. He saw his future gay lover looking at him so he took a little sip. I said, “What the hell are you doing? Drink your beer.”

“I’m afraid he put a ruffie in it.”

We were laughing so hard because he was serious. But yet he eventually still drank the whole thing. We had a good time teasing him as we walked over to the game. Just when we got a little tired of making fun of him, he threw fuel on the fire.

Earlier on, Jeff said he wanted a very specific kind of baseball jersey that was button-down and made out of cotton, but all he could find was polyester. I lost interest in his quest pretty much the instant he told me the goal. But we did wait on him a few times to run into the souvenir shops without any luck.

The fuel to the fire came at our seats during the game. We were front row in center field. There is an aisle between the wall and our seats so people would walk by throughout the game, mostly between innings. In the middle of the game, a guy walked by in a button down jersey that didn’t look like polyester.

Jeff practically jumped out of his chair. “Excuse me! Can I touch your shirt?”

Apparently this is an effective pickup line because the guy stopped and said, “Yeah sure.”

“Wow, that is nice. Is that cotton?” The guy enthusiastically replied and they chit chatted like a couple of girls about fabric while we were laughing at them and trying to watch the game. We told Jeff to get a room and to invite the neon sunglasses guy over too.

The next day; Ed, Jeff and I were walking out of the market by Faneuil Hall and a street performer was setting up for his gig. He was already miked and was making humorous conversation in order to draw in a crowd. He saw us walk by and broadcasted through his sound system, “They say one in three men is gay. Which one of you is it?” Without pause, Ed and I both pointed right at Jeff. Everyone laughed and Jeff just put his arms out and shrugged.

Poor paranoid and friendly Jeff. He is so happily married and admittedly a little homophobic. And yet we teased him all weekend about all the guys he could have had. That is what friends are for.

Walk, Eat, Walk, Eat, Drink, Walk, Eat, Drink, Walk, Eat

The weekend in Bah-stahn was quite the pah-tee. We Forest Gumped that place. We must have walked ten thousand miles and I may or may not be exaggerating just a tiny bit. I wanted to rent a horse and do it Paul Revere style screaming through the streets, “The Cubs fans are coming, the Cubs fans are coming!” But I’ve only ridden a horse twice in my life and my ass didn’t like that ride at all. Plus, I don’t think you can just rent a horse in a big city like that. I’m not even sure if you can rent a donkey. Speaking of which, guess which one is Ed and which one is the ass:

Ed is an ass.

There were Cubs fans everywhere. The Bostonians were quite nice to us. I think they feel sorry for losers. When we went to the game on Saturday, the Baseball Tavern near Fenway was two-thirds Cubs fans.

The weather was chilly, but held out for us rain wise. I kept thinking a football game between the Pats and Bears might break out at any moment, but instead we had baseball, albeit Bad News Bears style. My five year old’s slow pitch / tee ball team plays better than the Red Sox that day. The Cubs won courtesy of three errors, a bunch of walks and hit batsmen. We’ll take it though. And Fenway Park comes close to being as cool as Wrigley Field. Close. Green Monstah behind the monstah:


We spent one afternoon walking most of the Freedom Trail. Some of the guys were reading all the plaques and peeking inside historical buildings. I had trouble focusing. Dave would take a picture of the site of the Boston Massacre and I’d take one of him here:

Dave is a fruit.

Ed would shoot Faneuil Hall and I did the ass photo. Jeff would photograph Paul Revere’s house and I took one of him here.

Jeff is a weenie.


The guys were walking along the trail saying we should go see the U.S.S. Constitution and Bunker Hill. I made them stop to take my picture here:

I'm a nut.

We could have learned more about the Boston Tea Party, but instead we spent quite a bit of time investigating local business practices:


We ate. A lot. I had to order a cardiologist on the side with this meal.


Southie Burger, fries and a fried a pickle at Remy’s. I don’t even like pickles but for some reason I at ate that monstrosity.

We also ate at the Barking Crab, Temple Bar (Jess is the best bartender evah), Antico something in the North End, Atlantic Fish Company, a late night pizza slice place, Harvard Gardens for more late night grub, snacks at Tavern on the Hill, breakfast at Paramount and breakfast at our hotel.

