She works on the occasional Sunday, leaving our kids with me in, again, questionable care. A friend described her family to me last night as having “2 boys, 3 if you count my husband, and I do.” It hit home, as I realized that my wife had married with her heart and not with her head in many cases as well. And being a kid at heart, my child-rearing skills sometimes…lack. Sure, I think I am a good father, but I watch other parents perform these attitude-corralling feats with much greater skill, and I haven’t yet discovered their secrets.

So that brings us to Sunday mornings. Days with so much promise, and yet they are built on emotional and behavioral eggshells these days. One 5 year old, one two year old, one 41 year old. One highly spirited kindergärtner, one fairly standard two year old ball of energy with his father’s suspect agility, and one 12 year old father of two simply trying to move from meal to activity, to snack, to activity, repeat.

They are wonderful at 6am, I will admit. Full of love and kisses, smiles and optimism. My 6am coffee and Facebook are the creme on top, and the day ahead seems open and laden with promise. A cup of milk, a snack, a show.

And then, 7:30. The screams, the accident, the backtalk, the terrorized dog, the fit, the tears.

Where is the damn manual for all of this? I can Google a how-to for a toaster whose blueprint hit the dumpster 40 years ago, but getting through a Sunday…no one seems to have a damn clue. Maybe that supernanny broad can help me out.

I know what the answer is, clearly…activities, keep them busy, blah blah. And as I sit here trying to write one damn post this week and actually have a few minutes to myself, I am back and forth to the kitchen to address the screaming and pouting more often than a OCD home pharmacist checking on his meth lab.

I mean, I can imagine that one would have to attend to one’s meth lab diligently…gulp…

I don’t know what the answer is, other than getting off the computer and attending to my kids’ needs. I sat with her this morning teaching her to draw her first third dimensional chair…she loves to draw and color, and I love to teach her. But even during a wonderful Daddy-Daughter activity, she managed to throw two fits for not getting her way about the silliest of things.

I’m doing something wrong. Or I’m simply expecting too much. Or I’m just too flippin’ controlling. But maybe I’m also doing a great job just because I care about doing better.

Regardless, it’s 8am. Three tantrums, one revelation, and one very long day ahead. One very long, exhausting, frustrating, wonderful day ahead.

I did have some fun this week though…ate half my weight in sushi and concerned several friends with my ability to alternate coffee with vodka depending on the sun’s position in the sky. A long time friend and co-worker thought it would be fun to convince people at a hibachi grill that it was my birthday, something I strongly objected to right up to and including the point where the restaurant began to sing Happy Birthday, and the ice cream came out. But then the high point, a beautiful little japanese girl, roughly 3 years old, was so caught up in my fake birthday celebration that she came over to help me blow out my candle and clap for me, and I rewarded her by handing over my ice cream.

She went home with the memory of eating her ice cream before her dinner, and I take home an amazing memory of the best birthday I ever didn’t have.

I look out the window now, and Tennesee is gone. Once a habitual flier, I now find this form of travel, even though ooccasional, unbelievably annoying. And yet, I am returning home in a fine mood thanks to breezing past TSA, managing to grab the last window seat on an extremely full flight, and the following exchange I just had with a passenger…hope you enjoy as much as I did.

I sat in my window seat, and a gentleman counterpart who had the aisle seat followed me into the row. A minute later, a woman stopped in front of us, motioned at the middle seat next to me, and the middle seat in the row behind us.

She said, looking at my counterpart, and then me, “Those are our seats, but we were hoping to sit together. Will one of you move so we can sit together?”

The gentleman and I looked at each other, smiled briefly, and I asked, “You have the two middle seats?”

“Yes.”

The gentleman looked at me again, but said nothing. I replied as politely as I could, “I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to sit in a middle seat for the next 3 hours.”

I have a tendency to cut to the chase.

The woman paused, looked at me and yelled, “OH AWESOME. WE’RE GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW, AND NOW WE CAN’T SIT NEXT TO EACH OTHER!!”

My counterpart and I looked at each other one last time, and although somehwat taken aback, grinned, and went back to our activities. Ultimately a woman seated behind me agreed to give up her window seat to allow the couple to sit next to each other, and Bridezilla promptly went to sleep in her middle seat next to her “fiance” (alleged), and they havent spoken in over two hours. Do I feel bad about not giving up my seat? No. Am I glad I don’t have to sit next to that woman for the entire flight? Absolutely. I am only bothered by one thing.

