The Duty of a Parent

Gentlemen, specifically those with children…..  This has been brought up so many times in conversation over the past year and I just feel I want to address it here as well.

Child care.

A number of years ago you engaged in a situation where there was mutually agreed upon decision to insert a rather turgid part of your anatomy into your sexual partner’s recipient part of her anatomy which resulted in the creation of a fertilized egg that settled into her uterine lining and eventually changed from parasite to a fully formed miniature human. (Simpler terms? Your penis entered her vaginal canal, you ejaculated, she became pregnant, and now you have a baby/child/short human…)

Here’s the thing….  As soon as you became a parent you entered into a whole new world where you are responsible for the care and upbringing of someone new. Now you had the easy part to begin with. You know… making the beast with two backs, slipping the salami, knocking boots, Netflix and chill, skyrockets at night… whatever. Then she did nine(ish) months of the real work. You get a mindless spasm. She lets hard labor and the she really gets labor. And at this point in time you now have a new set of responsibilities.

As we know, gone are the days for most of us where one parent can work and the other can stay at home full time to raise children. And of course we also know how that division of labor has traditionally been.  But nowadays we have this strange and weird idea that BOTH parents are responsible for the raising of their children. Which leads me back to my meandering topic… the burden of child care.

So, for many men there appears to be a standard of assuming that while both parents are home the mother of the child is the primary (and often only) caregiver of this bundle of joy that you had a modicum of participation in its creation.  During times that you are not at home and your partner is, it is often said that she is “with the child”, “in charge of the child”, or just simply “at home with the child”.
This is absolutely true. That is exactly what she is doing. It’s called being a parent.

However, here is where the problem rests. When YOU are home (and again, this isn’t all men, just those who we have been discussing for years exhibiting this particular behavior) an entirely different set of descriptions are used to describe your situation.

“Stuck with the kid.” “Stuck at home having to change diapers.” Or my favorite… “Babysitting”.

It’s the last one that gets me the most. And honestly, it has been said to me repeatedly that it’s the one that bothers the mother of your child the most too.

You are NOT a babysitter. That is something that you pay others to do when you, the parent, are not able to watch and take care of your child. Jenny, that 17 year old down the street, she may come by and watch your mini-me for a few hours and a few bucks while you are off having a nice date, both at work, or even just getting some gym time in. But that work she does is temporary. Impermanent.

The moment that you became a father that idea of being a transient fixture in someone’s life went out the window. Or at least it should have.

You do not babysit your child. You parent them. You raise them. You help them. You care for them. You teach them. You will even fight with them. Argue with them. Butt heads with them. However, mostly you will just love them. Guide them. Foster their goodness, their potential, their humanity.

But you don’t babysit them.

Calling it that diminishes the position of the mother as well. It is adhering to the centuries old sexist tradition that women’s only real job is in the rearing of children and that the man is above such menial work.

No.

Parenting is a partnership. You both parent. You both teach. You both love. Together you both raise a child.

You DO NOT babysit. You ARE a father.

Take the responsibility. Take the title. Wear it. Own it. It is a badge of honor. One that not everyone will have.

I say this as a father who missed years of the chance to be a better one. I have been fortunate enough to be able to have another chance, but I still regret all those years I missed.

You have a chance to do better. You have the opportunity to be the champion of a child’s life.

Don’t babysit.

Parent.

One leaf at a time...

Over the past 25 years I lived within a place that many people know as the Evergreen State: Washington.  You know it. Land of a few famous musicians, the Space Needle, apples, the Seattle Freeze, Starbucks.... blah, blah blah. The list goes on. But for me it was always the land of trees. Lots of them. All over. I'm a big fan of them, even the evil fir trees that like to try to kill me with their overabundance of pollen. 

In my life time I have always lived in areas where these lovely, green monstrosities are abundant. Between the Willamette Valley, the Puget Sound, and now western Pennsylvania I have always been near a plethora of plant life.  It's just comforting to me. Towering, living bundles of carbohydrates taking in the carbon dioxide we emit and giving back oxygen. Really, it's an amazing bit of symbiotic living.

Anyway, I'm on the tree kick right now because last week the kids and I planted a tree in the back yard. Yes, I know we are just renting this place for now, but it makes sense to make improvements. I've taken out some ugly shrubs but I still want greenery. I still want my kids to have a yard that shows my desire to improve the planet we live on. And, if all things work out well, we would like to make a bid on the house next year to make it our permanent landing spot.

So, we planted a pear tree. Funny. I don't like pears. Can't stand the texture. Don't like the taste. But we planted one. My wife loves pears as do my kids. So, we planted a pear tree. When it comes down to it I like they way they look, so it's all good.

Oddly enough, I have been asked why I would plant a pear tree. Why not a cedar, a maple, an ash? Really, it comes down to a few things.

Over the years the tree we planted (a red bartlett dwarf pear) will yield about 1-3 bushels of fruit a year. That means in a couple of years the tree will be keeping us (or whomever lives here) stocked with pears for eating, canning, drying, etc... But that's not the only reason. In time the tree will provide a modicum of shade for the backyard. Not much, but the tree should grow to about 15-20 feet tall with a fifteen foot spread. That is just enough for a young adult to lay under and do homework or simply day dream. It will also be a marker of time. Right now it's about a foot taller than the kids. I plan on keeping a photographic history of the tree for as long as we're here. I grew up in a house where my parents planted young Douglas firs that were the same height as me. Now they are well over thirty feet tall. I love looking up at them and thinking that they grew up with me. With luck, my kids will do the same, though they won't be quite so dwarfed in the end.

