These Two.

I was going to type this up last night but I started throwing up. How's that for a hook?

Before I move on, a quick word about the process of vomiting—and it is just that—a process. Very few of us spontaneously hurl, as usually we're provided warning signs anywhere from minutes to hours prior to the ultimate act of yelling yogurt. I'm here to tell you though, somebody paid for express delivery on this one. I went from enjoying a beer on a beautiful Thursday evening, preparing a nice black bean soup (with bacon, where you leave the grease in the soup and it's freaking delicious) to bedazzling the bedpan in less than two hours.

Sorry, I tend to trend graphically in this forum and I do want you to read on, so I'll stop there. It's just interesting how, when the human body encounters a breach of security, it goes through a sort of NORAD Defcon level progression. And not to worry, feeling much better today.

I was planning on featuring my two daughters in this post, since during April the older kid turns 21 and the younger, 16. It's a big milestone and they've been subjects, sometimes willing but usually not, of numerous posts over the past seven years, Accordingly, I've decided my gift to them is Seinfeldian in nature—the gift of nothing—no interviews or greatest hits. You're welcome, darling angels.

Alas, most of the cute stories, the mispronunciations and heart-tweaking sentiments, the naive perceptions of life on Earth, have slowly evaporated with each passing season. And like many of my friends also experiencing this, I've tried to embrace the evolving nature of parenthood, from hands-on to hands-off in fairly short order.

April fools! Here are the top five quips from each daughter since this blog started back in 2009:

Older daughter (I'll call her Hermione):

3) December 5, 2011 (age 16)

Hermione: "Hey, Dad, I can see your butt crack,"

Me (I'll call myself Ryan, either Reynolds or Gosling): "Okay, do you want me to put down this hammer and this really small nail and this huge string of lights that's teetering on collapse and get down from this stool and pull up my pants? Huh? Is that what you want?" No answer. "Just look the other way or something." I pounded. I taped. I failed. I pounded some more. I swore some more. I pounded. Finally, success.

Hermione: "Dad, guess what? We filmed you on my phone."

Ryan: "You filmed me? Are you serious?"

Hermione: "Yeah."

Ryan: "You filmed the whole butt crack conversation, too?"

Hermione: "Yeah."

2) January 12, 2011 (Age 15)

Ryan: "It looks really short."

Hermione:"Dad, don't worry. I'm wearing spandex underneath, so even if it gets hiked up, no one can see anything."

Ryan:"You only need to touch your nose to hike that thing up."

Hermione: "Dad, just wait until you see me with it on. You'll feel much better."

Ryan didn't.

1) March 30, 2010 (Age 14)

Ryan: "If you could change anything about your first ten years, what would you change?"

Hermione: "When I was four, I wouldn't have peed on the floor of my room and wiped it up with your towel and put it back, thereby forcing you to dry yourself with my urine.

Ryan: "I wish you could change that too."


And now for the younger child (let's call her Chrysanthemum)

3) February 29, 2012 (age 11)

Chrysanthemum: "I let Autumn borrow my deodorant in gym today. I know I probably shouldn't do that, but I sort of feel sorry for her because she smells like..."

Hermione, interrupting: "Seriously, you guys, I was looking at my stomach in the mirror this morning and my two-pack is looking so good..."

Chrysanthemum, interrupting: "You just interrupted me."

Hermione: "Sorry. But really, check this out (exposing her bare stomach). Is this not a highly-defined two-pack?"

Chrysanthemum: "I don't care about your stomach. Can I finish talking please? Thank you...I forgot what I was talking about. Anyway, Ashley and Jonah are dating now, so there making it Facebook official tonight and then they're...

Hermione, interrupting: "Ewww! There's something in my Au Jus!"

Chrysanthemum: "You just interrupted me again! And it's a piece of bread. Stuff gets in your Aus Jus all the time! Look at mine. It's got stuff in it, too. Now listen to what I'm saying!"

Older Daughter: "I think I need a bang trim."

2) August 21, 2009 (age 9)

Chrysanthemum: "You know what I want for dessert?"

Ryan: "What?"

Chrysanthemum: "Gilletto."

Ryan: "You mean gelato?"

Chrysanthemum: "No Dad, I mean gilletto. Come on. You've had it a lot."

1) July 13, 2009 (age 9)

Chrysanthemum: "Dad, tell mom to change her clothes. She listens to you."

Ryan: "What are you talking about?"

Chrysanthemum: "Dad, Mom has a doctor's appointment, and the doctors and nurses are going to be really embarrassed to see her in her brown sweater with huge buttons. She looks super ugly."

Ryan: "People in our family are allowed to dress any way they want, including you."

Chrysanthemum: "But I always wear really pretty things."

Ryan: "Just leave your mom alone."

Chrysanthemum: "Just tell her to change her sweater, then. She can leave her pants on."

Ryan "I have to get back to work. Just let it go."

Chrysanthemum: "Okay, but you have a really unattractive wife going out in public."


Happy birthdays, my beautiful girls.

Social Media: A Place We Can Be Everywhere Yet Nowhere.

Please bear with me; I'll try to be brief in venting my spleen.

I joined Facebook around, let's see, 2008. So therefore, I've spent 46/53 of my life not engaged in social media. Not yet Twittering or Tindring or Instagrammering... just yammering.

But now, now that I've owned an iPhone for six months, I'm a crumb concerned. I used to have to crank up the old desktop jalopy for my Facebook fix. Today, I'm a thumbprint ID away from another tasty orange Instagram kibble or a juicy red Zuckerbook nugget from a Friend.

Social media has served most of us pretty well, wouldn't you say? And for people hovering within twenty years either side of my age, those who could formerly only reconnect with old friends through high school reunions and chance encounters—"where are they now?" has been been replaced by "what are they physically doing at this very moment?" And do I like it enough to "like"it?

These days, we can snap a quick shot of the Applebee's French Dip we're about to scarf down, apply a yummy filter and post it for the viewing pleasure of those whose only food choices are currently downstairs in the earthquake kit.

