My Transgender Child...

I have written and rewritten this post so many times it's not funny. Not because I'm afraid or embarrassed. I see it more like that surfer who's waiting on the perfect wave, or John Cusack chasing a sure thing. I  want it to be the perfect post. But maybe that doesn't exist, so here goes. I'm not gonna sugar coat it.

My oldest child is transgender, and if that offends you, well then Fuck Off. Maybe I'm supposed to say my oldest child is A transgender? I'm not really sure. Either way, if it offends you, you can still fuck off.
About a year ago they came out to their mother and I that they were transgender. It wasn't a total surprise to my wife and honestly she's handled it much better than I have. I won't lie, it's been hard for me, but one thing's for sure, I love her, or him, or them? I'm not really sure. It's complicated.

But here's the thing. I don't need you telling me how I should feel or act. Or how I should act about feelings or feel about actions. I don't need you to tell me how my child should feel or act. I don't need you to tell me how to parent my child. I don't need you to quote scripture or tell me we're all going to hell. I don't need you to pretend it doesn't exist. Or that it's just a phase.  I don't need you to whisper when talking about it. It's not a disease that you're going to get if you say it out loud. I don't need you to post shit on Facebook or Twitter about Transgender teens or Transgender parents or parents of Transgender teens or teens of Transgender parents. I don't need it. I don't need self help books, inspirational quotes, or DIY videos on how to "pray the gay away". I don't need it. I don't need your drama, your sympathy, your prayers, your good vibes, your advice or whatever YOU think I need. I don't need it.

Here's what I do need.

I do need you to love my child. Not because they are a boy or a girl. But because they are smart, and funny, and original, and hard working, and caring, and emotional, and loving, and just a kid who's trying to figure it all out in a world that wants to back them into a corner. I need you to support them. To respect them. To love them as a person. I need you to prove to them that you're with them; that you're  on their side. This. This is what I need. And if that is to much for you, well.....

Being Inspired...or not

I am not inspiring, nor am I inspired. Maybe that's part of the problem? Actually that's not entirely true. I think I was inspired recently?

You Still Writing?

An old friend posed this question to me a few days ago, "You still writing"?  I wasn't real sure what to say. I'm not sure I was ever actually "writing" even when I was "writing". Just putting jargon to a screen doesn't make me a writer any more than swimming makes you a fish. But whatever. I told him "no not really". It's not like I don't want to, I just lack the inspiration.

And Then It Hits You

The other day I logged onto Facebook to see another old friend had started a blog. I was happy. As if he had joined the club or something. I read his posts then followed his blog. He wrote about inspiring shit. Shit that helps him get through his day. Shit like, cease the moment, and be who you want to be. Shit that maybe should help me, but quite frankly doesn't. Nonetheless, I was glad he finally started writing.  

We Couldn't All be Cowboys

As long as we're on the subject of what my problems are. I think my problem is I'm a Simpleton. I'm just kidding, I'm no Simpleton, I'm chicken shit, well, and maybe lazy, but mostly chicken shit.  I'm afraid of change. I don't think you need a couch and a PhD to figure that out. For the most part I enjoy a simple life this is true But the problem with that is I get bored with it. And when it bores me I get depressed. Maybe I just need a little more adventure. Maybe I should find a traveling rodeo. After all, some of us are clowns. 

These Shoes

They say you can tell a lot about a man just by looking at his shoes. This pair of New Balance 505 have been with me for 15 years at least. They were once my everyday, do everything in shoe. I've played ball in them, wore them to work, and have had 3 kids with them. Through the years they've picked up a few holes, and lost a lace or two. Nowadays they only work around the house, sometimes spending the night outside if they've stepped in something or to dry off. They work in the garage when the oil needs changed, or out in the garden.They mow grass and take out trash and on occasion they may make an appearance to the local dollar store. Yes, they've been through it all, These Shoes. Here's to many more miles.

Sit Your Ass Down....Dad

On Sunday mornings my son plays basketball in a league. It's a recreational league that's he's played in for a couple years now. I enjoy watching him play but today's games were a little different.

He plays two game each week and today his mother couldn't be there so it was just me on the bleachers.

As I sat down and watch the boys warm up for the first game. I saw faces of other parents with boys' on my sons' team. We made small talk until the game started.

