About: Sleep (or at least that's what they used to call it back in the day)

I wear many hats…I know we all do (but I’m talking literally…my bald head will lobsterize in a matter of moments if I don’t).  Full time husband, full time father, full time son, and full time night watchman.  Now, I don’t mean that I stand guard outside of the local Target in the middle of the night keeping thugs at bay with my flashlight (although there is a bit of romance in that thought for some reason)…I mean I am the keeper of the creatures of the night.  This takes many forms.  But lately, my night-time duties have included roaming the streets on foot pushing  a stroller, and driving aimlessly around the Temecula countryside (sidenote:  both of these activities include the addition of a small human…interesting enough, if there were no small human involved, one might pinpoint this as unsettling behavior…the line between father and social miscreant is more thin than I thought!). 

My daughter and I are locked in a battle of wills that has been going on since May 6^th, 2009 (or at least shortly thereafter).  We have opposing viewpoints on activities post 9pm.  My plans call for quiet, peace, relaxation, a little television perhaps…did I mention quiet?  Her plans call for more Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, more toys, more not being asleep in general.  As you can see, this can bring about conflict in a relationship when two people that are so different are trying to find common ground.  As I lie here in thought I can only imagine that Gorbachev would not close his eyes and lie down, and all Reagan wanted was to find out who killed J.R. (my time-line may be a bit off, but the point was made I believe). 

There have been many lessons on this journey along the way.  First and foremost…you can be guaranteed once you find a routine that works for you 100% of the time you’re about to discover that 100% does not exist in the two year old lexicon.  We’ve gone for weeks, even months with no incidents whatsoever and calm waters each evening…and then all of a sudden an iceberg pops out of nowhere and sinks the unsinkable ship!  WHY?!  WHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We had an agreement Emily!  You’ve been sleeping good, and going down with no problems for months…WHAT IS DIFFERENT ABOUT TONIGHT!!!!????  (note to child protective services, the use of capital letters is the extent of my abuse towards my children…and for the time being, they are unable to read, so we’re good). 

I’ve read to the child…I’ve lied down next to the child for hours…I’ve brought her back downstairs to watch another episode of Mickey…I’ve even tried slipping her a Mickey (the stuffed version c.p.s…please get off my back).    Nada…zippo…zilch…bubkis…screaming…wailing…vomiting…sobbing (and that’s just me).   We’re in that lovely stage where nothing seems to work all the time…and the closest thing we can find is movement.

So now…if it’s late, and you’re trying to track me down…start by searching the Temecula Valley.  You’ll see me pushing a stroller up and down the dark streets of my neighborhood…peering in windows as happy parents gather around their flat-screens for some adult time while their children are nestled all snug in their beds…mocking me in their contentment.  Or better yet switch your gaze to the I-15 as I drive up and down, back and forth, just waiting for those precious eyelids in the backseat to close ever so gently, hoping that I can quickly return to base, gently unlatch the car seat, and scamper upstairs without disturbing the golden slumber. 

This whole thing is hard.  I think in many ways it’s harder than I thought it would be.  But it’s also that much easier when you care that much about the cargo you’re hauling around.  As tired as I am, and as frustrated as I get…come find me in 10 years.  I’ll still be roaming the Temecula Valley on foot or by car on a nightly basis…just wishing the precious cargo from years before still needed hauling around in the middle of the night.

Frustration lasts but mere moments when it rears its ugly head…so own it…embrace it…then let it go as quick as you can.  The moments that cause the frustration last even shorter in the big picture…and God knows I will miss them desperately when they’re gone.

About: Beginnings (New and Old)

My first guitar came in the form of an “Airline” acoustic.  My grandma was visiting a place where people go to die and play chicken with hurricanes (I guess inanimate objects end up there as well) and decided that this hunk of wood would be something I might enjoy. 

