PierogiLogic

How To Make Christmas Work For You...

2014-10-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

Some great ideas happen by accident. Penicillin, the Slinky and even the Post-It Note all came into being as an unexpected result of an inventor's ambition. I was hoping the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup was born the same way. Sadly, the television ads from the '70's were inaccurate - after extensive research (Wikipedia), I discovered that the most amazing combination of peanut butter and chocolate was, in fact, planned.

Two Christmases ago, my wife and I made the decision to go fake. No, not her boobs or my hair - our holiday tree. This was an easy decision, but it wasn't. As a family, we'd be giving up on the annual all-day search for a tree farm that, somewhere on its acres and acres of property, held our next very special Christmas tree. Over the years, these searches became less of a positive family bonding event and more of a chore to be dreaded. Several years ago, the rest of the family stopped going on these journeys. I took these trips alone. But instead of dragging a plastic sled and hand saw for miles in a quest to find the Holy Grail of Christmas trees, I got soft. I started to cheat. We all liked Fraser Firs. Unfortunately, "real" Fraser Firs only come from the southeast Appalachian mountains. Therefore, all the "real" Fraser Firs in Ohio had already been found and cut and shipped from places like Virginia and North Carolina and Tennessee. Once I found this out, it no longer made sense to bust my butt to find the perfect tree. What I really wanted wasn't in a field awaiting my discovery. What I wanted was laying on it's side, next to a barn - for about twice the amount of the one living in the wild. In the few years before going fake, I loaded myself into the minivan and drove a half hour to the best place for imported and overly-expensive Fraser Firs. I was in and out in a half hour tops. No complaining kids. No long walks through snowy or muddy fields. No dulled complimentary hand saws that didn't work for crap. Two years ago I decided that even the simple task of walking over to a pile of lifeless, pre-cut Fraser Firs was too much work.

It was then that we made the call to go fake. I still like the idea of a real tree, I really do. But the rest of them (my family) could care less. So, the minivan and I made the ten minute drive to Costco. Nothing makes you feel like you got a steal of a deal than when you buy something, anything at Costco. From gallon-sized containers of hummus to minivan tires, this place virtually eliminates the by-product of overspending - buyer's remorse. It's magic, I think. Black magic. But I love it.

After about five minutes of carefully inspecting the various artificial tree options, I settled on a nice nine-foot, pre-lit fake Fraser Fir for about $450. After folding down the back seats of the minivan, the box fit in perfectly for the ride home. I thought about assembling it in the parking lot and tying the tree to the top of the vehicle with twine for old times sake, but decided against it because - well, because that's just ridiculous. Right?

Once home, I carefully navigated the large box through the front door, then unloaded the color-coded branches, trunk and base. Within ten minutes our new tree was assembled. No tipping. No watering. No needles to vacuum. At the end of the holiday season, disassembly was just about as carefree, save for the fact it inexplicably wouldn't fit back into the box it came in. Not even close. Did it grow? I made due, fitting what I could back in the box and the rest in a large black garbage bag.

One thing I will say about artificial trees is that they do take up a lot of space. I kept it in the garage on a high shelf during the off season.

Last December, I took it down, re-assembled it, but noticed a portion of the pre-lit lights had gone out. I planned to address this once I was ready to take it down. As the holiday season went on, I noticed more of the lights had gone out. That's when it hit me. See, I could try to figure out what's going on, to carefully isolate the one light causing the problems on each string of pre-lits. But that would be work. In fact, more work than any other real tree could ever afford. Costco has one of those no-hassle return policies. It doesn't matter how long you've had the item or why you're bringing it back. They don't ask questions. They don't get in your face. They just hand you your money back and you're free and clear.

Now I didn't actually get around to returning the tree until this past July. I needed to get it out of the garage because I didn't have the energy to hoist it on the high shelf. So, most of it just sat there on the floor in a box with the rest of it stuffed into the same black garbage bag on top. Despite Costco's liberal return policy, I did worry about returning a Christmas tree in July. I got some well-deserved stares as I dragged it into the store on the back of a Costco flatbed.

I was waiting for a comment from the customer service assistant manager who waited on me. "Whatcha got there?", they asked.

"Well, it is what it looks like. Some of the lights are out and I tried like a bastard to find the source of the problem, but finally gave up." It was a little white Christmas tree lie.

"Okay. Would you like it in cash or on store credit?" Costco customer service people are like the Buckingham palace guards of the retail world. Nothing phases them. They are trained to respond without emotion.

"Umm. Cash would be great. Thanks."

"No problem."

Hmmm. So, remember when I mentioned great ideas and inventions that happened by accident? That's what happened here. I realized that I never really bought a tree from Costco, that they merely let me borrow it for two years. I put a deposit down and when I return it, they gave the deposit back.

I'm going to try it again this year. I'll borrow a tree from Costco, then return after the holidays, ideally prior to July. No need to worry about getting it up on the high shelf or how strange the extra black bag might look. I'll take it back to a very friendly Costco customer service person with no questions asked.

My wife thinks this is unethical. I don't see the problem. "They're going to catch you. They'll see that you've returned a tree before."

"Really?" I argued. "Do you think they remember me? Do you think they look at my entire history of purchases and returns to see that I'm some kind of serial Christmas tree returner? Are they going to risk losing me as a customer and the eight hundred gallons of hummus we buy every year by giving me a hard time? No hassle return means no hassle return."

"Yes, but..."

"Yes, but nothing. I pay them for a tree that I then own. When I decide I don't like it anymore, I just take it back. It's as if it never happened. It's a lot like having a marriage annulled."

"Don't give me any ideas." She won't give up. I appreciate her moral compass, but maybe just this one time she can look the other way. "But, what if everything works? You're just going to take it back anyway?"

"Right. That's the beauty of this program."

"It's not a program."

"It is now."

"Oh really?"

"That's right. For years I've been getting absolutely screwed by the Christmas tree industry. I pay almost a hundred bucks a year to use a tree for two weeks. It's an agonizing process that always ends with me being pissed off. I just found a work-around. Listen, it's the perfect deal. We get to hunt for a new tree every year. That's fun right?

"Okay..."

"But, we don't have to walk around in the snow. We don't have to drive all over creation. It won't be cluttering up our garage. Do you think Costco is going to go out of business because of my one little return every year?"

"Probably not, but that's not the point."

"Well, I'm doing it and that's that." I really am quite the debater.

"Whatever."

I can't wait to get on over to Costco to pick out our new tree. I'll bring the whole crew with me this time. My kids will sample strange meats and veggie dips while they wait for me to check out. And dammit, I'm bringing my twine. Because this year, that sucker's riding on top.

Pump Panic

2014-10-17T11:11:00.001-07:00

My daughter has been on the road as a licensed driver for about six months now. So far (knock on wood), so good. Not having to be a passenger anymore is the best part of her passing the driver's test. Riding alongside her while she still had her temporary permit has easily shaved five years off of my life. I could be upset about it, but I figure my last five years are probably not going to be all that enjoyable anyway. So if I'm missing out on my time in the old age home where the nurses drop me on purpose and draft me in the first round of their death pool, who cares.

Whenever my wife complains that I do nothing around the house except mow the lawn and produce dirty clothes, I point out that the duty of having to train our daughter for the road and maneuverability portions of the driver's test can never be matched as agonizing parental duties go. Add in the high level of danger, and no amount of laundry or bill paying could even remotely come close to what I put myself through during the months leading up to her exam.

Okay, so my daughter has her license. She has a car that my brother-in-law donated to the cause. For the most part, she's only driving short distances - to and from school and to work mostly. It's all good, right? Not so fast. See there's this little issue of filling up her gas tank. First, she stressed about when to fill it up. A couple of month of months ago, the conversation went like this...

"Dad," she said, "I need to get gas."

"Uh, really? We filled it up last week. You don't go very far anyway, so I'm sure you're good Starsky." I started calling her Starsky right after I noticed her affinity for parking in our driveway kind of cock-eyed, like she hurried to a stop to get out chase some bad guys on foot - just like my personal television cop heroes from the '70's, Starsky & Hutch.

She brushed off the Starsky comment like it wasn't even made. "No, I really need gas. I don't want to run out."

"What does the gauge say."

"Like only little more than half."

"A little more than half of what?"

"A little more than half a tank."

"Are you serious?"

"You're freaking me out. Just please fill it up for me. I don't want to run out and be stuck on the road. That would be so embarrassing."

At first, I figured the purpose of her asking me to fill it up for her was to extract the cash necessary from my pocket rather than her own. So, I offered her $20 from my pocket.

"Can you just do it? Please?" She seemed desperate.

"Huh?"

"I don't like to do it. It's scary."

"Listen. Prison is scary. Taking a test you are unprepared for is scary. Sometimes your mother's cooking can be scary. Going to the gas station? Unless it's the gas station in the movie Jeepers Creepers, filling your tank up should not be scary."

"Everyone is looking at me when I pump gas." Now this was getting downright ridiculous.

I was tired of debating the subject, so I jumped into her 1992 Acura Legend, drove to the station and filled it up -- for $7.34. That's not a typo. Seven dollars and thirty four cents. I've filled up gas cans for more than that.

Now, most of the time either my wife or I go to the gas station for my daughter. At some point she needs to learn. One time I followed her to the gas station down the road to see why she was having so many issues. Turns out she's afraid to get too close to the pump. I'm thinking she thinks she's going to knock the pump over and cause a massive explosion or something - like in an old Smokey and the Bandit movie (but she's too young to ever have seen it). She literally gets no closer than a car's length away from the pump. Now I know why she thinks everyone is looking at her when she goes to pump gas - because they are. I ended up getting out of my car and pulling her car up to the pump myself.

Then it hit me. She's obviously not prepared. For all the driving and maneuvering we did, never did I have her practice pulling up to a gas pump and let her do her thing. Maybe the Ohio Department of Motor Vehicles should have had us focus less on driving around a series of orange cones and broom handles and more on navigating a busy gas station. If you know how many times my kid knocked over the orange cones as we practiced and practice and practiced maneuverability, you'd understand how much more intimidating a pump full of combustible gas is than a broom handle.

I have no idea if other parents feel like I do. And, I have no idea if other new drivers, like my daughter, feel the way she does. However, I do know that neither the driver's test or the standardized education that comes before it is about to change. So, we are left to fend for ourselves.

This aversion to gas pumps needs to change. What if something tragic happens to my wife and I and there's no one to go to the gas station for my daughter? She could run out of gas on the way to our funeral. Even worse than missing the funeral or running out of gas, she could become embarrassed. I must help her start to change today - to break the cycle of fear. We'll practice day and night by pulling into every crowded gas station we can find, the busier the better, even if it means me jumping back into the passenger seat. If we hit a pump or two, so be it. And, as quickly as we slide our car next to a vacant pump, we pull away on to the next station. Practice will make perfect. I will not die in vain.

And if that doesn't work, she can always take the bus.

Living The Dream...

2014-07-23T13:04:00.001-07:00

"Living the dream." That's how a former co-worker of mine would typically respond to clients, sales prospects and co-workers who asked, "Hey, whatcha up to?"

"How's it going?", they'd ask. "Living the dream", he'd say. That's it. Most people understood. I thought I understood. Based on my limited ability to read a situation, it took me several months to realize that most of the time his response was sarcastic - that he really wasn't living the dream. In fact, he was living the total opposite of the dream.

I was young and naïve. At the time, I was in my early 30's. The co-worker I'm referring to was probably in his mid 40's. In your mid 40's something happens from a career standpoint that makes you realize if it hasn't gotten better by now, it's probably never going to get better. You may as well have fun with it. So, "living the dream" was his way of taking a mocking jab at the reality of his sad existence, at least the one he was getting paid for.

That same co-worker is probably in his late 50's now. Some days I wonder if his response has changed since I knew him. Out of curiosity, I've come close to calling him at work and asking "How you doing?" Maybe he's sacked the sarcasm and taken a more direct approach to answering the question. Something like, "What difference does it make?" Or, "I wish I knew."

As for me, I'm now in my mid 40's. Though I've never once responded to a co-worker or client with a sarcastic "Living the dream", I've thought about it. And worse, the statement now makes perfect sense to me.

I'm sure I'm not the only person who ever had career regrets. From about sixth grade on I wanted to be a writer. In my high school years I narrowed it down to becoming a newspaper reporter, probably focusing on sports. I wrote for the school newspaper and became Editor-In-Chief my senior year. In college I joined the staff of the daily student-run newspaper and graduated with a journalism degree. After graduation, I thought about getting some experience at a local weekly paper. Broadcasting school crossed my mind as well. Maybe I could host a sports talk show, do play-by-play or produce a television or radio pre or post-game segment for one of my Cleveland pro sports teams.

