Timpy's Tales

It Would Have Been Your Birthday Today

2012-01-30T00:00:00.006-06:00

It would have been your birthday today
I thought to myself as I knelt by your grave
and though it's been years since you passed away
my love for you, without fail, I still save
for I hope some day we'll meet again
though I don't know how
or where
or when

This rose that I leave here is merely a token
of love you showed me and a promise unbroken
to never forget you or let your memory die
so I kneel here beside you with tears in my eyes
I love you and miss you is all I can say
it would have been your birthday today

~ TW ~
1/30/97

In loving memory of Ruth Bryan
1/30/21 - 4/3/95

Remembering Grandpa

2011-07-14T07:26:00.000-05:00

I dream a lot. Lately, many of my dreams have taken place in my grandparents' house, where I was raised, and where my sister and her husband now live with their children.

My grandfather was a man of many hats. He served his country in World War II, worked as a hydroplane mechanic on the Miss Bardahl, was an accomplished gardener, and became a pastor in his forties. By the time I was born, Grandpa was known to most people in his community as 'Pastor Bill'.

What Pastor Bill lacked in a singing voice (he would often joke about not being able to carry a tune), he made up for with his Sunday sermons, inspired by his rich life experiences, yet somehow always applicable to the people he was speaking to. I can still picture Grandpa behind the pulpit - all 6'2 of him - as he read from the pages typed by grandmother, transcribed from the hand-written notes that only the two of them could decipher. Grandpa had illegible handwriting that could rival any doctor's. I inherited Grandpa's singing voice but not his height. Oh well. At least my penmanship is decent.

Growing up without a father can be tough on a boy and Grandpa did everything he could to make sure I didn't completely succumb to the sea of estrogen that surrounded me. He would read to me but, instead of fairy tales and bedtime stories, I heard autobiographies of great men throughout history. Grandpa knew the value of good character. He lived it, preached it, and did his best to impart it to his smart-ass grandson who would rather hear about Luke Skywalker than Dr. Livingston.

I found my grandfather pretty intimidating. He was never afraid to speak his mind. He was strict and there were consequences for disobeying his rules. But he was also very loving and generous. Grandpa never ceased to surprise me with his kindness. Like the time I stayed home sick from school and he built me a vapor tent, with his recliner in the center and a window through which I could watch cartoons. A real window. With glass and a wooden pane. Or the time, after I had left home, that I fearfully admitted to him that my teenage girlfriend was pregnant and that I was going to need his emotional support more than ever before. Grandpa sat in silence, listening, before finally speaking. All he said was, "A stiff prick has no conscience," and followed it with a reassuring hug.

I learned a lot from Grandpa. He taught me how to press apples into fresh cider and how to graft a branch from one type of fruit tree onto another to produce hybrids. Grandpa taught me the value of hard work. I've never seen a man work so hard for the things - and people - he loved. Above all, he taught me everything good I know about being a man, a husband, and a father.

Not long before Grandpa passed away, knowing his time was short, Dawn and I flew back to Washington to see him. He was in an assisted care facility and dementia was taking hold. Towards the end of our visit, Grandpa looked at me and asked, "How are we related, again?" I tried - and almost succeeded at - keeping the heartbreak out of my voice as I reminded him that I was his grandson. He thought for a moment before replying, "OK, that's what I thought." I stole one last hug, savoring the feel of his stubble on my cheek, told him I loved him, and quickly left so as not to lose my composure in front of him.

While I could never hope to achieve my grandfather's level of work ethic, conviction, or fortitude, I do try to raise my children the way he helped raised me. Yes, Grandpa has left quite a legacy. A long time ago, I wrote a poem in remembrance of my grandmother. I have no poem for Grandpa; just the utmost love, respect, and gratitude.

Thanks for everything, Grandpa. I hope I make you proud.

Facebook, Cardio, and the Blair Witch

2010-08-25T08:22:00.000-05:00

Today's post is pretty short. As a matter of fact, the only reason it's a blog post, and not a Facebook status update, is because it exceeded the Facebook character limit by a couple hundred characters.

I rode my bike to work this morning, for the first time since May. I figured since the dog woke me up forty minutes before my alarm was set to go off, I might as well take advantage of the extra time.

By the way, if you've never been jolted awake by a wet nose repeatedly smashing into your hand, you really ought to try it. Or not.

I took my ride nice and slow, so as to avoid another lying-down-on-the-sidewalk incident. Halfway through the ride, I discovered that my normal route was closed. I foolishly decided to try to find a shortcut and ended up going through parts of Eau Claire I've never seen before - and never want to see again. I passed run-down, abandoned houses with open doors creaking in the wind; clothing and trash strewn throughout yards and streets. For a moment, I thought my detour had taken me through Detroit

I'm fairly certain I rode past the Blair Witch's house. It was a little, stone house, barely visible through the overgrown shrubs and trees that surrounded it. The skulls decorating the doorway were an especially nice touch. I would have stopped to take a picture but

a) I was already late for work, thanks to my detour.

and

b) You don't mess with the Blair Witch.

Washington Trip 2010 - Days 5 - 7

2010-07-02T07:10:00.000-05:00

We took advantage of our first non-travel day by sleeping in a bit and getting off to a lazy start. Once we did finally make it out of our hotel room, our first order of business was finding a car wash. After cleaning away the remaining evidence of our bird hit-and-run, we met up with my sister, brother-in-law, and niece.

We spent the majority of the afternoon at Whidbey Island's beaches, where we skipped rocks, built driftwood forts, collected sea shells, and turned over rocks in search of crabs. You can take the boy out of the island, but you can't take the island out of the boy.

In between visits to the beach, we stopped at the cemetery where my grandparents are laid to rest. It was my first time visiting my grandfather's grave. Unlike my previous visits to pay my respects to my grandmother, I felt a sense of peace, seeing both of them together again. It had been far too long for both of them and picturing their reunion makes me smile.

We finished off the day with dinner, dessert, and some downtime back at my sister's place. Back at our hotel, I finished The Name of the Wind (Kingkiller Chronicles, Day 1) before turning in for the night. Very good book. Highly recommended.

We had a busy schedule planned for day six, so we got up early, repacked the van, and met up with my sister's family.

Our first stop of the day was to visit my daughter from my previous marriage, whom I hadn't seen in ten years. I think I'll refrain from sharing the details of the visit. I'm going to be a bit selfish and keep that memory for myself.

After our visit, our little caravan continued on to Seattle's Woodland Park Zoo, where we spent the remainder of the afternoon. To be honest, the day was a bit of a blur. I vaguely remember seeing a hippo and doing immature things to a bronze statue of a snow leopard. As the day wound down, we said our goodbyes to my sister's family and began our return trip to Wisconsin.

We spent the night just outside of Spokane. We might have made it farther if not for the fact that Washingtonians seem to have an aversion to using their headlights and their gas pedals. Throughout our stay in Washington, we were consistently driving five miles under the posted speed limit while being surprised by ninja vehicles as they leaped from the shadows.

Day seven was all Montana.

All.

Day.

Long.

I've decided that the rest of the United States is just a suburb of Montana. It is the state that never ends. Not even unhealthy amounts of Red Bull, Sugar Babies, and Godsmack could compete with Montana's expanse of sleep-inducing highways. After about the fourth time I nodded off, I finally conceded that perhaps it would be safer for all parties involved if Dawn did some of the driving. There's a joke there somewhere, but Montana has rendered me incapable of lucid thought.

Our final night of motel-living was spent in a tiny town on the Montana border, called Wibaux. My first thought, upon hearing the pronunciation, was, "Wibauxs wobbaux but they don't fall down." If you get that reference, congratulations; you're old.

Having just finished the slimiest shower I hope to ever encounter, I'm now going to attempt to find a wireless signal strong enough to post this blog entry. With any luck, we'll be home in time to sleep in our own beds tonight and wash away the Montana residue in our own shower.

Washington Trip 2010 - Days 3 & 4

2010-06-29T11:55:00.000-05:00

I was eventually coaxed away from my king-sized nest o' comfort by promises of cake. I'm here to tell you, the cake is a lie. I did get a carmel frappe though, so it wasn't a total loss.