I first was introduced to the musical world at the tender age of four (sidebar:  tender age?  Still pliable…able to be shaped and nurtured?  Juicy and delicious?  Just can’t quite wrap my head around this one).  My mom and dad decided to enroll me in piano lessons, because the incessant whining of a four year old boy echoing through the vast expanse of a 950 square foot house wasn’t nearly enough white noise for their liking.  I’m guessing here…I was only four, give me a break.  Apparently, I took to it right away, and went on to play constantly for the next 10 years.  For all you sports fans out there, I was the Allen Iverson of piano players (the disdain of practice thing, not the 6’0”, 165lb African American point guard thing).  I hated practice.  I hated learning the ins and outs of the “theory” as they call it…the structure of music.  I hated it with a passion.  I remember one year I went through a standardized musical test of some sort at San Diego State University and ended up passing the theory portion by one point…but knocking the judges socks off in the performance part (to be fair, when you played “Pop Goes the Weasel” like I did…it was hard for the suits not to take notice).  All this to say, I could play…I could feel the music.  I could take the music off the page, and make it what I thought it should be, structure be damned. 

Well, fast forward to the end of that 10 year period and you have a 14 year old young man tired of the whole thing.  I never allowed piano to really lead me anywhere.  I played recitals, I played for church, I played for school, but I just played because I was the piano guy, not because my heart was in it.  So I quit (in retrospect perhaps an all too recurring theme in my life).  But thanks to my grandma, my musical void would be filled ASAP.

I ended up teaching myself how to play the guitar (with the help of a chord book, time, Alice in Chains, Gregory Page, Live and Dave Matthews Band).  I would lock myself in my room for hours on end learning this chord and that chord, and eventually putting those chords together to sound like something familiar.  I never did learn how to read guitar sheet music or anything like that…but I did learn how to hear what was right, and what was not.  I owe that to the 10 years of piano for sure.  Guitar took me more places than piano ever did…but those are stories for another day. 

Looking back, the purpose of this post is just to introduce the reason I started this blog in the first place.  I’m a hopeless right-brained hack with a terminal case of “quit” who never really gave 100% of myself to anything…and I don’t want that to be on my tombstone.  I’m going to seek out friends to add posts of their own too…their memories…their stories…their honesty.  I would like this to become a place that people can go to either lose themselves in the ridiculousness of others, or maybe even learn something about themselves. 

This kind of got away from me at the end, but I’ll do better next time.  Please join me.  If you have any stories to share about anything at all (I love funny, I love dark, I love real), hit me up on the comments section, or at trad77@aol.com.  Let’s start something cool, for no other reason than it’s cool.  We can build a community of creative people searching for an outlet for that creativity.  We can share knowledge, we can share smiles, we can share tears…we can even share needles (for those that are into that whole sewing subculture)! 

Let’s do this.

About: The Story of Emily (a continuing journey)

Emily showed up on a Wednesday afternoon in May.  An unremarkable day from a cosmic perspective, but on a personal level?...unremarkable would definitely not be the word to use to describe it. 

The journey began the previous June.  My wife and I had been married for four or so months, when for some reason she decided our two bedroom apartment was way too big for only two people.  We needed to fill it up with something.  I thought perhaps some office furniture might be nice for the second bedroom, something that would complement the leopard print futon that served as our guest bed.  She, on the other hand, decided a small human would be a better accent.  I admit that I was initially hesitant to embrace her plans but after she explained to me the process of bringing about said human, I jumped on board.

I don’t know much about anything, and I’ll certainly not claim to be the smartest of men, but I was convinced this process would take months, if not years to produce a result.  So, if you consider a month and half to be “months” than I would have been correct.  I’ll never forget the night we found out.  My wife and I were having a discussion about our state of affairs, our future, etc.  For a reason that escapes me now, I remember being in an extremely stressed state of being (seeing as I’m this way 93.4% of the time, this would probably be a safe guess regardless).  Stressed about theoretical babies, stressed about finances, stressed about living arrangements, stressed about work, stressed about vacation planning…just stressed.  The only phrase I clearly remember uttering on that fateful night was, “finding out you’re pregnant now would be the LAST thing we need”.  Taking this as her cue to turn our lives into a bad rom-com, my wife journeyed into our room to reportedly change for bed.  Her scream a few minutes later was all I needed to know the Big Screenwriter in the Sky was laughing hysterically as the camera panned to my ashen face.  From that moment on, the capital ‘T’ in my first name begin it’s long arduous journey to a lower case ‘d’.  