None of these "aspirations" were ever acted upon.

So, the other day I'm with my parents at my son's baseball game. LeBron James made the announcement that he would be returning to the Cleveland Cavaliers the night before. We started talking about it and my mother blurts out, "You should be on the radio talking about this."

"I don't like to call in to radio shows."

"No," she continued. "I mean, you should be one of those talk show hosts. You know so much about sports."

"No Mom, I don't know that much about sports."

"Yes you do. You just told me all about LeBron." She was borderline arguing with me at this point.

"I'm just an average fan. Plus, I'm not all that great in front of a microphone. Karaoke is kind of the outer limit of my stage prowess."

"Well, I think you'd be great. You've always loved sports."

She wouldn't let it go. "That's ridiculous. Telling me I should be a sports talk show host because I like sports is like telling a fat guy he should be a chef because he likes food. Or telling someone who wears too much make-up that they should become a circus clown."

"I'm just saying..." The "I'm just saying" is her way of hoping that I think about it on my own later and realize how right she was and how wrong I was. Then, according to her script, I'd call one of the local radio stations and demand they give me the afternoon drive talk show slot. The station management would ask about my qualifications and I'd reply confidently with "Well, I've always loved sports." Can it possibly be more complex than that?

This kind of thing happens a lot to me.

A couple of friends think I should send my "tape" in for voiceover work - books on tape to be exact. After explaining that no one uses "tape" anymore, I tell them that a professionally done voice demo can cost in excess of $2,000. "So, are you willing to invest in me by becoming my sponsor? Because I'm not shelling out two grand so I can later tell you a story about how much it cost me to get turned down by recording studios and ad agencies - I'd rather have that disappointment be on your dime."

Maybe I'm just not a risk taker. Or maybe I'm just smarter than everyone else. Nothing ventured, nothing lost.

It may not have turned out exactly liked I had hoped or planned, but at 47 my life is nothing to complain about. I have a great wife, great kids, a delusional mother who thinks I'm the most talented son in the world, a job and LeBron is coming back.

Yes, I can honestly say I'm living the dream.

217 Days...

2014-07-03T12:09:00.002-07:00

Based on extensive research, my last blog post here was November 27, 2013. Today is July 3, 2014, which means I've gone 217 days between entries. If I had stopped shaving for 217 days, my beard would be at least a quarter inch long. If I had dieted for 217 days, I would probably be trying to figure out a way to gain a few pounds because I'd lost too much weight.

You can accomplish a lot in 217 days. Unfortunately, nothing gets accomplished when one stops writing.

Here's what happens instead. First, and this is almost always the case, I run into people who I see only at sporting or school events for my kids. I genuinely like these people, mostly because they don't get upset when I contact them to make them aware I have a new blog entry. Because we're social friends, they don't expect anything other than a nice conversation at whatever event we're attending together. I don't need to call these people just to say hi. I don't need to help them build a deck or harvest their orchard. These are my "holiday picture" friends. I've never seen a bad holiday picture. We only take pictures of the good parts of holidays. So, these are my "holiday picture" friends. They literally don't have a bad side. But for all their positive attributes, these same people put all sorts of pressure on me by asking when my next blog piece will be coming out. The first words out of their mouths are always: "Hey, when are you going to do some more blogging?" I typically deflect by claiming to be too busy with work, then I quickly change the subject by asking, "You really read it?" And even though I know they'll say yes, I wait for their response to ask "Why?"

In reality, only my friends (the regular and holiday picture kind) and select relatives that I haven't offended in my writings actually read this blog. I suppose I could blame some Blogger.com marketing glitch, but I understand just how all this works: I write it, then Facebook and email anyone who hasn't implicitly said to never contact them again about the blog. That's it. No advertising campaign. No public service announcement. Just me, contacting anyone I know who will read it because I've been encouraged just enough to keep doing this...every 217 days.

But, for those who do receive the notification that a new blog entry is out there, I'm sure it's like getting a chain letter or email.  You kind of have to open it. The guilt will suffocate you if you don't. The difference is, my blog articles don't come with disclaimers like: "Failure to read this blog will result in a year of pure hell where you'll lose your job, your spouse, your house and your car keys. But, if you read it, you will receive $1,000 checks from former grade school classmates for no real reason every week for the rest of the year." No, it doesn't go like that. Instead my blog comes with a more subtle and unwritten warning - "Basically, if you don't read what Steve poured his heart into for hours and days, and comment on how great it was the next time you see him in public, you'll probably force him to lose hope and give up. If you don't read it, the disappointment will hurl him into a black hole of despair and you won't ever see or hear from him again."

There it is in a nutshell. So, what is this "black hole of despair"? Glad you asked.

This is how it'll go down. I'll gas up my silver 2012 Ford Fusion with premium unleaded and just start driving...west. I won't even clean out the fast food bags first.  And once I start driving, I won't stop, except for bathroom breaks and more gas (and Slim Jims and Cherry Coke), until I reach Jackson Hole Wyoming. This should take me two to three days depending on how long it takes me to shower in the gas station's bathroom sink - and stop crying. Once I arrive in Jackson Hole, I'll officially change my name to Gus Reardon and will take up smoking. And I'll smoke everything - cigarettes (filtered and unfiltered), cigars, pipes and even hookah. If it can be smoked, I'll smoke it. I'll even buy a really good used charcoal smoker and only eat foods that are smoked.  After a while, the locals of Jackson Hole will nickname me "Smokey". Gus "Smokey" Reardon. I'll make a living trick roping and gun spinning for tourists. It'll pay just enough to afford a back closet at Hungry Jack's General Store.  Oddly, the owner of Hungry Jack's is a fellow named Lynn, who is not in the least bit interesting.

Occasionally, I'll think about my former life and my family. If I have anything left over after paying Lynn and buying various meats, I'll send them a check. I won't ever explain who Uncle Gus is in the letters I'll mail with the checks. Some days I'll contemplate going to Jackson Hole library to get on the internet and start writing again. But my hands are too sore and tender from rope practice that I end up talking myself out of it.

Then, one day an old friend of mine from my Ohio days will come across me during one of my shows.  Without saying anything, he'll knock me cold from behind with one of my own guns, feed me sedatives, cover me with a burlap sack and deliver me back to Cleveland in the back of his SUV.

I'll try to do better than blogging once every 217 days.  Even if you don't care about what I write, please pretend to read it and I promise I won't be upset if you ask me when I'll be blogging again. I really don't want to have to go to Jackson Hole.  And, I don't want to have to leave my family behind. But, I may just change my name to Gus Reardon anyway.

Stubble Trouble...

2013-11-27T06:59:00.003-08:00

Note: This blog entry is dedicated to Jarret Lobb, my uncle. After two serious operations, he's recovering with a new artificial heart in Rochester, New York. God-willing, Jarret (he's never let me call him "uncle") will continue to progress and be healthy enough to accept a second donor heart. He will always be my favorite uncle. And, even though he's my only uncle, I suspect he'd be right at the top of the list, even if I had fifty of them. Keep fighting Jarret!

The other day my wife noticed that both Matt Lauer and Al Roker of NBC's Today Show were growing beards. "What's with the beards? Everyone is growing one these days."

I pointed out that neither Savannah Guthrie or Natalie Morales had beards to prove that not "everyone" was doing it, but I understood where she was coming from.

I'm not certain if it's Duck Dynasty or the Boston Red Sox who spurred this full beard trend, but it's starting to bother me too. Don't get me wrong, I like beards. In fact, I love beards. The problem is, I've never been able to grow one. It's the single most frustrating thing about me that I've had to deal with since I started shaving thirty or so years ago.

I've tried growing a beard even before it was the popular thing to do. Usually, I'd start it on vacation or prior to beginning a new job. Unfortunately, beard growing is not one of those things you get better at with experience or the more times you try it. I always start out strong, with a full face of stubble in a just a few days. Week two looks a lot like week one, with the added element of itching. Then I hit the Facial Hair Wall. Nothing works, no matter how much I try to coax more length out of my follicles. Week three is when I usually throw in the towel and think about what could have been - that maybe next time I'd do it right.

Not being able to grow a full beard is a huge hit to the male ego. When I do give up and shave it bare, I feel like I'm removing a layer of testosterone. I may as well just give back my man card and sign up for electrolysis.

As I'm shaving, I'm reminded of how well I grow hair in other areas of body. My back, nose, ear, eyebrows and arms are all flourishing with thick swaths of hair - those areas are like follicle savants. Similar to weeds that won't go away even if pull them out by the roots, hair in those unwanted places keeps coming back for more. When the most important feature of my Mangroomer is the warranty, I think you can start to understand what I'm dealing with here.

Last night I spoke with a friend after my son's seventh-grade basketball scrimmage. Of course, he was growing a beard too. Go ahead and kick me when I'm down.

"So, what's with the beard?" I asked.

He chuckled. "I don't know. I stopped shaving for a week and it started to fill in."

"It just started to fill in, huh?"

"Yep."

"How long have you been growing it." I would have guessed a month or two.

"Two and a half weeks."

"You sonofabitch!"

"What?"

"You heard me. I know you're Italian and that gives you an unfair advantage over normal people, but that's only two and a half weeks?"

"Yeah, I kind of like it."

"Do you have any compassion? You come out here strutting around, showing off your precious two-and-a-half-week-old friggin' mountain man beard and you can just be so casual about it? Do you know what people like me would do for a beard like that? Do you? I'd kill for a beard like that."

He quickly responded. "Now, hold on just a minute. I didn't think I was strutting."

"Well, one thing's for sure, you didn't think." My friend is much bigger than me. I should have probably stopped there and just walked away. But I kept hammering the poor bastard. "You're like a damned bearded peacock saying 'Oh, look at me and my amazing new beard!' Well, I think you've crossed the line my friend."

"Well, I'm not going to shave it just because you can't grow one."

There it was. A low blow and I let him know it. "Okay. I see how it is now. You think I can't do this?"

"That is kind of what you told me. You said you'd kill for a beard like mine." I hate when people use my own words against me.

"Yes...yes, I did. But, I didn't say I couldn't grow one myself. In fact, I'm starting on my beard today."

"Okay then, good luck with that. Sheesh." He walked away.

I have no idea what I'm going to do. I may have just bitten off more than I can chew. Pride says just stop shaving for a year and see what happens. Maybe week four is the magical week my face has been waiting for. What if it's longer? Can I hold out that long? One thing I can count on is that my beard will be better than anything the women of the Today Show will be able to grow.

When I got home it occurred to me that I may have been a little hard on my friend. It also occurred to me that despite the harsh words and beard-growing threats, once week three rolls around I'll be shaving off another layer of my manhood.

A Senior Moment...

2013-07-22T08:49:00.000-07:00

If you know me, it's understood that old people and I don't get along - we're like oil and Metamucil.

My distaste for the elderly stems from three major arguments.

First, I've carried a grudge against them for their irresponsible use of recreation centers and grocery stores. I've even gone so far as to petition local and state politicians to ban the retired from these facilities during the hours of 6-8 a.m. and 5-9 p.m. during the week. They can work out and buy groceries all they want from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. That's when I'm working. But, before and after I'm done working, I expect to not have to wait for a treadmill or hear about Lou's bowel obstruction from across the room. And, I shouldn't have to be subject to a grocery store check out line filled with old women who feel it's necessary to pay in cash using exact change. Getting the money out of the pocketbook takes almost as long as putting everything back in place after they're done. It's mind-numbing.

My second major issue with old people is in how they've hostily taken over all McDonald's dining rooms in this country. Sure, many McDonald's now have indoor play areas for small children, but even then you have to pass through a maze of intimidating and awkward stares as the geriatics take a pause from their pointless conversations about prescription dosages or hearing aid battery life to see what young family has infringed upon their domain. You don't think McDonald's built all these fancy drive-thrus to make ordering more convenient do you? They built them because anyone under 55 is afraid to walk into the restaurant to order food.

Finally, I can't stand it when old people feel it's important to tell you every last detail of their doctor visit or a recent ailment. I've never been compelled to tell anyone about the time I got food poisoning and spent two straight days on the toilet while previously digested things came rocketing out of both ends of me. I'm convinced that the first thing to go isn't your memory, it's your empathy. Old people have no ability to filter their thoughts when it comes to sickness - and, it's directly connected to not being able to understand how the person who is hearing the disgusting narration feels about it.

