Laughing with the sinners, crying with the saints.

And so the Earth completes its long journey around the sun...more or less.  We don't rectify the remainder until 2016.

All my life I've sort of flip-flopped between the concept of resolutions and marking the "end" of a particular moment in time while allowing for a "fresh start", and using a lot of "quotation marks" to imply that I have any relevant understanding of how society interprets New Year's Eve.  I suppose I have a different outlook each December 31st, depending on what happened in the preceding 364 days.  But the only lasting impression, each and every goddamn year, is that they are

Just.
Too.
Long.

Venus.  Life on Venus would knock down a calendar year to about 225 days.  That would be ideal, even if the atmospheric pressure would crush all of us.  But, even if we all end up looking like a Dali painting, wouldn't you rather finish off the year in mid-August?  If it was a fulfilling and rewarding year you'd limit the possibilities of life going down the shitter by four months.  If it was dull, or painful, or catastrophic then you'd be 160 days closer to closing the chapter.  I know that outlook is pretty damn pragmatic, which I suppose could be explained by my persistent sense of cautious optimism taking a long walk off of a short pier.  Don't solemnly shake your head at me, mister.  I can still laugh.

I'm wary of being reflective...because it's getting redundant.  The breadth of my year has included numerous nights of introspection and self-assessment, promises to myself that I am doing a so-so job at keeping, trying to navigate the turbulent internal waters just so I can, for a change, see what's underneath, and overusing metaphors.  I'd like to believe that we are always, or we SHOULD always, be leaping, high or low, and falling somewhere new each and every time, but my development must have needed a pretty big boot to the ass.

The point is that some shit happened.  Some of it was serendipitous and cultivated serenity when I could really use the peace, and some of it tore holes and left them exposed for the world (or the six people reading this) to see, and both were compulsory.  Not in the everything-happens-for-a-reason sense, but because each year is, I believe, training for the next.

I know I'm not a great writer, because so many other great writers can express my own thoughts better than me.

The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places.
But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now
mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater. - Tolkien

Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly. - Langston Hughes

But you ARE creative!" <puts hand on my heart> "...in HERE. - My daughter

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming. - Pablo Neruda

It is important to have questionable friends you can trust unconditionally.  - Chuck Klosterman

Take what
you might give
and be damned
to you.  I'm
going elsewhere. - William Carlos Williams

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.  - Douglas Adams


Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n. - John Milton

And on the 12,410th day, he typed someone else's poem.

Opal

- Dean Young

It's not that Monet cared that much about stacks of hay.

Your feelings will never change, you'll just stop paying so much
    attention.

A whole summer's songs go by, the whole house turns blue.

A friend will need some help carrying boxes to the curb.

So slowly you'll reach into the pond's reflection of your own face --
    as if reaching into your face! -- the tiny fishes will brush your
    fingers like nerves made of water.

Someone else will have to be young enough to climb the scaffolding
    around the town hall to derange all four of its clock faces.

The same laughter will have to work the rest of your life.

A friend takes your arm in the woods, it's darker turning black.

You point at an opal in a glass case and the person behind it is only
    too glad to let you see it against your skin but it's someone
    else's skin you want.

You didn't get everything but you got a lot.

24 Ridiculous/Adorable Overheard Words

Yes, it’s Christmas Eve!

Yes it is.  Aww, yes it is.

Do you want treats?

Does someone want treats?

Says my father, to cats. 

25 Bizarre Gifts From Your True Love

By my count:

33 men.

Pipers, drummers, lords.

Only 17 women?

Just over half identify as “dancers”.

Lots of awkward moments during the slow numbers. 

26 Rapid Eye Movements

Synapses misfire and impart an unconventional signal

To the limbs:

Flail!  Flee!

Sometimes other words that start with F.

A shoddy series finale,

Try again tomorrow.

27 Words That Were Part of Titles on Craigslist's "Casual Encounters" Ads In Los Angeles.

Hey there, ponytail.
Cougar needs a cub.
Satisfy this pregnant woman.
Let's play?
Funny and enjoyable!
After church.
Hungover and ready!
Searching for Brian.
Nobody is real.

28 las palabras que describen mejor el amor.

Does it have to really be falling in?
​Stumbled into.
Rose to the occasion of.
Realized, much to my surprise, that I was in.
Conquered.
Assembled.
Cultivated.
Enjoyed.

29 Words That Sum Up a Day With My Daughter

Leap
 Stomach
  Cajole
   Coffee
    Pancakes
     Mess
Bathe
 Spat
  Embrace
Drive
 Dance
  Laugh
Drive
 Dance
  Dip
Drive
 Dance
  Dance
   Dance
    Draw
     Dessert
Dawdle
 Brush
  Contend
   Pajamas
   Implore
    Hug
     Read
Doze

30 Words That Might Describe What Remembering To Live Feels Like

Oxalis and white clover mashed under
the duress of steam-powered transit.
Rattling rails hurls rust into the firmament.
Porch lights burst to life. An octogenarian
instinctively checks his watch.
Late.

31 Last Words That I Didn't Write, or Why Do So Many Songs End With a Question Mark?

Why can’t you forget?

Do you miss my all-time lows?

Would you calm me down?

Won’t you please run over me?

What was it you were going to say?

I hate you.  Fucker.

32 First Lines I Didn't Write

Stepped out the front door like a ghost.

You’re dead, I’m a skeleton.

That’s great, it starts with an earthquake,

jumping up and down the floor.

Make up your mind.

A heart.

33 Words On a Gracious Wingwoman

Sweaters converge on the stumbling sister.

Exploitation trumps assistance.

Her crutch pushes a glass my way, smiling.

Drink this, so she won’t.

You know how a forest smells after a storm?

Cleansing.  Blighted.

34 Poorly Chosen Words

You would be my best man.
Is that strange?
But I might consider a trade
If I had ever seen you
In a veil.

Back to the playground.
Swing, release, brace for impact.

I have been floated.

As far as Saturdays go, it was lacking in entertainment.  I slept sporadically the night before, and felt the tinge of some sort of bug invading my sinuses and lungs, prepared to engage in warfare against whatever T cells are standing guard on the night shift.  Sluggish.  Stagnant.

This did not bode well for the general weekend task of keeping my daughter's mind occupied.  She jumped on my gut around 8:15 asking for a Muscle Milk.  This is a demographic the protein shake community may have forgotten: adolescent girls with an affinity for vanilla-flavored pseudo-dairy products.  After double-fisting caffeine into my system and waiting for my eyes to stay open and focus simultaneously, I did what I tend to do when I am not quite ready for life to happen: I flipped on Nickelodeon.

