Just a bit more

10/13/2005

Thursday

For a new and original update on why I’m on my 47th day with no intimacy, check out Unsolicited Advice.

I suppose the only reason I have any readers at all, is because everyone has an opinion. Right now there is a bookie in Vegas who is upset at me because things are not looking good for the oddsmakers.

First off, anyone with any ability in reading comprehension should be able to see I’m not berating anyone for their own broken relationships and homes. I’m simply berating those who might think they know what’s best for me and my family, sight unseen. If Arwyn were beating me and/or my children, or if she were dealing drugs in the drive way, making us a target for drive-by shootings, I’d be gone like a bird. No arguments. But that’s not what is happening here.

Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of drama to go around.

Today, Arwyn called me at work to inform me that our youngest (Elmo) is eligible for special services under the label of Significant Developmental Delay. That is a bit suprising to me, considering the boy knew his letters, numbers, colors and shapes at the age of two. I’m going to need to see those assessments. Elmo has shown some signs of delays in the area of socialization and pragmatics, but I wouldn’t say they were 2 standard deviations below the mean. This does raise the bar as far as what it might take to get me to move off.

In anycase, that’s yet another thing to drive Arwyn nuts. We spent over an hour discussing our other son last night.

It might be time to add a disability blog to my blogroll, just to give readers another view of life with a child with a disability. Or in my case, children. And I know just the one.

Still think I need to bail?

D.

Why do I stay?

10/12/2005

Wednesday

This question, that gets asked more often than any other, has reached a fever pitch in light of recent postings. So I guess it’s only fair that I give it the ample attention that it deserves.

First and foremost, there is the issue of my children. I do wonder sometimes that if it weren’t for the boys then one or both of us would fly off like a bird, winging our way far, far away like the prayer of little Jenny in Forrest Gump. But we do have two boys, ages 6 and 3, who need both their parents. The oldest, Thomas, I have previously mentioned is on the autistic spectrum. Contrary to what the earliest autism literature says, he does develop strong emotional attachments to others. And none are stronger than the attachment he has for his family. He talks about us being a family constantly, about there always being the four of us. It’s almost like he can detect the fragile nature of our relationship and knows we are held together by a single thread and tries to reinforce it in any way that he can. Our youngest also shows signs of delays, although not so significant at this time. He also requires the assurance of a stable and intact family unit.

Several folks will try to convince me that staying together is doing more harm than if we went our separate ways. I’ve read the peer reviewed research literature myself. Children benefiting from divorce is the exception, not the rule. It is so rare, that single parent households make up the fastest growing segment of impoverishment in the U.S. Children from single parent households are many times more likely to:

-be arrested

-drop out of school

-suffer from depression and other psychopathologies

-attempt suicide

-become victims of physical and sexual abuse

-Perpetrate physical and sexual abuse

-become drug users

-Join a street gang

-eventually divorce when they marry, carrying on a cycle of unstable relationships

-not go to or finish college

Many of the above are as much products of poverty as they are the divorce, itself. And there are plenty of drug users and gang members who come from intact marriages. And there are some well-adjusted people who came from divorced families; no doubt many are reading this right now. But there are many, many risks. Many of you are all too willing to gamble the lives of my children away for my own personal pleasure. Not me. At least not yet. But thanks, anyway.

While Arwyn is engaged in the abuse of negligence and rejection (with a fair amount of contempt thrown in for good measure) she is not terribly abusive. Her psychopathology (whatever it is) is not externalized very much. While this does have ramifications for my own mental health and well-being, it is not an immediate and urgent threat. It is more of a slow grinding and gnawing. Exceedingly painful, yes. But not fatal. The fictional story of the Amorite drew much more inspiration from other sources than from interactions with her.

Financially, it is cheaper to keep her rather than to dump her. At least in relative terms. She is quite expensive, though. Up until a couple of years ago, it looked much better. Now it’s closer to being a zero sum proposition. Cost alone isn’t enough of a factor to go one way or another.

