Today he turns seven, and as I contemplate just how vibrant and unbelievable a little human being he is, I would like to do something special as always to honor his awesomeness.

So, as I have similarly in years past, I hereby dub today International Act Like a Seven Year Old Day! This is an international holiday and observance of it is mandatory.

To properly celebrate IALA7YOD (I’m still amazed at how these holidays just roll off the tongue), you should really make sure you do the following throughout the day today:

1) Get the giggles when you learn a new naughty word.

2) Kick your dirty underwear under your bed so that you don’t have to worry about them right now.

3) Sneak out of your room at night and peek at someone you love just because it makes you feel better.

4) Look at your teeth and think they’re amazing no matter how straight they are.

5) Tell your dad that you wish you could spend time with him every day

Continue reading: International Act Like a 7-Year Old Day!

A couple weeks ago, I published my blog post Weird Boobs and Little Wieners, and the response was overwhelmingly agreeable, which to me meant that… 1) an incredible amount of people struggle with feeling like their most treasured physical body parts are going to be heavily scrutinized any time their clothes come flying off in a fit of passion. And 2) that an incredibly high percentage of people are sick and tired of feeling that way. I was so nervous about publishing that one for some reason, but I’m really glad I did.

That post, and the discussion that ensued, was heavily focused on that first time (or the first few times) two people are intimate with each other.

But what about those times when we chronically feel like our bodies aren’t good enough for the person we are committed to in the long-term?

I think back to my second marriage. God, she was a sexy woman. I mean, in all honesty, she was as close to physical perfection when we married as any magazine could airbrush a woman.

The problem was, she couldn’t seem to see it. In fact, she really hated just about everything her body was, and because she judged herself so harshly, I began judging myself more harshly, and it began spiraling into this weird, “don’t look at me I’m hideous, let’s only have sex with the lights off” thing

Continue reading: Let’s Just Get Naked

So… you want to date a single dad, do you? I don’t blame you. Single dads are pretty dang awesome. But if you have your eye on one, there are a few things you should know about them. Consider this a “how to date a single dad” advice list. You’re going to need it. At least if you’ve found yourself a good one.

First, you should know that he’s going to talk about his kids. A lot.

I know, I know, the conversation should be greatly focused about you, him, and both of your awesomeness on a first date, but you have to understand that single dads live and breathe their kids and their kids’ happiness, so give him a minute or twenty to get it out of his system. He’ll eventually realize he’s doing it and the conversation will then become first date appropriate.

During that time, you’ll hear all about his kids’ sports, his kids’ accomplishments, his kids’ science projects, and possibly even his kids’ most recent pooping problems. If he starts telling you about the bicycle technique that works wonders for child constipation, trust me… you’ve found a winner.

Next, you should know that single dads may show up not completely groomed

Continue reading: So… You Want to Date a Single Dad.

As I look at it, there are five different types of insecure people:

Those who tackle their insecurities with humor.

Those who wrap themselves in positivity and pretend they have no insecurities.

Those who verbally (and constantly) doubt themselves and put themselves down.

Those who make up all sorts of fabulous stories and tales about themselves that aren’t true.

And, the much harder to spot insecure people – those who act out of insecurity to try and cover up.

But before I go on, it should be noted that we all have insecurities. We all have areas of our lives in which we aren’t 100% confident. We are all insecure people, in one way or another. There is nothing wrong with that. It is an important part of the human experience.

I, for example, have a canoe full of insecurities. Take, for example, my flabby lats from my obesity days that I can’t seem to do anything about. I’m telling you I could spread those lat wings and fly away. Or maybe I’m insecure about my thick layer of fabulous body hair. A gypsy woman once offered me forty dollars to shave me down and make a sweater from my coat. I took her up on it and then paid her eighty dollars for the sweater because I felt like a naked Elmer Fudd.

I guess you can tell what kind of insecure person I usually am

Continue reading: 20 Ways to Tell When Someone is Acting Out of Insecurity

I mean, there are laws. I’m not talking about those.

No, I’m talking about rules.

We are surrounded by them, day in and day out, and I have been thinking a lot about rules lately. Where they come from, why we have them, why we obey them or break them. Don’t you think they’re fascinating, especially when they more or less show up in places where there is nobody in charge?

