Living the Dream

I wrote some time ago about how I'm working two jobs to help pay down bills and pay for extravagances, like washing machines from Craigslist and groceries. I'm still working the two jobs, and it is just about as much fun as you can imagine. I'm also, you might remember, trying to write another book, publish one of the ones I've finished and "fix" a couple of others that I want to publish. Oh, and I'm teaching myself Latin. You know, easy shit. Plus, I've been trying to lead the glorious Roman armies into Egypt and conquer them, but that's been slowed a bit by Egypt's development of atomic weapons. Civilization is very much historically accurate, why do you ask?

But, because I've had so much free time on my hands, I decided I should coach my son's soccer team. Because nothing says "I've got WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS" like directing a bunch of 7- and 6-year old kids to run around like fools on a field of grass every Saturday.

I had originally signed up to be the coach in the beginning of the season, but someone screwed up (probably me, but I'll never take the blame!) and had me set for Wednesday night practices. This, at the time, was impossible because I had to work at the book store on Wednesday nights, pretty much every week. When I told the people in the league this, they said fine, found someone else, and then, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, rescheduled my son to be on a team that practiced Thursday nights.

Oh, and they made me assistant coach. Without letting me know.

So, the first Thursday rolls around, and I'm not there (because I'm working two jobs) and my wife is fielding a thousand angry phone calls from people wondering why the fuck no coach has shown up to teach their kid how to kick a ball. Because, let's be honest, Under-8 Youth Soccer is not exactly the UEFA cup; kicking is about all they do.

I wrote to the league commissioner, wondering what the fuck was up, and he said that, since I had expressed interest in coaching before, he thought I would positively love being an assistant.

Now, I positively love tits. I positively love blow jobs. And I positively love rum. Coaching soccer? Not so much my thing.


Oh, sure, I played soccer. I was good at soccer. But, when I was playing, I was a goalie. I went through goalie drills. I didn't go through all the drills for midfielders and forwards and defensemen. Yes, I knew what they were, but I couldn't really teach them.

So, the commish took me off being an assistant coach. There was much rejoicing.

And then...the coach quit. You could also read this as "And then...the universe decided to have itself (another) good laugh at my expense (once more)."

Reluctantly, I kind of took over the coaching of the team. I mean, someone had to think of the children, right? For once? Since I had been through the "coaches clinic" (three hours of my life which I will never get back and for which I was not nearly drunk enough), I figured I could step up and help out. It was...almost...fun. Some of the kids actually showed up to practice. Some of them came to games, too. It was...actually...nice. I made friends with some of the other coaches on other teams. I actually got along with the referees--mostly because they were high school kids who were volunteering their time. Also, they were pretty cool and they weren't douchebags with the calls.

There is one guy, though, who is an A-Prime cocksucker. He's bald and I'd wager 2-1 that he's got a dick like a sparrow poking out from between his thighs. He also only calls handballs on the kids wearing the green jerseys, despite the fact that one time I actually saw a midfielder grab a ball and spike it to the ground like a fucking volleyball and play on. Since we were up several goals, I was able to contain my rage and not get asked to leave the sidelines.

I still mentally insulted several generations of his ancestry, convincing myself that they were all tiny-dicked, bald cocksuckers. Apples don't fall far from trees, you know.

I was worried that the kids would kind of suck, like not skills-wise, but be little assholes. Because I'm crotchety like that. Get off my lawn and all that.

Pleasantly, the kids are all pretty nice; it's the parents that I can't stand. They talk about "Soccer Moms" and "NASCAR dads" in political circles, but I haven't seen any of those. Mostly I've had to deal with Douchebag Dads and Methlab Moms.


One of the first practices, I had the kids trying to pass the ball back and forth to each other, about five yards apart. I looked over, and one of the dads was on the sidelines...doing push-ups. Uh...you see...he was...bored...I guess...and...yeah.

He's since stopped with the upper-body exercises to pass time; instead, he sits on the sidelines dicking around with his iphone throughout practice. Fine. Whatever. Just keep your douchery away from me, sir.

