Fun And Games

I'm not sure, but I think my daughter has a gambling problem.

No, not my sweet innocent 12-year old.

It’s the six-year old girl I'm worried about.

I learned of this today when we visited a local Dave & Buster's, basically the love child of Chuck E. Cheese and Caesar's Palace.

There were more games being played there than a sorority house during rush week.

My daughter and I jumped from machine to machine before she finally settled on the game that combines coins and magnets, while gobbling up your tokens.

For those of you who have been sucked in by this money machine, you know what I am talking about.

If not, it goes a little something like this...

Insert a coin.

It lands on a metal surface and if you are really lucky, your coin pushes the coin in front of it to the point where eventually there are coins that fall down into your pocket.

In reality, the magnets keep you from winning anything significant.

Insert another coin.

At Dave & Buster's, you don’t win actual money, but instead you get tickets that you can cash in at their gift store -- the same gift store where kids struggle everyday with the tough call between taking home a stuffed animal or plastic thingee.

The good news for us today -- and the real reason we went, today -- was it was half price Wednesday.

That means instead of running out of tokens in one hour, you get to stay there for two.

Don’t get distracted by that tongue in my cheek. My kids had a blast playing the games.

And I had a blast watching them.

In a short time, we had won enough tickets to buy a soft princess pillow or something, but we were determined to keep going.

I had seen enough of that Magnetic Ripoff Game, I think that’s what it is called, so I said to my six-year old it was time to try something else.

“I NEED TO PLAY ONE MORE,” she snapped, staring at the hanging pile of tokens calling her name.

She NEEDS to play one more?

Of course, I gave in.

Again. And again.

And again.

To no avail, we left the mother lode of coins for the next sucker.

From there, we made the jump to Skeeball.

That’s the game that combines the art of bowling, the ramp of ski jumping and the holes of golf.

I can say without any hesitation it was one of my favorite arcade games when I was six.

Of course, that was before my competitive blood kicked in.

How small are those damn holes anyway?

Each game you roll 8-10 wooden balls, but no matter how hard I tried or how well I did, I somehow always finished with the same score.

But I digress.

The bottom line is she LOVED it.

We played five or six games before one of the many beepers or buzzers in the room distracted her.

We tried the game where you use a giant metal hook to try and grab a giant stuffed animal from a massive pile of stuffed animals.

No luck there.

The kids and I played the horse racing game where you roll pool balls, trying to land in the farthest hole away to advance your plastic horse as quickly as possible.

My older son and older daughter beat me all three times we played.

But I got some serious revenge in the basketball shooting game.

(Note to kids: use the backboard.)

When all was said and done, and all our tokens had vanished, we took our winning tickets -- all 3,824 of them -- to the prize room.

That’s where all kids go to agonize for an agonizing amount of time between prizes that are destined for either the bottom of the closet or the top of the garbage can.

We were no different.

About 40 minutes later, we walked out with two giant lollypops, a six-inch sour apple gummy bear, a slinky, a(nother) stuffed animal, a fuzzy pillow, a frisbee that lights up (that was for me) and a little basketball hoop that fits on top of the door.

We also left with the best prize of all....

A BIG SMILE!

letter to THE editor

Dear God,

I know you are busy, but I hope you get a chance to read this note.

As I’m sure you know, these have not been the best of times for me.

I’m sure you have a plan, but at the moment, I don’t see it.

To be quite honest, right now I feel like everything is against me.

EVERYTHING.

I’ve searched high and low for that ray of sunlight, but all I can see is clouds.

Big black clouds.

I really need something positive to happen.

And soon.

The situation with my mom is as bad as ever.

The good news is I was absolutely correct when I thought we were on the verge of another bipolar episode.

The bad news is it is here.

She’s not sleeping, probably not eating. She is back to believing that the world is against her.

Wait, I believe that last part. But I am sleeping fine.

I went to lunch with her last Tuesday and I barely got a word in.