There are other more sublime reasons that I don't enjoy the aged, but these are the Big Three.

So, you can imagine my excitement when I heard that Cleveland had won the rights to host the National Senior Games in 2013, kind of an old people's Olympics. Well, I'm not sure if "winning" the rights is the proper way to describe it. Nothing as depressing as the National Senior Games could ever be awarded to a city - more like forced on the city.

I've tried to steer clear of downtown, to avoid the hordes of adreneline-filled seniors. Who knows what they are capable in such large numbers. No way am I testing those boundaries. But now I'm seeing them in the suburbs, in my hometown. Lots of grey-haired men and women with jerseys. In real life, people older than 55 don't wear jerseys. But this is my version of hell.

The only thing I can do is avoid and discredit. I'll avoid it by staying in my house, under the covers for the next ten days or so. I can discredit by pointing out that no true athletic event can include activities such as shuffleboard, horseshoes and something called pickleball. Pickleball? Really. Look it up. Hey, why not paper football or yatzee? Those are games that have been around a lot longer and there's actually a chance humans might want to watch.

Unforunately, there's really nothing I can do about it. The 2013 National Senior Games are here. They will go on with or without my consent or blessing. But what I would hope for is that the planning committee for the next National Senior Games would consider the following events...

Synchronized Dying - This would be a closing ceremonies event. I'm sure they're going to a few participants that kick it while the games are going on, why not coordinate and judge it.

Mallathon - Why set up an elaborate course and close down streets for a senior marathon when you can have it at the local mall? Instead of grabbing cups of water, runners grab Auntie Anne's pretzels for energy.

Pill Sorting - A race against time to see who can fill up their weekly pill box the fastest.

Crazy? Maybe. But I'm 46. I have to start training for something.

A Coal Miner's Daughter

2013-02-21T11:12:00.001-08:00

I remember the first time I picked up the microphone. It was 1991 at the Winking Lizard Tavern in Twinsburg, Ohio. I was young and brash. Chicken wings had just become popular and they were my food of choice. I was in my early twenties, too foolhardy to understand how many WeightWatchers points were in two dozen of the cholesteral-infused poultry pieces. And, I drank cheap draft beer by the pitcherful. That's when drinking was fun, not just a way to avoid giving the kids baths.

Something in that beer, possibly the alcohol, triggered a desire to jump up onto a tiny stage, and read a teleprompter set to music in front of a roomful of strangers. It was "follow the bouncing ball" for grown-ups and I loved it. Finally, there was a place for young drunks with bad voices to go and to feel like they truly belonged.

In those days, the list of songs available to choose from was sparse. I think you could either go with Louis Armstrong's Mac the Knife or Funky Cold Medina by Tone Loc. Because of my natually hip and cool personality, I chose the Mr. Loc standard for my karaoke debut. I was a bundle of nerves as I drank and ate and waited for the karaoke DJ to call my name. Amazingly, as soon as I was handed the microphone and the music started to play, my nervousness melted away. I was in another world. A world where you were accepted, even if you couldn't sing, or had a permed mullet, or drove your mom's Chevy Cavalier, or...okay, you get the picture.

As other establishments in and around northeast Ohio started to offer Karaoke, playlists expanded...and so did my personal karaoke repertoire. In fact, I had quite the karaoke following, even if they were my brother and three or four of our friends. I took my talents to places like Gatsby's in Mentor and Tommy's in Rocky River. I even played the Clarion Hotel lounge in Eastlake. I was two cities away from being a regional act.

Then, one night in 1993, I decided to shake things up. Tone Loc was getting stale. I stepped out of my hip hop confort zone and turned my name in for a little Loretta Lynn. "Coal Miner's Daughter" to be exact.

And, when I began..."Well, I was born a coal miner's daughter...," I knew there was no going back. Some found it humerous. Some appalling. Some didn't care. Others thought I was some kind of fruit loop.

I suppose it served its purpose - it generated a reaction from the crowd. Funky Cold Medina was dead. Coal Miner's Daughter was now my signature song on karaoke nights. Sure, I'd mix in some Johnny Cash or Led Zeppelin or The Doors...but, one thing hasn't changed for me over the many years. My first song of the night is always CMD.

Well a lot of things have changes since way back then. I got married, had kids and decided to start taking my career seriously. Not my karaoke career, the other one. It's been almost four years since my last karaoke night.

Some day I'll get back out there on that tiny stage. I don't know when. But, I've been preparing for it for a few years now. In my car I carry a list - I keep it hidden in my glove box.. Its a karaoke song list. Of songs I haven't tried before. If I hear something on the radio that requires limited to no vocal ability to pull off, I write it down. I'm currently at 18 songs and counting.

Some day I'll find a nice bar. I'll order some wings and a pitcher or two of cheap beer. Then I'll turn my song request in. It's what I do. And when I do, I hope you're there. You can't keep this coal miner's daughter away from the microphone forever.

Ten Things I'll Miss When The World Comes To An End

2012-12-17T12:15:00.002-08:00

Well, this is it. The last work week of human existence. Only the Mayans know if the world will cease to be early or late in the day on Friday, December 21, 2012. I'm hoping it's early, since I have planned to do some last-minute Christmas shopping in the evening and you all know how much of a pain-in-the-ass that can be.

Since I'm trying to eat as much pepperoni pizza and Twinkies as I can between now and then, I don't have all that much time for blogging. David Letterman has always done well with lists. So here's mine...

Top Ten Things I'll Miss When The World Comes To An End

10. Magic Mondays at McDonald's. Buy one Big Mac or Quarter Pounder with Cheese and get a second sandwich for $.25. This would be higher on my list if the promotion hadn't just started this week. I only get one Magic Monday -- I'm going to make the most of it.

9. Nutella. The delicious hazelnut spread. Mmm, mmm (emphasis on the second mmm). Not sure if the FDA checked this one out yet. No way is this stuff good for you.

8. Jumper Cables. My first non-food related item in my top ten. Not once have I regretted the purchase of jumper cables in 2006. I just wish I could take them with me into the next life.

7. The Amish Mafia on the Discovery Channel. I was so hopeful after week one of the series that I'd be able to follow Levi and company lay down a little Menonite justice. I guess not.

6. My Nosehair Trimmer. Do I need to elaborate?

5. Wind Turbines. Man, I could watch those things all day long. If I see one off the highway, I just pull over and gaze. I often wonder how they keep moving, even when there's no wind to speak of. Oh well.

4. Pop Tarts. I eat them sober.

3. Milk. Gotta have something to go with the Pop Tarts.

2. Gold Rush on the Discovery Channel. Hey, I'm just keeping it real. Afterall, there are no rules when it comes to how many Discovery Channel shows you can have on your Things I'll Miss When The World Comes To An End Top Ten list. I only wish I could have seen Dakota Fred strike it rich by hitting the mother load in the Porcupine Creek glory hole.

1. Olestra. I always thought that's what would have killed me. Who knew.

Well, that's it. I have many others that just couldn't make the cut. Good luck to everyone, especially you doomsday preppers out there who have been stockpiling gallon cans of chili beans and brussel sprouts, hoping to outlast the rest of us.

Farewell. But, if for some reason the world doesn't end on Friday, please don't tell me what happens on Gold Rush this week. I DVRd it.

Bad Signs

2012-08-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

I hate to go all political on this blog, but I thought you might be interested in something I recently submitted to my town's weekly newspaper, The Strongsville Post. It published on September 1st, but they made me cut it down to 500 words. A little background: the city used $130,000 from the General Fund to construct a large brick sign with the word "Strongsville" on it. Seems like kind of waste to me. Here's the unedited version.

A few months ago, I noticed the beginnings of some landscape and brick work being done on the northbound side of I-71, at the SR82 /Royalton Road exit. A few weeks ago, the work completed, I saw the result, a very nice brick wall with the word "STRONGSVILLE" attached to the front and rows of greenery directly in front of the wall.

The idea for the sign came from a city council member who drove past a similar sign while on a trip to Columbus. If it was good enough for a Columbus suburb, it certainly must be good enough for a Cleveland suburb.

I wondered just how much this sign cost the city to construct. It seems that the landscaping was paid for by an ODOT grant of $48,000.

But, what about the brickwork and the giant letters? Last week the Strongville Post's Terry Brlas reported that the sign itself cost the city $130,000. Whoa! Hey, it's a nice sign, but is it a worth the same amount the parents of this community are asked to shell out to have 325 student-athletes play a high school sport this fall?

But, in reading Mr. Brlas' article, I found out that there's really more to this sign than meets the eye. See, apparantly "the purpose of the sign it to let motorists traveling northbound on I-71 know that they are in Strongsville and the Royalton Road exit is the place to exit."

That's interesting. I guess a motorist might not notice the several big green signs advertising the Strongsville exit placed on the the highway starting at about a mile and a half before they would have to make their mind up to turn. Maybe people who like to just stop to discover new cities can only read words attached to brick. Maybe their GPS is broken and would steer them past Strongsville and into a less desirable place like Middleburg Heights. If the purpose it to ensure we lure as many potential out-of-town consumers off the road and into our town, why not just build the brick wall on the highway itself, replace the big letters with a large arrow pointing to the right, forcing motorists onto the exit and right into the Strongsville Commerce Trap?

A little crazy, right?

But is it as crazy as what Mayor Perciak said about the sign? In the article, the mayor is quoted as saying the sign "identifies what our community is. We're sound, we're stable, we're safe and it displays all that. It also displays a certain amount of pride in our residents, our schools and our businesses." I personally drove past the sign eight times this week, the last three times driving really slowly to make sure I wasn't missing something. Not once did I see anything other than the word "Strongsville." I didn't feel more stable or safer. I didn't feel more prideful or feel better about the schools or want to patronize any of the businesses in town.

Or, is it as crazy as having members of the committee who helped to organize the construction of the sign stand next to the highway with large letters while others on the committee drove past. The purpose was to determine how large the letters needed to be in order for them to be easily read as they drive by. How about just sending one person down to the Columbus suburb where the idea came from in the first place and measure their letters?

Maybe Mayor Perciak's assistant would be able to help me see the light on this. He said, "Folks are flying in to see some of our tech businesses and this lets them know where to access Strongsville." Really? They're flying in, yet have no means to figure out how to get our town from the airport, which is three miles away? I doubt they'll be coming from the south anyway, but don't worry, the city is planning another sign for the southbound side of the highway.

I'm not sure how we ever break even on a $130,000 pricetag for this sign, much less adding another one, ultimately costing the city $260,000. The good news is that the dollars come from the city's General Fund. Apparantly, that's the fund used for uneccessary projects. The General Fund must not cover things like adding sidewalks for children who walk to school, fixing potholed and cracked roads, or beefing up police patrols to catch up with youth gangs who sell drugs right out in the open in the common areas of certain residential developments.

And, the General Fund must not cover the cost of looking into ways to solve the backed up traffic leading into and out of the Mall and the Costco/Best Buy shopping plaza off of Royalton Road and onto I-71. Yes, the same Royalton Road and I-71 the city is hoping random motorist will unwittingly discover with our new nice but overpriced signs.

According to Mayor Perciak, "the business community wanted the sign." Well then, here's a sign that I (a taxpayer who most likely contributed to the General Fund) want: "Strongsville: Leadership WANTED." Maybe someone will see it, run for office and help stop wasteful spending in this town once and for all.

Down For The Count

2012-08-13T03:31:00.003-07:00

I'm beginning to think that Groupon may have something to do with the Mayan end-of-the-world prophecy. Nothing can take down a civilization like two-for-one, month-long boxing lessons at the mall. In my case, I didn't need the entire month -- I only needed about fifteen minutes.

My oldest daughter will be heading to high school in less less than two weeks. She loves to work out. I'm proud of how she takes care of herself, though I'm not exactly sure where in her DNA that trait came from. Anyway, my wife finds a Groupon deal that would give two people unlimited month-long access to a new place at the mall called The Empowering Punch. It's a place where you can take workout classes, most of which are boxing-related. The crazy part about The Empowering Punch is that it's located inside the mall, between a pet store and the entrance to Dick's Sporting Goods. There's a big window just for shoppers to watch you while they down their Auntie Anne's pretzels and large fresh-squeezed lemonades. It's just what the public has craved for all these years, a place to watch people sweat while taking a break from the exhausting chore of shopping.