Day three of our trip was fairly uneventful which, when traveling across the country with four children, is generally a good thing.

We stopped at a rest stop just east of the Rockies where the kids discovered a community of friendly prairie dogs. There were dozens upon dozens of them and they would come right up to the kids and eat out of their hands. Occasionally, they would even climb onto the kids' laps or shoe tops. It took me quite a while to tear the kids away from their new friends and load them back in the van. I half expected a prairie dog stowaway to accompany us to Washington.

We reached the Washington border around dinner time and a familiar weight settled on me. I love The Evergreen State, but it carries quite a bit of baggage for me. Estranged friends; an ex-wife and her family; the small town where I grew up, with its ghosts and mixed memories. Leaving the security of home to return to my old stomping grounds is always a bit of a doubled-edged sword. Dawn was ready with some comforting words of wisdom however, and managed to relax me a bit.

When we reached eastern Washington, I decided to look up a family that had played a pretty pivotal role during my late teens. Thanks to the Internet and my iPhone's GPS, I was able to locate their somewhat hidden property. Unsure of how I would be received after all these years, I chickened out at the last minute and steered us back to the interstate.

One thing I've noticed since being back in Washington is the increase in the hippie population. The last time we were here, a few years ago, the hippies had just begun their migration from Washington's southern borders. Now, it appears they've mounted a full-fledged invasion. Being fairly well-versed in the tactics necessary to combat a zombie invasion, we found a safe place to set up watch for the night, I Am Legend-style. I figured the principles of hippie combat were largely the same, since hippies are basically just zombies in tie-dye. Our precautions paid off and we made it safely through the night.

Day four began with my now customary frappe and a trip through the Bavarian village of Leavenworth. Nestled in the shadow of the Cascade mountains, all the businesses in Leavenworth have been fashioned with old, Bavarian-style storefronts that give the entire town charm. If you're ever out this way, I highly recommend driving through.

Leaving Leavenworth, we proceeded through the Cascades, by way of the beautiful Stevens Pass. Waterfalls, rivers, trees, and amazing rock formations accompanied us through the mountains.

The beauty of the mountains was quickly forgotten when we proceeded to get lost in Everett and waste an hour trying to find our way out of the traffic-congested city. Eventually, we escaped and made our way on to the ferry that would take us across the water to Whidbey Island.

We found it a little curious that our ferry ride had an armed Coast Guard escort. We're told they were running routine drills. Regardless, I guess we should be grateful that the Washington state ferry system is in no immediate danger from Somali pirates.

We eventually reached Coupeville, the small town where I was born and where my sister's family lives, in what used to be our grandparents' home. It was wonderful to see everyone again: my mother, my sister and her husband, and my two-year-old niece, Sydney, whom I hadn't met before.

I still wasn't entirely convinced that they were an upgrade from the lure of Tombstone, Arizona, but Sydney changed my mind in short order. She is a ball of adorable, wrapped in a candy shell of cute. She instantly won her cousins over and they all had a ball playing together. Sydney may not be Doc Holliday, but she can be my huckleberry any day.

Washington Trip 2010 - Day 2

2010-06-27T08:51:00.003-05:00

We were pleased - and a bit surprised - to have not been killed while we slept at the Bates Hotel - I mean, Tony's Motel. Unfortunately, the two healthy kids and I all caught the other kids' cold. We had a brief family meeting and decided to press on, unless our colds worsened along the way.

I started the day with another large carmel frappe from McDonald's. They are 680 calories of liquid crack and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need a twelve-step program and a personal trainer when we get home.

We were pretty tired of hearing, "Are we there yet? When will we be in Washington? Where are we going now? How long until we do something fun?" So we instituted a no questions policy. It was only marginally successful in stemming the tide of constant inquiries. Distracting the kids with movies turned out to be a more effective tactic. It also lead to some comic relief. While watching The Little Mermaid, Abbie and Caleb had a conversation about the size of King Neptune's family. Because they were both wearing headphones, it got a little lost in translation.

Abbie: "He has seven daughters."

Caleb: "That's not that much. I only have two dollars."

Abbie: Nods happily in agreement.

We crossed the Wyoming border and decided to visit Devil's Tower. The gift shop was a treasure trove of old west memorabilia. Being a fan of the old west, I tried to convince my traveling companions that we should abandon visiting my family in Washington in favor of heading to Tombstone, Arizona. Caleb was on board with the plan, but everyone else was appropriately disgusted with my lack of family loyalty. I tried to sway them by suggesting that we might get to see a recreation of the gunfight at O.K. Corral, but to no avail. To my credit, I only pouted for a dozen miles, or so.

We passed through Cody, Wyoming, on our way to Yellowstone National Park. Every time we are in Cody, I'm tempted to just stop driving and put down roots. If I ever get the opportunity to choose a retirement location, Cody is a strong contender.

Yellowstone was the highlight of the day and, so far, of the trip. We saw six bears, a beaver, a fox, various elk and deer, one condescending park ranger, numerous projectile-pooping buffalo, and a swarm of monster mosquitoes that attempted to abduct our children.

It was dark by the time we made the 81 mile trip through Yellowstone, so we decided to buck the odds and try to get a room right outside the park. Apparently, our previous night's accommodations had earned us some karma credit because we were able to secure the last available room at Yellowstone Village Inn. The rooms are beautiful, spacious, and comfortable. I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing when I opened the door.

I am currently writing this blog entry from the comfort of our king-sized bed. I'm seriously considering handcuffing myself to the frame and refusing to leave.

In the unlikely event that my family can get me out of my new found Shangri-La, we should be able to reach Washington by nightfall.

Washington Trip 2010 - Day 1

2010-06-26T23:21:00.003-05:00

We decided to get an early start, so we grabbed a blended carmel frappe from McDonalds and left Eau Claire around 5:30 a.m. It concerned me that two of the four kids were stuffy and sneezing, but we hoped for the best and pushed on. We had barely made it out of the starting gate before a suicidal bird decided to use our van to do its best Kurt Cobain impression.
Our first rest stop was at a tiny convenience store in the middle of nowhere. I was excited to discover the existence of Grape Vines. Being a big fan of Red Vines, I was eager to try this long-lost relative of the Vines family. Unfortunately, they did not live up to my expectations. I can see why more stores don't carry Grape Vines; they taste like grape-flavored children's cold medicine.

Prior to learning that Grape Vines are not fit to carry the Vines' family name, I asked Dawn to alert the world of their presence, via the foursquare iPhone app. Since Dawn acts as navigator on road trips, it probably wasn't the best idea to divert her attention from the map. Fortunately, she realized I had made a wrong turn was headed to Iowa before we got too far off course. Her faith in my navigational prowess shaken, Dawn vetoed my impromptu plan to take us several miles out of our way to visit a town named "Wells". I vowed to someday return and investigate what lies within Wells' mysterious borders.

At our next stop, Dawn spied something on the front of the van. The Seppuku Sparrow had embedded itself in the grill. Since I have a strict 'no hitchhikers' rule, I extricated the feathery carcass with the aid of couple of sticks fashioned into crude chopsticks. The kids were not pleased that I had killed one of God's creatures. I tried explaining that the one-armed man was actually the guilty party, but they weren't buying it.

We reached Wall, South Dakota around dinner time and decided to grab a bite to eat at Wall Drug. I nearly dumped our two trays of food on my way back to our table. In hindsight, I wish I had. To say the food was bad would be a gross understatement. My cheeseburger resembled a science experiment gone terribly wrong. It was actually melting. Not the cheese, mind you. The burger. It was oozing grease and various unspeakable toxins. I'm of the opinion that all meals served at Wall Drug should come with a t-shirt that reads, "I ate at Wall Drug and all I got was this explosive diarrhea."

Our stomachs lecturing us on poor life choices, we took our leave of Wall and made our way to Mt. Rushmore. Apparently, seventeen hours on the road is too long, as evidenced by the twins' meltdowns under the disapproving glare of the granite presidents.

We cut our excursion to Rushmore short and left to find a motel for the night. Our search took us through the historical town of Deadwood. It turns out that Deadwood is South Dakota's version of the Bermuda Triangle. We left Deadwood and drove for twenty minutes only to re-enter the town from where we had started. I felt like we were in the movie "Groundhog Day". Cursing the clever city planners who had designed the surrounding roads to demoralize tourists into becoming permanent residents, we eventually found our way out of the Deadwood Vortex.