As the game wore on, I heard fathers and a couple mothers, but mostly fathers shouting. Shouting at referees, and at kids.

I heard one father in particular, that before too long I was listening to the yelling more than I was paying attention to the game.

"Why did he do that? You've gotta dribble. Pass the ball. Seriously, that's a foul. Block out, you let that kid go right around you. Don't foul".

Finally I'd had enough...

Look maybe your kid just isn't that good, I said. Maybe this isn't the NBA All-Star game. Maybe your son is just having fun playing basketball. He's gonna screw up every once in a while. He's gonna take bad shots and get beat on defense, he's 10. So why don't you just sit here, shut up, and watch the damn game. After wards tell him how proud you are of his efforts. Applaud him for hustling and playing hard when he's in the game, and when it's all over remember again, he's 10. No colleges are gonna recruit him today and I don't see any NBA scouts in this gym. He's not here to relive your glory days. Face it, maybe your son just isn't that good.

And for the second game....

I didn't say a word.

You see, after the first game, somewhere between believing my kid was great and being competitive, I realized that maybe he's just not that good. Maybe he's just a kid who likes playing ball, who's going to screw up from time to time, and won't be the best player on the court. Maybe it's really me who needs to sit down and shut up.

The boy played the second game just the same as he did the first. He hustled and played hard.He made some good plays, and he screwed up once in awhile. But at least for this game his annoying dad wasn't yelling from the bleachers.

Not Exactly What I Expected....

Very early on in my life I determined that an English Bulldog was my favorite breed of dog. All I really knew about them was that they wore spiked collars and were named Brutus or Spike. They had mean faces and didn't take any shit from nothing or nobody.  And I just knew that one day I would  have one.

Now though the years I've had a few different dogs, but not any that I "really" wanted, or that was my dog of choice. When I was little there was our family dog. She was a poodle and barked a lot. Then when I got my own place, I had an Australian Sheapard that was to large for an apartment. And a few years after the DW and I got married we rescued a black lab from the pound. All were great dogs, just not exactly the "Take No Shit " dog I wanted. 

All these years later, I finally got my Bulldog....

Not exactly what I expected, but we love them....

times two...

Not exactly the killer, Take No Shit dogs I'd expected, but we love them.......

Fuck Off...

Yesterday I was welcomed to 2017 by my fellow man, or in this case a woman, with a big fat, Fuck Off.

So I'm driving down the highway slowly going back to work after lunch, and I see a car fast approaching in my rearview mirror. I didn't think to much of it, but apparently they thought I was going to slow and they decided to pass me. And as they passed I looked over and the girl sitting in the passenger seat flips me the bird.



What the hell??

I was pissed for a couple reasons. She looked like she was in her early twenties and it was noon which can only mean one thing, she'd been day drinking. So that pissed me off because I had to go back to work and couldn't day drink. Second, the car was a POS. Muffler dragging on the ground, four bald tires that didn't match, red duct tape on the back tail light, you know the type. So I was pretty pissed that here I am a grown ass man with a wife, kids and a career, and I'm getting passed on the highway by some twenty-something who was out day drinking riding around in a piece of shit car that was going faster than my piece of shit car. And she wasn't even the one driving. I mean I could almost understand her anger if she was behind the wheel and had to get to court or out buying a pack of smokes and I was holding her up or something, but she's the passenger. Back in my day when you had shotgun you were just supposed to sit there and be cool, change the CD every once in a while, and watch for cops.

But what pissed me off the most is that as they passed, and she pressed her middle finger to the dirty glass of her boyfriend/husbands POS car, she didn't even bother to look at me. Nope, she kept her eyes focused straight ahead. Didn't glance at me, didn't mouth the words MF or Fuck Off or anything. Just kept looking straight ahead. Why does that piss me off so much? Here's the thing.

If you're going to flip somebody off and tell the to Fuck Off because they are driving to slow, then own that shit. As you pass them, look 'em straight in the eye, and let them see that finger. Don't hide. Don't be embarrassed or ashamed of it. Own it. Tell them with authority that you're mad as hell and you're not gonna take it anymore.

It crossed my mind after they passed to speed up and tell this little punk what I thought about her shenanigans. The piece of shit car she was in, the day drinking, not looking at me when she flipped me off, the whole nine yard, but.... I couldn't catch 'em.