My Kids are Becoming Adults

Now I’m not lamenting the fact I am old. That became a very well established little factoid in my life a while ago. For me it was some time around hearing 80’s music played on the “Oldies” station. For my wife it may have started when our son asked if she was a nurse during World War II. I’ve been acutely aware of my place on the age food chain since the day I discovered I was invisible to any female in her 20’s (or 30’s for that matter). It’s not so much that I necessarily want them fawning all over me; it would just be nice to have my existence acknowledged. Actually, the real epiphany on how old I am came when I realized that even if young women did notice me, I wouldn’t know what to do anymore.

No, my geezer status has been firmly established and accepted. This is about seeing my kids become unique individuals, transcending being more than mere byproducts of my wife and my combined genetics. It starts around the time they give you that first “could you be more out of it and still be breathing” look. For most kids this is the teen years, but for some (like my son Jude) it can happen as early as 4. This can be a bit off putting the first time it happens. I mean after all, I have all the answers as the parent. Kids aren’t supposed to be justified in their disobedience or (God forbid) be smarter than us.  Seriously, they aren’t. Unfortunately for my normally, indestructible ego, they often time are.

One of the great things about having as many kids as I do is that you see them at all developmental stages at the same time, and so can they. They can gang up on you, question what you know (or thought you knew) and teach you to see the world from a fresh perspective.  OK, when I put it that way, it doesn’t seem like such a plus. In fact, it actually sucks when it’s happening. The power of getting this perspective is that it’s just enough of your influence to get past your own defenses and just enough of them to blow your mind wide open. Like, totally man. (Wow, I just can’t stop dating myself.)

As far as landmark, maturity moments go, the day that I sat down and had a beer with my oldest in a bar when he turned 21 paled in comparison to the day that he was able to hold his own verbally in a room full of my most acerbically bitter peers, years earlier.  Not to mention, when I saw a quote from one of my literary idols: “Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything. – Kurt Vonnegut” and juxtapose that with what I heard my teenager say at the kitchen table one night: “Age is simply a chronological demarcation of how dead you are inside. – Sam Luby” it can give you pause.

Bottom line, I’m not fighting this anymore. I’m digging it and looking forward to more.

An Object Lesson that Really Strikes a Cord

This all started yesterday when we went to get the pottery wheel we gave our daughter Mary for Christmas out, so we could enjoy a little arts and crafts time. No, scratch that, this actually goes back farther, to a few weeks ago when we were trying to get the amplifier we got my other daughter Sophie for Christmas to work.

Her electric bass guitar was tough to hear without an amplifier and we couldn’t find its power cord, since discovering its disappearance when we unpacked all the Christmas gifts we shipped home from our Omaha yuletide extravaganza. I had meticulously repacked all the toys, musical instruments and other various bits of holiday joy, making sure that everything was in its original box, resealed and ready for transport. Only to find, to my OCD shock and dismay, that Sophie’s power chord was missing. Impossible as it may seem, I had made an organizational blunder. I know, right! It was like finding out that Steven Hawking made a math error or hearing that Gandhi punched someone out in the chia tea line at the Bali Starbuck. It was just too impossible to believe that it could happen.

We looked all over and couldn’t find the chord to the amp. I even went to Radio shack and was prepared to lay out $30 to get a chord that would fit. But alas, they just didn’t have anything that would work. Being a guy who never waists a trip, I decided to buy two adaptors (plugs that have a USB in slot) for the boys, so they could charge their iPods in the wall and not only on the computer at a $45 bargain. Sophie went on to her bass lesson to try to get a chord there (there being adjacent to a music store) only to find that her amp was not a bass amp but guitar amp and a cheap on at that. Apparently Toys-R-Us isn’t the best place to shop if you’re a roadie. So $75 later we are properly equipped. I decided that with no power cord and no future use in site, I might as well throw the useless amp away. So I did.