Overall, it's been fun. And, this past weekend, my kid almost scored a goal. He even started having fun and said that he wishes soccer season would never end. Ha, little scamp...I see someone has been getting into daddy's rum supplies.

And now my daughter thinks that she might give soccer another go. Joyous.

I just wish that the parents would remember to bring snacks for the coach, too. It's a little embarrassing to be standing there with my mouth watering over the rice crispy treats and Capri suns. Cherry is my favorite flavor (hint hint).

If only I had a second source of income where I could purchase such luxuries as marshmallow and puffed-rice snack treats along with foil envelopes of flavored juice drinks...

The Time I Cheated

Let me tell you about the time I strayed from the path of the straight and narrow.

I was a sophomore in high school. In case you haven't noticed, I have this little thing about language. At the time, I was taking French II. Because I thought it would affect the rest of my life, I actually cared about my grades and such. This meant that I was a good student and I knew ma francais tres bien. Yes, I was an A student. I would have been a straight A student across the board, but I never really studied. I just memorized shit. I had an almost photographic memory. I never really worked to develop it, otherwise I could have ended up as a crime fighter who pretends he's psychic but really just notices everything at the scene of the crime. Plus, I didn't have an awesome sidekick.

I digress. I was like this from grade school on. In junior high, I was the same way: pay attention in class, memorize what the teacher was saying, maybe open the book and read it if I was bored, do my homework, ace the test. Pretend like it ain't no thang.

Despite this overly nerdy demeanor, I managed to make friends. Some of those friends were even of the female persuasion. One of them was Teryn Wehr (pronounced like "Tair-an Weer"). Terryn was awesome. She and I just sort of meshed, like our personalities played off one another well. Hmmm...perhaps I did have an awesome sidekick that I could use to help me solve crimes through the power of observation.

Oh did I mention that there was a little of When Harry Met Sally... going on? Yeah, in this case it was true. It's not so much that I developed amorous feelings for Teryn. No, I shot way past that and immersed myself in a tank of hormone-fueled lust. Much like the Betsy Hagar thing, I just desired her. It wasn't that Teryn was drop-dead gorgeous or that she had a body to die for. I think part of the attraction was that her personality played so well off mine. That, and she had fucking amazing thighs. I admired them often in social studies on the days that she would wear that gray skirt that rode up when she sat with one leg looped over the other and--What? Uh, Fifty-four forty or Fight! Whew. Dodged a bullet.

This will slide off into TMI territory for a moment. Remember that Guilt Journal I kept? The one wherein I would write pages-long confessions about the lustful feelings toward certain girls and the guilt that I felt after fantasizing about them during masturbation? Yes, well, I also kept a little running total in the front of the journal about whom I fantasized the most. Oh, come on now. This surprises you? Anyway, Teryn was far and away the most often discussed within the pages of those various tomes (I think I filled out three of them throughout my junior high and high school years) followed by Betsy Hagar and then it sort of tailed off. She was the greatest center of lust and guilt at that point in my life. Yes, I absolutely had a crush on her. However, since we were friends, I never acted on it. I never asked her out. I never confessed my feelings to her. I just silently lusted for her from the edges, playing out my fantasies by hand at night and afterward scrawling my guilt across the lined white sheets in my spiral bounds.

As far as I know, she never knew about how I felt. That is, of course, until she googles her own name. Hi, Teryn!

So, let's return to my French II class, shall we. Lo and behold, as luck would have it, during this particular nine week period, I was sitting next to Ms. Wehr for class. This afforded me the luxury of further studying her thighs on skirt days and it afforded her the luxury of copying off my papers during quizzes and tests. I believe that's called a symbiotic relationship.

Well, one day, as we were taking a test, my teacher had to do something in the office. So, she left us in the room quietly taking our tests. Except, I was done. As this was high school, I was forced to sit there during class. I think that I might have been reading The Lord of the Rings (again) during the down time after the quiz when I felt a pair of eyes upon me.

I looked over and there was Teryn, trying to see what I had written on my paper. This was when my dick started thinking and left my brain behind. Since the teacher was out of the room, I picked up the test sheet and handed it to Teryn. What? I figured that, if I let her copy from me, maybe she would repay me in a more carnal fashion. Makes perfect sense, right?