The thing about trees is they aren't just pretty. They don't just provide food. Trees are natures bio-filter. They are natures carbon-sink. Did you know that an acre of trees can capture the same amount of carbon that you release when you drive 26,000 miles? It also provides enough air for 18 people for the year. They clean the air and remove particulates simply by catching in their leaves and bark. Heck, they even save water. All the shade a tree provides keeps extra water from being evaporated from the ground below. That means healthier plants beneath and less watering for your lawn. Plus they release moisture into the air as they transpire (you know... tree breathing). Plus, that shade and water release helps cool the air around us. Every tree you plant helps keep some of that pesky sunlight (this is my redhead bias coming through) from hitting the ground and heating up the ambient temperature in the city.

Think of it, if we planted more trees in vacant spaces of the cities around us the leaves would be catching the sunlight and prevent the pavement nearby from being quite so warm. The released water from transpiration would also cool the air slightly. That same sunlight would be providing food for the trees, which allows them to grow more and in turn absorb more carbon dioxide (you know... that greenhouse gas that we all breathe out that is helping to heat the planet). And if these trees are around homes we live in they can even reduce our cooling costs of our homes by also keeping them out of the aforementioned pesky sunlight. And, of course, less energy spent means a lower carbon footprint for our homes too.

By this point in time I'm sure you're thinking, "Yeah, yeah... I know. We've heard it all before."  Which is fine. Hell, I hope you have heard it before. (Repetition leads to remembering, or so I've  been told.) But it's not just for the financial benefit or for the obvious environmental impact.  Planting trees has a tremendous social impact as well.

When we lived in Tacoma, WA, we noticed that there was a very distinct difference between what was considered the "rich" and the "poor" parts of town. It wasn't the quality of the homes or their size. It was the trees, or actually the lack of them.  In the poorest sections of town most of the trees had been taken down. The towering evergreens were gone. The oak trees are barely scattered around. Nothing of any height can be seen for blocks and blocks. People complain about the amount of violence that happens in these areas. It has been found neighborhoods that lack tree cover tend have greater occurrences of violence both in and out of home than neighborhoods which are lush with trees. We are the human animal. We are part of nature. If we completely remove ourselves from it we suffer. It has also been found that trees are both calming and healing. Apparently people heal faster even when just given the ability to view nearby trees. Kids with ADHD exhibit less symptoms. Even just being in green areas is said to help reduce mental fatigue by letting our bodies just relax without being surrounded by so much concrete and synthetic materials around.

Now think about what would happen if we planted more trees in those poorer neighborhoods. If violent crime goes down, people are less stressed, and fear is reduced..... how much does that benefit the area? Immeasurably.  Pair that with the fact that well-planted properties can increase the value of a home by nearly 15%. That's a great thing. Happier people with more value to their homes. Add in the economic gains they can get by having the trees and the environmental benefit of helping the world in general. Well, that seems pretty much like a no-brainer.

So, trees. I've planted a few. I know I'll plant a few more. How about you?

Here's my deal. Two a year. That's what I'll do. A minimum of two. My challenge to you (the unknown reader of this long-winded post) is to do the same. They don't have to be just for you. Find a neighbor, a school, a church, an empty lot... whatever. Plant them. Tend them so they get established and teach people about them.  Other wise we appear to be destined to live in a world of only cement and glass.  I'll do the same. Together we can keep our world green. You know... one leaf at a time.

Unbreaking the Broken

I remember being young. (No snickering, please.) Not seven or eight, but from there all the way into my twenties. That is young in my mind now. I remember how everything affected me so intensely. In some ways I'm fairly surprised that I managed to even survive those years. I was always being pulled around left and right by everything and everyone. There were so many firsts during that time. It would be impossible for me to even begin to list them off. 

Despite the seemingly endless number of them, it is truly quite the opposite. We each have a very finite number of memories kept within our complex data storage device known as our brain. True, it would be near impossible to count, but since our years on this planet are truly numbered so are the memories we carry with us.

Over the years I have discovered that my number has actually dwindled far more than is expected from someone my age. Dementia? Not yet. I may be crazy, but I think I can fight that off for a while longer. By best guess I am actually partly to blame for these gaps, subconsciously at least. We have this amazing data processor shoved up in our craniums and apparently it sometimes acts upon its own to do what it thinks is necessary.  Most of the time this is a fabulous thing. (Hooray for the autonomic nervous system and all that sciency stuff.) Other times (sticking with the terrible computer analogy) it simply seems to delete certain things. And when it does, it doesn’t remember to do the weekly defrag. Nope. Just leaves it all a bit jumbled up afterwards. Anyway, as best as I can tell that is what my brain has done to me over the years.

I realized there were missing pieces, or gaps if you will, back in college. I was in Eastvold Auditorium hanging out in the south staircase with my girlfriend. Prior to that moment I had no idea there had ever been an impairment to my world. And then mid-conversation one of those jumbled up spots reorganized itself. And I remembered something I hadn’t realized I had forgotten:

I was seven or eight living in Forest Grove. There had been this older boy who lived down the block. He had a tree house in an old apple tree in the alley. And in the tree house he molested me for a period of months.

That was the first gap I discovered. Kind of a major one. (Thanks go to my counselor for the next few years of dealing with that.)

But this isn’t about that situation.  It’s about the fact that my mind apparently decided that particular set of memories were ones that I could not deal with until a later date. The funny thing to me was that it didn’t come back in the hazy dream-like daze that we are so used to seeing on television or in movies. Rather, it was a click. Things simply snapped into place. It was almost audible. One moment I was in a normal conversation with my girlfriend and then I just stopped and everything was back in its original space.