I think it is important to note that I’m not that much of a bargain, myself. I’m not an attractive person. I never was, and I think this is a bigger issue in our semi-celibate than I might like to admit. As other traits of mine become less attractive or less relevant, my physical unattractiveness becomes more of a factor. Arwyn, on the other hand, is very attractive. Since I’m neither physically attractive nor rich, and can be antisocial at times, these are hard obstacles to overcome. My one redeeming physical trait is that I’m relatively tall at 6′2″. Short guys really get a short shrift.

Then we have the part of the vows that say, “What God has joined together, let no one take apart.” As a mostly evangelical Christian, this does weigh heavily on me. When the prophet Malachi said God hates divorce, that’s pretty straight talk.

So to summarize, I’m committed to my children, my wife and my God in this marriage. While things are bad, there are no truly compelling reasons to break these commitments. And there are no good reasons to believe things would improve much for me once I got out of this relationship.

Not that I don’t think about it…often. If I had another relationship to go to, that might paint things in a different light. Then I wouldn’t be escaping from something as much as working towards something better.

Convince me my children would be better off. Convince me that God would be pleased with the break up of this marriage. Convince me that I have something better to look for. Then we can talk about walking away.

Rob the commenter, gave some other options:

-Take on an affair: that is under investigation, but not likely. Possible, though.

-Live with it and accept it: Rob’s chosen option. I may pick that one down the line. As long as I’m married, it remains an option.

- Get divorced: Generally that’s an option that can be exercised only once.

- Fight for it/fix it: This one I can keep doing until I decide to execute one of the others and it is the one I choose for the present. Obstacles of childcare and cost are the hurdles at the present time which inhibit my getting help of a more professional sort.

I’ll have to discuss the professional help option at another time. I’ve been to counselors and I know people in the business. People I wouldn’t necessarily recommend. But I’m not discounting that option out of hand if the obstacles are no longer an issue. Part of my decision to fill my own mother in on this is so that she can be somewhat aware of what is going on and give whatever recommendations she can. Living 1000 miles away precludes any sort of direct help, though. Those that have family members close by for this sort of support are fortunate, indeed. Even moreso when dealing with children with special needs. Not everyone is equipped to deal with some of the behavioral challenges these kids pose. And Arwyn demands an even higher standard of trust than I do in these things.

The bottom line is that I am committed to my commitment. Not many other folks are nowadays, or so it seems if the present rate of divorce is any indication. I’m not faulting those that have done it or those that do, but I hold to a different set of standards, skewed and dysfunctional as they may be. So hopefully, this answers that question although I’m sure many others will come up along the way.

D.

Commentary on Amorite

10/10/2005

Monday

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I drew some inspiration in my last post from Dewdrop, my own wife and a few of you other bloggers. But the invectives and the general tone originates from Chris over at 100 Things I Hate About Husband. While it’s probably true her guy is a certified looney jerk, she paints a picture almost more vivid than life of a hopeless, pathetic loser. Except she likes sex with him, despite despising him as a person. I borrowed heavily from her general tone and transferred it to a situation I’m more familiar with.

The piece is designed to generate a fair amount of conflict and tension, especially from female readers. I knew I had to dampen its effects on Dewdrop, as she would be the first to recognize it. However, other female readers (including many HL ones) should be able to identify elements of their own internal dialogue albeit in a somewhat amplified state.

The female character is the only one speaking. We know that there is a male character there, but know very little else about him. Still, he evookes some sympathy from a reader due to what he is getting from his female partner in the way of verbal abuse.

While the main character is not meant to evoke sympathy, I think almost every female reading this who lives or has lived with a man will be able to identify with her in some way.

The central theme of the lead’s complaints revolve around her partner’s selfishness and weakness, which she exposes, exploits and pounces on with almost rhythmic regularity. But who is really and truly the selfish one? The poor fellow pays dearly for whatever pleasure he derrives from her attentions in the form of humiliation and guilt which is heaped on throughoout a 180 second encounter.

Some inspiration was derrived also from the male chastity literature, where female domination is paired with male humiliation on a regular basis. But this wasn’t meant to be part of a BDSM scene. Still, a male submissive or Domme would easily see it and find some enjoyment from the contradictions.

