Happy Birthday! Unsucked...

My wife made me an egg white omelet with weight watchers American cheese, on one slice of low-cal whole wheat flat bread for breakfast.

It was dry but it wasn't her fault.

It was a mighty fine sandwich.

My Doctor recently told me to stay away from tomato based foods because of my acid reflux.

Hence, no ketchup on my omelet.

I am 41 today.

Probably the most insignificant birthday I have ever had.

Last year when I turned 40, my wife threw me a surprise birthday party at one of those kid, inflatable bouncy places. There were lasers and obstacle courses and candy and presents and a Captain America cake.

This year my wife asked me, "what

do you want to do on your birthday?"

I said, "I would like you to cook me crunchy chicken with brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

The reason I want this is because I don't get to eat mashed potatoes very often. They are made with milk and butter and I am lactose intolerant. Mashed potatoes give me diarrhea.

Happy 41st Birthday!

I woke up this morning at 6am. It was dark and rainy.

I said to myself out loud, "This sucks."

Why is it that I always feel so down on my birthday?

I still have those same childhood expectations. I still think that birthdays are made for bowling parties, matchbox cars and pin the tail on the donkey. I miss my pointy, cardboard party hat.

My 9 year old daughter came upstairs, jumped on my bed and hugged me. Then she broke into a perfectly silly birthday dance.

That unsucked things a bit.

I walked into the bathroom and paused for a moment to look at my 41 year old face in the mirror. I look older than I did last year. I feel older than yesterday.

I stepped into the shower.

As I was shaving my shoulders, my 5 year old popped her head in the bathroom and shouted a gargantuan "HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY!"

My day unsucked just a tiny bit more and it started to seem promising.

Before she ran out, she told me that my peenie looked like Squidward's nose.

Such a simple and bizarre observation but it made me smile.

On the way to the train, I passed an old man riding an ancient 10-speed bicycle in the rain. He was wearing a Cincinnati Bengals jacket, Cincinnati Bengals hat and bright orange, tiger striped, Cincinnati Bengals mittens.

My day unsucked even more.

It was then that I realized that I don't need to wear the proverbial party hat on my birthday. Today doesn't have to live up to any of my silly, little expectations. Today is about the little moments. Today is about the in-betweens. Today my peenie looks like Squidward's nose.

My only expectation for today is the diarrhea that will follow my birthday mashed potatoes and that will do just fine.

The Opposite Of Scary...

A couple of months ago my 9 year old daughter told me that she wanted to dress up as a Cowgirl for Halloween.

I'm all for letting my kids choose their costumes every year. As a parent it gives me great pride to to watch my children exercise their creative muscles. These costumes are a way for them to express themselves through their imagination. For a parent it offers an opportunity to peer through a small window to their mind. Dressing up is a form of role playing. It's an outlet for them to live out their wildest fantasies in a safe and encouraging environment. It's a healthy way to escape the ordinary. This is what Halloween is all about.

But a Cowgirl?

Cowgirl pictured above is not my daughter.

I don't understand.

As far as I know, she is not a fan of John Wayne movies. She has never been to a dude ranch and there hasn't been a Roy Rogers chain in our area for over two decades. (consequently, how awesome were their bacon cheeseburgers? And don't even get me started on their fried chicken)

If I'm being completely honest here, I have to admit that I was a tad disappointed when she broke the news.

A Cowgirl isn't even scary. It's actually the opposite of scary. I just Googled "opposite of scary" and it said, "not scary". This is true. A Cowgirl is not scary.

Do kids even care about Cowgirls anymore?

I mean, only strippers and kids that model Cowgirl costumes dress up as Cowgirls.

You order a Cowgirl outfit on the Internet for your wife on your one year anniversary. Or an alien woman costume. Captain Kirk loved alien women. He was constantly bedding down alien women.

I could understand if it was 1973 and she was obsessed with the movie Westworld. Or even if she was obsessed with the movie Westworld now. I don't think she has ever seen Westworld. Yul Brynner died before she was born and Richard Benjamin is completely irrelevant to her generation.

When I was a kid my mother spent three hours applying makeup to my face so I could dress up like Peter Criss from KISS.

You know what? I wound up looking like a fucking bunny rabbit. There was no bunny rabbit in KISS. I was humiliated.