Fast forward a period of years and I discovered numerous other gaps. Or at least I assume I discovered them. It’s difficult to assess if you are missing something if you are unaware you are missing something. As communication on the internet developed, so did my contact with people from my life that had moved on. Eventually with the development of social networking I made contact with people from even farther back in my life. That is when the gaps truly became apparent.

With our seemingly innate desire to reminisce and talk about things from years past I found myself occasionally out of sorts. These people with whom at one point in time I had so much in common with would talk about things that we did together or about people we knew for years. Most of the time I would do the appropriate giggle, snort, groan, cry, chuckle…. whatever was appropriate for the memory discussed. But other times I would find myself at a loss.

I’m sorry, we did what? Who? Nope never heard of them. She and I were together? Right, she’d never give me the time of day.

I apparently have massive blocks of time that simply don’t exist. Major events that apparently I took part of… no clue. A few relationships that I was in have seemingly been wiped clean.  These gaps somehow permeated my first two decades of my life. Thankfully, with more contact from people formerly in my life I have remembered some things. Not all of it pretty, but when they come back it is a piece of who I am settling back into place. I am a little more complete.

The thing that gets me is I understand the blocking of major events. Trauma isn’t a nice thing to think about, let alone constantly remember. I comprehend the temporary and perhaps permanent deletions there. But it’s the other holes that make no sense to me. Why can I not remember the “relationship” portion of a friendship I had? Why do I not remember doing that show?

In all, what I have found is that there is a constant “state of being” associated with this phenomena. Broken. Not a bad broken, just… a sense of being incomplete. As each new/old memory is returned to me it is lessened, but it is my presumption that it is something I will simply live with the rest of my life. If for some reason my brain decided that certain things had to go, I am guessing there must be some good reason for it. And if that is the case, do I really want to go seeking it out?

So, that all being said, if you have known me from years before and we have a conversation which leaves me looking at you as if you have just told me that you are an alien come to take over the world, please give me a moment. Most likely I’ve encountered my newest mental pothole. I’ll catch up to you eventually. Just be patient with me. And if you really are that alien bent on world domination, please do me the favor of erasing that little bit from my memory as well.

Excess and Waste

I have been asked numerous times over the past year, "Why do you ask for things on Facebook?" In all honestly, it's a fair question. The answer I give is a simple one, "Why not?"

Saying that seems like such a simple answer, but I still find my self wondering how it looks to people. Will they wonder why I'm asking in such a public manner? How will it be viewed? Will it seem like begging? It is something that I might possibly have a hope of getting? Blah, blah, blah... There are so many potential self-doubting questions that if I allowed myself to ask them all I would never ask my questions on Facebook.

However, when you think about it, "Why not?" is a perfectly valid response. Especially here in America.

Take a look at your neighbors. Look at their "stuff".  Is it old? Worn out? Perhaps looking a bit shabby?  Okay, probably some of your neighbors might have a few things that way, if they are anything like people I have lived around and known for the umpteen years of my life the bulk of the things they own are newer. The funny thing is, they may not even notice it themselves.  There is a lifestyle of consumerism in America that pervades nearly everyone we know. It's not purposeful, but we have been raised in it. We are cajoled into it through media, We are taught that it's what we are supposed to do from the day we are able to understand any form of advertising. Buy more! Get more! Upgrade! Everything is disposable.

Honestly, I don't mind if my neighbors/friends/coworkers have the newer/faster/brighter thing. If I have what I need to make my life happy, I"m good, and good for them. They may need a few more things than I do. That's okay. But back to my question, "Why do you ask for things on Facebook?" Well, if people are upgrading and replacing the things they have, what is happening to all of the old stuff? If these neighbors/friends/coworkers of mine are anything like me they probably have half of it just sitting around in case they may need it. And then it's eventually forgotten about. And then replacement number three comes along and it starts again.

Disposable.

I come from a small town.  I am the odd blend of my college-employed family and my farm-working friends I grew up with. A tree-hugging hick. I like to recycle. I enjoy taking care of the earth we walk upon. Have an old pallet? I'll turn it into a bench or a dresser. You get the idea.  I gave up the notion that I would have all new things years ago when I realized I could be perfectly happy with things that are one or two iterations behind cutting-edge.

So, here we are as a nation with more stuff just tossed in our closets sitting around collecting dust than many other countries have access to. I'm pretty sure if I were to ransack a few of my friends' houses I would be able to come up with more spare computing power than I would truly know what to do with. Look in some other peoples' houses and I might find enough cookware to start three separate restaurants. In still other homes I may be able to stock a small used clothing store (some of it with clothing that has never left the original hanger).

So that's just it. I ask, because odds are somebody has something I may be able to use. I ask because they probably barely remember having it and so haven't even bothered to get rid of it. I ask because it is a simple form of recycling.

Hand-me-downs.

No shame there. I had them as a kid. My kids have them now. And why not? When it comes down to it the idea is perfect.  If you aren't using something, you aren't going to use it again, you aren't even going to bother getting rid of it.... why not give it to someone who wants it? To someone who needs it?

And in my world, it goes both ways. I am a user of hand-me-downs and I am a giver of them as well.  I have things that I have stopped using. Either I have grown out of them (literally and figuratively) or they are simply no longer of use to me. Much of it I donate to charity (ARC, Value Village, Goodwill.....) but some of it just kind of gets tucked aside because I "might" use it someday. Those things are my hand-me-downs that will go out when I hear someone else ask on Facebook (or in real life too), "Hey, does anyone have _____ that they aren't using?"

Yes. Yes I do. Here you go. 