Finding a motel with vacancy turned out to be equally frustrating. Out of sheer desperation and exhaustion, we settled on the first place that had an available room. I suppose we should have realized that any establishment named "Tony's Motel" was unlikely to have five-star accommodations.

Our dive of a room was uncomfortable and quite possibly the scene of several murders, but we were too tired to care. We dragged our weary bodies into the unnaturally hard, squeaky beds and attempted to get some sleep. Faith had other plans. Her cold was bothering her and she spent a good portion of the night whining, crying, complaining, and sneezing. Combined with the 3 a.m. penance demanded by my cheeseburger abomination, our first day of travel ended on a less-than-restful note.

A Day at the Dells

2010-06-21T15:09:00.002-05:00

Over the weekend, Dawn and I took the kids to the Mt. Olympus water park in Wisconsin Dells. After a two hour drive, we arrived at the 156 acre attraction and joined the thousands of other people slowly making their way inside.

Now, you should know a couple of things about me. I hate crowds. And I don't particularly enjoy water recreation. Dawn and the kids had been looking forward to this excursion for weeks though, so I sucked it up and resigned myself to a long day.

Not long after entering the park, I realized a few things:

I'm really looking forward to the state-wide smoking ban in July. Although, I'm not sure how much of a difference it will make. According to the Mt. Olympus website, smoking is already against the park rules. I'm guessing the dozens of considerate leather-skins that lit up around us didn't get that memo.
There are a lot of mid-westerners regretting their tattoo choices. This is really more of an assumption on my part. But seriously, I haven't seen that much bad art since kindergarten craft time.
Water parks are excellent for your self-esteem. If you're even a little self-conscious about your body, I highly recommend a trip to the Dells. I guarantee you will see literally thousands of heavier, less attractive people. For every one hard-body that makes you wish you had gone easy on the Krispy Kremes, there are at least four portly park-goers whose bathing suits are screaming for a quick, merciful end to their suffering. Unless of course, by some stroke of extreme misfortune, you happen to be the heaviest, ugliest person at the park. In which case, we all have you to thank for the ego boost. You deserve a tiara and another piece of cake.

After finally acknowledging that I was not even in the top 25 percentile of people at the park whose hideousness would cause instant blindness, I decided to join the rest of the fatties in the wave pool.

Before venturing in to the diseased stew of humanity, we applied liberal amounts of sunscreen to every nook and cranny. My level of paleness goes beyond my English and Irish ancestry. I'm convinced there had to be some Transylvanian in the family tree, somewhere. Not even SPF 60 could prevent me from bursting into flame the second I stepped out of the shade.

I will have to admit, I did enjoy playing with the kids in the wave pool. Right up until the point when somebody's escaped Band-Aid floated by my leg. That was our cue to call it a day.

In the end, our water park trip proved to be a lot of walking, waiting, and burning for very little pay-off. When we got in the van to start the trip home, Dawn turned to me and said, "I don't think we ever need to do that again."

It was music to my charbroiled ears.

Disney Trip - 2008

2010-06-07T03:05:00.002-05:00

In anticipation of our upcoming vacation to Washington, later this month, I thought I'd dig up the blog I wrote during our first trip to Disney World, a couple of years ago. I only recorded the first three days of the trip. Hopefully, I'll do better next time around.

Day 1 - Monday, May 19, 2008

Traveling with four small children is a slow process. After 12 1/2 hours, fifteen deer carcasses (I stopped counting when it got dark), $7 in freeway tolls, and three near-misses with elderly people who seemed to think the freeway was their own personal one-lane road, we managed to make it 650 miles to Marion, Illinois.

We wouldn't have had to pay any tolls at all, but we missed the turn-off we were supposed to take and ended up traveling two hours in the wrong direction (east instead of south, towards Chicago instead of around it), on the tollway, through heavy construction.
Once we finally corrected our heading, the drive was actually quite peaceful and leisurely.

A couple of truths were revealed to us as we traveled:

1. Illinois drivers are even crazier than Minnesota drivers, with the degree of craziness being directly proportionate to the proximity to Chicago.

and

2. Gas is expensive

When we left Eau Claire, gas was $3.79 per gallon. Having been told that gas was cheaper the farther you get from Eau Claire, we waited to fill up until we were running on fumes. As it turns out, we were misinformed. Prices rose steadily, the farther south we traveled, eventually spiking at $4.09 per gallon, in North Central Illinois.

Each time we fueled up the minivan, a little part of me died inside, realizing that a tank of gas could have paid for a brand new video game... and then some.

We had a good laugh when we stopped for lunch, in Janesville, Wisconsin. On the way to the restaurant, Dawn saw a sign and said, "Huh. There's a "Faith & Dentistry" here." She said it looked like it must be a combination Christian bookstore and dentist office. As it turns out, the sign didn't say "Faith & Dentistry," it said, "Faith & Destiny."

Overall, the kids did pretty well, though we did get tired of hearing, "Are we at Disney World yet?" and "Can we go home?" and the slightly disturbing, "I think we're being followed. Daddy, speed up and lose them!"

We're fairly close to the southern Illinois border and are looking forward to getting out of Illinois. We're considering avoiding it as much as possible on the way home and going through Indiana, instead.

I would have posted this blog entry tonight, but the motel we're in doesn't offer Internet connectivity. When I asked Dawn, "What kind of motel doesn't have wi-fi?" She replied, "The kind that only cost us $40." Point and match.

On the agenda for day 2: A trip through Nashville, on our way through Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia.

Day 2 - Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Another 12 1/2 hours, another 650 miles.

As we were packing up to leave, we learned that the gentleman in the room next to us was on his way from Florida to Wisconsin. Kind of an irrelevant fact, but we thought it was interesting, considering that we are doing the exact opposite.

Our first stop of the day was Metropolis, Illinois where we saw a giant Superman statue. Dawn fell off a curb and took Faith down with her. Faith skinned her knee and elbow. Dawn skinned her ankles and is sporting a sweet Batman band-aid.

At a rest stop in Tennessee, Faith completed the hat trick by falling off a picnic bench and skinning her other knee.

As we continued to travel south, we noticed the Ihops becoming fewer and farther between, eventually giving way to something called Waffle House. Dawn pointed out one small town that had both an Ihop and a Waffle House. I had to wonder if the employees regularly got together to rumble, like the Sharks and the Jets.

Gas prices also got less expensive as we traveled, with the lowest being $3.58 per gallon, in Kentucky.

Tennessee is beautiful and the people were very nice. If we were ever to look for a place to retire, based solely on aesthetics, Tennessee would be high on the list.

As much as we enjoyed Tennessee, we loathed Georgia. The only things to see were cops and advertisements for strip clubs. It was a lot like playing Grand Theft Auto.

We did stop for dinner at one of the curious Waffle Houses. We're no longer curious. Or interested in Waffle House. Let's leave it at that. It's painful to relive.

We also lost an hour, as we crossed into the eastern time zone.

I had purchased a power inverter, to run the laptop while in the van. It worked well... until we fried all the audio/video components in the van. We are now without radio, CD, DVD, and clock capability. Since that was what we had banked on to keep the kids distracted, the ride home will be interesting.

Speaking of the kids, they continued yesterday's theme of odd questions:

"Are we still going to Disney World?"

In Tennessee: "Are we in the jungle?"

While driving through Georgia, 1,200 miles from home: "Mama, are you off work today?"

While stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in Atlanta, Georgia: "What happened? Are we going backwards?"

As we passed through some road construction where the road was torn up, Caleb looked out the window and said, "All right, somebody needs to clean this place up, right now! I don't want to see dirt all over the place!" I guess he's heard me say that a time or two, back home.

We stopped for the night in Valdosta, Georgia, a mere 22 miles from the Florida border.

Tomorrow: Disney World (provided we don't destroy any more of our van or our children)

Day 3 - Wednesday, May 21, 2008

We got a late start, after sleeping in a bit at the motel. The kids especially needed the extra sleep though, so it was time well-spent.