Now that's scary.

A few weeks ago my wife went ahead and took my daughter shopping for her costume and she wound up abandoning the Cowgirl idea. When she came home and announced this to me I tried to contain my excitement.

She made me sit down and told me to close my eyes.

I heard her frantically tearing the package apart and fumbling to get the costume situated.

I was relieved. My daughter was creative after all. It was all a misunderstanding; a momentary lapse of reason on her part. Who could blame her? She's only 9 and she's finding her own way.

She told me to open my eyes.

As fate would have it...

A God damn Cat.

Whiskers and Cat ears and a tail.

As I sat there and looked at her cute little Cat face, smiling from little Cat ear to little Cat ear, I realized how silly my expectations were.

My name is Jason and my 9 year old daughter is dressing up as a Cat for Halloween and I'm OK with that.

For fuck's sake, she looks more like Peter Criss than I did.

You Were Here...

How do you say "goodbye" to someone that has already gone away?

This is the first thing that popped into my head today when I heard the terrible news.

She had been battling Cancer for nearly a decade. Pushing back the deadly disease with life. She had friends that cherished her, family that relished her and children that revered her. She was beautiful on the outside and soft and kind on the inside. She was strong and smart and all kinds of funny. She was never afraid to mix it up. At least this is what I remember about her.

I haven't seen her in years. Both of us busy with family and business. The usual shit. But every once in awhile there would be an email offering a kind word about my family being beautiful or that my blog made her laugh. That always made me smile.

I don't think we, as human beings, realize how much we contribute to each others lives. The little thoughts and prayers we send out into the universe, the fleeting glances, the smiles, the Facebook "likes". They all mean something.

We often don't notice the significance of a hug or a phone call when it happens but every little thing, good and bad, sticks to our DNA like Velcro darts flung across the room.

All of these things, these tiny little offerings of unnoticeable generosity, sit on us like dust sits on a forgotten bookshelf.

I sent her an email the other day. I only wanted her to know that she was being thought of. It sounds weird to say that to someone but it really is one of the most honest truths that can be communicated to another human being.

"I'm thinking of you."

You are a part of me. You are a part of every single person that had the pleasure of meeting you. You are in our DNA. The thoughts and memories of you can't be stopped.

How do you say "goodbye" to someone that is already gone?

You remember them.

And smile at the person next to you on the train or the bus or at the supermarket or wherever you are. A person's legacy can simply be the smile they gave to you, passed on to another.

You are already missed friend... Even in God's arms you are still here with all of us.

I'm Flying! I'm Stupid! YAY!

OK. So I'm on a plane and I'm blogging.

One of my secret guilty pleasures, is perusing Delta Sky Mall magazine.

If you are not familiar with Sky Mall, it is an in-flight magazine that is sort of like the print version of QVC. The products are so insane that apparently only people who are very high up in the sky are permitted to read it.

Here are three of my favorites from the Summer 2011 installment and please forgive the shitty picture quality. I'm blogging from a big, steel bird in the sky.

1. Very tired man sleeping on very huge pillow on a plane:

or as they call it: "SKY REST" $29.95

The description says, "The miraculous, wedge-shaped travel pillow makes even the most uncomfortable spots downright pleasant."

You've got to be kidding me. My neck hurts from just looking at the picture. It's also a God damn fire hazard. I'm guessing you need to be really drunk to appreciate it or maybe just a mental patient. I'm pretty sure Delta would actually make you check that with the rest of your luggage. I'm also guessing this guy had to purchase two seats. I'm sticking with the whole falling asleep on the person next to me plan.

2. What is your cat doing in the furniture?

Or as they call it: "KITTY WASHROOM" $99.98

That's right folks. Do you want to keep your kitty's litter box out of site and at the same time ad a beautiful piece of furniture to your home? Well if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Yes, this country style, bleached wood end table and cabinet, houses your feline's shit box. Because a pile of cat poo wasn't bad enough in your basement? Now not only will your living room smell like a cats ass but your friends and guests will think you are a disgusting, filthy human being.

"Helen, is that a new piece of furniture?"

"Why yes it is? Do you like it?"

"It's gorgeous! Did you shit your pants?"

