Whatever You Do, Don't Plant It

In my neck of the woods, vegetable gardening has catapulted in popularity. Everyone's doing it.

I don't normally notice fads; I like to keep it real. Besides, fads would only distract me from my "core" workouts - and my stronger "core" has really taken my break dancing to another level.

In this case, though, the vegetable-growing fad has caused a vegetable surplus. The houses of our neighborhood overflow with bountiful harvests. Zucchinis overwhelm the kitchen table, quickly take the counters and move on to dominate coffee tables. And the damn cucumbers? Regardless of the nutrition, they have become cucumber-some.

That's where I come in. Everyone knows that when food is involved, Grim Richard can move it from a sur-plus to a sur-minus in a few minutes. And I'm happy to do it, provided I'm not practicing pikes, handstands or freezes with my crew. I do prefer, however, home-grown vegetables from people other than my wife. My wife is new to the farming craze and that means she is weird about vegetables. We're having these kind of conversations:

Wife: Did you eat the vegetables I harvested yesterday?
Me: I only saw a cherry tomato. I couldn't think of anything you can make with one cherry tomato.
Wife: Why didn't you eat it by itself? Is there something wrong with my tomatoes?
Me: Uh, no. They're good.
Wife: Good? You don't think they're better than store-bought?
Me: Uh, your vegetables taste way better. Their vegetable skills are no match for your vegetable skills. Your vegetables cause little explosions of flavor in my mouth.

The phrase "my tomatoes" is key here. My wife nurtured these plants and that makes them different from the other vegetables we normally ignore when we're reaching for ice cream. Speaking of ice cream...

Wife: What are you eating?
Me: Vanilla ice cream. Ummmm.
Wife: You know what would go good with that?
Me: Chocolate sauce?
Wife: No. Fresh cilantro from my herb garden.

I know she'll get over it. The other day a guy at work gave me a bag of broccoli from his garden and I started my spiel.

"Ooooh!" I said. "I can't wait to get home and cook this. It smells much fresher than those pesticide bombs you buy at the grocery store."

"Whatever," said the guy. "I've got fifty bags of this stuff. I don't care if you boil it, fry it or throw it at small animals."

He leaned in closer.

"But whatever you do, don't plant it."

UMSA

Here at Grim Richard's Irregulars, I've done my level best to cut down on the time I spend discussing bodily functions, breakdowns or oddities. Oh, sure, I still mention male boobs regularly, but never so often that my readers would think I'm obsessed with them and certainly not at a level which would make one suspect that I actually have a pair.

Because I don't. Seriously. I'm just saying.

For 15 years, though, one of my wife's behaviors has bothered me. The behavior troubles me so much that I must ask the boyfriends and husbands who read this column to help me answer the following, potentially gross question:

Does your wife or girlfriend enjoy popping your zits?

I've already taken a quick poll of the husbands where I work and three men meekly raised their hands.

"Sometimes," one of the men said quietly, "I'm afraid to walk around without a shirt on."

I understand how he feels. In the middle of conversations, I see my wife's eyes moving over my torso and face in search of ingrown hairs, blackheads and bulging zits. If she finds one, she roughly pushes me down and sets to work on popping it. If I protest, she desperately bargains with me.

"Let me do this," she says, "and I'll let you buy a video game."

I feel stupid. I know I should decline as a matter of principle, but I really like video games.

I've racked my brain trying to understand this obsession. Why would a grown adult fixate on naturally occurring biological bumps on my body? Why would someone objectify another person like this?

Asking these questions usually causes me to experience an Uncomfortable Moment of Self-Awareness (UMSA). I have a lot of these UMSAs. Luckily, if you ignore them, they go away quickly.

So, male readers, let us know if your wife is a zit popper. I'll feel better if I'm not alone is this. And female readers, I urge you to come out of the zit popping closet and admit you have a problem.

But please hurry. My back zit problem has gotten worse lately. I'm not sure if it's related but I woke up the other night to find my wife standing over me with bottle of vegetable oil.

"What are you doing?" I asked sleepily.

She put a glistening finger to her lips to shush me.

"Go back to sleep," she said soothingly. "They're not ready yet."

He Got Out and Walked

I finished work after ten tonight, walked through my front door a half hour later and found my entire family asleep. I had missed everything important. I missed homework, I missed dinner with my family, I missed kissing my wife good night and I missed tucking my three kids in. I could have slept somewhere else and they would never know, not until morning.

I should have been home.

My beautiful, bright seven year-old Gabriel is struggling with school. My younger kids spend most nights watching television while I work and my wife slogs through swamps of consonants and vowels with Gabriel. I yell too much, the house is a mess and my younger son Julian recently asked me why I work so much. I didn't have an answer that would make sense to a four year-old.

Truth be told, I didn't have an answer that would make sense to a forty year-old either. I don't know how to explain the truth: I don't know what I'm doing. I'm winging this fatherhood thing. I don't have a plan.

But when I'm in danger of turning completely into a self-pitying, living embodiment of a Harry Chapin song, I think about James Kim.

