It really was a pretty good month

A few things that annoyed me during September:

1) The dental hygienist showing me how to brush my teeth (For a really long time, like ten minutes).

2) My daughter getting salsa in her hair (This probably shouldn't have annoyed me, but it did).

3) The elderly lady at the gym offering to fetch me a sweat towel, when I already had one (Okay, so I sweat a lot, but it's not like I'm dripping H1N1 all over her rude self).

4) The guy on the bus who sneezed on the back of my neck (Actually, more gross than annoying).

5) My own parental decision to let my nine-year-old watch Titanic, and that night having to lie down with her because she was haunted by imagery of frozen bodies in the North Atlantic (You'd think I'd have this dad thing down by now).

6) The United States Congress (I know, that's some low-hanging fruit right there).

7) The Seattle Seahawks, whose green alternate jerseys blew out two cones and three rods in my right eye, thereby rendering me unable to see color for three days.

Oh, yes, there are others, but I've already worked myself into enough of a grumpy old man. Now get off my lawn.

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There's something slightly magical about that moment each evening, with the kids tucked away and the nightly chores wrapped up, when my age-worn glutious maximus burrows itself into the leathery softness that is the family room sofa. The remote seems to magically appear in the palm of my hand, its cold, smooth plastic all but saying, "Welcome back, old friend."

Such was the case last night, as I flipped on the idiot box (By the way, this post is part deux, the nighttime edition, of my two part series on television.). 

The first show I came across was a Discovery Channel offering, about life in the Las Vegas County Jail. It documented the lives of the prison staff and, yes, the prisoners. Featured last night was an inmate named "Snake." He'd been arrested 27 times, was part of a skinhead Nazi gang and had more tattoos than brain cells. Snake proudly stated that he refused to share a cell with anyone who wasn't white, and therefore would immediately fight any cellmate who wasn't of the Caucasian persuasion, thereby securing a private room for himself. What a guy. As Snake proudly showed off his ripped upper body for the camera, it appeared evident that the guy spent most of his time powering out sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups and whatever other "-ups" could be performed in a six-by-nine-foot box.

At that moment, I reached a moment of clarity—television has reached an all time low. The networks have now decided to offer up the most racist, moronic felon as a reality TV celebrity.

It was certainly a slow evolution to this state of affairs, so let's try and retrace how we arrived at this point.

The 1970s:

No reality shows to speak of, unless you counted Battle of the Network Stars, in which actors from the various networks competed against each other in endeavors athletic. You might see the guy who played "Tattoo" on Fantasy Island arm wrestle Mary Tyler Moore, or Farrah Fawcett could possibly race Suzanne Somers in the 100-yard jiggle. Solid viewing if you're fifteen years old, which I was.

The 1980s:

Television was extremely well-acted, plot-driven and highly dramatic, with shows like "Magnum P.I." ," The A Team" and "Alf." However, a storm was a-brewin', with the premier of the Neil Armstrong of reality shows—Cops—and TV would never be the same. Here's just a sampling of this riveting reality pioneer:

Cop: "Do you know why I pulled you over?

Shirtless Guy: "Because I'm not wearing a shirt?"

Cop:"No, because your car is weaving across five lanes of traffic. Does that pipe in your hand belong to you?"

Shirtless Guy: "No, I'm holding it for my six-month-old baby. That's her sliding around in the back seat."

The 1990s:

MTV's The Real World redefines our desire to watch people at their worst. For the first time, we witness the visible adrenaline of an exchange like this:

Jason: "Where's my peanut butter?"

Ashley: "Puck ate it."

Jason: "Puck, did you eat my peanut butter?"

Puck: "Yeah."

The 2000s:

At this point, all bets are off, there's so much goodness to choose from. We can see nearly-naked, morbidly obese people standing on scales. We can watch washed-up celebrities suck up to a billionaire with a comb-over. We can watch convicted felons boast about their hateful ways.

Or, we can watch our index finger push down, a little too hard, on the "off" switch.

Even flow, thoughts arrive like butterflies

Wow. No mosh pit this time. No Doc Martens. No flannel. Oh, wait, there's a guy wearing some. No long hair flying around in unison to a deafening drum/guitar/bass cacophony.

On Saturday night, I saw Pearl Jam...again.

I'm not a huge fan anymore, in fact, I haven't been for at least ten years, but an opportunity presented itself when my brother asked Terri and me to join his wife and him for a show at the Clark County Amphitheatre, just outside Vancouver, Washington.