Or perhaps it's the one-month anniversary of our cockapoo's tummy tuck and we want him to know how proud we are that he's kept the weight off. He's a few simple key punches from being snapped, tagged and posted. Sure, he's a dog. He'll never fathom the your pride in his accomplishment, any more than he can grasp why he wears designer denim.

That doesn't mean the rest of the world can't.

There's really no debating that social media has revolutionized the way we communicate with each other. It's fast, easy and effective. But for every advantage with which we've been bestowed over the past decade, certain off-color byproducts have emerged, and I feel compelled to share them with you. Please don't take these personally if these hit a little close to home. Just because I'm judging you doesn't mean I don't love you. Here are my top five worst mobile-device inspired human behaviors:

5) As I write this on my morning commuter bus, three of the five people surrounding me here in the back seat are glued to their phones. I understand that they could be reading an interesting article or even doing some sort of business... but I kind of doubt it unless they work for Candy Crush, Inc. Either way, these folks illicit feelings of dystopian human disconnection, and they tend to bug the shit out of me, especially on Mondays.

4) Unless openly challenged, my children operate in a constant, fragmented state. They're incessantly hovering between cyberspace and physical reality, similar to the Star Trek episodes where the transporter was on the fritz and the only thing able to beam onto the Enterprise are Kirk's toupee and man corset.

This applies to lots of people as well, many of whom aren't my offspring. I'll ask them a question, only to see them focused on their small screens. Inevitably, their answer begins with one word—"Ummm..."

And this bugs the shit out of me.

3) Memes are the bane of social media. I simply don't find it necessary to proclaim my feelings using online clip art and misplaced apostrophes, as in "I love my brother. Hes the only person who really get's where I'm coming from, which is our mom. Like and share if you or your brother's came from your mom."

Bugs the shit out of me.

2) Vacation pictures: Actually, I like seeing these, but I get jealous, and therefore they bug the shit out of me.

1) People who text and drive actually venture further up the aggravation scale than just bugging the shit out of me. They incite visceral emotion and fantasies of homicidal violence. Riding public transit as often as I do, I'm able to perform informal surveys while glancing down upon the gridlocked vehicles. Of the ten consecutive cars I chose to observe one morning, four contained drivers who sat gazing at their phones.

If they'd only looked up and to the side and absorbed just a smidgen of the wrath emanating from my orange pupils, I'm convinced they'd have sworn off texting and driving for as long as they lived.

Of course, how would that even be possible—they were busy looking at their freaking phones...

... which bugs the shit out of me.

Be Cool, Fool: It's the First Day of School

It's hard not to love fall here in the PNDub—the warm, murky rains, the crisp, bright mornings—the giddy optimism that jolts my spirits on the eve of another football season...

Wow, sorry, I just got a little physically excited there. Okay, I'm good. There's still another reason why autumn is my runaway winner of Most Valuable Season:

It's back-to-school time. I miss it, do you? It's alive and well in my house, where only two family members aren't returning to the piny confines of academia this fall: me and my toothless cat, Leo. Everyone else will be either fifth-grade teaching or high-school-sophomoring or college-junioring-and-moving-into-a-house-off-campus-with-three-friends-and-a-55-inch-TV.

Remember that night before that first day of school? I do. I always slept fitfully, waking often to gaze through the darkness at my opening day outfit draped over the chair, an ensemble assembled through painstaking, patience-trying trips to Sears, Penney's, the Bon Marché. Thank you, Mom.

Every summer, I'd reassure myself that I'd look totally cool but not enough to stand out. Each first day marked the only time I'd dress up for school, but I'd also be committed to that outfit for the duration of the church and Sunday school year.

In kindergarten, a gold turtleneck was my statement piece. Just to give you an idea, here's a sketch for a turtleneck pattern from 1968.

Okay, is it just me, or is that guy trending a little closer to the camel toe than the moose knuckle? Glad the pattern wasn't for those pants.

Throughout the elementary years, my first-day clothing choices varied between the more-dressed-up...

(I'm not kidding, my fifth grade garb was freakishly close to these guys standing here with their wife.)

...to the utilitarian. Sears Toughskins were a staple. They came in a wide array of dimensions, a major asset for the fussy, tubby shopper.

After a growth spurt during junior high, my body stretched out, allowing for more appealing choices:

I looked up to all three of these guys. The one in the hat is Mr. Penny, my P.E. teacher. In the middle is Mr. Barnes, who taught social studies and coached the map club, and then the dude on the right was Mike, who said he did security at our school but I'm pretty sure he just sat around and looked at girls. I took this picture in the lunchroom right after this kid Lonnie spilled pork gravy on Mrs. Olson. Her mouth started twitching, and I seriously thought she was going to punch him.

Oh, and here's Charlie's Angels, just because:

Have a great autumn!

If You Like Piña Coladas...

Please understand—I understand.

Sitting through a vacation slideshow can kind of suck.

Who doesn't remember those Saturday evenings at your Great Aunt Pedreen's house, bored out of your gourd and anxious to get home in time for Mary Tyler Moore, or at the very latest The Bob Newhart Show. You've already spent four hours trying not to stare at Great Uncle Odgar's unrepaired hernia flap and you're ready to purge their chipped-beef-smelling Davenport from your teenage memory bank.

Your aunt feverishly clears the dessert dishes, boosting your spirits with her apparent desire for an accelerated end to the evening's festivities. You arise, hopeful that but one final obstacle lies ahead: the inevitable bosomy grind and slushy smooch from Pedreen's frustrated spinster sister, Latreena.

But alas, even before the kitchen sponge's snail trail can evaporate into the musty air, Uncle Od enters the room and lowers the slide projector onto the dining room table—gingerly, lest his hernia distend his tender abdomen another belt hole. At the sight you lower yourself back into your chair, pissed and discouraged that you'll be lucky to get home for the last half of Carol Burnett.

I'll try to keep things brief since that memory is apparently a bit tarter than I had thought.

My family and I are back from two weeks in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Here's where the place is in the big picture:

And here's it is up close:

Located at the tip of the Baja Peninsula, Cabo is situated atop the Los Amnesias Aquifer, Earth's only known natural Tequila spring.

I don't expect you to feel sorry for us, but as KISS famously said in two chords or less, it was hotter than Hell. Seriously, I'm typing this post so obnoxiously sunbaked, I look like a blackened pot roast with glistening teeth and slowly-diminishing intestinal distress.

Our fifteen-day excursion to Los Cabos was divided into two segments: the first week with friends and the second with family. Here's the initial group:

Left to right, that's me, my wife Terri, Becky, Isabella, Pete, Lauryn, Zoe and her friend David.

We've known Becky and Pete since the days of Bartles, James and Glass Tiger. As soon as the four of us were convinced that Y2K wouldn't cause locust infestations and permanent Windows-based computing:

Izzy and Lauryn came along.

The first week we stayed at a place called Villa del Palmar. If you're familiar with these timeshare facilities, you understand that upon check-in, you're assaulted by the sales department. Okay, maybe "assault" is a little tough. Let's go with "violation."

We've lodged a few times at these types of places, but never agreed to attend one of their "seminars." This time, however, lured by the ambrosia of two hundred dollars in free adult beverages, a complimentary breakfast and fifteen percent off everything merely to sit through a ninety-minute tour and sales pitch, we capitulated. After all, how bad could it be?

Bad. How can I describe this? First of all, I was super hot from the get-go, just embarrassingly sweaty. My body irrigated itself with increasing gusto as the tour droned on, ultimately settling on a sultry hundred and three Fahrenheit. We toured all sizes of units from one-bedrooms to penthouse suites overlooking the Sea of Cortez.

Finally, like a Slurpee after hot yoga, our family was ushered into an air-conditioned room, packed with people sitting at tables and drinking alcohol in all imaginable forms. We settled into our own table with our own sales woman, a spritely imp half my age who used the word "awesome" like she owned freaking stock in it. Sporadically, the hollow "bolp" of a popping cork would fill the air, announcing another condominium purchase and two tickets to paradise for a lucky, albeit debt-saddled, couple.

Two-and-a-half hours and several offers later, our blond tormentor brushed back her bob, straightened her specs and looked at us.

"Okay, I understand you don't want to pay $52,000 for a unit here. That's awesome. Just tell me what you want."

My wife is a straight shooter. I am not, and that's one of the reasons I love and admire her so much. "What we want is for your presentation to be done," she said, looking Sally Jessie Raphael, Jr. dead in the eye. "The only reason we did it is to get the stuff and we told you that from the beginning. You told us this would be ninety minutes. It's now two and a half hours."

Silence engulfed the air around our table. Finally Barbie's little sister took a deep, uncertain breath."Okay," she said. "Awesome."

Phase Two was family week and here we are. At the edge of the infinity pool are my brother-in-law Andy, my sister Ann, niece Holly, Lauryn, Zoe, Terri and me. We spent week two at Hacienda Encantada, a few more miles down the coast from Cabo.

We quickly became acquainted with Pam, the woman in the floppy hat. Prior to knowing Pam's name, we called her Hurricane Sandy, since she told us within minutes of meeting her that she'd been though Cabo's Hurricane Odile last September. She was enjoying a free stay after enduring the Baja Peninsula's most destructive tropical cyclone in recorded history.

Here's how it looked coming in:

Not sure I've ever seen a storm with actual teeth before. Holy shit.

Okay, let's not wrap things up on a bad note, because Cabo San Lucas is a fantastic place. I've never known lamb to resurface so quickly after a major natural disaster, but like a beacon in the darkness...

On another note, Zoe was so thrilled that these guys knew the whole Neil Diamond catalog.

And I finally found the time to show the amazing fit of my new Speedo. 

Trust me, okay? 

Great to be back!

She's Fifteen. Wait, What?

She’s fifteen today. 

Holy sweet mother of Burt Reynolds, I feel old. My little girl—all those years such a wee, giggly tot—has shot up like a gull durn beanstalk in Zoo Doo. And, might I say, a hard-working, smart, awesome beanstalk at that.

How about you; do you remember turning fifteen? How about just being fifteen? I’m asking because…I kind of don’t. Sure, I’ve got some fairly sturdy memories of the larger milestones of that era—thirteen, sixteen—but my recollections of Year XV are overcast at best. 

Based on the day’s teenage mindset, I can deduce what I may have asked for. Perhaps a pair of these:

I doubt I received HASH jeans though, since it cost around thirty 1977 dollars for the privilege of hiding your shoes and flaunting your loin rimple. Chances are I picked up a cheaper imitation at the Clothes Fair down by the railroad tracks. 

I probably requested slightly smaller ticket items, like this:

Or maybe this:

Or perhaps a subscription to this:

I can tell you with near certainty that for dinner, I went here:

After which, my family and I returned home, sat back on the couch and flipped on this:

Yep, from what I’ve observed, teenage birthdays are quite a bit different now. By the time my daughter arrives at school this morning, a large swath of freshmen will already be digitally clued in. Upon her entrance, she’ll be engulfed in a million gentle hugs—each with one hand lightly patting the birthday girl’s back and the other clinging to its smartphone like a mountain goat to a mossy boulder.

In 1977, most of my friends didn’t even know I’d had a birthday until they noticed my annual Milk Dud-sized forehead zit from eating chocolate cake for breakfast all week.

I’m not bitter. Digital attention is shallow. Wait, forget I said that. 

I suppose when the rubber hits the road, teenagers haven’t changed all that much. Allow me to illustrate.

Here’s a recent photo of my daughter:

Here I am, also at age 15:

And of course, James:

See what I mean? A youngster’s a youngster’s a dork. 

Fifteen can be a tough age, a time of awakening and with it, one of elevated uncertainty and angst. Thankfully, our kid seems to be navigating the waters well; in fact, she’s doing great. 

And just between us, or as the kids say, "TBH," I love the girl so much, sometimes I feel like I could just cave in. But knowing how she’s loathed being the subject of my long-winded posts over the years, I’ve decided to bestow upon her the greatest gift a father can grant on this, my baby’s fifteenth birthday:

I’ll stop talking.

Teaching Our Children the Merits of Inactivism.

Hi! Good to see you again. 

Back in November, I posted the following to the Reflections of a Shallow Pond Facebook page:

To my faithful readers, each of whom I love unconditionally,

You may or may not have noticed that I've been posting to the blog a little less lately. Due to my chronic OCD, I've been devoting most of my blog prep time to writing a kids' book.

It's going well, and I think a few thousand more words should round out the first draft, at which time I'll start posting again. It'll be a happy day to emerge from the other side of this meaty juggernaut.

Feel free to peruse the archives if you're looking for a treasure trove of outdated punchlines.

Thanks for reading.

Pretty much instantaneously, I started regretting that bloated little press release. 

If I had wanted to be honest with myself and everyone else, I would have said, “Due to my chronic OCD, I’m unable to focus on anything but working on the first draft of my middle grade novel. Also, I can’t think of anything to write about anyway, and there’s quite a bit of football that needs watching.”

Ahh, I feel better already. Oh,one last thing—did I say something about a “meaty juggernaut”? Yeah, I don’t think so. Trinity by Leon Uris is a meaty juggernaut. Chris Christie is a meaty juggernaut. 

Right now, I’d describe the book as more of a “cheesy Duggar plot.” In real-life terms, it’s currently about the length a routine colon cleanse—you’d be closing the cover around the time you’re closing the lid. Ideally, however, I'd like it to span the course of an intense but survivable bird flu.

Anyway, moving on. Wow, November wasn’t exactly a harmonious month, was it? The Ferguson decision, coupled with an increasingly violent attitude toward Black Friday, coagulated into the perfect Nor’ Easter of social unrest this past month. 

For the first time here in Seattle, protesters stormed two downtown Malls, freaking out pretty much everyone but the guy in the Brookstone store who’d been waiting a half hour to try the new Infiniti IT 8500 Massage Chair and by god, wasn’t lettin’ a mob of tree huggers stand between him and his flamin' sciatica. 

Have you ever participated in a demonstration? Ever stood up to the man—told him you’re fed up with his bullshit—and that you’re not going anywhere until justice, and hopefully pizza, is delivered? 

I have, twice. I first dipped my toes into the muddy sand of civil disobedience in high school. Was I rebelling against the tyrannical re-institution of selective service registration? Can’t say I was. Did I march against Ronald Reagan’s covert war against Nicaragua’s Sandanistas? Um…nah.

The arena many of my classmates and I chose as our initiation into rabble rousing was just that—a basketball arena. I’ve long since forgotten what the referee did to incite such activism, but whatever it was, a few of us spontaneously decided to sit on the court after the game to challenge the loss forced upon us by a gang of zebra-striped oppressors. Unflinchingly resolved that the ref violated our basic human right to a senior year playoff win, we rattled the rafters of the Hazen High School gym with chants of,“Hell no! We won’t go!”

Classy, eh? If co-opting Vietnam anti-war slogans toward our equally righteous ends was the order of the day, then so be it. 

Seriously, though, what did we think—that the referees would sheepishly return to the court and say, “We’ve never seen a group of people sit on the floor so powerfully. Let’s go ahead and bring the teams out and add a couple more minutes to the game clock. Well played, Trojan student body.”

The principal and a couple of off-duty cops told us to leave. We did, but incensed at the injustice we’d witnessed, my friends and I wouldn't forget this until well into the Dairy Queen drive-through line.

I’d like to think that my second act of public rebellion was a catalyst toward inspiring my older daughter’s future actions. On February 15, 2003, protesters in cities across America took to the streets to object to the Bush Administration’s impending invasion of Iraq. 

Nearly eight years old, my kid seemed a good age at which to impart a lesson on First Amendment rights by participating in the parade from Seattle Center to the International District.

I knew that, how ever far we walked away from the car, we’d have to hike back the same distance, and I didn’t want her forever associating social demonstration with boredom, hunger and fatigue. We managed to walk half the route before peeling off course and finding a place with chicken tenders and getting to the car in time to beat the agitator traffic. 

But how, on that crisp winter day, could I have known that a simple lesson would propel my sweet cherub toward a life of activism twelve years hence? Here’s what happened yesterday, as told by my nineteen-year-old daughter, a sophomore at Western Washington University:

I was walking on campus with a couple of friends. We were on our way to get a hot chocolate at Starbucks. We saw something happening in Red Square (the brick-floored hub of campus), like lots of people were gathering, so we decided to check it out. We walked over and saw two girls standing on the fountain, talking into bullhorns. A drum started beating, and for every beat, one of them said the name of a famous victim of police brutality.

A few minutes later, we found ourselves right in the middle of a huge crowd. The drum started beating faster…and people started lying on the wet bricks. I said to my friend, "Wow, that sucks for them. It must be freezing down there.” 

More and more people dropped to the ground, and before we knew it, we were the only ones standing. “We can’t leave now,” I said. So all three of us just laid down. At least I had my backpack on so my back didn’t get wet, but pretty soon, my butt was so cold it was numb. We laid there for almost ten minutes. Then the drum started beating again and everyone stood up. My friend had on a white sweatshirt, so, it wasn’t doing too good after that. 

But we still went to Starbucks.

Who’s a proud papa? This guy.

Oreos for Breakfast.

Summer Vacation Blitz 2014 is in the books, and all that’s left are a bug-streaked windshield, one bottle of warm IPA and a lazy attitude.

After our four-day junket to San Diego, we joined seven other family members down in Manzanita Oregon. It’s about twenty minutes south of Cannon Beach, that legendary hamlet where a buck will still buy a scoop of ice cream, but if you want a dish or cone with it, you’ll need to toss in a five spot.

Just to give you an idea of the situation in our rental house, picture the setting of Dan in Real Life, where a large extended family gathers in a picturesque locale. That’s exactly how this was, except we didn’t have a talent show or morning aerobics and my brother didn’t punch me in the face this time.

But other than that it was crazily similar. 

Oh, yeah, and I’m not a widower and my teenage daughter didn’t accuse me of being a murderer of love, but everything else was exactly the same.

I don’t want to give you the verbal equivalent of your Aunt Melba’s Little Big Horn slide show, so I just thought I’d share a few of the lessons I’ve gleaned from shacking up with family for a whole calendar week. In the workplace these are known as “learnings, “takeaways” or “knowledge soak,” if you happen to work at Microsoft. Maybe you’ve gathered some of the same findings:

1) I eat too much. For God’s sake, when else but vacation do I slither out of bed and grab a couple of Oreos on the way to the cinnamon rolls? Throughout the week, I singlehandedly transformed a five-pound jar of Red Vines into a smudgy husk coated in Red Dust Number Forty.

2) I sleep a lot, but not well. You know how it is—the bed feels a little off and the covers have a slight skeeviness, like that coating your fingers accumulate while browsing through the jeans rack at Goodwill. The room was painted a shade of blue made famous by cadaver genitals, and smelled slightly of kelp and pork roast.

3) I drink too much. Beer-Thirty arrived early most days, and on others, even earlier. Consequently, please see Takeaway #2.

4) Hiking is fun—but I’m not good at it. A 1400-foot vertical climb means there’s a good chance I’ll be tripping over up to thirty exposed tree roots. Not to disappoint, on the way back down, I rolled my ankle and ate trail. I currently have a bruise on my outer butt that resembles a chubby Mother Mary with one eye.

5) Family vacations keep improving as the kids get older. Let’s face it—it kind of sucks to travel with little children, especially when your idea of a vacation doesn’t include getting up at 6:30 to play Candyland, a game you could despise just as much without the nice ocean view. Nowadays, those girls of mine sleep more than house cats on Ambien.

6) It’s great to hang out with my dad, brother, sister and all the in-laws I know my older brother was disappointed that I didn’t want to share a bunk bed like the old days, but the dude’s bladder isn’t exactly the elastic parcel of youth it once was. I told him I’d be willing to try if he’s willing to invite a thousand daily Kegels into his life.

7) Nothing beats laughing so much that your gut aches for seven straight days. There’s a washboard stomach somewhere under there from nonstop guffawing. 

Trust me, because after last week, I’m not lifting my shirt in public for a while.

If You Go, Don't Forget Your Louis Valentins.

Family vacations can be a lot like watching a last-place baseball team: You come home sunburned and pissed off, wondering why you spent all that time and money on such selfish bastards.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

So simple. My wife, ever the brains of the organization, proposed letting our older daughter have the house to herself while her younger sister brought a friend with us down to San Diego over the July Fourth weekend.

It was the magic of addition by subtraction, like segregating an oxidizing agent from a reducing compound to stave off explosive polymerization.

Sorry, I just started watching Breaking Bad again. 

Sure, there were a few Griswoldian hitches in our get-along. My first couple of forays behind the wheel of our sporty Kia Soul proved a little dicey, but that’s what happens when a high performance motor car is piloted by a dude in flip flops who constantly has to pee a little. 

Did I drive over a few curbs? Sure. Did my ham-footed braking illicit a smattering of spirited “JC Tim!"s from my lovely bride after exerting forced flexion on her delicate neck tissue? Maybe.

But on the whole, this was our best trip in a long time. I won’t bore you with my watered down Rick Stevesishness, but I will say this: check out San Diego. It’s a beautiful, manageable place to spend a few days. And as if there aren’t a Brazilian other reasons to visit, everything takes about twenty minutes to reach. Whether it’s Pacific Beach, Mission Bay, Coronado or Balboa Park, your inner thighs will be chaffing from the salty beach air faster than you can say fish taco.

And speaking of Balboa Park, it’s ground zero for Dr. Suess enthusiasts. Theodore Geisel, having lived in La Jolla for nearly fifty years, surely drew inspiration for his illustrations strolling through and around this locale. Here's what I mean:

I couldn't believe it! I half expected the Lorax to peek his head around the trunk and scream at us for supporting Monsanto. Many of us will line up to see where Mozart was born or where Hemingway drank, but no waiting is necessary to catch the splendor of my personal Mecca, the Suessian forest at Balboa Park.

Of course, traveling and living in close quarters with a couple of fourteen-year-old girls poses its own challenges. They were often so occupied with posting photos of themselves in San Diego that they spent about forty percent of the time actually being in San Diego as the adults did. Oh well, at least they supplied a few verbal gems:

Teenaager: “Dad, these sunglasses were only $10. They’re Louis Valentin. I got a great deal.”

Me: “Are you thinking of Louis Vuitton?"

Teenager: “Whatever."

Teenager: “Dad, this place is too small. Can we just stay in a hotel?”

Me: “No.”

Teenager: “Whatever."

Teenager: “Dad, I want to go to college in San Diego.”

Me: “Okay. How will you pay for it?”

Teenager: “Dad, Stop it.”

I did.

We returned refreshed and, let’s just say, slightly secretly sandy. Our older daughter picked us up at the airport and returned us to a house that was nearly as cleanish as she’s ever cleaned it.

And next time we’re thinking about trying the whole San Diego thing with no kids. I'm confident our delicate family chemistry will survive intact.

It's Yearbook Season.

Since it’s that time of year, let’s talk a little today about milestones.

Last night was my fourteen-year-old daughter’s eighth grade “promotion” ceremony. The word “graduation” seems to get tossed around so much these days. Between preschool, kindergarten, elementary, middle and high school, yesterday marked our ninth such ceremony. 

Holy sweet father of T-ball trophies, what's next? At this rate it won't be long before maternity wards start broadcasting “Pomp and Circumcise” through the corridors.

So yeah, the past couple of weeks have been heaped with one everyone-gets-a-badge-uation after another.

(At this point, please insert the inquisitive tones of “Dateline’s" Keith Morrison): But there’s another historic way station lurking in the milky dusk of a bygone decade—

Twenty years ago this week, on June 17, 1994, O.J. Simpson performed his hour-long Ford Bronco infomercial. With his friend Al, a wad of cash and a gun to his head, Simpson took 95 million of us on a slow ride to the intersection of Holy Shit I Never Knew O.J. Was a Psycho Boulevard, and like, Sepulveda.

Along with most of the world, I initially believed the whole situation was a misunderstanding. How could this All-American football-star-turned-actor possess the capacity for such savagery? 

As a kid, I worshipped the guy like subsequent generations idolized Micheal Jordan and Tom Brady. I’m not proud of this now, but check it out—I even wore his shoes:

Originally intending to write exclusively on the Broncoversary and my childhood worship of O.J., once I pulled out that old yearbook, I was instantly distracted. To hell with O.J. Simpson, I thought, let’s talk about something more relevant. 

Think back to those warm, waning June days, when the work was done, and our sole responsibility was attaining as many heartfelt dedications as could be crammed into a 64-page hardbound time capsule.

Every adolescent message you are about to read was written by classmates now in their fifties. Since so much time has passed and most legal statutes of limitation have expired, I decided to include names. You may see something you wrote thirty-six years ago. Let’s just hope you were nice to me.

The following are excerpts from the pages of the 1977-78 Olympic Junior High annual.

I still haven't tried Caryn's recipe because the only place that sells giggles is Whole Foods, and they're organic and really expensive.

Happy yearbook season.

Get Away From Me, Freak!

I hope you don't mind, but it's time to sound like an old guy. 

Please read on, though, because a lot of you are also old, and if you aren't, this could prove useful. It doesn't hurt to look ahead a little, because as our good friend Russ Wilson likes to say, "The separation is in the preparation."

At age twenty-one, a lot of us would've proven grossly incapable of predicting our lifestyles thirty years down life's unpaved road. I'm pretty sure if I hopped into the DeLorean, sped back to 1984 and asked a certain college junior for a couple of prognostications, it would be clear where the term "shallow pond" was derived. 

Here's what I mean:

So, twenty-one-year-old Tim, what type of car do you picture yourself driving in thirty years?

Wow, that's a long time. That's totally after the year 2000, right? 

Yes, that would be 2014.

Hell, then, I don’t know. It won't be an American car or a minivan, that's for sure. A moped would be sweet, or one of those new Camaros.

Right, but they won't be new in thirty years.

This is boring.

Okay, well, just to let you know, you will In fact drive a minivan. It will be manufactured in Korea, and your daughter will call it "Kiath."

That's bizarre. I'm having a daughter?

Yes, two, actually.

I don't want two daughters. How old are they?

One is a college freshman and the other is in eighth grade.

Listen, man, my fraternity is having a party tonight and I'm pretty sure there will be a few freshman girls hanging out. Thanks for making me think of them as my daughters, ass wipe. I must rise above this. 

Hang on a sec, I need to turn down the stereo. It's hard not to crank Sister Christian on these sweet woofers I just got from Speakerlab. You like Night Ranger, old man?

Yes.

Hey! You're not as crusty as you look.  What else did you want to ask me? I need to run down to 7-11 for some Copenhagen.

Okay, I'll be quick. How about cooking—who will do most of the cooking for your family in thirty years?

I don't know, man. It might just be like the Jetsons where you just push a button and boom—piping hot lasagna. But if that's not the case, if my wife cooks four nights a week, I don't mind ordering pizza the other three. My kids would appreciate it, I'm sure. Gross, did I just say "my wife" and "my kids" in the same sentence? Freaking shoot me.

What if I told you that you'll be the primary grocery shopper and cook for your family? How about if your wife is a fifth grade teacher who works harder than Chris Christie's heart?

Who's Chris Christie? That's a stupid name.

It doesn't matter. You just need to know that your wife will be such a dedicated educator that a couple of times, you'll wonder if she's actually spending an hour before school and three afterward, playing 21 Jump Street with Johnny Depp.

Who's Johnny Depp? That's a stupid name.

Well, he's merely the love of your wife's life, a youthful bad-boy actor who smells of Lucky Strikes and pieces of eight. 

Huh?

Never mind. Listen, I'll let you go, but here's some more food for thought. You've actually gotten a couple of recipes from a naked guy at the YMCA.

What? What's wrong with you?

Sorry, let me explain. You'll often see this guy in the locker room after your morning workout.

Hey, man, the words "morning" and "workout" should never be used together.

Anyway, he's into cooking and he's usually naked when relating recipes to you. You're occasionally nude as well.

Holy shit. Time for you to leave, Uncle Perverick. What the hell recipe did this wanker give you—pulled pork?

Umm, well, yes.

Get your ass out of my bean bag chair and hit the street before I grab my numchucks, got me?

Will do. Take care, clueless colt.

That didn't go well. Hopefully after this experiment, you won't hate yourself like I apparently do.

No More Post Offices.

"Come on, you guys. You need to stop just mailing it in."

We don't expect a lot of our two daughters. Really. It's not like they live on a dairy farm or a ranch or something. No one is requiring one of them to pin down the steer while the other severs his nectarines with dental floss.

All we ask is that they clean up after dinner. The younger kid cleans the pots and pans while our newly christened adult loads the dishwasher and wipes down the counters. Seriously, I could perform both in the time it takes to urinate, which at my age is around fourteen minutes.

"Dad," one of them said, "I don't even know what 'mailing it in' means."

I propped my elbows against a portion of the counter not still speckled with crumbs and milk rings. "It means doing the bare minimum, being half-assed…like, rather than breaking up with someone in person, you text them instead."

"Oh," they both replied. I knew they'd understand that one. They'd each had friends who'd done that.

"Okay, sorry," said the elder, "but it's not like you've never mailed it in, Dad." 

That's one of her most utilized weapons—the deflector shield. I chose not to return fire, leaving the room with her rebuttal lingering in the humid evening air. 

But is she right? Am I a mailer-inner? Oh yeah., In fact, I think I'm not only guilty of mailing, but of faxing, FedExing and occasionally even Morse-coding-it-in. 

I've taken the easy route more often than Sarah Palin has, well, taken the easy route. Have I ignored the "toner low" screen on the work printer? Have I taken half of the half of the half of a glazed donut that was left in the pink box, just to avoid striding four steps to the left to discard it? Have I chosen to leave less than a full-wiping's-worth on the bathroom tissue roll, knowing that whomever goes next will be…pissed? 

No comment. But this morning, as I mounted my bike in the milky morning air for a crisp ride through West Seattle, her accusation continued to bore into my thoughts. I resolved to do everything I could, right now and with each subsequent moment, to avoid mailing it in. But how?

I passed the woman I always pass first, the one always walking her dog just past the first turn. We greeted each other, as always. That's it, I thought. I'll say good morning to everyone I pass, especially those who ignore me on a daily basis. Who knows, maybe my greeting will sway somebody's outlook from overwhelmingly yin to fifty-one percent yang.

It's usually the dudes who ignore me. And the men who don't ignore me will typically silently nod in my direction, acknowledging this intimidating figure in spandex and neon, chugging away in all his anaerobic splendor and straining to avoid bruising his stomach with his knees.

I wasn't sure about saying hi to the first guy. He lives in a beautiful house with a panoramic view of Puget Sound, and never even looks when I pass him and his golden retriever. He slicks his hair straight back, even at six in the morning, causing two words to repeatedly invade my consciousness: organized crime. I know that sounds bigoted, like I'm some sort of "Mafiast," but hey, nice house and slicked back hair are things we typically associate with solid waste disposal careers in suburban New Jersey.

He didn't respond as I croaked a robust "Mornin'!" He looked irritated. That's cool, I'll just ask him for a favor when his daughter gets married.

From that point on, everyone returned my greeting. I only acknowledged those who I passed face-to-face, since nobody really wants some ass hat sneaking up behind them and causing an aortic infarction with the yelp of his latest compulsive obsession. 

The only people for which I muted my voice were a couple who strode along the beach wearing matching yellow head-to-toe hooded jammies. I didn't want to yank them away from their symbiotic tweaker buzz and they looked like they were in a hurry to get back home before Telletubbies started. 

The last person I encountered was an elderly man who stood at a bus stop as I ascended the final hill before things leveled off. "That looks hard!" he said cheerily.

"Kinda!" I replied, far too loudly, my voice parroting someone named Madge who enjoyed chain smoking Virginia Slims while keeping score for the bowling league.

"Good for the old heart!" he added.

"Oh yeah!" Again too loud. 

But I'll tell you, that old guy and his good vibrations kind of propelled me for that last leg.

I guess he'd also decided not to mail it in today.

Facebook, 1995.

I'm so giddy today, I feel like I've just dug up a chest filled with pieces of nine. Yes, that's right, an entire piece better than eight!

You see, I found some old computer screen grabs from back in 1995, when I participated in a Facebook prototype focus group for a then eleven-year-old Mark Zuckerberg. Although he was a cocky, pre-pubescent upstart, I sensed an "it" factor in the young buck back during those waning days of the grunge era.

Anyway, I'd like to share with you some early Facebook posts, most of which were logged in at least ten years before the social networking world was turned on its pierced ear.

In reviewing these, I couldn't help but realize what a solid young dad I was, given my lack of experience. You know what they say, "There's no parenthood manual." Enjoy.

How about those nuggets, eh? And just so you know, for those of you who are just starting out as parents to sweet little youngins in need of a little gentle discipline, my door is always open.

Gaining Control in Our Lives As We Lose it in Our Bladders.

My wife and I gingerly sank ourselves into the stiff bank lobby chairs. I could only surmise that they were purposely built to look comfortable, yet to inhibit blood circulation enough to quickly herd out the bank's riff raff lest they risk bed sores.

Like McDonald's, only with sugar-free suckers and stale coffee, Chase Bank offered little to promote customer comfort as we waited to sign the paperwork.

I could see our banker from my seat. A woman sat across from him in his semi-secluded cubicle, en rapt in some sort of conversation that didn't look like it would end any time soon.

"Come on," I cajoled. "Just wrap things up, people." I glanced at my bride. "We do have an appointment, right?"

"Settle down, Grampy." She frowned. "Our appointment is for 5:00 and it's only 5:04."

She knows how I hate being called Grampy, so that comment didn't exactly douse the fire. I seethed and stared at the rude interloper who sat hijacking our banker's face time with impunity. I began dissecting the woman's appearance, questioning everything from her ill-fitting bra (I happened to watch that Oprah episode) to her mother's possible alcohol and nicotine abuse during pregnancy. Piss and vinegar overflowed from my emotional rain barrel.

But then, inexplicably, a calming blanket engulfed me as I the Serenity Prayer, that famous Alcoholics Anonymous axiom, seeped into my consciousness:

God grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change;

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference.

Aah, that's better, I thought. Listen, man, you're right in the middle of a situation completely out of your control. Could you walk up to this woman right now and escort her out by her earlobe like a deranged playground teacher? Absolutely, but you'd also find yourself removed and possibly tased in the groin by the man who had previously been sanctioned to loan you a nice chunk of change. Go to your freaking happy place, asshole.You aren't currently piloting this jet ski, so just massage that throbbing vein of rage back into your stress-oiled forehead.

That little pep talk helped a lot. Plus the lady got up and left around 5:05. 

I really need to keep that prayer handy. The premise seems so basic, so intuitive, but it's got to be one of the most difficult challenges to my aging sensibilities.

Recently, I've decided to drill into the paradigm permafrost, because otherwise, things will only get worse. Which aspects of my life can I truly control and which are branded for release into the trout pond of destiny?

My health—I think yes, overall, this is something I can control. I don't however, feel responsible for a congenital addiction to Hostess Ho Hos and Reservoir Dogs.

My emotions—Again, a bit of a grey area here. I don't think they can be controlled per se…just the behavior which ensues as the result of emotion. For instance, when you hear that some older boy at school kicked your daughter in the kneecap, you can't manipulate the raw vitriol coursing through your being. The challenge is in preventing the transformation of fantasy into reality. You can't actually meet that kid after school and whisper to him that today's delicious corn beef and cheddar sandwich was actually his new puppie…and cheddar.

My relationships—"Control" is probably the wrong word. People who strive to control relationships often end up in creepy Burning Bed-type situations. But come on—we all know what we can do to improve things, right?

My children—There's no controlling children—not mine, anyway. In fact, it's just the opposite. For God's sake, if I were some sort of machine, my kids would be the vice grips on my hexagonal nuts.

Time—There was a TV show in the Sixties called Time Tunnel, anyone remember it? Two white guys, one who wore a suit and looked like David Byrne, and the other in a turtle neck and resembling Tim Tebow, participated in a top secret government project. Once they entered the tunnel, they couldn't get out and were transported on random occasions to other times and places. Fortunately, everything was filmed from several angles and Doug and Tony always managed to pop into historically significant situations, rather than just materializing on a pizza-stained couch next to two stoned dudes named Lonnie and Mark. 

So yeah, you can't control time unless you were either on that show or are Cher.

I've got to say, that was really a refreshing exercise. Now hand me the remote.

Free?

We're surrounded by opposite and competing forces—mortal enemies, if you will. 

Our world is teeming with toxic tandems.

There's Palestine versus Israel, Evert versus Navtratilova, Roadrunner versus Wile E. Coyote. There's Michele Bachmann vs. sound logic and factual data.

And there's me versus my own bloody self. 

In order to properly explain, please allow me to cast a dusty cloud of backstory particulates in your direction. Gesundheit.

Last Friday, my family and I moved back into our house, which has been undergoing an extensive kitchen remodel. Since we were staring squarely at thirty days without a refrigerator, range or kitchen sink, we turned to Uncle Craig and his list to find an apartment a few miles from our construction zone.

The two gentle souls we're proud to call our offspring weren't thrilled with the idea; if there's any trait they share, it's the flexibility of a petrified log. And once we'd settled into our two-bedroom "vacation home," you would have thought they'd been forced to shack up in a half-empty tube of Pringles. 

Let me take this time to reiterate how grateful I am to live in this age of convenience and not back in the pioneer era, because if those two had embarked from Independence, Missourah five generations ago, they'd have killed and eaten each other before the wagon train had reached the muddy outskirts of Independence, Missourah.

So yeah, back to the present. On Friday, I took the day off work to move our stuff back into our house. The countertops and backsplash aren't yet installed, and the floor still needs to be refinished, but we're good to go appliance-wise. 

Manual labor is something with which I've always been comfortable. It's how I spent my summers back in high school and college, and it's still the best remedy for a restful slumber. A little lifting here, some scrubbing and sponging there, no big whoop. I performed a rudimentary cleaning of our temporary home, loaded the final boxes into the hubcap-challenged bosom of the Kia minivan and  gazed at the dwindling image of the vacation abode in the rear view mirror. 

I entered our house, a bag o' shoes draped over my shoulder. Every surface was coated with the dust of plywood and sheet rock and other, more traditional DNA-based sources of household flotsam. Four hours into the project, I felt tired, yet encouraged. The only obstacle remaining, the sole item standing between me and my project's completion…

…was a really, really, really big oak desk. 

A few years ago, we purchased this behemoth from a law firm, and this son-of-a-bitching thing is solid. You could place your computer, monitor and printer on this thing and still have room to play air hockey.  

My older daughter had originally told me that she could help move it outside, but then gave blood at school that day and bagged out. "Blood schmudd," I whispered to myself, rapt in delusional defiance.  "I'll move  it myself."

Right.

I removed the drawers, reasoning that they must account for at a half a percent of the wooden pig's body mass, and thereby allow for an effortless transfer to the front curb. I performed a couple test slides along the floor. Not bad. I measured the desk's dimensions to ascertain the best angle to emancipate the lumber Limbaugh from the premises.

The only solution was to rotate it onto its side and slide it along the floor. Again no big deal about scratching the floor since it was scheduled for refinishing. 

First things first. After rocking several times, the juggernaut reached its tipping point. As it cascaded to the floor, a brilliant instinct took control, one which I'm truly amazed hasn't been Darwinistically weeded out of human survival behaviors.

In order to cushion its landing, I placed my foot into the path of its hulking inertia and it landed squarely upon my left big toe.

How can I describe the pain? Similar to a childbirth? Perhaps, based on how I've heard it described. It was as if someone had impaled my toe with a molten fire poker and filled the hole with five star Thai peanut sauce. I cursed so loudly and with such vehemence that an old high school friend in Tacoma called and asked if I could tone down the f bombs since he'd just put his grandson down for a nap.

I jumped around the living room like a Woodstock dancer, waiting for the nausea to evaporate and for Jesus to stop encouraging me to hop toward the light. At length, my emotions calmed.

Admonishing myself quietly one last time for being such an immense idiot, I resolved that, although I may be forced to give my life, so be it. I must purge that fat bastard from my GD house. I slid it along the floor rather effortlessly, bolstering the confidence I'd need to finish the job. I tipped it through the door and slid it down the front steps. Only one more step and this nemesis would be forever banished to the emerald grass of our front yard. 

It's weight shifted slightly sideways and just as I jockeyed myself to stop its momentum...

...Remember when I told you that whole thing about the toe? 

Yeah, it happened again.

Upon regaining consciousness, I lifted my head from its perch between my legs and rolled onto my side, savoring the victory.

The desk remains, in front of our house next to the street, celebrating its fourth day in the elements. Its even been pooped on by one of those practical-joker crows.

And the only evidence of the excruciating soft tissue damage it caused to its boneheaded owner is the weakly scrawled note taped to its front shortly after the apocalyptic struggle of a man against his own stupidity:

"Free."