We met Orel Hershiser at a hotel sports bar (former All-Star pitcher for a few teams and now an announcer for ESPN). Orel and his wife invited us to hang with them and their posse, but Bobby Valentine (former player and manager now announcing as well) was back there and we figured he’d talk our respective ears off, so we bailed. We met countless Cubs fans from all over the country. We had a drink at an old jail turned into a hotel. We were at the oldest pub in the nation (Bell in Hand). We wandered around Hahvahd and hoped that we’d get smarter through osmosis.

It was a great trip. It will take me weeks to work off all the indulgences. But I’d do it again in a Southie Burger clogged heartbeat.

Boston and the B.S. I Tell My Kids

I’m heading to Boston in the morning. That’s right. I’m hitting the road again because Mexico and Las Vegas in the last thirty days isn’t enough. I’m not actually hitting the road, except to get to the airport. I’ll be flying. I sure hope my arms don’t get tired. Ba-dum-dum. My boys are tired of that joke. Almost as sick of it as when I ask them if I should call a tow truck when they stub their toes. They actually look angry when I say that now. Which only encourages me to say it even more. Stupid little kids. Did I just call my own little boys stupid? Yes I did.

Actually, my kids are pretty smart. Smart asses. And brainy smart. I had a long conversation with Will about the Boston Tea Party, Paul Revere, The Declaration of Independences and the Redcoats. Now when I go to Boston I will have to try learn everything and see how much of what I told him was total bullshit. I’m guessing I got about 85% of it right. But that other 15% was quite imaginative. I mean, how would I really know if Paul Revere was in dirty undies when he jumped on his horse but luckily he realized it and was able to change before he became legendary (which is why boys should always wear clean underwear). I mean, that kind of info isn’t in the history books. And how would I know if his horse’s name was Mr. Ed and was famous because he could talk? And why I giggle whenever I say John Hancock is really not pertinent to American history.

At least Will wasn’t going back to his earlier line of questioning about where exactly he was fertilized. Yeah, he wants to know where I boned his mom nine months before he was born. That conversation came up when I told him to stop harassing Drew and do something more constructive. He asked what he should do. I said anything except hiding Drew’s shoes and throwing Puffles (stuffed furry balls of weirdness from Club Penguin) at him. I told him he has to stop picking on Drew all the time. And then Drew piped in with another violation:

“And he gave me two wedgies too!”

That just made me laugh thereby ruining any effective level of discipline I was trying to accomplish. So I told Will to read a book and instead he asked me about sex. I distracted him with some Gushers, which is an ironic name for fruity little chewy things with juice inside when your kid wants to know when you and your ex wife fucked 8-1/2 years plus nine months ago.

So yeah, I’m meeting six other guys in Boston. I know four of them well. They are my homeys from Chicago. We are going to see the Cubs play the Redsox on Saturday night but otherwise don’t have any firm plans. If anyone is from Boston, email me suggestions! A few years ago, I was in Bah-stan on business and one of the events was held at a hotel bar that used to be a jail. That was cool because I prefer to frequent jails that are now bars as opposed to jails that are still jails. I’m quirky like that.

Somebody else told me that the famous cemetery right downtown, which I’ve been dying to go to (ba-dum-dum), is all mixed up. The groundskeeper was having trouble mowing the grass around all the headstones scattered about. So on his own accord, he move the headstones around into a straight lines so he’d have an easier go of it. It is unclear if the markers are in correct or even close proximity to the proper graves. Of course, my friend could just be bullshitting me like the 15% of my bullshit with the kids; I don’t really know. But he bought me a chai at the coffee shop so I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Which reminds me that I’m an asshole. I just can’t help it sometimes. I was at two different coffee shops the previous two days. And both times, there was a person there with a speech impediment. The first one was at the Laughing Goat in Boulder. I was trying to get some work done when all the sudden a poetry jam broke out. It was quite distracting having a bunch of hippy-wannabes reading their strange words. Nothing even rhymed. Yeah yeah, Will told me poems don’t have to rhyme but I think that’s bullshit, man. I was at least hoping for something familiar like Humpty Dumpty but I guess this was all original work. I was going to stick it out but then one of the guys waiting to read started barking. For real. There was a quiet rumbling windup followed by a very loud and high pitched “Aaaaarp!” He did it every couple minutes. He obviously had some sort of Tourettes but I couldn’t stop watching him with pent up excitement waiting for his next yelp. That fucker kept me there at least another twenty minutes.