I don't ask for financial gain. I don't give for financial gain. I just ask and give. Pass things along. Will I sell things that I have made? Absolutely. But if someone asks me if I have a used item that I don't need anymore then chances are it will become their used item. I would rather it were used instead of sitting gathering dust.

Hopefully that answers people's questions. Buy what you want to buy. Use what you need. Share what you can. Recycle things that you no longer want. Don't worry about having the newest, flashiest thing. Instead focus on what makes your life truly good. Use the the things you have and then share the things you no longer use.

We can't all live simply, but at times is nice to just simply live.

Something Amazing

For the past five weeks my wife has been gone. In that time I have had to be single father, sole money maker, cook, cleaner, cheerleader, doctor, taxi driver, and so many other things. All of which I do so willingly.

During the time of my wife's absence she has been off working on a professional theatre production on the other side of the state. For years I have told her that I think she is by far the most talent actor that I know. You may say I am swayed by the fact that I married to her, but it is something that I said long before we were married.

Two and a half weeks of rehearsal with full day schedules. This wasn't just "play", but serious work. A true job. Comparing this to what many of us do in community theatre would be like comparing flying a Boeing Dreamliner to flying a paper airplane. This is not to say that community theatre is not work, but what she has been doing is a whole different level of commitment.

So, two and half weeks of rehearsal with three weeks of performance. It doesn't seem like the longest run. Almost easy if you think of the total duration. But I know otherwise. I heard the strain, the panic, the stress, the hope, the separation from the family, and the chaos of getting up to opening night. There is always the question asked, "Is this worth it?" I'm never surprised when I hear that question. I know it's coming.

Opening night came and I took my drive to the other side. Five hours of sitting behind the wheel after a day of seven hours behind the wheel of the company truck. Why? Because that is what you do.  Well, that is what I do. I made it to the theatre and had a few moments to see the lovely woman who deigned to marry me over a year prior. And then I had to wait. Wait for the curtain. Wait for the lights to dim. Wait for her to arrive on the boards. Wait for the proof that I was right.

I have had multiple experiences working with my wife on stage. We have played opposite each other, been in the chorus together, produced shows together, and a myriad of other varieties. I have also had the chance to watch her perform a multitude of times. Each time I watch her through rehearsals to performances I learn something. Many things. There is something about watching someone who is both a well-trained actor and a natural actor that is incredible. The past five years have been so good for my own performance skills because I have been able to benefit from all that I have learned from her.

So the lights came up and the show began.  The problem is, I didn't see my wife on stage. There was a family, more than slightly broken, with a mother trying to keep it from falling further apart. This woman obviously had setbacks in her life. Her body had been skewed over time and listed a bit due to the repetitive nature of all the tasks she did for years in the home. She had habitual mannerisms from who she had been over the past decades of her marriage. There was a stubbornness in her that gave hints at an inner strength and resolve to move forward no matter what life threw at her. There were moments of bitter anger, joy and youthful exuberance, sadness, hope, perseverance, and love. There was a mother who would do anything for the sake of her family, even if it meant ignoring pains and hurts of both the physical and emotional kind.

I wanted to write about this performance that night. I wanted to tell you that it was the most amazing thing I have ever seen my wife do. But I couldn't. Not then. I needed the rest of the people to see it and make their own judgement.

But it was. I was completely blown away. There is no question in my mind that this was by far the best piece of work that I have seen her do. She made me cry and laugh within the same hour and moved the story along to tell the tale of this woman. She did it with both brutal honesty and skill. And yet, I couldn't see her "act". She just "was" and it was beautiful.

For those of you who saw this show, I am happy you were able to experience it. For those who did not, I am sorry you missed out on the opportunity.

I write this in celebration of my wife. Of her skill, of her work, of her perseverance. Samantha, you are the inspiration in my life and the love of it as well.  I applaud your work and I will always continue to support it. You are the most incredible woman and I am proud to live with you, work with you, love with you, and spend my life with you.

And to answer the earlier question, yes. It was definitely worth it.



Broadway Bound, 2014
Interplayers Theater
Spokane, WA

Bearers of the plague

We are a plague house. Not literally, but everyone here is sharing the same cold/virus.  I believe Samantha had it first, Lorelai got it second, then Perrin, and most recently me.  It's not a pleasant one. It hits the head, sinuses, throat and chest, all while producing large amounts of various nastiness. Sound like fun? We can assure you it is not.

I've felt bad for Samantha. She has been working non-stop and doing a show at the same time. Being sick in a normal show is bad enough, add singing to it and it all just becomes that much harder. Pair that with still recovering from a very recent surgical procedure. I am amazed with all she does despite what life throws at her.

And there there's the kids. They've both been coughing and sneezing generally being completely miserable. It has been obvious they have not felt good for the past few days. Neither has had excessive appetite, both have been very clingy, and the level of discontent over the slightest pain/problem/displeasure has increased exponentially.

As for me, it hit fully yesterday morning and then progressed during the course of the day. Come night time there was all the joyous burning sinuses a man could handle. So I ache, I feel lethargic, it hurts to swallow and I'm excessively nauseous. You know, all the usual stuff. But for the past week I've been the one taking care of the sick ones. Being sick is not allowed to slow me down.