Well, apparently, someone saw me hand my paper to Teryn. Someone as in the entire class. I guess it shouldn't come as a big surprise when the teacher asked me to stay after class a couple of days later. And, frankly, I deserved any punishment I got. Instead of reading me the riot act or ripping me a new one, the teacher expressed how sad she was and wondered why I did it.

Being that I didn't feel like explaining to her the whole "We've been friends for a long time and I've wanted to fuck this girl since the seventh grade and I was hoping that this was my way in between those sumptuous thighs of hers", I shrugged and said, "I don't know why. I just did it." I'm pretty sure my teacher knew exactly why I had done what I had done, and my answer pretty much secured her suspicions.

The teacher then asked what she should do, and I responded with, "You should fail me." It kind of sounded like I was trying to work a Jedi mind trick on her. Here's the thing, though: she didn't fail me. In fact, I got 100% on the test. I don't know if she failed Teryn. I do know that we moved seats the very next day and I wasn't allowed to sit anywhere near Teryn ever again.

After that, Teryn and I drifted apart. We worked together briefly our senior year when she was a photographer for the year book and also for the school newspaper, and I was a weekly columnist. We interacted sparsely, though she did show me her belly button piercing, which she got before it became common for everyone to have one. Now, I have no idea where she is.

I never cheated on another test again. And I never got my carnal repayment for allowing Teryn to copy my test. I guess it's true: cheaters never win.

Clearly, I Am 'Father of the Year' Material

Did you know kids are impressionable? It's true. Like, if you tell them something, no matter how outrageous it sounds originally, they'll believe you? And someone thought it'd be a good idea to let me raise not one but TWO of them? (Three, if my aim was off the other night...)

The other night, I was out in the yard with the kids. Now, my yard consists mostly of a hill in the front and a floodplain in the back. It's the kind of thing that would make my cities in Civ III rich, but for me, it's a pain in the ass to mow. That's not the point; I just felt like bitching.

There's a stream at the back of my property and woods all around, which means my back yard is cool, sometimes damp, and shaded. This is a perfect mushroom/toadstool growing environment, apparently. To that end, my son, Tank, had discovered a couple of toadstools in one section of the yard, and so he and I went looking for more. We found quite a few in a variety of colors--browns, whites, oranges--but since I'm not a mycologist, I can't really identify any of them. Plus, thanks to Tori Amos, I think mushrooms look like peezers, so I'm not really inclined to study them intensely.

So, there Tank and I am, wandering around the yard, searching for mushrooms, when I'm struck by a bit of inspiration to joke and kid. What can I say? I'm a fun guy! *rimshot*

Ahem.

While I wore a younger man's clothes, I spent, maybe a few hundred hours playing Super Mario Brothers on the original Nintendo system. This, of course, clouded my mind while we were searching for mushrooms and toadstools, and so I turned to Tank and said:

"You know, you really gotta watch out for those mushroom people. If you're not careful, they'll get you."

To this, he responded, wide eyed, with a gasp. "Really, daddy?" he asked.

Because I'm not above lying to a child to amuse myself, I responded with, "Oh yeah, and if they get you, it's all over. They're poisonous, so when the first one hits you, you'll shrink. If the second one gets you, it's game over."

Another gasp. Had I ended it there, things might have been alright.

"Normally, they travel in groups of two or three, so you've always got to watch out." Now he's getting a little frantic, so I figure it's time to tell him how to defend himself. "However, if you just jump on their heads, you'll be fine. They squish down and don't bother you anymore. If there's too many of them, just find some Italian guy to do the job for you. Ask for Mario."

All of this latter bit of advice went sailing over his head. All he took from the lesson was "Mushroom people...attack...poisonous...all over..."

Fast forward a couple of days. My wife is in the backyard with us. Tank finds some mushrooms and is terrified. He climbs into my wife's lap, frantic, telling of how the mushroom people will get him. She looks at me, unadulterated fury seething in her gaze.