Why not turn your bathtub into a urinal for the town meth addict? Or perhaps convert your refrigerator into a morgue? Why stop there?

3. The Kill Me Slowly Helmet Thingy

Or as they call it: "iRESTORE HAIR LASER" $499

This is how this brain helmet works. "Just sit, relax and 650nm lasers and red luminous optical lights provide phototherapy, a scientific process providing stimulation to cells in your hair follicles."

What about the part where the wizard turns you into a jack-o'-lantern and tiny little monkeys fly out of your piehole? This thing either does absolutely nothing or it is going to burn your fucking skull cap off. My favorite part is the guy in the picture is just casually wearing his cancer hat while watching TV or surfing the net. So here's the deal. You're going bald. You're insecure. So insecure that you are willing to do anything to keep whatever hair you have left but at the same time, you have no problem with wearing this designer Storm Trooper helmet. Honey, if you ever catch me wearing this around the house, please hit me with the biggest frying pan we have.

I hope there isn't a guy wearing an iRestore on the plane. They should probably alter the in-flight announcements just in case.

"Will all passengers now please turn off all personal electronic devices, including cellphones, laptops and iRestore Hair Therapy Treatment Helmets."

We're probably gonna crash.

Hello. How May I Not Help You?

The other day, I had the most absurd, maddening and yet extremely hilarious exchange with an online customer service representative.

Here is the product I was trying to purchase as it appeared on the website:

Red Bamboo Rug (3' Octagonal)

My questions were: What are the measurements of the rug? And what does 3' Octagonal mean?

Here is my exchange with the online customer service representative, who is clearly not named Palmer:

Palmer: Hi, my name is Palmer. How may I help you?

Visitor: Hi Palmer.

Visitor: I'm looking for the measurements of a rug.


Visitor: It says 3' Octagonal and I don't know what that means.

Palmer: It is 'Red Bamboo Rug (3' Octagonal)', correct?

Visitor: yes

Palmer: Since this rug comes with the thickness of 0.125 inch it is considered as 8 edged rug hence it is called Octagonal Rug.

Visitor: OK

Visitor: What are the dimensions though?

Palmer: Dimension of the rug is 3 ft. octagonal.

Visitor: I still don't understand. What is the length and what is the width?

Palmer: It comes with the dimensions of Height: 3 Width: 3Length: 36.

Visitor: 36 inches long and 3 feet wide?

Palmer: Yes, that is correct.

Visitor: But wait. If it's 36" long and 3' wide, wouldn't that make it a square? Because the rug is in the shape of a rectangle.

Visitor: And how could the height be 3 feet if it's a rug?

Palmer: I am sorry, I am unable to locate the information on the product page.

Palmer: I apologize for the inconvenience that caused to you.

Visitor: Where did you get Height: 3 Width: 3Length: 36 from?

Palmer: It is described in Product Description page.

Visitor: Can you send me a link to that page?

Visitor: I don't see a product description page with that information.

Palmer: I am sorry, we do not have an option to send that link.

Palmer: Thanks for visiting our website Have a nice day.

Palmer has disconnected.

Of course I went ahead and ordered the rug. I had to have answers and I certainly wasn't getting them from "Palmer".

This is what was delivered to me:

Of course! Now this makes total sense to me.

Thanks "Palmer"!

*Wraps self in 3' Octagonal Red Bamboo Rug and Jumps through closed window*...

When Her Face Gets Long...

I dropped the Meatball off at DAYCARE for the last time today.

$68,000 worth of days and care.

A Lincoln Navigator's worth of TLC.

Each and every single copper coin well spent.

First the Monkey and now the Meatball.

Both now chapters in a book not yet finished. Every page read, carefully  torn from the binding and folded up into imperfect, little, paper airplanes that forever glide above a wind that has no clear destination.

Running races to the door. So many running races. I let them win every single one.

The Starbucks is right next door.

Winters accompanied by steaming hot Grandes. Summers flush with Iced Ventis.

The kid behind the counter knows my name. I didn't even say goodbye.

Will he wonder where I've gone?

I'd like to think he will.

This day took forever to arrive. Like a final exam, I couldn't wait for it to end. Summer on the otherside, if I could just make it till then.