I know that today will be unremarkable among the annals of my daughter's life.  I may beat myself up over that certainty now, but I'm also aware that days like today make trips to farm festivals or ice skating or driving to the beach have more of an impact.  If every day is an A+ then that dilutes the grading system.  It's the first thought, the "well, I sure gave her a day to forget", that led me to offer her an invitation to a low-key slumber party in my room tonight.

We ate homemade buns leftover from dinner.  We watched an anthropomorphic snail race around a track on the television.  We drew silly animals on the whiteboard.  We took goofy pictures of our goofy faces, and then after a chapter of Judy Blume ("The Pain and the Great One"), I set up the space heater by the futon and gave her my thickest blanket and she fell asleep mid-sentence.  "I'm thirsty...can I...grab...a..."

She still coos in her sleep, and it somehow sounds exactly the same as it did 7 years ago.  Being brand new to fatherhood (back then, that is) I was not aware that I would spend most of my waking moments concerned that my daughter was constantly in some sort of impending danger.  Her crib might collapse.  A tidal wave might transpire and flood her bedroom.  If the apartment was silent, then trouble was brewing.  Bedtime was the most frustrating, because you read one goddamn article on SIDS and you feel like you need to stay up all goddamn night and hold a mirror to her nostrils to make sure she's breathing.  But her little slumbering murmurs were tiny beacons, like an everything's-okay-alarm.  I'm unscathed and I'm content and I'm fine, and your job is safe, for now.

My daughter is half of a symbiotic relationship, and she doesn't even know it.  That's a lie.  She does.  She is one of the few people on this earth that has the uncanny ability to interpret my distress signals and try to do something about it, although she does not have a large arsenal of solutions.  Usually it's "come here and cuddle me" (the "dammit" at the end of that command is implied) or "let me draw you a picture."  Pictures make everything better.

I have a friend that does the same (although her methods are different than demanding cuddles or offering up crude drawings).  "Friend" is too fucking catch-all of a word.  Collaborator...compatriot...supporter.  If we were jumping through time, a la Lost, she would be my constant.  I'm probably much less subtle with her in my everything-is-dissolving moments than I am with my daughter, but being naturally reticent still leaves everyone with a lot of interpretation, and she excels at cutting through the bullshit.

Today required a bullshit knife, for sure.  I've spent the past two weeks slowly blurring the line between introspection and chaos...or maybe I just wasn't aware that there was such a line.  In the rare moments where I would assess the situation I've cultivated, I'd have to ask myself are you being unpredictable just for the sake of unpredictability?  And my only answer was a shrug of the shoulders.  But these people heeded the call...the low, nearly hidden beneath the noise and bright lights call.  And, because of them, I can go to sleep...maybe not smiling, but certainly not frowning.

I am grateful to have these people in my life.  My lighthouses.  My blinking lights.  My black boxes.  My mirrors.  My comforting pats on the shoulder.  My humans.

First Floor, Outerwear and Philantropy

I once gave a total stranger $20.  And then, I did it again.  Different guy, I think.

Their stories, at least in my obviously-failing-the-critical-thinking-test mind, was less relevant than the fact that they had a story.  It might seem like a strange and kind of shallow way for me to mentally differentiate the "people that genuinely need help" from the "people that genuinely want to get drunk or do crack and also probably need help", but I needed some kind of barometer, or I would likely just open up my wallet and dump out bills as if I was leaving a trail of crumbs.  I'm not puffing out my chest as I type this.  This is stupid.  I'm aware of how stupid this is.

The first guy was already in mid-conversation with some other passerby when I got out of my car.  I didn't get the details, but he did thank the potential donor profusely.  I thought he had left but, surprise, he was waiting for me near the trunk of my car.  His story, to the best of my recollection, was that he was trapped in the neighborhood, along with his family, and he was asking for either a ride back to his part of town or some money for bus fare.  The former seemed like the start of a B-movie featuring hitchhiking sociopaths, so I went with the latter.  I did not anticipate giving him $20, but that's all I had in my wallet, and somehow it would be stranger to say something like "let me go make some change first".

The second one flagged me down on the sidewalk on Liberty Ave.  I was wearing headphones and had no aural perception of the world around me.  And when I say "flagged me down", I am not being figurative.  He ran in front of me, stopped, turned on his heel, and waved in my face.  Jesus.  Must be important.

"I'm just trying to get some food for me and my kids."  Kids?  Where did you leave them?  That's the weird thing about panhandlers (and for reasons unknown, that term makes my liberal soul itch)...they can say anything.  No tale is off-limits.  And still, that sentence was enough.  If you're willing to bring kids, imaginary or otherwise, into the equation, then I will be roped in.  Again, I reached in my wallet, and all I had were twenty dollar bills.  Once the wallet has been exposed, there's no going back.  Again, I gave him $20.  I don't even know if he thanked me; I had already pressed play on my iPod.

I realize that these anecdotes are implying that a) I am simply rolling in petty cash, and b) I am maybe undermining your sensibilities when it comes to the "normal" way to handle transients and others in that same phylum.  I do not have a disposable income.  The $40 handed out on a whim wasn't imperative to keep my head above water for the next week, but it's closer to that than the converse.  And I'm not trying to encourage this behavior in anyone.  Any self-inflating feelings of putting a tiny band-aid on one's life is heavily contradicted by the immediate notion of "I just got swindled."

So.  Anyway.

These two examples may provide some background on why I'm making a more conscientious choice to try to provide some instant gratification through more controlled means.  Last year I tagged along for a very, very direct version of a coat drive.  "Direct" because the foundation had actually sent a group of children to us, via school bus, and we were each assigned a kid to guide around Macy's and purchase a coat, hat, gloves, etc.  It was fantastic.  My kid picked the shiniest purple coat I've ever seen, and equally flamboyant accessories, and strutted around the place like she was the queen of the outerwear section...and she was.  She OWNED that fucking place.  And I got a hug out of it.  A long, squeeze-tastic hug, for spending someone else's money on a stranger.

Charity is not selfless.  Just thought I should throw that out there.  You're doing something for someone that does not have the means to do it themselves, and in doing that thing you feel like you made a difference.  You're proud of yourself.  Don't beat yourself up for that self-admiration, but don't beat up others for not grasping that same sense of fulfillment.  But, either way, donating is as selfish as buying a new TV or having a one-night stand.  You're doing this for you...it just happens to be that someone else benefits as well (which, I suppose, is also true in the one-night stand scenario).