"This is your fault, isn't it?" she asked.

Feigning innocence, I splay my fingers across my chest and with an angellically pure voice, I ask "Oh, why would you ever assume that?" A second later, I espy two more mushrooms growing up next to one of his toys.

"Oh no, Tank," I say aloud, "looks like they're going to get your banana car. Look there's two of them there." This sends him in to an apoplectic frenzy of fear. He tries to climb higher on my wife's lap, apparently satisfied to throw her to the ravages of the evil mushroom people in order to save himself (I've taught him well). The mushrooms, as they are wont to do, simply stand there, digesting the organic material at the base of their stems...menacingly!!!

My wife then tries to calm Tank, explaining that I'm being an asshole a jerk. I feel at this point that I should try to rectify the situation, so I walk over to a pair of mushrooms. They continue to do nothing.

"See, Tank, there's nothing wrong here. They're not attacking me. Come on over. You'll be fine." After several minutes of coaxing, he finally climbs down off my wife's lap and timidly crosses the grass, but won't get any closer than two feet away. "No, see, they're fine. They're not moving. They're just sitting here. You'll be okay."

He takes a step toward the mushrooms...and that's when I scream "OH MY GOD, TANK, HERE THEY COME!!!" and I kick the mushrooms at him. Screaming and crying, he dives back onto my wife's lap, climbs up her body, and sits on her head. I am, of course, hysterical with laughter, partly because of his reaction, but mostly because of my wife's reaction to the scene.

Finally, I talk him down and I find another pair of mushrooms, which I stomp. "See, that's how easy it is to take care of these things!" We spent another ten minutes stomping everything even remotely fungal.

After having rid the yard of those dastardly mushrooms, I sat back down, Tank on my lap now, my wife in the chair beside me. "See Tank," she says, "you don't need to be afraid of the mushrooms. They can't move."

"Yeah," I agreed, "you shouldn't be afraid of the mushrooms. However, you've really got to watch out for slime molds."

Does anyone know if the health care reform covers therapy for traumatic childhood experiences?

Big Bronze Bison Ballsack

I took my kids to the North Carolina Zoo last Friday. This is a picture I snapped of them posing next to the giant bison sculpture that the zoo had placed near the "prairie" section of the zoo. There, they have elk and bison (buffalo) on display. Being that I love huge, shaggy, smelly beasts (incidentally, so does my wife...), this is one of my favorite parts of the zoo.

Is there any more poignant setting in the world to watch people than at a zoo? Probably, but I still made a few observations while I was there.

For instance...if your FUPA sticks out further than your boobs, a midriff shirt is not what you should be wearing. If I look over and it appears that a tub of cottage cheese is spilling over the top of your shorts, we have a problem.

If your back is so hairy that someone mistakes you for a display and tries to communicate with you using sign language (Koko want a kitty?), maybe a t-shirt would work better than that wife-beater.

And, really, while I will gladly stare at your ass as two big slices of nicely-rounded-rump are hanging out of the bottom of your shorts, this is an outfit more apt for a stage with a brass pole and mulleted guys named Randy ready and waiting to shove dollar bills into your garter belt. The zoo? Not so much.

Now, I appreciate the effort that teachers put forward. I also understand that keeping tabs on fifty rowdy children unleashed upon the hapless, captive wildlife of the zoo, but still. Could you maybe offer up a little bit of "wait yer damned turn" when the fat slob is trying to take a picture of his kids sitting in the helicopter in the African veldt display? Thanks.

Finally, one little note to the troupe of skanky teenagers watching the baboons. Um...that one that you're talking about...he's not pulling the other one's tail for play. Well, maybe for play. But not the kind of play you're talking about. He is, in fact, most decidedly not trying to wrestle with that other baboon. See...he's mounting her. For sexual pleasure. The tail pull might be a kind of baboon foreplay...it could also be a type of baboon bitch slap. I realize you might not have taken biology yet, but still. The one on the bottom wasn't screaming for the sheer joy of playing leap frog.

Yeah...we didn't stay at the baboon pen for long.