Take for example, blogging. There are a lot of rules when it comes to blogging, at least there seems to be.

And it seems odd, doesn’t it? I mean, a blog is just a personal weblog where you can come and post anything you like, any time you like, about any topic you like. The entire concept seems to scream that there are no rules and should never be any rules

Continue reading: The Rules We All Must Learn to Break

I never stood a chance against you with your fancy modern style and your ability to keep her constantly entertained. She had no need for me. Not really. Not when I think back to those first few dates.

I remember on our very first date. Man, we got along famously. She could make me laugh the way no girl had in a long time. Then you showed up, made one little peep and she turned most of her attention toward you for the rest of the night. She all but forgot I existed in that moment

Continue reading: A Letter to You. The One Who Stole Her Away for Good.

Get your giggles out now and then let’s jump in. I want to really discuss a very sensitive (and taboo) subject, and yes I am choosing to write this from a purely heterosexual perspective for discussion’s sake. You’re big enough to apply it to your own sexuality if that sexuality is fabulously different.

The topic to discuss… Boobs and wieners. And even more specifically, weird boobs and little wieners.

Recently I sat across from a woman who I had thought was so beautiful only moments before. It was our first date.

She had these fantastic and warm eyes that flickered between blue and hazel depending on the angle of the light. Her cute little button nose and her high soft cheeks had finally abandoned the red hues brought to the surface by the thick winter wind outside.

Upon meeting, the conversation had almost immediately elevated to this rare level of communicative excellence. She was one of those people with whom I shared almost too much similar history and life experience.

I found her to be very pretty when we first met. By the time she decided to tell me about her breasts, I thought she was beyond stunning. Great conversation has a way of doing that to people, I suppose.

Then, out of nowhere, she made sure to educate me as to how unbeautiful she was, at least underneath her clothes

Continue reading: Weird Boobs and Little Wieners

[CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY’S POST IN WHICH I WAS LEFT SITTING ON A COUCH GETTING FATTER AND GROSSER AFTER LETTING A FEW BLOODY KNUCKLES DERAIL MY BIGGEST GOAL]

Where was I? Oh yes, sitting on the sofa, hiding my sweat and stink under an old blanket, stuffing my face with Funyuns, watching my pants get tighter before my naked eyes. Or something like that.

Just days before, I had been more motivated than I probably had been in my entire life to officially, once and for all, and with great daily explosive determination, get into the best physical shape of my life.

I had the end goal in place before that, but that first session on the heavy bag had inspired me so greatly that I immediately changed all of my plans to incorporate it as a permanent part of my goal. And not just a permanent part, but the new foundation and backbone of my goal.

I suddenly couldn’t see any plan that would work outside of the new plan

Continue reading: When Life Does What She Does and Derails Our Goals

I gave it a lot of thought. I spent a lot of money. I put in a lot of time and effort. When I was done, there it was in all its glory… My own simplified cross fit style basement gym, ready for all sorts of incredible and fun full-body exercise routines. Pull-up bars, Swiss balls, a Bosu, free weights, medicine balls, combat rope, TRX system, resistance bands, and…

My brand new heavy bag.

When I bought the heavy bag and installed it, I had never put on a punching glove in my life. I had never so much as touched a heavy bag. All the other equipment that I put into my gym I know and I know well, but the heavy bag I purchased untried and on a whim after hearing for years about the quality of workout they offer.

Plus, let’s be honest. What doesn’t sound appealing about just punching the crap out of a bag when you need to let off some steam

Continue reading: The Bloody Knuckles that for Some Reason Derailed My Life Goal

CONTINUED FROM THIS MORNING’S BLOG POST: “My Jimmy John’s Bully.” I wrote both of these a couple weeks ago, and wasn’t sure if I’d share one, both, or neither until today.

PART 2:

I walked back to the sandwich shop.

312 paces from my front door.

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there last time either. Or the time before. Or the time before that. I wonder if he still works there.

312 paces back.

I am haunted.

I am 33 years old. I am truly happy. I am successful. I am mentally sound. I am in the best physical shape of my life. I am surrounded with incredible and fulfilling relationships and friendships.

