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I’m not old, I’m just mature and think about the future while dwelling inconsolably on the past

You know you’re getting old when:

While watching a walk-through of the latest Batman game, you can’t help but shudder at all the property damage you witness

It’s true. I was watching the Batmobile not just crashing into buildings, statues, railings, and people, but shooting them up too. And all I could think about was the amount of money it would take to repair all that devastated real estate, how much time the rioters would have to spend in the hospital, and how penniless Bruce Wayne would end up after the lawsuits if his identity ever came to light.

It shattered my suspension of disbelief and completely robbed me of my ability to enjoy the game play.

I highly recommend the next Batman game be a lot less violent. Maybe send the Dark Knight on quests to collect hugs as comfort for the loss of his parents, allowing him to finally heal and become a peaceable, contributing member of society. You could have an outline of a heart in the top right corner of the screen that slowly fills up with love as he gathers those hugs. My eyes are tearing up just thinking about it.

Or ooh! Posies! It would be really soothing, and potentially very colorful, to have Batman seeking out different varieties of beautiful, soothing flowers.

There. That idea is yours, Rocksteady Studies. Free of charge.

You are watching a walk-through of the latest Batman game rather than buying the game and playing it yourself

I’m not a poor man, but I have a mortgage to pay and kids and a spouse to support. So while I could afford to buy Arkham Knight and a game console that can play it, I have better uses for my money. Plus working full-time means I don’t have the cycles to spare to sniff out and explore all the secrets of Gotham’s underworld via trial and error. Heck, I had enough trouble getting through the seven hours or so of the walk-through, having to pause constantly to tell one of the just-out-of-kindergarten kiddos, no, this isn’t a Batman video you want to watch.

You have that problem with your kids? You send them out to play in the front yard so you can watch a video game walk-through, and all they do is keep coming back in to bug you about being hungry, or thirsty, or the cars driving by are too close, or there’s a strange man who needs to find his pet bunny and will they help? Can’t they just entertain themselves for a few hours while I watch online videos?!

Yes, help the poor man find his bunny, just GET OUT OF MY HAIR FOR AWHILE!!!!

Sheesh! You’d think kindergarteners are dependent on their parents for everything!

Camping isn’t fun any more

Instead of the joy of the outdoors, the wonder of birds singing and strange animals scrabbling around the campsite in the night, camping has become a guarantee for a back ache when I wake in the morning, no matter how many mattresses, inflatable or otherwise, that I schlep along with me. And those lovely scenic hikes? Death marches as far as my knees are concerned. And how often, due to lack of refrigerated storage and/or poor preparation, do we risk serious food-borne illness? While out in the middle of nowhere, miles from medical help?

Yes, camping is little more than an unwise flirtation with death once you get old, and having brushed up against death a few times, I can’t say she’s all that. Skip the flirtation and stick with your spouse, that’s my advice.

Preferably in the comfort of your own bed.

You have a history, good or bad, with other people

The longer you’re alive, the more likely you are to have friends (and enemies). Or friends who are now enemies, leaving you to dwell inconsolably on your past failings that led to this point. Fortunately, my enemies, if I have any, are of the type to hide their animosity so they can stay close and more easily slip a blade between my ribs.

Which is not a bad thing: I have come to terms with the fact that I am mortal only because I know I will die suddenly and blissfully ignorant.

And the good history? With friends?

That’s what you develop to make yourself feel better about getting old. Because you can’t have a good history with someone without the passage of time.

And getting that history in exchange? Makes it all worth it.

 
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Posted by on 6 July 2015 in Angst, Life, Reviews

 

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How to turn raising kids into the best game ever (and circumvent child labor laws at the same time)!

Life with kids is hard.

You endure the morning commute, slog your way through work, and slow-motion dodge the traffic all the way home.

And what’s waiting for you there?

Hellions. Screaming, jumping, unreasonably happy to see you hellions.

So you have to hang out with them, make them feel loved and wanted until you can drop their sorry butts into bed.

Which takes an additional fifteen minutes because they expect you to hug them.

And kiss them.

And read to them.

Read to them! At night!

And then, once you’ve got the writhing monsters tucked in tight enough that it’ll take till morning for them to work their way loose, then the real work begins.

Laundry. Toy cleanup. Dish washing. Spousal attention paying.

This leaves very little time for Daddy to do what he wants.

Outrageous.

