Melancholy And The Impotent Dadness

Update at the bottom of the page.

Ella is a very kind wife. She gets up in the morning, showers, and readies herself for work. She then wakes Zed, feeds him and dresses him while I take a shower. Three less things I have to worry about in the morning (which, as I am far from a morning person, is a good thing).

I'm a lucky guy.

I woke up this morning, showered, and put on a green t-shirt and khaki shorts. I know I don't usually entertain you with my fashion choices, but since my wife threatens to blindside me with the folks from What Not To Wear, I figure it would be best to slowly acclimate you to what I call fashion so you're not completely taken aback when my episode airs.

As I came downstairs, I took a look at Zed. What was he wearing? A green t-shirt and khaki shorts. Ella laughed. Too lazy to change my clothes, I shrugged and moved on.

After we dropped Zoey off at preschool, Zed and I decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. I got out his sister's old pink push-car since he has started to hate his stroller.

So we went for a leisurely stroll in our little pink car and matching outfits. We came upon this old Japanese couple that I often see walking through the neighborhood. They're old school: the wife walks five feet behind the husband. Never understood how a woman could put up with that crap. They spoke to us briefly, mostly in Japanese, so I was forced to just nod my head and smile like an idiot.

We walked a little further up the block and ran into Burt.

I often see Burt out working on his car, but I have never spoken to him. Burt drives a black 70s Trans Am (with T-Tops!!! remember those?). He also has a big bushy mustache. That shit is funny on My Name Is Earl, but nobody wants to know someone with a Burt Reynolds fetish in real life. In real life, it's not funny. It's just sad.

"Is that a boy?" he asked me.

"Last time I checked." And since I check roughly eighteen times a day (that kid's got a bladder like a pregnant woman), I'm pretty sure of this fact.

"Why's he riding in a pink car?"

Oh fun! A homophobe! "It's his sister's hand-me-down."

"Aren't you afraid he'll grow up to be a fairy?"

When people irritate me, I like to mess with them. Somehow, this has only led to one ass kicking over the years. "Like Tinkerbell? I don't think fairies are real."

"No. Like a gay."

"No. My thriftiness far outweighs my fear of homosexuality."

He looked puzzled and I could tell his tiny, homophobic, Neanderthal brain was having trouble processing what I just said. Finally he asked, "Why are you two dressed the same?"

"Wardrobe malfunction. Gottta go!"

And off we ran. Every time I start thinking the South might be getting a little more progressive, someone like Burt comes along and shatters my illusions.

***

Welcome to Downer Friday!

When I first posted this piece, the following was at the bottom:

Does anyone remember when this site was funny? Or interesting? Neither do I.

And I'm not sure it ever was.

Remember when I used to write about my kids? When I'm not whining and bitching and moaning and groaning about gender- and role-reversals, I'm writing about sports, music, or other dreck.

I wrote about my remote control last time.

Jesus Christ.

After reading a few of your comments and emails, I deleted it and replaced it with the following:

[whiny, self-indulgent b.s. removed]

And then I read Kristen's comment. And you know what? She's right.

Now let me spill my guts so you can get a better understanding of where I'm coming from, who I am, and all that jazz.

I suffer from extremely low self-esteem and depression. My father was an alcoholic who basically told me I was worthless almost daily from the time I was eight until he died when I was twenty. Now, I know I'm not worthless. No human being is worthless. But if you are told something long enough, part of you starts believing it.

And I haven't been able to cut that part out of my body.

When I was twenty-three, I was diagnosed with depression. They put me on Lithium, Prozac, and weekly therapy. One day my therapist suggested a little "vacation" might be in my best interest. Not wishing to be institutionalized, I quit going to the therapist, quit taking my meds, and gave myself a kick to the head.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to repress it 100%. Ever once in a while, I still have bouts of depression. But these feelings almost always happen when I'm alone and my mind is left to its own devices. Like when I'm writing. Which why the self-hatred crap sneaks into my words.

I value everyone who reads my site and am very grateful for the number of readers I have. But at the same time, there's that part of me that doesn't understand why anyone would want to read my stuff at all. This is the same part of me that would burn everything I wrote when I was a teenager.

Look. I'm not looking for your sympathy. I'm just telling you what it's like inside my head, so the next time I write something like I did today, you'll have a better understanding of my intentions.

It's part of who I am. And I hate it.

There. Time's up! How much do I owe you for the therapy session?