About: Patience (Part Three)

At this point, it’s time to put up or shut up.  Be a man (or at least as much of a man as I can be considering  the powder blue Prius and intimate knowledge of Little Mermaid song lyrics), and finish the job.  I summon the elevator, pick up the container (at least 150 lbs at this point) and make my way yet again to the casino floor.  This second time around it’s definitely a bit more difficult to blend in to the crowd.  Sweat begins to pore from my brow.  Face is of a shade that Peter Pan and the lost boys would sing a song about.  Shirt is starting to look like the dryer neglected to do its job.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever get to the room, and the thought of a return trip to the cars is not something I can even entertain in this moment. 

For the next 15 minutes I can only imagine the surveillance crew’s discussion.  Is this guy carrying a Winnebago?  Is he extremely drunk?  Should we dispatch homeland security, or just sit back and laugh? 

I make my way through the casino and down the long hall towards the actual tower I seek.  The bad thing is, it seems like I’m only good for about 20 feet at a time before I have to set the package down.  And what’s worse, I’m positive if I set it down on the floor, I will never be able to hoist it again.  So I stagger and I sway.  I zig and I zag.  I find an empty chair here, and a bench over there.  A café table on this side, and a decorative wall on that side.  Up with the container, down with the container.  My breath is gone, my arms are dying, and with each new bead of sweat my grip becomes even less stable.  In this manner, I make my way down a crowded Caesar’s Palace shopping corridor about the equivalent of two city blocks. 

With hope nearly gone and strength all but cold in the morgue, I see the tower at last.  One final push and I will call it a day.  If they ask me to go back for another load at this point, I will offer them a quote from the great philosopher Eric Cartman, “Screw you guys, I’m going home!”  I stumble into the elevator, gingerly set down the wine, and tell myself I only have to pick it up one more time. 

The elevator doors open, and I make my lift.  A World’s Strongest Man competitor I am not, but you would never know it by the volume of my grunt.  “DDEEYYYAAAAY.”  I can finally see the room.  Five doors down.  Gonna make it.  Four doors down.  Almost there.    Three Doors Down.  I’m getting closer to pushing me off of life’s little edge.  Two doors down.  Everything stops.  Arms stop lifting.  Legs stop moving.  This is the end, my only friend, the end (wow, if you have any more musical doors references please let me know).  With the last fiber of strength I can muster I’m able to set down the container without destroying the contents.  But I can go no further. 

I wait a few moments outside the door collecting my breath and my thoughts.  As I enter the room I make eye contact with my best friend (I know he was right behind me initially, but he must not have taken my detour to the wrong tower…and he must of had a slightly lighter first trip than me) and he can see I’m at my wits end.  “Dude, where’ve you been?”, he says with genuine concern.  I ask him to come out in the hall with me.  I need help, I say…I just can’t go one more step with this anchor…can you carry it the rest of the way?  He follows me out and bends down to pick it up.  I’ll remember that laugh until they put me in my box.  Crazy laughter, as he instantly downloads a mental picture of what the last 40 minutes of my life must have been like.

 

We make it inside the room and he sets down the container.  The 30 feet he was forced to carry my burden has taken a toll on him as well.  Without missing a beat he turns to me and says, “So…would now be a bad time to tell you we had a bell-hop bring up all the stuff?”

It’s 6:30pm, and I’ve yet to eat a single bite all day.  

About: Patience (Part Two)

I make my way through the revolving doors, not yet aware of the predicament I’ve put myself in.  The weight is easy at this point…barely announcing its presence…not yet unleashing its fury.  Off in the distance shines a tower.  I’ve been told the room number I must find and the fact that it lies in a tower just around the bend, just past the elevators.  I see the bend…I see the elevators…I will see the tower soon.  But first I must navigate my parcel through the packed casino floor.  There is no other way to go.  Forward, backward, left, right, past the cars, onto the turtles, advance past the logs on the river, then safe to the lilly pad.  Midway to the tower and my parcel introduces itself to me.  I suddenly realize that a time-out might be in order.  I find the nearest empty chair…smack dab between two super seniors fresh from the buffet.  Pleasantries and quizzical faces are exchanged and I’m off again.  It appears that in the mere moments of rest I’ve lost a significant portion of my strength.  80lbs is no joke, and now it feels like 100. 

