They Don't Smell Funny or: Why I Love My Daughters More Than My Sons

Howdy, neighbor! It's me. Brian. Tysdaddy to you Twittering types. Around these parts, I am sometimes known by my blog name, The Cheek of God. Or you may recognize my avatar. Affectionately known as Balding Old Man With Mustache.

Whatever. I'm the guy that used to write here quite a bit and then up and vanished like a fart in the wind. (And ten bucks to the one who gets that movie reference, without using Google . . . ) But it's a new year, and like Frankenstein's monster, "It's ALIVE!!!!!"

Or something like that.

To my Mars homeys . . . Word! And I must say that the Venus ladies are looking as lovely as ever.

Speaking of lovelies, have you ever noticed how much this lady . . .


. . . and our gracious and wonderful host . . .



. . . look so much alike?! I triple dog dare ya to watch one of those commercials and NOT think of Shelle. Just sayin's all!

But seriously . . .

I have four kids. Two boys and two girls. Their birth order is boy-girl-boy-girl. There are almost four years between the first and the second, and then only about eighteen months between the rest, so they are currently 17, 13, 11, and 10. Let's call my oldest son Ty, and my oldest daughter Aryn.

Because those are their names.

I gave up on Ty once he got a serious girlfriend. I couldn't compete, and knew this to be true the day he chose to go see Valentine's Day instead of Avatar in 3D. Her finger is covered with him, so to speak, and he's tuned me out.

Aryn still digs me. Just last night, we suffered through The Cape while snuggled up on the couch drinking iced tea together. Before she went to bed, we had a chat about her current favorite book. We are bookworms, and we get along swimmingly.

I oversimplify, of course. I could take things one step further and go all Freudian on you . . . he's afraid I'm gonna steal his girl and she wants to marry me. Or something like that. But I won't.

Instead, I'm gonna chalk it all up to the age thing. With Ty, we struck our relational apex right about age . . . 13. We were gaming together every weekend, I could still beat him at most video games, and he still needed me for a chauffeur. I knew a little something about anime, we still rocked out to music I liked, and he didn't need as much money for things like . . . presents for his girlfriend. As that lilliputian viridian guru would surely say, much more needed and cool I was. Back then. Now, I'm the guy who makes the ice cream and is mostly just annoying.

Aryn is 13. I mentioned that, right? We click on many levels. She's pensive. Has a very low key yet sharply honed sense of humor. And she's content to just hang with me. Doesn't much matter what we are doing, or where we end up, we enjoy one another's company. Her friends come over and she doesn't shoo me away.

It's starting to sound like I dig my kids most when they willingly and unabashedly . . . dig me.

Nothing Freudian there at all, eh?

So, what's your situation? Do you find yourself favoring the company of one child over another? If so, why? If not, then you're perfect. Go away . . .

Meet The Blogger: Cheek of God

Name: Brian



Age: 41

Kids #, age & sex: Four kids, ages 16, 12, 10, 9

Marital status: Married for 19 years this year.



1. How many years in your current relationship: 23 years


2. Have you ever been divorced?: No


***If so how many times?:

What do you do for work: I work in the mix/pre-production department at Edy’s Grand Ice Cream.  That’s Dreyer’s to those of you west of the Rockies.  Yes, I eat ice cream every day . . .  



Education: Currently pursuing a BA in English & Philosophy with minors in Communication and Religious Studies


Blogs you contribute to: This one, and The Cheek of God


Religion: Reverently Agnostic

Political affiliation: I am a recovering Republican

Basic philosophical leanings (liberal, conservative, confused): I am fairly moderate, though I lean to the left when pressed . . .

What is your motto in life?: sapere aude – Latin: “Dare to Know” or “Dare to Discern”

Who has had the most influence in your life?: Wow. Probably my kids. They inspire greatness . . .

Why did you start Blogging? I began my blog as a project for a class titled Research Methods for Professional Writers. It was initially about memoir writing, and my own attempts to write a “living memoir.” It blossomed from there . . .

*What is the most favorite post you have written on any blog you contribute to?: So many to choose from! Probably the one about my Unibrow: http://thecheekofgod.wordpress.com/2008/11/01/the-taming-of-the-brow/ or this one where I finally give up smoking: http://thecheekofgod.wordpress.com/2010/06/30/the-elephant-in-the-blog/



Tell us in 100 words about your current relationship: My wife and I are in the process of getting old together. Which is sort of cool. We know how one another ticks. What makes us happy or sad or frustrated. We’ve been together longer than we’ve been on our own, so every day is a bonus, a chance to not only relax in one another’s familiarity, but also to strive to make the effort to learn something new.

BONUS or OPTIONAL: Tell us something we need to know about you that we haven't covered above. 50 words or less: I had weight loss surgery in 2002, lost over 200 pounds, and have kept it off all this time. I’m less than half the man I used to be. Amazing . . .


Shelle Edit: I have known Brian for awhile now.  I happened on his blog because someone referred him on a list of their must reads everyday.  I don't even remember what post it was that day, but I do remember coming away from his blog magically enthralled.  He's completely poetic when he writes, it's as if you can feel the words pulling you in and taking you on their journey.  Brian just took on his adventure to stop smoking...we continue to wish him luck, because if he takes smoking back up again, he's ultimatum is that he'll have to give up his blog, which would be way to tragic.  Much love your way Brian, thank for all you do for me and this blog! 


Brian-The Cheek of God

Chores Schmores, and Underwear

I couldn't find any clean underwear this morning.

It's an ugly picture, but I'll paint it anyway: Me, in the buff. Freshly primped and primed for the day, wandering around my bedroom looking for something with which to gird my loins. I checked the usual spots, like in my dresser drawer. Nope. I looked on my recliner next to the desk in the corner of the room where stacks of laundry usually end up sitting for a week or two. Nope. Only t-shirts and a pair of shorts that I don't remember wearing, at least not recently, because the hems are tearing out. So I peeked out the bedroom door and found some - the maroon ones that are boxer briefs and aren't all clingy and binding - tucked in the bottom of one of the three laundry baskets stacked in the hallway with clean clothes in them. Everyone's clean clothes. There were Tinkerbell shirts and Guitar Hero pajama bottoms and bras - training and seasoned - and other assorted items, all neatly folded, for the most part, and just waiting for safe passage into Dresserland.

Someone didn't put the laundry away. Again.

This is par for the course, people. For around my place, chores aren't really chores at all, but rather things that eventually get done when the need arises. And only maybe then. After all, isn't it just as easy to get a clean coffee cup out of the dishwasher, or to find one in the sink and rinse it out, as it is to search for one in the cupboard? Same for laundry. I mean, if you want laundry, check the laundry basket, right?

To put it as simply as possible, we all have other things to do. Yeah, it's chaos, but it's an organized chaos. A routine that has grown as comfortable as a favorite pair of underwear. There are six of us, and we are, for the most part, not children. And if you want something done, you generally end up doing it yourself. This, of course, requires two things: 1) a keen awareness, whereby one notices that this or that task needs done, and 2) a willingness to chip in on occasion to ensure that said tasks don't pile up. It's not perfect. It's not the Brady Bunch. It doesn't translate well onto a dry erase board mounted on the wall or a checklist on a Post-It note slapped onto the fridge. And it can lead to occasional frustrations.

Like when you can't find underwear.

But we aren't an easily frustrated bunch. As I said, par for the course.