My daughter couldn't wait to go. She has like a thousand friends, according to Facebook, though none of them were willing to step up and take a class or two with her. And, she didn't want to do it alone. My wife wouldn't go with her and didn't even offer any sort of legitimate reason as to why. So, my daughter was faced with going alone or...

"Why don't you take her?" My wife every once in a while has a great idea. This was not one of those times.

I needed to come up with something really good, an excuse my wife couldn't deny. But, before I could answer...

"It would be great for you two to do something together. I mentioned it to her and she really wants you to go with her."

Crap.

There's no way out of this rabbit hole. My wife had played the guilt card and she played it well.

When we arrived at The Empowering Punch, another class was finishing up. The class was led by a man wearing a Garth Brooks-type headset, yelling out commands to people who looked like they just spent the last hour working a dunk tank at the local Home Days festival. The killer part was that almost everyone was in amazing physical shape. I've never seen healthy people sweat that much. God only knows what this class would do to somone like me.

We signed in. I think I signed some sort of waiver, not holding The Empowering Punch accountable for my death. My daughter was excited. Apparantly, the guy running the class was "hot." Really? That's what she's thinking about? I reminded her that she has a boyfriend and to focus on the task at hand -- checking every couple of seconds to make sure my eyes were not rolling into the back of my head during the class.

I sized up the next group, the ones who would be my classmates. There was a guy who seemed less in shape than me, so I started to gain a little confidence. Maybe I could pull off this 55-minute workout afterall. It's just punching, right?

Wrong.

With just five words, the instructor hit me with the biggest dose of reality any fat man could ever hear.

"Get out your jump ropes."

Gravity and excessive weight is not one of your classic combinations, like, say peanut butter and jelly. Gravity and excessive weight go together like, "Holy shit" and "Get me out of here, now!"

But, I couldn't let my daughter see how frightened I was. And, certainly I couldn't show any signs of weakness with the instructor. So, I grabbed a jump rope, pretended to unwind it for a few minutes, then took my place in the only open area left -- the freakin' front row, right in front of Garth. I had planned to be in the back row, so he couldn't see me and I could go unnoticed at my own pace. What happened? Now I'm in the front row? This is not starting well at all.

"Let's go everybody", he yelled into his microphone. I heard him say "everyone", but I know he was talking to me.

Since I haven't jumped rope since my eighth grade physical fitness test, I had no idea if I could even make it over the rope once. Yet, somehow I did it. I was jumping rope -- eight, nine, ten in a row. And I was really getting some elevation when I jumped, maybe a foot or higher with each jump. I was clearing the rope easily. The problem was that I really needed to only be just barely off the floor. Doing a full-out leap into the air every time that rope hit the floor really wasn't helping me conserve my energy.

This went on for ten minutes I think. It felt like an eternity. Good God was I getting tired. And this was the warmup.

I should have conserved what little energy I had. I tried to see what was going on behind me. It seemed that no one was working as hard or jumping as high as I was. Finally, after pushing my body to the limit with a seven-foot length of chord, the instructor commanded us to go get our gloves.

Gloves. Now that's more like it. There is no jumping with gloves.

I found a pair of black ones. I liked them -- they made me look tough. Don't mess with me, I jumped rope for ten minutes and now I'm ready to take your head off with my fists of fury. I'm going to make this class my bitch.

Then the truly hard part began. The instuctor showed us various punches, all of which were numbered. Number one was a left jab. Number two a right cross. Number three a left hook. And so on...

Whatever number Garth Brooks called out, we'd do. "Two." Right cross. "Four." Right hook. "Five." Left uppercut. I got cocky, thinking I could do this all day long.

Then Garth started with the combos. And, he picked up the pace....big time.

"One, one." Jab, jab. "One, three, two." Jab, left hook, right cross." My mind worked slowly, but my body worked even slower. I was still halfway through the last set of instructions when he barked out the next combination.

"Four, six, two, one, one, three." What?

Now I was tired and confused. I started to make up my own combinations thinking that no one else would notice. I thought maybe the instructor would be too busy calling out the orders that he wouldn't be able to tell if I was doing things correctly.

But this guy was some kind of freak. He zeroed in on my cheating ways by standing in front of me holding padded mits. He called out the next round of instructions. I tried, I really did, to make sense of it, then execute. When I failed to translate his orders, he made me try again...and again...and again. Either I did it right on the eighth try or he finally gave up on me, I'm not sure. The good news is he was gone.

But so was my stamina.

I couldn't do this any longer. We were about fifteen minutes into this fifty-minute workout. My daughter was doing everything correctly. It looked like she was hardly breathing. I, on the other hand, looked like an escape artist who had been unable to breath after being chained underwater for three minutes. I gasped and wheezed and struggled to do what was being asked.

I had had enough. I slipped into the side room next to the boxing studio. It was quieter in there. Maybe Garth wouldn't notice I was taking a break. The instructor kept going as if nothing had happened. Cool. I bent over, exhausted. Then, one of Garth's helpers appeared out of nowhere asking if I was alright.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine." I lied.

"What did you have to eat tonight?" he asked.

"Umm, uhh...that's a good question." You know, I couldn't remember. Wierd. I thought maybe I was punch drunk. But no one hit me, so that ruled that out. He waited until I finally just randomly called out whatever food I could think of... "a sandwich, I had a sandwich."

"Did you have any fruit?"

"Uh, no." Didn't I just say I had a sandwich?

"Well, you should really have fruit before coming to one of these classes. Next time make sure you have a piece or two."

Oh, I'm sure that piece of fruit would have given me the stamina to fire through this class like Sylvester Stallone on Red Bull.

"Next time?" Did he just say next time?

"Right."

I started to laugh. And, I couldn't stop. He walked away after about six minutes and I never saw him again.

Going back into the class would not have been the right thing to do. I was embarrassed and I didn't want to embarrass my daughter more than she probably already was. So, I watched her and she did great. I was really proud. They took her up into what looked like a small version of a boxing ring and Garth worked one-on-one with her, calling out combinations. She stuck with it.

Good for her.

After it was over, she asked me what happened.

"Are you okay Dad."

"Oh, sure." I lied again. "Apparantly, I should have had a banana before I came here tonight."

"Well, maybe next time." She was encouraging at least.

Then I started to laugh. And I didn't stop until we got home.

For Old Time's Sake

2012-07-24T13:37:00.001-07:00

So, I'm at the gym this morning and...

No, that's not a punchline. Occasionally, I do make a half-hearted attempt at getting back in shape. If you still don't believe me, I suppose I could supply witnesses, but I've already gotten my workout in for the day.

Let me start again. I'm at the gym this morning and notice something. Have you ever noticed something that you probably should have noticed way before you noticed it the first time? Like how Napolean Dynamite is wearing different clothes during the same movie scene. Things like that.

Today I noticed just how many old people work out at 6:00 a.m. I noticed it because at every machine, I had to wait for them to finish, which slowed my usual 45-minute workout to a little over three hours. Agonizing. It's not like you can work in with them since they put the settings on the lowest possible weight. Air would provide as much resistance as what some of these geriatrics are doing. So, I wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, when they're finished, they do a slow walk to the disinfectant spray bottle in the corner of the room, grab a rag and wipe down the machine like they're polishing their walker after a shitstorm. I'm really not certain what they're wiping off, but it isn't sweat. I never see old people sweat -- it's why they never need air conditioning and heat their homes in the summertime. I think when you turn 65, your body just morphs into a cold-blooded reptilian on the inside. Temperature change doesn't seem to affect them at all.

I shouldn't have to worry about all of this at six in the morning. I'm worried about lots of other things. I have a busy day ahead and try to use this short workout as a way to prepare myself. The fact is I have to get up early. They don't. The only time I'm able to work out is early in the morning. They have all day. They should at least have to wait until I get to work before they start their workout. As a society, we already surrendered the mall to them. What more could they want?

Old people have also impacted my grocery store experience. When do I do grocery shopping? After work or on the weekends. These times should be "old people free." If they can't get their shopping done and workout during the 40 hours I work each week, then I guess they're just looking for trouble.

I suppose you might call me insensitive and an ageist, but I'm only trying to be practical. Think of how much faster you'd get to work during rush hour if you took all the people who weren't in a hurry off the road. Think of the line at the deli in your supermarket and how efficient it would be if they didn't have to deal with the 82-year-old woman ordering three slices of every cold cut she could remember. Think about a workout that doesn't last all morning.

Most of us know old people. Some of us might even be old people. If you know someone who is old, suggest this new way of living and see if they're willing to change. If you are old and I've possibly offended you, I'm sorry. You go ahead and keep doing what you're doing. But don't expect me to wipe the machine off after I'm done.

Having Your Cake...

2012-07-09T09:28:00.001-07:00

In two days I'll be 45 years old. My wife thinks my birthday is funny because I'll be able to round up my age to 50. I think she needs to trade in her sense of humor for something a little, well, more humorous.

Birthdays are supposed to be enjoyable. My kids seem to enjoy theirs. They have parties and sleepovers with friends and presents and cake with butter cream frosting in the design of whatever they happen to be into at the time. Growing up, I don't recall ever having a birthday party that included anyone other than my parents, grandparents and brother. I recall having friends, but I don't remember any of them cheering me on while I extinguished a cake-full of birthday candles with a single mighty exhale.

And, I know for sure the birthdays of my youth included cakes without frosting. That's right, the first time I had a cake with anything other than lemon glaze or powdered sugar was on my wedding day. It was usually a standard 12x9 rectangle. Occasionally, if my mother was feeling creative, I'd get a bundt-style cake. The only suprise I ever had during my birthdays was when I took a bite of one of those cakes, not knowing if I had a mouthful of cake with glaze or cake with melted candle wax -- they looked so much the same. Surpisingly, the flavors weren't all that different.

So, most people who hate birthdays hate them because it makes them feel old. I hate birthdays because of cake trauma. I call them "prison cakes", though I'm sure convicts at least get frosting.

For the past few years I've just avoided cake altogether on my birthdays. Part of the reason has to do with my mother. Pent up guilt from having tortured me with those nondescript cakes for so many years caused her to attempt a make-good. For a good three or four years she would bring over a frozen ice cream cake for my birthday. A lot of people enjoy ice cream cakes. They combine both of the festive treats in one simple package. Plus, they eliminate the need to ask the question, "do you want cake, ice cream or both." You don't have a choice with an ice cream cake. You get both whether you want it or not. There is just one small problem -- I've never wanted ice cream with my cake, mostly because I hate using a fork to eat the soupy mess from a woefully inadequate paper plate. So, being forced to eat something on my birthday kind of rubbed me the wrong way. I never told my mother how I felt, but after a few years, the ice cream cakes stopped coming. Now, we just go out to a nice dinner and I try not to think of cake, frozen or baked.

Only one of my kids eats cake. So, only one of my kids should want cake for their birthdays, right? Wrong. They all do. And, they always want elaborate designs that I end up attempting, as if my name was Buddy from Carlo's Bakery. My attempts don't always turn out as planned. The Arthur-themed cake was quite impressive. The Poke-mon cake was not. Sports themes are usually easy to pull off, unless you're trying to put together a realistic-looking soccer ball and don't pre-plan the hexagon pattern. You might end up with a few hexagons, some triangles and a new shape I call a squaircle.

The kids are getting older now and the requests for special cakes don't seem to be as important to them as they once did. A simple rectangle with a cream cheese frosting and some sprinkles often does the trick.

They say kids end up turning out just like their parents. I've been fighting for almost fifteen years, but I'm thinking my days are numbered. Cake making is hard work. Maybe someday I'll be able to drizzle a lemon glaze onto a 9x12 sheet cake and call it a day. Or better yet, I could just give DQ a call.

As for my kids, they can have their cake, but I don't have to eat it too. Afterall, I am 50.

Barney My Brother

2012-02-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, I feel a bit like Barney Fife these days. Barney, from TV's classic sitcom The Andy Griffith Show, was only able to carry one bullet in his pocket "in case of an emergency." Restricted by Sheriff Andy Taylor due to his overzealous ways, Deputy Fife couldn't be trusted to have a loaded gun.

Relating to Fife's situation isn't difficult these days. As a journalism major, it's always been my duty to point out misspellings and grammatical errors in the written work of others. I can be a bit of a snob that way. So, a particular event that happened to me this past week really knocked me down about six pegs.