I didn't really pick HEARTH out of a hat.  It was arranged by co-workers who have assisted them in the past and were rounding up folks at the office for donations and other ways to help.  I won't dive into what HEARTH does, except to say that they basically provide low-to-no income temporary housing to women and their kids.  And what we were being asked to do was to drum up money to purchase Christmas gifts for these families.  A few weeks ago the organizer sent out one last e-mail, saying they were just $35 short of being able to support another family, and impulsively I replied and offered to donate.

I was given the Christmas list of a 6 year old girl that was into animation, animals, and fashion.  That's, more or less, what my own daughter is into (if we really, really stretch the definition of "fashion" to include rings and bracelets made out of pipe cleaners).  Her wish list included a new LeapPad game, books, a hat and gloves, clothes, a toy box and a doll.  Piece of cake.

Or...the opposite of that.  Piece of liver and onions?  Piece of turnip?

Buying gifts for my daughter is insanely easy.  She is as sporadic as any other girl that age, where her preferences rely either on what TV commercial she just saw or what her friends want to get as presents.  But I have the distinct advantage being her father, which gives me carte blanche to decide what *I* think she *should* get.  I can selectively ignore her impulsive requests (although I rarely don't) and decide that she needs this book or this board game, usually because I had that book or that board game when I was a kid and look how goddamn amazing I turned out to be (this is where I roll my eyes).

But buying gifts for a stranger, even supplied with a list, is akin to being both blind and deaf (apologies to Helen Keller).  What kind of doll does she want?  WHAT KIND OF DOLL?  Target has approximately 954 unique doll selections.  And then I pick out the black one and think, simultaneously do you think a black girl would rather have a black doll and why am I presuming that she's black just because she has a unique first name?  So, now I feel like a racist bigot.  I bought the black doll.

Does she read as well as a typical six-year-old, or better?  Or worse?  Does her apparent love of animation mean I should look at books that feature cartoon characters?  There's one on sharks...but maybe little girls aren't fascinated by sharks.  The one on meerkats appears to be below the reading level I designated for her with absolutely no information. Would she rather have a LeapPad game featuring My Little Pony or Phineas and Ferb?  Has she seen either of those cartoons?  Is she interested in math, or does she prefer science?  Is it slightly demeaning to buy a girl a game about cooking?  I got the My Little Pony game, which the box explained to me is focused on science, somehow.

It was surprisingly easy to buy clothes.  Pink and purple hoodie.  Pink pants.  Pink and purple gloves and hat.  Done.  Perfect.  Those are the kinds of gifts that parents will just shrug their shoulders and return if the kid isn't interested, anyway.  The toy chest was actually pretty neat.  It's collapsible canvas, like those storage boxes that Ikea seems to be foisting on all of us, but it's sturdy enough to sit on (can seat up to 125 pounds, according to the packaging).  And it's pink, naturally.

I spent almost two hours in that goddamn store, to buy nine items, and apparently to pick up and put down hundreds of other items in my routine of frustrating indecision.

I got to the checkout and everything totaled up to $100.51.  I was given $100 to spend.  I spared the change.  The cashier didn't even have to make up a story about hungry kids.

The Intricate Web

You ever have one of those dreams where someone you loved was missing?  And the dream version of your friends and family are all extremely apathetic about it?  "She'll turn up somewhere."  "I'm sure nothing bad happened."  You curse them out, scream at them, and then run away (in slow motion, of course...my dream legs are always made out of tar and lethargy and pudding).  I tend to wake up when something totally outlandish occurs...a snow leopard leaps out of nowhere, everybody starts melting, cliffs sprout up out of nowhere for me to leap off of, Kyle MacLachlan appears and says "damn good coffee".  You get the picture.

I don't contend that my dreams have any significant meaning, nor do I believe that they foreshadow the future.  I think they just say say, Tim, you haven't been worried in a while...let's remind ourselves of what that feels like.  It's effective.  I bolted right out of bed, and shivered my way downstairs to make sure my daughter was still breathing and in her bed and not out wondering the streets of what must have been Aspen or Telluride during the turn of the century (except with leopards).  And she's there.  She's always where I left her.  And if she wasn't, I'm certain everyone would be panicked and upset.

My daughter is not someone I take for granted.  That's something I'm supposed to say, because she's my daughter, and I love her to death, and I feel like every moment with her is like a learning experience for both of us.  It's something the socially-agreed-upon definition of a "good" father should say, and his actions should reflect that designation.  And I believe they do.  I believe they do enough that an outsider's perception is irrelevant to me.

Still, there's moments where I do.  And before I get booed off of the stage...

She comes with certainties.  Ones that we've created together, because it implies structure, and routine, and boundaries, and all the good things that children are taught as soon as they learn to walk.  Being a jaded thirtysomething I believe that these values are embedded at such an early age so they will easily settle into a 9-to-5 job.  I'm kidding.  Sort of.  I don't believe that corporations have sponsored child-rearing, at least.

But there are large swaths of my day where I know exactly where she is and what she's doing, even if she's not necessarily visible from where I'm sitting (I'm always sitting).  And, of course, most of these moments are times where she is at school, or at her mother's house, or in theater or karate class.  Ironically (I'm pretending that I'm using this adverb appropriately), these are also the moments where she is most likely to break those routines, whether on purpose or through some accident...or worse.

Such a situation has never happened, thankfully, because I would be a total helicopter parent.  I would be worse than my parents, who I believe hired a cadre of private eyes to watch my every move when I was not in the house (pro bono, probably...my folks didn't have a lot of disposable income).  I don't knock my parents for being protective, especially not now, because even when I am absolutely certain of my daughter's whereabouts my brain conjures up a dozen terrifying scenarios of what could happen to her.  I'm sure this is just part of being a father, or a mother, and it explains why my hair started going grey before I made it through three decades on this planet.

------------

I like surprises.  

I'm sure this is earth-shattering.  And such a oversimplified statement that I could have just as easily said things are neat! or I have ideas.

Sitting in my bedroom/office/studio/killing floor I can envision dozens of potentials.  A tornado could localize over my roof.  A limo could blow a tire on the street and out steps <insert famous name here> and he/she wants to <insert thing they are famous for here> on my porch for a bit while waiting for AAA.  My bedroom door opens and there is <insert person I would want in my bedroom here> with a bottle of <insert beverage here>.  Piles of gold doubloons (a currency we should resuscitate) could suddenly pour out of the air ducts.  My tax return finally shows up, hand delivered by an IRS agent along with a written apology from <insert whoever is in charge of the IRS here>.