At 3:45 in the morning my pseudo-sleep is disturbed by crying from the children's room. (This is the third night in a row.) So I get up quickly, because I want Samantha to keep sleeping so she can get healthy and I don't want whichever child it is to have to sit there crying for long.  One of them has managed a bloody nose from sinus pressure and is miserable. The next half hour is spent getting them cleaned up, calmed down, dosed on children's cold/cough medicine, and eventually back to bed.  At this point the other is already crying as they too feel miserable and have been woken up by the commotion. So, they also get comforted, dosed, and put back to bed. Now it's back to bed for me. Not to sleep, just to bed. Despite the medicine at least one, if not both children, remains coughing continuously in their sleep for the rest of the night. I know the duration because I spend the night listening to them. Not in frustration, but because I am not able to sleep due to my own cold and because I want to make sure they are okay. If there is crying I will be back in there. Come around 7 a.m. I managed to fall asleep for an hour or so and then it's up again and time to get everyone fed and the day started.

I will admit I'm exhausted and tired and sore and worn out and stressed and achy and frayed and a whole host of other things. However. I am also happy. This is my family. It is my job to take care of them. These are my kids. I know they were not born to me. They have another father as well. But I have looked after them for the past two years. I have helped shape who they are so far and will continue to do so long into the future. I have worked to feed them, dress them, educate them, protect them, and nurture them. Years ago I did not know how to do this. I didn't think I could. Now I know it's not a matter of being able to do so. It is simply a matter of doing it. Why? Because they need it. Because I want to do it. Because it is the absolute best thing I can do.

I love my family. I love my life.

But God I hate this cold.

That's a ballgame of a different color, right?

I'm a theatre person, right?  I did my first show at the age of 5 (if I remember correctly). I lost count of the number of shows I have done, but my best estimate is in the high eighties/low nineties.  I feel that's pretty darn respectable, especially considering I took a few multi-year breaks over the span of my theatre "career".  So then doing another show should be a breeze.

Not really.

Honestly, straight plays scare the crap out of me.  I did a number of them years ago. I was... fair.  Pretty much what I did from the time I was 19 until I was 37 were musicals. Lots and lots of musicals. Some good, some great, a few that I will never mention again, and even a couple of small operas.... but all involved singing. I can sing. I know I can do that. Acting is a different matter.

Yes, I know, there is acting involved in musical theatre, but in truth there is a lot less expected from a musical theatre actor than there is from a "straight" actor. (Side note, unrelated: Why is it a "straight play"? Are musicals considered "bent" plays? Ok, digression over.) I have done many shows where the focus has been strictly on the singing. It was completely acceptable if the "actor" simply stood there are sung prettily. (This is not to say that this is ALWAYS the case. I know many musical theatre actors who  are amazing!) In this case, I am not meaning to discus other actors, merely myself.  I feel I can hold my own on stage and create an acceptable character, but I in no way hold any grandiose ideas that I am amazing or professional.

(refocus, back to topic)

Straight plays scare the crap out of me. Did I mention that already? Yep, there it is... two paragraphs up. And here I am embarking on a new one. It's a sizable role too. When I first looked it over I'm sure I blanched a little. Nobody was watching, so I was safe. My first thought? "Holy crap! That's a lot of me on stage." Then I skimmed for monologues. None. This should be a good thing, right?

Wrong.

I like monologues. They are good chunks of time where you are the only one talking. (Duh.) This means you can't really screw anyone else up. Oh, and you don't have to wait for someone else to cue your next line. I like this.  It's like memorizing a good little tale and then being the storyteller.

There are no monologues. Just lots of little lines. Some very interesting little lines. Many of them very important. Many of them numbers. Oh lord. Did I mention I'm a little nervous about it? Yeah, I am. Maybe I can convince them to throw a little song and dance number in there.

Ok, I can do this. Just bear with me. This may come up again later. In the meantime, if anyone feels like starting a petition to get me a quick little song tossed in feel free. Just make sure you get a decent amount of names and then address the petition to Soozie. Thanks! Wish me luck.

- B

I find happiness in the little things.

Today was a good day.  A day spent with friends playing games and enjoying company, followed by dinner. Games went well, friends headed home, and now it's time for dinner.


So, there I am standing at the stove. The ground beef is almost done browning along with a little bit of onions.  Off on my left I have a small bowl filled with half a cup of water, some Worcestershire sauce, brown sugar, a dash of vinegar and some tomato paste.  On my right there are two small children eagerly looking at what is in the pot, wondering when dinner will be ready.

I find myself simply happy.  This is what I had been missing.

I missed all the beginnings the first time around. Heck, I missed practically everything. But now I have a chance to do it right.

It is the look of expectancy, of excitement. It is the sense of completeness.

This is a family. This is where I am supposed to be.

I am happy. I am home.

There are times where it is far too easy to just sit.  Sit and do nothing.

In times of stress it is easy to shut down.  For a while it helps and that can give your brain a little time to heal, or at least to catch up.

Shut down time needs to be done.  Things need to get going and moving.  The hard  part is getting the impetus us to start all over again. 

It needs to be remembered that it is not a complete restart.  Things have not stopped.  Life still goes on.  It is instead a matter of refocusing the potential energy into something else.  Something that moves forward, rather than remaining suspended in mid-air.

That is what it has been.  A suspension.  Not the bottom of a hill, but rather a pause mid-flight.  It's not the journey that is feared, rather the remembrance of the chaos that comes with it.

Double standard #46

Ok.... so I am waiting for the children to finish their breakfast so we can head off to the farmer's market. Since I figure I have a few spare minutes I decided to actually iron my kilt and starch the pleats so it holds them better and that leads me to wondering.... How many times will I be asked today if I am wearing the kilt without anything underneath?

Which of course made me then wonder... Why is it considered appropriate to ask men if they are wearing anything under their kilt?

If I were to walk up to a woman I don't know and say, "So, are you wearing any panties today?" I would at minimum be considered a pervert.  Most likely I would get either yelled at or slapped.  And what if I walked up to a strange woman and said, "I'll give you a dollar if you aren't wearing panties?"  Might I get arrested to harassment, or even solicitation?  The funny part is, that last line was said to me (minus the word "panties") as Samantha and I were walking in West Seattle a week or so ago. 