Now if I reversed the situation, and had a man playing the dominant role this scene would not play out nearly so well. Mainly because men don’t talk that much. Also because our society has been sensitized to the oppression of women, there simply would not be enough contradiction to evoke the sort of internal conflict many commenters reportedly experienced. Do you laugh? Do you cry? Do you feel sad or angry? With whom do you sympathize, the one who claims to be the victim or the one who truly looks like the victim?

My ultimate goal was to point out how modern femininity seems to engage modern masculinity. The man is treated like a selfish and impetuous child while it is the woman who is actually enveloped in total pettiness. She portrays her 180 second encounter with her chosen mate as a traumatic, opressive and totally demeaning experience. This may be true, but mostly because she made it so. She had much more important things to do with that time lasting less than 3 minutes.

A body will never come to think any better of someone by treating them poorly. As whites persecuted blacks in the southern U.S., the abusers did not develop more sympathy for those they were abusing. When Nazis persecuted Jews, they never developed sympathy for the women and children they were gassing by the train car load. When the Taliban hunted and beat women who weren’t wearing their burquas, they did not develop more sympathy, they developed more contempt.

And so it is with women who treat their men poorly. Their contempt increases and so does their own misery. And it works both ways. If one or both partners start dealing in the currency of contempt there can be no room for happiness.

Thus begins the process of redemption.

D.

Dialogue of the Amorite

10/08/2005

Saturday

A car and a woman are a lot alike. How many times, on a cold morning when you really needed it, she wouldn’t turn over? - Rodney Dangerfield

You’ll be happy to know there was no drama last night. No penis poke. No trying to initiate kissing or cuddling. No holding of hands. A bit of talking about the kids. No pressure.

When there is no pressure, there is no sex and no intimacy.

Still, I hope you’re ready to be entertained, because I am an entertainer, afterall. Here it is, my creative writing debut (on this blog, anyway). This was actually inspired by many different experiences and things I’ve read. In fact, there is one blog in particular that really provided a lot of good material. Can you guess which one? (Hint: it’s not on my blogroll.)

Dialogue of the Amorite

“Wank off discretely and don’t bother me. Don’t grope, don’t touch and for godsake, stop oogling! What are you, some kind of animal? Is sex the only thing you can think about? I find it simply disgusting the way you fixate on my boobs and ass. I’m more than just a collection of body parts, you know? Jesus, I can’t believe you want me to suck on your junk. You must be dreaming if you think I’m putting my mouth THERE. And keep your disgusting pie hole away from my secret garden, you perverted shit! I have no desire to be licked. I’m not licking you and I don’t want your disgusting scummy tongue licking me.

No, I don’t want to give you a hug. You’ll only get stiff, and start poking me with that disgusting, obnoxious stiffy of yours. You think that’s a turn on? Please. You’re such an incompetent mental midget when it comes to romancing a woman. In fact, when I think of a REAL MAN, you’re the furthest thing from my mind. Stop pouting! See? You’re nothing but a big, sissy baby!

If you figuratively kiss my ass (not for real, you retarded pig!) I MIGHT use my hands to stroke your pathetic little wee wee and get you off.

Oh for heavensake, don’t whine! My god, you are so pathetic! Alright, alright. If you’re going to be a baby about it…jesus, you’re such an infant. Go get a towel. We’re certainly not going to be messing up our nice sheets with your filth. Okay…take off your shorts. No, I’m not taking them off for you. What am I, you’re mother? God, you’re so pathetic…you’re hard already! Good, let’s get on with it, then. I hope this doesn’t take too long because I’m tired and don’t want to miss Desperate Housewives.

No, I’m not going to dress in anything remotely sexy. You’re such a selfish bastard. You think everything has to revolve around you? I’m keeping the denim jeans and hooded sweatshirt on until I’m finished indulging your childish whims.