The next day I was at a Starbucks where two college kids were discussing a project. One of them had a pretty sweet stuttering problem. It got pretty amusing because she was excited about the project which made her talk louder and faster which meant more entertainment for me. Yep, I’m an asshole, but not a complete asshole. Believe it or not, I had a DVD of the King’s Speech in my bag. Yes I did. I so wanted to get it out and engross myself in reading the back of the case as I very slowly walked by the stutter girl’s table being sure to hold it up so the front cover was slowly panning by. I even had my hand on the DVD in my bag for at least three seconds before I thought better of it.

So yeah. Boston tomorrow for a long weekend. North End. Freedom Trail so I can wow Will with my newfound expertise. Dunkin Donuts on every corner. Drinks at the old jail. Chowdah. Crazy drivers. Fast talkers that forget the Rs. Cambridge. Beacon Hill. Southie. Fenway Park (Go Cubs).

Blog fodder. And confirmation for Will that the Boston Tea Party did not include tiny finger sandwiches and women in pretty dresses.

Talk To Me Like A Human

What if people behaved like Social Media? Like right now, while I type this, what if something poked me in the ribcage and then a voice from the seemingly empty chair next to me said, “El oh el.”

“What the hell? I can’t see you!”

“Yes, I know. I want to be invisible because I need to avoid about half of my closest friends. I don’t want any of them to start a conversation with me.”

“So, why are you bothering me then? Do you need something?”

“No, I just thought I’d poke you because I’m irritating. But now that you mention it, did you see what Six Fingered Monkey spray-painted on my living room wall?”

“Six Fingered Monkey is not his real name you know. Why can’t you just use his real name? It’s...”

*BUZZZZZ* “Sorry to buzz you in the middle of your point, but you can’t say his real name!! Then people will know who he really is!!”

“Okay, whatever. Why did Six Fingered Monkey write on your wall? Were you re-painting? And how in the world would I have seen it? I haven’t ever been inside your house.”

“Bee ef ef, you know you have access to all my personal information!!! I’d tell you what he wrote, but it’s more than 140 characters and I think I’ll run out of breath before I can complete it.”

“That is stupid.”

“You know what is even more stoopid? Minxy was…”

“Her name isn’t Minxy! It’s…”

*BUZZZZZZZZZ* “Don’t say her name!!! Anyway, she gave out the Sexy Yellow Snowball Creative Under 30 Zombie Chicken Award to five people that follow her everywhere she goes and I wasn’t one of them!”

“You are right. That is even more stupid.”

“Double you tee ef, right? I’m totally going to run for mayor against her and whip her ass, right after I finish answering a question for each of ten of my closest friends.”

“I didn’t know either of you are in politics.”

“Oh, well perhaps you need a refresher on me. Here are 100 interesting facts about me. Number one, I like to laugh. Number two, I’ve ridden a camel. Number three, I don’t like spiders. Number four, I’m writing a book. Number five, I love kittens. Number six…”

“I really need to get back to work.”

“But there are 95 more things you must know!”

“Yes, well, um, weird. I don’t understand you. Your words are jumbled. We must be losing our connection.”

“Oh no! Hang on. Let me re-start.” *Poke*

“What? No!! That’s okay. Please stop poking me. I don’t have any idea how to respond to that.”

*Flash*

“Why did you just take my picture?”

“So I can remember this meaningless moment forever and share it with 975 of my closest friends.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

*Tag*

“What are you doing? I asked you to stop poking me. Now what? Why are you on the floor tossing around like a hyena?”

“You are sooooooooo funny! I am rolling on the floor laughing my ass off at you! Of course I didn’t poke you again. I was just tagging you so 1,362 of my closest friends will know it’s you.”

“I think it’s time to wrap up. I could use a drink.”

“I like that.”

“Why are you holding your thumb up in my face? I get it. You like the idea of a drink. I was going to go meet some friends.”

“Can I be their friend too? Will you introduce me to them? How many Kevin Bacons away am I from knowing them directly? I can show them some of my professional recommendations.”