However, if my kids are any indicator, there is a sliver of hope.

Recently, I introduced my kids to computer games.

They became obsessed. To the point that getting home from work, they’d run to the door demanding I help them get to the next level.

Every night.

At first, the Missus and I thought this obsession meant we’d made a mistake.

The progression of their addiction only reinforced this concern.

The kiddos started running around the house, talking like this:

“Level 8! We’re at Level 8!”

“There are jumping cannonballs in the living room! Cannonballs!”

“Where’s Alex? Where’s Alex the Alligator now?”

“Watch out for the Daddy boss monster!”

“How do we get to the next level?”

It seems that exposure to video games has caused them to completely redefine their lives and surroundings in the context of a computer game.

At first, I was alarmed.

Alarmed and troubled. Troubled by the thought that, in addition to all the precious free time these kids suck up, they were now going to require expensive therapy too.

And then I hit upon the solution. If they think life is a game, I’m gonna make that game work. For me.

“You can only complete Level 4 on a full stomach. Eat all of your spinach if you want to beat Level 4. Mmm, yummy! Well done!”

“The only way past Level 5 is to brush your teeth. You have to get rid of that spinach somehow.”

“Very good! You’re at Level 6. Did you want to get to Level 7? To do that, you have to put away your toys. This is a hidden object game. You have to hide your toys in the toy box.”

“Oh no, you dropped the bowl you were drying and it broke. Back to the start of Level 7 with you! Stop crying! It’s just a game, dammit! If you keep it up, I’ll give you a real reason to cry!”

“Level 8 is the Festering Swamp Level. The only way out is to clean the clogged toilet. Put on these rubber gloves. The plunger is behind the toilet. That’s it. You know what to do from there.”

“Good job, kiddos, you made it to Level 9. How to get to Level 10? Simple. First, put the dirty clothes in the washing machine. No, not just your clothes. Mommy and Daddy’s clothes too while you’re at it.

“Then you add detergent and start the machine. Go on, you can do it.

“What are you whining about? Can’t I get a /moment’s/ peace around here? You can’t reach? Do I have to do /everything/ around here? Level 10 isn’t supposed to be easy. You have to solve the puzzle.

“Oh for the love of… Find the stool. No, the stool. Either one, it doesn’t matter. JUST PICK ONE, DAMMIT! OK. Push it over to the washing machine, like that, yes. Now put the clothes in. No, IN the washing machine. How else will it clean them? This isn’t rocket science!

“No, no! Close the lid. CLOSE it. You’re almost four years old, how hard can this be? That’s it. Now climb on top of the lid and grab the detergent package. No, that’s fabric softener. The one with the ‘D’ on the package, you illiterate…deep breaths, find my happy place. No, MY happy place, not yours!

“There. Finally. Now get back down on the stool, no, the STOOL, you’ll fall and hurt yourself climbing down the side. Yes, there. Geez. Now open the lid again. I know it was open and you just closed it, open it again. Trust me. JUST OPEN IT!

“There, see, that wasn’t so hard. Now put the detergent in, close the lid, don’t argue about opening and closing, just do it. No, DON’T GET INSIDE! You have to stay outside! Because the washing machine is for clothes only! To clean them! No. Because I SAID SO!

“No, I’m not showing you how to do this again. Weren’t you paying attention? See, you got it, yeah! That’s it. Now hit ‘Start’. No, I can’t help you. You can do it. It’s the bright red button with the ‘S’ on it. Just press the damn button already.

“Hurray, you did it! Welcome to level 11! This is the lawn mowing level. But watch out for the octogenarian vampire lawn gnomes – they spit.”

If you hadn’t guessed, Level 10 is the Boss level.

It’s the level that makes me question my whole approach to handling their gaming addiction.

That and the trouble the kiddos have pull-starting the lawn mower. I have to admit, even I have problems with that. I’m thinking an electric mower will fix that concern.

And I have to say, doubts aside, the house is looking pretty good.

Save for all the broken glass in the kitchen. Toddlers are clumsy oafs.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me! My books are available!
 

The Santa Claus Gang:

The Santa Claus Gang: A Marlowe and the Spacewoman short story

Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
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Posted by on 25 March 2013 in Life

 

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What you don’t know about Barbie could kill you. Or your children.

Long week, exhausted, with way too much to deal with right now. So here’s a warning about a popular toy that maybe shouldn’t be so popular.