Lube? You want me to lube my hands? My god, you are such a self-centered prick! I’m putting myself out jerking you off, and you act like the godamn king of Egypt or something! Shut your mouth and count yourself lucky that you’re getting this much, pig boy. It’s bad enough I run the risk of getting your goopy shit on my hands. I’m certainly not going to put more crap on that is going to take extra time to wash off. Besides, I have delicate skin and don’t need to risk causing a rash or something. I have allergies, you know

Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother. Do you ever think of anybody besides YOURSELF?

Pipe down! You don’t need to carry on with those disgusting guttural moaning sex noises. What if the children hear? Have you no shame? Hurry up, my hand is getting tired.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Pumping your pee-pee and you act like it’s a fucking Six Flags thrill ride or something. You are such a simple-minded twit. How could I have ended up with someone with so little sophistication? Look at you, twitching and trembling!

Excuse me? EX CUSE ME! Who the hell said you could touch my breasts, mister? Keep your filthy, disgusting, perverted paws off of my boobs! I’ve had a long day and the last thing I need is you groping me like some slimy, sex-crazed octopus! Keep your mucus-covered tentacles off me. What am I? A piece of meat? I’m so sick and tired of you treating me like I’m your own private sexual amusement park, who only exists to service your gluttonous, Neanderthal appetites. It makes me want to puke.

You are so shallow. All you ever think about is indulging in YOUR childish, perverted, simple-minded little games. Are you listening? PAY ATTENTION! My god, you just can’t do it, can you? You just can’t think or focus on anyone or anything besides yourself and your little chicken neck, here, can you? I have a mind to do a Lorena Bobbitt on your ass. Maybe then you might be a little less fixated on your little “friend” and be able to show a little respect to your wife.

Come ON! What’s taking so long? Look, my hand is getting tired. I’ll give you another minute for you to spew your spunk and then I’m finished. I have other things to do. More important things than catering to your childish selfish, self-centered “needs”.

If only your buddies and coworkers could see you now, shaking, trembling and whimpering. This isn’t exactly what I imagined, either, when we first met. I never thought I’d be sitting here, you gasping for air getting all excited while I pump away on your yucky little wiener. It could be worse. At least I’m not having to endure your stinking, grunting, rutting around between my legs with all your weight on me. God, you’re a fat slob!

FINALLY! Well, two and a half minutes. Better than you were the last time, a couple months or so ago. Now towel off while I take a shower to wash your slimy dirtiness off of me. Look at that towel…DISGUSTING! Don’t put it next to any of the other dirty clothes. Put it outside on the porch for godsakes! Do I have to tell you EVERYTHING?!?

Don’t even THINK of coming in while I’m in the shower. The last thing I need after the inconvenience and trauma you’ve just put me through is to feel your perverted, staring, oogling eyes all over me. It makes my skin crawl, just thinking about it. You can come in ONLY after I’m fully dressed in my comfy flannel sweats and have removed myself. I have no desire to look at your hairy ass. The thought of having to look at your sorry excuse for nakedness makes my skin crawl even more.

After you finish, don’t forget to scrub the toilet as well as the shower. Seeing your pubes is truly the height of disgusting. It’s not like I share your fetish for crud and sewage. It’s like you’re purposefully trying to gross me out and contaminate me and my environment. In fact, don’t touch me or anything else until we get a new can of Lysol. The last thing I and the children need is to be infected by whatever bacterial load you are hauling around on your decaying and worthless carcass.

By the way, I need $250 to buy my mother a present for her half-birthday. And the dishes need to be unloaded from the dishwasher. You don’t mind, do you?

D.

Keening and Caramel Corn

For more incendiary material, checkout my latest rant on Unsolicited Advice. Hat tip to Dewdrop for the inspiration.

10/07/2005

Friday

Last night, instead of blogging into the night, I decided to go to bed early. This was done primarily to explore the option of maybe getting something resembling intimacy on the table. We had just finished having a conversation whilst I was trying to read some of you. So I turned the PDA off and we talked about the kids. Earlier in the day we had a conversation and it terminated abruptly after she interrupted me for the dozenth time. So this time I mostly kept my mouth shut and had to really fight to keep from getting annoyed.