Even before Father's Day got this close, I thought often about the tragic father who spent nine days stranded with his family in the Oregon wilderness before setting out on an ill-fated quest to find help. I wonder about his brave family and I pray that they're healing. But I almost never think about the mistakes that were made or the opportunities sorrowfully missed. I think about the overwhelmed father who, when caught in real, deadly circumstances, made the decision to get out of the car and walk for help. And when I think about him doing that, I love him as much as a man can love a man he never met.

On Father's Day, my family will give me a present. They will talk about what a great father I am and I'll accept it all with the grateful smile of someone who has kept his secret for one more year. I'll think about you other fathers on Sunday, too. But for me, Father's Day is James Kim Day.

James Kim taught me what being a father really means. It means that when you're overwhelmed, terrified and on the verge of despair, you don't give up. No matter what the consequences are, you get out and walk.

Light Beer Bono

Our power winked out at 3 a.m. the other morning. With it went our lights, alarm clocks and the other necessities that my family depends on to survive modern life. For five hours, we lived like people in the 1800s. Well, actually, we were asleep for three of those hours - but I'm sure that sleeping in the 1800s sucked, too. Deprived of modern conveniences, my family surprised me.

I didn't know that if you deprive my wife of a shower, for instance, she will refuse to do anything but sit on the couch in really ugly pajamas. That's how important hot showers are to my wife. I should note here that the power outage did not cause my wife to wear the really ugly pajamas (she always does that), but normally she'll change out of those really ugly pajamas at some point and go to work.

Since my wife was completely nonplussed by the situation, I tried to be, you know, plussed. I started to give her the speech I normally give to the children - my "People in Africa" speech. I like giving this speech because it makes me feel like the light beer version of Bono - all the compassion with a fraction of the actual work.

"People in Africa..." I began.

"Shut up about people in Africa," my wife barked.

I felt less and less like Bono every second.

"We don't have any television. How am I supposed to pick my clothes if I don't know what the weather is like?"

"You could go outside, Sweety," I suggested.

My wife got up in my face. "I'm not a meteorologist, sweety. Do I look like I've got a Triple Doppler radar so that I can just look outside and gauge what the weather is going to be like?"

She had a point.

A couple of hours later, the power company had fixed whatever caused the outage. I had already gone to work by then - without a shower. To my wife's credit, I learned the hard way that my co-workers appreciate the fact that I normally take a shower every morning - even if they never mention it.

I thought about our savage time living in the 1800s and how it put our family to the test and exposed our dependencies. I thought about how that might be a good thing because it taught us a valuable lesson about the things we take for granted. I thought about how valuable lessons usually suck.

I Dot the "i" and I Cross the "t"

I've been battling "Writer's Block" this week. For those who don't know, "Writer's Block" is a periodic affliction that strikes most writers and blocks them from writing - thus the name. I use the verb "battling" because it is exactly that - a horrific, internal struggle between a writer and his personal demons.

You can tell when a serious writer is battling writer's block because he or she is watching something on television.

It's easy for the layperson (especially the wife layperson) to confuse this television-viewing activity with the procrastination that regular people do in order to avoid regular work. But it's important to remember that "Writer's Block" is different in that we writers are sensitive, creative geniuses and when we watch television we are not "procrastinating", we are "battling".

Writers use television to battle Writer's Block in several ways. One method involves watching Jewel Kilcher music videos. Writers consider Jewel the patron saint of Writer's Block because she literally made millions of dollars writing the song "You Were Meant for Me". She filled this song with lines like "I brushed my teeth and I put the cap back on" and "I break the yolks; I make a smiley face". Clearly, this woman triumphed over Writer's Block. And dental tartar.

Writers also watch episodes of "Lost" because it seems afflicted with Anti-Writer's Block. Just one character, Sawyer, has watched his father kill his mother over a con man, become a con man himself, gone to jail, gotten out of jail, gone to Australia, killed an innocent man, been in an air plane accident and though he's been on a deserted island for only two months has managed to sleep with with two hot women. And Sawyer is just one of 22 characters.

The writers of "Lost" can't seem to stop writing that show.

Sometimes, even television won't cure a tough case of writer's block. When you've battled Writer's Block and lost, there's really only one thing left to do. Watch more television. Or, if you're really desperate, write a blog entry about Writer's Block. Sure, it's a cheap move, but the first sentence practically writes itself..

I dot the "i" and I cross the "t"...

The Full Jenkinson

I sat in the kitchen eating cereal when my seven year-old son reared up and let me have it.

"Dad, did they have cars when you were a kid?"

"Are you joking?" I asked.

I looked at Gabriel. He was not joking and stared at me with a mixture of intense curiosity and mild pity. I recognized the look because my neighbors make the same face when I work in the yard without a shirt.

Honestly, the question irritated me. My first impulse was to irritably lash out at my son because he dared suggest that I was born prior to the widespread adoption of cars. My second and more rational impulse steered me toward educating my son about my childhood. Because rational responses tend to be boring, I discarded this option.

I decided to go all Clay Jenkinson on my son.

For those who don't know, Clay Jenkinson is a humanities scholar with a syndicated radio show who makes his living by impersonating Thomas Jefferson and other notable historical figures. According his Web site, Clay Jenkinson is "one of the most sought after humanities scholars in the United States". I like that his Web site says this - because it always seems that everyone concentrates on the illegal immigrant problem and almost no one is doing anything about the widespread proliferation of humanities scholars.