But the question remains: Is there one gender-specific task that I do that I wish my wife would do instead? In all honesty, I can't think of a single thing. At least not one that would be considered a chore. Like getting the oil changed. This, of course, only comes up when the light starts blinking in the van. About that time, I start getting the Why-Don't-You-Swing-By-Walmart-And-Get-The-Oil-Changed speech. No dear. Why don't YOU swing by Walmart and get the oil changed. It's not like it's hard or anything. They have all the information right there in their handy little computer thingy. Just nod your head and smile and sign in the little box. And then you'll have that rare and glorious opportunity to schmooze with the garrulous and smiley octogenarian guy at the service desk who uses the word "vehicle" instead of car when he pages you. What joy! What fun! I hate him. So you, my dear, can do it this time. And the next time. And the time after that.

You get the picture . . .

A Discretionary Tale

Today's topic: Money. Money that we spend on ourselves. Money that is burning a hole in our chinos and gets spent on something we maybe really don't need per se but rather on something we want.

Some call it "discretionary spending."

Here's how it works in my house:

1) I get paid.
2) I buy what I want.
3) And then pay the bills.

I kid. But only a little bit.

I'll readily admit, right up front, that spending more than I should on the little luxuries of life is part and parcel of being me.

I blame a bunch of people for this.

My grandmother used to give me some folding money and then tell me to spend it on whatever I wanted. If I considered buying something for someone else, or getting something I needed, like new underwear, she'd have a Guernsey. Birthday or Christmas money that wasn't spent on baseball cards or Hot Wheels cars or a new Atari game was money put to no good use at all. Seldom, unfortunately, did I see the other side of the coin (pun intended) where she and grandpa saved their money, paid their debts, and lived financially-responsible lives.

Also my dad. He sent me to do some real work as soon as it was legal, and then often "borrowed" money from me come payday if he needed it. For what, I never knew. I only knew that the money I earned wasn't always going in my pocket. To spent however I wanted. So when I had some money left over? You guessed it. I spent it on whatever I wanted. Movies. Fast food. LPs. And I never sat any aside because I didn't want to have to eventually give it up to The Man. Never mind the fact that the money he "borrowed" probably went to put food down my gullet and clothes on my ample backside.

(I blame them for being fat most of my life as well.)

Not much has changed. I make the money now. I do clothe and feed my children when they've been good, but mostly I just spend it.

Video games. CDs. New shoes. (I have more pairs of shoes than my wife.)

Speaking of my wife. She is the frugal one. Which is why we have a joint checking account. She doesn't work. (For money, anyway. Truth be told, she works way harder than I do!) Hasn't since the oldest boy was born. It was a decision we made long ago and we don't regret a moment of these past 15-or-so years. It hasn't been easy. We aren't keeping up with the Joneses. But we've never wanted to live that way. She scrapbooks for fun, and loves to read, so together we see that her playtime is stocked with the stuff she needs. And occasionally we splurge for a want or three. Soon we will be springing for her to take a Master Gardener class through the local university extension office. She wants to do this, so we'll see that it happens.

Where am I going with this tale? I don't know, really. I could suck my thumb and wax all melancholy about how we don't have the huge nest egg or seeded rainy day fund that most of you probably have set aside. Or how we don't drive the fancy cars with the GPS and the doohickeys that tell when you're about to hit something when you're backing up. Or how we've never been to the Poconos or Disney Whatever. Nope. I won't go there. Instead, we have our habits and hobbies and hangups, and we're doing alright, thank you very much.

And if, one day, the bottom falls out? Then I'll just look for someone else to blame . . .

Scarlett Made Me Do It!

The difficulty in life is the choice.

~ George Moore (1852-1933)

My name is Brian, and I am a smoker.

A damn good one, I'll readily admit. Nothing cuts short a harsh, early-morning phlegm-letting like a cup of French Vanilla coffee and a Camel Turkish Silver. Thirty per day is my average, though if I have nothing better to do besides sit in my garage and write, I can easily polish off two packs plus change before hitting the hay. Type. Take a drag. Repeat. I will smoke more than half a pack before this post is finished.

In the car, my trusty 1987 bright red Honda Prelude with the Pioneer 10" pumps in the back, I smoke one after the other to a soundtrack loud and aggressive, scattering ashes and butts out the window with an authoritative flick of the wrist. I am badass. I don't care what you think.

I started late in life, the result of a perfect storm of circumstances. First there was the Roux-en-Y, a radical rearranging of the innards that led to both the shedding of an enormous number of pounds and the upsetting of long-established habits. I was a Type A grazer with more than enough storage space, my fingers constantly stained with Cheetos dust. Each bag or box of this or that was not only symptomatic of my tendencies toward insecurity and impatience but also a convenient, logical stepping stone between meals. I was a damn good snacker. But when I traded in my industrial-grade forty-six cubic foot stomach for one the size of a medium egg, my snacking days went the way of the dinosaur. Suddenly I needed something else to do with my hands.

And then, on the heels of Bill Murray's embarrassing loss to that overrated putz Sean Penn, I rented Lost in Translation. Here's this guy whose life is shit. His marriage is shit. His career is shit. Everyone is shorter than he is. He's reduced to hawking overseas whiskey. And into the winter of his discontent walks Scarlett Johansson, this pensive, leggy, mildly-effervescent tonic, with just enough bubbles to smooth the edges of his hacksawed existence. And into the dorsolateral prefrontal association area of my brain camped a three-dimensional image of what it would take to be cool. All it needed was time to become a fourth-dimension reality. A choice.

The clincher? Philosophy. Scarlett's character was a philosophy major. I am a philosophy major! What do philosophers do? We sit around in our Cartesian armchairs and think shit up. And we smoke. Roughly half of my fellow philosophy peers are smokers. We get together twice a year at The Chair's house, sit on his deck, drink German beer, talk about how much we hate Wittgenstein, and smoke. Sartre, the great existential atheist philosopher I've become quite fond of in recent years, was a smoker. As one reviewer of The Faber Book of Smoking put it, "[t]he cigarette, for Sartre, is a means of possessing the world: an entire way of being is crystallised in the "little crematory sacrifice" of his chubby Boyard. For the smoker, the universe exists as something to be experienced while smoking." And then there's this timely little nugget of wisdom from the New York Times, originally published February 15, 1866, in which it is claimed that the Reverend S. W. Bailey endorsed the use of tobacco, for it "makes youth manly, refines taste, excites emulation, and engenders self-reliance." He concludes that smoking may also possibly, one day, should you ever visit a remote and savage land, save you from the cannibals as well. Shit, I'm all about not being eaten.

So I smoke.

I've tried to quit several times. I'm new(ish) here so you don't know all the details. But regular readers of The Cheek know. They've read it over and over and over again. I didn't even bother writing about my most recent attempt at quitting. It lasted two weeks. An eternity in which I walked nearly sixty miles around my rural haunts, listening to books on .mp3, marveling at all that glorious Indiana corn, fighting with every fiber of my being the urge to swing by the local trading post and pick up a pack. In a moment of weakness I bought some snus, but my wife threw them away. Said I was compromising. Her and the kids rejoiced that for a time my butts didn't litter the driveway, or her little garden filled with bright orange marigolds and purple zinnias, where I usually flick them as I sit and write. My wife hugged me more. Said I didn't smell like an ashtray. And that my breathing seemed less congested as I slept. And my kids, all four of them, liked that I didn't buy any Camels when we stopped at the gas station for Slushies. I played catch more often. We went swimming. And I passed more days indoors, playing Guitar Hero with the boys, reading with and to the girls, instead of hiding away in the garage.

I didn't post anything of significance for those two weeks. Didn't visit the blogs of my friends. Leave comments. Check in. Instead, I languished, decidedly checked out. Distanced from all the things I usually do while smoking.