Without further ado, proof of Barbie’s horrible secret:

You owe your debt of gratitude to my kiddos, without whom I would never have uncovered this dark conspiracy.

 

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Are Books A Threat To Our Children, Or An Innovative New Food Source?

Is that a Prussian Robot Death Squad Commando, or a Prussian Robot Squash Commando?

It’s a fun Xmas story and serves as a better-than-expected shield when fending off blows from siblings.

Kids do the damnedest things.

Particularly to books.

Especially when they can’t read.

Let’s face it, if you hand a book to a young enough kid, he or she will try to eat it (and sometimes succeed). Even if they aren’t hungry.

Which makes me wonder, if you can buy edible underwear, why has no one come out with an edible book?

This lack of fresh and healthy edible books is why I only buy my toddlers hardback books. They can try, but they aren’t getting those down. At least, not easy.

Sadly, that all changes once they discover the knife drawer. Damn you, Williams-Sonoma!

But the resilience of the format is what really makes me wish CreateSpace offered a hardback option.

The paperback proof of my latest offering, the Marlowe and the Spacewoman short story The Santa Claus Gang, arrived in the mail yesterday.

I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out (and have subsequently released the book for publication).

My kids seemed pretty excited too, until they discovered there were no pictures inside.

Then it was just another weird, seemingly pointless toy kept in the special shelf next to similar weird, seemingly pointless toys that you go to when you want to tear yourself a sheet of paper.

Philistines.

But if nothing else, they deemed the cover a huge success, which is more than can be said about their views of my previous book, Marlowe and the Spacewoman. They were very unimpressed with that cover. Perhaps because of the bar of soap that features so prominently on it.

There, that takes care of the shameless plug for my new book. Back to the topic at hand: kids and books.

The other night my kids barricaded themselves in their bedroom, pushed the toy box over to the door, and started removing books from the hanging shelves on said door.

Not every book, mind you. One kiddo would pull a book out and show it to the other kiddo, who would judge it either ‘scary’ or ‘not scary’.

The scary books were handed down and dumped into a basket in the corner of the room furthest from the beds, behind a dresser.

“Why are you putting the books there?” I asked.

“They’re scary books,” Kiddo #2 answered solemnly. “We don’t want them to get us.”

I’m not sure exactly what the perceived threat was from these books, but they were definitely taking it seriously.

Now I can understand my deranged foray into children’s books, Kleencut, ending up exiled to the ‘Danger Zone’ – after all, it’s a terrible, 1-star review freebie on Amazon that really shouldn’t be read to children no matter how much they clamor for it.

But the Berenstain Bears?

Apparently, the Berenstain Bears book Safe and Sound! is particularly scary, because it was at the bottom of the pile.

I would have given them ‘boring’, because man it does drag, but scary?

I guess my kids feel safer knowing I am more likely to be injured as I contort myself in an attempt to get at that book so I can read it to them.

And that, in itself, is pretty damn scary.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me! My books are available!
 

The Santa Claus Gang:

The Santa Claus Gang: A Marlowe and the Spacewoman short story

Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 

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Sing, O Muse, Of Your Superfluousness

I just recently came out of a long dry spell that I’d been enduring.

For writing. A dry spell for writing. The dating dry spell ain’t going away, cause I’m married. The sex dry spell, well, I’m married with kids. Young kids. You do the math.

Actually, one could argue I’m not completely clear of the writing dry spell just yet. I’ve jumped back in by editing a couple of ancient projects that have been avoiding dust in a hermetically sealed desk drawer for the last decade.

Yes, decade. I’m taking baby steps. And not just so I won’t wake my sleeping toddlers.

But this long dry spell got me to thinking about Muses, because I’m without one.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had Muses before, and plenty of them.

My first Muse came to me in high school and stayed with me through college. As with most tales involving heterosexual male writers, she was a woman, I was madly in love with her, and I was too terrified to tell her.

Ah, happy days.

Instead of asking her out, maybe dating her, and, you know, being happy for a few weeks before my complete and total lack of social graces and maturity poisoned her to me forever, I did the next most logical, obvious thing:

I wrote for her from a distance.

She was in my poetry, short stories, not-so-short short stories, and a play I wrote.

Funny thing, that play. My muse actually ended up being cast as the character based on her. It struck me as a sign, and still I said nothing.

What can I say, today-Ian may be a mercury-poisoned mad man, but college-Ian, who hadn’t been exposed to mercury yet, was a flat-out idiot.