"Good Day, Citizen," I said to Gabriel.

To his credit, Gabriel turned to walk away immediately. I stopped him with a patriarchal hand on his shoulder.

"Though I cannot pretend to understand anything but the barest principles of your internal combustion engine and your "motor cars"...

Gabriel looked panicked.

"...I do feel that I can illuminate the effect of mechanical vehicles on the gentleman farmer and his place in a republic."

I think my gambit worked. The next time my son blindsides me with a question like that, though, I'm gonna let loose with the "Full Jenkinson". I can't give you all of the details, but it definitely includes wigs, man stockings and one of my childhood friends impersonating John Adams.

The Most Fired Man in America

Editor’s Note:

For years, workers have suffered through the advice of pundits, over-achievers and corporate lackeys, some of whom have had only three or four jobs in their entire lives.

Wouldn’t it be better to get career advice from someone with experience at literally thousands of jobs?

Baz Truman thinks so. Since the early 1980s, Baz Truman has been working at and getting fired from more jobs in a week than most people get fired from in a lifetime. Baz’ single-minded determination to excel at his career - no matter the cost – has gotten him fired from some of the world’s biggest and brightest companies.

The Most Fired Man in America
By Baz Truman

Q. Baz, I've been caught playing computer Solitaire twice by my boss. She says that if I'm caught one more time, I may be in danger of losing my job. My boss have even moved my cubicle assignment to just outside her door, so that she can check on me. I get my work done, but sometimes I just need a break from work. What can I do?

In Solitary Over Solitaire


Dear In Solitary Over Solitaire,

One accounting company estimates that employees spend half a billion hours a year playing computer games during work, resulting in a loss of $10 billion dollars in productivity. Most managers will look at this figure and say, damn, our company needs to get this work gaming thing under control. As America's most serial employee, I see this:

If you divide $10 billion dollars by half a billion hours, you'll see the average person playing Solitaire makes $20 an hour. That's a pretty good wage. Clearly, playing Solitaire results in a better career.

First, you need to get some space away from your boss. I recommend farting. Often and loudly. Eat the right mixture of flatulence-causing legumes for breakfast and I give it a week before you have your own laptop and a cubicle in the parking lot. Take it from me, though - if you follow this route, beware the unintended consequences of this covert operation. I believe the CIA calls this "Blowback".

I call it that, too.

Next, realize that network monitoring software makes it almost impossible to play games at work and not be caught - even if you're working alone in the parking lot. Your only rational choice is to stop playing games.

Personally, I like to get caught early and get it out of the way. This is why I give all of my work projects names like "Minesweeper", "Freejack" or "Goal-oriented Team Accounting III".

If my boss catches me, I like to open up my Outlook Calendar and point to my schedule.

"See? Right there. It clearly says I'll be working on GTA III from 9 a.m. to 10 a.m. today. You approved it."

This approach hasn't actually worked for me, but I have high hopes.

In closing, remember one thing. If America wants to beat its record of half a billion hours, we need every American doing their fair share.

That's right. If you're not being unproductive, you're not being productive.

Al Roker Gets 30%

Now that summer is coming, my wife and I will be having our annual debate about the concept of "summer sweaters." It's just one of the clothes conversations we seasonally rotate, much like Pete's Wicked Ale does with its flavors. For instance, I usually have this conversation with my wife at least once every winter:

Her: "You should really wear a hat. Medical studies show that 70% of your body heat is lost through your head."

Me: "That doesn't make sense."

Her: "I saw it on the Today Show. Al Roker said it. It's a scientific fact."

Me: "So, you and Al Roker are saying that on a cold day, 70% of my body heat is lost through my head and 30% is lost through the rest of my body?"

Her: "Exactly."

Me: "So, it would actually be better for me to stand naked in the snow with a hat on than fully clothed and without a hat?"

Her: "You can shut up now."

I don't understand why people avoid conversations with me.

As I mentioned, our summer conversation flavor is "summer sweaters." My wife loves to wear 'em and I love to talk about 'em. I love to imagine the marketing meeting where the clothes manufacturers first dreamed up the concept.

Guy #1: "Okay, people we overproduced sweaters this winter and we've got a surplus of 2 million that we have to move. Who's got an idea?"

Guy #2: "I've got it! Let's cut off the arms on the sweaters and sell them in the middle of summer. We'll call them - wait for it - summer sweaters!"

Guy #1: "You're a genius, Jim. But will women buy an obviously uncomfortable item and wear it?"

Guy #2: "You're kidding, right?"

Guy #1: "Of course I am. I used to market thongs!"

I don't think my wife enjoys my ramblings about summer sweaters as much as she used to. Oh, sure, she'll walk around for days coquettishly muttering, "They don't have sleeves, you ass." and I'll usually respond with a flirty "Oh, good, because the sleeves are the really hot part of the sweater." - but it's just not the same. I need to find someone else to discuss clothes with.

