There have been whole days that I don’t think about this site. Hard to believe, eh? When I do, I sometimes consider putting it out of its misery. Lately I’ve been hanging out with my creativity at the bottom of a deep, dark, depressing, and very dry well. If that isn’t enough to turn me from writing, I don’t know what is.

Don’t worry, I don’t give up that easily. You’ll still have this site to kick around for a while yet. I’m not going to let a little thing like talent or natural ability (or a lack thereof) stand between me and a little electronic self-glorification (with the occasional self-depreciation thrown in to balance things out).

Actually, things have been a little “up” since last I wrote. Yesterday Beth spent something less than half the day sentenced to her room, so it was relatively pleasant. I’m happy to report we even went out to eat without anyone getting violently ill, which ends a recent streak (Beth did throw up this morning, but my recently acquired “sunny side up demeanor” is ready to chalk it up to coincidence.) Heck, another streak ended this morning when I got to work on time. That’s probably more because I changed my work schedule, but you’ve got to find any good you can get – no matter how much digging you’ve got to do. A wise professor once told me that the easiest way to reduce crime is to make fewer things illegal. Well I’ve got to tell you, I feel a lot better not being late – even if I am here at the same time. Call me crazy (just not to my face).

Stop reading right now. There’s no reason to read this, unless you really hate yourself. You’ve been warned.

If you lookup “self destructive behavior” you will find a blank staring picture of me. It’s the look I assume after staying up half the night staring into oblivion, avoiding the sleep that will deliver me all too quickly to the horrifying place you know as “the next morning.” What reason could I have for fearing the near term future? What could a credit card carrying homeowner have to fear, besides higher interest rates? At some point the minutiae of everyday life became tedious. It’s not any one thing… just death by a thousand paper cuts.

Mostly I’m just disappointed with myself. I’ve failed my daughter in so many ways it’s hard to keep track. From my genes she’s inherited a propensity for mental illness, allergies, and a birth defect that required major surgery. From my laissez-faire approach to nearly everything, and a closely related problem with procrastination, she has suffered a year with a bad teacher. From my temper and poor excuse for patience, she gets a weekly Sybil like performance when my cork finally pops and I lose all control over the volume of my voice.

I think I’d feel better if I had someone else I could blame for all this. The American dream is to make a lot of money and have someone else to blame for your problems, and I can’t get either one right. How fucked am I?

(This entry was conceived and written a couple of weeks ago, but not posted until now.)

I’ve been in this funk for the last 34 years or so… and I don’t mean I’ve been surrounded by the stink of tobacco (I had to dig deep into my dictionary for that one). Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be merely mediocre.

What’s the reason for my blue mood? It’s hard to talk about. Sandwiched between a couple minor health issues, I’m having a bout of shame. Colds and bodily aches and pains have a way of magnifying any problem, and tonight is no exception. The problem is this: by any objective measure, I may be a complete failure as a parent at this point in my development. Life is dynamic, so everything is a work in progress… thus the reference to my “development” as a parent. That’s really the only positive thing I can come up with tonight (that it’s not over yet)… that and I haven’t caused anyone any physical harm. That’s hardly “dad of the year” stuff. Perhaps my biggest problem is that I’m just not a happy person. Take Jeanine Garofalo minus the sense of humor, self-confidence, talent; add somewhere between 12 to 18 inches, and make “her” a “him”… and I don’t know what you’ve got. I was going to say “me,” but I think the whole thing fell apart somewhere around 18 inches… for me anyway. If you like it you can keep it.

It was a Herculean effort to make it to Friday this week, only to have more commitments this weekend than I did this week. There’s this office picnic that snuck up on me… which I’m sure will go swell with my unrelenting surgery discomfort. Throw in a couple of power struggles over chores and homework getting done, and I’ll be waxing poetic about the office. In the movies people have a funk and they stay in bed for a day or two. Now there’s high fiction.

I really need to get that heavy bag I’ve wanted to get for the family room, something I could work over to work out the kinks.

Or not.