After talking she proceeded to get ready for bed whilst I finished my reading. 20 mintes later, I went into our bedroom and she was lying in the inverted position wrapped in her rug. I gave her some kisses consisting of a series of short pecks which she sort of returned. It was dark and I had my glasses off, so I didn’t whether or not she was grimacing or rolling her eyes. I would have been okay just cuddling for a bit. I attempted to put my arm across her chest, and she tried to move it away. A brief but comical struggle ensued as I attempted to drape my arm acrooss her, and her trying to push it away.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Your arm is too heavy! I can’t breathe!”

One would think that my biceps are the size of midsized sedans by her protestations. It was as if the sheer tonnage of a single arm of mine was going to crush her ribcage into her spine or puncture a lung. One of my mighty arms, resting against her mosquito-sized body, threatened to squeeze the life out of her like oil from an olive press. Extra virgin, of course.

I layed there for awhile, with my arms straight down by my side until my snoring woke me up. I switched to my regular sleeping position at her request.

My great grandmother came over on the boat from Ireland at the turn of the century, eventually divorcing my great grandfather. Unheard of at that time, in the Catholic church, no less. My grandad had the run of Chicago, along with his older brother since their mother was trying to scratch out enough to take care of two boys. He watched his brother fall off a roof and plummet to his death before he was 10. By the time he was in eigth grade, he was always in trouble and had pretty much quit schoool. His mother shipped him off to Iowa to stay with relatives, hoping they might be able to handle him. These folks were rough and tough. Each day, they sent him out with a .22 rifle and one bullet. That was his dinner. Whatever he shot, he ate. If he shot nothing, he ate nothing. Grandad learned to take careful aim and make every shot count. He also came to love fishing more than hunting.

Two summers ago, grandad was going through his routine. Grandma had died twenty years ago with alzheimers and cancer in her lymph nodes. He cooked and ate supper, fed his dog, and did his crossword puzzle from the local newspaper. He finished the puzzle, washed his dishes, sat back into his recliner and died at the age of 86 with his dog by his side. The same one Thomas had disliked a couple summers before Mom later checked the completed crossword; it was 100% correct.

The above has nothing whatsoever to do with last night’s sleeping with Arwyn, except that I do have a rather rich Irish history with elements of tragedy in it. Very hardy stock. I read somewhere about a curious Irish practice at funerals described as “keening.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen it, or heard it from others, but I do think I’ve done it. And I think I did it last night in the wee hours of the morning. A very long, mournful moan that came out from the depths of my soul. Arwyn gave my foot a vigorous shake (remember her head is by my feet) but I had already awakened myself. Not so much from my own noise as much as the vibration of my own bones as they resonnated to the hollow and haunted lament of my inner self. It’s as if the voices of my ancesters were calling out and protesting somehow.

Superstitious nonesense.

This morning I experimented with another holiday gift possibility; caramel corn. It turned out pretty well if the way Arwyn and the boys were gobbling the stuff up is any indication. I’ll pass on a helpful tidbit: any kind of popcorn can be microwaved. Simply put 1/3 cup into a paper lunch bag, tape the sack shut and nuke for 3-4 minutes. The bag can be reused over and over to make as much as you want. I made about 8 quarts using only one bag. No need to buy the expensive “microwavable” popcorn with all the extra junk. Put your own junk on it! All popcorn is microwavable. Save a buck or two.

D.

A Slice of Fruit Cake

10/05/2005

Wednesday

Hmmm. Maybe I should include a broader “slice of life” here more often. I’m thinking my typical angst is wearing thin. It sure gets old to me, so I can only imagine what it does to a reader.

I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of my internet time looking for recipes, cooking tips and gadgets. I even started reading a cooking blog and realized it may become my next writing frontier, especially since the whole advice bit seems to be unpopular.

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: as a chore, I dislike cooking. Cooking for the unapppreciative mob that is my family sucks the fun right out of the whole experience. It becomes drudgery. They don’t like my home made pecan waffles, they want *Eggos*! They don’t like my home made pizza, they want *Tombstone*. They don’t like my homemade bread, they want the stuff that’s sat in the store for days. They don’t want biscuits and gravy made from scratch, they want *Toaster Scrambles*. What the hell is wrong with these people? I’m trying to find ways to save money and improve our health (generally speaking) and they all prefer expensive, processed crap.