I will now have to live out my life knowing there is someone out there who is more sarcastic than I am.

Thanks for stopping by, friends…I missed you.

I’m gonna be tied up for the next couple of weeks, if you care. In our industry, when you start carrying a new drug, or in my case, when you keep your job and have to re-learn your drug for the THIRD time, the company sends you some brief night table reading. Then they put you in front of a firing squad and ask you to recite it word for word. And THEN, they pull you away from your family, test you on your ability to recount all of that data to a healthcare professional, all the while holding your family’s financial well-being and food for your children as incentive for you to get a score of 90% or better.

It’s all fairly low stress, and positive.

As you can maybe imagine, the chicken chili had less of an impact on my tract than the next couple of weeks will. The upside is that the amount of vomiting and shaking the next weeks will bring will be fantastic for weight loss. If I am strangely quiet it is because I may be focused on other things.

Although, some would argue that some quiet from me may be a good thing. I call those people “my wife and kids”.

Today I narrowly avoided becoming one of the thousands of Pharmaceutical Representatives that have been, and continue to be laid off. It has been going on for years, and one could argue, as I have, that we created this mess ourselves. And today, my company reduced the salesforce that I have been a part of by half, or better.

I’m sitting here tonight shellshocked, sad, with even other emotions I can’t seem to find titles for. After having worked here for five years, I developed a tighter bond with this family of co-workers than I had at any other company I have worked for past. And today, most of those friends were shown the door despite years of outstanding achievements, and I was kept along with few others for reasons that I may never be able to fully explain.

I remember the inner panic and financial devastation of being unemployed, I have been there myself. I also remember the feeling of boundless elation when I got this position, saving my young family from ruin. And tonight, I know I should be grateful for what amounts to a promotion, but the empathy I feel for these people I consider to be dear friends chokes away any feeling of happiness.

I know they will all be fine. They are fully capable and talented people with futures that remain bright. And tomorrow I will get up and embrace my own opportunities while they go in search of the window that just opened somewhere.

Tonight, I am grateful. And for them, I am hopeful. I hope they know how much I will miss them at work, but also how happy I am knowing that our friendship doesn’t need an employer to hold us together.

I’ve been meaning to do this for a long time. Leave Blogger, get a new look, do things kind of differently. I had some of the usual fears…losing readers by moving to WordPress, learning a whole new platform, etc. But in the end, I had some ideas about how I wanted to do all of this online thing that mattered more than that stuff.

My wife quickly pointed out to me that she could barely tell the difference from my old layout…sigh…clearly she spends a lot of time reading me.

I’ll be doing some other things differently. You may not even notice, I’m just glad you came along. But I am opening up my blog from now on to a group of people in my life that didn’t know I did this stuff, and I may be throwing myself in front of the bus in the process. But considering the turmoil that some other parts of my life are in right now, encouraging some family and friends into the recesses of my twisted mind seems fairly tame. So, in short, my time of dancing for the anonymous is coming to an end today. I’m gonna try not to get all guarded in the process, but if I look like I am pulling punches, don’t be afraid to call my pansy ass out.

One more thing for the bloggers out there… There’s something big coming.

I can’t get into any kind of specifics yet, but I hope that each of you who wish to be affected by it get from it what you want. I know I’m being cryptic, that’s all I’m allowed to do right now.

Just stay tuned.

To my new readers, be kind. I’m a vulnerable little bitch right now.

And those of you who have…thanks for sticking with me.

A crazy, reckless love that proved to be a blissfully emotional time in my life. She was spicy, fulfilling, and she made me feel like I was the only one in the world for her.

And then one day, quite suddenly, she was gone. Her name was Burrito Zacatecas, and she disappeared. Her parents who owned a little Mexican restaurant in Bartonville moved away, you see, and she would never be mine again. The day I discovered that she was gone I sat and cried in the parking lot for far too long…until my wife and kids urged me to continue our search for dinner. And amidst my tears, I silently guided the car away from that place.

I feared I would never find another.