She was changing topics faster than a game show.

She used all the cliches that she always does when her chemicals are imbalanced.

She repeated all the 40-year old stories, like they happened this morning.

And she denied it all when I told her the truth.

The bad news is that she is suffering through another manic moment, but the REAL bad news is that I don’t have the strength to help her.

I am dealing with my own problems.

I don’t know if I have hit rock bottom, yet, but I hope I’m getting close.

Remember that interview that had me so excited.

Well, that was three weeks ago and I have not heard a word.

Not one word.

Not thank you.

Not screw you.

Nothing!

The same exact reaction or lack of reaction I got from the company I interviewed here with two months ago.

No reply at all.

I’m starting to think Phil Collins wrote that song about me.

Recently I stopped by my Facebook account to see what people were having for dinner.

While I was there, a former supervisor of mine opened a chat line.

He asked what I was doing, so I told him about the blog.

He told me that he was working on a show that I’d be perfect for, gave me his cell phone number and asked me to give him a call.

He asked ME to give HIM a call.

So I did. The next day.

I didn’t want to seem desperate. You saw the movie Swingers, right?

When I called, he said he was on a plane and would call me back.

That was two weeks ago!

I gotta be honest. I don’t get it. What did I do to deserve this?

I really don’t know how much more I can take.

If you are trying to beat me down, you win.

Uncle. I surrender. I give up.

Whatever catch phrase you want.

I need something good to happen and I need it to happen soon.

By far, the best thing to happen to me in the last few months has been this blog.

I love writing it. I love reading it. And I have really loved the response from it.

In many ways, it has been the only thing to keep my head above the water.

It’s given me a support system like the one Russell Crowe’s character had in A Beautiful Mind.

Except, my followers are real, right?

The first thing I do every morning is check my email.

It used to be to see if any possible employers had replied to me.

Now I am looking to see if anybody commented on my most recent blog.

How pathetic is that?

Pathetic, but honest.

Today I got an email from Marta who told, me, “your objective now is to keep up your spirit (which is like standing in a septic tank, poop up to your chin and trying to play flute, I know).”

I laughed. It felt good to laugh.

Marta is a real person, right?

I am now counting on people that I don’t know to keep me going.

Maybe I can star in A Beautiful Mind II, the Golden Years.

Even with my life falling apart, what is left of it, you still find a way to remind me that things could be worse.

Like last night when my daughter watched a movie at a friend’s house.

About a year ago, the father of her friend was happily married with three kids.

Happily married until his step-son was killed, his wife became an alcoholic, he lost his job and then his wife left him.

Today my son is playing with one of his best buddies who is back in town for spring break.

About a year ago, the father of his friend was happily married with his three sons.

Happily married until his wife decided to have an affair with an old high school flame, then she filed for divorce and moved the boys to another state so that she could live with her new, or old love.

Yes, things could be A LOT worse.

My mom is a mess right now, but thankfully she doesn’t have the same spot on her pancreas that doctors just found on my friend's dad.

Yes, I know, things could be A LOT worse.

But even with all the hardship and pain that those around me are dealing with, I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’ve tried everything to find that ray of light, but the sun is setting and it’s setting quickly.

I need something and I need it soon.

Kindest Regards,

Sir Bacon

P.S. Say hi to my dad for me and tell him I miss him.

Up In Smoke

A few days ago I took my two younger kids out to a local baseball field to throw the ball around.

My 11-year old son loves the game.

My six-year old daughter loves EVERYTHING.

While we were on the field, I saw a bunch of local high school runners doing their afternoon trot around the park.

At one point, I did a major league double take when I saw a young man who looked EXACTLY like the long lost twin of a boy that I went to high school with.

26 YEARS AGO!

Jeff was a runner too.

We were pretty close friends at the time. So much so that I ended up visiting him at his Ivy-league caliber college before he started his freshman year.

I remember that trip, because it was the first time I spent an extended period of time away from home, the first time I learned of life on a college campus and the first time I saw a bong.