Why am I telling you all this? I don't really know. Shelle always says, "Be yourself!" And I write for me. Always. So maybe this is therapy or sorts. With listening to one's own bullshit comes a modicum of ownership. I see through the haze of smoke I blow. I am not cool. Far from it. And trying to think that I am is becoming more difficult with each passing puff. Now it's just something I do, for lack of an equally-appealing alternative. Or maybe I'm just being passively stubborn. Raging internally against all the mistakes I've made and the circumstances I've failed to confront with each flick of my Bic. I am a narcissistic, fucked up little man.

I am Brian, and I am a smoker . . .

I wrote this for a different website several months ago, but there isn't much cross-traffic between the two so I thought I might share it here. As it relates to relationships, do you have any nasty habits that you often feel the need to justify? Any habitual thing that holds you back, or comes between you and your spouse/significant other? Or are we all simply human and this sort of thing par for the course? Your thoughts are welcomed and appreciated . . .

CHICKEN!

Today's topic: What irritating things does your spouse teach your kids that you find annoying, OR, what irritating things do you teach your kids that your spouse finds annoying.

That's a lot of irritating and annoying!

I thought about pointing the finger. About the way the kitchen counters never manage to stay clean, especially after meals or snack time. How nothing ever gets put away where it belongs. Or how the salt shaker is never where it should be but is rather always found in the living room or on my wife's desk. (I'm a 5S sort of guy, and find clutter . . . irritating and annoying.)

Yeah, I thought about going there, but then I remembered that I'm not supposed to use the internets to talk smack about my wife. So I won't go there.

Nope.

Instead, I'll tell you about Joe.

Back in the day, Joe was a client of mine at a day program for individuals with developmental disabilities. His specific diagnosis is not important. For the purpose of this post, I'll just tell you that Joe had a thing for chickens. There was never a topic of discussion so interesting that it couldn't be livened up with a little bit of chicken. We'd be sitting at a table, sorting hangers from a local department store by size or working on some other program-specific task, chatting about the weather or music, and while everyone else chimed in with their individual thoughts or opinions, Joe would inevitably, regardless of the topic or circumstance, shout out . . .

CHICKEN!

And we'd usually laugh it up, obviously reinforcing his behavior. Bad idea, I know. But you had to be there. Sometimes he'd start low, saying it softly, with a mischievous grin . . .

chicken

We'd ignore it as best as possible and try to steer him back to the task at hand. But then he'd just get louder. And add a dash of inflection . . .

chick-KUN!

It was the word and the sound at the same time. An onomatopoeia of sorts. And because it was so damn catchy, someone would repeat it. And then he'd get really loud . . .

CHICKEN!!!!

And that usually did it. We'd do our own unique version of The Chicken Dance, he'd laugh hard, we'd laugh harder, and the day was ruined. It didn't take long for "chicken" to become the automated response offered by the staff to any mundane inquiry:

Boss: "So, what are your plans for the weekend?"
Me: "chicken"

Boss: "Why were you late this morning?"
Me: "chick-KUN?!"

Boss: "Say, could yo-"
Me: "CHICKEN!!"

You get the point. And it spread beyond the front door of the facility. Everywhere were opportunities to use the word CHICKEN!

Then I had kids. And the fun really started! Remember all those songs you learned as a wee one? None were sacred . . .

"Twinkle, twinkle, little - CHICKEN!" "Row, row, row your - CHICKEN!" "All I want for Christmas is my two front - CHICKEN!"

And classic books for children?

"One fish, two fish, red fish, blue - CHICKEN!" Charlotte was, of course, a web-spinning - CHICKEN! George was a very curious - CHICKEN! And that very hungry caterpillar always managed to eat - CHICKEN!

The real fun is coming up with words that rhyme with - CHICKEN! (I'll let you offer yours in the comments . . . )

Needless to say, the game was really afoot when the kids got older and could impose CHICKEN! upon any conversation on their own.

Why is this so annoying? Honestly, I don't know. It makes many of the things my wife enjoys exponentially more entertaining. Take Josh Groban, for instance:

"You raise me up, so I can stand on - CHICKEN!"

Or Daughtry:

"I'm staring out into the night, trying to hide the - CHICKEN!"

Or Taylor Swift:

"You're on the phone with your - CHICKEN!"

See? Not irritating at all . . .

;-)

He Said, She Said - Romance

Today's topic is romance: What exactly is romance? And is it overrated? Donna of The Bare Essentials Today and Brian of The Cheek of God offer their opinions, so read on . . .

SHE said:

Romance is overrated

Romance (n., adj.) a fictitious tale of wonderful and extraordinary events characterized by a non-realistic and idealizing use of the imagination. An exaggeration or fabrication that has no real substance.

Our culture has defined romance as the ultimate experience in an intimate relationship. It's idealized as the euphoria of being "in love." When, in reality, it doesn't have anything to do with love, but more so with having your personal needs met. It becomes the catalyst for having certain needs met, while not having to define or put a label on those needs.

If you're already having your "personal needs" met in any relationship you're in, where is the need for this fictitious tale or this grandiose display of affection?

I guess I'm just a simple kind of gal. A desirous look into my eyes. A simple I love you. I don't need any over-the-top gestures to let me know that I'm needed and wanted. And I guess to some those would be considered romantic gestures, but I think they should be part of the norm, rather than the exception.

I just Googled "romantic gestures" and these are a few of the gems that I came up with:

1) Do the laundry - really? I would expect that from a partner.

2) Write a message with a bar of soap on the mirror - Who's gonna clean that up?

3) Unwind with a glass of wine - Again another given.

4) Share things about your work day - It's called dialogue. And work? Not really so romantic!

5) Change her oil - Really?

6) Go grocery shopping - No comment.

7) Pay her a compliment in front of people you know - Again, no comment.

8) Help with or do the dishes - I would expect that. (Maybe I expect too much!)

9) Have a quickie somewhere new - Hot, but definitely not romantic.

10) Express appreciation for specific things your partner does for you - Again, a Thank You would be expected.

11) Be his/her slave for a day - Again, could be hot but there's nothing romantic about that. Slave is such an undermining term.

Maybe I'm too jaded. Maybe it's because I'm single right now. But none of these seem like they are worth the effort or would mean as much to me as a gesture that I would just expect to come naturally in a relationship (I love you, winks, soft touches, etc.). Well, maybe the quickie someplace new ;)

I once dated this guy who lived by the book The 5 Love Languages. He quizzed me on it during our first date and apparently by my answers he concluded that I thought like a dude. Maybe he was right.

What do you consider romantic?

HE said:

Methinks Donna made up that definition of romance, based on her experiences, and I sort of like it. And yet I must (or rather, the nature of this type of post forces me to) disagree. Romance isn't some "exaggeration or fabrication that has no real substance." I believe instead that there is a very real, substantial, and yet ultimately mysterious element within genuine romance. To wit, I'll offer my favorite definition, straight from the American Heritage English Dictionary:

romance (n.) - A mysterious or fascinating quality or appeal, as of something adventurous, heroic, or strangely beautiful.

In short, I believe romance isn't just something we do, it is also, more importantly, something that is a part of us. And romance often manifests itself in ways that are not so easily pinpointed.

Looking back at Donna's list of romantic gestures, a cautionary theme emerges: Be wary of any guy who does such things - especially when they are actions he typically doesn't perform - for, in the end, he did it all for the nookie, and such actions ultimately lead to disappointment and heartache. In the same vein, Kevin Leman once wrote that Sex Begins in the Kitchen. And while the book makes some interesting points, the overall message - that intimacy can be cultivated by the things we do - is too simplistic. Too pragmatic. For if we do things only to get things, then isn't that merely manipulation?