Once we got back on the road, Dylan informed us that if he ever became president, he would do away with flea markets because, "It's a stupid idea to sell fleas." The boy makes a good point. He's got my vote.

We got to our cabin around 1:00 p.m. and everybody was thrilled to be out of the van. We got settled in, smothered our pasty geek skin with sunscreen, and then hopped on a bus to the marina. From there, we took a boat to the Magic Kingdom.

As we entered the Magic Kingdom, Tinkerbell flew over and showered the girls with fairy dust. Poor Tink hasn't aged well; she's starting to resemble an old man throwing Mickey-shaped glitter. Abbie didn't seem to mind though. The rest of the day, she would stop and pick the glitter up off the ground, whenever she happened upon some. By the time we left, we had a stash that would have made Liberace proud.

We arrived just as the “Dreams Come True” parade was starting, which featured a plethora of Disney characters. I would gladly make the trip again just to relive the kids' excitement. Abbie sat in stunned bliss, while Faith waved madly at every character, big and small. Abbie's day was officially made when Ariel looked right at her and blew her a kiss.

We hadn't really planned our activities so, after the parade, we headed in the general direction of Cinderella's castle. Since this was what the girls had been talking about for the last month, it was a hit.

We rode a few rides, and then finished our first day by meeting Pooh, Tigger, and Darby. At least, I'm told her name was Darby. It seems my childhood is no longer sacred and Christopher Robin has fallen victim to equal opportunity.

The kids loved meeting Pooh and friends. Faith had a goofy grin on her face, as she just kept pinching Pooh's tummy. Caleb was very excited that he got to hug one of his favorite characters, Tigger.

One of the photographers noticed my Mariners cap and voiced his surprise to see an M's fan. Save your pity pal, I know my team sucks.

Some of the other children had autograph books that the Disney characters were signing, so we decided to get a couple for tomorrow's adventures. Between the autograph books, refreshments, souvenirs, and a misting fan (it was hotter than Hades), I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to eBay a kidney when we get home. I'm also sure the kids would be more than willing to sell both my kidneys if it meant spending ten more minutes at Disney World.

Since the park was closing early for a special event that we weren't willing to shell out more cash for, we headed back to the cabin and made it in time to watch the American Idol finale. Hey, even on vacation, you need to keep your priorities straight. Our horse won, so it was a good day for everyone.

After putting the kids to bed, Dawn and I made a plan of attack for tomorrow, hoping to be better prepared and make the most of our time. We've still got a lot of Disney World to cover, in only three more days.

Later that night, Faith continued her tanning-via-bruising treatment by somehow falling out of bed - even though she was sharing a bed with Abbie and was on the inside, next to the wall. As we put her back to bed, I swear I heard an ethereal voice whisper, "If you build it, she will fall off it."

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, other than Dawn's hostile takeover of the bed.

Sins of the Father

2010-06-04T09:15:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a very young couple. She was fifteen; He, nineteen. When She became pregnant, they thought getting married would be the right thing to do. And so they did. At sixteen, She was a mother. He, a father at twenty. When their Little Girl was born, they fell instantly in love with her. He vowed to not let her grow up without a father, as He had.

Two years later, things were not well with the young couple. She was especially bitter with Him because of Her lost youth. During one heated argument, She demanded a divorce. He refused, hoping things would get better and, for a brief time, they did.

His love for the Little Girl grew stronger than He could have imagined. He especially enjoyed their time playing baseball together at the local park. But the young couple continued to grow apart. It started becoming obvious to people around them. Friends asked Him why they stayed together. He would tell them it was for the Little Girl's sake. Secretly, He wondered whether that was good for her or not.
Nearly five years into the young couple's marriage, He befriended some people online. He enjoyed talking with One of these people, in particular. He felt a peace when speaking to this One person. It was a peace that had been missing for as long as He could remember. Over time, His friendship with the One grew into more.

Meanwhile, the young couple continued to crumble. The day finally came when He realized it was not good for anybody. This time, it was He who demanded the divorce. Although He knew it was the right decision, He felt defeated. He had failed the Little Girl, despite His unspoken promise.

The end had come for the young couple. She was angry, hurt, betrayed. Her family was furious with Him. This was not unexpected. What was unexpected was the animosity from His friends. The same people who had been trying to convince Him to remove himself from the situation for the last several years, now turned their back on Him. She hated Him. Her family hated Him. His friends hated Him. He hated himself.

But he desperately loved the Little Girl.

With the young couple's divorce came child support and visitation schedules. Although the Little Girl lived with her mother, He was scheduled to spend every other weekend and alternating holidays with her. He cherished those weekends. But the weekends became fewer and farther between. The Little Girl's mother gradually cut down on His visits with the Little Girl. He tried to reason with her. He tried having the ordered visitation enforced. But to no avail. His time with the Little Girl was now a rarity that was subject to the whims of her mother.

So when the day came that He was given the opportunity to move across the country to be with the One, He faced the hardest decision of His life. Stay, not knowing how often - or when - He'd be allowed to see the Little Girl, or go, and find love again. In the end, He chose to go. And again, hated himself for it.

As soon as He arrived, He made arrangements for the Little Girl to come spend the summer. But, at the last minute, her mother canceled the plans. Again, He tried getting someone - anyone - to enforce His right to visit His daughter. And again, He failed. So He and the One traveled to see the Little Girl, instead.

He was saddened and angered to learn that the child support He had been paying was not being used for the Little Girl. Instead, the Little Girl relayed stories of her mother's recent attempts to regain the youth she felt He had robbed her of so long ago. Feeling more helpless than ever, He took the Little Girl to buy new shoes to replace the ones with holes that she was wearing.

Eventually, the Little Girl's mother remarried. And He was faced with another impossible choice. The Little Girl's stepfather wanted to legally adopt her. His initial reaction was to refuse. But He knew that was selfish. He had vowed that the Little Girl would not grow up fatherless and, since His visits with her were being held to a minimum, He realized that was exactly what was happening. Defeated, He agreed to their wishes.

Just as His own father had done when He was a child.

The Little Girl took a new last name. Over the years, He continued to watch from a distance. Aware that He didn't have the right to be a real part of her life, but needing to be sure she was happy.

Now, as the Little Girl is on the cusp of adulthood, and He sits writing this, He allows himself a brief moment to remember. And to feel. Sadness, disappointment, failure, shame, pride, and hope. But His primary emotion is one that has never waned over the years.

He will always love the Little Girl.

Don't Be That Guy - Rock Concert Edition

2010-05-26T05:16:00.002-05:00

Monday night, I attended a rock concert in Minneapolis with my friends, Josh and Scott. The line-up was Sick Puppies, Shinedown, Breaking Benjamin, and Nickelback. Being a big fan of Breaking Benjamin, they were the real reason I wanted to go to this show. Scott and I had seen them twice before. Josh, on the other hand, had never attended a concert.

Now, I could talk about how Breaking Benjamin was awesome - as always. Or, I could talk about how Shinedown was the disappointment of the evening. Or, I could talk about how I went to the concert not caring about the headlining band and left completely blown away by the monster show they put on. Or I could talk about how Nickelback's amazing pyrotechnics entertained me while simultaneously causing me to wonder how long Dawn would wait to remarry after my untimely, fiery death.

But we have far more pressing issues to discuss, my friends. Queue inspirational public service announcement music.

If you've ever been to a concert, you probably know that they are a people watcher's utopia. Scott and I often entertain ourselves between bands by creating back-stories for our fellow music lovers. There are your concert staples: Spoiled Emo Kid, who thinks he/she is being non-conformist by dressing for their own funeral; Hippie Burnout, who isn't quite sure where they are and shouts random, nonsensical words of encouragement to the bands; Mom-In-Denial, who embarrasses her children by wearing completely inappropriate clothing and chatting up everyone around her about musicians who haven't been popular since before her clothes were actually in style; and, of course, I'm-Glad-That's-Not-My-Daughter Chick, who brings great pride to her parents by wearing even more inappropriate clothing than Mom-In-Denial and treating the concert like a spring break trip to Cancun. Many of these usual suspects were in attendance on Monday. But there were a few new additions to the rogue's gallery that I found somewhat disturbing.
The first thing I noticed was that several parents brought their preteen children to the show. Perhaps they weren't familiar with the typical concert environment. I can tell you, however, that as a father, I would thoroughly research any event before bringing along the family. But maybe I'm giving these parents too much credit. Maybe their child's introduction to decadence was intentional. I imagine the following conversation:

"Honey?"