Flash forward to yesterday, and getting the pottery wheel out. I was setting it up when to my dismay the power cord didn’t fit. I think we all see where this is going. Yes, this was the elusive amp cord. Wiping away the irony that was dripping into my eyes, I still was unable to discover where the cord to the pottery wheel was? I started to look everywhere again. While I’m looking I stumble onto two adaptors in an old pile of electrical gear that, you guessed it are plug/USB adapters. Awesome! Well, at least I know now I have a couple of spares.

It’s off to Radio Shack again. While the guy is trying to find a chord that will work on a pottery wheel and figure out what planet I’m from, I realize that for $30 I might as well just buy a new toy. So now I leave the store and a clerk who is absolutely positive that I am the antichrist sent straight from hell to break his brain, and head to Wal-Mart to buy a pottery wheel (and extra clay pack) for $30. Gad, I’m such a genius. The entire ride home was a barrage of self-administered positive affirmations for my brilliance at not wasting money at Radio Shack.

As I’m telling my wife how smart I am, Mary opens the box and says, “There’s no power cord?” As I examine it I see a hole for a power cord but now power cord in the box. I turn the device over and notice that there are panels for batteries on the bottom. “Oh,” I mutter, “It must be optional. You must have to use batteries.” As I’m speaking these words, my son turns the original pottery wheel over and shows me the panels for batteries on it. Cue the anvil that should be hitting me, ala Wyle E Coyote, at this time. So now it’s back in the car and back to Wal-Mart to get batteries (two sets now).

The pottery day was a success and I’m glad we have two wheels with all the kid, but it was on the whole a $155 object lesson on the subject of “Steve’s not nearly as smart or as organized as he thinks he is”

My wife could have told me that for nothing.

The Way I Like to Run

Some people like to run marathons or triathlons. This has become very popular with quite a few of my friends recently. Other people I know like to jog or hit a tread mill at a gym. Even I myself have been known to pound out a couple miles to blow off steam and/or a few calories. Yes, guilty as charged.

But, in my opinion, the best way to run is going on a run. When I was younger it meant the now famous or infamous beer run (B double E double R-U-N) or who could forget the late night Taco Bell run. I still contend that if they wanted to clean up the drunk drivers, you simply pull over anyone leaving the Taco Bell after 1AM or anyone buying those burritos in the green wrapper at the gas station. But I digress.

The best run of them all, in my opinion though, is the serendipitous treat run. What is better than sitting on the couch and hearing your wife wistfully pine out loud (just loud enough for anyone to hear) that she was in the mood for something chocolate or pecan pie-ish or like a cookie or cake. To me this is total and complete awesomeness as it does two things simultaneously. First, it satisfies the natural urge to be naughty and B. it satisfies the universal urge for treats!

Sometimes it’s just the two of us on secret sweet tryst (say that three time fast). Sometimes, it’s our whole family rebelling against convention and having a sugar infused celebration. Regardless, it’s a chance to share surreptitious giggles of solidarity against the forces of nutrition or furtive glances of delight in the shared pleasure of simple, delicious decadence.

So before I go into my sugar coma, let me admonish you thusly: if you have someone in your life that can manufacture spontaneity like that, you damn well better act on it. Life is too short, and anyway, I heard that too much green tea can give you cancer. Seriously, my friend’s brother has a friend who’s a doctor and he said so. Seriously.

Call Me Rubin

My wife is a genius! This is a recurrent theme in my life, but this Christmas it really played itself out again (at least in this one way). She suggested that we get musical instruments for all the kids. They all have different musical predilections and we were able to set them up accordingly. Sam is on the guitar, Sophie on the bass guitar, Aiden on keyboard, Mack on drums and Mary is on piano to help her singing. We got them all into lessons (including voice for Mary) and have everyone in music of some sort, except for Jude. Now while he is quite a singer and very musically inclined, at four he’s just too young to invest in. Sorry, I don’t buy the whole, my kid is Amadeus crap. He’s just not ready but he is standing in the on deck circle. Don’t think I’m not leaving out my oldest, Seth. He wasn’t included in this round as he has moved out, would rather have cash for Christmas and we already got him into drums when he was younger. He has been covered already. I believe he is dabbling in some guitar and sound mixing now back in Omaha, but on his own dime. The seed was properly planted and is now growing.