That dog don't hunt. And perhaps it's because of people who believed this tripe, and tried to apply these principles in their relationships with Donna, that she has become so jaded. (My apologies, Donna, on behalf of right-thinking men everywhere.)

So what am I getting at?

In gearing up to write this post, I did a bit of research. (See, Shelle!? I may write these posts on the day they are due, but I usually preface my writing with a modicum of preparation ;-) I stopped by my local Barnes & Noble and perused the magazine rack, seeking some current thoughts on romance and relationships from a man's perspective. I flipped through recent issues of GQ, Esquire, Men's Journal. Even Maxim. And while the pictures were lovely, and I do occasionally enjoy reading about camping, technology, style and fitness, there was nary a solid piece of relationship advice to be found. I even dove into family- and relationship-oriented magazines like Family Fun and Parenting and came up empty.

And then I saw it! "Make Me Laugh: Humor and Romance" on the cover of . . . Scientific American Mind?!

Woot!

Here are the bullet points from science writer Christie Nicholson's article, titled "The Humor Gap:"

1) When seeking a mate, men desire women who laugh at their jokes, whereas women prefer men who can make them laugh.

2) Once a man and a woman are in a relationship, humor roles change.

This article confirmed for me two very obvious things about my relationship with my wife:

1) She was immediately hooked after I guzzled root beer floats and shoved pizza up my nose. Witnessing me at my slapstick best, she loved me anyway and gave me a shot.

2) Her enduring sense of humor made my recent extended period of unemployment tolerable. In fact, I can safely say that she saved my life on more than one occasion, simply by reaching down into my depths (she refuses to go there with me) and lifting me up with her tried-and-true, one-two combination of compassion and encouragement, both tinged with her own subtle, humorous touch.

As we've grown old together, humor has been the constant fuel for our romantic fire. Initially, I was the comedian and she my willing audience. She laughed at me, and I dug her laughter. Now, we share inside jokes, the punchlines of which are ours alone. And none of this is the result of any particular thing we've done. It's who we are. There is no exaggeration there. Only the reality of two lives merged into one. Two roads that lead toward a common goal:

Laughter.

So, as I've defined it, romance is indeed necessary - even if not so easily pigeonholed - and far from overrated. For those that would be romantic, there must be the realization that romance transcends actions. Accordingly, romance goes beyond having your personal needs met. Those things come with the proper foundation is laid. And the foundation is not made merely of the things you do, but by the stuff of which you are. And relationships built on the right stuff will stand . . .

Here's the order of my list that it's in . . .

It IS Monday, right?!

;-)

According to Our Fearless Leader, our topic today is:

Ten things my spouse does that I LOVE and 10 things about my spouse I HATE.

Let's see . . . Love/Hate. Very strong words. Love, I can handle. Hate? We'll see . . .

And this question is really looking for two very different kinds of responses. One is about doing, a very ethical sort of inquiry. The other is about essence. Actions vs. Being. Hmm . . .

Alrighty, then.

LOVE

1) She is a great kisser. From the first clumsy effort, over piping hot pizza, I was hooked.

2) She asks questions . . . When it matters, she asks for clarification.

3) . . . but not too many questions. The devil is in the details, after all.

4) She makes kickass mashed potatoes.

5) And gravy.

6) She smiles a lot. It ties the room together.

7) She scrubs my back in the shower. Despite all the hair and age spots, I might add. And she uses a scrunchie. Score!

8) She volunteers. Whether it's building sets for the school play or helping the new art teacher get acclimated to Little Johnnie's Post Nasal Drip, she's on it. And never expects a Thank You.

9) She lets me drive. Even if it's merely over the river and through the woods, I get to sit in the Captain's Chair. And she feeds me cookies and chats me up to keep me awake.

10) She plays Guitar Hero. Even the really hard Tool songs. She immerses herself in the things others enjoy, and makes them that much more fun.

HATE

1) Her heart is large. She loves everyone. Even the people I tend to loathe with more than a small amount of passion. I wish she'd hate people more.

2) Her hands are tender. They touch things with a tenderness and compassion I often lack. I wish she'd smack me around more. (No, not like that!)

3) Her eyes are focused. She sees all and never looks away. I wish she'd blink every once in a while so I could get away with more stuff.

4) Her mind is young. Not in a childish way, but in an innocent way. I wish she'd share my frequent cynicism.

5) Her brain is sharp. She gets A's on Big Brain Academy. Me? I keep searching in vain for the pass/fail option.

6) Her feet are quick. She runs ahead, looking for adventure. I wish she'd stop for a minute and let me catch up.

7) Her lips are sealed. She refuses to gossip or belittle anyone. I wish she'd let fly more.

8) Her legs are strong. Harper legs, we call them. Hers carry the weight of it all and never grow weary. I wish she'd stumble occasionally.

9) Her ears are tuned. She hears the good and filters the bad. I wish she'd listen to me when I whine.

10) Her body is a temple. She looks great all the freaking time. I wish she'd get older already.

In sum: My mama didn't raise no fool. I do indeed know how to pick 'em, no?

I May Not Know Jack, But I Dig His Purse!

I spent a small portion of this extremely busy week once again contemplating the “coolness” of my Man Purse . . .

On Monday I started a new job, and I've been busier than a one-armed paper hanger. So many binders and training manuals. And I've decided that I need something to carry all my crap in while at work. I'll be moving around the plant quite a bit, doing different jobs as assigned, and hate to try and juggle my books and medication and other accouterments. So I dug out this book bag I bought several months ago. It’s heavy-duty, has a bunch of pockets inside, and a lifetime guarantee. But I wonder if it’s a bit too girlie looking . . .

Some of the folks at work will likely give me shit about it. Which doesn’t bother me, per se; I am confident enough in my manhood to carry a pink BlackBerry . . .

. . . which doesn’t really look pink in the picture, but you are an imaginative bunch. And what’s up with that look?! It’s so Attack of the Unibrow Man! Maybe if I struck a manly pose . . .

Nah! Perhaps I should go for the Jack Bauer Man Purse . . .

Now there’s a manly mug!

So what say you, dear Reader? Ditch the purse? Ditch the Unibrow? Both? Are they fatal wardrobe malfunctions? That's our topic today, and I'm up for any and all suggestions . . .

Just A Little Homework . . .

Ack!!!

The little clock in the bottom-right corner of my monitor tells me it's 7:48 AM. Eastern. Which means I have only 12 minutes to finish this post and hit Publish.

My homework. Assigned by Professor Shelle. She even sent me an email reminder last night at some point during that monotonous Oscar brouhaha. I had to read my invite from Google Calendar just to remind myself of the topic. Something about who helps the kids with the homework.

Not me.

For, though very few people would know this unless I told them, I am a chronic procrastinator. In fact, you probably wouldn't even know that I sat here at . . . 7:52 . . . piecing this masterpiece together if I hadn't brought it up.

My excuse? I work well under pressure. Some of my best material - for my blog, for my university classes, for my grandmother's funeral - were all crafted under the weight of an impending deadline, often only a few short moments over the horizon of time.

So I'm not the best example. Even though it works for me in most cases.

When the kids get home, it is my wife who gathers them 'round her desk, makes them drag out their assignment notebooks, tallies up the list of requirements for the evening, and then ensures that they take their place at the table and crack their books. I am there for support, for when the algebra or lit assignment gets overwhelming. I read the books they are reading and do my part to make sure they are getting the material and that they are ready for whatever test or paper is coming due.

But the whip-cracking is all my wife.