This coming winter, I think I'll head up to New York and visit the Today Show. I'll find Al Roker during one of his weather reports, fling off my coat and stand there naked except for a hat. As I slowly turn blue and steam rises off my body, I ask Al this:

"There, Roker. Does that look like 30% to you?"

God of Lies and Wet Jelly Beans

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I like to think about what my kids will be when they grow up. I like to think that my daughter Riley will grow up to be a doctor. Gabriel, my oldest, seems destined to become an artist of some type.

Julian, my four year-old, will consult with high school career counselors who will suggest that he become Loki, the Norse god of mischief and lies.

How do I know? I walked into my house the other day after work and saw all three of my kids sitting on the couch watching the television. I didn't see my wife, so I looked for her in the kitchen. No dice. I went back into the living room.

"Where's your mom?" I asked.

Without looking up, Julian answered, "She went to the store, Dad."

And, God help me, I actually believed him. For a few seconds, I wondered what the hell had come over my wife. Why would she leave a three year-old, a four year-old and seven year-old by themselves? What could Bridget possibly need from the store that warranted taking a risk like this?

Just then, Bridget came out of the bathroom. I looked at Julian and he was smiling like a celebrity endorser.

"Was that a good joke, Dad?" he asked.

"Not even close," I replied.

Yesterday, I sat on the couch eating orange jelly beans. Julian sat beside me and Gabriel sat on the other side of Julian. I decided to share my jelly beans as a kind of fatherly gesture. Also, I had calculated that if the boys were eating, they wouldn't be talking and I'd be able to hear the Naruto cartoon on television better.

I handed a jelly bean to Julian. With my peripheral vision I saw him looking at the jelly bean and I turned my attention back to Naruto. I handed Julian another Jelly bean.

"Here. Give one to your brother Gabriel," I said.

A few seconds later, Gabriel made a weird sound.

"Ugh," Gabriel said. "Why is my jelly bean wet?"

Julian had turned his face away from his brother and toward me. He smiled a huge, bright smile and gave me a thumbs up gesture - like a pilot - or, more correctly - like a pilot who had just handed something strangely moist to another pilot.

I considered yelling at Julian but, honestly, it was a good joke. Even now, I have no idea what Julian did to the jelly bean. I glimpsed Julian's possible future as Loki, god of mischief and lies. The Wizard of Lies. The Sly God.

At least he won't be a telemarketer.

My Gyllenhaals

The actor Jake Gyllenhaal wore a sleeveless sequined dress for a Saturday Night Live skit recently and his huge, well-formed biceps took my wife's breath away.

Literally. She exhaled like she had been hit in the stomach and made a gasping sound. And I know it was Gyllenhaal's biceps my wife coveted because a moment later she felt my biceps and let out another involuntary sound - only this one sounded like a tire deflating.

There were other subtle hints that my wife was impressed by Jake Gyllenhaal's biceps and disappointed in mine. For instance, she bought me a set of weights and said, "You should work out."

I took the hint. My wife and I now refer to my biceps as "My Gyllenhaals" - in honor of the man who whose sleeveless sequined dress started it all. I work out every other day and have learned a few things about my Gyllenhaals:

For instance, it is possible to exercise your biceps so strenuously that a completely unrelated muscle on your back blows out. Please feel free to insert your own "Brokeback Mountain" jokes here.

Also, Gyllehaal's are much like helium balloons - they look their best just after being blown up. For this reason, I now do push-ups just prior to walking into any room. This has the side effect of making me look permanently angry and out of breath, but at least my arms are more impressive.

After weeks of working out, I decided to "pose down" in front of a mirror and evaluate whether I'd actually reached my goal of making two of my body parts achieve that Gyllenhaal look.

And indeed I have. After weeks of working out and hundreds of dollars of equipment, my breasts look exactly like Maggie Gyllenhaal's.

My wife is disappointed. I, on the other hand, think Maggie Gyllenhaal is hot.

The Sugar Machine

Honestly, if it wasn't for the Happy Meals, I'd let it slide. But ever since the commercials started, I've been obsessed with getting McDonald's employees to put sugar in my coffee.

Normally, I wouldn't care whether someone put condiments in my coffee or not. I don't have the baristas do it at Starbuck's; I've never requested help with my coffee at 7-11. I once asked my wife to do it, but that ended badly. But a few things are different this time.

First and foremost, McDonald's promised me. The company's commercials say that if I buy coffee at one of their restaurants, one of the employees will add cream and sugar if I request it. And it's more than that. Judging from the smiles on the faces of the employees in the commercials (they are clearly lovin' it), the McDonald's employees might actually be disappointed if I don't let them fix the coffee to my taste.

Finally, I'm a parent and I can't take my kids out to eat anywhere without them crying for a toy. I blame McDonald's Happy Meals for this behavior. I'm bitter, McDonald's, and, frankly, I think you owe me.

I've ordered coffee three times from three different McDonald's restaurants since the commercials began. The first time I requested cream and sugar, the counter person handed me my admittedly delicious coffee and pointed me toward the condiment bar. The service improved the second time because, after I requested cream and sugar, the counter person actually handed me the condiments.