I will now direct your attention back up to the picture of my lovely children in front of the bison statue. My kids wanted their pictures taken with pretty much all of the bronze statues in the zoo. This is one of the best ones. I'm kind of proud of myself for a) remembering to bring the camera and b) not fucking the picture up too badly.

However, the story of the bronze bison doesn't stop there.

Right after we were done with the picture, my son, Tank, turned and said "Daddy! This statue has poop on it!" I didn't think much of it, but then I looked up and found him under the statue, manhandling the bison's very pronounced scrotum. "Look, Daddy! They put poop on this statue! Gross!" At this point, my daughter became interested and, she, too, was climbing under the statue to check out that big round ball of poop hanging between the bison's legs.

Clearly, this was going to be a defining moment of my parental career.

"Um, let's go look at the real bison. Maybe we can see some elk, too! Stop playing with that, and let's go!"

Yep, I took the cowardly way out. Rather than explain to him that the bison statue was a boy--and what a boy!--I did the old bait-and-switch and distract them with the promise of more animals.

Fortunately, the zoo set up some fake geysers, which completely made the kids forget about the bison statue, and the bison statue and its poo were quickly forgotten.

Concerning 102

Did you hear? I hit 100 Followers last week! Oh, right, I dedicated two posts to it. I guess you have heard.

Anyway, I acknowledged number 101, which was Jeney, last week. However, I've kind of neglected number 102. Well, I mean, aside from making fun of him some. See, I can do that. I know him.

Number 102 is my cousin, Napoleon. We first met Napoleon back when I told you about my made up girlfriend, Sarah Klein. He's the one who told my mom that my made-up girlfriend and I were going to be having the sex, and I got in trouble for it. He certainly made my childhood interesting.

So, a couple of weeks ago, Napoleon sent me an email detailing about how he was preparing for a tour of duty in Iraq. He's part of the Indiana National Guard, and he's already spent a year in Afghanistan. In the email, he added a link to his blog where he was detailing his latest adventures in the Middle East. However, the link in the email was broken.

Feeling like a dutiful person, I reported back to him that it was broken. He said he'd look into it, and then I told him that he might want to use Blogspot or Wordpress (I think he was using blog.com or something). I was pretty happy to see that he was writing a blog because that would keep me in touch with him, plus, since he's dyslexic, I thought that writing could only be a good thing for him.

A couple of days later, I got an email from him saying he now used Blogspot. A couple of days after that, and I picked up my 102nd follower.

Now, you know I can't leave the story off there, right?

One fine summer day, while we were at The Lake, my cousin Napoleon and I were hanging out on our shaded lot along with our friend Tammy. We were probably around twelve or so at the time. Napoleon had gotten himself a big bag of M&Ms from somewhere, and since he has a heart of gold, he was sharing his M&Ms with us. Tammy and I, however, kind of decided to play a bit of a prank on Napoleon.

You know how, when you're about that age, you titter and tee-hee about how eating green M&Ms will make you horny? Well, we shared this information with Napoleon, and just sort of rolled his eyes. That's when we decided to append the different colors of M&Ms to different afflictions. We told him the red ones would make him mad, and that the orange ones would make him shy and cause him to blush. We then told him that the yellow ones would make him pee a lot, and that the brown ones would give him terrible diarrhea. He scoffed at our childish attempts at humor, took his M&Ms, and went home.

Fast forward by one day, and my father is walking by the bathroom window down at the other cottage. We didn't have air conditioning at our lake cottages, and so the windows had to be open all the time. My father hears Napoleon in the bathroom, moaning in pain.

"Napoleon!" my father calls through the window, "What's wrong?"

"I've got diarrhea," he moaned. "Badly."

"You okay?" my father asks.

"Yeah," Napoleon yelled back, "I just need to stop eating the brown M&Ms!"

"Eating the brown M&Ms? Where the hell did you get a silly notion like that?"

"Matt and Tammy told me yesterday when I was eating all my M&Ms. And today I have diarrhea."

Behold, the power of suggestion.