I am really looking forward to jam sessions on the back patio around a fire pit, at holidays and any family occasions. Singing, playing, and creating away the night is a great way to spend family time. We’re giving them a foundation that will help them scholastically, socially and spiritually. We are forging a unique family bond scribed on our souls with the notes born of our own hearts.

Holy crap, who am I kidding, I am sitting on a freaking gold mine here. Let’s face it, my kids are really, really, really, really, ridiculously good looking and they all know how to turn left. I don’t want to be obnoxious, and I know that everyone thinks their kids are cute, but Amy and I make great looking humans. We have the whole band and more if I can convince Seth to join us with the mixing board or in the band.

Look at all the Idol, Voice and American Talent tripe that people are lapping up. We are coming out of a recession and it’s like the 70’s all over again. Now while I believe we should all hold hands and pray to the good Lord that disco doesn’t rise from its glittery ashes like some polyester clad zombie, I think America needs a family band. Don’t knock the Partridge or DeFranco families. I could promote, mentor and drive the bus like Rubin Kincaid and I’m damn sure Amy can gut, dress and mount a record company stooge in at least 28 seconds flat. There is a place for this kind of saccharine pop creation and it’s called the bank baby!

If the Monkeys can sell 13 million records then why can’t the Asynchronous Luby Experiment? Don’t like that name? How about the Lubonic Plague? No, that’s too death metal. What about the Electric Luby Orchestra? No that’s been done. I’m damn sure not going the Hanson route with just Luby or the Luby Family Singers which is just too Grand Ole Opry or Sound of Music for my taste. How about Luby in the Sky with Diamond? No too drug culture for my kids, which automatically rules out the Bare Naked Lubys (even though Jude could contribute some awesome album cover art). Well, I’m open to suggestions, so while I don’t know the name of the band yet, you can definitely call me Rubin.

I'm Back!

To quote one my favorite t-shirts of all time (worn by my son), “I have gone to find myself. If I get back before I return, keep me here.”


I have been gone for a long time, longer than I have been gone from this blog.

How have I been gone you ask? Well, I’ve been a real gone cat. I’ve definitely gone overboard. I’ve gone crazy a couple of times. I’ve gone over the rainbow (don’t judge). I’ve gone fishin’. I’ve gone down the tubes. I’ve gone to the dogs. I’ve gone but not forgotten. I’ve gone wild. I’ve gone online. I’ve gone bananas. I’ve gone silent (not for long though). I’ve gone over the edge. I’ve gone country. I’ve gone postal. I’ve gone to Carolina in my mind (and literally). I’ve gone hungry. I’ve gone with the wind. I’ve gone up in flames. I’ve gone in 60 seconds. I’ve gone baby gone. I’ve gone off the deep end. I’ve gone viral. I’ve definitely gone too far.

I have gone but I have never been gone for good.

Now that I’m here, I don’t ever want to go away again. You may live to regret it, but then you don’t have to keep reading this. So if you find what I write amusing, or you just like to masochistically torture yourself, don’t worry, I will keep me here.

Facebook and the Eroding Quality of My Life OR How I Became a Digital Hermit

I lead a very busy life. I have seven kids, a full time sales job, a 17 year old marriage, various crushing debt, and a perpetually in motion household to juggle. I don’t have time for everything I have to do on the emergency essentials list, let alone time for something extra. True story, I actually found myself at Wal-Mart this morning at 3AM trying to buy backpacks because I didn’t want to waist the extra time I had on my hands due to insomnia.

To compound all this, because I work from home I am pretty much trapped here unless I can make an excuse to get out. Did I mention that here (Greenville) is over a thousand miles away from most of my friends and family. So, Facebook has been the only connection I’ve had to friends scattered around the country and people I don’t get to see. That’s how it started. That’s how it always starts.