So why does the very thought of a kid from my past affect me at such a physiological level? Still

Continue reading: My Jimmy John’s Bully – Part 2

Bright white shortish hair with the slightest natural curl wisping around the sides. Large, bloodshot eyes, bulging from inset sockets. Prominent cheek bones sitting a top a half-crooked grin full of even more crooked teeth. He is adorned with bountiful pimples and that teenage perma-grease gloss.

He’s the kid who works at the Jimmy John’s around the corner from my house.

I want to punch him in the throat.

“Can I take your order?” he asks so congenially.

His thick white eyebrows slant downward ever so, as if drawn on by a cartoonist who never wants his creation to appear as anything but angry.

His pleasantry is a ruse.

I shake my head at him, letting him know that I see right through his smug little smile. I know who he is.

He’s the devil.

Then, as if being controlled by a puppeteer, I impulsively reach out, grab him by the collar, and yank his entire body across the countertop. He screams in fright, and I silence him by pushing him into the ground and pressing his bony right cheek hard into the cold tile below

Continue reading: My Jimmy John’s Bully

Whew. I am tired.

The Farmer’s Daughter and I just finished packing the last box between our two houses. On Monday she, and I, and Noah all move into our own place together.

I’ve never been to this point with any other girl since my divorce. In fact, I’ve never been to this point with any girl, ever.

Living together.

Before marriage, I mean.

Once upon a time, I was a Mormon, remember. And I actually tried to live the Mormon mandated lifestyle even though I never actually believed in it. That meant no sleeping together before marriage and it also meant no living together before marriage.

My first wife and I got married in the Mormon temple. I don’t want to brag or anything. It’s kind of an elite thing. Only the best of the best get married there. You have to have interviews with different dudes up the church chain and when you’re done and you’ve passed the tests, they give you a card saying you’re worthy to go inside. We never had sex, but we certainly weren’t squeaky clean. We were just good at lying about it (at least I was. I don’t know if she did or not, she had her own interviews), so we got our worthiness-cards and got hitched beneath those famous Mormon spires.

I also waited to do the deed with wife #2 even though we weren’t allowed to get married in the temple. The church wouldn’t let us. She was a widow and had been officially attached to her first husband (they call it being sealed) and women aren’t allowed to be eternally attached to more than one man at a time in that church. I could have been attached to as many women as I wanted, though, so it was a bit of a bummer for me. It was the only way we’d be together in the next life, after all.

It all seems so silly to me now, but dang. It was important stuff that was taken very seriously, and Mormons do believe that it is very sacred so I won’t say much more about it.

But for me, it was after marriage (and divorce #2) that I came to believe that not having sex before marriage is one of the most dangerous things couples can do. At least it is for people like me.

Because, you see, waiting tends to make you think you’re really in love when you’re actually just horny. Yes, I just said that

Continue reading: The Next Big Step with The Farmer’s Daughter

In yesterday’s post Too Old to be This Young, I told you all that I was staying with some buddies in The El Cortez Hotel.

The El Cortez.

The armpit of Las Vegas.

In fact, it doesn’t even deserve to be called the armpit of Vegas. It’s more like a hanging wart on the armpit of Las Vegas.

I’m sorry, but I don’t have a lot of nice things to say about El Cortez right now. I mean, it was dirty, and it was smelly, and it was fun to make jokes about murder and death while we walked the halls.

But then the incident with the blood-covered towel happened, and shit became real.

Pardon my French.

But I’m trying not to lose my lunch here, and I’m not doing a very good job of it.

When we first checked into our shared hotel room, I noticed a peculiar stench. It wasn’t quite the stench of death. It was more the stench of what was once death, covered with cheap whiskey, covered with B.O., covered with sex smells, covered with old fried chicken, covered with more B.O., and covered with nursing home.

With the smell that hit us, I was 100% absolutely positively certain there had to be a decaying body under the bed, so I looked. Nothing there but an old pair of granny panties that had long before become infused into the carpet. I think I saw whiskers protruding from one of the leg holes, but nothing that would account for the smell. After a thorough search, I decided it must just be the permanent smell that has long ago become part of the wallpaper

Continue reading: Finding the Blood-Covered Towel

As I  type this, I am sitting… nay; I am leaning all awkwardly and sprawled out on a disgusting (and probably diseased) hotel room floor, attempting not to wake up my three traveling companions.