Opulent possibilities, for sure, but somehow my brain has concluded that their likelihood is greater than zero (and no, I don't play the lottery)...and most of those situations are ones where my involvement is negligible.  I don't have to be doing anything for any of those to happen.  That's all fine and good, and also kind of stupid, because luck is stupid.  Harvey Dent and a bunch of football coaches agree.

I am, for all intents, a moderately stable human being, because I have created certainties, too.  Some of them for my own benefit, some for my daughter's, and some for reasons unknown.  It's that third one that needs work, because stability for stability's sake is boring.  me.  to.  tears.

It's boring YOU to tears, too, dearest readers.  Or, it should be.  I am not a purveyor of fringe knowledge or unique experience.  Not on here.  I don't have any you-have-got-to-hear-about-this stories.  I haven't done anything that you haven't done, whether exactly or some permutation that is close enough to the real McCoy.

I crave some aberration.  And not in the familial sense (which I suppose is what the first part of this nonsense was about), but in something else.  In anything else.  Why?  Why does that seem so imperative now?

Because it would make me feel in control.  I could, with confidence, say something different is happening, and it's because of me, and not circumstance or an exception that proves the rule or the white noise in the scatter plot.

My father is like clockwork.  I can sum up his day in a paragraph, with a few sentences dedicated to "sometimes he'll play bridge with Mom" and "he might have a doctor's appointment, though".  When he was younger, he drove a motorcycle across the country.  And back again, through Canada.  He built a dune buggy.  HE BUILT A DUNE BUGGY.  And drove it around the salt flats in Death Valley.  He opened a restaurant (and ran it into the ground).  He drove a semi.  And about a dozen other things that would make you do a double-take.  And these are all stories that he told, to me, to my friends, really, to anyone that would listen.  And hidden behind his incredibly tedious and long-winded tales was pride.  You could barely sense it, but it was there.

I am like my dad in a lot of ways.  We're both desperately left-brained.   We're both patient when it comes to educating.  We both seem to attract the attention of the little kids in the family.  We both enjoy silence in long spurts.  We're both incredibly defensive of our respective tastes in the arts.  But, at least right now, Dad lived.  He lived way more than I have.  And I think that helps him justify a somewhat quiet life now.

I don't know if he was trying to educate me, when he would retell the anecdotes of his younger days that makes him more interesting than that Dos Equis guy.  But he has.

Be.  Different.

Grazie.

As someone who has been through 32 semi-traditional Thanksgiving dinners, it's probably strange to admit that I do not enjoy most of the food.  This is a terrible secret that I would never reveal at the dinner table, as I'm fully aware of the amount of sweat, heavy lifting, and constant stirring that created carefully-prepared and equally-carefully-presented dishes.  Our family's spread, in the few seconds between placement and consumption, looks like a goddamn Rockwell painting.

Even before my dive into near-vegetarianism, most dishes were met with an apathetic "meh".  I would pile corn, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and turkey onto a plate and salt the fuck out of it and eat just enough to justify consuming between five and 900 buns.  This was, obviously, a parental decision (i.e. "no more buns until you eat real food"), but this unwritten rule stuck with me throughout adulthood.

There are, of course, exceptions.  This year my mom prepared a pile of roasted root vegetables that was stunning (particularly the brussels sprouts).  The stuffing, my grandmother's recipe, carried the appropriate amount of nostalgia that eating it reminded me of being a precocious toddler and snatching handfuls of stuffing from the serving dish as they sat on my kitchen counter.  My aunt's caesar salad is consistently amazing.  And I don't mean to necessarily discount the core Thanksgiving dishes.  Everyone seems to enjoy them, thoroughly, and I would be shocked if 30+ people were just humoring each other.

For years, Thanksgiving was held at my house.  I'd wake up to the smell of buns (oh god, OH GOD THOSE BUNS), stagger into the family room and watch the parade, and occasionally assist with heavy lifting or table setting.  The day began around noon, when my great aunt would show up and sit in the living room and yell conversation to my mom (who, by that time, was hurriedly getting changed and putting on makeup).  I was usually the coat-taker, creating a respectable pile on my parents' bed, as well as the guy usually called upon to carry food in from other relatives' cars.  In my teenage years I was also the valet and would drive my grandfather to Penn Hills for an hour or two to spend some time with his family.

Thanksgiving is, to the Marino family, actually two full meals...a pasta course around 1 or 2 and then the turkey-plus-other-stuff in the late afternoon.  I discovered, today, that this was not a very long tradition.  My uncle decided, maybe 15-20 years ago, that he wanted to make some ravioli...and the rest is history.  It's baffling, to me, that this tradition started in my lifetime, as I can't honestly remember a Thanksgiving where I did not eat two enormous meals.

After dinner...uh...the second dinner...whoever did not have a hand in creating food was responsible for washing the dishes.  This was not a steadfast rule.  I usually fell into this category, although sometimes I was pulled aside for breaking down tables or getting the desert buffet set up.  I know a lot of this might sound like a catering job...because it was.  The day featured anywhere from 25 to 40 people, often with a few coming and going between the two meals.  My parents' house, graciously called a "ranch" home, but was actually a modular house that was built in one place and then set on a foundation in Irwin, was not technically equipped to handle an ever-growing family.  Fire codes be damned, we made it work.

We had dinner at my aunt's house this year, and it was truly bizarre to show up there and things were already in motion.  It was even stranger to just sit down and talk to people instead of running all over the house on the little chores that Mom would snap at me from the kitchen.  I had all this free time, and I slipped easily into filling it the same way everyone else did.  I watched some football.  I made drawings with my cousins' kids (all of whom fall between "adorable" and "goddamn adorable").  I sat and talked to people that I seem to only see once a year.  I drank whiskey and ginger ale.  I stood on the porch smoking a cigarette while my daughter stomped around in the snow.  I listened to my grandfather tell the same four stories over and over.

There will be a day when my parents' generation refuses to host a Thanksgiving dinner(s), and rightfully so.  It takes weeks to prepare, requires cramming dozens of people into a space meant to hold ten, and lasts all day long, with little to no downtime.

But when that day comes I will, gladly...insistently...pick up the slack.

I won't do it because I love the food (obviously).  Or because I don't mind the days and days of work, or the planning, or the firm knowledge that I would be on my feet and doing something for at least 12 hours that day.  I'll do it because I need today.  I want today.

It's more than tradition, I think.  It's like folklore, passing down the customs of this crazy, extroverted, Italian family to my children, and their children.  We'll eat pasta for lunch because that's what we've always done (or so I thought), and that will be a satisfactory explanation, and maybe enough for our kids to do the same.  Some aunt will gather up all the kids and take a walk around the block because that's what has always happened.  All of the men will huddle around the television for eight hours of football.  Salt and pepper will always be just out of arms' reach.  Someone will fall asleep in a chair despite desperately loud individuals sitting all around him.  Kids will get yelled at for being too boisterous and they'll retreat upstairs (or downstairs), and we'll eventually miss them and coax them back until they get too noisy again.  People will leave in bursts, arms will grow weary from hugging.  At least six people will tear up.  At least one will cry.

After three decades, a lot of the memories blur...but I always manage one.  This year might be tossing one of the kids into the air from the couch, and remembering when my own daughter was that small and that captivated by free-falling.  Over and over.  But first I had to pinky promise that I wasn't going to tickle her (this was apparently a concern of hers with any family member).  On the 10th toss I said that I was worried I was going to smack her head into the ceiling, and the game changed to "hold me up so my head touches the ceiling."  And I obliged, because that kid brainwashed me.

I don't really care if this blog bites me in the ass.  If my family's reading this (and I'm sure most of them are passed out from excessive tryptophan and general exhaustion), I hope you guys know I'm serious.  Thanksgiving is not something I'm going to let die.

And, hell, my house has a ton of parking.  That's a huge bonus.

A Break From Smoker's Cough

By my best estimate, this will be the 793rd written correspondence regarding cessation that's reached the ears of the internet.

My first go at quitting occurred about 12 days after starting, back in 1999.  I was driving home after working an 8pm - 4am shift at Eat n' Park, feeling especially punchy and blasting Radiohead in my 1994 tempo, partly to ensure alertness as I hit the highway but mostly to celebrate the aura of failure and despondence that I've cultivated throughout my late teens/early adulthood.  Radiohead, as you can imagine, is ideal background music for such an itinerary.  Those were weird times, as I'm sure all of us experienced moments where, in retrospect, we'd want to tell our younger selves something along the lines of grow the hell up even though that's exactly what we were doing anyway.

I was down to the filter on my Camel Red (or "Kamel" Red, since R.J. Reynolds would try anything to encourage coolness in smoking).  I smoked it quickly, because January is the opposite of an optimal time to have the windows rolled down when going 70 on the parkway.  And the weather contributed to what I did next.  Hell, that may have been my only motivation.

I tossed the filter through the open driver's side window, and then grabbed the pack of cigarettes (which must have had 17 or 18 cigarettes in it), and threw that out as well.

Sorry, nature.

Impulse decisions are the underdog when it comes to permanence, and I'm sure my choice to toss $3.00 (those were the days, when packs did not cost as much as a fast food meal) onto a snow-dusted highway was more of a statement about control and reliance than it was a genuine desire to quit.  When you're just 12 days into smoking you don't display the usual symptoms...I didn't spend the first 30 minutes of my mornings coughing.  I didn't wheeze when exercising.  Even my clothes were, for the most part, free of stale smoke.

20 minutes later I was back in my apartment.  30 minutes later I was asleep, or falling asleep to The Matrix on my iMac (usually before the part where they're escaping the agents that have captured Morpheus...there was a scratch on the DVD that would make that scene freeze).  I woke up the next day, started a pot of coffee, and then waltzed across the street to Sunoco and picked up three packs of Camel Lights.

The financial impact of smoking is more alarming to me than the health detriments.  The coughing and wheezing are part of my normality, along with the knowledge that a flu or heavy cold seems to drag on for weeks.  I anticipate waking up and working to clear my lungs of obstructions, usually succeeding at some point in the shower, when the humidity and light pounding on my back loosens everything up.  I can speed through two packs a day on the weekend, when I'm home and there are plenty of windows to smoke out of.  When I'm at work I manage a cigarette an hour, sometimes more if the day is particularly stressful.  I rarely buy cartons of cigarettes, instead opting for daily trips to CVS or a gas station and buying cigarette packs in pairs.  At CVS (which is the cheapest place around to buy my band), it's $10.98 after tax to buy two packs.  $11 a day, almost every day...between $300 and $330 a month, more if I buy the occasional pack at the convenience store near the office, or a bar.

Besides my mortgage, smoking is my most exorbitant monthly expense.  It's unjustifiable, even if I took that $300 and spent it on monthly supplies of really good scotch, or started a Faberge egg collection.  Wasting money is wasting money, but I have the impression that there are better ways to waste it, at least.  Ways that don't so immediately contribute to my physiological state.

My most recent (and most earnest) attempt at quitting was December, 2011.  My wife at the time and I both got on Chantix, and both agreed that we're probably going to be miserable and bitchy and have nightmares, but smoking was already an expense neither of us could afford.  I think we lasted 5 days...and most scientific studies on cessation suggest that our urge to pick up a cigarette after that long was 100% psychological, as the period of nicotine withdrawal was on its last legs.

Chantix, by the way, is my enemy.  Back in Houston when I talked about quitting with a doctor he prescribed Wellbutrin, which was classified as an anti-depressant but had the side-effect of encouraging smokers to quit.  I didn't feel any less depressed (I don't think I was self-reflective enough, at the time, to be depressed), but I also did not find smoking any less desirable.  Chantix, however, made me goddamn insane.  I could not keep liquids down with any certainty, particularly in the morning.  I would have awful night terrors.  Sweating was a constant.  I'm pretty sure I smelled different, too.  More medicinal.

Smoking was something I did in private for years..."private" in the sense that I did not openly share that information with every person in my life.  My roommates knew.  My girlfriend knew.  My coworkers knew better than anyone, as most of my post-work plans involved the New York Times crossword, a cup of coffee, and a late night in the smoking section.  Most of my relatives did not know.  My parents did not know.  They found out maybe six or seven years ago, when I was rushed to the hospital in what I now believe was the first ever case of H1N1.  The attending nurse asked if I smoked, and since I genuinely thought I might die, I answered honestly.

That pseudo-privacy turned cessation into a covert operation.  If 15 people in my life knew I smoked, then maybe 3 knew when I was trying to quit.  It's an entirely backward rationale, fueled by the flawed notion that quitting smoking is a sign of weakness...because it makes me feel weak.  That's what made something like agreeing to quit on the "Great American Smokeout" day a terrifying prospect.