What started out as a great way to stay in touch with the world; has turned into a social addiction. Now my life line has become a constant conduit of irritation for me. One of the reasons is that I have too many friends! Right now I have 436 “friends” and that’s nothing compared to most people. I don’t really know all these people that well. Lots of them are business acquaintances, people I haven’t seen since high school (some I still don’t remember) or marketing generated non people. Unfortunately my fake popularity leaves me with a tsunami of pseudo correspondence that I can’t seem to keep up with. I would hide most of these people but then what’s the point of having someone as a friend if you never see anything from them. I can do that without Facebook. Besides, finding those few real nuggets of personal communication in the avalanche posts is why you friended them in the first place. I also can’t deny the voyeuristic allure of seeing what everybody is doing, saying and feeling. But I have made some rules:

1. Applications of almost every kind get hidden. I am blissfully unaware of who is playing farm world, or mafia guy or super word dice. I don’t care. I can hide that and it all goes away.

2. I do not friend the friends of my children. I love my kids and its bad enough that I’m exposed to some the stuff they are saying (and vice versa). If I had to endure a never ending string of bad grammar and text speak they use in lieu of communication, I may do bodily harm to myself or others.

3. I hate amateur DJ’s and Evangelists. If you are going to post 20 links to your favorite songs every day, you are getting hidden from my Home page. If you are posting links to or pasting scripture with no context to your life or good reason 4 times a day you are also getting hidden.

4. If you are from Las Vegas and have a stock photo for a profile and list “credit” anywhere in your info, I am not “friending” you because you are not real. You are a marketing drone for a company and will advertise to me.

That seems to keep some of it at bay, but it still unfortunately leaves me with those that I am unable to selectively block. Stop Facebooking and seek professional help if you are one of these people:

1. Scrap booker - People who constantly post pictures of their kids or pets. Everyone does it once in a while and it’s cool. But if you are doing it every day or “chronicling” the life of a child or pet. Please stop, if not for my sake or their future privacy at least to protect your legacy in their tell-all book.

2. Wiseman – If you have a calendar of daily quotation or a book of said same, keep them to yourself. Odds are if it’s in the book or on the calendar, we’ve all heard it before. You may feel like Gandhi but you look like Xerox.

3. Salesman – If you are continually marketing your company or giving me helpful links to news articles about your job, please stop. I don’t like my job, why would I want to like someone else’s. Oh and posting a link to news article does not make me see you as an authority, it makes me see you as a person who knows how to post links.

4. Politician – There was a time in my life when I was passionate about politics. That time was when I was young and stupid and believed that any of it mattered. All political ranting ever gets anyone is angry, stupid looking and stereo typed. I have an easy enough time doing all of these things as it is and don’t need any help. So don’t bait me into your discussion of how your side is the second coming and the other side is evil incarnate. I personally prefer to be happy rather than right these days.

5. Exhibitionist – Everyone knows that person who posts every embarrassing picture of themselves and friends from parties, makes every comment a double entendre or outright come on. If you’ve forgotten it’s a public forum and don’t care about yourself, please think of those you are posting to, and those that see these post on their wall but don’t know you or get the inside jokes. That’s what an email or text thread is for. Keep it private if not for you, for those who may become your inadvertent collateral damage.

6. Infected – If you can’t resist clicking on links to outrageous content that is clearly a virus and spreading it to everyone on your friend list, you should really stop Facebooking and just go back to browsing porn.

7. Parrots – If you loved chain letters and couldn’t understand why everyone stopped emailing you, please (for the love of God) don’t get on Facebook. And if you must, at the very least disable your ability to copy and paste text. Being dared to, shamed not to or blackmailed by the love of God to post something leaves me no choice but to ignore it. Causes, heartfelt sentiment or moral evangelization that is simply copied and pasted means as much to me as the act of throwing a penny at a homeless guy’s head means to ending poverty. If I have a cause I will donate money or time to it, both of which are tangible acts of commitment to helping someone else. As far as I’m concerned, “raising awareness” by itself only helps you feel good about yourself.