And once again, the past collided head-on with the present. The first time we saw the band was in 1992, at a free concert in Seattle's Magnuson Park. Pearl Jam's debut album had just broken, and we found ourselves entrenched in the epicenter of the grunge hurricane. I had turned thirty a couple of weeks previous, and I can remember how old I felt among the throngs of twenty-somethings flocking to the venue. We didn't realize that approximately 30,000 of them would methodically shove us forward into the notorious "mosh pit." Before we knew it, bodies were surfing above us, occasionally introducing the business end of a worn boot to one of our temples. Every so often, a pale, sweaty, bloody reveler would squeeze out around us and collapse onto the first open ground available.

By the time the show was over, we'd been knocked to the ground, elbowed and shouldered numerous times, I'd lost my ponytail band, and my calfs burned from standing on my toes for four hours. I was elated.

Fast forward seventeen years. Rather than arrive at the show via Metro bus and walking another half mile, we drove into the "Premier Parking" area, a three minute walk from the theatre. Rather than hike in with a backpack full of provisions, we stopped at a concession area a few feet from our seats for a couple of pre-show beverages. And portable toilets? Forget about it. These had actual plumbing and there were more than five of them.

The show was fantastic, especially since the band possesses a huge body of work now, rather than one blockbuster album from which to sample. Eddie Vedder still sings like a madman; his voice goes from dulcet baritone to shrill scream in milliseconds. Even though we purchased seats, the crowd stood the entire time, and judging by the average attendee's age, I'm sure it felt good to finally sit-down for the ride home in the SUV.

And if I see these guys again seventeen years from now, it'll probably be because the missus and I are preferred players at the Emerald Queen.

lol :)

As my daughters ate breakfast this morning, I casually suggested that this evening we go to Taco Del Mar, since Terri will be working late (things tend to get a little lazy in the kitchen when one of the adults is absent). Zoe quickly chimed in. "Can (her best friend) Maddy come with us?"
"I guess that would be okay."
And that's when modern technology took hold. No sooner had I delivered them each a glass of milk, than Zoe shot off a text message to Maddy, and Maddy in turn replied with a resounding, "luv 2 go."
This whole text message phenomenon has become insane. These kids have thumbs of unfathomable strength and speed. Thumb wrestling with Zoe used to be fun, but now I'm afraid she might snap my thumb off without realizing it. Also, it's not just texting for which they use their opposable appendages; it's also calculators, remotes...I wouldn't be surprised if they perform thumbs-only shampooing and conditioning.
And what an egregious error I committed the day I suggested to Zoe that she "call" her friend to set up a time to meet at the fair.
"Dad, why would I call Sharon when I can text her (you freakin' idiot)?"
"Because then you can work the whole thing out much faster, and actually talk to a real, live person."
"Whatever."
A little later, she mentioned that a couple of her friends who are dating sit next to each other on the school bus every morning and text each other. No kidding.
Oh, sure, there are definitely instances when texting is the preferred method of communication, such as on crowded mass transit or any circumstance in which the situation could prove to be humiliating.
What I wouldn't have given to possess text message technology that winter day in 1978. I was standing in my parents living room, chatting on our only phone with my new girlfriend of about two weeks. My mom and dad sat about four feet away, pretending to watch TV in their twin recliners. The phone conversation from my end went something like this:
"What? Why? But we just started...please? Are you sure you want to break up? Come on. Okay. Bye."
I hung up the phone and stormed past my parents on the way upstairs to my room.
"Oh, honey, it's okay. She doesn't deserve you." I did appreciate my mom's attempts at consoling me, but right now I was incredibly sad and embarrassed.
A simple text of "i'm thru w/u" would have made the situation slightly more bearable and I wouldn't have had to share it with the rest of the house.
I'm still thinking of instituting a new rule with the kids regarding text messages: you can do it as long as I get to proofread every message for proper spelling and punctuation. That should be sufficient incentive to for them to pick up the phone and brush up on their conversational skills.

And now...new organic Spam

At the risk of over-saturating my blog, here I am again, looking at day number two at home with a sick child. We currently have a no-television rule in our house (except sports), and I'm really glad there's no arguing about it on days like this. Movies are okay, since you don't want your kid to be too active and prolong her illness, but in my opinion, the only thing worse than daytime TV is the local news. Oh wait, I guess that's part of daytime television, as well.