This is when my obsession fired into life. Was it just me? I kept seeing the commercials, but none of the McDonald's people actually seemed interested in helping me make my coffee. None of the employees actually seemed to be lovin' it at all. Had I offended someone? Was that bastard Ronald in the back secretly making coffee drinks for other customers? I had to find out.

On my third visit, I hit the drive-thru and specifically asked the order taker to put cream and sugar in my coffee. When I drove up to the window, I cheerfully asked, "Is there cream and sugar in this?" I gestured to the coffee.

"Nope," the lady replied back cheerfully. And then she handed me some creamers. I pressed on.

"I thought you guys added the cream and sugar?"

And, I swear to God, this is what she said:

"Normally, we do that. But today, the machine is broken."

This answer stunned me. They have a machine that adds cream and sugar to coffee? For a brief second, because I'm a guy, I had the overwhelming urge to buy one of those machines for my house. Then, I snapped to my senses.

"You couldn't add the cream and sugar by hand?" I asked.

She smiled. "We have a machine that does it - and it's broken. Sorry."

My quest for cream and sugar at McDonald's continues. It's a bittersweet quest - much like coffee - because only an asshole expects other people to make his coffee. At least that's what my wife says.

Honestly, if it weren't for the Happy Meals, I'd let it slide.

Teaching Vegetable

In retrospect, in wasn't the best parenting idea I've ever had.

My seven year-old asked me, "Why do onions make people cry?"

"Well, Gabriel," I said, "Onions give off a gas when you cut them. The gas irritates your eyes and makes you cry."

Other parents would have stopped here. Other parents would have turned back to their television sets. Other parents would have absolutely nothing to write about in their blogs.

I, on the other hand, cut up an onion and both Gabriel and I took a whiff. You know what happened?

Nothing. Neither Gabriel or I cried. Not a sniffle. We took another whiff and still nothing happened.

About five whiffs in, we both started to cry. Gabriel was amazed. I felt like the coolest dad in the world. That feeling lasted right up until the moment Gabriel's right eye started swelling up.

I learned a few things that night. For instance, if you're relating an anecdote to a doctor and her first response is, "You did what?", you've probably made a medical mistake of some kind. I also learned that people cry because onions give off a very, very diluted form of sulfuric acid and that some fathers actually suffer from a very, very diluted form of "stupid".

A dose of Benadryl quickly fixed Gabriel's eye, so there's no long term harm. But you know what? I'll think twice the next time I have the urge to teach "vegetable".

Great Hemorrhoid Exodus

I would have posted last week, but I was afflicted with gout.

I realize that many of Grim Richard's readers might confuse gout with goiter, and are now incorrectly picturing Grim Richard with a humongous neck. Frankly, that makes me want to giggle. But I won't giggle and I'll tell you why.

First, I have to be careful with health jokes. When you have three readers, losing even one goiter-afflicted reader can be catastrophic. I know this from personal experience; who can forget the Great Grim Richard Hemorrhoid Exodus of '05?

I can't. That was a pain in my....

See? That's how slippery this slope is.

Second, every time I giggle, it makes my enormous, blood-engorged foot throb. For those who don't know, gout is a build up of "crystals" in the joints - especially the big toe - that results in painful inflammation. This is medical jargon that means that my enormous, blood-engorged foot is throbbing. The pain is excruciating but there is a bright side. Every time I write "enormous", "blood-engorged" and "throb", Google accidentally sends married, middle-aged men to my blog.

The final reason I won't giggle about goiter is this:

I am old now and I realize God is punishing me for making health jokes earlier in my life. I used to think ear hair was hysterical. Hemorrhoids made me laugh. Constipation? Ditto. Well, I don't laugh about them anymore, young whippersnappers.

And you know what?

I really, really regret all the male boob jokes.

The Naplete

My wife likes to sleep.

Maybe "likes" is too weak a word to describe how much my wife likes to sleep. My wife sleeps the way Olympic athletes train - with dedication and often past the point of injury. My wife is so dedicated to sleeping that she has purchased actual equipment to improve her sleeping ability - and I'm not referring to the prerequisite bed or pillow. She has vitamins, special teas, orthopedic inserts and sheets with a thread count so high that you don't actually sleep on the bed - you instead quietly slide around like human sausages in a giant teflon skillet.

My wife is something more than a sleeper, something more than an athlete; she is a nap-lete.

Her latest piece of training equipment is circadian clock from the Sharper Image catalog. The inventors of this alarm clock/lamp have mounted a special light that begins shining dimly about thirty minutes prior to her scheduled wake up time and gradually brightens until the whole room is lit. This graduated lighting is meant to gently and naturally wake you in the same way that a sunrise does. This feature is kinda cool.

The clock also makes natural sounds that increase in volume; this feature kinda sucks. We tried the relaxing "Brook" sounds first. Bad idea. It turns out that thirty minutes of bubbling water sounds will not gently wake you; it will only make you urgently need to pee. I did point out that waking this way was both gentle and natural, but my wife seemed less than enthusiastic.

Next, we tried the "Wind" sounds. The only thing that could have made this setting more terrifying was if the clock makers had added actual moaning ghost sounds to the desolate haunting sounds of wind. Every day for a week, I woke up scared and depressed. And I needed to pee.