8. Black hole – If you need to vomit your relationship problems and emotional foibles for the world to see, please have a point. Being depressed for depression sake is, well, depressing. I have more than enough drama in my life already that I’m trying to off-load. As Jack said, “Go sell crazy somewhere else, we’re all full here!”

Now don’t get me wrong, we are all guilty of this behavior from time to time (myself included). If you find that any of these behaviors are habitual you need help. Remember, all things in moderation.

At the end of the day, though, all this is pretty tolerable. If you want to know the truth, what is really killing me (and making me consider dumping the whole thing) is my own behavior. I find myself stalking people. If my wife tells me one thing and posts another, my blood pressure approaches aneurism levels. If my kids are doing and saying crazy kid things, I become over protective. If I feel like I’m being mischaracterized or maligned, I become defensive. If I don’t get the joke, I feel alienated and left out. It’s such a public forum that even with the ability to retract what you say, once it’s out there, it’s out there forever (or at least 3 years according to the privacy agreement).

But then again, isn’t that the way real life is? Don’t we all wish we could take back things we said or did? Don’t we all want to erase the damage we’ve done to those we love? Don’t we all want to be loved and accepted? I know, the problem isn’t Facebook, the problem is me. It’s just that Facebook isn’t real enough anymore to help me. It is, unfortunately real enough to break my brain.

I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should take a poll of all my Facebook friends and see what they think ;)

Wolverine Dad

Last month I broke my hand (don’t ask) and went to the doctor. I begged him not to put a permanent cast on it because I have to use my computer to work. I begged and pleaded and finally he conceded to letting me wear a Velcro splint. There was one condition. I had to return in two weeks to take another x-ray and if it wasn’t healing properly they would replace it with a permanent one.


Two weeks went by and I returned for my x-ray. The doctor came in looking concerned and asked me lots of questions about my hand. Had I ever broken it before? Was I taking any other medications? Then he left and came back with another doctor and they were both frowning at my x-rays. Now I was worried.

“Um, is there something wrong with my hand, doc?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with your hand is that there’s almost nothing wrong with your hand. It’s almost completely healed.”

They proceeded to show me the x-rays and sure enough what was a large v shaped split was now a barely visible line. I was kind of taken aback.

“So no cast right?”

“Heck, you don’t even need the splint from looking at this. However, just wear it for another week.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel comfortable telling you to not wear it after two weeks.” He said shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

Doctor two asked, “Have you ever broken any other bones?”

I proceeded to tell him about my collar bone and how it took four and a half weeks to heal.

“Hmmm that’s pretty normal. Can you tell me more about the break?”

I then told him how it shattered and never grew back together with the bones meeting tip to tip. Rather, they rested next to each other with about a half inch overlap. This garnered more raised eyebrows and I was told that a set like that would normally take twice as long to heal or more. Apparently four and a half weeks for that was faster than the hand. I responded that I was in college and much younger then.

At that point I decided to leave before people in dark sunglasses and lab coats came to take me to a “secured facility” to “study” me.

For a long time we’ve joked around my house that I’m the Omega Man. I’ll be the only one left after the mutant virus outbreak because of my odd blood. I found out at a blood donor years ago that my blood has rare antibodies that make me an ideal donor for infant surgeries (it also helps that I’m O+). Apparently lots of people have a few extra antibodies, but I have several.

I’ve also always contested that there is something wrong with the way that my nerve endings are myelinated, because I don’t feel pain like I should. Believe me; I’m not tough by any stretch of the imagination. I just don’t feel pain like I should. It’s the only way I can describe it.

But this bone thing tops them all. I missed my calling. Should have been a stuntman or a soldier or as I heard my son saying to his friend the other day, “No, seriously! My dad is like Wolverine!”