If you don't stay in the moment, if you don't stay right smack dab in the middle of the God Damn running races, time will pass you in the HOV lane like an angry Taxi.

The Meatball graduates from Preschool today and I suppose I do too.

Both of us passed that final exam after all and as promised, the summer was waiting on the other side.

The Meatball's face is still round. A sure sign that we still have time.

Time to procrastinate.

Time to prepare.

Time to study for the next final exam.

The Monkey's face was round too once.

When the face gets long, the innocence begins to fade.

An observation that seems like fact as far as I can tell.

This is how you tell time as a parent. Just watch the face. Watch it like you would a flower, blooming in time lapse.

It seems slow but it wants to trick you.

The Meatball's face is still round.

I'm going to watch it like a flower starting right now...

Counting My Blessings...

1. Twenty little painted toenails.

2. Long fluttering eyelashes attached to four puppy dog eyes.

3. Two mischievous smiles.

4. Endless parades of kisses.

5. Dance recitals.

6. Holding hands crossing the street.

7. Snuggling on the couch.

8. Bedtime stories.

9. Uncontrollable giggles.

10. Tears of Joy.

11. Princess costumes.

12. Playing family.

13. Mounds of stuffed animals.

14. Pink (the color).

15. Smiley faces, Peace signs and Hearts.

16. Pictures on the refrigerator.

17. Helping with homework.

18. A renewed appreciation for cupcakes.

19. Freckled cheeks.

20. Swing sets

21. Are we there yet?

22. Scraped knees and elbows to kiss and make better.

23. Being needed.

24. Being Wanted.

25. Being Loved.

26. Fatherhood.

If it weren't for my kids, I'd be celebrating useless, lazy, selfish, asshole person day.

Today I'm counting my blessings.

The Dick Boomerang...

Anthony Weiner hurls his wang across the Internet like a dick boomerang. It flutters through cyberspace, splitting virtual hoohas in two. It travels safely home from it's elliptical journey, returning to the hand from which it had flung.

The TV, newspapers and interwebz are saturated with wiener jokes.

It's pretty incredible.

How can a guy with the name Weiner, be involved in a dick scandal?

Weinergate.

Fantastic!

Harold Camping must be fuming over this whole ordeal. If only he had predicted this as the first sign of the Rapture, instead of the earthquakes.

It's so hard to deliver on the promise of a global scale earthquake. The stars really need to align.

But a dick scandal involving a politician? It's as if you can't spit these days without hitting a dick scandal.

I'm assuming that this is the first Dad Blog to use both the words spit and dick in the same sentence.

I am not proud nor am I ashamed.

I am in bed, laying on a heating pad with a bad back.

My wife is asleep next to me.

She is a loud breather.

My daughters are sleeping in our room tonight. They are on the floor. I can hear them breathing as well.

I will not fall asleep tonight. It is impossible with all of the breathing.

I would imagine that this is how Zeppo felt on any given night, when lying awake on his steel cot, listening to Chico, Harpo, Groucho and Gummo.

A chorus of breath.

I suppose this gives me good reason to Tweet my junk out onto the internet?

Do guys really do that sort of thing?

Does your first name have to be Dick or your last name Johnson?

Is this sort of thing considered self fulfilling prophecy?

Why doesn't the word prophecy come up in spell check?

Do any of us really give a shit about this guy's wiener?

Is it just me or were his pecs really cut for a Jewish guy?

I deserve some credit.

I could have easily thrown my wiener on Facebook tonight, just because.

LOOKOUT!!!

There goes another Dick Boomerang...

This post is dedicated to the Penis Enlargement websites that have bought text link ads on my homepage. Without you, all of this would not be possible. Thank you for believing in me when no other respectable brands would. By the way, I know a guy that would be a great spokesman and I have a sneaking suspicion he'll be looking for work in the near future.

Make It Count...

"Live every day as if it were your last."

How many times have we heard those words?

How many times have we said those words to someone but yet failed to heed our own advice?

Have you ever stopped for a moment to think about what it means to live every day as if it were your last?

It's actually quite daunting.

I would never want to think for a second that today could be my last day on this earth, with my wife, my kids.

That is a lot of pressure. Pressure to do all of the things in a day that might have otherwise taken a lifetime to achieve. It doesn't seem feasible.