There is no real rant here.  Rather, I just find it to be yet another interesting double standard that is held between the genders.

Any comments? (Note: I didn't say "questions" for those who would ask the obvious.)

A year in the life...

     Well,  I will admit that it has been ages since I have even attempted to write a post for this blog.  The last draft I have saved is dated back from February. Ok, Tolstoy I am not.


     It has been nearly a year since we have moved to Seattle.  I have found that I enjoy living near the city. For a guy who grew up in a town with less than 20,000 people it surprised me as to how much like it here.  Unfortunately now on the one year anniversary of the move we are moving again.  The move itself is not a bad thing, simply one that was unexpected. Life moves in ways that I do not claim to understand. I am just trying to go along and see where it takes me.

     So, back to Fircrest we go. This time however it is a different move.  We are moving into the house together, not just one person moving into another's space, but two people moving in and creating the space as a couple. It will be a new experience for the both of us.  Picking paint. Choosing carpet. Landscaping. Restoring with both our ideas.  I look forward to the challenge.  This will be our chance to make it a home for us, for our family.

     When I purchased the house fourteen years ago I was an entirely different person.  Funny enough I never even had a house warming party.  Over the next thirteen years of living there many friends never even saw the place. It was as if my place was merely a legend, one that only few saw and even fewer visited.  Not this time.  The intention is to make it ready for guests quickly and to have people over frequently.  One downside of moving to Seattle was that we had so many friends down here who we already saw infrequently enough. The move only made the visits even father apart.  Thankfully we made some good friends in Seattle, but in moving back down we will make it a point to see everyone more often.  Invites will come more frequently, so be sure to watch for them.  Better yet.... please call.  Come over.  Make plans.

     We are making sure this move becomes a positive thing.  Life goes on.  Things change.  We adapt and live our lives the best we can.  Please join us.

The first time...

Some are unable to take criticism well and if you are one such person and find yourself within this writing, then I give mild apology. I have just reached the point where I need to say something, yet it is not my place to say it to anyone within the group I am working with. So, instead I will say it here to get it off my chest and hopefully just get rid of some frustration. If I manage to offend and ostracize myself from the group, well, such is the risk I take.

Do you know how many days until we open? Not two weeks, but NINE days. Come two days from now it will only be a week. To say that I am a little nervous is an understatement. This is one of the first times that I have truly wondered if a show will work or simply crash and burn. Show me why, you ask…. ok, just listen.

So, here goes… The story of the show is a serious one. It is a tale of one man's depravity and how he takes from the world, yet never acknowledges his wrong doing. There is murder, rape, deception, coercion, vengeance, demons, and eventually a descent into hell. Needless to say this is intended to be serious material. Now, within any show of such depth there is always at least one character that is intended to bring a bit of levity so as not to let the audience wallow in how heavy and depressing the show can be. Understandable? I feel so, but we have descended into the land of shtick. All that seems to be missing is a little slapstick and, as mentioned to me earlier, the inclusion of the Keystone cops. Every time where subtlety would be appropriate it seems that we are simply slapping the audience in the face with a humor stick. Each time that happens all the tension in the scene disappears and it gives the audience a reason to disengage from the story.

And then there is focus. How hard is it to simply listen to directions, follow instructions, do your part, and when the director says "focus" to shut the fuck up? I have spent the past ten years working with ten year olds and my average class of 30 can get quiet and remain so far better than 17 adults on a stage can. Really? If your intention is to put on a professional show then….. ACT LIKE A PROFESSIONAL! I am all for play. Hell, you can frequently find me messing around (when the time is appropriate), but if it is time to work, then let's just work. There is little enough time to put the show together if we are on task, let alone if half of our time is wasted by diddling around on stage. When a scene ends, stop. Wait. Listen for commentary from the director. Reset if needed and go on. Do not assume that just because you are no longer "acting" that it gives you license to flap your mouth, flail your arms, and otherwise be a distraction. If the scene is continuing then pay attention. Watch the other actors. Support them. As soon as your mouth opens you are telling them that you really don't give a crap about what they are doing.

Really it all comes down to respect. Have respect for the stage. Have respect for the director. Have respect for the time. Have respect for yourself as an actor. But mostly, have respect for the show. It is a brand new piece that needs to be put together carefully, not just thrown together haphazardly. Make it work, make it fun, make it amazing. Create. Be artists. Don't waste your time, or my time, or the director's time, or especially the audience's time. That is my fear. I am afraid that people will come and say, "Why did I bother?"

That's pretty much it. Those are my main gripes. Again, if I offend I am sorry, but if you don't like my opinion I truly don't care. It is what it is.

Something New

Two weeks into Seattle life and I already find that Tacoma feels different.  

Twenty years ago I came to Tacoma to go to college and swore that after four years I would be headed back south as soon as I was done with my degree.  Instead I ended up staying and life continued on.  T-town became my home and I adapted to what was city-life in comparison to my small-town upbringing in Forest Grove.   Coming from a 1990 population of 13,599 (according to the 1990 Census) to an area with 176,664 people was a bit of an adjustment.  Over time I found that I enjoyed this area and the abundance of people that were here. It took me a while, but I fully adapted to the Tacoma way of life.