I would have thought that the marketing department at the American Cancer Society (if they have one) could have conjured up a more appropriate name for this day.  It's prone to misinterpretation, to me.  I would have gone with Stop Expediting Your Death Day or Save $5-$10 Day or, more self-deprecating, Stop Being Stupid Day.

It was just another e-mail from the "Wellness" team at my office.  The same people that send out offers for discounted massages and lets me know when the next meditation class is being held, or where to pick up my pedometer for the Walktober (now THAT'S a clever name).  I read it, and dismissed it in my usual stubborn manner when it comes to people telling me what to do.  I'll quit when I'm ready to quit, dammit.

A few minutes later I got a message from Cindy (name changed in the event that coworkers don't appreciate being mentioned on such a permanent platform as a blog).  I've known Cindy for years, almost as long as her husband, who worked in the same department as me 11 years ago.  She asked if I was doing the smokeout and if she could "adopt me".  Adopting a smoker meant generally encouraging their decision to quit, loosely keeping tabs on their whereabouts, motivating and trying like hell to quell urges.

I didn't respond right away.  I had no intent on quitting, even for a day.

A few hours later Gabe walked up to my desk and asked me if I'd been adopted yet.  I said that I hadn't, and he mentioned that his entire team wanted to sponsor me.

It's a weird mix of gratefulness and embarrassment.  The latter because I felt typecast, as if being a smoker was a characteristic that people used to describe me.  That wasn't a particularly surprising sensation, particularly at work, where I'm not prone to sharing life stories.  People will see what they see and don't usually speculate on the rest.  At happy hours, during lunch, after work, I lit a cigarette.  That may have not summed up my soul in the way that I angrily presumed it did, but I didn't give them a hell of a lot else to work with.

But the former was something I did not expect.  That these people cared.  That they were willing to sacrifice time and energy to encourage me to do something difficult.

So now, in my inbox at work, there's a stack of "adoption papers".  And on November 21st, from at least midnight to 11:59pm, I will not touch a cigarette.  I will probably stuff my face full of gum (nicotine or otherwise).  I will probably take advantage of an e-cigarette purchase I made weeks ago.  I will probably take hourly laps around the office.  I'll probably crumble, at least once.  But people have my back.  And they'll pick me up and brush the dust off and say I know this is hard...that's why we're here.

It is hard.  But maybe, when the day is done and my heartbeat is slower than its been in years and my blood isn't rife with carbon monoxide, I can fall asleep with a few more friends than I started with...because maybe you're not a friend until you've followed me through a fire.  It doesn't matter if you come out the other side unscathed or not, but you held my hand, and you walked with me, and that means a lot.

Smithfield

Standing still is defiant of nature

and she's cruel.  Worse than

the pock-marked woman marching with

a crude sign hung around her neck.

Off-center.

She pushed a paper around my closed hand

and told me to think of the children.

I try not to.

One day they'll ask me why

and I will look to the left and

if I say nothing then I won't be a liar.

I'm already across the street when the punctuation cuts

through the wind and over the x-ing pedestrians. Or jaywalking.

When I was younger I said it phonetically.  

Z-ing.

Bastard.

Is that any way to end a conversation?

She fled from persuasion as if it was on fire.

I love when you cut to the chase, but I hate

idioms. What's wrong is wrong

when you're speaking to the right ear.  And I

need more than a pamphlet.

I grinned at the memory of z-ing.

39 years, they've been married, but I'm stumbling

through 34.

I guess that's just my vibe.

A trio of policemen share sunflower seeds,

and I think ontological certainty, a phrase

that meant nothing until a woman taught

it to me, and now I seek it in everything

but it seems to be nowhere.

There will be another train, eventually.

Like a boomerang, you get it right back.

In high school I was voted "most huggable", a declaration I make enough that it's turning apocryphal.  I can't recall if it was a school-wide voting process or even if such a grand title is officially listed in any yearbook (and I'm certainly not traipsing down to the storage boxes in the basement to validate this claim).  All I can say, with honesty, is that I would not give myself any "most -able/most likely to -" designation without merit, so there must be some amount of truth involved.  There must be someone out there that can corroborate this claim.

If I'm allowed to brag, I am pretty fucking good at hugging.  Being mushy in a lot of places (more now than in 1997) certainly helps, but the secret to a good hug is dedication.  You need to want to hug that person, to hold her up, to carry the burden of the world for a few moments, and join forces against whatever trials await.  Don't treat it like a courtesy, or a chore.  Hug her like they're going to blow away in the wind if you let go.  I use "her", but I've probably hugged more men than women in my lifetime (I was also in three musicals, president of the show choir, and in my younger days I was a first tenor, if we want to keep blowing stereotypes out of the water).  All of this unsolicited advice, and I act so grandiose and haughty about it.  Bow before your lord of the hug!

When I'm meeting new people, this honor usually comes up in conversation.  I don't just blurt it out, obviously, because then those people might think that I've been hanging my hat on something so worthless for over 15 years, and it's clear that I haven't.  Sarcasm is tricky in print.  Reactions have varied from a total lack of interest to a quizzical raising of the eyebrows.  A few have requested a demonstration...fewer than I would have assumed.  If I met someone that declared himself the greatest whistler of all time, you're damn right I would demand a performance.  Whistling doesn't usually require close contact with a total stranger, though.

While my abilities to give good hugs are debatable, I think it's safe to say that I've hugged more humans than would be considered typical, assuming the census tracks such data.  I went to a wedding last weekend, and in the initial introduction of various family members I was hugged by an aunt (not my aunt...although all of them are pretty big on hugging).  She embraced me and I thought "I think we'll get along just fine".  And guess what?

Most Huggable.  That's what people thought of me in 1997.

If they voted on such affairs in adulthood, you can keep your Most Likely to Succeed, or Best Personality, or Funniest.  I'd rather have another term in the same office.

Kerplunk.

Saying something seemingly exaggerated and outlandish like "I almost died today" reeks of melodrama.  Such an opening sentence is akin to a teaser that you'd hear on the news...assuming some people still watch the news on TV...and if they don't I would welcome suggestions on a more relevant analogy.  "This breakfast food might be giving you cancer!  Find out what it is when we return!"

Luckily my penchant for digression saved any readers from such foolishness, but I do have some explaining to do.

There are eight elevators at the office.  Seven of them are clearly designed for transportation of people and mobile wheels (carts, wheelchairs, etc.).  The eighth is a freight elevator, with heavy burlap hanging from all the walls and a 12 foot ceiling.  I suppose this was designed for the bulkier items (desks, cows, etc.).  All of the elevators operate without discretion, and I was the lucky soul the freight elevator chose for my trip back up to my office.