Does it mean that I need to set sail on that long overdue Nickelodeon cruise? Should I reconsider sky diving? Must I swim with the dolphins?

Is that what it means?

I hope not.

What if you took the same quote and changed it just a little bit?

"Live every day as if you were going to live forever."

It changes everything.

What I've come to realize, is that life is made up of moments. A million, billion, trillion, zillion little moments.

These moments don't care if you notice them. They won't tap you on the shoulder if you're facing the other way. They run from us. They are streaks of white light in the sky. They are the last raindrops and the first rays of sun. These moments want you to be distracted by bigger and better things, so they can slither away without being seen.

If you want to see them, you need to look for them. You need to wait for them.

If you want to catch a glimpse of these moments, you have to be in the moment.

How can we be in the moment if we're too concerned that each moment will be our last?

How can we cherish the moment if we are fearful that the next one might never come?

But if we have no intention of dying, we might just be able to concentrate on living.

Just for today.

Just for one hour.

Just for one minute.

Just for one breath.

Today I'm going to pass on the cruise, the skydiving and the dolphins.

Tonight I'm going to lay down with my daughter and tuck her in. I am going to wait patiently until she falls asleep and then I'm going to listen to her each and every breath.

I am going to catch the moment. I'm going to strangle it and tie it to the bed post. I'm going to hit it over the fucking head with a 2x4.

It's going to know that I am there.

I refuse to imagine this being the last time. I will do no such thing. On the contrary, I will imagine a life full of these moments.

"Live every day as if you were going to live forever."

It seems far more productive than the alternative...

- For my courageous cousin and her three remarkable daughters. May your tears soon turn to laughter. And for the good man who left this life way too soon. It's obvious to us all that you made each and every moment count. We miss you terribly.

Ass Wipe...

I'm pretty sure my best friend's Mom taught me how to wipe my ass.

As a matter of fact, I'm almost positive. The only thing that seems a bit odd, is that I met my best friend when I was 7.

7 years old seems a bit late in the game to first start learning how to wipe your own ass.

No?

But I can't for the life of me remember otherwise.

I still have a very vivid recollection of being trapped on the toilet in their house, embarrassed to ask for help. I remember yelling toward the half open door; "Can someone please wipe me?"

Man, what a fucking loser I was. Contrary to the beliefs of some that are close to me, I have indeed come a long way.

Since that day, I have asked for many a different thing but never again have I asked another human being to wipe my buttocks.

My oldest daughter is going in to the 4th grade. She's been wiping her own ass for quite some time. I'm very proud of her.

However, my little one will be starting Kindergarten in the fall and she's having a bit of trouble. I don't think it has anything to do with her rate of development. She seems to be excelling at her ABC's, puzzles and skipping. She's even started to ride a big girl bike. But she just hasn't quite been able to master the whole ass wiping thing.

My wife thinks her arms might be too short.

I think we've been too lazy to teach her.

You see, as a Dad, I believe it's my responsibility to teach my daughters certain things. For example:

The difference between a double minor and a five minute major.

The secret identities of Superheros.

How to set an ant on fire with a magnifying glass.

How to make a fart sound with your armpit.

How to make pretend you're sleeping when Mommy wants you to do something.

Out-Numbered - "It is not my job to teach her how to wipe her ass."

Wife - "Excuse me?"

Out-Numbered - "You heard me. I'm not doing it."

Wife - "Why is it my job to teach her how to wipe her ass?"

Out-Numbered - "Because she's a girl."

Wife - "And?"

Out-Numbered - "And you're a girl."

Wife - "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Out-Numbered - "It means anything that has to do with the vagina is your responsibility."

Wife - "Jason, you know she doesn't shit out of her vagina right?"

Out-Numbered - "Yes. I know she doesn't shit out of her vagina."

Wife - "So then what's your problem?"

Out-Numbered - "Her ass is too close to her vagina. I'm not taking any chances."

Wife - "You've got to be kidding me."

Out-Numbered - "I'm dead serious. Guys and girls wipe their asses differently."

Wife - "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Out-Numbered - "Don't they?"

Wife - "You sound like an idiot."