7:57 . . .

[twiddling thumbs]

So. There ya go. Homework sucks. But my kids get it done thanks to my diligent and organized wife.

Me? I need coffee . . .

He Said She Said: Satellite/Cable/TV

Every Thursday, two of our contributors are asked to take opposing stances on an issue and present a case for their viewpoint. Comment and tell us who you agree with or what you believe or think! The topics are suppose to illicit a response and start a conversation in comments. Enjoy!

TODAY'S TOPIC: Satellite/Cable TV. Is it necessary?

SHE said:

In general, I could live without TV. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy it, but I could live without it. Internet is another story for another day. That being said, I think cable is not only acceptable, but beneficial. The key is balance and guidelines.

For the kids, TV, and all the cable programming that comes with it, is a privilege, not a right. On a good day they each get to choose one, 30 minute, show. That means no more than 1.5 hours of TV, per day. It does not mean a free for all, to choose anything they want. I am very strict about what gets watched. For example, no Sponge Bob. The girls know what they are, and are not, allowed to watch. For as many bad programs that are offered by cable, there are just as many good ones. We opted for the Discovery tier, which opens up a whole world of educational TV for the kids.

Any of the girls can lose the privilege of watching TV for misbehaving. I find that it is a good currency.

Another important aspect is balancing TV with other childhood activities. Creative activities and outside play for example. On a typical day, when they get home from school, they eat snack and go out to play for an hour. When they come in, they do homework. Once everyone is done with homework, if there is time before dinner, they can watch TV.

For my husband and I, cable means DVR. DVR means we can watch "our" TV when it is convenient for us. I generally watch TV during the day, when no one else is home, while I fold laundry. My husband will watch a program when he gets home from work to unwind. Then there is the one and only show we watch together. Thanks to the DVR, we can watch that after the kids go to bed.

For us, cable has not meant more time planted in front of the TV. It has offered better choices in what to watch. For the kids, it's more educational. For my husband, it's Food Network. For me, it's all the wonderful food my husband is inspired to make... I mean news whenever I have a free moment. Without it, I would be limited to stupid reality shows, and soap operas.

Just like any time-consuming extra curricular activity, you have to make good choices. You can't ignore the real people in your life for the TV. Just because you have access to more programming, doesn't mean you need to watch it all.

Missy

HE said:

What she said.

No, really. I'm not stupid!

I was going to go on and on about how having access to literally thousands of choices makes for a remote-controlled lifestyle where one subsists on show after banal show. Where one sits down and just starts flipping through the channels and stops to watch a minute or two of this or that before heading to the next must-see offering.

But that would be how it goes for some people. People unwilling to set limits, on themselves or on the children. People with zero imagination or energy.

Clearly, Missy is no such people. And I can't argue with a single thing she wrote.

Is having satellite/cable in the home wrong? Absolutely not.

Is having satellite/cable in the home a must? Again, absolutely not.

Is satellite/cable in the home necessary?

I grew up in a home where the TV often came on before the lights. It was the ever-present glow over every meal. The disruptive, chatty, obnoxious Buttinski, ruining nearly every meaningful conversation. Benny Hill and Carol Burnett and Ricardo Montalban were my babysitters.

And then came cable. With its nonstop marathons of mayhem and doting detectives and music videos. (Well, actually, that last part was pretty cool. Especially back when they played videos. Remember those?)

And now? Well, it takes every ounce of my extremely diminished willpower to keep from turning off the TV when we go over for a visit. I just can't stand the inanity of it all. The way it sucks you in and won't let you turn away, even (or, perhaps especially) from the more ridiculous stuff.

Now don't get me wrong: I love to do stuff that involves a TV. I play the occasional video game. my favorites including the Silent Hill series and any game that requires a guitar controller. And I am an avid movie viewer: I have a Blockbuster membership and get my money's worth. My library's collection of episodic shows on DVD has been perused and used regularly. (Most recently, it was The Wire. My God! After those 60+ hours, I'll never watch another Jerry-Bruckheimer-Dick-Wolf-produced show again.) The same goes for the rest of my family. They have things they like about the TV and, for the most part, they use it wisely. (Currently, it's nonstop Apolo Ohno. I hate Apolo Ohno.)

But their needs to be limits. And Missy covered those nicely. She also pointed out some nice alternatives to spending hours in front of the tube, to which I'll add some specific examples that my family enjoys:

1) The Library. Find the one in your town and go get a card if you don't already have one. Each of my children got their own library card when they turned five. Sure, the fines pile up occasionally, but I can eat those easier than a cable bill.

2) Family Game Night. I know. It's an overused platitude, but it works. We have a closet just for games, ranging from the simple (Uno) to the more time-consuming and complex (Arkham Horror). Sometimes everyone joins in, and at other times it's just a select few. Regardless, it becomes a habit. One that leads to conversation, laughter, and the occasional argument. The stuff of life. Real life. Not the crap you see on TV. Your Family Game Night doesn't have to look like the one on TV, with all the saccharine smiles and whoops of joy. Make it your own.

3) Read something! See #1. And when you get your basketful of books home, grab one, grab some couch, and crack that cover. We don't do this as much as we used to, where everyone sits down together and just enjoys a book. But it's not rare to find someone hanging out in their favorite corner, or in my favorite chair, curled up and reading. There is enough imagination-inducing goodness between the covers of most any book to easily rival whatever TV has to offer.

Our TV? Not a flat screen. It's 27 inches of big, fat monstrosity that likes to shut off on its own right in the middle of the good parts. I have rabbit ears hooked up to the digital converter the government made me buy. I am told that I should probably consider getting hooked up. Verizon won't leave me alone, wanting me to upgrade to the latest mind-blowing package deal. And I probably will eventually. But I'm glad I've taken the time to ensure that TV-watching is a lesser priority.

It sure makes things just a little bit quieter . . .

Alright, people. It's your turn. Is satellite/cable TV necessary? Is television in general necessary? Can you live without it? Should you live without it? Can we live without it? Sound off in the comments . . .

[Flickr image by kevinzim and is protected]

The Upside

Back in the day, before there was a recession, I worked as an operations manager for a radio station. For eight years I wrote commercials, produced them, scheduled them, and hosted the morning show that aired them. I hired people and fired people. I changed out transmitter tubes when they went bad. It was a decent gig. And then the owner sold the station.

The unwritten purpose of any employee is to reduce the owner's debt. Job well done, indeed.

Radio jobs in the area were scarce at the time, and I didn't want to relocate, so I looked elsewhere and found a job manufacturing control boards for heating and air conditioning units made by a company whose name you'd immediately recognize if I told it to you.

Since starting there in early 2006, I've been laid off three times, each within the past two years.

The first time was in May of 2008. It lasted about six weeks. Not really all that big of a deal actually. I got some time off during the summer. Got to swim with the kids, play lots of video games, rock out in Cleveland, and catch up on my reading.

The second time was in February of 2009. That one lasted until just after Independence Day. I played more video games, swam some more, studied harder than usual for my university classes, wrote a rather sunny post about the whole ordeal, and slept in. And I looked for work. Any work.

The third time was not a typical layoff. It came in late August of last year, and this time there would be no recall rights. The ones who had taken voluntary layoffs were coming back, and there would be more people than jobs. Once again they would be taking my badge from me. I went home one night and wrote this:

Home at 2:30 this morning. Finished reading a chapter and turned off the light at 3:00. And instead of grabbing my favorite huggy pillow off the floor and drifting away, I rolled over and embraced my wife.