My eldest daughter's school was having a fundraiser where you send a handwritten Valentine's Day note to your children. My wife suggested that we each do one for our kindergartner. I crafted a beautiful message to my youngest that surely would stir the emotions of anyone who read it.

On Valentine's night, my wife made me aware of just what kind of emotions my note would stir -- ridicule. "Here," she said. "Read the note."

"Why?"

"Just read it."

So, I read it...

"Dear Meghan - Your the coolest kindergartner I know. Have a great Valentine's Day! Love Dad"

Holy crap. I used "your" instead of "you're."

"How embarrassing." My wife has this very natural way of making me feel like a real turd.

"Well, Meghan won't know the difference."

"Yes, but copies of these were posted at the school." Really? She had to tell me that?

At that moment, everything I thought I knew about myself suddenly was in doubt. Now, I was just like all those "other people" I've chastised for being lazy and stupid. "That's what they get. Text-ebonics is ruining this country. Our kids are never going to know how to professionally communicate when they get out into the world and have a real job. They're doomed, doomed I say."

I searched for a response. Should I just return my journalism degree now?

My oldest came into the kitchen where were having this discussion and asked what we were talking about. I showed here the note.

"Oh yeah", she started. "Emily saw that and was making fun of it and telling everyone at school today."

Great.

There was only one solution to my dilemma. "Can I still get into the school?" I asked my wife.

"I think so. Why?"

I didn't answer. I was on a mission. The doors were still open. I found the bulletin board where the Valentine's notes were displayed. Luckily, the note I wrote to Meghan was one of the first I saw. I took a pen out and proceeded to correct my mistake. It didn't take long, but I was more than satisfied with the result.

It now read: "Dear Emily: Your the coolest 8th grader I no. Have a grate Valentine's Day. Love, Dad."

Now, give me back my bullet Sheriff Taylor.

The Most Super Super Bowl Party Host...

2012-02-15T16:32:00.000-08:00

The other night at the city recreation center, I ran into a friend of mine who also happens to be the person who hosted the Super Bowl party I attended (and blogged about) this year. He was visibly upset. At first, I thought it had something to do with the fact that he had witnessed something seen less often than a yeti in Texas -- me working out. Well, I wasn't actually working out. I was preparing to work out. Preparing to work out is almost as taxing as the actual workout. Sometimes I win by convincing myself that I'm too sick or too tired to put myself through such physical torture. Sometimes I lose when the small amount of common sense I still have left swims its way to the top of my stream of consciousness. Last night went into the loss column.

But my friend Ron was angry about something much more important than seeing me self-induce a heart attack on the treadmill. I should have prefaced all of this by saying Ron has lost like 40 pounds in the last few months. He's in very good shape and he happened to be wearing a tank top during this particular verbal confrontation which helped accentuate his new-found upper arm muscles. Hey, if you're going to go through all the effort of working out and eating right and taking all those illegal steroids and human growth hormone, you may as well let people see the results. How many woman do you know with fresh boob jobs that hide behind a ski parka or baggy sweatshirt? See. You can't blame him.

As soon as he saw me, his testosterone kicked into high gear. "Hey, I read your blog. What the hell?"

This wasn't the reader reaction I was looking for, but at least he read it. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

"You didn't even talk about the host of the Super Bowl party."

"You're right", I agreed. "I apologiz. I'll edit it tonight and mention what a great job your wife did with it."

I hadn't used up my daily allowance of sarcasm, so I felt the need to unload whatever was left in the tank on him.

"Listen", I tried to calm him by using a soothing manner of speaking. "I did have a whole section about you during the rough draft stage." Two lies in one sentence. First, I didn't right a think about him. Second, there's never a rough draft stage -- it's like live television, I type it and hit send. Who has time to edit?

"Go ahead, I'm listening." Great, buying signals.

At this very moment I decided to adopt a new policy as it relates to my blog. If anyone sees me at the rec center and wants to talk about PierogiLogic, I'll give you free mention in the next article. Keep in mind I have trouble with facts and keeping them straight. I embellish and flat out make stuff up quite a bit so what I write may not be completely accurate. You've been warned. Finding me at the rec center will not be hard, if I'm there. The "if I'm there" part is the key. But, if I'm there, it'll be like playing a fairly obvious version of "Where's Waldo." I'm not too tough to spot.

"I feel bad," I continued. "But somehow that entire section was removed. Since it's virtually impossible to deal with the little blog fairies who obviously messed with the article in the middle of the night and deleted all the extremely complimentary stuff about you, I'll dedicate and entire blog entry to just you."

Ron's threatening demeanor softened.

"So, you're going to tell everyone what a great host I was?"

"Not only that, but if you play your cards right, I may even tell them what a great job you did with the hardwood floors in the kitchen and foyer. I'm impressed."

For whatever reason, that didn't seem to matter to Ron. But, the thought of me at least mentioning what an amazing host he was caused him to ease the pressure from around my neck. The blood vessels in his neck and head weren't as bulgy either at this point.

"Hey, thanks," he said.

"No," I said. "Thank you."

So, here's my tribute to Ron, the world's greatest Super Bowl party host...

Ron, you're an awesome host. Thank you for inviting me and my family. We had a great time and hope to do it again next year. And, speaking of next year, can you please, please, please stash a couple of Super Bowl squares away for me and the kids? I'm feeling lucky. Also, please tell whoever made the amazing sausage sandwiches that I love them. I love the sausage sandwiches and I love the person who made them. And, by the way, that hardwood floor is killer.

Super Bowl Balancing Act...

2012-02-09T12:55:00.000-08:00

So, a record number of people watched the Super Bowl last weekend -- 111 million to be exact. It's too bad that the technology used to determine this gaudy number can't tell the difference between those who were actually paying attention to the action on the field and those who just happened to be in the room during the telecast.

I've only been to a handful of Super Bowl parties in my lifetime. Though the truth is that I've only been invited to a handful of Super Bowl parties in my lifetime, I prefer to say that I chose not to attend as a way to make a personal statement against glam-football.

In my limited Super Bowl party experience, I've discovered that there are three distinct types of people you'll meet there. Since I know there are still those of you out there who don't get invited to Super Bowl parties, I thought I'd provide a bit of a primer into what to look for and how to deal with each of of the groups.

Here goes...

The Purists - These are the people who would prefer that the Super Bowl was played outdoors, in a foot of snow, with leather helmets and goal posts moved from the back of the endzone to the goal line. They don't care which teams are playing - the fact that is football is more than enough for them. They drink hard during the game action and go to the bathroom during commercial breaks. Don't bother them during live action and never question their ability to dissect a play or their take on playcalling or strategy.

The Squareheads - These people would show up to an International Cricket Championship party, as long as they could buy five or six squares from a game grid. Without the excitement of losing forty or fifty bucks, they would just as soon be at the dentist getting their molars capped. These are the men and women who question the strategy of kicking an extra point in the first quarter because one of the Super Bowl squares they purchased had the number six in it.

The Ad Spotters - These partygoers show no outward interest in the game while the game is going on. The talk. They eat. They turn their back to the action. Yet, at the very moment a commercial break begins, the Ad Spotter drops their plate and cup, closes their mouth and cranes their neck to get a premium and unfettered view of the Super Bowl ad now showing on the television. So intent is the ad spotter, you'd think they were actually appearing in the commercial. Spotters are quick to judge and offer an opinion about what they've just seen. As if Larry Tate were somewhere in the room looking for agency talent to help with a new campaign for next year's big game.

I clearly don't fall into any of the three categories I've just described. So, there must be a fourth group. I've had to stop writing to really think about this. It's a bit like looking for the missing link and then discovering that it's you. But, I think I've got it...

The Foodies - I love football, but I don't worry about whether the defense is running a cover 2 zone defense. I'm late for everything, so I'm sure how I feel about Super Bowl squares -- they're always gone before I get to the party. I used to be in the advertising industry, but frankly the Super Bowl ads have not lived up to the hype since about 1995. But dammit if I don't love party food. Wings. Pizza. Chips and salsa. Six versions of seven-layer Mexican dip. Sausage sandwiches. Cookies. Cake. It's a fat sports fan's heaven. Foodies like me are the heart and soul of any Super Bowl party. Plus, we're the most versatile of all partygoers. Just because I'm eating doesn't mean I can't watch the game, buy a square or comment on the commercials.

So, it's a miracle all four groups can get along so well. We all have different agendas, but rarely does a fight break out. It's kind of like an African nature preserve. Lions living with antelope in harmony because the lions are fed so well by humans they think of the antelope as friends, not dinner. Think of it as the Pridelands after Simba returned home.

The good news is that you have an entire year to get ready for your next (or your first) Super Bowl party. Heck you may even decide to break down and throw one of your own. If so, keep in mind the delicate balance that is the Super Bowl Circle of Life.

Old School...

2011-08-30T15:33:00.000-07:00

Last week, the kids started another school year. We now have one in eighth, one in fifth and the youngest in all-day kindergarten. Mostly, my wife handles the chaos that is getting all three ready for the day. Occasionally, I'll make a lunch or put socks on one of them. But, I have a hard enough time getting myself washed, dressed and out the door for my day to be of any use to the rest of the family.

Despite my ineptitude when it comes to the morning routine, I excel in the area of homework. I'm the go-to parent when it comes to difficult math or science problems. And, my journalism degree comes in handy for the "Language Arts" (that's what they call English, Reading & Spelling these days).

Though I've always been able to tackle the tough homework questions, I feel my days are numbered, especially with the eight grader. Once serious algebra questions start coming home, I'm grabbing a life boat, some oars and my pride before heading to shore. Bailing as the homework savior is the one time in life when quitting is a better option than trying. I know my educational limits -- now it's time for my kids to know my educational limits. It's precisely the reason I've been hammering home to them the idea that at the top of the list of important things to do while in school, regardless of grade, is to make friends with the smart kids.

The good news is my kids have not yet approached me with anything that looks like sentence diagramming. I swear I didn't learn to actually read until high school. That's because just about any real sentence I came across in grade school needed to be dissected like a frog in biology class. The only real difference between the frog dissection and diagramming a sentence was that at least I could recognize a frog bone a frog muscle and a frog heart. I had no idea what I was doing with nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs. I was clueless, yet I was one of the best in my class at doing it -- sentence diagramming that is, not amphibian autopsies. Who knows, maybe I was an idiot savant when it came to sentence structure. That's what I thought when I was younger, but then I realized that I was just an idiot and did an exceptional job of guessing the answers. Guessing, I've found, is not an ideal strategy to use in dealing with career and family issues when one enters the world of adults.

Similarly, the metric system has only occasionally reared its ugly head in my kid's homework papers. When I was in grade school the teachers had us convinced that we would not be able to function as adults if we did not learn the metric system. Like African Killer Bees that were due to build a giant hive at the end of our street by 1980, we would need to take heed or face a gruesome demise. I guess teachers missed the memo that said "Unless You're Planning To Become An Olympic Swimmer, Diver or Track & Field Athlete, The Metric System Will Be A Huge Waste Of Time For You And Your Students."

I pretty much pulled the plug on learning anything math-related that didn't require a calculator after hearing my high school algebra teacher tell our class that we'd end up using less than 10% of what he was teaching when we got into the real world. That was refreshing. That one comment shaped my mathematical life. It was a lot like learning that size doesn't matter and only the good die young.

So, my kids don't have to worry about diagramming sentences or learning the metric system. There's still an outside chance that those crazy killer bees took the scenic route on their way to Ohio, but I'll save my children the uneccessary concern.

The thing my offspring have to deal with hits much closer to home -- it's called Peanut Allergies. My youngest is not allowed to bring in anything that contains peanuts, including a seemingly benign peanut butter and jelly sandwich. PB&J is dangerous? Apparantly, to anyone with a peanut allergy it is. So, there is a ban on the favorite sandwich of American youth in my daughter's school. My wife's school doesn't ban the sandwich, but makes the afflicted kids sit by themselves, away from people who might be packing toxic peanuts or their derivatives -- like lepers.

I'm not sure when the whole peanut allergy thing first came to light, but I'm pretty much convinced it's a hoax. At best, it's unfair to peanut lovers. I wonder if my youngest was allergic to cheese if the school would stop serving pizza. Or worse, if she had the dreaded combo allergy of both cheese and salami -- potentially, lunch would be need to be abolished altogether, at least if we were playing by the same rules that are being used for the peanut allergy people.

But that's just me, right? School has been a haven for stupid rules for as long as I can remember. Like not touching the water fountain with your mouth and having to raise your hand to ask permission to fart in class.