 Over the next sixteen years I explored the area and found so many things about Tacoma that I like. The public blueberry park in East Tacoma, the myriad of trails out in Point Defiance Park, the campus of U.W.T. and how it has led to the resurrection of downtown, Wright Park, Thea Foss Waterfront, Fujiya (The BEST sushi in Tacoma), and so many other places. There are so many things to do in T-town that I am surprised that people don't know about them all.
And now here I am only two weeks into Seattle, and I find that I already feel more at home here in this limited time than I did for the first ten years in Tacoma. Seattle, in comparison to Tacoma is huge, 617,334 according to last estimates prior to the 2010 US Census. I know that I have been ready for a change for years, and it seems as if this is exactly the change I have needed.

A few days ago I took a day off of work, as everyone was sick (including myself), and drove through West Seattle in search of an Office Depot. I found myself looking around and, despite my unpleasant physical state, I realized I was just "happy". I wanted to explore the area and see what it was about this space that made me feel instantly comfortable. I have yet to have the chance to do that, but I am looking forward to the chances that I will have later.

Just today Samantha and had the chance to swing by Lincoln Park and I can already tell that I'll be able to get all my nature-fixes I need out there. Apparently there is even a huge, heated salt-water pool. I am so intrigued by that. Trails criss-cross the park and there is a large amount of beachfront property to walk as well. I am already imagining family picnics and all those things that make great memories. Even better, it's just a short hop down the 54 bus line, which means driving won't even be necessary.

And then there are all the junctions, these wonder intersections of little shops, restaurants, cafes, and just cool places to poke through. I have a feeling I (We) will be spending a fair amount of time there. Granted, if we're not careful, we'll probably be spending a fair amount of money too. Gotta watch that part.

So many things to see. So many things to do. I think I'll survive. In the meantime I will just continue to marvel at the feel of the space. It has somehow managed to quickly become "Home."

~ Of armchair Tolstoys and backyard Kings ~

The whole world is a stage – or at least a book. And we, no matter how insignificant a role we might play, are all writers within it. Everyone has a story to tell – a drama to unfold – or a song to compose. As was quoted many times to me, "If you walk down a street and ask a stranger how his or her novel is coming along, nine times out of ten they will say, 'Well, I'm stuck on such and such a part.'" We all have something to say, the problem is that not everyone can find the words to express what they desire to pass on.

It seems that everyone is out there writing furiously on their book, or their play, or their short story. Characters are being created from mere abstraction sand lifetimes are quite often terminated with the ripping of a page the mark of a pencil. Whole worlds and universes are constructed from the swirling miasma of thought while tyrannical kings hold their land in thrall and by the force of the blade. Lovers meet and are thrust apart by forces unknown to them (the authors) and homicidal maniacs run rampant through the streets of a small city in Maine. All these lives, these worlds and kingdoms are brought to life and destroyed by one thing – the writer.

Throughout the country there resides an infinite amount of stories and sagas stored up within the collective memory of the human race, and there are many who would attempt to grasp these narratives and put them down on paper for the rest of the world to read. Some of these writers are successful in their attempts and quite easily bring their characters to live, letting them show us all their trials and tribulations that they must go through until they reach their ultimate goal. However, there are also those of us who must still hunt and peck at our keyboards while trying to get even a spark of intelligence to come from the lips of our latest hero.

Though not excluding the prolific writers of the world, we armchair Tolstoys tend to frequent a place in our minds which resembles a dead end street. Once the character has finally gotten up to speed and it seems that his steps cannot falter – wham! – he face plants into the stone and masonry wall which has suddenly sprung up before him. Dead in his tracks, he appears dazed and looks about without a clue as to what is to come next. A single word escapes his mouth, "Uhhh…..?"

At the same period of time that our character is looking stupefied, we quite often are doing the same. We even make the same sound. Last thing we knew, we were running along with our characters, recording what was happening when suddenly everything stopped; vertigo struck us; and then we were back sitting before our laptops with an unfinished thought on the page and a stupid look on our face. In vain, we try again to pick up the thought where we left off and begin running again, but all we can do is falter a few steps before we throw up our hands in frustration and begin to mutter obscenities at the computer, all the while imaging a recreation of the scene from Office Space where they take the fax machine into a field and beat the living (or non-living in this case) hell out of it.
This block, the bane of all bards, minstrels, and muses of the written word strikes frequently and viciously, often leaving us drained and unable to function for a long period of time. Even when armed with our sharpest #2's, we strike out and stab only empty air and thoughts. The mélange of interplay between our characters, their worlds, and their goals lies beyond our reach. Sometimes it is far on the horizon, so we cannot even discern what we were looking at before. While other times, it teases us with glimpses so close that we might even see an action occurring but no know what to do with it.
There is always a great temptation to write through the block, to force the story to continue on. This seems to be a real difference between those of us who scribble in obscurity and to those who are able to produce the vital characters which draw us into their lives. Though there is great frustration in having to stop the forward motion of a world in progress, to force the characters into actions they aren't ready to do is a sure way to self-destruct a saga in the making. Characters will balk in making their smoothly. Each world from their mouths will sound as if rough-hewn and not finished, perhaps forced into being. Eventually they might even rebel enough to sit down and say that they refuse to move one step further.

Thus, we are forced to do what all the great writers do. We wait. Twiddling the thumbs always works and you can do it for free. The problem is you really get bored fast. It seems to be a good attention grabber for about thirty seconds. You could always start another writing project to see if something different comes along. However, there is the tendency to simply start making preparations for what to do when the zombie apocalypse happens. Useful, but not effective the short term.

Maybe you should try playing golf. If you don't play, even better. Take lessons. That way you can spend your time worrying about your slice instead of why your character is sitting there in front of a wall with stars floating around his head. This, along with various other methods of distraction (including doing laundry and participating in a Zombie LARP to get a feel for the impending apocalypse) should keep you busy enough to let your head work out the problems without your mind getting in the way of its working.