"Yes, Dear?"

"I think it's time we had 'The Talk' with little Johnny."

"Ooh. Yeah. How about you go ahead and handle that?"

"I was really hoping you would. I'd be too uncomfortable."

"I don't want to do it, either!"

"Hmm... well... we could just take him to a Nickelback concert. Save us the trouble."

"Excellent idea, Hon. Man, we're awesome parents."

Trust me, little Johnny came away from the concert with waaaay more questions than he had before it started.

One mom, who brought her young son along, was showing him what I can only describe as dirty dancing. I fully expected the ghost of Patrick Swayze to appear and inform the crowd that, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

Bad parenting is pretty common, so I can't say I was too surprised by the lack of judgment shown. However, I was fairly baffled by this guy:

Who wears ear plugs to a concert?!? As Scott so wisely put it, "That makes about as much sense as wearing sunglasses to the movie theater because the screen is too bright." Common sense tells us that if you're attending a rock concert, with multiple speakers the size of a bus, there's a good possibility it might get a bit loud. If this guy wanted to hear the music at a reasonable volume, he could have saved himself eighty bucks by just buying the CD and listening to it in his Prius.

Strange bedfellows aside, the show was a good time. I mentioned earlier that this was Josh's first concert. It was also probably his last. Josh is a pretty reserved guy and not really into the concert scene. In fact, although he denies it, I'm 99% sure he actually dozed off a couple of times during the performance. And he wasn't even wearing ear plugs. I don't think he had a completely terrible time, though. To quote Ferris Bueller, "I caught Cameron digging the ride. It's good for him. It teaches him to deal with his fear."

In closing, I'd just like to say, "Thank you, Minneapolis! Good night!"

The Great(ish) Depression of 2010

2010-05-12T09:05:00.001-05:00

Readers of my blog (all two of you) may have noticed that I recently dropped off the face of the blogging world. What follows is an unnecessarily lengthy explanation of why.

I used to scoff at the idea that depression was a valid medical condition. I figured that people "suffering" from depression were either lazy or overly dramatic. I'd like my crow served medium-rare with a side of fries, please.

Winters in Wisconsin are notoriously long and cold. It's pretty common to go a little stir crazy while waiting for the precious nirvana that is spring. So when I started feeling down towards the beginning of the year, I assumed it was just my annual longing to escape the purgatory of the Wisconsin winter.
As the winter months wore on, my mood continued to worsen. I began losing interest in everything I normally enjoy. I had no desire to watch my favorite shows, play my favorite games, attend my weekly gaming session with my friends, spend time with my family, or participate in... other enjoyable activities. The "mood" was affecting every aspect of my life. I would go to work, stare blankly at my desk, come home, and immediately want to go to bed. I started missing due dates on college assignments. I was basically a zombie, minus the desire to eat brains and star in Michael Jackson videos.

Another unfortunate symptom of the Zombie Effect™ was that it seemed to remove the filter that kept me from saying hurtful things to the people I love. There were times when I knew I was saying something I'd normally regret, but I just couldn't make myself care. I was disconnected from the thought of any potential consequences of my words and actions.

Aside from my increasing nastiness, I did a pretty good job of hiding just how deeply I'd sunk. Even my closest friends didn't realize there was anything wrong. I've got a bit of a reputation for being somewhat anti-social, so when I began distancing myself even further from my regular social circles, I doubt anyone thought too much of it. Only my wife had any inclination of what was going on and even she didn't realize the full extent. I was too embarrassed to talk about my situation. In fact, as of this writing, only a handful of people are aware of my recent struggles.

My wife will be the first to tell you that I'm a stubborn person. Even as my ability to enjoy life was quickly draining away, I still refused to acknowledge that the cause might be something more serious than the weather. Dawn kept imploring me to talk to a doctor, but I was determined that my bad mood would blow over soon and I'd be able to kick myself back into gear. But everything I did - or didn't do - just seemed to make the situation worse. I began comfort eating which, combined with my complete lack of activity, caused me to gain weight and feel even worse about myself. I felt guilty about failing my family and being a burden to Dawn. Again, making me feel worse. It was a vicious circle.

I began realizing that this wasn't something I could just will away, around Valentine's Day. We had plans to have Dawn's mom babysit the kids while we went out on a double date with our friends at my favorite restaurant. Normally, this would have made me a pretty happy camper. Date night is enough of a rarity, but dinner at a restaurant we only eat at once or twice a year, with the potential for a romantic Valentine's evening to follow... Sign me up, right? Wrong. Not only did I dread every minute leading up to our night out, but I was intensely uncomfortable throughout dinner, unable to enjoy any aspect of the meal. Even the food - which is amazing - didn't taste good to me. All I could think about was going home, climbing into bed, and going to sleep. A few days later, I finally went to see a doctor.

Despite my formerly cynical view of depression, it turns out medical professionals take it pretty seriously. One of the first things they asked was whether I'd had any thoughts of suicide. While I never directly considered taking my own life, I will admit that my thoughts got pretty dark for a while. I started entertaining the idea that maybe my family could get back to being happy and carefree again if I was out of the picture. Of course, as I write that now, it sounds absurd. But at that point, reason had taken a back seat to shame, guilt, and frustration.

Thank God I have such supportive friends and family. Once I finally caved in to Dawn's pleas to seek help, the doctor was able to find the proper medication to help treat my depression. I'd love to be able to tell you that everything has been sunshine and rainbows ever since, but that would be an exaggeration. First of all, I'm straight. Second, I still have bad days. But they are much fewer and farther between. I've regained interest in my old activities and have even increased my physical activity level from what it was before I joined the ranks of the undead.

At the risk of sounding like an After-School Special, I would like to encourage anyone who is struggling with depression to seek help. I'm certainly glad I did. I only wish my stubbornness and fear of ridicule hadn't kept me from enjoying the several months prior.

So... I suppose this means I have to actually get my assignments in on time and attend extended family functions. Oh well. I hear Crown Royal is the proper course of treatment for those particular issues.

It Would Have Been Your Birthday Today

2010-01-29T18:01:00.003-06:00

It would have been your birthday today
I thought to myself as I knelt by your grave
and though it's been years since you passed away
my love for you, without fail, I still save
for I hope some day we'll meet again
though I don't know how
or where
or when

This rose that I leave here is merely a token
of love you showed me and a promise unbroken
to never forget you or let your memory die
so I kneel here beside you with tears in my eyes
I love you and miss you is all I can say
it would have been your birthday today

~ TW ~
01/30/97

In loving memory of Ruth Bryan
01/30/21 - 04/03/95

The Crimson Ninja

2010-01-26T05:57:00.001-06:00

The assassin's footsteps were silent. Her penumbral form melded so completely with the surrounding shadows that she could have been one, herself. She approached her targets' home, quickly and expertly assessing her entry options. Having chosen her breach point, she made quick work of the lock and lithely slid inside. Her graceful movements belied their inherent deadliness as she made her way towards her slumbering prey. As she prepared to deliver the single, lethal strike that would make her victims' rest eternal, she spoke. Her voice was less than a whisper as she uttered the last words the unsuspecting dreamers would never hear, "Sir, can I have some licorice? I'm feeding two, after all."

You know when you hear an outlandish but true story and you say to yourself, that could only ever happen to so-and-so? Dawn and I are those so-and-so's. We are weirdness magnets. So sit back and take solace in the knowledge that the true story I'm about to tell will likely never happen to you because Dawn and I are on the job.

We normally lock our doors at night. Sunday night, we had company over and forgot to lock the door behind our friends, when they left. We went to bed around 10:30 and were soundly sleeping at 12:30 a.m. when our eldest son opened our bedroom door and said, "Dad, there's someone here."
Groggy, I pulled myself up on one elbow and squinted at my son, silhouetted in the doorway. As my mind struggled to process the situation, I became aware that my son wasn't alone. Standing directly behind him in our bedroom, was a twenty-something woman in a bright red jogging suit. Before I could react, she said, "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour but I can't find my way home." She sounded slightly confused, herself.