“These are my old school friends. You probably won’t like them. One of them doesn’t even use text messaging.”

“Oh man, I’d drop them as friends nearly as fast as I just stole your identity using my smart phone.”

“Why did my bank and three credit card companies just send me an urgent email?”

“Nice. You gotta like these travel apps.”

“Did you just book a trip using my credit cards?”

“No dumb-ass. I used your PayPal account. You really should change your password to something other than 1234.”

“What kind of friend are you?”

“The one who loves to buy stuff from eBay!”

“Why did you just drop a pile of worms on my keyboard? What the hell? The presentation I’ve been working on all day just disappeared and you are robbing me?”

“Looks like you have a virus. Better call your IT guy or surf over to WebMD.”

“Thanks for handing me your surfboard. Colorado is landlocked you know and you certainly aren’t my friend anymore.”

“Well then let me be friends with all your friends!!”

“Will you give me my identity back?”

“Of course. You will always be WowThatWasAwkward.”

“Goodbye.”

“IM me! Or text! Or Facebook me! Follow me on Twitter if you are wondering when I have to pee. You know how to find me on FourSquare. Check out the pics on Flickr. Signing out.”

*note to self – call some friends and write some letters this weekend*

Off The Grid

Imagine a week with no phone calls, no texting, no computers, no television and no underwear. Or socks or pants for that matter. Okay, there was a peek at the laptop here and there because I had email access, but I only did that once a day and I really didn’t participate. I just watched so I wouldn’t be so far behind when I got back to the land of phone calls, texting, computing and clothing.

I was in Mexico with Snow White for a week. The dwarves were not invited. Considering how much I love midgets; that is kind of a big deal. Every day was in the high eighties with a sunny blue sky. The water was clear and warm. The sand was white and soft. The days were lazy and lazy.

Some vacations are meant for seeing ancient cathedrals, climbing mountains, going on treks, entering museums, visiting points of interest and snapping lots of pictures. Some vacations are meant to be lazy and lazy. This trip was tour free and filled with doing a whole lot of nothing. Unless you count about twenty games of Scrabble as something.

I’m getting really good at vacations of nothing, especially with Snow White. Think Paris without going up the Eiffel Tower. Napa Valley without going to a winery. Philadelphia without seeing the Liberty Bell. I can roll like that. Playa del Carmen without going to any Mayan ruins, no snorkeling, no diving, no parasailing, no jet skiing and no tours of any kind.

The only thing I learned is that ‘wo’ is a legitimate word in Scrabble, ten or eleven pesos make a dollar, a ‘snark’ is an imaginary animal and that the mango man comes by in the afternoons around 4pm. The only sweat I broke out in was from the hot sun in which case I’d take a dip in the sea.

I lived in a bathing suit. I drank beer like it was water, ate shrimp like it was potato chips and consumed guacamole like it was a daily dose of vitamins. My toughest decision every day, multiple times per day, was to decide if I should pee in the condo (required walking off the beach, around the pool and up four flights of stairs to the condo bathroom) or pee in the Caribbean Sea (required walking twenty yards). I chose condo whenever it was time to restock drinks. Which means I utilized the condo head quite a few times. But more often than not, Mother Nature was a man’s bathroom.

What? It’s like SCUBA divers. There are two kinds: Those that pee in their wetsuits and those who lie about it saying they don’t. Same thing with beachcombers: If you ever see some dude (or chick) standing alone in the water, fairly equidistant from all others ‘swimmers’, seemingly staring intently at something interesting far in the distance; then I recommend you not be directly between that person and the shore because you are bound to feel a sudden stream of warm current. Unless you were stung by a jellyfish; this is not something you want to experience.

The trip was relaxing and refreshing. A week was a long time without my kids though. So I bought them a bunch of Mexican crap for slightly negotiated prices and made sure I saw them on the way home from the airport since my next day with them isn’t until tomorrow. The boys pretended like they were happy to see me when in reality they were just anxious to see what I brought them. But that was fine. They were a good welcome back to reality.

So reality it is. For eleven days. And then I’ll need a vacation for sure. So I’ll be going to Boston for a guy’s weekend. More than a weekend, really. Thursday to Monday sounds good. I’ll be sure to pee in Fenway Park and plenty of local watering holes so I have something good to blog about when I get back.