Which is not to said I’m sad and mopey and wish things had turned out differently. My life is awesome, with an amazing wife and adorable children, and I could never risk erasing them from my life by going back in time and bitch-slapped some common sense into my earlier self.

It’s true. And I’m not just saying that because my wife reads this blog. Or because traveling back in time, in addition to being impossible unless you’re wealthy enough to afford a DeLorean, could create a paradox that destroyed the very fabric of the universe.

My point is, I had a Muse. And holy crap, I had output too. Every free moment, even those that would have been better spent hitting the books, was spent writing.

And dating other women. There was some of that too.

I’ll bet those women, since I’m sure all of them, to this day, still think about me, wished I would go back in time now to fix things with that first Muse and prevent my ever meeting, let alone dating, any other women, potential destruction of the universe be damned.

To which I can only say, I am so, so sorry.

And then, one day, I moved on.

OK, my muse got married. To someone else. And he wasn’t even American!

Talk about adding insult to injury.

I had other Muses. Other women. Many of them also oblivious to me, or only aware of me in the most peripheral way. Usually dating my best friend or something. Not that I’m bitter at all. No sir.

But none of them were quite the same. No Muse is ever like your first one.

My wife was my Muse for a while, before we got married. In fact, and this is relevant later, she was my Muse when she lived far away and we rarely saw each other. I wrote some stuff I’m rather proud of with her in mind.

And some stuff I’m not proud of, but that was true of all my Muses, even my first. Sometimes I was just a hack and no amount of Musing can overcome that.

But somewhere along the line, writing changed for me.

I’m not sure where, but it might have been Nanowrimo, when writing became about the deadline and word count and turning off your inner editor. Then I got serious about writing, ended up self-publishing, and the writing became about marketing and selling books.

It became a business.

Which is about when the dry spell started. Hmm…

I also got a day job, bought a house, got married, had kids. Shit got real.

But whenever and however it happened, the end result was I stopped writing for someone beyond me anymore.

I lost my Muse.

And I didn’t even notice until recently.

Which got me to wondering. As writers, do we need a Muse?

I’m not so sure. For quite a while, I was doing pretty well without one. Sure, maybe not so much lately, what with the re-hashing of old work, but excluding the last six months or so, the last few years have been good for my writing.

Are the last few months relevant to this question about having a Muse? Or are they, perhaps, crucial? If I had a Muse six months ago, would I have still fallen off the writing wagon, or would I have climbed over the harness rigging the horses to the wagon and whipped them into a frenzied gallop of writing abandon?

So, there it is. They question of the hour.

Do writers need a Muse?

And if we do, who would be my Muse?

My kids? Seems like a great idea, writing for my kids. It’s an idea I had before my kids were even a gleam in my eye. But if having my kids as Muses results in stuff like Kleencut (FREE picture e-book, just released on Smashwords, should be hitting Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc. soon), then maybe they aren’t such a hot choice.

Plus kids get so territorial:

“Who’s the better Muse? Me or my brother?”

“I know you say we’re both your Muse, but it’s really just me, right?”

“I’m the Muse for your good books, right, but be honest, my brother’s the Muse for the terrible ones.”

I don’t want to break the heart of the lesser Muse by having to tell him that he sucked as an inspiration. That’s the sort of thing that leads a kid to grow up into a serial killer.

One that starts with his writer father.

So kids are out.

My wife is the obvious next choice. But I think there has to be pain and distance associated with a Muse. The Unattainable, set on that Pedestal of Too Highness that is just out of reach. Without a blend of angst and ‘maybe, some day’, well, you have nothing to which you can aspire.

This is what happens when all your dreams come true, when you marry and move in with the woman you love.

Suddenly the Unattainable is not just Attainable, but Attained, and that Pedestal of Too Highness has succumbed to the mighty lifting power of a shared bed.

Seriously. Our bed is on stilts. It’s this kink we have. Don’t judge.

So clearly my wife is out.

And just as clearly, at least if I want to talk about it publicly, all other women are also out.

Do you have any idea how rare it is to find a heterosexual woman with a stilt fetish who’s willing to settle down and marry? When your dreams have all come true, you don’t rock the boat with a bone-headed idea like dragging in another woman as your Muse.

How do you have that conversation with your wife?

Me: Hey, I’ve found a new Muse for my writing.

