She died thirteen years ago today.

She looks a little tired, doesn't she? She was about thirty years old in this picture, taken sometime during 1964.

My mom, Peggy Haywood, passed away thirteen years ago today. That's me she's holding.

She always told me that the baby in Irish families is treated just a bit differently, and I suppose that's true, since my brother is a convicted arsonist, my sister recently served time for grifting senior citizens out of social security checks and I have done absolutely nothing illegalish.

Oh, you know I'm kidding, Tom and Ann. By the way, Ann, Colonel Sanders called and he wants his tie back. And Tom, I always wondered who Pee Wee Herman patterned his character after. You may be entitled to compensation.

Please indulge me, while I tell you a little about my mom. Last year, I described the day she died. Since her death does not define her life, I'll expound about the woman she was.

She was born Margaret Loraine Conway in Medora, North Dakota on April 21, 1934. Her Irish immigrant father, Patrick Conway and mother, Marie, were fifty and forty years old, respectively at her birth, which were considerably advanced ages, especially during The Great Depression. Marie was the only member of her family to receive a college education, since she was born without fingers on one hand, and thus, such a heinous birth defect, in her parents' eyes, eliminated her from the "desirable wife" pool.

Nonetheless, Marie and Patrick produced a brood of seven children, two of whom died during childhood. Peggy, which is the Irish nickname for Margaret, was the youngest, the "baby."

My mom didn't know her dad very well. Patrick died when she was eight years old, leaving my grandma with three young daughters at home and two sons fighting the Axis abroad. I can't imagine what a hardship this was, but I think this era may have planted the seeds for the humor which exists in the family to this day.

The family moved to eastern Washington after the war, and my mom came of age during the 1950s, wearing poodle skirts and saddles, idolizing Montgomery Clift and chasing her dream of being a teacher. She loved basketball, at a time when girls' hoops involved less sweating than playing chess.

She met my dad at a teachers' college, Central Washington College of Education, where they fell in love, were married and raised a family in the midst of Cold War America. Mom took a break from teaching elementary school to stay home with the kids, and I think that's the period of my life that shaped me into the person I've become.

She possessed the perfect recipe for learning, playing, communicating and, more importantly, an overwhelming compassion.

From that point, I'd like to say that the rest is history.

But here's the thing—I don't want just history. I want her here...right now.

Every time my teenager steps onto the court for an opening tip-off, I yearn for my mom to be with us in those uncomfortable bleachers. I can see her sitting there, calm and collected, yet beaming at the sight of her granddaughter, playing a game which she herself played sixty years ago, albeit in a skirt.

When I say to my ten-year-old, "You really shouldn't wear your hair back like that, because I can see the face lift scars behind your ears," and she responds, "Dad, it's totally worth it to look five," who do you think comes to mind?

Peg.

I miss her so much. When she died, I was thirty-five and she was sixty-three, which really pisses me off. Sometimes, one of my kids looks at me in a certain way, and I reflexively think, "Hi, Mom." I wasn't cheated out of knowing her, but my kids were, and it makes me angry and sad and grief stricken, even now.

Even thirteen years later.

Mom, there's a lot going on right now, and I hope you're watching, because these kids have you to thank for how truly sensational they are.

I wish you were here.

No football this weekend? I'm here for you.

We've reached the lost weekend.

Like a gaping hole between two molars, denying your ability to fully enjoy that red rope, we've come upon an impasse of underrated proportion.

You see, there's no football this weekend, due to the traditional fourteen-day drought between the NFL playoff and the big one, the Super Bowl.

Rather than preparing for another excuse to drink beer and spill chunks of salsa onto the shag carpet, we must endure seven more days of worn-out jockisms and hype.

As I mentioned, this can be rough on a fan of the grid iron. Many of us are addicted to merciless displays of male domination, and I can't scratch that itch even by watching a Leave it to Beaver marathon. I need to watch at least three hours of sanctioned violence, followed by an hour of questioning my testosterone levels, followed by five days of searching for a kit where I can test it by peeing on a stick.

But here's the good news—I think I've found a fantastic substitute.