Jeff’s bong.

Now considering this brave new world that we live in now, most kids probably don’t even make it to high school before seeing some type of drug paraphernalia.

Or perhaps I was a little sheltered.

When it comes to life, I’m a pretty liberal person.

But when it comes to my life, I am A LOT more conservative.

I have no problem with you ruining your life, just don’t ruin mine.

Over time Jeff and I drifted apart.

We had a bunch of mutual friends and through the years I heard that he ended up with some serious issues.

He was never able to hold a steady job and was actually homeless at one point.

At last check, he was unemployed and living at home with his parents.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not judging anybody, but considering where we all thought Jeff would go with his life, this wasn’t it.

During my own college days, I spent a lot of time with friends.

Even the ones who did drugs.

I can remember sitting there watching my “friends” do lines of cocaine across a table the size of New Mexico.

They would always offer. I would always decline.

It never dawned on me that if the police knocked down the door, I’d be going to jail too, even with clean bloodlines.

Fortunately that never happened.

From the time I was yay high, my father drilled it into me that drugs are bad.

I know that sounds like a cliche, but to my dad it was that simple.

And he had a good reason to come to that conclusion.

One of his best friends was blessed with three sons.

Unfortunately his sons were cursed with heroin addiction.

Son #1 died of an overdose. Then son #3 died of an overdose.

Say what you want about heroin being different than “just” smoking a joint, but to my dad it didn’t matter.

Drugs, by any name, ruined the life of his friend.

Period.

I’ve tried to be as open as possible with my kids about the subject.

Thanks to our mutual love of music, we listen to everything from James Taylor to Taylor Swift.

Of course EVERY time Janis or Jimi or Nirvana or, well you get the idea, comes on the radio, I make sure to tell the kids about the final chapter in that autobiography.

When all is said and done, my kids are going to make their own decisions.

All I can do is try to prepare them.

Whenever I can.

Like today at the grocery store when my son saw a new tabloid and asked who Corey Haim was.

We spoke for a few minutes about that story and then I asked, “why do you think people do drugs?"

Now even though he hadn’t figured out that answer, yet, he certainly impressed me with his follow up.

“You get one life. You can throw it away or do something useful.”

I'm praying he does the second one.

On The Road Again

What an almost perfect weekend it was.

I’ll get to the almost in a bit, but like the good book, let’s start at the beginning.

I got a call a few days ago from a friend who said that she was going to be in the neighborhood this weekend.

Well, not exactly the neighborhood, but my state.

Considering she lives in a different time zone, a two-hour drive was the least I could do.

So I loaded up the car and took the two older kids on a road-trip.

My wife stayed home with our six year-old and the dog.

The ride there gave me and my 12-year old daughter and 11-year old son a great opportunity to catch-up as they entered their spring break.

I’ve got satellite radio in my car so we had a lot of musical options.

For the most part they wanted the Top 40 station and I gave in to be a good dad.

Did you know that Lady Gaga and Lady Antebellum are not related?

Who knew?

At one point, I was looking to get a little break and give the kids a little culture, so I flipped on preset #7.

The Broadway Channel.

I really don’t listen to it much, but everyone could use a little Orphan Annie from time-to-time.

The first song to come on was one of my old favorites, “I Can Do That,” from A Chorus Line.

A Chorus Line was one of the few eight-tracks my mom owned, so whenever we would go on a long drive when I was a child, we were sure to hear something from that show.

Maybe that’s why I knew all the words.

Well the rest of the drive went well as did the entire weekend.

It was great to spend quality time with the kids and show them off to my friend.

For the ride home, I was able to take control of the radio and get a little sports in the background, but it was the discussion in the car that I really enjoyed.

Kids really do say the darndest things.

At one point my daughter asked me if I thought life was short.

Wow, that one came out of left field. I didn’t even know she liked baseball.