Okay, I didn’t set out to do a rant on my family’s dysfunctional eating habits. If I want to rant, I can find lots more fun things to cover. But back to food and me. Specifically, me buying, growing, cooking and eating it. Arwyn and the boys just eat it. For Arwyn, “cooking” mostly consists of taking it out of a wrapper and toasting it or heating it in a microwave or oven. Or pouring milk on it.

Sorry, I’m ranting again.

Okay, so as a chore, cooking sucks. However, there are times when it’s okay. While my kids seem to prefer Tombstone, they do enjoy making the pizzas, mainly patting and squishing the dough. In his defense, Thomas will eat almost any pizza but he gets super excited about making it. He wants to be in on every phase, from the dough to the sauce to the toppings. If I’m baking, the boys are right there. I’ll occasionally let them dump, pour and stir but they are mostly entertained by the process of flour and eggs becoming cookies, cakes and other stuff they like. And keeping young kids entertained is a challenge. Getting them involved in the process is a constructive form of entertainment.

I know quite a few dads that cook, but very few that bake. If cooking is applied chemistry, baking is akin to rocket science. I suppose there are still guys out there who think baking is “women’s work.” Quite a few women think that, too. But for now, keep your stereotypes to yourself. As every military man knows, the chow hall has more effect on morale than any other single entity or factor.

Today’s project was Fruitcake. I’ve never made it before and have never really seen it made. I don’t know if I’ve even eaten it more than 3 times in my life. And I’m not even sure if I like it. I like all the stuff in it. Or most of the stuff in mine. I went fairly light on the candied fruit and stuck with the dried sort. Problem is, all those dried fruits and nuts are mostly one color; brown. There’s light brown (light raisins), reddish brown (craisins), dark brown (dates), almost blackened brown (dried currants), and light with a brownish hue (slivered almonds)…you get the idea. The candied fruit adds a bit extra to festive-ize the color, but the flavor of those things is too much, at least for me. So I tried to cut back on that a bit. But maybe not enough. We’ll see in a couple months. They looked surprisingly edible once they came out of the oven. I wrapped and bagged them and they are sitting in an obscure, top-most part of the pantry to cure for 6+ weeks.

The idea behind this project was to have some things for Christmas that wouldn’t cause our already perilous financial position to totally hemorrage. So far, that grand baking experiment has been successful. I’ll give a cake a proper try on Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of experimenting with caramel corn and cookie/brownie mixes. I liked the fruitcake concept because I could start early.

I’m also open to other Christmas gifts that can save us from the poor house and might have a fun factor in them. We always do suger cookies and the boys like decorating them for the holidays.

My baking skills are adequate. I like looking at several recipes for the same thing in order to see any trends. For instance, I looked at dozens of fruitcake recipes. What I discovered was that I could substitute whatever nuts or fruits I wanted as long as the weight was kept constant. Or that fruit juice can be used instead of rum and brandy.

They may still end up as door stops, but least they’ll have a nice look to them.

D.

The Family Pet

10/04/2005

Tuesday

This is one of the places where I unload and if you’re reading this, you have the misfortune of carrying some of the load.

Last night I killed the family pet. It wasn’t on purpose or deliberate, but it was getting dark and I couldn’t see very well. He literally jumped in front of me and he got it. It happened so fast, no suffering was involved fortunately. But I felt bad about it nonetheless, and had the grim task of disposing of the carcass.

I have not made it a major theme of this blog, but I could easily have another entire blog on autism and my oldest son, Thomas. I’m probably some place on the spectrum myself. Thomas didn’t learn to talk until he was almost 4 years old, but once he caught on, he went nuts. We now realize that he was probably reading before he was talking. He has issues with sights and sounds that other typical kids don’t have. In the early 1970’s a fellow by the name of Dr. Lovaas gave a graphic demonstration of the sensory differences between individuals with autism and more typical people. He stood behind a yound child with autism and fired a starter gun. The kid didn’t even flinch. Next he made some sort of small scratching sound and the kid burst out screaming and crying.