It is 2:58 PM in the afternoon.

We didn’t go to bed last night.

We are in Las Vegas.

And of course, the immediate thought would be of course you didn’t go to bed last night! You’re in Vegas!

But I promise you, while we had fun, it wasn’t our (ultimate) choice to never rest our eyes. We literally had nowhere to rest our eyes. We didn’t have a hotel room until the next day at 2PM when we could finally check in. This was thanks to our adventurous spirits, leaving a night early, thinking everything would be easy to line up once we got there.

This will be fun! we thought. An adventure! we declared. Incomplete plans. An all-nighter to start us off. None of us had stayed up all night long in, oh, I don’t know, a decade or so.

At about 3AM we all hit our limit and decided we were too old to be that young, so we headed to the hotel check-in desk and decided to spring for a room.

No rooms available

Continue reading: Too Old To Be This Young

Parenting. It’s not always black and white, that’s for sure. In fact, most of the time it’s not black and white. If anything, it’s more like a nice thick sludge of pasty gray, kind of like a bowl full of 2-week-old pâté mixed with a dollop of mud and a pinch of what the heck am I even talking about.

Exhibit A (and the only exhibit): At a world-famous candy shop, a child breaks down into loud tears, asking Daddy to buy him a world famous chocolate bar.

Parenting Test – Does a GOOD Daddy:

A) Buy his son the chocolate bar to bring an end to the tantrum. B) Teach his son that such behavior will never get him what he wants and leave without buying his child chocolate.

What’s that you say? Definitely answer A?

You think it is black and white?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

And maybe. Just maybe. The right parenting move is to buy the kid chocolate.

I never would have thought so either, but last week while visiting Hershey Chocolate World, I became that dad, having to make that decision, and I learned that it sometimes was a nasty shade of pâté grey.

And since you’re in suspense, I’ll give away the ending. I bought him the chocolate bar.

Now, the rest of the story.

I think it goes without saying that aside, perhaps, from his mother, nobody knows my child better than I do.

Nobody knows his personality better.

Nobody knows his temperament better.

Nobody knows his moods better.

Nobody knows his triggers better.

Nobody knows his behavior better.

And nobody knows how all of it plays into everything that is going on in any given moment

Continue reading: Kid Tantrums. Man Tantrums.

Over on the SDL Facebook wall, I asked you what the creepiest thing was that you’ve ever heard a kid say.

I had no idea what to expect.

This is what I got. Plus a few future posts as well.

24 More of the Creepiest Things Ever Said by Kids

1. I was talking to a four year old about new food, saying certain food tasted similar to others. The boy says “I tasted blood once, you know what it tasted like?” *lowers voice* “people.”

2. When my oldest daughters (twins) were about five, we moved to where we now live. They used to tell me they saw a little girl in our house all the time. They could describe her perfectly. Eventually, they stopped talking about her, so we forgot about her. Fast forward about seven years – my youngest daughter was about three at the time. She used to talk about a little girl and a little boy she saw in her room when she was alone. She described the girl exactly as my older girls had only in more detail. My twins didn’t remember ever talking about her, but it definitely freaked me and my husband out. She continued talking to these two little kids she saw for almost three years. She even asked why they never got older and always stayed the same age.

3. When my son was three, I was making fresh corn tamales for the first time in his life. He asked me what I was doing and I told him. He then proceeded to tell me step by step how to make them. I asked him how he knew and he told me that when he had been a little girl, his grandma used to make them. His name had been Emma

Continue reading: 24 More of the Creepiest Things Ever Said by Kids

Okay, here we are again, now firmly planted on airplane number two on our journey home. If you missed yesterday’s post, it highlighted some of the not-so-highlighting parts of the last plane ride.

But things are looking up on this airplane. The crapper isn’t within easy elbow’s reach. No overly intrusive people have accidentally and fantastically twerked their badonkadonk in my face. And, this plane isn’t falling apart in mid-air (just yet).

Of course, I owe it to Hershey Lodge and Hersheypark to write and share something spectacular about the trip they just gave me, my son, and my girlfriend to Fatville, Pennsylvania.