So I pressed the button for my floor (13, for the superstitious), and up I went...until it stopped.  It didn't gently glide to a halt like I had grown to expect from an elevator.  It slammed on the brakes, as if some rogue elevator was going horizontally and burned through the intersection.  Seconds passed, and then it fell.  I wish there was a less traumatic word, but I don't know how else to describe the sensation of suddenly feeling the effects of gravity halfway up an enormous office building.

It only fell a few feet before stopping again, but that was plenty.  That was more than enough to make me wish I had brought my cell phone, and to wonder how quickly I could text something retrospectively morbid like "elevator's crashing, love you!" to the people I cared about.  Nothing happened for about 15 seconds (which felt more or less like a fortnight), except that the 13th floor button was no longer lit.  I pressed it again, timidly, afraid that the monumental shift in weight required to press a button would rock the compartment and send me down.  But, instead, the door opened, and I got out on what turned out to be the 12th floor.

I took the stairs the rest of the way.  Obviously.

I wish I could cull something inspirational from such an event.  Like a "live life like it's your last day" sort of adage, but nobody does that, do they?  If we all tried to maximized the life experience on a daily basis nobody would have jobs, or buy groceries, or pay bills.  We'd all be scaling tall mountains or fighting grizzlies with our bare hands.

But the day progressed, more or less, like any other.  I worked, drove home, took my daughter to karate, threw a load of laundry into the washer.  The only difference is that my mind occasionally drifted back to that moment in the shitty freight elevator when I felt my feet, albeit briefly, rise from the floor.

A few months ago, when I occasionally fancied myself as a serious writer, I was working on a story that concerned parallel universes, inspired somewhat by Hugh Everett's Many Worlds Theory.  I don't claim to have any vast knowledge of quantum physics, but I'm well aware of Hugh Everett because of his son, Mark Oliver, who is the lead singer and multi-instrumentalist for the Eels.  It's a bit embarrassing that alt-rock would inspire me to read up on a physicist, although I can't think of any other bands whose members have parents that are moderately famous in the world of science.  The elder Everett posited his theory at the quantum level to describe a function like light, which behaves occasionally as a particle, and occasionally as a wave.  Everett basically said well, whenever it functions as a wave, in some other universe it functions as a particle.  At a less microscopic level, the theory says that whatever action you take in this universe, your doppelganger takes the opposite in a parallel universe.  But, there is rarely a dichotomy.  Often there are dozens of possible actions, or more.  Add to that the fact that humans perform millions of actions a day and that there are billions of humans, and there must be a near-infinite, if not an infinite, number of parallel universes.

It's a theory that begs skepticism, obviously, as there's absolutely no concrete proof (which is why it's not the Many Worlds Law).  But it's a curious thought, to me.  Some other universe's Tim drove a BMW to work today, another might be under the weather and called in sick, still another is vacationing in Europe, and one is fluent in German and has a handlebar mustache.

And one probably plummeted to his death in an elevator.  RIP, Nega-Tim!

Vacation - Day Last

- I watched more TV this week than I have in the past year.

- I spent at least 80% of my "awake" time outside...this does not completely contradict the first point.

- I ate with reckless abandon, and I'm pretty okay with that.  My stomach will probably spend a good week recovering from the onslaught of seafood and starches.

- I am slightly upset that I did not find a good local coffee shop until the last day.

- My eyes have completely given up on focusing.

- Every part of my body that is not my arms or legs has yet to understand the concept of a "suntan".  My shoulders are sort of aware of this phenomenon.  My torso is lobster-esque, but somehow not painful.

- Always get a hotel on the boardwalk.

- Always get a hotel with a balcony or patio (with an ocean view).

- Trip Advisor was incredibly helpful in picking out both Mexican night and Sushi night.

- I took less pictures than I had thought I would.

- I was that weirdo that raised his hands in celebration during dinner when my phone informed me that the Pirates won in 14 innings.

- I hate packing.

- I'm ready to go home, but that feeling will surely change when I actually get home.

Mosaic at the cantina.

There's fun in the distance.

Vacation - Day Five/Six

Two generally blah days in a row = two days of naps.  Plans to ride the Rocket (a large-capacity speedboat) were thwarted the past two days, and since we're leaving early in the morning tomorrow, it looks like such an event will have to wait until our next trip to the beach.

Most of the last 48 hours have been spent sleeping or eating, with occasional trips to the pool.  So commentary will be at an all-time low.  But I did get some pictures of dragonflies.  So I suppose everything evened out.

On the bushes outside our patio.

On the hedges in front of the boardwalk.

Same hedge, different dragonfly.

I was jealous.

Anonymous sleepy feet.

And this bird you cannot change.

Like a homing bird, I'll fly.

Stormy weather.

Happy feet.

Stormy Weather v2.0

Thank god we got there before the rice ran out.

This will give me strange dreams.  I guarantee it.

Aw, I WANTED to bring along my hobo, but Mom said they wouldn't be welcome.

Vacation - Day Four

I suppose a vacation has its ebbs and flows like any other seven day period.  And if this was the "ebb", it certainly could have been much, much worse.

Rosie was nice enough to let me sleep until nine.  This is an added perk of finishing nearly every night in the pool: not only is she asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow (after her second shower of the day, of course), she will generally sleep much later than her typical schedule.  That's not to say that her waking-up routine is any different, and typically involves jumping on my stomach or poking me in the face.  Both are effective, although I prefer the latter, since my face is far less burnt.

Typical continental breakfast fare, and then off to the pool.  I think we've taken a step from "redundancy" to "repetitiveness".  The only thing that separates this afternoon from the others is what swimsuit she's wearing.  Oh, and today was the day that the hotel decided "eh, nobody really NEEDS towels."  It was in the 90s by noon, so drying off was more of a natural affair, and probably as expeditious as toweling off, anyway.

I ended up checking work e-mail for the first time since Tuesday (I held out as long as I could), and celebrated by taking a long nap.  I realize that recapping today can lead to furious bouts of jealousy, and I'm sorry (also, I'm not sorry).

Dinner was at the Bread Box, the kind of place Dad seeks out to feel like less of a tourist.  It was in an efficiency size shack just in front of a strip mall (turns out TJ Maxx has a "home decor only" store, at least in Virginia).  I had a grilled salmon with roasted potatoes, all covered in a spinach cream sauce...and it was all amazing.  Amazing.