I caressed her cheek. Brushed the hair from her forehead. Ran my hand down the length of her side and let it rest on the curve of her hip. Felt each shiver. And I thought about things we’ve been through during these 20+ years together . . .

Our first night as husband and wife when, in the early part of the evening of a very long day, we fell asleep on the floor of her grandmother’s cabin. How we held each other so tightly under a handmade quilt, having vowed before a great cloud of witnesses to never let go.

Following the birth of each of our four children. Even when she would have rather been sleeping, or throwing up, we held each other.

At funerals, weddings, and crappy movies.

Effortless embraces that carried the weight when words were used up or out of place. Thousands of times between the first and this morning. Each one – whether visceral, frisky, or subliminal – a touch, a point of contact between physical presence and myriad circumstances.

Today, I have to tell her that I’m being laid off. Again. I imagine we’ll hold each other. And, though mixed with tears and worries, it will feel like love. Like an unspoken commitment to make things work. She will bear the emotional brunt upon a backbone made of stuff stronger than steel. And in her embrace I’ll find the courage to get out of bed in the morning.

If I can convince her to let me go . . .

I haven't worked since. And while the math is easy, it isn't pretty: In 2009, I worked only about eleven weeks. The remainder of the year, when not swimming and playing video games and attending classes, I looked for work.

Any work.

I thought about going all funny with this post. Telling you about how I'm starting to drive her and the kids crazy with my lack of hygiene and omnipresence. Or how I watch Dirty Jobs for ideas on what to apply for next.

But it's just not funny anymore.

The Upside? She still hasn't let me go. I will find a job. Regardless, we will continue to hold each other, and make memories that will last. Today is another day to either sulk and stay in bed, or get up and, as some guy in a movie once said, "Get busy living, or get busy dying."

I hope . . .

Brian

tysdaddy

The Cheek of God

[Flickr photo is by cherwenka and is protected]

My Favorite

This is my daughter, Aryn.

She's the one on the right. The lady on the left is the local "weather specialist." She's not a real meteorologist. She's a dinosaur. Been around since the days of dry erase weather boards. When they had to draw isobars and storm fronts by hand and simulate their movement by swaying in front of the camera and flopping their arms. I imagine she made swooshing sounds.

And always with that damn smile.

You'll notice my daughter is not really smiling. Even though she'd just won second place at the Johnny Appleseed Festival Apple Dessert Baking Contest. That weather lady was one of the judges. And my daughter? She's not convinced the weather lady is the real deal. See that skeptical glance? The almost smirk? She's not sporting that weary look because she'd stayed up until the wee hours of the morning slaving over the filling for her Dutch Apple Pie Cones. Oh, No! Behind that glare, she's calling bullsh*t.

Just one of the reasons why Aryn is my favorite kid.

There are other reasons:

1) She's the only one of my kids that will go see the movie that I want to see, even though it isn't rated G. Recently, we sat through Avatar, munching on buttered popcorn with caramel-flavored powder sprinkled on top, sipping a five gallon Mr. Pibb made complete with a shot of vanilla, and then talked afterward about how it most definitely was NOT Dances with Wolves: Redux, like everyone claimed.

2) She knows what Redux means.

3) She also knows what loquacious means; a wellspring of trivial chatter, she never fails to make me laugh.

4) Her creativity knows no bounds. Like me, she is often in the midst of a plethora (another favorite word of hers) of projects, and doesn't know what to do with herself if she has to clean up her mess.

5) She's a voracious reader. It's not unusual to find her holed up in her own special corner of Barnes & Noble, our favorite hangout, with a pile of books around her, many of them long and mostly finished before I'm ready to leave. I've never been a particularly fast reader, so I envy her a tiny bit.

6) She hasn't given up on asking questions. Unlike most kids who think they have it all figured out really early in life and so avoid staring at the grays of life, she probes deeper. She's the only one of my kids who will routinely engage me in discussions about God. Or the lack thereof. For Aryn, the pursuit of knowledge is a never-ending journey worth taking, with signposts of occasional wisdom leaning on the roadside.

I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. She is close to my heart, parallels my own personality in ways both delightful and frightening, and at this point in her life needs a father who is also a friend.

Now, I have four kids.

Aryn is not the oldest, and she's not the youngest. She's right there in the (sort of) middle, older than the little ones still in elementary school, yet younger than the sophomore in high school.

The little guys think I'm cool, especially when I take them to the roller skating rink or play the PS2 with them. They really dig me if I remember to bring home barbecue Pringles or Yu-Gi-Oh cards.

And the oldest thinks I'm an alright chauffeur for him and his girlfriend. He was my favorite once. When we played Dungeons & Dragons together. When I could still beat him at almost any game we popped into whatever console we owned at the time. But somewhere along the line, I became his father. The one who complains too loudly about his grades, or the amount of time he's spending on the phone.

Time for a cleansing breath . . .

Do I love each of my kids? Without a doubt. Would I step in front of a train or take a bullet for any one of them? In a heartbeat, and without batting an eyelid. Do I spent quality time with each of them? Moments where we hop in the car, or in my recliner, and just do stuff? Stuff they will remember tomorrow morning? Or when they're older and writing blogs about me? Stuff that is sometimes nothing at all?

I believe so.

Will Aryn always be my favorite? I can't answer that with any sort of certainty. Hormones are about to hit. But for now? She still likes to be with me. I don't embarrass her too badly. I see myself in her. In her eyes. The shape of her face. That pensive look she gets. Some people say she zones out a lot. But that's not zoning. That's digging. Trying to make it all make some sort of sense when that hardly seems possible.

She needs to be my favorite. And perhaps I need to be her favorite as well . . .

Brian

aka The Cheek of God

aka Tysdaddy

Less Chex More Mix - The Mars/Venus Recipe Swap

Psst! Tysdaddy here. I'm taking over the blog today to engage in a bit of festive merriment.

How about a show of hands: Who likes eating?

Thank you, I see that hand. And that one waaay in the back. Hands are raised all over the internet.

Why?

Because we're an eating bunch. Especially those of us pursuing or already in committed relationships . . .

Pardon me. I opened a new tab in my Firefox browser and tried to find some research to back up that claim, but it's late, Google is overwhelmingly vague at the moment, and I really don't care. Just nod your head in recognition of my profundity.

So, allow me to start a new holiday tradition here at In the Real World: The annual "Mars/Venus Recipe Swap."

[insert whoops and applause]

We'll do this every year on the day before Christmas. Because I said so. And because I know that we're all either eyeballs deep in cookbooks preparing grub for the hoards that will come knocking within the next 24 hours, or we're eating said grub and, with a crowbar shaped like a wine glass, are attempting to wrest the recipe for the simply succulent chicken feet kabobs out of Aunt Nellie's arthritic grip.

Bottom line?

By the end of the day, you'll have a recipe that you're just dying to share. Whether it's for some animal or vegetable swimming in gravy or a cookie shaped like a reindeer turd, this is the place to spill the three-bean salad.

To kick off the festivities, here is my super-secret, better-than-sex, stick-to-your-ribs recipe for Chex Mix. This Chex Mix is on steroids and bench presses 350 pounds. This Chex Mix will kick your grandma's Chex Mix's sagging booty.