We are trying the "Birds" setting now and I have high hopes. If everything goes well, my wife will awake feeling energetic and refreshed. Plus, after a couple of weeks, my wife says I might be able to have a small drink before bedtime.

The only downside so far? None of this actually wakes my wife up. And I'm really, really starting to hate fricking birds.

The Knots

My grandmother died at between 7 and 8 p.m. on New Year's eve. I remember it because we got the news in my car while we traveling home on Interstate 95. I think we were in North Carolina. I know it was dark because I remember looking at my wife in the glow the dashboard lights and saying, "My grandmother just died." I was confused because I felt absolutely nothing at all.

Gabriel, my seven year-old leaned forward into the glow and said, "Wow. She didn't even make it to the new year." I thought for a second that his comment was inappropriate, but I didn't say anything because I couldn't summon any emotion of my own.

But Gabriel didn't stop. He got a weird half smile on his face and he said something as if he had just mulled it over and decided it.

"I'm not gonna die. I'm gonna live forever."

And then I felt something. I desperately, devoutly wanted him to be right.

***

One of the CDs we listened to that night was "The Black Parade", an album from a band called "My Chemical Romance". As you might expect, the CD is a melodramatic, gothic affair and it owes more than a little to Queen and Pink Floyd. My wife and I love it because it's an album written for kids who think that adults don't understand them. It's an album for climbers lamenting the long trip up the mountain and not the climbers who fear the quick fall down.

The title song, "Welcome to the Black Parade" is four minutes and 39 seconds long. Even the band acknowledges that the song is melodramatic, but that's exactly what I liked about it before I heard the news about my grandmother. Afterwards, I liked the song even more because right in the middle, apropos of nothing else, it has the words:

"Sometimes I get the feeling she's watching over me."

I liked these words even though I didn't feel that way at all. I just desperately, devoutly wanted to feel that way.

***

I'll tell you why my grandmother was cool. When she was 48, after years as a Navy wife, she dropped everything and went back to college. Nowadays, fifty year-old women go back to college all the time, but that wasn't the case nearly 40 years ago. My grandmother summoned the courage to go back to school, earn her teaching degree and then begin a whole new life teaching children. She taught children so well that she was interviewed by the newspaper more than once. She worked on something every day, though I never realized it back then.

***

I'll tell you why my wife is cool. While we were in Florida over Christmas, she borrowed a skateboard from some little kid playing in the cul-de-sac street where my in-laws live. I don't know why she did this or what impulse overtook her. She rode the kid's skateboard until he had to go home and the next day we began searching for a skateboard for my wife.

We found it at a Quicksilver surf shop - a purple longboard with the elephant god Ganesh emblazoned on it. It's a beautiful skateboard and I felt a tiny stitch of jealousy when she bought it. I don't think I was jealous about the skateboard. I felt jealous because she wanted to skateboard.

Earlier that day, while we were looking for the skateboard, she had had this conversation with a skateboard salesperson:

"I'm looking for a skateboard for a beginner," she said.

"How old is the child you're getting it for?" asked the guy on the phone.

"The child is 34," my wife giggled.

***

It wasn't until the memorial at the funeral home that my grandmother's death really hit me - and I wasn't the first to feel the grief. I could actually see the grief traveling around the flowery, faux church chapel, jumping from person to person. At first it reminded me of a lit fuse sparking its way toward its conclusion. But after it hit me and I started crying, I recognized it for what it was. It was an elaborate knot untying itself, decades of ravels, snarls and braids coming undone.

***

I was driving today when that unraveling feeling hit me again. I looked around at my family and the feeling left me. My skateboarder wife sat beside me. In the back seat, my two year-old daughter was sleeping with a skateboard helmet on her head - I don't know why. My seven year-old was playing with his Nintendo DS and my four year-old son was earnestly singing along to his current favorite song in the world.

So paint it black and take it back
Lets shout it loud and clear
Defiant to the end we hear the call
To carry on
We'll carry on,
And though you're dead and gone believe me
Your memory will carry on

You can probably guess what song it was. It's melodramatic, but that's just how we like it. We are making knots here and the job requires big, loud singing. It requires kids who want to live forever and mothers who never stop trying new things. The best people never have the biggest funerals. Instead, we honor them by tying knots.

A Boy and His Plant

It’s tough for me to say this, but I suspect that my seven year-old son may be turning into a dork.

Oh, I saw the signs, but I ignored them. Twice, he’s corrected me about the correct pronunciation of words in “Star Wars” movies, once so savagely that I burst into tears.

“Well, excuse me, George Lucas Jr.,” I cried. “You’re such an expert. Maybe you can explain why fraternal twins Luke and Leia were kissing in the first movie?”

And then I ran out of the room like a girl.

But that was nothing compared to now. For the last two days, my son has been carrying a plant around everywhere. That's right - a plant. An Ivy of some kind in a plastic pot. I know it's an Ivy because when I said, "Hey, what's with the Fern?", he snapped back, "It's not a Fern. It's an Ivy."

"Well, excuse me, Mr. GreenThumb Jr...," I began, but he had already walked off. A boy and his plant.