Missus: Took you long enough, considering I’ve been here all along.

Me: Oh, well, it’s not you.

Missus: Oh? Who is it then? Bill in Accounting?

Me: Bill? No! Why would it be- Never mind. No, she’s not someone I work with. Not directly, anyway.

Missus: She?

Me: Yeah. I saw her on the subway, followed her home, went through her mail to learn more about her.

Missus: I see. Tell me more about this Muse who isn’t me.

Me: Um, she’s…nice?

Missus: Nice as in better looking, or nice as in more loveable?

Me: Um, no, it’s not like that at all.

Missus: Really? Then how does it work? How exactly does she inspire you if she isn’t tugging on your heart-strings? Or…wobbling your stilts?

Me: Just because she’s a rich, successful heart surgeon doesn’t mean I’m interested in her like that. She’s way too young, like in her early twenties, and her bust is way too big for me to- ACK…GARKGLE…hurting me…please…release testicles from steely grip…

[End scene]

Yeah, neither I nor my boys need that kind of drama. So, what does that leave?

Men, you say?

No. Despite the huge surge in hits my blog would get if I chose, for example, Blake Shelton naked as my next Muse, it just doesn’t do anything for me.

And doing something for me is kinda the point.

Inspiring picture of the rarely seen, once thought to be extinct Muse Turtle.

Once believed to be extinct, the Muse Turtle, or Chelonia gregārius, was known to be common in Greek and Roman times, and appears in much of the literature from those periods. If this over-sized turtle choking down a weed inspires you, then you're an even bigger loser than I am.

So, that leaves animals. And plants.

Well crap, that sucks. I’m allergic to animal dander, so I’d end up doing more sneezing than writing if I went the animal route (though I suppose reptiles or amphibians might work). But animals require upkeep, too, and I’m barely keeping my marriage and family together as it is, what with the younger, bustier Muses and the testicle-squeezing and the high cost of stilts maintenance.

And pining after someone else’s pet frog? Would you want to read something written by a creepy person like that?

Yeah, me either.

And if I chose a plant, well, with my luck, it would be poison oak. Plus I have a pollen allergy too, so sneeze-fest.

And come on, a plant as a Muse? What kind of sorry life would I have to lead where I’m inspired by an unattainable vegetable? It would have to be one of those exotic vegetables that they don’t allow in California for fear of fruit flies or something.

I’d have an easier time finding another woman with a stilt fetish.

Which really makes me hope that Muses are superfluous.

Because if they aren’t, I’m screwed.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!
 
My books are now available!
 
Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

Marlowe and the Spacewoman

Kleencut (FREE!):

So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
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Posted by on 1 May 2012 in Life, Other Blogs

 

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Why I’m In Such A Hurry To Find A Parking Space

I wanted to blog about the unenviable state of parking lot etiquette in the United States.  It’s a crisis of horrific importance that needs to be addressed, honestly and dispassionately, but it turns out I don’t have the time.

And that, unbelievable as it may sound, is an even bigger problem than the shameful behavior displayed by Americans in parking lots (I’m looking at you, a-hole at IKEA this morning).

I am faced with a time-management crisis.

I work full-time.

I have two toddlers and a wonderful wife who has worn her sanity to the bone dealing with those toddlers while I’m at work.

I’m a writer.  As such, I have critique groups, writing to do, a small press I’ve founded, and for the last seven years, I’ve been a NaNoWriMo Municipal Liaison.

I am addicted to reruns of T.J. Hooker, and have to watch at least one episode every night.

I won’t even bring up the lawn I have to mow and maintain.

(Curse you, Kentucky bluegrass!)

It has recently become painfully apparent that I can’t do all of this.

Quitting my job seemed like the obvious first choice for a solution.  But the missus was quick to point out some of the disadvantages: no income, no health insurance, and even worse, I’d lose an 8+ hour window each day where I don’t have to deal with my spawn, who seem to relish sucking the marrow out of people’s sanity bones.

(Yes, it’s a real bone. It’s in your arm somewhere, near the funny bone, I think.  Look it up.)

The missus can be a real killjoy sometimes.

Which led me to my second idea – ditch the killjoy and the tykes.  But there was just something about that idea that felt wrong.  I haven’t quite put my finger on what exactly it was, but the closest way to describe it is a horrible, burning void-like emptiness in my soul that manifested immediately after I considered this option.

Dashed inconvenient, that.