Only by the grace of God do I make it to the elevators.  I’m headed to floor five, and I decide it’s better to hang on to the container at this point as my journey is almost finished.  I’m afraid if I set this down again, it will rest in this elevator in perpetuity.  No wine for the party…no “job well done”…no joy in Mudville, for Casey has struck out.  I can’t let that happen.  I’ll hang on to it for just a few moments longer, make a run for the room, and perhaps crack a bottle all for myself.

As I exit the elevator for the final leg of the trip, the lack of streamers and weeping women disturbs me.  Where are the well-wishers encouraging me around the final bend?...Where are my congratulatory hugs?... Where are the babies I’m to kiss?...Wait a second…??...where’s the room? 

With no other options at this moment, I set down the container in the middle of the round room.  I know the room number I’m seeking…of this I’m sure.  I also know that it’s not here.  I grab my phone and start dialing like a telemarketer.  I call the groom-to-be.  Ring…ring…ring…ring.  Ring…ring…ring…ring.  Of course he’s not answering!  He’s probably in a similar predicament as me…stumbling  amidst the lights and noise, muscles straining at their capacity, just trying to get by.  I call the General.  Ring…ring…ring…ring.  Ring…ring…ring…ring.  Why would he answer either??!!  I’ll probably see him stepping out of the elevator behind me, bleary-eyed and as confused as I.  I call the Ghostbusters, hoping they’ll be in control…but alas, I’m left to my own devices.  In a last ditch effort, I call the room number and the bride-to-be answers.  Validation!  I DO know the right room number!  Her voice calms me…brings me back to focus.  She has the answers, she will fix this situation.  I was right about the room number, indeed, but I was wrong about the tower, says she.  Turns out there are more than one bends, and more than one elevators…and I’m as far off course as Columbus when he “discovered” America. 

My heart sinks.  My resolve disappears.  My body protests.  I’m in trouble.  It’s 5:29pm.

About: Patience (Part One)

It’s 6:30pm, and I’ve yet to eat a single bite all day.  Around 8:30am the morning was greeted with bitterness, confusion, and anger…the by-product of another memorable forgettable evening.  We’re in Vegas, and one of my best friends is getting married the next evening, but today is moving day.  We’ve paid our last respects to bachelorhood…now it’s time to start the hotel shuffle.  We go here, he goes there, she and him somewhere else…and the motion is set very early.  MGM, Tropicana, Paris, a few places in between, all a blur…a blur with undertones of ravenous hunger. 

Finally, after countless trips to the car and back again, this hotel and that hotel and this hotel again…all are as settled as possible, and now it’s time to eat.  It’s 4:30pm, and the body is begging for something, anything to chase away the residuals of last night’s adventures.  The phone rings.  Of course we can help the bride and groom to be get things set up for tomorrow’s reception at Caesars…after all, that’s the reason we’re all here!  Food will have to wait, but only for a short time.  This task cannot possibly last too long. 

Standing outside the entrance to Caligula’s lair, the coordination begins.  Phone calls are coming in left and right.  Directions are given to unreceptive ears.  Time marches on.  Patience is tested.  The stomach is angry.   It’s 5pm. 

It’s safe to say that all who know me would describe me as an extremely patient man (if they were asked to say something that was entirely untruthful), but it’s not my day…so I put on my best face, and silently pray that the supplies arrive soon.  That prayer is answered at 5:14pm.

The cars pull up.  Two SUVs.  Massive.  Filled to the brim.  Overflowing.  Although the task seems daunting at the onset, four 30 something dudes using hunger as a motivation should be able to knock this out in no time.  Our only instructions…we can’t ask the hotel staff for assistance in any way, because you’re technically not supposed to bring in outside food and beverages to their establishment.  This could lead to annoying little problems that could only add to the stress level of an already stressful time for our special couple…so it must be kept on the extreme DL.  No problem.  We will comply.  I will comply.

It’s 5:15pm.  My buddy the General, with a hunger on par with my own dives into the job by opening the driver’s side back door.  Las Vegas is loud…very loud.  It’s hard to hear your own thoughts at times above all the hustle and bustle.  Rarely does Las Vegas go silent.  But this was one of those moments.  All noise ceased.  All humanity stood in place.  All was quiet, all was calm…all except the thunderous, echoing crash of one crystal serving bowl transforming itself into 10,000 shards of glass on the cold Nevada pavement.  “Don’t worry about it…as long as it’s not my crystal serving bowl!!!” cried the former owner of said crystal serving bowl.  Good times.

Being an admittedly impatient and indescribably hungry man with an aversion to awkward situations and a plethora (long live El Guapo) of things to be transferred from point A to point B, I grab the first item I can get a hold of.  Two SUVs.  Massive.  Filled to the brim.  Overflowing.  This is not going to be a one trip job, so I might as well leave the chaos behind me and head off for the first of many trips to the room.  My duty is clear.  My resolve is steadfast.  My adversary?...an 80lb plastic container chock full of wine bottles.  It’s 5:17pm.

Stay tuned.

About: Time Travel

I’m 32.  It’s quiet for a change.  I’m typing…thinking…breathing…closing my eyes…

I’m three.  I just met Mickey Mouse for the first time.  I was scared.  Perhaps the physical manifestation of the character I loved so much on the television was more than my young mind was able to process.  I cried.  Mickey’s facial expression never changed. 

I’m 21.  The limo pulls up to my house unexpected.  All those that had gathered for the celebration of this arbitrary day pile in, and we’re off to the steakhouse of my choice.  I’m excited for this milestone, as most are I imagine.  Good friends, good family, good food, good life.  The limo driver drops the adults off at their final destination, and the kidults set out for a night of…whatever.  Good friends, good times, good life.

But I’m 32.  There’s a movie on…but I’m not watching it.  There’s always background noise required, I have to fill the silence.  I blink…

I’m inside the womb.  The woman that’s carrying me makes one of the hardest decisions of her life, and thus sets in motion the greatest gift two people desperate to raise a child they can call their own will ever know.  Four lives are forever changed. 

I’m 15.  We win the lottery.  I’m going to south Florida to watch the team I love desperately compete in the biggest game they will ever take part in.  I’m sick…sicker than sick…at the most inopportune time of my life.  I press on, ignoring the pain and discomfort as only a young man on a journey of passion can do.  I have no concept of the financial sacrifices that have been made to put me in this position, all I know is I’m here…I’ve made it…I’ll never forget these moments, this trip, this day.  49 – 26 is the outcome, not surprising at all in retrospect.  Oh well…this is just the beginning, right?  There will be many more games of this magnitude to attend down the line…this is only the beginning…right?

But I’m 32!  Life has changed so much these past three years.  So many adjustments…so much change.  Good change, don’t get me wrong…but change nonetheless.  Change is always hard for me.  My eyes are getting heavy…

I’m five.  It’s the holiday season…so why is everyone crying?  I can’t figure it out…I’m not sure what’s going on, but I can tell it’s not good.  Something’s changed.  Something’s missing.  We’re all in nice clothes, Sunday’s best.  The little girl next to me?...she’s five too.  I put my arm around her, I want to make her smile…I want to make her feel better.  I love her so much, even at five I know that…and the little tiny girl in her mama’s arms over there?  I know I love her too…even at five, I know I’ll always love her too.  I just want everyone to be happy again.  I don’t really know what’s going on, but I know something’s changed.  Something’s missing.

I’m 36.  The past six years have been a blur.  The little girl waiting by the front door is six years old.  Yesterday, she was opening her eyes for the very first time, today she’s  going to school for the first time.  She’s excited…no fear in this child.  She’s ready to greet the world with open arms…she loves everyone.  I know everyone will love her too, there’s no doubt.  None.  I hope everyone will love her too…I hope.  I’ve taught her the importance of friends.  She’s seen how much daddy’s friends have meant to him.  He’s told her countless times that he’s practically known them since he was her age.  She listens to daddy…he still knows what he’s talking about.  Still two more years before her sister has her first day of school.  Two long years.  Must…not…blink.

No…I’m 32.  Everyone is sleeping.  I wake up early, I go to work, I come home, I go to bed…lather, rinse, repeat.  Over, and over, and over.  Monotony…safety…comfort…frustration.  Up, out, back, bed…

I’m six.  I’m rocking a beautiful lunch pail with a thermos inside.  It’s time to make the 26 mile trek to “The Box”.  The first trip “down the hill” of a lifetime of trips “down the hill”.  Mom and dad look happy…proud (sad?).  I’m about to meet a group of people that will change my life forever. 

I’m 60.  She’s 30, and she’s 28.  They’re both married…and I walked them both down the aisle.  I gave them away…but not really.  I didn’t tell them I was crossing my fingers and toes.  They’re still mine.  Fingers and toes will stand up in court to void any contract.  Their mother and I are still in love after all these years.  Our house is not as full of bodies as it once was, but it’s still full of all the love those bodies produced. 

I’m 32 I, I know it!!  I don’t feel it though.  Not at all, not ever.  So young by some standards, so old by others.  A baby in my parents eyes, an old man in the eyes of my daughters.  The movie in the background can’t capture my attention.  My thoughts drift…I’m 32, aren’t I?

I’m eight years old.  Nan and Pop are with me.  We’re at Sea World!  I’ve never been here before, and everything is amazing…a world I didn’t know existed.  It’s raining.  It’s raining hard.  We’re safe and dry under the cover of some restaurant.  I want to go.  I want to stay dry, but I want to go.  There, off in the distance…the next destination that offers cover.  If I run as fast as I can go, I’ll be relatively dry once I get there.  I make a bee-line without notice and without warning.  All that lies in the way, a tiny wall.  I can jump it…no worries.  I run and run, and jump as high as I can.  I clear the wall with no problem whatsoever…unless you consider landing knee deep in the tide pool exhibit on the other side a problem.

I’m 28 and I’ve never been this scared.  Breathing is becoming a challenge, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…can’t remember what comes next.  I’m standing in front of a large group of people…no eyes on me, however.  They’re all looking at the girl.  I’m looking at the girl.  God sends rays of sunshine down through the cloudy February day to shine on the girl.  The ground is wet.  Please don’t fall.  She doesn’t.  I start that day alone…I leave that day never to be alone again.  The future is bright…the past the vehicle that delivered us to this day.

I’m 32, aren’t I?  But I close my eyes and I’m three, I’m 30, I’m not even born, I’m 60.  Time is not linear as I thought.  Time doesn’t exist.  Time is a tool we use to make sense of it all, to make sense of the “journey”.  Time is nothing but a map the mind uses to take us back to where we’ve been and ahead to where we want to go.  I blink and I’m young.  Blink again, and I’m old.  Again and I’m somewhere in between.  Time travel exists, and my eyelids are the machine.  I’m everything I ever was, everything I am, and everything I will become…and I’m 32, aren't I?

About: Regrets

Regrets are an interesting beast.  It seems like you’re always told to live your life without regrets…but is this really possible?  Dictionary.com defines regret as, “to think of with a sense of loss”.  Is it possible to travel through time without looking back on certain aspects and not feel bits of a “sense of loss” when it comes to certain decisions of the past?  I shall examine a list of a couple of my own regrets, and see what they bring to light.

 

1.  Starting School, Quitting School, Starting School, Quitting School, Starting School:  For those who don’t know me well, I’ve done an exhaustive tour of many of the institutions of higher learning in the greater San Diego County…UCSD, Grossmont, SDSU, and finally the University of Phoenix.  I started off straight out of high school at UCSD with an education that was to be 100% handled by President Clinton.  I proceeded to piss that all away with laziness and lack of focus.  I turned a four year degree into a nine year degree…minus the doctorate.  I don’t really know why the transition was so hard for me…I just wish I had finished what I started, the first time.

 

2.  Staying the Course on the Relationship From Hell:  I never have been a possessor of a high level of self-confidence.  I guess this would probably explain why I stuck it out in the worst relationship known to man…for over three years.  Three long, exhausting, horrifying, wasted years.  If I wasn’t so convinced that I would never find true happiness after, I would have hit the eject button after month four.  I strained relationships with friends, moved out of the state, gave up a decent job, and squashed any chances of a musical career…all for the “love” of an emotionally unstable borderline psychotic.