In reality, not much has changed. The teachers still teach. The kids still learn.

And I...well, I'm still just an idiot.

The "Big Sweater" Story...

2011-08-07T06:23:00.000-07:00

My weight can be a problem.

I'm too big to be going topless at the beach. And too small to be considered for the reality television show, Biggest Loser. I'm like a "tweener" in basketball or football vernacular -- my skills are proportionately out of whack with my body type.

This issue is never more exposed than when I'm on vacation. And right now, I'm on vacation.

I'll give you one guess where our family respit is this year. And before you smartasses guess, I'm not at Krispy Kreme Fantasy Camp or taking the Candy Land Game Virtual Reality Tour. I'm at every overweight man's little vacation of horrors -- that's right, I'm at the beach. There's no chance I'm mentioning which beach for fear of paparazzi who want to snap a few pics and then publish them as a cruel "Separated at Birth" story alongside a shot of Shamu or Moby Dick. That's a no-win situation for me, so I'll just say I'm not in Ohio and leave it at that.

Beach vacations spell big time trouble for me. They seem like fun. Sand, surf, sun --what could go wrong? Well, let me tell you that at the rate my body sweats, I wear a life vest all week long, as I have serious concerns that a sudden outburst of energy could cause me to drown in a puddle of my own perspiration. The week is a lot like how I envision fat camp to be. To me the only difference between a beach vacation and fat camp is I don't have to hide chocolate under my pillow.

There are three things I'm really good at -- eating, sweating and complaining. Amazingly, a beach vacation allows me to do all three at the same time. I was able to showcase my talents almost immediately, upon arrival at the condo we'd be staying at for the week with my wife's sister and her family.

After unloading and carrying a minivan full of crap up to the living space in 90-degree heat and off the charts humidity with very little assistance from any of my two older and able-bodied children, I'm sure I looked like I had lost a fight with a fire hose. I was suturated, miserable and ready for beer. I opened a cold bottle of the liquid gold and held it to my forehead, providing me a cool but all too brief reprieve from this nighmarish sweat episode. It barely changed the status of my sweat glands. Apparantly, no one told them I was done exerting myself. The spigot needed to be turned off and nothing was working.

To go with the beer, I grabbed a doggy bag of uneaten food from the counter. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant before arriving at the condo and my daughter failed to do any damage to a giant beef burrito and some refried beans. I'm so glad I had kids with shit-tiny appetites. There's always a snack or two for daddy after we eat out.

After doing my best Joey Chestnut imitation on the leftovers, I noticed my brother-in-law sitting comfortably on the balcony, sipping his beer and talking about plans for the week. But, there was something just not right and I figured it out right away. The man was completely dry! Not moist dry, but bone dry. In fact, my sister-in-law's husband was drier than my mother's meat loaf.

I tried to ignore it, but nothing could keep my mind off it. We both unloaded approximately the same amount of crap from our minivans. The difference is, I surmised, that my brother-in-law is in great shape. He does P90x and runs marathons. He's very dedicated. On the other hand, I once peed for ninety seconds and watched a Deadliest Catch marathon on the Discovery Channel.

The reasons for why I was out-sweating him were obvious, the most important of which was my extra baggage. But just because I know why, doesn't mean I can't resent him for it. He could at least pretend to be exhausted, couldn't he? Somehow, he was oblivious to my anguish. Damn him.

Finally, I had had enough.

"Hey, you're not sweating. What's up with that?"

"Oh, I sweat a ton."

My sister-in-law even piped in. "He's a big sweater." I thought that was funny because of the way it sounded and the fact that I actually do wear a big sweater.

Funny or not, I was about to take the gloves off when suddenly I decided I would reason with the man. Afterall, he was my brother-in-law and except for the times when he doesn't sweat when he should I really like the guy. Plus, reasoning is normally less strenuous than arguing. So, cooler heads (no pun intended) prevailed as I determined a pissing match over who sweats more would not be beneficial and might actually cause me to sweat even more.

"Okay." I took a deep breath, mostly because I was still winded from moving all that crap. "Look at me. Now, look at you. See anything different?"

"Uh...no."

"No, I want you to REALLY take a nice long look at me, then look at you."

"Okay. Well, now that you mentioned it. You're soaked."

"Yes!!! Thank you!" Finally, I was getting the credit that I deserved.

Reasoning really did work. I'd have to remember that for similar situations in the future.

Now that we had reached common ground, we stayed up late and well after the rest of our families were in bed, sharing our best sweat stories. It was a bonding experience that only a fat man could truly appreciate. Sometime during my fourth bag of Dorito's at around two in the morning my brother-in-law requested and end to the evening.

"I have a run in the morning. Do you want to come?"

"What time?" I feigned interest.

"Around seven."

"Ah yeah, I think I'll pass. I only run before six, but you have fun. And try not to sweat too much."

I'm Back...

2011-08-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I've been away for a while, so hopefully there are more than a few hearts that are fonder than when I posted my last article in late February. And now that I'm officially back, I must apologize to those hearts that wish I'd have stayed away for good. Your email inbox is about to hate me.

Since the last time you heard from me, I landed a new job, started and stopped working out sixteen times and discovered fast food's nectar of the gods, McDonald's Pineapple-Mango Smoothie, which I had four straight days in late July.

Like Tiger Woods deciding to resume his golfing career, I've decided it's time to start blogging again. I fired my caddy and changed my swing. I just hope I can still make the cut. In my five months of silence I've accumalated quite a lot of crap to talk about -- I should be good for another two to three weeks before taking another un-announced hiatus.

See you soon.

An Idiot's Guide To 2012

2011-02-26T05:49:00.000-08:00

Remember when we partied like it was 1999? Well, some of us did -- and I'm still trying to pay that off. Though it was my last brush with pure peer pressure, it was surely my most costly brush with peer pressure. Hell, all the computers in the world would be too stupid to figure out that 2000 comes after 1999, right? When that happened, the whole of civilization's technology would stop working, rendering the human race exponentially more dysfunctional than we already were.

But, something happened when the clock struck twelve on New Year's Eve 1999. Dick Clark was still rockin' on our concave picture tube television sets. The giant crystal ball didn't malfunction and explode into a billion pieces right there in Times Square. And guess what? We would all survive into the new millenium. Catastrophe averted.

1999 was supposed to be "the end of the world." And, it proved to be a lot of worry and not much excitement. Boooo!!! You know, someday I'd like to finish what I start. Uh, maybe the world ending is a bad place to start, or should I say finish.

For those disappointed that the world didn't come to a halt, don't worry, there's a new end of the world just around the corner. This one is based on the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012. December 21st, 2012 to be exact, so think of all the money you'll be saving on Christmas presents. What's really cool about this end of the world prediction is that the world-famous prognosticator, Nostrodamus, concurs with the Mayans -- 2012 is the new 1999.

Apparantly, Mayan prophecy is all the rage on elementary school playgrounds these days. My ten-year-old son asked me the other day if the world was going to end in 2012. I asked him where he heard that, which I find out later is not the most calming response to a question of such magnitude. Asking someone where they heard something immediately gives credence to the rumor, followed by a cause for alarm. I covered for my faux paux with a quick, "Well, I'm still waiting for the killer bees to get us."

"Killer bees?" My son started to tremble.

"Listen, the world's not coming to an end in 2012. You know how I know?"

"How?"

"Because the world was supposed to come to an end in 1999 when all the computers would stop working. It didn't happen. When I was a kid, they told us World War III was coming and we'd blow ourselves up with nukes." My kid knows about nukes from his experience with Call of Duty: Black Ops. I know it's rated Mature, but it sure comes in handy for conversations like this. So who's the bad parent now?

"That never happened, right Dad."

"Right son." Sometimes he amazes me with his grasp of comlex things. Like understanding that since we were still talking the world hadn't ended. What a genius boy I begat. "And those killer bees, they never happened either. I remember being scared to death watching the news about how the killer bees would be in Ohio by 1978. We'd all be dead and the bees would take over the world. I'm still waiting. Bird flu. Waiting. Swine flu. Still waiting. Giant lizards. You know it, waiting for those too."

"Giant lizards?"

I tend to romanticize the end of the world a bit too much. "Yeah, I came up with that one on my own. Sorry."

"So, we're not going to die?"

"We should be so lucky. I mean, don't worry son, you're destined for a life of disappointment, tragedy and heartbreak. Then, when you finally have enough money to really live your life, you're body will break down and you won't be able to enjoy any of it. It's the circle of life, kiddo, the circle of life. For a moment I felt like King Mufasa talking to Simba."

"Thanks Dad." My son walked away, seemingly more confused than when we started our conversation. But, I'd rather have him confused than scared out of his wits. Mission accomplished.

As much as I don't want to believe that the end will actually happen in 2012, some of the shows on the History Channel really get you thinking. What bugs me is that Nostrodamus, great prophet that he was, is unable to tell us specifically how the world will actually end. He's narrowed it down to volcano eruptions, comets colliding with the earth, floods and the sun somehow blasting us from hundreds of millions of miles away. So, basically he's laid out every possible scenario, a virtual smorgasbord of annihilation. One thing's for sure, I'm not buying what he's selling.

A common thread that runs through the Mayan and Nostrodamus prophecies is in the concept of major change that will take place in the world. Most believe that when the sun aligns itself with the center of the Milky Way in December of 2012, there could be potential for things to happen. Crazy things. Catastrophic things. I'll go with the scientists who looks at these types of things happened in the past. These changes didn't take place all at once, they said, but over thousands and millions of years. That's my kind of prophecy, slow and steady.

After our third child, my wife has been on me to get snipped, if you know what I mean. For Dick Van Patten, eight was enough. For my family, three is more than enough. But, I've been putting this "procedure" off, stalling like a Dean Smith basketball team running the four corner offense.

Now with all the talk about 2012, I'm more convicted than ever to not have the operation.

The other day, she bothered me again to "go see the doctor."

"I can't." I needed to for her to understand that this was bigger than the both of us. "If Nostrodamus is right and the end of the world is really coming, what if I'm the only man to survive? Who will help to re-populate the world? As tough as it would be for me, it would be my duty. I can't be that selfish to contribute to the extinction of the human race."

"Trust me," my wife shot back. "No one's going to be that disappointed if they can't have sex with you. You don't see me crying any tears, do you?"

One Roman Collar, Please

2011-02-19T18:30:00.000-08:00

I was a strange kid. Many would argue that I'm also a strange adult -- but I'm not in the mood for arguing, so I'll just accept it as fact.

When other kids wanted to be pro athletes or firefighters or cowboys when they grew up, I yearned to be a major league baseball umpire or priest or ornithologist. Aspiring to become an umpire at thirteen meant that I gave up on my athletic dreams at an earlier age than any American-born heterosexual boy in history. The priest thing at eleven meant I had lost hope in ever landing a girlfriend that didn't require a bicycle pump. And, the desire to become an ornithologist (basically a bird scientist) at age twelve was just plain creepy. Looking back on those Sunday morning birdwatching hikes with my mother and the local chapter of the National Audobon Society, I don't know how I ever avoided an adulthood filled with frilly pink dresses, self-induced lisps and Cher worship.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I should be able to look back on those days and laugh. But all I can do is cringe. To think of all the things I missed out on in my youth. While my friends were playing baseball, I was calling balls and strikes for nine-year-olds. When other kids in my class were starting to notice girls, I was acting out a Roman Catholic mass using a Pringle potato chip as the "body of Christ." And, when others were just waking up at a friend's house after a sleepover, I was in the metroparks tracking down a Great Horned Owl or tufted titmouse or yellow-bellied sapsucker. Sheesh.

What a loser.

I'm not entirely sure how or when I turned the corner and started to act like a normal human. My father's perpetual look of disappointment probably had something to do with it. Having a brother almost three years younger and four times cooler than me could also have had an impact. Whatever it was, I came out of my trance and started to participate in "normal" activities. I played CYO football, basketball and baseball in eighth grade. I played football in high school. My voice changed. Hair started growing in normally smooth places. Girls who once sprinted away from me without looking back when I approached, slowed their survival strategy to a liesurely gallop with a quick glance back over their shoulder to make sure I wasn't gaining on them.

Things were progressing nicely. I graduated from high school. I went to college. I graduated in only six years. Got a job. Got married. Got another job. Got a house. Got a mortgage. Had some kids. Got a few more jobs. A dog. Another house. Another mortgage. A second mortgage. Another job.

And, here I am. A perfectly normal life.