I thought for a moment and then said, "life is not short, but you do need to take advantage of every moment you have."

Then, with my mind scanning like a Google Search, I shared a story with them from 2001.

I remember having dinner with my wife, my dad and his wife in March of that year. At one point during the meal we started talking about Notre Dame, my favorite college football team.

My dad worked in sports for my entire life and most of his, but he had never been to South Bend.

He said one of these years we will go.

“One of these years?,” I said. “Let’s do it this year!”

Sure enough we went that fall and watched the beloved Irish defeat USC, 27-16.

(For the record, I am 3-0 at Notre Dame Stadium.)

The trip was absolutely amazing. Just father and son watching sports.

Now my dad and I had A LOT of great father/son sports moments, but I don’t remember an entire weekend when it was just us, no distractions.

We went to the Pep Rally, walked around the campus, sat next to each other for the entire game.

We enjoyed every moment.

Six months later he died of a massive heart attack.

I never had a chance to say goodbye.

Like I told my daughter, enjoy every moment.

Well, almost every moment.

One moment I did not enjoy this weekend was about 90 minutes into our two-hour ride home when I was clocked going 80 in a 55.

The officer was kind enough to lower it to 79, so I didn’t have to make a mandatory court appearance, but $225 later, it really bummed me out.

For a little bit.

Not even a speeding ticket or the $225 it will cost me on my unemployed budget could wipe away the perfect weekend I had with the kids.

Well, almost perfect.

Love Plus One

Whether I choose to believe it or not, there really has been a whole lot of good to come out of my unemployment.

There’s... and of course.. and who could forget...

Ok, but seriously folks.

There is nothing more special or important than the opportunity I have had to spend the quality time with my family.

I'm sure they are tired of me, but they realize I am fragile and they won't say it.

Perhaps my most lasting memory of this most miserable episode will be this blog.

It has connected me with so many wonderful people I have never met and re-connected me with so many lifelong friends I had lost contact with.

When I started writing this blog, I really planned on keeping it to myself.

I’m not sure if I was insecure about the quality of my writing or embarrassed of what my life had become, but after a couple of entries, I started changing my tune.

Not only was I proud of the way I was writing, but I was really proud of what I was writing.

To quote the great Canadian poet Bryan Adams, it was really coming straight from the heart.

So satisfying in fact, that I started notifying my closest of friends.

I guess I figured that they were the ones least likely to pour Morton’s salt in my jobless wound.

Well here we are three months later and I’ve pretty much opened the flood gates. I guess I still have an undefined level of scrutiny of who I will or won’t tell about the blog, but those rules are getting shorter.

My most recent invitee is one of my oldest friends, in years of friendship, not years of life.

Jon and I go back to grade school.

I remember spending many a day at his home.

On weekends, after school, pretty much any time they would take me.

Unfortunately through the years Jon and I have gone in separate directions, but through the magic of Facebook, we have been reunited like Peaches & Herb.

And it feels so good.

Jon is a very successful businessman with a wonderful family.

Well, I’m assuming they are wonderful because they look wonderful in his Facebook pictures.

I look forward to the day where we can all get together in person.

It had been a while since we last traded messages, but I think just knowing that he is one click away has a certain comfort level for me.

Jon sent me a note yesterday to tell me that he ran into a mutual friend of ours.

I replied by telling him I’ve been unemployed for 16 months and am now writing a blog on it.

Am I a bucket of sunshine or what?

Today he replied back. I hope he doesn’t mind me sharing.

So I saw your email this afternoon...sent 3:16... I picked it up at 4:11.

(I know that because I had to race home to meet the Comcast cable guy that was coming between 4 and 6)...

by the way, its 6:40 and he/she is still not here.

I went to your blog....and for the last 2 hrs and 40 minutes read every entry and response.

WOW!

For the record, in my book you are a brilliant writer. I have a hard time focusing when I read, which is why I don't read much. My wife, on the other hand, starts a book and doesn't put it down till its done.

Fortunately, my kids got her reading genes.

I read your book, er blog, cover to cover. Not because I know you but because it connected...it was real...and it was powerful.

Best 2 hr and 40 minutes spent in a long long time.

But now I have to take a leak!

I had to leave that last line in to confirm the closeness of our friendship.

He went on from there and ended with “tell me how I can help and I will in any way I can.”

Jon, you already have.

I gotta be honest with you, I don’t ever get tired of being told that I am loved.

There are a lot of different ways to spread the love.

Phil and Mark usually end a call with F-U.

Well, that's the abbreviation.

David likes to use the L-word.

My mom waits for me to say I Love You so she can say I Love You MORE.

I guess that’s our version of Who’s on First.

No matter how you package it, I’ll take it.

Jon, thanks for the love.

Game On

Now that spring has sprung, it’s time for the return of my favorite sport, baseball.

It used to be Major League Baseball.

Then it was Fantasy Baseball.

But now it’s 11-year old Baseball, as in my 11-year old son’s little league team.

This will be the fourth straight year that he has been with the same team and my son really feels at home.

I guess home is the right way to put it, since he is the catcher.

With three very active kids, we are pretty much involved with sports year round, but baseball seems to hold my greatest interest.

Don’t get me wrong, I love watching my older daughter dance, but no matter how hard I try, I really can’t relate.

If I attempt half of what she is able to do, I will need hamstring replacement surgery.

In both legs.

I also love watching my youngest daughter play soccer, but if I hear one more “that was great” by a parent after their child kicks the ball into their own goal, I will scream.

International soccer players get killed, literally, when they put it in their own net. There is nothing great about that.

Baseball seems to be the perfect fit.

My son loves playing. We love watching.

My son loves talking baseball. I love talking.

Baseball.

We both love the stats and the highlights. My wife loves the nachos.

Pretty much my son and I are addicted to every aspect of our national pastime.

We love watching the games on TV.

We love playing catch in the front yard.

We love the unbelievably realistic video games.

We love the baseball posters in his bedroom.

We also love the history.

When my son was asked four years ago, as a seven-year old, what number he wanted to be, he said 42.

As in 42 for Jackie Robinson.

As one dad on our team told me then (and several times since), his kids don’t even know who Jackie was, no less what he meant to the game.

My son still wears 42.

Ok, now that I’ve made my presentation for the Ozzie Nelson Father of the Year Award, here’s the rest of the story.

I grew up playing baseball. Made the High School team. With somebody pushing me to take more grounders, instead of eating more burgers, I probably could’ve played college ball, somewhere.

I don’t know that I would’ve made it beyond that, but we’ll never know.

I really try my best to NOT live my dreams through my kids, but I definitely know that behind every major leaguer is a boot in their rear end.

It could be the boot of a brother, a father, a mother or a coach, but the bottom line is somebody at some point figured out the right buttons to push to help them get to the next level.

From the time he was five, my son said that he was going to be a major leaguer.

(Of course, we all said that.)

At six he wrote a note, on his own, saying that he needed to go to school so that he could learn how to sign his first baseball contract.

When it comes to school, my wife is very hard on the kids. Why not, she is a teacher.

When it comes to sports, I am very hard on the kids. Why not, I am an athlete at heart who didn’t fulfill his dreams.

I’m by no means abusive hard, by any stretch, but I definitely push.

As much as I try to be supportive, that’s not always the end result.

After a game last year when my son didn't “keep his head in” or “his hands back” or “his knees bent” or whatever it was, I didn't talk to him for the entire car ride home.

All 45 minutes.

Definitely not my proudest moment.

That sound you heard was me being voted off the island.

As a former manager of 50+ people, not related to me, I learned to present constructive criticism with a cherry on top.

As a dad of an 11-year old, related to me, I still haven’t.

But I'm still trying.

I have been very consistent in my feedback -- it's not about the results, but it's about the effort.

My kids don't really know who John Wooden is, but they do know that he said, “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.”

They’ve heard that one about as many times as “Like A Rolling Stone”, but I’m not sure either one has registered yet.

Like every new year, I am entering this baseball season with renewed optimism.

Optimism that mother nature won’t destroy our schedule.

Optimism that my son will keep his hands back.

But most of all, I am optimistic that this will be the year that I find that perfect balance between dad and coach.

Wish me luck.

P.S. I got an incredibly thoughtful note this morning from a loyal reader who just wanted to make sure that I was ok after Tuesday’s blog, especially since I hadn’t posted a new one since.

Yes I am ok, but yesterday my six-year old daughter wasn’t.

She was home sick from school and she got all of my attention. Good thing I wasn’t at work, huh?

Thankfully it was just a cold and she is much better today and back at school.

As for Tuesday's blog, when I woke up that morning, I wanted to express exactly how I was feeling.

I am far from depressed, but at that moment, I was sad.

I wanted to be as honest as possible and properly represent the miserable feelings that I and perhaps many others like me are having.

This morning’s note was the latest reminder to me of how wonderful people in this world can be.

Getting that email from someone I never met and probably will never meet, was a great way to start my day.

I thank you (singular) and thank you (plural) for all of the support.

Keepin' It Real

You may want to sit down for this one, because this one could get a little heavy.

From the moment I started writing a blog on my journey through unemployment, I’ve tried to be as honest as humanly possible.

(Of course, the blog is anonymous, so I guess I’ve managed to leave out one little detail.)

I’ve always tried to express exactly how I’m feeling through this miserable roller coaster ride, whether its a good day or a bad minute.

Well, this morning I am throwing a pity party and you are invited.

Let me cut to the chase.

I’m really starting to believe that I will never get a job again.

At least not a job in the industry that I called home for 25 years.

I’ve never asked for sympathy and I’m not about to start now, but I’m just expressing the sinking feeling that is on my mind this morning.

Whatever took place two weeks ago might as well be two years ago at this point.

Yes, that phone could ring at any moment, but I’m pretty worn out from the shoulda, coulda, woulda.

I feel like I’ve over-exhausted every contact I have ever made and over-used every resource that’s out there.

I've called. I've re-called.

I've emailed, I've re-emailed.

I even tried the "I think my internet was down, so I'm not sure if you got my last email."

This is getting old and I'm getting tired.

In a new HBO Documentary, Magic Johnson scored the greatest point of his career when he said he found out who his real friends were when became HIV positive.

He literally cried the entire time he was saying it.

The tears coming out of his eyes matched the ones coming out of mine.

I can't relate to his exact situation, but I can definitely relate to his point.

I have an incredible support system and a growing group of friends who have provided the real love that John & Paul used to write about.

I don’t think I’m special and I certainly don’t think that I am owed anything, but I know that I am really good at what I do.

Or actually, what I used to do.

I just can’t understand what happened.

Honestly, I don’t get it.

I wrote the first draft of this blog on a lined sheet of paper, standing in the dark in my kitchen, kinda like a suicide note.

WHICH IT IS NOT!

I still have plenty of lust for live, it’s just my career that is dead.

And it breaks my heart.

What did I do to deserve this?

What did any of my unemployed colleagues do to deserve this?

When I say that I am open to taking on a new job in a new field, I am being totally sincere.

I don’t need the glamour that TV provided.

I certainly don’t need the stress either, but I do miss being creative.

I love grocery shopping, I really do, but there’s not a lot of room for being creative there.

I don’t mind doing the dishes either, but I think I’ve mastered how to get the most items in one load.

The bottom line is, I want to work.

I love being a stay-at-home dad and all of the amazing opportunities that have come with it, but with every day that I am staying at home, I feel like a big part of me is disappearing.

I don’t have any regrets, well perhaps, I don’t have many regrets, but what I’ve learned is that living in the past can destroy you.

In a hurry.