On the way home I dropped off the parents and took Rosie to the Candy Kitchen (another staple of coastal cities everywhere), and she's now the proud owner of a gigantic candy necklace and an equally gigantic lollipop.  Since it was raining we headed to Jody's for popcorn (this is faulty logic, and more of a flimsy excuse to just pick up a bunch of junk food), where they suckered me in.  "You know, if you buy one MORE bag, you get another free!"  OH REALLY?  THAT SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

Still raining, and Rosie's halfway through three feet of necklace (and semi-upset that I'm not letting her finish the whole thing).  Time to break out the board games, and maybe fall asleep to Archer.  Halfway through season four...and I can say with certainty that Krieger is my favorite character...of any show.

Dearth of pictures.  Sue me.  The average settlement is $6200.

Rosie-assisted selfie.  This doesn't look like me.  Does it?  I guess it has to.

At dinner. Rosie's taking a break from her horribly specific game of I Spy.

CANDY.  CANDYYYYYYY.

Vacation - Day Three

There's a repetitiveness to this vacation that does not upset me in the least.  More swimming at the pool?  More crashing into Atlantic Ocean waves?  More beer?  I think I can manage.

I had a 25 minute conversation with a girl at the pool.  It started with her asking me what I was smoking (I may never stop smoking Marlboro Blacks, as it appears to be an instant conversation starter...what on earth are those?  Are they harsher?).  It ended with her telling me that she's twenty.  It was...uncomfortable, for me at least, and it took a lot of energy to not say "you know...I have a stepson just about your age..."  The worst part is that she's saying at this hotel, which practically guarantees future uncomfortable moments...for me, at least (redundancy intentional).  She has no idea how old I am, unless she noticed the grey hair and the daughter and realized that hey...he's certainly someone I would call "sir" in a myriad of other circumstances.

Chix for dinner, which is the restaurant attached to this hotel.  Their specialty seems to be "take shrimp and crab and add it to something else."  So after the shrimp and crab nachos I had the shrimp and crab macaroni and cheese, along with some local beer, which was pretty damn tasty, despite the waitress explaining that it's "kind of hoppy".  Yeah, I'm that weirdo that doesn't like hops.  Then again, I'm that weirdo that will drink a glass of cider or ten.

Went to Starbucks afterwards for coffee, while Rosie had her first make-your-own-frozen-yogurt-sundae experience.  It was in an upscale neighborhood, which almost made me feel bad about chasing her up and down the sidewalk after she accused me of "wanting to kiss a mermaid".  I don't know why that upset me (it didn't, but I needed an excuse to burn calories after dinner).

Nothing to do with vacation, but this text conversation actually occurred.  I think I'm in a sitcom.

"How's the night going?"
"Drunk and eating frozen yogurt."
"I can't find my phone."
"I...don't understand the problem."
"They said don't leave my phone at the bar, but I can't find it."
"What are you using to text me?"
"My phone.  Duh."
"Okay!  Problem solved!"

More nightswimming (deserves a quiet night), and maybe some solo karaoke still on the docket for the day.

I hope one day I become an epitath on a bench.

Nice pier.  Walking on it tomorrow.

Rosie and Papi heading back to the hotel.  Softies.

Rosie's less scared of the waves now...and more obstinate.

Long day, maybe?

"Dad? Smile!"  "I am smiling."  "...oh..." 

The Chix band covered LMFAO, so naturally Rosie had to dance.

And there's the band's asses.

Vacation - Day Two

I slept until 8:00.  8!  Those that know me know that this is a celebratory event, and I celebrated with yogurt and oatmeal at the continental breakfast (along with coffee almost too weak to even be mentioned).

Rosalie may as well sleep in a bathing suit.  I'm not sure she even managed to swallow her breakfast before she ran out to the pool and dove in.  I'm not sure if she is just remarkably friendly or if kids tend to gravitate towards other kids (or some combination), but she got out of the pool an hour later knowing the name of ANY child that was in that pool with her.  This gave her extra guilt ammunition when we packed for the beach.  "But I bet Cory's still swimming!"  "Can we stop and see if Clara is still in the pool?"

Despite yesterday's thunderstorm the waves have been pretty mild.  Every 10th or 11th was one that had the potential to knock Rosie on her ass, and when one did Dad and I inhaled sharply, worried that this would be the wave that sent her screaming back to the hotel.  But instead she laughed like a maniac and screamed "DO IT AGAIN!", as if we had control over these forces of nature.

I am kind of a wiener about ocean wildlife.  Cloudy water or mirage-esque movement leads me to believe that I'm about to get stung by a manta ray (although I believe they stick to tropical waters) or piranhas (which I believe stick to rivers).  But I have to put aside my admittedly ridiculous terrors for Rosie, because that's probably not a fear worth perpetuating.

Rosie ran from the beach back into the pool, and as I showered off the sand, that's when I realized that my back was toasted.  If you know me, you know that shirts are generally mandatory attire, and I am very proficient in cultivating a farmer's tan.  But as most of my torso and back has not been exposed to sunlight for quite some time, it retaliated by turning a nice strawberry red.  I am guessing this is not the kind of burn that fades into a tan, so I will probably do this at least a few more times to myself...because I'm so smart.

Dinner was at Waterman's, a place I picked out thanks to googling "best seafood Virginia Beach", and skipping over the white tablecloth establishments.  Ate some crab dip and a broiled mix of shrimp, crab meat, and scallops.  In addition to being delicious, Waterman's declares that all of their seafood comes from sustainable fishing, which was nice, although somewhat dubious.  Then again I know little about those sorts of things, so I guess I hope that they're true to their word.

After dinner the folks sat on a bench and people-watched while Rosie and I went to the fair, which was exactly the waste of money I had envisioned.  We rode a ferris wheel and she rode one of the kid-sized rides, and then I blew $10 on games, both of which I won.  So for $30 she got two rides, a stuffed frog (who she named Grass, for whatever reason), and one of those fiberglass light thingies.  Dessert was custard at Kohr's...a staple of east coast beaches, I think (or at least they have them at Ocean City, too).

Just got out of the pool for the second time.  That's a pretty great way to end a vacation day.  And fun to brag about!

END CARTOON OBSCENITIES!!!!

Selfie as proof that I do shave on vacation.

 Blurry Rosie on a ferris wheel (girl does not sit still).

The city from the top.

I need to get her some less embarrassing goggles.

Her first impression of a wave coming at her.

If you look closely...

Happy.