Days turned to months, and my silent desperation began to shake the foundation of every other relationship I had. I began to make mistakes with the wrong places, and plates. A combination dinner here, a drive-thru there. Every order was compared to her, and woefully discarded.

Then one evening, I took the family to Agave Tex Mex Grill in Flower Mound, TX, ordered a margarita, and dropped my head to the cold table in anticipation of another mealtime mistake. The menu was handed to me, and my eyes quickly made my way down the page searching, always searching. And then, on the Specials Menu, I saw her.

The Big Burrito.

I was tempted to avoid another disappointment and move on, and then I began to read more. Stuffed with beans, pico, my choice of meats, cheese…Panini Style? And…with…Avocado Cream Sauce?

I…I…I love Avocado.

When my new BFF returned to take our order, I quickly told him my needs, and then hurried him through the orders for my family. A Taco? Um, yes, whatever honey, just hurry please.

And I began to tap my foot in anticipation…but not for long, as the wonderful folks at Agave must have sensed my desperation. And then as in a dream,

there she was.

My dear friends and appreciateurs of Mexican cuisine, this is where my review of Agave’s Big Burrito will fall to pieces. You see, I am not a food critic. I am just a man. A man who thought I would never find love again. And yet, I have. And I now wonder if my beloved Burrito Zacatecas was ever that good, because My Big Burrito is the stuff of dreams, and won’t be compared to mortal food.

She is, quite simply…Glorious.

My only advice, order soon, and order often. My love is on the Specials Menu, and Agave’s wonderful manager informed me that she will be made a regular menu item if enough interest is shown. This is where you come in, my friends, and this is a meal I don’t mind sharing. I won’t turn this into a political rant, I promise you, but The Big Burrito is one dish I wouldn’t mind being turned into a National Entitlement Program. Please vote. Soon.

My apologies for the beauty shot. I had a hard time stopping eating to take the picture.

Tomorrow I take my first step towards the world of the gelded. I have an appointment with the physician assistant who reports to Dr. Franksandbeans (and who I assume I get to sleep with), to discuss my impending maiming.

The smirky cow who made my appointment at the Urological Correctional Facility was very non-specific about what this PA would want to do or discuss, so I am assuming that she simply wanted a copay, and to sleep with me. I haven’t discussed the matter with my wife, but I can only assume that she is cool with letting me party a bit before Dr. Smokedsausage uses my undercarriage as his personal amusement park.

I’ve had plenty of time to imagine this procedure, and that may have contributed to why it took me so long to make the appointment, but I am now on my way.

I think it is only appropriate to put my best foot forward, so after I finish my twelfth vodka tonight, it will be time to do some personal grooming. And as I finish writing that statement, I can’t help but wonder if you knew what you were getting yourself in for when you subscribed to my work.

Despite the flood of requests, I will not be publishing pictures after Dr. Isthatallugot finishes making my farverbean holder look like an Ikea cutting board. And considering I chose to confess my lack of faith to the universe just days ago, I am also assuming that any and all higher powers will be taking this opportunity to write the next Law of Murphy as Dr. WaitwhatwasIdoing has a brainfart.

No “I pushed a bowling ball out of my urethra” comments will be tolerated.

Not any kind of milestone, or monumental achievement for most people, and not for me. See, my wife likes to go. And when she says she wants to go, I support her, and we go.

But I gotta tell you, with a 42nd birthday on the not-so-distant horizon, I sit here still with the same questions, doubts, and lack of faith.

After a year of blogging, I haven’t gone here at all. I’ve avoided it. Deliberately. Because I have yet to learn the “halftime lesson” in regards to religion.

Where did Cain’s wife come from?

7 days? Really?

Why should I put so much time, heart, and dare I say FAITH into something that I cannot prove, and that routinely throws so much doubt my way?

I sit in the pew, I really do enjoy hearing him speak. It feels good to support my wife, and to expose my children to something decent without jading their lessons.

But as I look around, I see the others. The people who close their eyes, say the words, hold up their hands, and allegedly feel what I do not. Some I respect, and others. Some I know who are there heart and soul, some who aren’t.

The only person who has ever made sense to me was my aunt, who said, “what’s the harm?” And she’s right…but still that realization doesn’t get me where I think I may have to be.

So I am throwing this out into the universe tonight. And I am turning off comments…not because I don’t care what you may want to say, but because I hope to find an answer for myself. And honestly, after looking for a very long time, I have no idea if that answer will come. Or when.