Tysdaddy's Chex Mix That is Less Chex and More Mix and Rules the World of Chex Mix With Its Mightiness

1 Stick Salted Sweet Cream Butter
2 Cups Corn Chex Cereal
2 Cups Rice Chex Cereal
2 Cups Wheat Chex Cereal
2 Cups Garlic Parmesan CHEEZ-IT Crackers (Or White Cheddar if your are a sissy and can't handle so much garlic!)
1 Cup Salted Pretzel Twists
½ Cup Mixed Nuts
½ Cup Whole Cashews or Pecans
½ Cup Sesame Sticks
1 Teaspoon Lawry’s Seasoning Salt
½ Teaspoon Garlic Powder
½ Teaspoon Onion Powder
2 Tablespoon Worcestershire Sauce

Preheat oven to 250º.
Melt butter in microwave (Two minutes or so, and please put it in a bowl or something!)
Mix all the big, dry stuff in an oven pan (The cheap kind that you can toss when you're done.)
Add spices to melted butter and stir.
Pour seasoned butter over mix and stir.
Bake in oven for one hour, stirring every fifteen minutes.
Spread out and cool mix on towel.
Eat!!!!!!

And you will eat it, my friend. The whole batch. While it's still warm. And then your family or significant other will complain that they didn't get any. And you'll just laugh at their pain as you wipe the buttery crumbs off your Molly Hatchet concert tee.

'Cause that's how you roll!

Alright. Your turn. I know you've got a recipe you want to add to our first annual Mars/Venus Recipe Swap post thingy. So leave a comment already! And then you can go back to your party . . .

[Flickr photo is by foooooey and is protected]

Baby Jesus Was a Girl

Have you ever been playing Barbies and found yourself with too many girl dolls for the double date you want to stage? And so you dress up one of the girls in a pair of jeans, stuffed her hair under a cap, and called her "Tim?"

Um . . . just me?

Ahem! Moving on . . .

This is my daughter, Zoe.

She's the little one, with the "Wake me up and I'll KILL you!" countenance. The fourth and final fruit of my loins. The other one is my wife. Both beautiful, no? And both of the female persuasion.

The date was Sunday, December 17th, 2000, a mere eight days before the big show that is Christmas Day. She entered the world on a dark and snowy morning just after 2:00AM. Or so I'm told; I think I slept through it. She didn't cry too much. My wife was drugged up and giggling maniacally when she wasn't snoring herself. We'd done this before, you see. Not a big deal.

We all loved holding her. Especially her big brother:

That's a death grip, people. That grin? Even at a tender eighteen-months, he is most certainly contemplating the havoc he will wreak upon her in the coming years. But darn it if she isn't just simply a cuddle bunny!

Fast forward one week. We're at church for the annual Christmas Eve shindig. The church famous for their live nativity. With live shepherds and sheep and donkeys and . . . people dressed up as angels. There is no shortage of live. And for the evening service, our friend Keith is going to sing a song by Michael Card titled "Joseph's Song." And because a live baby Jesus beats a plastic one any day of the week . . . and twice on Sunday . . . (sorry) . . . he asked if we'd be willing to let him hold Zoe while he sang.

(Holy crap! Show business! The crowds! The applause! The FAME!!!)

"Um . . . sure," agrees my wife. So she removes Zoe from her favorite pink blankie and we wrap her up in some brownish swaddling clothes. And there she was . . .

. . . swaddled, sashayed serenaded . . . and completely zonked. He kept rocking her and singing into her face, yet she snored and snored and refused to stir. They could have gone ahead and used the doll and no one would have known the difference.

Except for my wife and I. We stood in the wings and beamed with pride. Our little girl, the baby Jesus. That, my friends, is a helluva show . . .

So, it's Christmas week. Was Jesus really a girl? Scratch that . . . Do you and yours attend a live nativity? Or is that just too creepy, with all the hay and animal dung and all? With just a few days before the Big Day, what is one special thing you do to help bring it all together? And last-minute shopping doesn't count . . .

Me Tarzan!

On behalf of Team Mars, I have a confession to make . . .

Men are babies.

We put on a good show most of the time. We puff out our chests and beat them like Tarzan, swinging on our ropes from tree to tree. We bear our teeth in the face of danger and roar all macho-like when we emerge victorious against some treacherous and snarling adversary.

Then we head back to the tree house and snuggle with Jane.

It's been over twenty years that my wife and I have been together, and it never fails to amaze me that she's still there waiting for me when I swing back around. Not just waiting, but also willing to engage. To ask me how things are going in my neck of the jungle. And to provide, in the midst of my constantly-turbulent surroundings, a setting that is familiar, stable, and welcoming.

She makes my life easier in some profound ways . . .

1) She remembers the cream. It's a subliminal thing, for I never put it on the list. She just seems to know when I'm running low on my International Delight Fat Free French Vanilla Coffee Creamer. It finds its way into her shopping cart, rides along in the back of the van, and there it is in the refrigerator door when I need it. And I need it, people. Coffee sucks without it . . .

2) She does my laundry. Back in college, she let me do it. And it all went in one load: dirty socks and underwear; jeans and sweat pants so filthy they could stand up on their own (or so my mom used to claim, though I've never actually witnessed such a thing); that itchy purple sweater I got from some well-meaning relative upon completing four years of high school; and my tennis shoes with Minnesota topsoil ground into the grooves. People knew when I washed clothes. Somewhere along the line, she recognized my ineptitude and took over. Now, my loincloth smells like a mountain breeze . . .

3) She is predictable. By and large, she's Grey's Anatomy, WWII historical fiction, anything smothered in barbecue sauce, Pepsi, and chocolate. Never dark. She does surprise me occasionally. Linger on something curious and new that causes a lifting of the eyebrows and a "Hmm. Really?" But after all these years, I find these to be only slight variations on familiar themes. I rest easier at night knowing that curve balls will be few and far between.

4) She doesn't nag. She could. Some say she should. And sometimes I wish she would. But for the most part, she lets me be me. When the decisions aren't of the monumental sort, she lets me swing away. Occasionally, she'll offer a simple "Is that really what you want to do?" And after all my muttering and justifying, she'll let me take my cut and deal with the consequences. The best part? If I go down swinging, she doesn't lay on the "I told you so!" Instead, she holds my hand and reminds me that I am more than the sum of my poor performances.

5) She listens. Regardless of the topic - and trust me, it can run the gamut from petty to poignant - she lends an attentive ear. She lets me reason things through by talking them out and providing her perspective for consideration. We don't always agree, but we come out with a stronger understanding of both the depths and the varieties of our unique points of view. In a world that seldom takes the time to hear and consider what I have to say, she is my faithful sounding board, my harshest critic, and my most passionate companion.

Yep. I'm a baby. But I'm man enough to admit it. And more than willing to confess that I'd be lost without my spouse. I'd be an unheard, beaten down, constantly confused dude sporting dirty knickers and drinking crappy coffee. And that would just be gross . . .

So let's hear it, Team Mars! How does your spouse keep your corner of the jungle running smoothly? And Team Venus? We love you. We'd suck without you. We thank you . . .

Brian (who blogs here)

Penny

Meet Penny.

When socks and library cards go missing, Penny took them. If the lights get left on or doors get left open, Penny is the irresponsible one. She occasionally opens the garage door in the middle of the coldest winter night, allowing the water pump to freeze, and loves to snarf down the last piece of strawberry pie, leaving a trail of crumbs and a sticky, bright red mess on the countertop.

The Swine Flu hit our household this week, and Penny hid the thermometer. We heard her laughing about it early this morning, around 2:17am, as she went about rearranging the boxes in the attic above our bedroom. Then she silently made her way to my son's room and turned off his alarm clock. The alarm clock he swears he set before going to bed last night. He nearly missed the bus.

Penny never flushes.

Penny is dead.