We later learned that our son had been awakened by the doorbell being rung repeatedly. I have no idea how Dawn and I managed to sleep through it. After crawling out of bed, our son opened his bedroom door to see a woman standing in our living room, and all the lights turned on. The woman asked my son if his mom was home. He hesitated before replying that his mom was probably asleep. That's when he came to our room and the woman followed.

Dawn got out of bed and ushered our intruder into the kitchen. After hurriedly pulling on some clothes and seeing our son safely back to bed, I joined them. Dawn was attempting to ascertain who the woman was and where she was from. The woman said her name was Chrissy and that she had been out for a walk but couldn't find her way back to the group home, where she lived. It quickly became apparent that Chrissy was developmentally disabled. I would put her mental capacity at a pre-teen level. She was also pregnant.

Chrissy was proving - whether by design or innocence - to be less than helpful in trying to resolve her problem. She couldn't remember the name of the group home, where it was located, the phone number, or how she had gotten to our house. It was only when I suggested that we call the police that Chrissy was suddenly able to recall the phone number.

Dawn called the number and spoke to a woman who said she had been just about to call the police herself to report Chrissy missing. When Dawn asked how far away the group home was by car, the woman replied, "Ten to fifteen minutes." We never did find out how Chrissy managed to make it that far from home in freezing temperatures.

While Dawn was on the phone, Chrissy spied a bag of Red Vines on the kitchen counter and said, "Sir, can I have some licorice? I'm feeding two, after all." Before I could object (I wasn't feeling very charitable), Dawn slid the bag to her. As Chrissy ate her licorice, she said, "Sir, is something wrong? You look mad." Incredulous, all I could do was nod.

Dawn, being the kind-hearted-to-a-fault person she is, asked the woman from the home if she thought Chrissy would be able to direct Dawn if she attempted to drive her home. I stepped in at that point and made it clear that Dawn would not be going anywhere with Chrissy - regardless of how harmless she appeared.

Since we had some time to kill before Chrissy's ride showed up, I suggested she sit down on the living room sofa. She did, and Dawn sat down on the love seat, opposite her. Almost as soon as Dawn sat down, Chrissy said, "I think I'll come sit with you. That pillow looks comfy." I headed her off by saying that I was going to sit next to Dawn, as soon as I was done letting the dog out.

While I was attending to the dog, Dawn was telling Chrissy that she really shouldn't just walk into people's houses in the middle of the night. Chrissy's reply? "Well, your door was unlocked." Dawn attempted to explain how that still didn't make it right and that Chrissy was fortunate that she hadn't walked into a less understanding household.

As I sat down next to Dawn, Chrissy addressed me again. "Sir, are you ok? You look tired." Miraculously, I managed to respond without calling upon any well-deserved profanity.

When the woman arrived to pick Chrissy up, she didn't even address Dawn or me. No "Sorry for the intrusion," or even a "Thanks for calling." Instead, she looked at Chrissy and said, "Ready to go?" As though this was your garden-variety social visit and maybe Chrissy would like to stay a bit longer.

After they left, Dawn made sure to lock the door behind them before losing the amazing composure she had shown throughout entire the situation. The tears flowed as her exhausted and overwhelmed mind played through a number of "what if" scenarios. It was quite a while before either of us was able to go back to sleep.

When my alarm went off at 6:30, I knew there was no way I was making it to work. I left a message for my boss, explaining the situation and finished by saying, "I know it's an odd story, but you can't make this stuff up."

An odd story, indeed - and not even the first time we've had strange nocturnal visitors. But those are stories for another time.

One thing's for sure: from werewolf employers to crimson ninjas, we can never complain that we lead a dull life.

30-Second Avatar Synopsis

2010-01-18T06:49:00.000-06:00

John Locke goes to The Island and regains the ability to walk, via the Matrix. After becoming lost in the jungle, Locke is taken to Katsumoto's village, Teldrassil, where he falls in love with Stands With A Fist.

When the Night Elves' World Tree is destroyed, Locke sets out to retrieve the colt from Old Regret. He returns victorious from Snowy River and Iceman tells him, "You can be my wingman anytime."

The Battle of Endor commences and many Ewoks die, defending their planet. After an epic battle with the alien queen, Ferngully is saved.

Gandalf performs a ritual, allowing Locke to become a real boy. Jack and Rose live happily ever after.

Vomit, and Other Projectiles

2010-01-15T02:43:00.001-06:00

When I started this blog, I had no idea that it would primarily revolve around how much sleep I don't get or the amount of vileness residing within my children.

In my last post, I focused on my son's lack of proficiency in physical activities. Now I realize I may have been less than fair in my assessment. Sure, he lacks coordination and physical prowess, but the kid can projectile vomit like Linda Blair.

If projectile vomiting ever becomes an olympic event, my boy will be bringing home the gold for the good ol' U.S. of A. And he never misses an opportunity to train. You have to give him credit. He's certainly dedicated to his craft. Why, just last night, he woke up while the rest of the family was still asleep and began practicing for his shot at glory.
My wife, a.k.a. Saint Dawn, attempted to let me sleep while she got up to assist our son with his regimen. To show my support, I offered words of encouragement and advice, each time Dawn tried to come back to bed.

After our son's initial volley, "We should try trading the kids in for sturdier models. Maybe there was a recall we aren't aware of."

After our youngest daughter decided to join in the fun and offer her own treatise in the art of vomiting, "Remember when we lived in Washington? Before we had kids? I miss that."

And, to my oldest daughter, when she woke us up because her nose was stuffy, "Honey, have you heard of Angelina Jolie? No? Well, she's going to be your new mommy. Don't worry. She can buy you nice things."

I guess I should just be grateful that the boys (who are responsible for the majority of the puking), actually make it to the bathroom. This is a fairly new development. Not long ago, my oldest son would sit up in bed, yell for Dawn over and over because his stomach hurt, and then redecorate his walls, bed, and floor with last night's dinner. When asked why he didn't just go to the bathroom as soon as he felt sick, he would look at us like we were stupid and say, "Because I was afraid I'd throw up."

My youngest son, on the other hand, got right to the point. There was never any warning before he erupted. One second, he would be carrying on a conversation with you and the next, you were surrounded by nastiness. It was like watching a sleight-of-hand magician. No matter how closely you follow the act, you're not going to figure out how the trick works.

Now that I've thoroughly disgusted anybody reading my blog, I'd like to leave you with a little riddle:

Q: How many Wells kids does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Three. One to change the bulb, one to hold the puke bucket, and one to wake us up and tell us about it.

Field of Daydreams

2010-01-13T08:54:00.001-06:00

You know the outfielder who's always picking dandelions or looking at clouds in Little League? That's my son. Well, not all the time. Sometimes he's the infielder who just watched the ball roll between his legs.

My son is not what I'd call "physically inclined". Yet, for some reason, my wife tends to sign him up for every team sport offered through our local Parks & Recreation. Right now, he's playing basketball. So far, he seems to be doing better than usual. It's just the dribbling, shooting, rebounding, and passing he struggles with. The rest of his game is rock solid.

My son will be turning eleven this year and finishing the fifth grade. But, because of his small stature and "developing" athleticism, we usually put him in with players who are younger than he is. The other members of his basketball team are third and fourth graders - and he's still the second shortest player on the team. He comes by his height honestly, though. I'm only 5'1 on a good day. No, the Wells are not likely to be scouted by the NBA any time soon.
I think it's obvious that my wife and I put our son in sports because he enjoys it, not because we're hoping to turn him into a superstar who will support us in our golden years. That's where his five-year-old, left-handed brother with the strong arm comes in.

After watching our eldest's last basketball game, I get the feeling that not all parents share our laid back, just-for-fun approach to elementary-level athletics. Don't get me wrong - I expect my son to try his hardest. I preach teamwork, good sportsmanship, and giving your very best effort. And as long as that's what I'm seeing on the field, I'm not too worried about whether the result is a win or a loss.

Even before the game started, it was clear that the opposing coaches had vastly different approaches to motivating their teams. My son's coaches were lighthearted, joking around with a team built on camaraderie. The other team's coach - not so much. His methods reminded me of the sensei from the Cobra Kai dojo in The Karate Kid. He even had his star pupil with the killer instinct. We'll call this pupil "Johnny". No, that's not his real name, but his real name was stupid and doesn't fit my Karate Kid theme.