We all live with this now. It’s always with us, the memory of that terrible day, where we were, who was lost.

But every year, on one day, it comes to the forefront in the news, in the schools, in our homes. And we each have to make decisions, based on the ages of our children, about how to talk about September 11.

I don’t want her to be scared. I don’t want her to look at airplanes with anything less than excitement, or be afraid to push the very top button in an elevator. And although I want her to understand that most people would do her no harm, you can’t always tell who the bad ones are. There are plenty of years for details, for newfound incredulity and fear. The loss of childhood innocence after that terrible day is needless and avoidable collateral damage if I can simply find the right words.

So this year as my oldest reaches a level of understanding about things that go wrong in the world, she and I will sit and talk about what happened that day. And there will be things I tell her, and things I don’t. She will ask pointed questions, and I will guide her to a safer place. And I will send her back to school understanding that September 11, like all days, is a time to be thankful.

Thankful for those people who put themselves in danger, to keep us safe.

You oughta.

I have come to the conclusion that it is only a matter of time before I get lost in the specifics of all my technological fascinations, and make the whopper of all mistakes. It’s kinda like when I was a kid and I desperately wanted one of those chronograph watches with six thousand functions. And when I went to my “dad” and asked him for one, he said “you know, the more bells and whistles you have on it, the more that there is to go wrong.”

Well, this particular watch isn’t just gonna stop glowing at some point, it has the potential to leave a crater where I once stood.

Like many bloggers, I love the feeling like I am building something. And the tools available to build a following are plenty. But those tools don’t discriminate between a wife and an ex girlfriend, or between your boyz and your boss.

See, I’m a blogger. And I Twitter. And yes, I Facebook. And that doesn’t even account for email, two cellphones and a texting addiction. Oops, one more…I sit by the mailbox every day waiting for credit card offers…but thats a whole other thing.

When the pieces begin to be put together, you quickly uncover pitfalls with each. And you work through the problems to put in place the safest, most productive combination possible.

On my blog, I like to think I can say whatever I want. My domain, you know? Only, the wife is watching. Sometimes other family members do. What’s more, it’s out there to be found by search engines. And folks I work with? Human resources? Careful…

However, on my blog I have the ability to edit, or even remove a post that I should have been more considerate about…unlike Twitter. With Twitter, once it leaves your keyboard, it’s out there. Gone, and permanent. Plus, you see all those followers that you are “best friends” with? What’s to say one isn’t your creative boss, watching from the darkness? Much as I think I know every sordid detail about every Twitter follower, I’m also pretty sure I’m an idiot.

And that brings us to the beloved Facebook. Spouses, family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, bloggers…not to mention exes of every variety. Some of whom know about my blog, some who don’t. Some who have wives or husbands who don’t understand any of the social media thing, think it’s stupid, and who are nervous about their newfound connections. And they should be, as divorce rates are climbing, especially among Facebookers et al, who use these vehicles as opportunities to see if “the one that got away” is at all…interested.

With Facebook, the biggest pitfall is the diversity of your friends. What is gonna crack up one is gonna insult another, and a new, even remotely attractive “friend” is potentially an invitation to the Spanish Inquisition hosted by your spouse.

For a blogger, Facebook provides an opportunity to develop more of a following of your work, and a very good one at that. Benefits can be great, mistakes can be costly. Wire in your blog using NetworkedBlogs, and every time you post, it runs on the wall for all to see. But write a controvercial piece and forget for just one second that your boss is a Facebook friend, and a wisp of smoke will be where your career once stood.

My advice is simple. Develop a list of questions to ask yourself before posting anything anywhere.

Blog – Who is this gonna hurt? Do I care?

Twitter – Will I hit enter on this Tweet and wish I hadn’t? 5 minutes from now? 5 years from now?

Facebook – Is this status/wall post appropriate for Trixie, my wife, Mr. Lumberg, and Pastor Stephen?

Write ‘em out. Sticky them on your monitor if you have to, or staple them to your forehead, as I have done. Take a minute, and think about it. Be as controvercial as you want to, but be ready. Mistakes are gonna leave a mark.

And that ex-boyfriend?

There was a reason why you dumped him before. Same guy.