Then it happens. Your fingers start to itch and long for the feel of a keyboard beneath them. You start to daydream and realize that what you are thinking about is what your character is supposed to be doing at this moment. It's about this time that you realize that he has woken up from his daze and is ready to start telling you where he wants to go. The only thing that is necessary is for you to listen to him as he picks up the pace of his travels. Record what he does, all he sees, and where he goes. Let him be the writer, and be just a traveling companion yourself. If he has been given the life that is necessary, then things will finally fall into place (with probably only a few nudges for direction from you). It's only when we try to take over his story that the balking will begin again and the stone and masonry wall will appear once more.

Just because I can...

Some things just have to be shared.  Go Sesame Street!

Putting it all away...

Stuff.  Got enough?  Want more? I've got some.  I need to get rid of some. I don't want to take it with me. Who wants it?

Really. 13 years of living in this house and I have accumulated so much stuff.  Where the hell did it all come from?  Pictures, posters, postcards, paper, pots, pans, pie plates, pizza stones, pails, pottery, perpetual piles of peripherals and paraphernalia. Good lord. Don't get me started on the rest of the alphabet.

I must pack, I must purge, I must plan to put everying in a new place. Perhaps I am poorly prepared. Probably.

Ok, enough of that.  I am just looking around this house and thinking I am in the final countdown.  Thirteen years this ghost-filled house.  Some good memories, some not. Mostly just memories in general.  I never expected to live so long in this place.  It was supposed to be a starter house.  And I guess, in it way it has been - multiple times.  It's even being repurposed again as the start of my rental properties.  If I manage it right I might be able to make it one of many.  We'll see I guess.

So, for now I'm just taking it all in.  Three more nights under the roof.  72 hours of days left before the new journey beings.  See, I'm starting again.

In the mean time... anyone need a bowflex?

There's two ways we can do this. Your way or.....

Some people spend their days walking through their lives living every moment within a haze. They get up and shower, shove some food down their throats, run out the door and plod through their work day. Then when the day is done they might grab a drink, head home, toss a Hungryman in the microwave and plop down in front of Angry Housewives before heading to bed and sleeping until they start again the next day.

God that scares the shit out of me. 

Note: If I ever end up that way please kick me in the ass, head, or other various bodily part.

I have seen too many people doing exactly that with their lives, which truly equates to doing "nothing" with their lives.  At least, it's nothing if there is no enjoyment within it.

I have set myself a few rules for my life over the years:

The first is about stressing over things. It's pretty simple: If there is absolutely nothing I can do to affect the outcome of something, then it is of absolutely no use for me to stress over it. All I end up doing is stressing myself for no reason.

The second is probably just as if not even more important:  Enjoy everything you can.

Ok, I know this might sound a little (or a lot) hedonistic, but I don't mean it in the sense that I need to go out and bed everything that moves. Rather, I mean that I want to enjoy everything I do, be it watching a play, reading a book, or even just something as simple as holding someone's hand.

One example of this is cooking. For those of you who truly know me, you know that I have a difficult time sharing my kitchen.  That is, I love sharing the product of my kitchen, but it is difficult for me to be out of it.  My mother was a wonderful cook (I know, everybody says this...) and she was adventurous in what she did. More importantly, she showed me how to work in the kitchen. I watched her prepare meals and I learned by her example. Now when I am in the kitchen I will find myself stopping and thinking of her at some of the oddest of times. Just tonight I was making spaghetti sauce and it brought her back to me. But the point is not about her, but rather the joy I learned from her when I am cooking. To prepare a meal for someone and then have them enjoy it makes my day.

Oh, and then there is driving.  I love to drive.  More importantly, I love to drive with the windows down. (Ok, nobody make jokes about how I love how my hair blows in the breeze....) I do love the feel of the wind. On a dry day I will hang my arm out the window and enjoy the feeling of 60 mph winds with all the glass rolled down.  And on a day of downpours I can enjoy the stinging numbness that comes with the water. And of course the zen moment of truly feeling that you are part of the car.  There is this moment where you know you are part of this 2000 pound machine and it responds to your every whim. Gotta love that. (Somewhere in the background Tim Allen is making grunting noises, I know it.)

If am walking I love to go uphill where I can feel my quads lifting. When I read a book, I try to really put myself into the part of the character to really get what the author was trying to convey (which, admittedly can be a bit awkward when the main charachter is a seventeen year old girl, or a 63 year old grandmother of 19. but still...). When I am exploring a new neighborhood I want to be lost so I can truly find my way home. 

Oh, and speaking of which, I love when my brain is able to complete more of its mental map of a place. There is such a strange geeky rush I get when I suddenly go, "Holy shit, I know exactly where I am now!" in a place that I have rarely ever traveled.

Basically, I try to understand the moments as they come to me. All you have to do is look at the obvious, and then see the things which most people miss. Look closer. Find the unique experience in everything you do. It might just be the feel of the fabric of your bedsheets just after they have been washed and then put on the bed while still warm. It might be sound of tiny rocks and broken pieces of shell on the beach as the water pushes them back and forth with waves. It might even be the smell of the sap of a Douglas fir that you catch in the air as you are cleaning up your yard after a windy night.  Whatever it is, savor it. Drink up the moments. Live each one instead of simply letting them pass you by. Enjoy the feel of the skin of your loved one's cheek. That's my rule to myself.

Even now I have found myself practicing this rule. I have been enjoying the thoughts that have been going through my head as I write this. Good memories have surfaced and I feel just a bit lighter. Maybe I've got something here. Maybe I'm doing something right.