Imagine eating a Wendy's Triple with extra mustard, and immediately going to bed. As you drift off, the beefy gut bomb slowly trudges through your digestive tract, getting delayed more often than a father trying to get his ten-year-old to school.

Your body is toiling, desperately attempting to dismember the food baby, so you sleep fitfully. Your dreams are vivid, yet strange. You toss and turn, yet return time and again to a vision of women, in Victoria's Secret underwear, strapping on helmets and shoulder pads and knocking the hell out of each other on an indoor football field.

You wake with a start. Since restful slumber isn't an option until the planet you just ate succumbs to gravity, you turn on the television, and realize...it wasn't a dream.

It is lingerie football,  and I can't remember a time when I felt as disgusted and appalled as I did for the entire ninety minutes I watched this spectacle.

Oh, sure, these women are adults, they're in very, very, very good shape and they probably receive at least minimum wage for knocking each other around in front of leering dudes...like, um, me.

But if either of my daughters ever hinted at pursuing a career in lingerie football, I would insist that they either wear full football uniforms, or, if they were mandated to don sleepwear, it must be the fuzzy kind with built-in feet.

I have to admit, I didn't really watch the entire game, but I needed to claim I did for comedic purposes. And therefore, I'm not fully aware of any special rules which might exist, but here's my idea of a typical penalty, as announced by the referee on the public address system:

"Illegal hands to the Brazilian, number seventeen, defense. However, since the offender talked dirty to the official for the mandated thirty seconds, that penalty is negated. Repeat second down."

Apparently, we've got our own team of Amazon warriors down the road—The Seattle Mist. I feel that it's my duty to support this fledgling league, since it only enhances Seattle's major league status, and my wife is totally cool about it, with one condition.

Season tickets aren't really in our budget right now, so I'll be listening to the games on the radio.

Pulled over: when seeing the light is a bad thing.

I spotted them in the rear view mirror, and they were gaining fast. I quickly concluded  that, once I pulled to the side, those lights would whisk on by, the wail of the siren "Dopplering" into the distance. God help whomever that maniac is pursuing.

Nope, not this time—no passing on by, no Doppler, and from the depths of my lungs, no cleansing exhalation of dissipated anxiety. As I changed lanes, he changed lanes. As I slowed and stopped, he slowed and stopped. Shit.

I got nailed for going thirty-two in a twenty. Cost: $189.00, or $15.75 for every mile an hour I exceeded the speed limit.

My positive karmic acts leading up to the pullover could not have foretold this event. Since I had committed to staying home with my ailing younger daughter, I offered to give the older one a lift to school, followed by a trip to Red Box and the grocery store. The patient at home had requested a movie and some nice coconut bars to cool her scorching throat. Nice gestures by Papa all around, no?

Maybe my karma was less about being kind to my kids today, and more about spitting my gum out on the street while biking back in July. It's possible that that decision may have led to an elderly lady's walker adhering to it, thereby causing a nasty spill, a broken hip and death from pneumonia on her ninety-ninth birthday.

Okay, I admit it; I shouldn't be speeding in a school zone. I could have hit a kid or a teacher or a puppy as I recklessly darted down Roxbury at the breakneck speed of thirty-two miles per hour. Society needs to be protected from a madman in a dented, sapphire blue Kia minivan.

And as they say, no one is above the law. If I'm caught breaking it, I must pay. I must be pursued by the tools our law enforcement community deems necessary for apprehending a speeder, or in this case, a mag-wheeled, turbo-charged phallic symbol bearing the logo of the Seattle Police Department.

Sour grapes? Maybe. And by the way, obviously someone in the SPD has Photoshop at home, because that picture above is as cheesy as they come.

I wasn't pulled over on a quiet suburban street where children play jacks and sell lemonade. This was a double-yellow-lined thoroughfare with a posted speed limit of thirty-five. The school is inside a massive Catholic church and the crosswalk is protected by walk signals and traffic lights.

The term "warning" is not listed on the approved words list for the SPD Traffic Enforcement Division. What I'm sure is on the approved list are mustaches and those heartfelt "have a nice day" wishes they convey as they slap that mint green paper into your palm and retreat to their muscle cars.