Oh wait. I mean Hershey, Pennsylvania.

I keep thinking it’s called Fatville because they had to load me onto the plane via forklift after all the goodness they forced us to cram down our throats while we were there.

You know what’s funny is that three weeks ago, I didn’t even know Hershey, Pennsylvania existed, and I certainly didn’t know that there was a major theme park, one of the coolest vacation stops for families, and a homeless guy named Chuck who would sing and dance for you in exchange for chocolatey smiles only.

But, I got the email that we were invited to come check it out, and after Googling it a bit, I realized that it was one summer trip that we needed to make happen.

They gave us two full days and a couple half-days to enjoy a week’s worth of stuff, so today I’ll focus on the highlight reel.

First up, Hershey Lodge. To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if it would be some old dilapidated cabin in the woods, complete with axe murderers, Bigfoots (or is that Bigfeet?), and hooks hanging from car doors; or maybe it would be some big barn-type structure with all sorts of animal heads hanging on the walls, reminding all guests that death is never far away; or maybe it would just be a little bed & breakfast type place where they lure you in with the smell of cacao and you simply never return home again. I didn’t know. I just know they were picking up the tab and I wasn’t going to complain (unless I actually did get murdered… then I probably would complain a little).

What we found was an incredibly nice edifice. No, edifice isn’t the right word. Structure. No, that’s not right either. Compound? No, too Waco. It was just nice. And huge. And very classy. We were instantly greeted by Reece and Kiss (the park mascots), a professional staff, and a tote bag with nice gift towels that said Hershey all big and fancy-like. Noah immediately noticed the stack of Hershey Kisses on the end table when we walked into our room, and he’ll probably to this moment tell you that those were the highlight of his trip.

Anyway, Hershey Lodge was amazing. They had everything from the uber-nice hotel part of it (where we stayed), to the more affordable wings, to even a nice motel section. In other words, accommodations for everyone. I’d highly recommend Hershey Lodge and I’ll definitely stay there again if I ever go back to Hershey (which is very likely).

But we wouldn’t spend very much time at all at that lodge because when we arrived, they handed us a large envelope full of tickets to go experience so many of the Hershey attractions and activities (which, remember, I didn’t even know existed so very recently).

Most of the tickets were to attractions inside of a magical little place called Fat World.

I mean, Chocolate World.

But I promise you, it should be called Fat World because every time you turn around, someone is stuffing fresh, delicious, rich, creamy chocolate into your face.

And I say Fat World endearingly. It’s one of those things where you go and you feel good getting a little bit fatter for a couple days. It’s a place you go and everyone is getting a little bit fatter, and everyone is (besides the occasional burst of sugar-induced crankiness) overly happy (how could they not be with constant milk chocolate being injected into their veins), and everyone has forgotten for the briefest little moment that we’re all supposed to eat right and exercise as much as possible.CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

Very rarely do I get the chance to write a blog post based on a moment I’m witnessing live. But, it’s the season of travel, here I sit on an airplane, and I can’t help but find the people who surround me to be overly fascinating.

I should note that Noah and I are wedged side by side into the very back row of a very small airplane. Directly to our right is the one and only commode. Every time someone drops a twosie and opens the door afterwards, we get a nice big whiff of nastiness that is enough to make sure these bags of peanuts sitting on our fold-down trays remain unopened and uneaten. Nobody wants poopy peanuts.

The Farmer’s Daughter is three rows up, crammed up against a window while the middle-aged bald man next to her holds a giant newspaper at full width, uncaring of how much of her space he takes or how much room anyone in the aisle has to finagle around his outstretched arm. His hand is inconveniently (or maybe conveniently) set at crotch level in the aisle so that the people passing by are either gonna get a happy bonus bump or a complete violation of all things personal. It’s kind of exciting to watch people do theatrical moves of athleticism to get around him.

There is only one flight-attendant. She is a sweet Filipino woman. She stopped by our seats and hovered and gabbed for what seemed like an eternity, not wanting to move on until my child openly admitted and acknowledged to the entire world that she was the funniest, nicest, most personable woman he had ever met. She never got what she was hovering for, and she finally settled for a promise that he’d buy her some of the same candy he brought on the plane with him next time around.

Oh geez, hold on.

