Sometimes I have a hard time being labeled as an "adult". Even if it is through the eyes of a stranger. I don't feel like an adult. Most of the time. I still see myself as that tripped out, stumbling through life seventeen year old that was ten years ago. A (slightly) more mature version of that kid, but that same kid just the same. When I go to buy alcohol I'm always afraid the clerk will think my ID is a fake (even though I've had people tell me I look far older than I am, thank you a-holes!). Whenever a telemarketer calls I still think I will be getting the same "Well hello little girl, is your mommy home?" that I became accustomed to. (to which I always wanted to respond "Why hello stupid fucker, I'm actually a seventeen year old DUDE and no my fucking mommy is not home!"). I still laugh at work when I hear words like (and I work in the plumbing industry, so these words are commonplace); plumber's caulk, galvanized nipple, ball cock, pipe dope and so on.

So I kind of just assume I'm a still youngster. And it's not like I'm actually old or anything, I'm only 27 for shit's sake. And I used to be active. Climbing, cycling, hiking, swimming and snow related sports. And I really don't do much. I mean, I still hike once a week (if I'm lucky) in the sun deprived months. Certainly not the level of activity that my body was once accustomed to.

And this is where the whole feeling like a fucking testosterone driven kid really comes to bite me in the ass. Why? Because I get all nostalgic over the thought of my seventeen year old body (and it wasn't anything special. Just the floor model. But it wasn't round in the middle) and decide that doing something like say, going for a run, is a good idea. And I think it is actually a good idea. An idea. Because I swear to jeebus that two fucking miles of running (jogging) makes me feel like I'm going kiel over in the middle of the last fifty feet of road and, my dog will have to drag ass my ass through the stank funk gutter (laughing all the way) to the front door. And then after my dog figured out how to oppose her thumby-claw thing on her ankle, and open the door, drag me in, and put me into a cold shower, she brings in two of my son's number floor pad things, an eight and a seven. "that's how old you acted out there" she communicates cleverly to me, and then turns and takes herself for another run. Avoiding the stares of the neighbors that just witnessed her dragging her Benjamin Button looking owner home.

The point is that I actually am getting fucking older. Shits changing (not literally shit. You literal people freak me out). And it kind of sucks. To realize that you can't just take off and play a game of kickball with friends without a physical fitness hangover. So I am making my first ever resolution. It so happens I have made this first resolution over and over again in the past three years, but it's still my first one. And that is to get my ass back in shape. I feel like calling my old swim coach so he can force my ass into the steaming cold pool at five in the morning (seriously, that shit used to steam and you'd be all excited cause it looks hella warm. Yeah, because it's five fucking o'clock and anything thing looks warm. Especially the bed you just left). Or I need to dig out my old climbing gear and find my way to something climbable. But for now I'm going to stick with my running. Because it's the laziest way for me to exercise (if that ain't one hell of an oxymoron). And with any luck I'll bring my Wii age down to a reasonable number.

The tree's along the california coast line are fucking gorgeous. Like nothing I've ever seen before. Majestic, gargantuan, and sometimes ominous. I fucking love those tree's. I'm not there right now, but I sure wish I was. 

Sometimes I just want to get up and get away. From the rat race. It can drag you down into a ditch and, as it's driving away throw it's damn McDonald's bag O trash out the window and right on top of your stumbling out of the ditch ass.

I think I get this feeling about once every four to six months. To just grab the essentials, the Family (Wife, Son, Dog, Other Dog), and drive. Into the wilderness. Whichever direction/destination it may be. Lake. Mountain. Forrest. Beach. Desert. Any one (or all) will do the trick. Just get the holy hell out of the city, suburb, or town you're currently occupying and find some solitude. I don't know why it hits me, but it does.