Yet, when you look at all the responsibility that comes with a normal life, you have to wonder if it's all worth it. Loads of stress and things I really didn't take into account when I hung up my binoculars and "Peterson's Complete Field Guide to North American Birds."

Now I have to think about paying bills and sending three kids to college and retirement. My wife has needs too -- like fixing things around the house, yardwork and free backrubs. And the kids? Apparantly, when you sign kids up for activities, you're supposed to actually drive them to the actitity and, get this, stay for the entire thing, then drive them home afterward. So much for my "me" time.

But, I made my bed. So...

The other day my wife and I went to dinner at the classic suburban Italian chain restaurant, Macaroni Grill. It's a nice enough place, with nice enough food. About five minutes after being seated, we notice a group of five priests walking in. But they're not just walking in, they're practically skipping into the restaurant. Big smiles on their faces. Laughing. Talking kind of loud about something. Each and every one of the men in black seemingly without a care in the world.

I turn to my wife and ask, "Look at those guys. How can they be so, so, so...happy?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's the eggplant parmesan special."

"No, that's not it. You know what it is?"

"No... tell me."

"When they were younger no one told them to put the Pringles down."

"What are you talking..."

"They said to the world, 'I don't need to be normal.' And you know how that turned out for them?"

"No."

"They live on their own, someone cooks for them, someone cleans for them, they work once a week and probably watch porn all day when they're not printing out next Sunday's talk from FreeSermons.com. They don't have to worry about what they're going to wear every day -- black shirt, black pants, black socks, black shoes. They don't have to tie a tie, they just stick a piece of white plastic into the top of their black shirt. That's it, they're done."

"And, talk about job security," my wife added.

"Yeah, isn't that the truth. Priests don't have to worry about resumes or headhunters or monster.com. Good economy or bad, God pays them the same salary."

Part of me wanted to go over and ask them what was so funny. But I already knew.

"You know honey, I think you're right. It must be the eggplant parmesan."

My wife just smiled and said, "I'll take that backrub when we get home."

My Lamented Valentine...

2011-02-14T06:15:00.000-08:00

One of the things I truly love about my wife and what has kept us together for almost sixteen years is our mutual disdain for superficial holidays. Early in our relationship, we made a pact to never, ever celebrate Sweetest Day -- no cards, no handshake, nothing.

Anyone with half a brain knows Sweetest Day was concocted by greeting card companies in an effort to bridge the gap between Father's Day and Christmas. Though I'm one of the few who still sends out Labor Day cards to all my family and friends, I'm not a fan of frivolously planting holidays throughout the year for monetary gain.

Today is Valentine's Day, the cash cow of the greeting card industry. It's Hallmark's hallmark day. And as a special Valentine's Day gift to each other, my wife and I decided not to celebrate. I gotta tell you, her brazen disregard for conventional romantic milestones is starting to turn me on.

I know, I know, we're such bad people. But, I don't feel bad at all. In fact I feel a whole lot better about this Valentine's Day than the previous fifteen when, at a bare-bones minimum, I was out fifty bucks for long-stemmed red roses or twenty-five for a dozen pieces of chocolate-covered fruit -- sometimes I would even do both. Holy heck that's a lot of dough to be spending on two of the least unique gifts in the history of gift giving.

Our kids are not a part of our nonconformist ways. They celebrate Valentine's Day like every other red-blooded American child -- with a box of pre-printed cards and candy hearts. Growing up I too participated in this charade. It stung to find out that not every girl in my third grade class really wanted to be my valentine. What kind of holiday does this to an innocent boy? As scarred as I still am, I'm not about to push my values and beliefs on my children. They need to feel the same pain and awkward shame that I did growing up. "Sorry son, I know the candy heart Carly gave you said you were 'Too cool', but she most likely didn't mean it."

Kids can be cruel, but they ain't nothing compared to greeting card companies. A few years back I wrote a letter to the American Greetings creative department. My letter detailed just how I felt about Valentine's Day cards. I suggested a new line of cards for the more realistic child. Instead of the traditional "Be Mine" or "My Favorite Valentine", my cards would read: "You're In My Class" and "Don't Get Too Excited, I'm Giving The Same Card To Every Kid." See how that works? No satisfaction, no disappointment. The perfect holiday message. A month later, I received a big box of blank cards from American Greetings and a note that read: "Get Well Soon."

Even if my wife and I wanted to celebrate, doing so would be difficult. That's what happens when you have kids. Between a long day of work and our children's baseball and swim practices, we probably won't even see each other until sometime around ten o'clock in the evening. At which time I'll probably take a blank card from the big American Greetings box and scribble something inside like, "Don't Get Too Excited, I'm Planning To Fall Asleep In About Five Minutes Anyway."

Happy Valentine's Day!

Super Bowl Loser

2011-02-03T06:43:00.000-08:00

If you're a Cleveland Browns fan, the Super Bowl would have to be considered the most irrelevant sporting event of the year. My team hasn't been to a NFL championship game since 1964, before they started calling it the Super Bowl. There have been 46 NFL championship games played since then, 44 of them Super Bowls, which started in 1967, the year of my birth.

For me, a giant helping of Frosted Flakes and milk in a large Tupperware container is a Super Bowl. Normally, I could care less about the game, which is now only three days away. But the team I hate the most, the Pittsburgh Steelers, is playing the Green Bay Packers on Sunday evening. Steelers fans are known for waving a ridiculous yellow (they'd call it gold) towel over their heads all game long. Packers fans, or Cheeseheads, are known for wearing giants wedges of cheese made from foam on their heads. Let's see. I hate Pittsburgh, but I love cheese. Cheese makes the world go round -- it's my favorite pierogi ingredient. And any person willing to wear a cheese hat in sub-zero temperatures to watch football has my undying respect. Add it all up and you can probably guess who I'll be rooting for in Super Bowl XLV.

For the past few years I've DVRd the games, but only to speed through the game action to get to the commercials. Because Super Bowl games typically end up being duds, the commercials are very often the most entertaining part of the broadcast. I've worked in the advertising industry since 1991. So, if I'm watching with my family and the commercials come on I'll usually tell my kids to shut their pie holes while "daddy goes to work." During breaks in the game I become the Roger Ebert of Super Bowl ads. I used to keep notes and record my biting commentary on cassette tapes, but then I realized how strange that was and worried that my wife might try to use that against me if we ever have a nasty custody battle. "Yes your honor, I have the tapes right here. Would you like to listen to them?" At which point the judge would reply, "No that's okay, the notebooks will suffice. Visitation denied."

I don't really know who has Super Bowl parties these days. I haven't been to one in years, which means I haven't been invited to one in years. Part of me wonders if all these parties are really happening or if it's like the phantom holiday, Sweetest Day. I've never tried to do something with any of my friends on Sweetest Day and had them answer that they couldn't because it would mess up their romantic evening plans. Whenever I ask my wife what she's getting me for Sweetest Day, she starts to laugh uncontrollably and usually lands up on the ground holding her sides.

Because we're social outcasts, we watch at home. My wife always makes a few appetizers to have while we're watching the game with the kids -- things like nachos, crab dip and chicken wings. I've even been known to crack open a cold one. An empty beer bottle is something only a true Browns fan can love. If my kids get out of hand, the game pisses me off or the appetizers don't wow me, I lay down the law Cleveland-style, with a quick bottle toss across the room. Most of the time I don't try to hit anything, I do it just to scare them a bit. I'm not a big drinker at home, so I'll sometimes open the container and dump the beer in the sink just to have an empty bottle at my disposal. Don't knock it, it's quite a deterant.

A lot of people place bets on the Super Bowl. When I was younger the only Super Bowl bet you could make was on which team would win. There would be a point spread and all, but that's as detailed as it got. Nowadays you have the ability to put money down on how long the national anthem will take to sing (by the way the over/under is one minute and fifty-two seconds by Cristina Aguilera) or which side of the ball, offense or defense, will do the Gatorade dump on the winning coach at the end of the game. Apparantly, the smart money is on the defense since the offense will most likely be running out the clock.

Who comes up with these things? And, who's betting on it? Must be the guy who says, "You know I've never won a straight up Super Bowl bet, but I've got a buddy who gave me an inside tip that Aguilera's national anthem will only last twenty-three seconds due to a wardrobe malfunction. One of her sequins will catch fire and burn her left boob, forcing her to flash the entire world while she tries to extinguish the flame. I don't know how he knows this, but he said I could take that to the bank." Me, I'm happy with a couple of Super Bowl squares, a fundraiser for my son's baseball team. It's not considered gambling if you know you're going to lose.

I know not everyone feels the way I do about the Super Bowl. But if you're lucky enough to get invited to a Super Bowl party and there happens to be an obnoxious Steelers fan in the group, don't overreact. Wait until the commercial break is over, take out your lighter, then grab his stupid Terrible Towel, jump up on the coffee table and yell out, "I'm taking bets on whether this yellow rag will burn faster than Aguilera's dress."

Come to think of it, a similar incident got me banned from the last Super Bowl party I attended. Oh well. Go Pack Go!!!

An Unpopular View

2011-01-24T10:13:00.000-08:00

I'm depressed.

I have no friends.

It used to be that when someone said that they had no friends, they meant it. Twenty years ago, if you had no friends, you either were really, really mean, or you lived in the cabin next to Ted Kaczynski, and you literally had no friends. Today, having no friends means you have only 342 friends, like I do.

The problem is, I don't have 342 real friends, I have 342 Facebook friends, only 42 of whom I would actually recognize if I saw them out in public. About half of that number would actually recognize me, partly due to the fact that my Facebook profile photo is not of me, but of George Costanza from Seinfeld. I wonder if any of those 321 friends who wouldn't recognize me have ever come across Jason Alexander, the actor who played George, and called out my name. Jason hasn't called to complain about this problem, so I'll assume it's a non-issue.

My 21-year-old niece has almost 1,800 friends. That's what got me so upset. I'm more than twice her age, yet she has six times the number of friends that I do. She's nice and all, but is she really six times nicer than I am? At this rate, she'll have almost 4,000 friends by the time she's my age. I'm going to have to "friend" everyone I meet for the next ten years just to keep her from widening the gap.

My thirteen-year-old daughter has begged and pleaded for my wife and I to allow her to have her own Facebook page. Initially we held strong in denying our child her placemarker in social cyberspace. My wife and I cave to just about everything else our children badger us about. Why have we been so unified on the subject? It probably has something to do with keeping our kid on the straight and narrow, not giving in to outside forces that could potentially distract her from keeping her straight A's or other important seventh grade things.

But now I wonder if the message isn't "Honey, we're doing this because we love you," but "Sorry honey, we're not allowing you to have friends." That's probably what she thinks I'm saying. Afterall, kids these days don't talk to each other, they text and Facebook and, well, that's about it. The only real personal interaction that ever happens between these kids is when they ask each other for their phone numbers -- a phone number that is only ever needed for, you guessed it, texting. I wonder how many generations it will take for our hands to evolve to about a quarter of their current size to be more compatible with small phone keyboards for texting. The same way I've been curious about how Neandrathals were able to wear baseball caps with those huge foreheads, centuries from now, children will wonder how those "giant-fingered" people were even able to text on a cell phone. I'm sure some 24th-century science center will offer an attraction allowing people to put their small hands into specially-designed 21st-century gloves that will give you the feeling of having the same size hands my daughter had back in 2011. With the gloves on, you could try to use a cell phone or tie your shoes or thread a needle. It'll be a regular laugh-riot I'm sure.

Maybe my daughter and I really don't need friends. I only had a couple of really close friends until I got married. Then, my friends were the husbands of my wife's friends. That changed again when we had kids. Now all my friends are the fathers of the kids my kids play sports with. So, it really all takes care of itself. Right?

My wife thinks that Facebook is the devil. We used to make fun of people who had Facebook pages. She and I would see people profiled on the local news who were so consumed with social networking that they'd lost their job, their spouse, their house and were currently spending upwards of twenty hours a day playing Farmville and Mafia Wars in a little efficiency apartment with no hot water and a freezer full of pepperoni Hot Pockets. All we could do was shake our heads.

One day I got curious about how this whole social networking thing worked. It might be fun to see what old friends were doing these days. I made a game of finding people I hadn't seen in thirty years. That game stopped being fun almost immediately. A friend (a father of one of kids my son played soccer and baseball with) invited me to join his mafia on Mafia Wars. I reached level 21 in no time and was starting to build my own mafia when I realized where this was leading -- a social networking rabbit hole. I splashed a big glass of cold water on my face to help me snap out of it. My mafia has been neglected for almost two years now. I'm sure they miss their godfather, but I needed to remove myself from the world of online organized crime before it consumed me too. I could handle sleeping in my kitchen. I just don't like Hot Pockets.