Anyway, Sensei's mastery of fear and shame seemed to really accomplish what he was going for. His team was clearly dominant, physically, and by half-time, they were winning by a large margin. It seemed like a hollow victory though, considering his players didn't appear to enjoy themselves at all. As a matter of fact, I lost track of the number of times little Johnny flew into a rage at either his coach, the referee, or one of his teammates. And Sensei obviously approved. I half expected him to order Johnny to "sweep the leg".

At one point, Sensei took issue with my son's coach expressing his displeasure about Johnny's 'roid rage and suggested, rather loudly, that they settle their differences in the hall, Cobra Kai-style. He also managed to drop an F-bomb in front of all the third and fourth graders watching the exchange.

Sensei wasn't the only person in attendance who encouraged Johnny's behavior. Fate smiled upon me and I ended up sitting right next to Johnny's mother. Over the course of the game, it started to become more apparent where Johnny learned his lack of sportsmanship. It became crystal clear when the game ended and I learned that she was Sensei's wife. Whether or not Johnny is their biological son remains a mystery. I suspect he was genetically engineered in a laboratory for speed, power, and ruthlessness from the DNA of such former athletes as O.J. Simpson, Mike Tyson, and John McEnroe.

As the Kai family was leaving, I overheard them laughing about Sensei's obscenity-laden tirade in front of the children. Classy. Where's Mr. Miyagi when you need him? And when did Parks & Rec basketball become so cut-throat?

Sure, my little Daniel-san may not be the perfect athlete, but I'll take his spirit and attitude any day, over the alternative. Now I just need to teach him the Crane Kick stance.

The First Rule of Geek Club…

2010-01-08T03:02:00.001-06:00

There is an entire list of things that I found entertaining when I was younger, but have lost interest in as I've gotten older:

Pretending to be a member of the A-Team
When I was a kid, my friends and I had an A-Team club and each of us had a call sign, based on the characters in the show. My career as Howling Mad Murdock came to an end when my antics irritated a local contractor enough that he chased me all the way from the job site where I was antagonizing him to my grandparents' house and threatened to shove a piece of steel rebar in a very uncomfortable place.
Prank phone calls
Like most teens, I did outgrow this stage. However, I still have fond memories of using computer voice software to convince the grocery store I worked for that I was an elderly shut-in, in need of a home delivery of four hundred boxes of macaroni and cheese.
Saturday morning cartoons
I think this has less to do with my desire to watch cartoons and more to do with the fact that today's cartoons just plain suck. Back in my day, we had shows like G.I Joe, Star Blazers, M.A.S.K., and Transformers. Sure they were thinly-veiled, animated commercials. But they were entertaining. The cartoons my kids watch look like an eight-year-old had a bad acid trip. I just don't get it.
The comedy of Dane Cook
It's amazing to me that people still find Mr. Cook entertaining. The longevity of his career is threatening to replace the Hanging Gardens of Babylon as one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
Role-playing games
I'm talking the old school, pen and paper, magic missile-casting, dragon-slaying role-playing games. OK, I have a confession. I still do this on a regular basis.

I feel like I'm outing myself here. Or revealing the secrets of some secret society. "The first rule of Geek Club..."

Once a week, armed with twenty-sided dice, an armload of handbooks and monster manuals, mechanical pencils, and a hoard of sugary treats that would make Wilford Brimley explode on contact, I get together with a group of friends and have a good ol' fashioned dungeon crawl.
Before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify. I don't want to paint a picture of a bunch of nerds, dressed in renaissance faire cloaks, gathered around a single lit candle, rules lawyering about whether the paladin is morally obligated to smite the rogue because the rogue chose to loot the party's dying wizard rather than attempting to save him.

OK, bad example. That actually happened. But there were no cloaks or candles.

No, our gaming is more the geek equivalent of poker night. It's mostly an excuse to get together, eat junk food, discuss our fantasy sports league standings, watch (and quote) movies whose humor our wives aren't equipped to appreciate, and attempt to one-up each other's jokes designed to cast aspersions on the rest of the group's manhood.

You may have noticed that I've used the terms "nerd" and "geek" independently of one another. That's because, in my mind, there is a distinct difference. Nerds would use candles and cloaks. I've developed a test to prove that I fall into the geek category, rather than being a socially challenged, pocket protector-wearing member of the Nerdery.

The test is simple. If you answer yes to three out of the following four questions, you are a nerd.

Are you a gamer?
Duh. I think I've made it clear that I have to answer "yes" to this one.
Do you work in a technology-related field?
Uh-oh. Since my job revolves around building Web pages and computer programs, I'm two for two.
Do you live in your parents' basement?
Whew. Things were starting to look grim there. No, I do not live with my parents.
Are you a virgin?
I've seen the awkward health class videos. I'm pretty sure being the father of five children means I can answer "no" to this one, as well.

Looks like I passed the Geek vs. Nerd test - as would most of the other guys in my weekly gaming group. Granted, there is one that would have to answer "yes" to every question but he's cool. I'll vouch for him. Especially since he's my ride.

Yes, I still game. No, I don't see myself outgrowing it any time soon. You can have my character sheet when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. And, considering my level four fighter has a twenty-one armor class rating and the Improved Initiative feat, I think you'll find that to be a challenge.

That sounded a lot less lame in my head.

Soft Puppy, Warm Puppy

2010-01-04T04:20:00.001-06:00

Another Monday morning, another interrupted night of sleep. This time, it was our golden retriever puppy, Lily. Since the little monster sweetheart is on my mind, I thought I'd introduce Lily, blog style.

Dawn and I had been promising our kids, for several years, that when we finally bought a house, we would get a dog. It just so happened that, just at the same time we found our new home, our realtor had a friend with a fresh litter of golden retriever puppies.

I wanted a faithful dog companion, but I wasn't completely sold on the idea of getting a puppy. I've seen Marley and Me. It is to puppy cautionary tales what Jaws is to swimming in open water - and you won't see me doing that any time soon, either. Dawn and the kids had their hearts set on a puppy, however, and I couldn't really argue with the wisdom of having the dog grow up with the kids and be trained the way we wanted.

To prepare for our new family member, we bought a copy of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Raising a Puppy. We read through the section about how to go about picking out the right puppy for your family's lifestyle, based on a number of temperament and activity level traits. Armed with our new-found expertise, we arrived at the breeder prepared to initiate our battery of proper puppy tests. After being greeted by the little bundles of golden fur, we abandoned our original strategy in favor of a far more scientific approach: pick the puppy that gave the best kisses. The result was Lily.

We gated off the kitchen, which would act as Lily's hardwood home during house training, and placed Lily's bed, toys, crate, and food dish in their places. One of Lily's first decorating acts was chewing the trim at the base of one of the walls (nope, I didn't just make it up because it rhymed) . Not long after her initial remodel, some form of puppy OCD must have kicked in, because Lily apparently felt the need to make the kitchen symmetrical by chewing the trim on the opposite wall, as well. By the time she was done, it looked like a family of beavers had taken up residence in our kitchen.
In appreciation of Lily's contributions, I altered the lyrics of Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty from The Big Bang Theory to more accurately portray our little architect:

Soft puppy, warm puppy
Little ball of fluff
Stupid puppy, naughty puppy
Ruff, ruff, ruff

For anyone not familiar with Sheldon's lullaby, here's the original.

Although the chewing can be annoying, it wasn't completely unexpected and doesn't bother me nearly as much as the 3:30 a.m. pleas to go outside. I made the mistake of ignoring Lily's whines one night. I won't do that again. The result was... unpleasant.

Last night, Lily graced me with one of her middle-of-the-night wake-up calls. As I stood in the kitchen, freezing and waiting for her to finish her ill-timed business, I wondered why I seem to be the only one in our family of six who is awakened by Lily's whining. Just lucky, I guess.

I will take some satisfaction, however, in sending the kids out to clean up the cause of my insomnia, once the snow melts. I fully expect a yard full of puppy landmines that will rival the Gaza Strip.