This is her story:

Penny Antoinette Irene Nelson was born during the waning moments of an early-Autumn storm in 1809. The local historian will tell you, with that smug countenance of the rumormonger plastered on her pasty-white and wrinkled faces, that it was this storm that spawned the hellacious tornado which leveled the area's corn and soybean fields. It is that smug expression, with its tiny hint of a wink and an almost tangible plea begging the question, that leads one to inquire further for the rest of the story. And there is far more than leveled corn fields at the end of this story.

Or so I've been told.

It is reported that as the sun rose the next morning, struggling to penetrate the All-Saints'-Day-morning fog, the population of my small, mid-western town found their number decreased by fourteen. For found dead, lying buried in the rubble of their farmhouse on the southwest corner of Feightner Street, were the Strausbaugh family. The patriarch, one William Everett Strausbaugh, had been a shut-in for over a decade by this point. Years of plowing, planting, harvesting, and drinking had turned him into a cantankerous, scurrilous, hoary-headed bastard. But people will tolerate the reclusive where the scent of wealth is present, and Old Man Strausbaugh was loaded. Each year, as the new year began its slow unwinding, he would host elaborate parties, inviting the locals over to gather around his ample hearth fires and drink his homemade sour mash whiskey. And each year, he would smooth talk some young female house guest into visiting his bedchamber for some festivities of a more lascivious nature. In late January of 1809, his willing guest was one Abigail Nelson.

Abigail settled in the region after nineteen years of wandering the highways and byways at the side of her aging Gypsy mother, Rosalyn. She saw in the fields of corn a chance to finally settle down and start a new life, but funds for seed were hard to come by. On that cold and snow-swept evening, over steaming glasses of spiked cider, Old Man Strausbaugh had made promises to young Abigail Nelson. Promises that tickled her ears. Promises he never intended to keep. He planted a seed of a different sort. And when Abigail told him that she was going to bear him a child, he cut her loose in a vengeful, threat-laden rage.

Rosalyn was furious. All those years of wandering, with not a care in the world and no ill effects to speak of, and it took them settling down for things to turn sour. So she cursed Old Man Strausbaugh. Cursed him good. And with the dawning of that aforementioned midnight hour, he found himself aloft and flying, exhilarated as though in the rapture of a dream, and then smashed back upon the ground with a dark finality. The curse had taken not only his life, but the lives of his wife and twelve children. And in their stead, a new life was born. As the fog lifted, Rosalyn the Gypsy smiled a knowing smile and settled back in her rocking chair cradling her granddaughter.

The funny thing about curses is that they seldom play out in predictable ways. Indeed, Old Man Strausbaugh and his brood were dead, but Penny inherited a bit of his wild streak. Penny grew into a beautiful girl. I've seen the pictures, and they are haunting. She had the most penetrating eyes I've ever seen, and I imagine her smile could charm the proverbial ice from the proverbial Eskimo. And from reports I've read, she too, after years of sowing wild oats and no small amount of general mayhem amongst the locals, became reclusive. Each Halloween, beginning sometime after 1899, the year she locked herself inside and never came out again, neighbors would report hearing ear-splitting screams emanating from the attic of the mustard-yellow house on Washington Boulevard where Penny Nelson lived. And regardless of the weather conditions, great gales of wind would sweep down the street, generally around the midnight hour, bending the lilac bushes that surrounded the house low to the ground in their deafening wake.

And on the wind was the faintest smell of liquor.

In 1909, long after Rosalyn and Abigail had been carried away and the windows boarded up, from the inside, the house simply blew away. No body was ever found. The property, overgrown with crab grass and nettles, but with blossoming lilac bushes still firmly rooted around the perimeter, sat vacant until 2003. That's when I bought it. And it's where I built my house. Upon the advice of my neighbor, the local rumormonger historian, I opted for a cream-colored siding as opposed to mustard-yellow. And I stay away from drinking. But the wind has been picking up lately, blowing the leaves across the property and piling them up at the base of the lilac bushes. We decided to keep them. And the forecast for Halloween? Stormy . . .

[Brian, aka The Cheek of God, aka Tysdaddy, blogs here]

[photo credit]

Unnecessary

I hung with the Holy Rollers growing up. So I spent many evenings at revivals instead of doing my homework. And it seldom failed that the evangelist prancing around the stage - usually corpulent, sweating, and shouting - had a smoking hot wife perched on the front pew.

So I set my sights high. If that dude could bag a hottie, so could I. I already had the fat part down. My third grade teacher told me so after I topped the scales at 110 pounds. Unlike those freaks in the Gatorade commercials, I could sweat without lifting a finger. And while I wasn't necessarily loud, I possessed an extra helping or two of charisma. Like Steve Martin's character in Roxanne, I could self-deprecate like a pro for the sake of lightening the mood, able and willing to acknowledge that, yes, there was indeed an elephant in the room, and he's a wild and crazy guy! Like Garfield up there, in all his grand glory, I was fine with being the biggest guy in the room, eating lasagna with both hands and laying on the charm. I was John Candy. Dom Deluise. A splash of Louie Anderson when people got belligerent. While everyone else progressed, squeezing themselves into whatever fashion statement was hip at the time, I rewashed my Zubas and XXXL Lou Albano Hawaiian shirts and made my own statement:

This is me, so deal with it.

And finally, after years of playing the shoulder-to-cry-on role for numerous hotties, I landed one of my own . . .

Very Ron Jeremy, no? And, believe it or not, it wasn't the kickass eyebrows that did it for her. Instead, it was my prowess at the only collegiate intramural sport I ever played . . . root-beer-float chugging. I took home the gold, and the girl.

In the beginning, I imagine it wasn't easy for her. I was the obnoxious kid with a new toy, fiddling with all the parts, trying to take it apart to see what makes it tick. For I had no idea that someone existed who wasn't willing to take me at face value. She demanded that which I had always felt incapable of giving. She held my hand like she was honored to do so. Kissed me with her eyes closed, like she meant it. And in public! She was never content to hide me away. I figured that's how it would work once someone like her decided to go deep with someone like me. That they'd talk of love and respect, but display it only when we were out of sight. I knew in my heart, for so long I just knew, that I was no prize, worthy of being put on display for all the world to see. Not without the act, anyway. People accepted the act. Yet I had become the entertainer who left the roar of the crowd behind only to settle down alone in the back of the bus.

She saw something different. She looked past all the sophomoric shenanigans, beneath all the boisterous bombasting, and through the worn-thin fibers of my one-size-fits-all Bon Jovi concert t-shirt, and saw a heart ready to care. To love. To unconditionally give that one thing which had been withheld for so long.

On an overcast June day in 1991, we exchanged vows. I easily outweighed her by a couple hundred pounds. But she still said I do.

I continued to play the entertainer for over a decade. After all, I reasoned, she may like me, but there are others that need to be put at ease around the fat guy. Eventually, I grew tired of the role. Even a fat suit wears thin after so much wear and tear.

So a couple years after the millennium, I went under the knife and had an open Roux-en-Y. That's a gastric bypass for the skinny laymen out there. Two hundred pounds - a good-sized high school linebacker - have gone missing, and we aren't reporting the theft to the local authorities. Now we wear each others clothes. Gratefully, mostly sweatshirts. We take long walks where I don't get winded. We go out in public and no one stares. And we make love without all that awkward squashing.

Body image? Even as I spent all that time writing my own punch lines, I hated the way I looked. I come from a long line of big eaters, diabetics, and wearers of pants with expandable waistbands. At my heaviest, my waist size was easily double my inseam. That was who we were, and we just had to learn to live with it. Even as the hatred of it diminished the soul.

My wife taught me to forget about the weight. It just didn't matter. And the funny thing? When something doesn't matter anymore, it becomes unnecessary . . .

Brian- Cheek of God

[top photo credit]