Out-Numbered - "All I'm saying is that I'm not going to be responsible for teaching her to wipe her ass the wrong way. I don't think I'm qualified."

Wife - "You're a loser."

Out-Numbered - "I agree."

Today my little baby went to the bathroom and never called for us to wipe her.

But she did call for us.

She called us in to the bathroom to tell us that she wiped her own butt.

All by herself.

At the age of 4. Not 7 like her old man.

She's not a loser...

The Reset Button...

When you hear a baby crying, do you clench your teeth?

Or do you listen until you hear the breath of life, exploding from it's tiny lungs.

Do you appreciate all that it is worth to you.

Do you appreciate all that it is worth to it.

When you see a person that needs help, do you turn away?

Or do you extend your hand?

When you feel overwhelmed by life, do you cry because you can't handle it on your own?

Or do you laugh because you know you don't have to?

Have you ever tried for just one day, to not judge anyone?

Or anything?

Life starts right now.

Every single day.

Over and over and over again.

Just for today, wake up with a new set of eyes.

Just for today, wake up with a new set of ears.

Just for today, judge no one and help anyone.

Just for today, give until it hurts.

There are 365 days in a year and you only have to live them one at a time.

Hit the reset button.

It's not as hard as you might think.

This Is Why Jesus Doesn't Ride The Train...

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference." - Elie Wiesel

Every day I commute to and from NYC.

It is a necessary evil.

The thought of commuting back and forth is actually a lot worse than the deed itself.

For the last 62 days, I've been reading the Bible during my morning commute. Alternating between the Old and New Testaments.

Don't ask me why. I'm not really sure myself.

However, I have gained a heightened awareness of people and the way they treat one another.

I'm not a religious person, nor am I a Christian but it's pretty plain to see that Jesus was on to something.

Something very simple.

Love.

L.O.V.E.

John Lennon got it. Even The Captain and Tennille knew that love would keep us together.

So what the fuck?

Oops. Sorry Jesus. Still working on the potty mouth.

Tonight on my commute home, my train got stuck a few stops short of my town.

No biggie. When you've been riding mass transit for half of your life, you get used to the delays.

Who gives a shit anyway?

Damn. Sorry Jesus.

I have a smartphone full of games and the entire Lifehouse discography to keep me occupied.

Inevitably the masses get restless, cellphones start dialing and there is a brash murmur of gossip that makes its way through the train car.

Fat Man - "I don't know what's happening. I'll let you know as soon as I hear."

Bald Man - "What else is new? There's always something with this train."

Woman With Smelly Hair - "All they have to do is drive the train. You'd think that they..."

"Attention passengers. We apologize for the delay. We have just been informed that the train has struck a pedestrian and we are being held at this station until Emergency Service arrives. We apologize for the inconvenience."

The entire car lets out a groan filled with disappointment.

Fat Man - "Ugh! They just said that some asshole got hit by the train."

Bald Man - "Figures this happens on my train. I've had the worst day."

Woman With Smelly Hair - "You have to be kidding me. Are they serious?"

I just want to say thank you to Jesus and to Lifehouse for putting me in the right frame of mind today, because for some reason, I might have been the only person on the train that didn't think this incident was all about me.

Hey! Fat, Bald and Smelly! (Remember, I'm not a Christian, so I can still judge people.)

Yes YOU!

Didn't you hear the announcement? A person was struck by the train. Our train. Does that mean anything to you?

How could this not mean anything to you?

There is a bloody, mangled, possibly decapitated body under our train.

No wait.

There is a bloody, mangled, possibly decapitated somebody's brother or friend or daddy under our train. Did you for one millisecond stop to consider who the person is? Is he or she OK?

IS THERE AN EMPATHY IN THE HOUSE?

I guess not.

God damn, heartless, animals.

Shit. I did it again. Sorry Jesus.

This is why Jesus doesn't ride the train. It's also probably why he doesn't read my blog.

Eventually the train was taken out of service and we were asked to evacuate. I guess it's easier to scrape human flesh off of the tracks sans passengers. Protocol I'm sure.

After a contemplative trip to the Diner across the street and an empathetic plate full of French Toast and Bacon, my beautiful wife and daughters came to my rescue. All of them outfitted in their finest PJ's.