After my self-induced intervention, I use Facebook as I'm sure it was intended, to play online poker and promote my blog. It's harmless really.

So, I made the decision to allow my daughter to have her Facebook page. My wife is not really happy with the idea, but I explained about all the security options she'll have so only her friends can access her information.

Upon hearing the news, my daughter sprang from her chair and gave me a big hug.

"Now I won't have to end up being a friendless loser like you! Thanks Dad."

I'm sure she meant to say something else. I'm also sure she forgot that I have a 342-friend head-start.

That's all the motivation I need. Look out world, I'm about to become popular.

The Good Fight

2011-01-17T12:56:00.000-08:00

This past weekend my son's basketball coach came out of the closet. That's right, he admitted that he was a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Being from Cleveland, I'm a hardcore Browns fan. If you know anything about pro football, you'll know that the Cleveland/Pittsburgh rivalry is like the NFL's version of the Hatfields and the McCoys.

So, as you can imagine, I took his revelation hard. There was something always not right about the guy, but I could never put my finger on it. Now that I know, I'm disappointed that I wasn't able to figure it out on my own. Dammit. I'm usually really good at sniffing out the enemy. It's like I have "Sports Fan Gaydar." Somehow this time I missed it. He must have been using some sort of elaborate cloaking device to keep me from knowing the truth.

But now I don't know what to do. Do I let my kid continue to play on the team and be coached by him? How could I allow this guy, a fan of the team I grew up hating more than my mother's green been caserole, to hold such a meaningful role in my son's life? If I found out our church pastor was a child molestor, would I allow my kid to continue to be an alter boy? Hell no. So how is this any different?

As any god-fearing Browns fan would do, I prayed about what action I should take while watching Biggest Loser. Then God spoke to me. Or maybe it was Jillian Michaels. Whoever said it, I knew that I needed to confront the coach -- immediately.

Since I'm not big on confrontations, I made use of modern technology to get the answers to my questions. I decided to text him.

I texted: "YOU CALL YOURSELF A COACH?"

He texted: "Who is this?"

Apparantly, he did not have me saved into his phone's address book. Simpleton.

Then, I texted: "IT'S STEVE FROM BASKETBALL."

He texted: "Steve Nash?"

Now he was just trying to be a wise guy.

So, I got right to the point: "HOW CAN YOU BE A STEELERS FAN? YOU LIVE IN CLEVELAND. YOU MAKE ME SICK."

Then he hit me right between the eyes with something I hadn't expected. "I grew up in western Pennsylvania. Sorry."

My balloon was losing air and fast.

There are so many Clevelanders out there who become Steelers fans just because they win more than the Browns -- they are referred to as "frontrunners." I assumed my son's coach was like the others. To find out that he was rooting for his hometown team, I softened up a bit.

I texted: "DAMMIT!"

There was really nothing I could say. When I was younger and the Browns were competitive, I used to punctuate everything I said, no matter who I was talking to, with a hearty "Steelers suck!" Unfortunately, the Steelers don't suck now. They are actually pretty darned good. Pittsburgh was playing Baltimore for the right to go to the AFC Chamionship Game later on. I decided to be the better man.

I texted: "GOOD LUCK. BALTIMORE SUCKS!"

Baltimore is actually pretty good though too, but I was finally speaking a language the coach and I could both understand.

So, how does it all happen? How do people become fans of certain teams? To me it's pretty much black and white. You live in Cleveland, you're a Browns fan. You live in Pittsburgh, you're a Steelers fan. You live in Bagdad, you're a car bomb fan. You have no choice -- it's pretermined. I actually respect my son's coach for continuing to follow the team he grew up watching, despite moving to Cleveland. So many people seem to come here from Pittsburgh. Funny that I never hear of anyone moving from Cleveland to Pittsburgh. I've been to Pittsburgh, so I think I know why. Let's just leave it at that.

My kids, all three, are Cleveland fans. And, despite a lot of losing over the last decade, they are all Browns fans. It hasn't been easy. I've worked hard to make that happen. Several times during my career I've had opportunities to move elsewhere -- Syracuse, St. Louis and Dallas to name a few. Each time I turned down the chance to move. Sometimes the money was better. Sometimes the climate was better. But, none of them could offer me the security of knowing that when my kids got older they'd all be just like me -- a fat guy who roots for losers. My teams might not always win, in fact they mostly lose, but by keeping my kids on the same path, I've won the most important game of all.

The best man at my wedding, a native Clevelander, married a Pittsburgh girl. They now live in Connecticut and have two twin boys. On a regular basis, my friend tells me stories of how difficult trying to raise his boys to be Cleveland fans can be. First of all, his wife's side of the family poisons the twins with Pittsburgh crap -- t-shirts and jerseys and coat and hats. My friend's side of the family all moved to Baltimore more than twenty-five years ago, so they're now Ravens fans. This leaves my buddy to do it all on his own. And, by all accounts, Connecticut is one of the strangest areas to raise a sports fan. They are right in the middle of a tug-of-war between the New England Patriots, New York Giants and Philadelphia Eagles -- that's what the choices are where my friend and his family live. Now add the Cleveland Browns to the mix and you have a recipe for disaster, if not complete sports affiliation confusion. I try to think about my state of mind if I'm a kid living there. I couldn't blame them for taking up with one of the three local teams -- hell, they've been scads more successful than the Browns. But, it looks like one of the boys is turning into a Steelers fan. The other is still up in the air according to my friend. It's a fight I doubt he'll win in the end, but I respect him for even taking the fight up in the first place.

I'm sure to some extent my son's coach is living a little of the same nightmare, though it couldn't be nearly as bad for him, afterall the Browns rarely win and the Steelers rarely lose. There's a good chance they all move to Cleveland just to rub our noses in it.

So, what do I do with the whole coaching thing.

I picked up my phone.

I texted: "HEY, I'M SORRY ABOUT COMING DOWN ON YOU SO HARD. IT'S JUST WHEN I FOUND OUT ABOUT THE WHOLE PITTSBURGH THING, I KIND OF LOST IT."

What the hell was I doing. You know what happened to the indians when they started to trust the white man? No way. Not now.

Before he could respond, I texted a follow-up message.

"BY THE WAY, THE STEELERS STILL SUCK!"

I love technology.

Snow Balls

2011-01-13T07:02:00.000-08:00

When it comes to snow, I'm conflicted.

If you grew up in Cleveland like I did, snow means something to you. Like "snow days" -- days when inclement winter weather would force the schools to close. The smart kids would relish in the reality of having another day to study for the big test or put the finishing touches on a class project. To the rest of us, school didn't exist, at least for a day. The test would have to be taken based on what I knew the night before. Having an extra day to study or work on a project would be tantamount to cheating. Deadlines are deadlines, right? Parents never understood the logic of a kid who just won the free day lottery.

As kids, we'd spend our unscheduled mini-vacation building snowmen, going sled riding, constructing snow forts and having snowball fights. In those days, the snow seemed deeper and the drifts higher, and not just because I was shorter back then. Yet, I don't once remember ever being cold, even after eight hours in freezing temperatures, with only a short lunch to break up the day. By the end of the day, we'd start praying hard for another day off, though we mostly be disappointed.

Heading to school the next day, we'd regret the time not spent on schoolwork. Funny thing, I remember the snowball fights in high definition detail, yet I have no idea what grades I ever received on the tests or assignments.

I guess my priorities were all in the right place back then.

As one ages, the thrill of snow diminishes. I've managed to hold out longer than most full grown adults. My wife being a school teacher actually helps. She has the ongoing thrill of seeing her school listed as "closed" on local network television. Even though I haven't had a "snow day" in over twenty-five years, dating back to my senior year in high school, I still check that same list of closings with irrelevant hope. Some day I'm going to see that St. Rita's school in Solon, Ohio is closed, put on my snowsuit, then run outside and pound out three or four picture perfect snow angles in the front yard. I'd then pack a few dozen snow balls and pelt a few of my sad-sack neighbors on their way to work in their cars while hiding behind my hastily-made treelawn snow fort. I haven't done it yet, but someday I will, hopefully before it's too hard too get back up after falling backwards four times.

Despite all of this, snow has become less pleasurable to me, which makes me sad. Before, when I was a child, my father was in charge of all snow-related chores. Now it's my turn. The torch has been passed. So, I'm the one who shovels the drive and the sidewalk and the walk leading to our front door. I'm the nice neighbor who helps the Indian family next door when they get snowed in. I curse at the city for forgetting to plow our dead-end street. And, when the city plows finally get around to it, they pile all the hard icy stuff in a big mound right at the end of my driveway. So, I curse some more.

But here's the worst part. Now I get cold in the wintertime. And that sucks.

When my kids want to go sled riding, lately I've started to cringe. It's gotten to the point that I'm just flat-out uncomfortable in the snow. Last year, my wife bought me a new snowsuit from Walmart. It was an end-of-the-season special and she purchased it without having me there to try it on first. It's well documented that I am proportionally a mess. Five foot eight and half and two hundred and something pounds. That's a lot to admit to, I know, but when trying on snowsuits, the humiliation is taken to an entirely different level. My new Walmart snowsuit fits me perfectly in a grand total of zero of the most important places. The legs are too long. The belly is too tight. And, the inseam -- well, each time I put the damned thing on my voice goes up three octaves -- in other words, it's uber-tight in the groinal region. Normally I'd be happy as hell to have my junk secure during physical activity. I'm less thrilled when that same security requires an ice pack after I'm done.

But who needs balls anyway? Hell, my wife has accused me of not having them for more than a decade. I've tried to envision the person who would fit perfectly into this winter torture suit. My best guess is that he's six foot eight with most of his body being leg, a mid-section the circumference of coaxial cable, and a very small vagina.

So the other day the kids finally got their way. At some point I actually felt like it was a good idea to go sledding. There's a great hill that's part of the Metroparks within a few minutes drive. The older two could fend for themselves, but the five-year-old still needs assistance. Parental assistance on a sledding hill equates to walking up the hill with the sled in one hand and my child's hand in the other. Not such a bad deal, right? How Normal Rockwellesque. Now, think about it thirty-three times, because that's the number of trips up the hill we made, each time more grueling than the last.

There are two jobs that parents have when taking the kids sledding. Hill duty, as noted above, was mine. My wife? Well, as I was trying to self-induce cardiac arrest with my upteen trips up the giant hill, she was...taking pictures. Being the sledding photographer is important. Having a pictoral record of the day of fun so that scrapbooks can be filled is a worthwhile endeavor. My only hope is that years from now the photo album won't be filled with pictures labeled "When Daddy's Heart Gave Out."

The good news is that I survived. But, what truly bothered me about taking my kids sledding had nothing to do with the inequity of the jobs my wife and I had to perform. Instead, it was the lack of etiquette that this new generation of sledders were putting on display. In my day, we found a spot at the top of the hill, waited until nothing was in our way, pushed off, then steered clear of things that would pop into our path on the way down. Back then, when we reached the end of our ride, we carefully walked to the side of the hill, out of the way of the next set of hill riders and walked back up to the top. Safety was always first -- that's the way I remember it anyway.

Apparantly, 2011 is a new day in sledding.

The kids and adults on the hill this day seemed to have only one thing in mind -- mame as many people as possible on their way down. My five-year-old was assaulted on three of her first four trips down. It's like watching a car crash from the sidewalk. You can see it coming, but are helpless to do anything about it. Fortunately, like her father, she survived each of the near-death experiences -- God bless innertube sleds.

The fun didn't stop there for these etiquette-challenged sledders. Once they get to the bottom, they get up, grab their slid and head straight back up the hill. Not out of the way of other sledders. Not over to the side of the hill. They go right back up the way they came. Right into the freaking path of oncoming traffic. The me-first generation is now affecting classic snow sports

Even though we had these inbreds to deal with, we did our sledding thing for almost an hour and a half. Good times and even better memories. I'm hoping that my kids will never stop loving snow. And, I hope that my five-year-old remembers the guy who schlepped her sled up that hill without complaining (at least to her). I know they'll have pictures to look back on this day thanks to the family photographer, their mom.

As for the idiots who chose to not sled the right way, I was going to say something to all of them before we left, but I didn't have the balls.