D is for Cross-Dressing...Apparently

This is my five hundredth post. I was going to write something pithy and brilliant centered on the number five hundred...but, since today is my son's fifth birthday, you're getting this instead. Nothing says "Happy Birthday, Son of Mine" like being publicly mocked and humiliated on the internet!

Yesterday, my daughter was being a snot. Cookie (as I've designated her on this here corner of the innerwebs) decided she wanted to have a tea party...an all girl tea party. My son, Tank, wanted to go to the tea party, too, but since he's not a girl, Cookie wouldn't let him.

My wife, the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Bouddica, tried to talk Cookie into letting Tank come to her tea party, but she'd have none of that shit. Tired of arguing, my wife went to take a shower.

When she emerged from the shower, there was Cookie standing by the door to our closet, giggling. Tank was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is [name redacted] Tank?" my wife asked.

"He's in the closet," Cookie responded.

"Tank, come out of the closet," my wife said.

"I can't," he giggled. "It's too embarrassing."

This went on for a few minutes until finally the closet door creaked open and, well, this emerged:
The thing on top of his head is a scarf that has been cleverly tied up to resemble a wig. The clothes are Cookie's, but I think the shoes are Bouddica's. It's nice to see the boy can accessorize. Just notice how striking that red belt is with the black ensemble.

*sigh*

The problem is, he didn't want to change out of his clothes. He liked dressing up in girls' clothes. He claimed it was more fun to be a girl. In lieu of a tea party, they decided to have a fashion show. Oh, those plucky children of mine.

My wife is distraught. She wants me to take him and do manly things with him. At a loss, I didn't know what to do. Teach him how to piss in the stream out back? Download some videos of other guys getting kicked in the nuts and laugh at their pain and suffering? Take him to the joint down the street with the signs out front proudly proclaiming they boast an "All Girl Staff"? Blow some shit up? Vegas?

So, I sat down and pondered this situation in the only way I knew how: by asking myself "What Would Homer Simpson Do?" I immediately went home and fell asleep on the couch, ignoring my children. When I took them outside after my nap, Tank was climbing to the top of the swingset and hurtling himself off it. I figured there was no activity that was more "little boy" than a possible shattered pelvis and thusly patted myself on the back for another parenting job well done.

Oh Homer, you never fail me.

My First Time

I remember my first time fondly. How could I forget? I was a young man, just coming into my body. It seemed like every day I could feel myself getting bigger, stronger, more of a man. This just helped propel me along the way.

Of course, it was awkward at first. There was a lot of fumbling around. I seemed to never know where to put my hands. I'd have to stop often and start over. The worst was being criticized every time I had to start over. At first, I was a little embarrassed, but with each criticism and each restart, I put my mind to getting better at it. Like so many other things in life, it required a lot of concentration and focus in order to get the job done right and done well.

I was young and full of energy, and so I made the mistake of not pacing myself. I was spent far too soon. I lay there and rested, trying to catch my breath, ready to go back in. I remember the sheen of sweat covering my skin. It was hot, and with every moment, every time our bodies were mashed together, it seemed to get hotter in a literal and figurative sense. The warm July sun was shining down on our bodies, adding to the heat and giving our bodies a youthful and powerful glow.

After I caught my breath and grabbed a quick drink, I was finally ready to get back in the game. I dove back in with reckless abandon and a zealousness that only youth could capture. I was fast, I was hard, I was tough. I learned how to use my hands, where to put them. I discovered that I could use my legs, thrust forward explosively with them, use them to my advantage to be stronger and faster and harder. I grunted, trying to capture the essence of my masculinity.

Finally, I broke free. I looked up, into a pair of blue eyes, and made a connection. It was like we were one. My hands closed around, and I drew it to my chest, holding it tight. My hands caressed the object of my desire lovingly, my arms wrapping around and cradling, keeping it close to my body. I could hear the breathy exhortations, "Yes, yes, yes...go, go, go!" And then finally it happened. I had scored. Exhausted, jubilant, sweaty from the effort, I collapsed onto the ground, a great smile on my face, beaming from ear to ear. A rushing was in my ears, and I tried to speak, but I was still panting so hard that I couldn't really put my thoughts into words. It was heavenly. It was bliss. It was wonderful.