And as is obvious to anyone who has experienced the delight that is a William Shatner performance, T.J. Hooker is staying on the agenda.

With those three options off the table, I’ve sort of painted myself into a corner.  The area where I need to make a sacrifice appears to be my writing.

Oh, I won’t stop writing.  The kids still have a (reasonably) early bedtime, and some nights they even go to sleep when put down.  So I can, in theory, squeeze some words in there.

(That said, in the twenty minutes I’ve been (trying to) work on this entry, I’ve had to deal with crying babies twice, and they were put to bed three hours ago.)

Some of these writing commitments are huge time-sucks, and I’m not sure how I’ll address that, given the rapidly shrinking amount of time I have for writing.

OK, that’s a total lie.  I know exactly how I’ll have to address them.  I’m just not happy about it.

I’m going to have to choose.  I’m going to have to make cuts and sacrifices.  And unlike our current national debt ceiling crisis, there aren’t any tax revenue options on the table that can be used as offsets to help me scale back the cuts.

(Damn, I miss the days of the writing time surplus.  Curse my shortsightedness in not stockpiling some of those precious minutes then, when they were readily available!)

So I have to take a long, hard look at my craft and the activities that surround it.  Where can I eek out more efficiency?  What can I do to strip out the cost of fraud?  How do I determine which writing activities provide the biggest return on the time I invest in them?

It’s going to be ugly.  There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  And once I’ve calmed the toddlers down, I will most likely cry too.

Maybe the pharmaceutical companies will come up with a pill for horrible, burning void-like emptiness in the soul.

A writer can hope, right?

What about you writers out there?  How do you fit the literary compulsion into your life?  Have you had to make cuts to this most beloved of entitlements?  Once the kids grow up, can you reclaim that time, or does it just get worse and worse the older they get?  Is selling your kids off for scientific experimentation still an option these days?  If so, how much does a two year old go for?

 
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Posted by on 20 July 2011 in Angst, Life, Other Blogs

 

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I’m so worried about the baggage retrieval system they’ve got at Heathrow

I worry a lot. At first, I thought it might have something to do with being a new parent. But then I realized I’m worried about a lot more than just my kids. I’m worrying about everything.

Sure, I worry about the usual things with my kids. Are they allergic to peanuts? Will they find a plastic bottle cap somewhere and choke on it? Have they figured out how to open doors? If so, does that mean they might run outside and get hit by a car? Have they figured out where my plutonium collection is and will they try to play with it?

But I also worry about other things. Just before I use my badge to open the door at work, I worry that it won’t unlock the door because I’ve been fired and/or laid off. Every single time.(I blame the layoff I went through a couple of years ago for that.)

When the phone rings, my first thought is, “Oh no, someone has died.” And then I worry about who it is who just died. I do this even when my mother-in-law calls from work to talk to my wife. She calls every morning at the same time. I know it’s her. And yet I still worry someone has died.

When I get in the car to drive somewhere, I worry that I’ll be in an accident. I worry that I’ll be killed. I worry not because I fear death, but because I fear leaving my kids without a dad.(Well okay, maybe there is a little fear of death too.)

I worry about crime, food poisoning, that the guy who installed our cable in the bedroom dipped our toothbrushes in the toilet while we weren’t looking, bullets fired in the air landing on my house and on me or my kids, global warming, a new global ice age (apparently the sunspot cycle is such that this might happen), high food prices, health care when I retire, my teeth falling out, terrorism, running out of baby powder. I’m also a little worried that I might be a bit neurotic.

When this first started, I thought it was related to my children being born. But clearly this goes beyond just my kids. It finally dawned on me that this is due to age. I’m getting older and I’ve had more experience, and it’s easier for me to see all the things that could go wrong. I think being a writer plays into this as well, because being a writer means I have a very active imagination.(But then I worry my imagination isn’t active enough!)

As there is very little I can do to control most of these possibilities (except maybe flossing and brushing more frequently to protect my teeth), ignorance truly is bliss. But as soon as I think that, I start to worry about the things that could go wrong that I haven’t thought of. And then I start to worry about the impact on my health of all this worrying.

(I’m also really worried that nobody’s reading this blog. And then I start to worry that maybe one of the people who is reading this blog will stalk me. Because with all my other problems, I really need to have a boiled rabbit left on my doorstep.)

What do you worry about? Do you worry about bloggers who worry too much? I worry that you do.

 

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