My wife has urged me to be understanding. It turns out that Gabriel spent his own allowance purchasing the plant and was so attached to it that he insisted that his new green, leafy friend come with him to dinner, to bed and then to school the next morning.

Oh, yeah. Nothing dorky about that.

Maybe I'm just jealous. Fathers often get jealous when their sons assert their independence, break away and form their own attachments with...plants.

Senate Caught Mass Debating

The older I get, the less interested I get in politics. But yesterday I walked into my living room and caught the United States Senate mass debating on television. You can imagine my surprise and embarrassment.

I'm trying to be mature about this. I realize mass debating is a natural and beautiful thing. I, myself, have mass debated on occasion. Heck, my face glows red every time I remember the time my dad walked in on me and caught me filibustering.

But this is different. Yesterday, the Senate was mass debating about whether they should mass debate. And once you catch yourself mass debating about mass debating, it's time to get some help. Senators, here's how to tell if you have a problem:

1. Are you an adult? While it's natural for young children to use mass debating as a tool to explore themselves, we pretty much expect you to stop doing it once you grow up. And, unless you're a porn star or Paris Hilton (or both), you're not allowed to do it on television. Ever.

2. Do you find that you prefer mass debating to active, two-way legislation with other people? Most politicians find that actually passing laws, while more time consuming and difficult to consummate, eventually leads to a more satisfying relationship for both the politician and his or her constituents.

3. Have you ever voted against discussing the non-binding resolution you actually introduced? I'm talking to you, John Warner. Are you mass debating in order to avoid facing up to the fact that you're, uh, bi-partisan? My advice? Don't fight it. Being bi-partisan doesn't carry the same stigma it used to. I, in fact, faked bi-partisanship in college in order to meet girls.

Senators, if you answered "yes" to any of the questions above, you may have a problem. Don't rely on your peers for help. Some senators I won't name (Hillary Clinton) may have unpleasant memories of a time when more mass debating - and less constituent interaction - might have helped another politician I won't name (Bill Clinton). We (the American people) strongly urge you to seek help before our Congress is known for nothing other than its mass debating.

Method 21

Sometimes I find myself being accidentally creepy. To wit:

Last weekend, I had time to kill before heading to a friend's birthday celebration at a local Hooter's restaurant. That's not supposed to be the creepy part, people, so try not to get ahead of the story. It just so happens that Hooter's offers a fine selection of quality food at fair prices. Sure, this food is served by women wearing jogging shorts and panty hose with socks, but it's important to realize that our waitresses genuinely like spending time with us. We're not anything like the losers that normally go to Hooter's.

Hmmm. I'm starting to see your point. Let's move on.

Anyway, I had an hour to kill before the party at Hooters. Some part of me instinctively realized that the only thing sadder than a group of middle-aged men at Hooters is one middle-aged guy sitting at Hooters, so I headed to a nearby Target store to look around. Mostly, I read magazines without paying for them. I read golf magazines. I read video game magazines. I even read Cosmopolitan magazine because apparently there are 20 different ways you can satisfy a man and I only knew three of them. Coincidentally, none of the 20 ways involves a Hooters.

After about 20 minutes, I noticed that I wasn't the only person killing time at Target. There was an elderly woman in the magazine aisle with me. Apparently, she had also run out of reading material because she held a Maxim magazine and was definitely eyeing my Cosmo. No dice. I was only on method 11.

There was also a couple goofing around with the home theater systems in the electronics section. In the 30 minutes I was in the store, I bumped into the couple at least three times. Like me, they didn't appear to be buying anything. After reading about method 20, I decided to leave Target and kill time elsewhere. I drove toward the Hooters.

Now, you can cue the creepy music.

On the way, I spotted an adult novelty store that I've heard advertised on the radio. It's supposed to be classy place and I suddenly felt insanely curious about what the store looked like inside. All the usual things went through my mind. What if someone I know sees me going inside? What if someone sees me looking at some strange device and assumes that I'm interested in it? How sad is it to see a middle-aged guy by himself in an adult novelty store?

I calmed myself by saying the usual things. I'm an adult. I'm not doing anything illegal. Besides, the chances of running into someone I know are astronomically low.

This thought turned out to be weirdly prescient.

My first impulse was to park in front of one of the other stores, but I fought this cowardly impulse and parked right in front of the store. I boldly stepped out of my vehicle and entered the door. Everyone looked up when I entered the bright store. I quickly registered two things: first, this place wasn't classy. It had the high checkout counters and hand written signs you only see in adult stores. Second, the couple that I saw at Target had decided to come here, too.

All three of us went beet red with embarrassment. A second later, I got a horrific feeling in my gut. What are the chances that two separate parties would waste time by first going to a Target store and then independently follow that up by going to the same adult novelty store within minutes? That would be an astronomical long shot. Were they following me?

Then it hit me. They were here first. Omigod, I thought. I look like a creepy stalker. I looked like some dude who had easily skated through methods 1 through 20 and was now busily trying to invent method 21. The only thing that could have made the moment stranger was if I had walked in with the elderly, Maxim-reading woman.

For a moment, I had the urge to talk to the couple. I wanted to explain how I was just this regular guy who was spending the night innocently reading Cosmo and hanging out at adult novelty stores before joining his friends at Hooters...