Yep, I'll never forget my first football practice.

A Life Invented

I'm a fairly creative guy. I hate to blow my own horn (which is how my cousin Walter broke his neck), but I'm all about cooking shit up like bacon...just in an imaginary way. For instance, this here slice o'Blogosphere Heaven was originally just a way for me to talk about the joys and pains of writing a book (joys = finishing shit up, pains = rejection letters).

Since I deal in fiction, I make up people all the time. I make up names, genders, descriptions...you get the idea. Everything that would make an otherwise imaginary figment into an actual, breathing entity.

However, I haven't always done this shit in my literary worlds. No, no. See, I once made up a completely imaginary girlfriend.

Now, now, before you all go away calling me a "Loser" and trying to hide the word underneath a cough, let me tell you the circumstances. I'm sure you'll be far more entertained. Looking back, I know I'm far more entertained.

So, my wee little town sat on the county line, which meant that half of the county went to Huntington County schools, whereas the other half went to Wells County schools. This was very convenient for the creation of an imaginary sweetheart, because, naturally, my girlfriend had to go to a different school. Thusly, she was doomed to spend her days at Norwell Junior/Senior High. She lived on the other side of town, which, conveniently enough, also had a lot of apartments, which provided for a convenient "Oh, I don't know everyone who lives up there."

I guess that I should say that I invented this girl late in the sixth grade and carried her through to part of the seventh grade. This will become important later in the story.

I had to pick a name for her. This was easy. For some reason unknown to me even to this day, I loved the song Sarah by Starship. Couple that with the fact that Sarah was an extremely popular name for girls about my age, and I had a ready-made girlfriend name. Given the amount of people of Germanic heritage in my small town, I went for a somewhat bland German-sounding last name. Thus, was Sarah Klein born.

Of course, I had to describe her to people who would ask, you know, for all those times I would casually slip into conversation that I had a girlfriend. Despite the fact that my tastes trend toward the saucy redheads and the dark-haired beauties, Sarah was blonde. The reason for this was because there were a lot of fucking blonde girls running around town, so sweetie pie Sarah could have been anyone of those. Because my favorite color is green, I gave Sarah green eyes. I also made her somewhat tall, just because.

And thus, a life was born.

Now, I'm sure you're sitting there, delighting in my tale, but wondering why such a suave and debonair motherfucker like myself would need to go out crafting his own Teutonic beauty rather than just roping one in myself. The answer to this puzzlement is simple: I needed her for the sex.

Now, despite the fact that I was on my way to the eighth grade, that I was well on my way to developing a full and unruly set of pubes, that I had already seen a real-live pair of boobs, had already sat through the puberty tapes that they give you in the fifth grade--you know, the one where they separate the boys and girls into separate rooms--AND sat through the puberty tapes where they don't separate on the basis of gender, my parents still had not had the sex talk with me. I emboldened the sex talk because, whenever it was mentioned by my parents, it seemed to echo. You know, as in "someday, I'll give you the sex talk".

The sex talk is a story unto itself and will be told in due time.

Suffice it to say, Sarah Klein was a bit morally unstructured. She didn't start out that way. At first, she was all cute and sweet, but as things went along, she began to be more aggressive. For months, my tactics didn't work, until finally, Sarah's family got a place at The Lake. I've told you about that, what with the girls across the lane wearing their small bikinis all the time and...well, that's a story better suited for another day, too.

So, one night at The Lake, I was talking with my friends up there and talking about how I was going over to Sarah's cottage when her parents went out for their late night boat cruise. We were going to be doing some nasty stuff, Sarah and I, over at her imaginary lake cottage. Oh, the fun we'd have. Dusk began to settle over us, and so my friends and I went our separate ways. I went over to my grandfather's cottage, my cousin--whom, for anonymity's sake, will heretofore be known as "Napoleon"--went to his cottage where my mom and my aunt were pulling a late night sit on the front porch and bitch session, and my friend Tammy went to her cottage.