I have actually had this particular urge for a while now. Since before RQ was introduced to the world. I think I went out on my last trip this past June. And since before the monkey was even close to being born I was thinking about his first camping trip. It was probably one of the earliest thoughts pertaining to fatherhood that I had. Maybe that's weird, or fucked up or something. Maybe I should have been thinking about actually being a father and what what that meant. Or maybe I should have been thinking about how to better provide for the kid, so he can lead a comfortable life. Or maybe I should have been signing him up for preschool even though he was still the size of a grapefruit. I don't effing know. I spent more time thinking about how fucking awesome it was going to be to have a little kid in tow. Someone that can always remind you to lighten your shit up and relax. Have fun. Be a fucking kid for christ's sake.

I read a statistic not too long ago about the ratio of times a child laughs in a day compared to an adult and, while I don't recall exactly what that percentage was, for the sake of this point lets say it was eight hundred and seventy four thousand to one (I'm pretty sure that's in the right ballpark), clearly being a little kid is where it's at. Not a worry in the world (at least not a valid one). I mean maybe they are worried about whether Tammy or Timmy are going to beat them at some sort of something at school. Or be mean to them. I don't really know, what do kids do to each other these days? But you get the point, Kids are living a far more raucous and fun life than a lot of adults can even recall. And it's (in my not so humble opinion) the rat that is bread into us. At least in America. And 20 other countries. That is causing this lack of childlike behavior.

So now comes the point in time where I actually need to figure out something to do. Outside. With beautiful tree's around. And dirt or sand to sleep on. And my Family to enjoy it with. Before I go crazy. I'm thinking the beach. Somewhere around here, on the lost coast. I think that ought to satisfy my craving.

Before I get into this post I just want to say this. I have written far too many holiday inspired posts this year (I think with this one it makes three. So yeah, too many for me) and I vow this will be the last one of the season.



This has been one of the toughest holiday seasons my family (it's seems so out of place still to say my Family, I got so used to my Wife and I), financially speaking. And I know damn well that;

A) We're not the only family telling this tale right now

and

B) I'm damn lucky for what I have

In light of this (or maybe in spite of), My wife and I (ahh, there it is. Familiarity) decided to do away with gifts for ourselves. Again, I doubt we are the only ones making this sacrifice. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion that for the next few years, complete with massive growth spurts, trips to the doctor, and whatever else (everything) that will carry a cost for RQ, that this may even become the norm. And I have absolutely nothing wrong with that. In fact it's kind of nice.

You see, not having to buy any presents, or at least not many, means that we don't have to spend any time inside concrete boxes of fluorescent light with the aisle blockers, and the slow as humanly possibles, and the grab things off the rack and then just throw it on the grounds, and the I grabbed ninety nine things and they're all missing tags when it's time to check outs, and the......well I think you get the point. I'm not the biggest fan of the mass crowd shopping experience. Sometimes I'll go to another store if the one I planned on going to is out of control. And without those hair pulling, head banging on the wall, eye gouging out with hanger joyous trips to whatever store it is you decide to go to that day, it brings a little bit of life back to the holidays. At least for me.

Today was the day that it actually became Christmas in our house. The lights went up outside, a tree is standing in the living room. Nutcrackers are sure to be stirring in their boxes waiting for their departure from the prison that is January through the first half of December. The Duck Tales Christmas cutout and The Muppets Christmas poster will soon be hanging.  And like that, with barely a blink of an eye, Christmas has arrived (and I'm a little nauseous).

As I took the dog out for a run this afternoon (only one will run with me), I realized that the holiday spirit had managed to bite me in the ass this year. Something that doesn't normally happen until the day of. And I realized, that though this is the year we have the least (materially) it is also the year that we have the most (spiritually, mentally, or whatever you want to call it). This is our wealthiest Christmas. This is also the first year for my family. Traditions that had been our own are now being handed down. From here on out everything that we (my Wife and I) used to call ours will become his as well. Next year RQ will be helping put the lights on the tree, and showing his Mama (the vixen to the right there) where to put her nutcrackers, and where the stocking should go, and which tree he likes best. And then the transition will be complete. The traditions will become family heirlooms locked upstairs for eternity. Until he starts his own with his future family.