Since the fuzz man who pulled me over stuck perilously close to the clichéd cop, I probably should have thought faster and transformed myself into the stereotypical perp. I should've yanked off my shirt, unclipped my seat belt and ripped up my proof of insurance card.

Oh yeah, I also should have pierced some holes in a pop can and stashed it under the seat.

I realize I sound like Edward, King of the Whineland. After all, someone has to pay for the overtime these guys are putting in to pull us over during their overtime.

And I probably wouldn't be droning on about this if I hadn't returned home, opened the mailbox and found a jury summons for my wife.

Maybe we'll run into each other at the courthouse.

Talking to our kids: Why honesty isn’t the best policy.

A couple of my co-workers are brand new parents; they're both fathers of "weekers"—you know, "She's twenty-one weeks," or "He'll be six weeks old in three weeks."

It's fun listening to them describe the changes in their tiny offspring, the new found cackling, cooing and crawling. I sit and listen to them like I'm a Spanish American War vet  hearing battle stories from a couple of soldiers still in boot camp.

I stormed into work this morning, shortly after my wife and I had engaged in a drawn out verbal battle with our teenager. I had ridden the bus in a quiet rage, churning over her insolence, selfishness and disrespect. As I sat down at my desk, the two rookie dads stood nearby, discussing the recent maturity of their kids' diaper contents.

"I know she's only seventeen weeks old, but since she's been eating those yams, her onesies smell like an Arby's restroom. She's growing up so fast."

"Hardy, freakin' har," I thought. Then actual words came out.

"Just wait until she's able to talk back," blurted yours truly, Mr. Self-Righteous. "Someday, you guys will know what it's like when the person for whom you'd jump in front of a bike messenger, treats you like something she peeled from her scalp."

I caught myself acting the part of disgruntled parent, but the damage was already done.

"You want to trade places with me and do the four a.m feeding?" one of them asked.

Touché.

Can't there be a middle ground between ultra-needy, defenseless infant and smart-talking child? To be fair, my kids have enlightened my ears with wonderful, tear-inducing gems since their early days, many of which have been elaborated upon in this blog.

But that's not today's topic.

I've prided myself on taking the high road in response to most of their ridiculous comments; after all, I am the chronological adult of record. Nonetheless, I've prepared a small list of comments I could have made were I not the poster boy for the American Ice Water in the Veins Association.

The following statements were actually made by either my fifteen- or ten-year-old daughter. To protect the innocent, I won't say who said what:

"Dad, I thought adults don't get pimples."
My response, if I weren't the ultimate high road navigator: "Those aren't pimples. They're stress nodes caused by you. If three more pop up, I could die, so watch your mouth."

"Dad, can you not make so much noise unloading the dishwasher? I'm trying to wake up slowly."
My response, were I not the Dalai Lama, married to her mama: "Oh, sorry about that. Tomorrow morning I promise I'll tip toe into your room and slowly awaken you wearing full clown make-up."

"Dad, those bike tights look disgusting on you."
My response, if I weren't the most sensitive male this side of Kurt on Glee: "You know what, you're right. In fact, I'm done exercising. From now on, I'll eat what I want, when I want, and show up to your parent/teacher conferences wearing a gravy-stained yellow polo shirt neatly tucked into gray sweat pants, and sound like I'm snoring, even though I'm awake."

"Dad, next time will you spread the fake butter more evenly on my English Muffin?"
My response, assuming I weren't shattered by her comment: "Of course, Snookums. The Oompa Loompas normally perform this function. I truly am ashamed."

Again, I love my daughters. Really.

And some day, their kids will probably criticize them for saving fifty cents and buying the Safeway brand Pop Tarts.

Sarah, it’s time for you to run along.

It's probably not a manly thing to do. And I realize the time could have been used much better changing the oil or cleaning the oven or meditating to Kenny G.

But I did it anyway...I watched the Golden Globes.

Every time I tune in to any type of awards show,  I marvel at how beautiful everyone is, how their incisors gleam in the flash bulb light, how the silky ivory of each Vera Wang gown jumps to attention from the crimson carpet.

And then I remember that it's just another competition; it's no different from the elementary school student council elections or the Pillsbury Bake-off or The Gong Show.