Another puppy behavior that I'm looking forward to getting past is the "excited piddling" that sometimes occurs when Lily is happy to see someone. For example, our friends Scott and Megan visited on New Year's Eve and Lily greeted them by peeing on the floor.

Don't get me wrong - Scott and Megan are lovely people. I just think that wetting oneself should be reserved for things like the Mariners winning the world series or a visit from the pizza delivery guy.

So that's Lily, in a nutshell. Like any other puppy, she's a furry waste factory with teeth and a short attention span. Fortunately for her, she does give good kisses.

A Wells Family Christmas

2009-12-23T05:22:00.001-06:00

'Twas the week before Christmas
At the Wells' brand new place
Decorations were covering
Every available space

Dawn attempted some baking
But the oven put up a fight
The result was something like cookies
And yet, not quite

With our trusty blowerI plowed mountains of snow
Why do we live here?
I really don't know

After the kids went to bed
And the lights were all dim
The demon dog, Lily
Ate our new kitchen trim

I lit some soft candles
And turned on the charm
Thinking Dawn would come running
In to my arms

But before she had a chance
To reject my mating call
Dylan flew out of his bedroom
To the bathroom 'cross the hall

The sounds of his retching
Echoed throughout
And I feared we were facing
An epic flu bout

Being a generous child
And brother, so dear
Dylan decided to share
His new holiday cheer

Soon the house was filled
With a not-so-joyous chorus
Of four puking kids
And a challenge before us

With hand sanitizer
And gallons of soap
We forged through the weekend
And managed to cope

Now we're back to our blogging,
Facebooking, and Xbox
And yelling at Lily
For eating our socks

So from our house to yours
To friends far and near
We wish you Merry Christmas
And a puke-free New Year!

Dear Tim

2009-12-17T03:33:00.001-06:00

Dear Twenty-Five-Year-Old Tim,

This is the thirty-six year-old version of yourself, sending an important message back in time. Yes, we have that technology now. We also have flying cars and self-heating Hot Pockets. Just go with it.

I know that you're currently trying to decide whether or not to leave Washington and move to Wisconsin with your fiance, Dawn. I thought I'd pass along some info to aid in your decision. Lately, you've been hearing Wisconsin-related myths about winters so cold that they'll freeze a man's blood solid, summers so hot that there's an ever-present danger of spontaneous combustion, and mosquitoes the size of humming birds. Yes, those are all true. But I have a few tips that can help you traverse this harsh, unforgiving landscape.

First, there's a few terms you need to research and become intimately familiar with:

Snow blower
Clothes layering
Central air

You should also spend some time familiarizing yourself with the local culture. The dominant religious faction in Wisconsin is something called "Packerism". Try not to be overwhelmed by the plethora of various symbols devoted to their dieties, which you will see prominently displayed - anywhere and everywhere - throughout the state. The practitioners of Packerism tend to congregate weekly, in the parking lot of their main temple in Green Bay, and pay tribute to their green and gold gods by partaking in feasts consisting mainly of beer and brats.

"What's a brat," you say? Well, don't tell the locals I said this, but brats are greasy sacks of disgusting meat. Basically, a smaller version of Michael Moore. They appear to be some form of sausage/hotdog mutation. Much like Samson's long hair, the brat is what gives Packerites their strength.

Next, I thought I'd give you a look into what the future has in store for you, here in Wisconsin.

Your first employer thinks he's a werewolf. Don't be too alarmed. You actually become pretty close friends. You eventually go your separate ways, after he tries to recruit you into the cult he's forming. I wish I could tell you I'm making this up. On the bright side, this job will lead to other amazing friendships. Plus, you'll have some great bedtime stories to tell your children.

Oops! Did I just let the "c" word slip? We'll get to that in a bit.

After renting for eleven years, you will eventually buy your first house. I know your goal was to be a home-owner by the time you were thirty-five, but I think we can live with a one-year differential. It's a nice house and has plenty of room for your family. However, you should be prepared to build an addition for all the crap your mother-in-law is going to find for you at yard sales. You see, she's like a Thrift Sale Terminator and trying to override her primary directive is a pointless endeavor. For the sake of your sanity, I recommend you don't even try. Aside from the obsessive yard sale looting, your in-laws are pretty awesome people. You'll hold them in high regard.

I'm sure you have more questions about your future. I don't want to give too much away, but I can tell you that, as of this writing, you are the webmaster for a local school district. No, it's not a glamorous position but it also doesn't make you long for death like some of the tech support positions you'll have, leading up to it.

You can stop drinking Ensure to try to gain weight. Thanks to the Thrift Sale Terminator's cooking skills and your inability to find a suitable dojo to continue your martial arts training here, you'll be putting on a few more pounds than you anticipated. Think of it as insulation to help with the Wisconsin weather conditions.

Your dream of writing a book and becoming a published author hasn't yet become a reality. But you've written a few blogs, here and there. Small victories, right?

Of course, we need to discuss your real reason for contemplating this move. I know you're pretty smitten with Dawn right now. Let me tell you something. Are you listening? What you've got with her right now is nothing compared to what's in store. I'm still amazed, every day, at how great your future wife is. Not only does she put up with your idiosyncracies, but, with her support, you will do things you never thought possible, like going back to school and rediscovering your faith in God. Yes, Tim, these days, you are truly blessed.

Whatever you have on the "cons" side of your pros and cons list, do us both a favor and cross them off. I don't want you to miss out on the next decade with your wonderful wife and fourteen kids.

Aw, crap. I let the cat out of the bag. Well, now that you know, you might want to start working on toning down that potty mouth of yours. "Little ears" and all.

Sincerely,

The Older, Fatter, and Happier Version of You.

Reality TV Hangover

2009-12-15T03:49:00.001-06:00

I am tired today. Really tired.

I consider myself an early riser. My alarm almost never gets a chance to go off. Today it did and I didn't even hear it. It took my wife prodding me in the back to wake me from my sleep coma.

I wish I could say that my lethargy was the result of some form of extreme productivity on my part, but that just wouldn't be true. I'm tired today because I stayed up too late watching reality television. That's right. Reality TV. Never let it be said that I let a healthy dose of shame prevent me from telling a story that would likely result in a chance for others to mock me.

As I was flipping channels and contemplating the idea of turning in for the night, I happened upon the History Channel. I don't remember the name of the show. Something about deep sea salvage. What initially caught my attention was TiVo's description of the episode, which promised an opportunity to watch a diver suffer from decompression sickness. I mean, c'mon! I had to at least check it out.
As the salvage show ended (without the diver exploding from the inside-out... disappointing), I reached for the remote to turn off the TV for the night. But just as I was about to hit the power button, the next show started and I had to do a double take. The show was called Pawn Stars. My first thought was, "Morons. They spelled 'porn' wrong." Then I realized what I was seeing. Dawn and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was: Seriously? There's a reality series based on the day-to-day operations of a Las Vegas pawn shop?

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And he apparently deals in second-hand, semi-precious metals.

Now, before you rain down judgment on me, let me say that this is not your average Las Vegas pawn shop. Sure, they've got the intimidating, tattooed biker proprietors, almost certainly inbred employee, and supply of used firearms that would put the Militia of Montana to shame, but they...

OK, so it is your average Las Vegas pawn shop.

The show itself is basically a white trash version of Antiques Roadshow. People, desperate for money, bring in all manner of strange and wonderful items, in the hopes of either pawning or selling them for much more than they're actually worth. It is then up to Rick, the main proprietor, to determine the items' authenticity and potential for profit. In the first episode we watched, Rick purchased a functioning Civil War cannon for $30,000 and blew up a large houseplant with it. That's just good TV, right there.

I say "first episode we watched" because I guess the History Channel was having some sort of Pawn Stars marathon. And I couldn't look away. I'm reminded of the scene in Grandma's Boy in which Grandma and friends are first introduced to Antiques Roadshow.

Long story short, I managed to pull myself away some time after midnight, after watching Rick and company wheel and deal on such treasures as artillery, prehistoric shark teeth, a ship's chronometer, and an authentic Shelby race car.

So yeah... I'm tired and suffering from a self-induced reality television hangover. Was it worth it? Of course it was. You never know when being able to accurately gauge the value of a prehistoric Megalodon tooth might come in handy.