I decided to leave instead.

Now, That's Amazing!

So, this is the kind of week that my wife had:

She decided to visit an upscale vitamin store near our city's center in order to buy a natural remedy of some kind. I've never been there, but my wife describes it as a holistically beautiful store with quiet, soothing music and delicious fragrances wafting through the air. It's like a Starbucks but with more drugs. My wife was so intent on getting her natural remedy that she broke the cardinal rule for preserving soothing, relaxing environments.

She took my my kids.

I'd like to say it started out well, but it didn't. My four year-old son skipped into the store happily, took a moment to get oriented in the beautifully designed, healthy environment and then he vomited. Literally. We have no idea why. Strangely enough, the health professionals at the store were not happy to see this potential client and when my family left, my wife looked behind to see a salesperson propping open the door to let air in.

A few days later, our family went to a pizza parlor. A friend of my seven year-old son accompanied us. During the middle of the meal, while the kids played with Star Wars action figures, Gabriel's friend entertained us with a rap song. I didn't listen closely at first, because I'm a Public Enemy fan and I like to kick it old school. Also, by now I think the shorties understand I'm the sickest MC.

Still, on his second time through the rap, I noticed that my wife and most of the other patrons in this restaurant were staring in the direction of this kid. And that's because one of his rhymes has just ended with the word "whore". Later, after my red-faced wife had explained why that word is bad, she whispered to me, "I'm amazed at what comes out of kid's mouths these days."

I shrugged because this sounded like something an old person would say.

A few days later, my family and I sat down at another restaurant. The food was great. My two year-old daughter Riley loved the food most of all. She ate all of her fries, she ate most of her grilled cheese sandwich and she even helped herself to a generous portion of Julian's macaroni and cheese.

Then Riley turned to my wife and started upchucking on her. This was no regular upchucking either. It manifested itself like an elaborate magic trick. Everything came out compartmentalized, neat and in reverse order. First, the mac and cheese came, followed by the grilled cheese. Then we saw some of lemonade Riley had quaffed just after her fries. Finally, the fries came out, too. It was like someone had drilled a core sample on my daughter's stomach and neatly deposited a geographic history of her meal in my wife's lap.

My wife looked really stressed while she cleaned up the mess and I wanted to say something helpful.

"You were right," I said.

"About what?" she asked as she grabbed extra napkins.

"It really is amazing what comes out of kids' mouths these days."

Terrifying Amish Games

Most parents are dismayed by the amount of time kids spend online, watching television or playing video games. Not me. I prefer that they relax with some "Grand Theft Auto". I encourage them to watch MTV's "Cribs". Heck, I encourage them to steal my credit card and play online poker.

My reasoning is simple: If technology doesn't entertain my kids, they get all Amish on me and start making up their own terrifying, non-tech games.

It's true. One of my favorites so far has been the classic "Ask Dad a Question While He's on the Toilet" game. The rules are simple. Ignore Dad until he goes into the bathroom and locks the door. Wait for the fan to come on and then start messing with door knob. When he yells, "I'm in here!," start asking questions. The first question should always be "Dad, what are you doing?," but any question after that is fair game.

Now that my children are 7,4, and 2 respectively, they've designed a terrifying new game to play when they're not watching television. It's called "Let's Catch Mommy and Daddy Doing It".

Warning: the rest of this essay may include frank discussion of the ways that parents express their love for each other. The mental images generated by this kind of discussion can result in light sensitivity, motion sickness or seizures. Before reading on, try saying a sentence that includes the phrases "my parents" and "open-mouthed kiss". If this makes you a little queasy, please do not continue.

Editor's Note: I, for instance, tasted a little Hamburger Helper just writing that sentence. But I will soldier on.

"Let's Catch Mommy and Daddy Doing It" is, at its core, a hunting game. Any time you suspect your mother or father are sharing a moment of intimacy, it is your job to track them down, bypass any obstacles they've set up, burst in and destroy any sense of privacy that they've built.

My kids are good at this game and getting better. I want to explain to them that winning this game might ultimately scar them for life. I want to explain that even their mother and I feel uncomfortable being there, but we sorta have to be. My kids can win this game, but only in the sense that the Nazis won when they discovered the Lost Ark of the Covenant.

I hope they come to their senses before it's too late. Meanwhile, the hunt goes on.

Me: Did you lock the bedroom door, the outer bathroom door, the inner bathroom door and the front door?
Wife: Check.
Me: Did you turn on that "South Park" episode we never wanted them to watch, threaten them with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and close their door?
Wife: Of course I did. I also turned on our radio, stuffed shirts under the door and spent the entire week practicing how to enjoy myself without raising my voice above a whisper.
Me: Good....wait...what was that noise? Was that the door knob? Omigod! I think they're breached the outer perimeter!
Wife: Oh god! They just keep coming. Why won't they leave us alone? What do they want? Aaaaaaaaaaiiaiaiaiaiia.....

Final Editor's Note: Sorry about the graphic imagery in this post, but I would like to point out that I'm the first writer in the history of the world to ever use the phrases "Amish", "Nazis" and "open-mouthed kiss" in the same piece. People better recognize.