Our society is so obsessed with competing and winning. Why? We vie for titles in eating, drinking, dog showing, cooking...even losing weight. The winner steps to the podium as a conquering hero, while whomever achieves second place in Iron Chef is relegated to the culinary scrap heap, even though she can whip up an Eggs Benedict that would make you see John the Baptist.

Back in 1939, Gone With the Wind defeated The Wizard of Oz for the Best Picture Academy Award. Was there really any kind of defeat? No way. Both movies are classics. In fact, had the two movies actually gone mano e mano, the Wizard of Oz would've completely stomped the combined armies form Gone With the Wind through the tactical prowess of those winged monkeys.

And to take things a step further, if Rhett Butler had gone toe to toe against the Wicked Witch of the West, well...let's just say I know who would've ended up on top.

America needs winners and losers.We hate ties.

If that familiar phrase, "A tie is like kissing your sister," holds any accuracy, the only people whom I'm sure are satisfied with ties reside in remote areas of Snohomish County, where a tie is considered foreplay.

Usually, after a hotly contested battle, the loser rapidly fades away. Sarah Palin lost, and most of us assumed she would go away.

She didn't.

In fact, she interpreted her resounding loss as a mandate that America wanted more of her—more folksy, third grade vernacular, more down home God-fearing hate speech. So what if she didn't read magazines or newspapers? She had no time for that liberal drivel when there's moose jerky out in the smoker that needs tendin'.

Since I'm a dude, I'll equate her actions to a sports analogy. Sarah Palin lost the game. During the game, she was flagged for numerous infractions, including eye gauging and spitting in the face of her opponent. After the game, she suggested that those who aren't fans of her opponent throw bottles and batteries next time they see the team who defeated her.

Oh, and just to make things easier for her fans, she passed out maps of where they'll play their next game.

Sarah, the polls don't lie. You lost an election two years ago, but you decided to hang around after the janitor had turned off the lights and everyone had gone home. America is tired of you, but you obviously don't understand this.

Since you are a bona fide American loser, please, follow the graceful lead of the Buffalo Bills, Michael Dukakis, Nancy Kerrigan and 2011 First Runner-Up, Miss Arkansas.

Go the hell away.

Seriously, you’re killing me.

Every morning, I arise at Insane O’Clock to make it to the gym by Stupid Thirty. While there, I try to make the experience as devoid of emotion as possible.

Why? Because, and I’m sure I’m not alone here, when my heart rate reaches a certain level of anaerobic distress, little annoyances magnify into large obsessions.

At first, nothing is that big of a deal. That dude over there who wears so much Drakkar Noir I can taste it until after lunch? That's cool. That woman on the rowing machine who strains so hard she meows? Hey, she's working hard.

But after I’ve been on the elliptical for a good twenty minutes, I’m sweaty and crabby, and I find irritations everywhere.

On my shin is an itch that won't be tamed, so I have to perform a “marching scratch,” keeping my claw stationary as the lower leg rises to meet it.

I curse my shorts for hiking in the center, even though the problem lies within the shorts.

That guy on the machine next to me chomps his gum so loudly that I have to crank the volume on my iPod and turn the other way to avoid the aura of Eclipse Wintergreen and last night’s Pad Thai. On a positive note, I learn that “Total Eclipse of the Heart” sounds awesome loud.

I then fantasize about discovering a loose set of latex gloves, slipping them on, pulling the gum from the guy’s pie hole and calf roping him to the squat rack with it.

Once the workout is finished and the mild endorphins engage, I can tolerate the minor skin irritations, the sweat droplets clinging to my old man eyebrows, which are wilting over my pupils and obscuring my vision. But I’m far from tolerant.

A woman, while spraying and wiping down her exercise bike, accidentally mists my forearm as I walk by. Because she’s unaware of this egregious violation, I feel pangs of temptation to pretend that she sprayed my eyes and scream at her that my eye is still tender from yesterday’s paper cut.

Yet I endure in silence.

After an uneventful workout this morning, I entered the locker room for a quick shower and departure and noticed feet peeking from under the door of the room’s single bathroom stall. The Nikes within pointed to the right, which told me he was performing a more “invasive procedure” than if his feet had pointed to the left.