Out-Numbered - Thanks for rescuing me guys!

Wife - Anytime.

8 Year Old - Daddy, are you OK?

Out-Numbered - Yes baby. I'm fine.

8 Year Old - Mommy said someone got hit by the train.

Out-Numbered - That's what they said.

4 Year Old - Did the person get hurt?

Out-Numbered - I hope not sweetheart. But maybe.

8 Year Old - Did the person die?

Out-Numbered - I don't know baby. They didn't tell us.

4 Year Old - Was it a boy or a girl?

Out-Numbered - I'm not sure.

4 Year Old - Are they going to die?

Out-Numbered - I really don't know honey. I'm sorry.

8 Year Old - I'm so glad you're OK daddy. I was scared you got hurt.

Out-Numbered - I'm fine baby.

In the Old Testament, right there on the first few pages it says, "God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him." It then goes on to say, "And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good."

Someone once told me that every day starts out perfectly. I guess it's the same with people...

Sorry Jesus.

There Aren't Enough Words In The Dictionary...

It's nice down here.

It's as quiet as quiet gets.

The steady hum of the hot water heater. The rattling of the pipes. The creaking of wooden floors beneath tiny, invisible footsteps.

I like that sound.

Nothingness.

I like it because it keeps the moment alive.

Barely alive.

Fizzling away like the last pixel of digital snow on an old black and white television, sucked into one minuscule dot.

Gone.

It's hard to write about my family these days.

I want to. Trust me I do.

I want you to know everything and nothing at the same time.

The conversations with my daughters hang in the air, waiting to be captured and bottled like fireflies. The words fall into place like Tetris pieces. They are the blogs that write themselves but never get written.

I don't want to fuck up the perfection, like a game of telephone. I don't want, "I love french toast" to become "I hate Donny Most".

Tonight when I was putting my 8 year old daughter to sleep, we laid in bed together talking about our favorite Aimee Mann songs.

She likes Aimee Mann.

She doesn't like her because of me. I just played her the CD. She figured the rest out on her own.

"Hey bud. Wait here for a sec. I want to play something for you."

"Dad. Where are you going?"

"Hang on. I'll be right back."

I ran downstairs to my old CD rack.

1000 CD's. Each of them covered in a thin film of dust.

Got it!

I dashed upstairs, popped in the CD and climbed back under the covers with her.

Nose to little, button nose.

"What did you put on Daddy?"

"Wait. Just listen..."

I know exactly how I felt when I heard this album for the first time, back in 1987.

It made my heart race. It gave me chills. It made me want to run as fast and as far as I could run.

But I couldn't move.

The music froze me. That's exactly what it did to me.

Now I'm laying next to my baby girl. Nose to little, button nose and it was her turn.

I wondered, "what will the music do to her?".

There aren't enough words in the dictionary for me to write about that...

You ______ To Do, What You ______ To Do...

Saturday afternoon...

Out-Numbered - What do you guys want to do today?

8 Year Old - Let's go to the library!

Out-Numbered - That's a good idea.

4 Year Old - No. Let's go and get our nails done.

Out-Numbered - We did that last week.

4 Year Old - Please Daddy.

Out-Numbered - We can't do both. You guys have to decide which one you want to do.

8 Year Old - I don't care.

4 Year Old - I don't care either.

Out-Numbered - OK. So which one is it gonna be?

8 Year Old - Daddy, you pick!

4 Year Old - Yeah! Daddy picks!

Out-Numbered - Hmmm. That's a tough one. They're both pretty good suggestions.

8 Year Old - He's going to pick the library because he's a boy.

FREEZE!

Now this is a pretty important moment. You would never know it because it's subtle. So subtle that it can't be seen or heard or even felt.

It just is.

Let me try to explain.

Have you ever heard the expression, "you have to do, what you have to do"?

We've all said it a thousand times.

My point is this: The expression, "you have to do, what you have to do" is made for situations like, picking someone else's dog shit off your front lawn, telling your girlfriend that her jeans don't make her ass look fat or farting in line at the DMV.

It's not made for this.

Not today it's not.

When "you have to do, what you have to do" becomes, "you want to do what you want to do", it means you're probably right where you're supposed to be.

That's me these days.

Right where I'm supposed to be...