 

There are many other “regrets” of my formative years, but these are just the two the jump to mind most readily, and are probably the biggest ones I have.  But here’s the interesting thing that came to me on the drive home this afternoon.  Were it not for these true “senses of loss”, these true regrets, I would not be sitting where I am right now, with a heart full of contentment.  Here’s the path that all these bad, regretful decisions caused me to take:

 

       Quitting UCSD led to finishing Grossmont

       Finishing Grossmont led to attending SDSU

       SDSU led to quitting again, to join my buddy at said decent job, still lacking college degree

       Decent job led to awful relationship

       Awful relationship led to ill advised out of state move, and quitting of decent job

       Ill advised out of state move led to return to CA with no job and no prospects

       No job led to finding current company

       Current company led to new friend who told me about UoP

       Failed awful relationship led to getting a “revenge degree” at UoP, upon recommendation of new friend, to show awful relationship co-author what I could make of myself

       First night at UoP led to all that has happened since

 

I will never forget that first night in October of 2004 at the University of Phoenix campus off of Aero Dr in San Diego.  I scoped out the room to see what I was up against in this new environment.  It didn’t take long for my eyes to come to rest on the person asleep upstairs (at this moment, I mean…she was sitting at a table at the point in the current narrative).  I can’t really describe what happened to me at that moment…but it was akin to a punch in the gut.  A good punch, but a punch nonetheless.  I started searching the confines of my brain for any way to bring this girl into my life.  While the instructor went around the room asking everyone for a brief synopsis of their current states of being, I gathered that she lived 15 miles from my work.  This seemed like a close enough proximity to mention to her that perhaps we should be in a learning team together…I mean, I practically worked next door to her house!! (thankfully she was not that adept at county geography)…but I digress.  More on our history perhaps some other time…

 

…the point is this.  Were it not for a life full of past “regrets”…Emily wouldn’t be turning two today.  Kaitlyn wouldn’t be starting to form a personality of her own, with smiles that light up a room.  Zoey would be barking in some other house (or more likely dead from the swift boot of a less patient owner than I)!  There will always be regrets…but those regrets form the foundation of the lives we build for ourselves…of the people we become…and the people we share our lives with. 

 

 

Let’s raise a glass to regrets!!!

About: Having Daughters

I have two beautiful girls.  I am extremely appreciative of these blessings, and thank God every single day (or at least every third) for their presence in my life.  Having only girls…in fact living in a household chocked full of only estrogen (do dogs have estrogen too?) is quite the adventure, but I think I have a few of the tools necessary to survive:

1.  I could literally go days without speaking, and be totally okay with that.  This will come in handy as I will be outnumbered in words approximately 60,000 to 7,000 on a daily basis (http://www.boston.com/news/globe/ideas/articles/2006/09/24/sex_on_the_brain/).

2.  Florida law appears to back up my right to defend my home against potential intruders/burglars (note to self, state tax benefits are not the only reason to go through w/ the relocation to Tallahassee ) (http://www.babble.com/CS/blogs/strollerderby/archive/2008/09/23/for-dad-how-to-beat-up-your-daughter-s-boyfriend-and-not-get-caught.aspx).

You might think I would feel a little out of place with zero male companionship…but I’m pretty sure I have some attributes that will help me fit in rather well in the house:

1.  I cried during “Click”.

2.  I couldn’t change a tire if my life depended on it.

3.   I have a man crush on Zach Braff.

4.  I drive a powder blue Prius.

When it comes down to it, I think my only true concerns are financial.  Two college educations?  Two weddings!?!  That’s why I’m starting a new fund to help bolster the coffers for 18 years from now.  I call it the…

                International

                Monetary

                Supplement

                Concerning

                Recovering from

                Educational and

                Wedding

                Events for

                Daugthers\

Please help as much as you can, as often as you can.

A Beginning...

I'm not exactly sure why I'm undertaking this endeavor.  Not exactly true, I'm looking to take over the world, and I figured the first way to start was by writing a blog from time to time.  I'm not exactly a master planner.  Mostly, I think I just want an outlet for creativity...get my once creatively active brain back in the fold...see if there's anything left.  My plan is to take any number of the random thoughts that enter my head on a daily/weekly/whenever basis...and explore them further, either with research, or non-sensical musings...whichever seems to fit at the time.  In other words, it's for me, it's about self discovery, and most often, it will be about nothing.  If anyone enjoys, that would be fantastical.  If no one does, that would be expected.

Until the next time...