Apparently, Napoleon went to my mom and aunt and recounted, in gruesome detail, all of the nasty things Sarah and I were planning on doing that night in her cottage. Napoleon had a bad habit of flushing all of the information in his brain out through his mouth in what I like to call "oral diarrhea." Now, bear in mind, I still haven't had the sex talk. About five minutes after we all went our separate ways, here comes Napoleon into my grandfather's cottage, looking for me. I got dragged down to my cousin's cottage and I got read the fucking riot act. You'd think that, since I hadn't had the sex talk yet, there would be no fear of me becoming intimate with my imaginary girlfriend. Apparently, this was not the case.

As I stood there, much like Christ before the Sanhedrin, whilst my mother called poor Sarah a whore over and over again.

Do you like how I just set myself up to be a Messianic figure? Hey, it's my blog, I can do what I want.

My mother asked me why I was afraid to bring Sarah around--because she was a whore? She asked me why I was ashamed to be seen with her--because she was such a whore? She asked me if my father knew that the girl I was dating...was a whore? I think she might have peppered "slut" in there a few times. The memory, despite its mirthful twist, is a little hazy.

The most amusing part was that my mother then went on to tell me about how she had seen Sarah sneaking around, hiding behind trees, walking up and down the lanes between cottages, avoiding my mother's steely gaze. This part really amused me. Somehow, this figment of my imagination, cooked up primarily so that I could finally get past this great hurdle in my life known as the sex talk had not only become real, but apparently had suddenly appeared arrayed in purple and scarlet, and drinking from a golden cup full of her abominations and the filthiness of her fornication.

And, despite the fact that I created her, that I owned the copyright on her character, that I had somehow missed the fact that she had become quite corporeal and real, I wasn't getting any. I was pretty fucking cheesed at this.

Eventually, I was grounded for my efforts. I think the time was two weeks. Oh, and as further punishment, I had to break it off with Sarah. Which was too bad because, really, I'm going to guess that she grew up and got totally hot. Or addicted to meth, one of the two.

Oh, and I didn't have the sex talk for another seven months.

How I Learned to Become a Man

My maternal grandfather was, to say the least, an ornery sort. People today would probably say he was twisted, or had a sick sense of humor, or just that he was immature. I'm not sure I'd agree, but he definitely knew what amused him.

This is one of those stories.

Now, remember, I lived in a small town when I grew up. I might have mentioned it once or twice before. This was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else, and people knew shit before it went down.

So, apparently, my grandfather had been visiting one night, and I was outside doing stuff with him. I don't remember how it happened, but I'm guessing he was out working in the yard or around the house or something (he had lived there before we did, so he was familiar with the workings of the house). As it came to pass, my grandfather probably had to toss a whiz, and being outside, he did what any man does: he snaked it out and let 'er fly, hosing down the weeds out behind the garage.

I must have witnessed this, and most likely commented on it. And then my grandfather explained it to me as "Little boys like to pee outside." Which is true. Very, very true.

So, either the next day, or some time in the not-too-distant-from-the-event-future, I was out in my driveway playing. We had a big screen porch that overlooked the driveway, and my mother sat there spying upon the neighborhood watching me with a steely eye of death to make sure I didn't hurt myself or be abducted or eat cat turd or anything. Evidently, as I was out there playing, the urge struck me, so I dropped trou, snaked it out, and began hosing off the driveway.

My mother, aghast, probably uttered some syllable denoting horror, for I loudly proclaimed to the entire neighborhood "Little boys like to pee outside, Mommy!"

The only problem was, two old ladies from the church were walking past the house as I stood there, akimbo, jettisoning urine for all to see. By this time, my mother had curled into the fetal position on the floor of the porch, whimpering, because the old ladies would gossip about it at the church. That's what they did. It was their sole purpose in being.

That night, we went to visit my grandparents. Now, my maternal grandmother was fiery, to say the least. As my mother was relating the days events as it revolved around my urinary practices, my grandmother, without missing a beat, turned and started slapping the shit out of my grandfather. Without a confession, she knew who it was who had taught me that little boys like to pee outside.

My grandfather, for his part, laughed. And with that, I took my first steps on the path toward manhood.