During my forty-seven years on the earth, here are my limited observations of what's available on the boob tube between 9:00am and 5:00pm:

1) Commercials for predatory attorneys ("Have you been in an accident? We don't care if you were drunk and drove your car into a senior citizens' home. In fact, those people have lots of money and we'll get a big pile of it for both of us.").

2) Trade/tech school ads ("Don't you think it's time to move out of your mom's basement? You're 37 years old, and you have no skills. We're here to change that. We offer associates degrees in both dungeons and dragons.").

3) Train wreck talk shows ("Jethro is the brother and also the cousin of Jenny Lynn, who is in love with Jethro's son/daughter, on the next Jaury Springvich.").

4) Local news ("Coming up next: combating the swine flu with soap and water. Jim Foreman will be in satellite control to demonstrate how to wash your hands in a startling exposé.").

5) Soap operas. Sorry, I have to remain neutral on this one, since I watched All My Children from 1970 to 1986.

Days like today give me a deeper appreciation for stay-at-home parents, especially the moms who are ruthlessly stereotyped in daytime adverts, as eternally searching for superior cat litter or dishwashing detergent or fruit juice or pot-roast-filled hot pockets.

Well, I guess it's time to take a hot soak in some skin-softening dishwashing liquid.

I think that's the school calling

Having a sick kid is tough. 

When confronted by an ill child, the working parent (i.e. me) is faced with any number of issues, including:

• Should she stay home from school today, or does she feel sick because she ate really bad food at the fair yesterday, and actually said, "Dad, if it were legal to marry corndogs and onion burgers, I would do it." 

• How much do I spoil her if she does stay home? I don't want to positively reinforce this behavior by fawning over her, but I feel bad for her and she needs to rest and be comfortable.

• If I send her to school and she runs a fever, I look like a self-centered schmuck for exposing her classmates to her illness in that Petri dish known as an elementary school. 

• If I send her to school and she runs a fever, I look like a self-centered schmuck for sending her to school with a fever.

I'd been sitting at my desk at work for about an hour this morning when my cell phone lit up with that all-too-familiar caller ID. "Lauryn has a fever," the school secretary proclaimed. "She's sitting in the office and needs to go home." 

That's when the "pick-the-sick-kid-up-from-school" routine kicked in, as it always does upon receiving that notification. I rode the bus home, retrieved the car, scooped up a flushed-looking Lauryn out of the school office and we drove to Safeway for a couple of movies and some comfort food. I always feel a little self-conscious walking around a grocery store with a school-aged kid during school hours, and that's why I always keep a spare "Proud parent of a home-schooled honor student" T-shirt in the car. 

We completed the routine by driving home, getting her into her pajamas and pink bathrobe and popping in a movie while I whipped up some soup and saltines. 

At that point, the day becomes an opportunity to straighten up the house, fold some laundry and oh, who knows, possibly take a nap. And there's always something cute and cozy about a kid who's feeling a bit under the weather. I feel bad for her and I just want to nestle up next to her. 

Then, of course, we've got to make the decision in the morning about returning her to academia, or repeating the drill again. Parenting: never a dull moment.

Valve oil and pimples

Today has been a little weird, a musical alpha and omega, if you will. One of my kids started playing the viola and the other decided to quit the drums. I know it's been a recurring theme for me to observe my daughters' experiences and then climb into the Way-Back Machine to revisit my own childhood, and I suppose this post is no exception. 

Band/orchestra for the school-aged kid is more than a class; it's a culture. At first, you and your classmates really struggle just to play the instruments at all. I played the trumpet beginning in fifth grade, and those first few weeks were hellish. All the clarinets, flutes, trombones, trumpets and drums combined to form the musical equivalent of all the finger paint colors mixed into a sickening brown—it was anarchy.

But pretty soon, everyone learns the basic notes and scales, and things begin to gel just a little, Eventually, you can all play a song together. Sure, it might be Hot Crossed Buns, but hey, it's a song. That's when the cultural bond of playing music takes hold. And if I ever run into Mr. Sower, my fifth grade band director, I will tell him, "You had me at Hot Crossed Buns." I hope he takes that the right way.

To me, band was the great equalizer. You could be the scrawniest kid, or the fattest kid, or you could have a face like lasagna, but if you could play, you had the respect of the other kids in the room. Those who weren't in band didn't necessarily hold us in high regard, but for an hour every day at least, we were golden among each other.

I participated in lots of sports. However, none fostered the esprit de corps that music did. 

It makes me sad that my oldest daughter has chosen to end her musical pursuits. The grim reality for kids today is that, unlike how it was for us middle-aged folk, they must fully immerse themselves in whatever activity they choose, and their schedules shift into overdrive once high school begins. 

Every time I pull that old, silver trumpet out, the familiar aromas of valve oil and silver flood my senses. I really miss those days. I want to tell Zoe that she will, too, but the last thing she deserves now is to be flogged with the parental guilty stick.

And with Lauryn starting orchestra, I'm lucky to have yet another opportunity to witness the process all over again.

Potty all the time

I realize this is a delicate subject, one that most of us don't really discuss with each other, even though we deal with it several times on any given day. But, here we go. I'm here to talk about bathroom/restroom behaviors/rituals. 

I've been thinking about this subject quite a bit lately, simply because I've encountered some strange occurrences, both at home and at work.

The home bathroom situation is less than ideal. Our house has a single bathroom containing a single sink, a single toilet and a single shower. Therefore, there tends to be an abundance of, shall we say, "multi-person-multi-tasking," among the members of the family. And since my older daughter is now fourteen, our paths tend to cross at the least opportune times. Suffice it to say that I've suffered quite a few near-whiplashes from jerking my head in the opposite direction of my line of sight. That's as far as I'll go with that one. 

The other problem is our bathroom's location. A plaster wall is all that separates the dining room from the bathroom. In the all-too-frequent event that someone leaves the dinner table to use the facilities, this is the cue for everyone else to pick up their color-coded sound proof ear muffs. Of course, that's not true, but we do have one rule regarding going to the bathroom in the middle of a dinner-time conversation: no participation is allowed from the person on the toilet. We've experienced too many instances of one of our household's younger members chiming in at a voluminous pitch from the echo chamber that is the bathroom. Just bad form.

The men's restroom at the office is a completely different animal, so I'll just lay down a few common sense rules based upon behavior I've actually witnessed at work:

1) It's okay to talk to each other in there. Sometimes I feel like I'm breaking some weird male code of silence if I ever acknowledge a coworker. I'm not saying you need to walk up to the guy while he's experiencing stage fright at the urinal and give him some relaxation pointers, but it's okay to say hello as you pass each other.

2) When you wash your hands, use soap, too; not just water. I think some guys think water is all you need to wash up after an "express" visit, but go ahead and dive into that soap as well.

3) This should go without saying, but I'm going to say it. If you're doing something that requires a visit to a stall, washing your hands with soap is mandatory. No ifs, ands or butts. I have personally witnessed, three times, the same dude walk out the stall door and on out the bathroom door. Nasty.

I'm not really sure what I've accomplished by writing this post, but I do feel quite relieved...you know, in an emotional sense.

Where's the remote?

Last night saw the debut of another season of NFL Monday Night Football. Now, I realize I've already touched upon football and its idiosyncrasies, so I won't beat that horse any further. Not only, however, was it the beginning of another football season, but also marked was the onset of a fresh batch of television advertising. I've worked in the advertising profession for twenty years, and I probably pay a little too close attention to this stuff, but here's what I found.

It seems like every advertiser attempts to top not only its competitors, but also its own previous products. For example, Pizza Hut started out pushing just pizza, you know—crust, sauce, cheese and toppings. Then they decided there wasn't quite enough saturated fat on there, so they also stuffed the crust with cheese. And this year, they've introduced cheese-stuffed-crust pizza with an additional ring of cheese on top of the crust. Seriously? Why doesn't the delivery person show up with little cans along with your pizza so you can have a Cheez-Whiz chaser with every bite? Watching that commercial, I could almost feel the lumpy curds of mozzarella coursing through my arteries toward their final resting place along my left ventricle.

And that's just the beginning of the extreme advertising makeover this year. Now there's lime-flavored light beer. How much are we trying to accomplish here? Or, how about the KFC "Famous Bowl" with fried chicken, corn, cheese, mashed potatoes and gravy. The folks at Kentucky Fried could've saved quite a bit in research and development if they just asked my dad for one of his crockpot recipes.

On the high testosterone front, we see bearded men driving trucks call "Ram" and "Tundra" and "Tacoma" (Tacoma?) scaling sheer rock cliffs while pulling trailers filled with lead boulders. 

And who can forget those ads showing attractive, middle-aged couples of all shapes and sizes smiling amorously at each other, and we all know why—that little blue pill. Those drive me crazier than any of the aforementioned marketing ploys combined, and it's simply because they always seem to come on when I'm watching TV with one of my daughters. One of the first times this occurred, my daughter, who was about eight at the time, asked me what that pill was for. I tried to explain it as succinctly and simply as an eight-year-old needed to know. 

"Do all men use that pill, Dad?" 

"No, not all men," I uncomfortably replied. 

And then, she dropped the bombshell. "Do you?"

I got up, picked up the phone and ordered a pizza.

Friday night anxiety

Friday evening presented another one of those "back to the future" moments. My fourteen-year-old, freshman daughter attended her first high school football game. The event snuck up on me...wait, let me rephrase that; it blindsided me. Thoughts and emotions arose in fragments:
- One massive hormonal stew, simmering, simmering.
- Darkness, giggles.
- Packs of teenagers eating red ropes, checking their hair, walking slowly, but not in straight lines.
- Boys approaching my daughter, asking her if she knows what time it is (that was always my best pick-up line).
I dropped her off at the game with her best friend as darkness began to surround the lit-up football stadium. As I drove off, my mind wondered back, yet again. As a fourteen year-old guy, I was just slightly evolved above a chimpanzee. Sure, I could talk to my parents, my friends and my teachers, but could I talk to a cute girl? No way. The best I could do was pop in some grape Bubble Yum and stick close to any friends who were slightly more adept at addressing the opposite sex. And hopefully, today's teenage boys still act like big, dumb puppies and she'll think they're a waste of time. Yeah, right.
I sat at home with my nine-year-old daughter, watching, fittingly, "Father of the Bride," and thought about what could be happening a mere two miles away at Southwest Athletic Field, where the entire ritual was taking place. Let's see, it's about 8:30. Probably by now, she's talked to ten freshman guys, five sophomores, two juniors and, God forbid, a senior.
I expressly instructed her not to give out her phone number, but who knows? I should have taken her out to a dinner containing lots of garlic beforehand. Maybe I should have actually attended the game and brought the binoculars to "see the game" a little better. Or maybe I should have just encouraged her to play football to avoid the entire Friday night mating ritual.
But then I remembered that I've spent the past fourteen years teaching her right from wrong, proper social behaviors and techniques for staying safe. This is just one in a large series of events leading to independence and adulthood.
And I'll make sure to remove that GPS implant from her forearm before she gets married.

Are they still called disc jockeys?

I could hear Zoe's clock radio blaring as she staggered out of her bedroom this morning. "Coming up next, ten in a row, starting with DJ Skribble, Chickenfoot and Lady Gaga." Once Zoe's radio starts playing in the morning, it doesn't stop. She could leave her bed, her room or even the house, and completely forget that something really obnoxious is emanating from her room at an obscene volume. As one song melded into the next, I heard myself say to Zoe, "How can you like that stuff? It all sounds the same."
Wow, did I really just say that? Or was my dad channeling through me this morning? I distinctly remember promising myself that when I eventually became a father, I wouldn't pass judgment on my kids' musical preferences, and here I was, doing just that.
"Dad, please. You're just old and your musical taste froze around 1993. Grunge hasn't been around for fifteen years, and you still listen to it and make Lauryn and me listen to it and it's like stale licorice. Then there's that seventies stuff that all sounds like the Brady Bunch. (It may have even been the Brady Bunch.) Music is so much better now."
At that very moment (insert swirling, spiraling graphic), I flashed back to 1976, when I was fourteen and playing my clock radio in my room really loud. It might have been Afternoon Delight or Bohemian Rhapsody or Livin' Thing, or something a little harder, from KISS or Led Zeppelin or Thin Lizzy. Either way, my dad hated it. "How can you like that stuff?" barked Lionel. "It all sounds the same. There's no melody; there's just an incessant drum beat."
"Dad, please," I retorted. "You're just old and your musical taste froze around 1953. Swing music hasn't been around for fifteen years, and you still listen to it and make Tom and Ann and me listen to it. Music is so much better now."
At that moment, the time vortex sucked me back to the present. "Okay, I need to be a little more accepting of what my daughter is listening to," I thought. "Maybe if I just listen to the words a little more intently, I'll understand what kids are going through; their challenges, their fears..."
And for a fleeting moment, a faint flicker of enlightenment switched on in my soul, as I walked into Zoe's room, turned off her radio and put on some Styx.

We get lockers this year

In light of today being the first day of school for many of our kids, I thought it might be fitting to reflect upon some of my kids' first-day-of-school, adrenaline-fueled comments:
Kindergarten: "Dad, I'll stop crying if you will. Just pick me up in an hour if things don't work out."
First Grade: "Dad, do my Hello Kitty leggings match my Hannah Montana choker?"
Second Grade: "Dad, I don't care if it's eighty-three degrees. This coat will never look as good as it does today."
Third Grade: "Dad, do you think my teacher knows that I'll need to pee around ten?"
Fourth Grade: "Dad, look at the kindergarteners. They're so cute."
Fifth Grade: "Dad, can you just walk behind me a little bit when we get there?"
Sixth Grade: "Dad, really, it's just middle school. Stop hugging me. People are looking."
Seventh Grade: "Dad, it's just a little eye liner. You've seen a lot worse working in the fashion industry."
Eighth Grade: "Dad, just drop me off here. Thanks for the ride."
Ninth Grade: "Dad, I'm serious. If you draw on my lunch bag, I won't let you drive me to school."
I don't think my kids realize what a milestone each first day of school is. It's one of the most emotional days of the year; they feel excited and nervous, while I feel nostalgic and...well...old.
One of the day's most enduring sensations is that weathered, piney school smell that hits you the minute you walk into the building. That's usually what facilitates the lump in my throat when I look over at a daughter who has grown another year.

Can't one of your friends go with you?

Another weekend. Another fun-filled adventure with my girls. Terri had purchased a couple of tickets to the Dave Matthews Labor Day extravaganza at the Gorge, and finally, the weekend had arrived. 

Let me just state for the record that I admire Dave Matthews' musicianship immensely. He's a fantastic entertainer. He commands massive crowds, and I wholeheartedly concur with his political views. That said, I can't, repeat, cannot, stand him. I despise his voice, his songs, and his noodling ways. If I had two desert island CDs to listen to for the rest of my days, and one was Dave and the other Barry Manilow, well, let's just say I'd be simpatico with the guy who wrote the songs that made the whole world sing.

My daughters share my views regarding Dave, and therefore, Terri was on her own to find a partner to bear witness to a guy who sounds like he mainlines helium when he sings. She chose her friend, Becky, who lives in Richland, Washington. So, on Friday, Terri, the girls and I mini-vanned out to Becky's and stayed two nights with her husband, Pete, and their three kids, while Terri and Becky trekked to George, Washington to watch the dental drill who plays guitar.

During our trip out there, I learned some new information about my family:

1) Lauryn knows how to drive really well, and if I would listen to her, I wouldn't suck at driving.

2) Zoe likes to ask rhetorical questions. Well, actually, she likes to ask questions, and then put on her headphones.

3) Terri can spot brake lights as far ahead as Boise.

4) Just because I'm using cruise control, doesn't mean I can climb to the back and make you guys a sandwich.

My daughters and I had a lot of fun back in Richland, and since her concert experience, Terri loves Dave Matthews now more than ever. Apparently, the rain poured down in sheets up until the moment he took the stage, and then sunshine and rainbows enveloped the picturesque surroundings. Terri thinks that was a sign that God loves Dave; I simply pointed out to her a line item on her ticket stub: an $8.95 Ticketmaster fee for weather adjustments.

Facebook anonymous

Hi,
My name is Tim...and...I'm a Facebook addict.
I guess I've been addicted for...oh...about a year-and-a-half. It started with friend requests from people I currently know, then pretty soon, people from my past became friends.
"This is great," I thought. "I can get caught up with all these friends I've lost touch with. Maybe we'll email each other every couple of months or so. Oh, look—they've posted some photos."
And hence ensued the genesis of my obsession.
Now, I need to know what everyone is doing at all times. I must witness what someone had for dinner last night. I have to know when coffee is necessary to get someone through their day. Couldn't sleep last night? Good to know. Tim likes this.
Therefore, as part of my recovery program, I must purge myself of some of my past Facebook statuses:
-"Going back to Charmin toilet paper. Western Family caused some problems."
-"Thought about getting a milkshake, but then thought about having to drive to get one, and decided not to have a milkshake, so I just had some Lucky Charms. Here's the photo."
-"Starting to think I'm not the father of my children."
-"Took a cold shower this morning. It was colder than a hot shower."
Okay, there. I feel lot better now. And actually, I don't think I'm quite ready for this recovery program yet. But thanks for listening.