He exited the stall just as I was preparing to enter the shower, but I felt compelled to see things through. The man plodded past the sink and over to the scale. He stood for several seconds, obviously trying to achieve minimum weight on the sliding device, and finally stepped off.

He then stepped in front of the sink, gazed at his bed hair in the mirror and walked out of the room. His hands were as dry as a soiled bone.

Alas, I’d born witness, yet again, to a dump and dash.

Later, as I walked through the parking lot to my Kia minivan, I resolved to not let this dirty, dirty man’s behavior ruin my day. Much of the world lives in far less sterile conditions than we do here in anti-bacterial land, so I desperately tried to put the affair out of my mind.

I returned home and lovingly greeted my family with fist bumps.

He always had a thing for the smart girls

Nathan had to admit it: He'd always liked the smart girls.

If anyone asked him, especially Kurt or Curt, he'd deny it with more vigor than a desperate escape from one of his big brother's full nelsons.

But just between Nate and his inner Abraham Lincoln, he felt compelled to fess up to himself about his fondness for females...especially the smart ones.

He was eleven now, and he'd had these feelings for a while. He'd decided that they'd begun in earnest sometime during second grade. As with any class, it was divided between kids who did anything for the teacher's attention, those who went to extremes to avoid it and those who were indifferent.

The girls in Nate's class who'd jutted their arms into the air before Ms. Pringle had even finished her questions were obviously the attention-getters. Sure, some were cute, but not attractive to Nathan. Some were painfully shy, and then, there were the others.

That select group was comprised of girls who only offered the answer when it was correct, speaking confidently and loudly, yet not boastfully. He was enamored with each and every one of them.

Nate didn't adhere to the classic standards of beauty as prescribed by his friends. Sure, women like Cheryl Tiegs and Cybil Shepard and Farah Fawcett were pretty, but were they intelligent?

And since Nathan's second grade year of reckoning, he'd developed several crushes of varying degrees. Karen was sharp and funny. Since he'd known her for so long (since kindergarten), Nate felt very protective of her. That's why, last year, he'd punched Ronny Redman in the ear after "R Dub" had hit Karen with a rock-filled snowball and made her cry.

There was also Fiona. She played soccer with the boys at recess, and whenever she returned to the classroom after a chilly time outside, her rosy cheeks melted Nate's heart. Her effortless skill on science projects only iced the cake.

But Nathan Ryan Andrews held a torch, one so heavy and white hot that he could barely hoist it with two hands, its flame singing the hair on his arms. And the torch he hoisted...was for Lindsay.

Lindsay was wonderful. She was at least four chapters ahead in Math and already reading at the gold level in the SRA series. She had bright red hair, almost orange, and Nate could barely speak to her, even though they often took the same route to school in the morning. He'd frequently walk a little bit behind her and to her right, since that way, she'd see his good side should she glance back.

Sometimes he'd inconspicuously orbit her at recess, playing out conversations they could have and how they'd end with Nate walking away, Lindsay and her friends erupting in laughter at Nathan's witty, yet insightful, comments. And once, he'd actually gotten to ride in her car, when her mom saw him returning from school in the rain, felt sorry for him and gave him a lift home.

Nate had only talked to Lindsay's mom, which was sort of okay for the five minute ride. She'd asked him polite questions as he took in the smell of the automobile which harbored him and his future wife and mother-in-law.

Snapping back from his daydream state, Nate realized that he'd been pacing around the entire recess with no destination. It was cold, and the snow was beginning to soak through his boots and even both pairs of socks. Nathan hoped he hadn't appeared mildly insane, as occasionally his lips moved when he was deep in thought.

He looked toward the backstop and noticed Karen approaching. She stopped at least ten feet from him, which seemed strange.

"Hey, Nathan."

"Hey, Karen."

"Guess who likes you?"

"I don't know. Who?"

"L..." Before she could finish the word, an ice ball glanced off Karen's neck, opening a small gash below her jaw. Her eyes welled with tears.

Nathan's head darted around and spotted the rapidly retreating figure of R Dub, who sprinted clumsily through the snow toward a small group of boys.

Launching himself toward fleeing culprit, Nathan closed the distance to four feet as the recess bell rang.