Sorry, I know that was one line of text to you, but it was about five minutes with the lid to my computer closed for me. A very rotund man just squeezed past me (his even more rotund butt in my face as he did) and entered the commode. As he came out, I was hit by a wall of stench that would make you slap your grandmother. And not the grandmother you’d like to slap. I’m talking about the sweet and kind one. The one that no person on earth, not even the world’s greatest tyrant, would feel good smacking.

I really don’t like these seats.

Poo. Stink. Rotund butts in my face

Continue reading: Epic People Watching – Folks on Airplanes

Yesterday I published An Open Letter to Ye Who is Always Late.

And, wow. There were some really happy people who thought that post was great. It was shared a whole bunch. And there were some really agitated and upset people. Several people told me it was the worst thing I’d ever written. I was told it was judgmental, and harsh, and vicious, and hateful, and some people even said they were done reading my blog.

This isn’t uncommon. Any time I write anything strongly worded and not all full of butterflies and tutus, even when it’s ultimately done from a place of love, I offend some people to the ends of the earth. I understand that those being offended are those people who really don’t like the mirror being held up. I know I hate when mirrors are held up to me and my less-than-awesome habits. And yes, I held up a big mirror yesterday. I’ll own that.

But life can’t always be lived politically correct. Writing and blogging certainly can’t be. Nothing ever improves when that is the case.

In that post, I very snarkily wrote a letter to a “friend” of mine who is always late. And by always, I don’t mean sometimes. I don’t mean when road traffic is unexpectedly rotten. I don’t mean when the kids occasionally are out of control. I mean always.

Of course, I didn’t write that open letter to any specific friend. I wrote that to any person who is chronically late and uncaring of the lives and time of others.

I, for one, am exhausted of it. I honestly am. And beating around the bush, and asking nicely, and gently nudging, and saying “it’s okay, just try better” hasn’t worked for any of the people in my life who are never on time. At all. Ever. At least for the stuff that involves me. So yesterday, I thought I’d try the direct (albeit blatant) approach.

You see, the further I get into my life and the older I get, the more I realize how precious every minute of every day is. I realize how valuable my time is, both for work and career but also for quality things I can be doing to enrich my life when I’m not working. I also pick and choose a lot more as I age, exactly what I will be doing with every minute of my life

Continue reading: My Response to Ye Late Ones

Dear Ye Who Is Always Late,

I feel it my place to honestly share my gratitude for you.

You have taught me so much about how thoughtless and uncaring I never want to be. And for that, I am thankful. Because of what you’ve taught me, others will not think the thoughts about me that I so often think (and sometimes even verbalize) about you. And that is a relief.

You have also taught me the value of time. You have taught me the value of other people’s time. And, you have taught me that when a person thinks his time is valuable and everyone else’s time is, well, not, that a lot of annoyance, perturbation, and sometimes even anger results. So, thank you for that lesson. I have learned it well from you, and it delights me that others will never be annoyed, perturbed, or angry at me for the same things you constantly do to me and to us.

But writing this letter in a backhanded overly passive-aggressive manner is making me sick and uneasy, so let me just come out and say what’s on my mind.

Your time is valuable. I get it. So is mine, and so is everyone else’s. I promise you.

You have a lot you want to get done. You have a lot to cram-in. Your to-do list is a mile long. I get that, too. And so is mine, and so is everyone else’s. I promise you that.

Yet for some reason, you think your time is more valuable as is evidenced by the way you show up never less than twenty minutes late, sometimes hours late, to do anything we all plan to do together.

Now, I am sure that since you’ve never once been on the early or even the on-time side of this, it’s possible that you don’t understand what it’s like for those of us who always show up on time (and usually early). So allow me to (kindly) explain some things.

Did you know this one basic truth exists about us?

We cannot and never will be okay being late just because you are.

Chronically late people, such as yourself, seem to think that being late has no consequences (aside from the brief groans, eye rolls, and grunts you will almost always get when you finally arrive).

Chronically late people also seem to think that the time is flying by for everyone else, just as it is for them, when they’re late.

Chronically late people also seem to think that just because they’re always late, other people will start showing up late to compensate and that eventually everyone will show up together and at the same time.

But none of that is true. At all. Ever.

CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE