I have 'til tomorrow.

So I'm sitting here in my apartment, it's 11:00 PM, the kids are here tonight, sleeping. I should be working on the syllabus for the course in copywriting I'm teaching starting this January. I should be entering my bills into my online bill payer system. I should be doing anything instead of what I'm doing. And what I'm doing is entering a post to my blog about why I'm not doing what I should be doing and instead writing a blog. That's what I do. I'm a procrastinator. And it's bitten me in the ass more times than I can count.

I guess it all started in grade school, when I put off making my shoebox diorama of the Jurassic Period until the night before it was due. And so, I was yanking stuffing out of an old stuffed animal and spray painting it green for the moss. And my dinosaurs were completely the wrong scale. My diplodocus was too frigging small and the tricerotops was way too frigging big. Besides, I don't think they lived during the same period anyway. Like that mattered. Then in high school, I never wrote out any of my papers or did outlines. There was never time. I sat at the typewriter and typed away, thinking on the fly, while on the phone with my girlfriend, with the radio on, eating a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. College wasn't much different. Waiting until the very last minute to do a term paper was a usual occurance. Who the hell wanted to be writing a paper on "Heart of Darkness" when there was beer around. "Heart of Darkness" was truly boring anyways. What I read of it. I put off reading it until a couple days before, and only got a few chapters into it before it was due. See...bitten in the ass.

So now, years older, but not much wiser, I'm still putting off things. And I wish those things were as simple as gluing some plastic dinosaurs to a Thom McCann box and painting a volcano in the background. (Because there ALWAYS has to be an exploding volcano when there are dinosaurs around, right?) Now, it's putting off paying the bills. Putting off the freelance work. Putting off making that phone call to my cousin in Atlanta. Putting off time sheets at work. Putting off cleaning the apartment. Of course, I never put off watching a movie. There's always time for that.

I have to admit, I do work better under pressure, but sometimes there just isn't enough time. I really hate those people who are so together that they have the following weeks worth of crap taken care of before the previous week is through. Screw them. I bet they drown puppies and harrass old people during all that time they saved.

Okay, there are some things that I don't ever procrastinate on. Sitting on my ass is one of them. I never seem to wait around for that. Buying Christmas gifts is another. I really like doing that, so I go out and buy stuff. The problem with that is, when it's time to wrap, and I pull everything out, I realize I got way too much stuff, because I forgot about everything I had bought. See, if I had waited til the last minute, that wouldn't happen. Oh, and I hate being late for a movie. I have to get there in time for previews and all. I want the whole experience.

Another thing I don't wait until the last minute to do is eat. I'm always on time with that, you bet your sweet ass.

I read that there is a seminar you can take on better time management, and overcoming procrastination. I'll look more into that tomorrow.

Miss Match: Part 2

I don't like games. I don't mean Operation or Mouse Trap. Those games rock. Although I did play Life with the kids recently and it really sucks. As a kid, it was great, because it all seemed so absurd. But as an adult, that freakin' game is just too damn real. You get a lousy job, a ton of responsibility, and I landed on every space where I owed someone money. It was the Spongebob edition of the game, and it still hit too close to home.

Okay, this post is not about board games. But head games. In my quest to meet the girl of my dreams, I pressed on in Match, thinking that sooner or later, something would click. I got more thuds than clicks. I'll call this next story:

"Did I mention I'm nuts?"

I started conversing via e-mail with a woman who seemed like she was very together. Nice picture, intelligent and funny profile. We decide to talk on the phone. So on a Sunday evening we talk. And talk. And talk. Two and a half hours later, we say goodnight. The next night she calls, and so forth. We talk on the phone every night for at least an hour, if not more. We have lots in common and the conversation flows well. Except for one oddity. She puts her kids on the phone. Yeah, a little weird, I thought, but since we were getting along so well, I was willing to overlook it. Her kids are pretty young, maybe 4 and 6 or something. Anyway, we schedule a dinner date for that Saturday night. I go to her home to pick her up and she invites me in...to MEET THE KIDS! Okay, that's a bit much for a first date. I have to feel pretty damn comfortable with someone to introduce the kids, and it especially wouldn't be on the first date. Actually, the kids haven't met anyone I've dated yet. I've come close, but it hasn't happened. I know it will, but for obvious reasons, I'm very protective. (You know, the whole "my stepmother was a creature from hell," thing I put them through.)

Okay, so I meet the kids and the sitter, and off we go to dinner. We're hitting it off. She's cute, and she seems to feel the chemistry. She takes my hand during dinner. She cuddles up in the car afterwards. In other words, she's putting the signal out that she's into me. I take her home, the kids are still up. She goes to put them to bed and calls me upstairs, because the kids WANT TO SAY GOODNIGHT! Now I'm really weirded out. This is really too much. Well, after a nice goodnight, we agree to talk the next day and see each other one night the following week. Again, I'll overlook the kid thing, because she was nice, and there was chemistry. Although maybe she needed chemistry of a different sort and her presciption was low. Because...

I call her around 5 PM on Sunday and leave a message. She calls back at 11 PM with this excuse for not getting back to me sooner: A former boyfriend texted her during the day and she's been on the phone with him for a while. I asked why she felt the need to tell me that, and she explained that she didn't want to hide anything. Okay, fine. But then, when I ask about going out again, she tells me that she didn't think we were a good match, and she wasn't sure about getting together again...WHAT? After all that?? (which is exactly what I said. Then just told her I was tired and we'd talk tomorrow.) Maybe her kids didn't like my jokes...maybe her sitter didn't like what I was wearing...maybe she's FREAKING NUTS!

The next day, I get an e-mail from her saying that she was looking forward to talking again! Oh my dear sweet Lord. The red flags that were already raised are now searing my brain with their crimson flames. It's as if the Amityville house is yelling in my head, "GET OUT!"

I got out. Told her that she needs to figure out what she wants, and it ain't gonna be me. That's the end of that.

Sorry, gotta run now, I'm hungry. Reminiscing about unbalanced minds often does that to me.

Miss Match: Part 1

I debated whether I should write a blog about my online dating stories, because anyone who has tried it has at least one or two stories about it. Some that I've heard are pretty damn funny. Not "ha-ha" funny, but more like the "you've gotta be freakin' kidding me" kind of funny. From both men and women. But someone dear to me told me I should write about some of my experiences. So here's goes...

After my disastrous second marriage, the match made in the bowels of the Antichrist, I needed some time to get over it. So, following a period of puking up thick, green sewage, and the demon leaping out of my soul and into Father Damien, who promptly jumped out a window to his death, (in other words, good therapy and some drugs), I decided it was time to try dating again. Cautiously, I put a profile on an online dating site. There were several reasons this felt like a good idea. Number one: I'm not a club person. The stink of cologne, big hair, and walking sideways through a crowded bar trying not to spill my overpriced vodka tonic just doesn't feel like it would be the best place to facilitate meeting the girl of my dreams. Number two: I'm a writer, so it would be a great way to be charming and disarming from a safe distance. Number three: It was something I had never done before, so I thought it would be interesting. Since then, I've met some nice women, some "interesting" women, and some I'd rather forget. And so, I give you Part 1 in my online dating saga. I call this story:

"Didn't you think I was going to find out about the extra 192.5 pounds?"

So I'm e-mailing this one girl, who seems nice. Her picture was nice. She listed her body type as "curvy," which is fine with me. We talk on the phone, we have some stuff in common, but she tells me she's moving to Indiana temporarily to help her sister out there. Well, fine. I tell her to call me when she gets back. She tells me that she really wants to meet. Like really wants to get together before she moves. I'm working late, but she begs, so I agree. I wait outside the bar for her. Just then, a truck pulls up. I'm not talking about the vehicle. I'm talking about the woman driving it. Now, I've got nothing against big girls. I'm no bag o' bones myself. But if you list yourself as "curvy," I don't think they meant that as curvy like the side of a mountain. Her picture was probably several years old. So, right off the bat, I'm pissed. Not because she's big enough to bench press a Buick, but because she lied. And that sucks. So we had a beer, and she insisted on having another, even though she's leaving for Indiana the next day. I tell her that I'm really beat, and need to go home to bed. She's hinting around the idea of leaving Philadelphia with a bang, with me as the fuse. I don't see that happening. So I walk her to her steel-frame reinforced vehicle, and lean in for a quick "nice to meet ya" hug, when she reaches out and engulfs me in her fleshiness, planting her gaping maw across my mouth. She's digging for cavities with her tongue and I can't even breathe. I felt my entire intestinal system being dragged up my windpipe by the sucking force. I could not pull away. It was like I had gotten the Hulk very angry and you wouldn't like it when he's angry. Finally, she lets go, and I backed away, slowly. She asked again if I wanted to go back to her place, and I felt in my pockets for holy water, a tazer, anything. I said no thanks and left. When I got home, I curled up in the fetal position in the corner and cried. I felt violated. I was ready to go to court and point out the places she violated me on a doll. I shot her off a quick e-mail the next day letting her know that I didn't think she was my type. I prefer women with a weaker grip than me.

That afternoon, I was back on Match, searching for the girl of my dreams. Why? Well, I think Woody Allen put it best. In the last line of one of my favorite movies, Annie Hall, Woody says, in voiceover:

" I thought of that old joke, you know, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." And the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and ...
but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because we need the eggs."

It rings true. But one thing's for sure, I know I won't be going to Indiana to find any eggs.

Elvis, Beelzebub, and the Broken Clothes Dryer

You know, not everyone would meet the spawn of Satan and think, "Hey, I've gotta marry this thing."

Unfortunately, I did.

What was I thinking? Oh, believe me, I've heard that question a thousand times. Coming off my first marriage, vulnerable, thinking that this woman was the complete opposite of my first wife, and assuming that was a good thing. Mistook psychosis and satanic possession for passion. Under a Svengali-like spell, probably from some enchantment she learned during her frequent visits to the anus of Hades, I married her. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't in a normal state of mind. We flew to Vegas after being together a few months, and got married by a gold-sequined suited Elvis impersonator. That was the best five minutes of the relationship.

Two months later, we were in marriage counseling. The kindly, older counselor sat wide-eyed as the Beast spewed forth a diatribe of profanity-laced meanderings about my time spent with the kids, how I wanted to treat my ex with respect, my support payments, among other things. Then she left the room in a huff. He turned to me and simply said, "Honestly, I don't know how you're doing it." That was not encouraging, to say the least.

Her house was basically four walls and lots of boxes of junk. I tried cleaning out the place—and actually put a bunch of boxes in storage, paying $75.00 a month to store trash—but it was too overwhelming, and I couldn't throw out anything without her permission. Have you ever seen those 20/20 profiles on "pack rats?" You know, people who save everything? It was like that. Oh yeah, and I was not allowed in the basement. I assumed there were bodies down there. Or at least the heads. But I did sneak down. Remember that scene in Star Wars when Luke, Han and Leia fall down into that trash chute on the Death Star, and that slimy creature pulls Luke under the garbage? That should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like. Only, there was no water. Just trash, clothing and assorted junk. I didn't see a floor. But I did see something moving under it all. I swear, I did. But I didn't have my laser gun with me at the time, and Chewie wasn't there to yank me out, so I ran up the stairs, never to go down there again.

How do you argue with this one: It was my fault when the clothes dryer broke down. I never used it, because, remember, I wasn't allowed in the basement. But, it was my fault because my clothes were "bigger" and the dryer wasn't used to spinning all that weight. Yeah, honestly. She said that. What does one say? Especially with the stinging smell of sulfur hanging around the evil fingertip she had in my face.

I felt my kids slipping away from me. It was obvious she made them very uncomfortable, and they hated being there among boxes of junk. I felt my family slipping away from me. I didn't talk to them for months, because she-demon felt they hadn't "accepted" her as they should have. ("I am Satan! Accept me!!") My friends slipped away from me. The people I worked with, thankfully, were very supportive. They witnessed the insane phone calls, they saw my sanity slowly being drained, day by day. My therapist offered what she could in advice, but obviously, the rest was up to me.

After a year or so, I started to sleep in a separate bed. A futon in the "living" room. (I use the quotes for somewhat obvious reasons. No one could actually "live" there.) I woke up in the middle of the night to find her standing over me. Just standing there, looking down at me as if to say, "Oh, I could've killed you just now." Let me try to explain what that feels like: Imagine you're in the woods, and you come across a bear. It's really pissed off. You don't know why. You didn't do anything to it. So you play dead. You fall to the ground, curl up in a fetal position and try to stop breathing and shaking in fear. Your eyes are clenched tight. You're totally exposed and vulnerable. You slowly open one eye and peek, only to see the bear's nose inches from you. It's huge claws right by your body. Then it turns, walks away. It goes to the outskirts of the forest, where it can still see you. It sits down and watches you. Waiting for you to move.

The next day, I packed my stuff and moved out. I went to live with my mother until I found a place of my own. Yeah, living with my mother was a better alternative. At least if I woke to find my mother standing over me, I knew it wasn't to kill me. Creepy, but not in a shit-your-pants kind of way.

I told the kids I was getting divorced, and I found an apartment just blocks from them, and that they were going to have their own room with bunk beds. They didn't ask about the divorce. They did want to know more about the bunk beds.

What was I thinking? I may never know. But I know that I am happier than I've been in a long time. The demons have been exorcised, literally. If that is my baggage, my regret, my mistake, so be it. I'm smarter now for it. I have not written off getting married again, although I have written off marrying another of Satan's minions. Thanks to the support of family and friends, my mind is clear and I'm in a good place.

Although sometimes I get nervous about putting all my heavy clothes into the dryer.

Take two and call me in the morning.

I just saw a commercial for a birth control pill called "Yaz." I don't know, but that name just doesn't inspire a whole lot of confidence. "Honey, did you take your Yaz today...we don't want an accident...". It struck me, probably because I'm now working on a name for a new over-the-counter med. It's from a big well-known brand. I'm finding it really tough, because you want to make it sound impressive and clinical and all, but it also has to be easy-to-remember and consumer-friendly. It's for a pill that controls body aches. So, maybe I can go with the "Yaz" formula and name it after an obscure band from the '80s. How about "Kajagoogoo?" Would you take that if you were in pain? Or, "Oh, my back is killing me. I'm going to CVS to pick up some Animotion." Or, maybe they just thought the name "Yaz" was cute and fun for a birth control pill. Three letters, ending in an often unused letter. Just like the word "sex." Hmmm...good thinking. In my opinion, I think the "Yaz" folks got the easy-to-remember/consumer-friendly part right, I just think they dropped the ball on the impressive/clinical side. I guess I'm obsessing a bit about it because I am banging my head against the wall for a decent name, and yet there's some dipshit who suggested "Yaz" as a joke and got paid for it.

What about "Enzyte?" It's the "male enhancement" pills advertised with those retro type commercials and that guy "Bob." Funny commercials. Bad name. "Enzyte?" Not getting it at all. "En" as in "enlarge," "zyte" as in...nothing! Why not call it "Bigwangyte" or "Horseschlongzyte" or "Rockhardyte." At least you'll know exactly what it does. Is it really supposed to make your junk bigger? No such thing. You want a bigger digger, you get one of those plastic pump things. Everyone knows that.

I'm not even going to get into the commercial for Cialis with the people in bathtubs on a hilltop. What the hell? But I guess we can be thankful they didn't call it something like "DeBarge."

Mutant Power!

After watching one of the X-Men movies with my son, he asked what power I would like to have if I were a mutant. I don't think I've ever been asked a tougher question. Think about it...all the possibilities.

My guess is, most people immediately think of the two biggies in super powers: flying and invisibility. I think if you did a poll, those two would get the most votes. And why not? They are awesome powers. Traffic? No problem. Pull over, get out of the car and fly the hell home. Wanna know what's going on behind closed doors at the office? Go invisible, slip in and find out if you're the poor schmuck who is going to get his ass let go. After these two powers, I'm thinking super strenght is a close third. No brainer there. Of course, sometimes just hauling my ass out of bed in the morning requires superhuman strength.

Those are really obvious though. What about some of the other powers not so obvious? I'm not talking about reading minds (which would be really friggin' awesome for every situation in life), or being able to stretch like that guy in the Fantastic Four. I mean, come on. Do I need to spell that one out? What fanboy hasn't thought about having Reed Richards' ability to stretch his johnson to be about nine feet long, and have a 2-foot tongue? Come to think of it, what girl hasn't thought of that?

So, how about super speed, but only in your fingers? Imagine typing a book in mere seconds, tapping the drum solo from Inna Gadda Da Vida on your desk, or well, you know, and better than any store bought vibrator thing.

Another great one would be the ability to change your weight depending on where you are. For example, I'd want to be real skinny when flying, so I don't have to rub knees with the annoying prick seated next to me. And then be really fat when going to a Chinese buffet, just to watch everyone freak out and run up to the buffet before I get there.

I'm sure everyone can come up with a few like that. But this is my blog, so I'll keep going. How about the ability to see through the eyes of other people? You could watch yourself do stuff. I mean, who hasn't wondered what they look like to other people? I do all the time. Like you're walking down the street and you think you look all hot, and then you pop behind the eyes of the person coming toward you and you realize you look like a dork.

And then there's the ability to make people believe whatever you say. I'd be a damn millionaire. Would it be immoral? Probably, but no one ever told Hulk that pounding sidewalks into rubble is a decent thing to do. Imagine telling someone you have no head, and they believe you. Or walking into a bank and telling them that you have to take all the money because it needs to be washed. Hello Tahiti!

So, my son asked me what power I would like to have. I told him I'd like to have the power to keep him and his sister safe always, no matter where.

He wanted to be invisible.

Both would be cool.

The Mall with kids on a Saturday.

I get my two kids every other weekend and every Wednesday night. Kind of the regular divorced parents schedule. I love having the kids. My son is 11 and my daughter is 8. They're very cool kids. And when they're with me, they kind of expect us to be in constant motion, full-speed ahead, destination: fun. If I don't have the weekend planned out on Friday night after picking them up, chockful of fun and interesting things to do, then I have some explaining to do. It's not that they're brats. They just like to know that dad is fully in control, with hands on the reins of excitement, ready to keep downtime at bay and continued occupation at full surge. So, today, I slapped the reins on that chariot of adventure and we went to the mall. I know, not very imaginative. But they do like it. Look at it through the eyes of kids. It's a literal smorgasbord of lunch options, a veritable plethora of cool shit to beg for, and a easy way to breeze through a wad of dad's cash.

So we started with lunch, which can be a pain, since no one in our little gang of three can choose one place. My son wants Taco Bell, the princess wants McDonald's, but we had that last night, so she settles for Nathan's. I go for a melange of rubbery chicken and mushrooms in brown sauce from the somewhat-Chinese food place. And I just now tasted it again, even though we ate lunch nine hours ago. And had dinner in between. That's powerful stuff there. It's like I french-kissed the alien creature and he spewed his acid spit down my gullet.

Now, let me say this much: I don't mind shopping. No, I'm not gay and saying that doesn't make me less of a testicle-carrying member of the Man's Club. I really kind of like shopping. Target pretty much friggin' rocks. And getting a box of Honey Bunches of Oats at Wal-Mart for just a measley $2.58 compared to like $4.97 at the supermarket can almost make my day. So hopefully, we established the fact that shopping can be okay for a guy, unless you're left holding the handbag for your girl as she's trying on the nineteenth pair of jeans. Especially when you're with kids and you're going in stores that hold some interest for a geeky dad such as myself.

Take Hot Topic, for example. This kind of suburban-punk, faux anti-establshment, corporate run, gothy loner stoner head banger store. It's got speakers blaring music that would make your mom shit her old lady panties, lots of pretty cool t-shirts, and people behind the counter who have been pierced more than Jesus on his last day. (Just tell me one thing: How the hell do they get the stud through the bridge of the nose. Damn, that's freakin' nasty.) My little 8-year-old prissy princess just happens to think goth girls are the coolest thing ever, and I do often pray that she goes the black eyeliner route, if just to piss off her grandparents. She enjoys checking out the goth wear. You know, plaid mini-skirts, shirts with skull prints, and black patent-leather hi-heel sneakers. I picture the day her grandmother's cerebellum bursts in a spray of brain matter and skull fragments when her former angel enters looking like she was conceived by an unholy union of Wednesday Addams and Mad Max.

Then there's F.Y.E. What the hell were they thinking with that name? Sure, it means "For Your Entertainment," but who the hell calls it that? You just bastardize the name as "Feeyah." At least that's what we do. Anyways, the kids are now into The Beatles, after they insisted I take them to see that "Across the Universe" movie. So I bought "A Hard Day's Night" on DVD, just so they could see the real Beatles, not some Brit soap star trying to sing "I've Just See A Face," as teenagers bop across a bowling alley. I also like looking through the used DVD sections and often wonder why the hell people would actually buy some of the DVDs they do, only to return them for a fraction of what they paid. Did someone really pick up a new copy of "Night at the Roxbury" and consider how much they really couldn't wait to watch it over and over, and show their friends as well? But there it is, in the used bin, where it will surely end up fueling a sparking pyre full of other crappy DVDs.

Of course, there was the obligatory stop at the toy store, the book store, Spencer's, where you can pick up your new life-sized Chucky doll and a vibrator shaped like a gopher that plays the theme to "Caddyshack" while you take care of business. How do you explain that to an 8-year old girl?

As we left, I considered all the other things I might have done with them instead. But where else could I have better bonded with my children than in Hot Topic as we laughed over a t-shirt that read, "I don't remember your name, so I'll just call you dumbass!"

Okay, next time I have the kids, I'm planning better.

So, this is Blogland...

I'm not that old. 43 is not that old. And yet, in the realm of Internet blogging, I feel like Methuselah. But here I am, at the urging of a good friend who said, "You're a writer. You need a blog." 25 years ago, he would have said, "You're a writer. You need a typewriter." Now, I need a blog. Okay, so here's my blog. What am I planning to write here? Christ knows. But you can bet it'll be pretty damn insightful. Okay, maybe insightful isn't the right word. I don't have many insights into things. I could care less about politics, sports do not interest me, and most mainstream interests are, let's face it, pretty damn imbecilic. So I do have a lot of complaints, and I guess you can call them insights. I'd rather call them musings, especially on things I know. Things that affect me. So that's what it'll be. Musings on internet dating, women in general, being a single dad, being divorced twice, being married to the spawn of Satan, working as a writer for a mid-size branding firm, daily commutes, action figures, walking into a roomful of assholes, weight loss, growing older, shitty movies, great movies, the past, the future, the here and now, and probably something about ground turkey vs. ground beef for making meatballs.

If any of this interests you, please stop back from time to time. If it doesn't interest you, stop back anyway, because you might find that it actually does interest you. Because I can actually be pretty funny. So I've been told. Especially by women, right after I've slept with them. Oh, yeah, I'll probably tell some dirty stories too. That ought to bring some of you back.

Okay, so now I don't feel so old. I actually have a freaking blog. Whoop-dee-doo for me!