Thomas wasn’t and isn’t that extreme, as he has a low tolerance for loudness, hence his nervousness at the Amy Grant concert even though it was outside and not terribly loud considering we were near the front. Most of us have been to concerts where your ears are ringing hours after it is over.

But in his younger years, Thomas had an aversion to animals and animal sounds. I could give a very quiet “moo” and he would meltdown. I took him to my grandfathers when he was about 3 and Grandad had a border collie who was nothing but friendly and sweet. But Thomas cried the whole time, refusing to be in the same house as that dog. It irritated Grandad to no end that his grandson would be so scared around his sweet dog.

About a year later, the clinic where he was getting therapy had a spring festival with a small animal petting zoo and a small pony the kids could ride. I had to just about force him to pet a lamb and a bunny rabbit and when I put him on the pony he jumped right back off. He simply had no interest in any animals at all.

Until earlier this year when he adopted a small pet that more or less just hung around our house. It was the first animal that Thomas ever really bonded with. He would spend hours talking to it and trying to feed it, although he had no interest in touching it. The pet actually lived right outside our patio and was the first thing Thomas looked for all summer long whenever he went outside. And it was usually there, in the same place, as if waiting for Thomas to come and greet it.

The pet’s name was Toadie. Toadie was…take a guess. A toad. He lived underneath the splash guard under the gutter and Thomas would lift the guard and there sat Toadie. Whenever I mowed the lawn, I would move toadie to the patio or simply put him where I’d already mowed. But last night, Toadie was not in his cusomary spot when I removed the guard. I figured he was hiding around the patio somewhere. But he wasn’t. He was in thhe grass that had gotten too tall and I got him less than 2 feet from his home. Thomas had a sleepover friend who was playing in the yard at the time, but fortunately the kids never saw it. My wife did, though. Arwyn was quite apologetic and understanding about it. We both knew that this was a possibility, and Arwyn had seen me actually pick Toadie up on more than one occasion and move him to a safer spot. Something she wouldn’t necessarily do, as she wouldn’t be caught dead picking up a toad.

So I feel bad for Toadie and moreso for Thomas who lost a friend last night. We had caught him “wrestling” with another toad earlier in the summer, so maybe his girlfriend will take up residence in the vacant space.

D.

Update: Arwyn went outside earlier this evening and looked. Sure enough, there was a toad in the usual spot. We both breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently our splash guards are considered prime real estate for the toad community.

King of Battle Deployed

Just a short post to say that letting Mom know about my situation (but not giving her a linkl to the blog) was probably the right move. she’s been through stuff with Dad and was there when my sister’s marriage was going through a lot of turmoil. No substitute for wisdom and experience, plus she knows both Arwyn and I.

In the spiritual warefare I now fight, prayer is the King of Battle, trversing distances at light speed. Mom is a prayer warrior second to none. FWIW, Arwyn is slightly softer than she was before. No sex, but that’s as much to do with me as her. She goes to bed at 8:30 and I’m just not able to turn in that early. At least there isn’t the fighting posture we’ve endured the last couple of weeks.

D.

The Other Woman

It was a joke. Female hormones affecting judgement à Female President Bad idea — > horny male president bad idea –> Bill Clinton. Lot’s of sex = Bill Clinton. Little sex = G.H. Bush and G.W. Bush. Okay, have I sufficiently connected the dots that make up my erratic thinking? I’m confused and confusing.

I could use a nice young female intern about now.

Since March of this year, we’ve had intercourse exactly twice. Two handjobs, and one of those was the cockring affair. 4 sexual encounters in 6 months. Only two of those counted if you’re keeping score accoding to our esteemed ex-president’s rules.

The longest dry spell ever was back when she was pregnant with Elmo. She was on some form of bed rest almost from the moment of conception so about 10 1/2 months of absolutely nothing.

It isn’t just the sex., though. It’s the whole constellation of intimacy surrounding it. The other night I had both boys laying down with me and I was reading Curious George Goes to the Tran Station. She was leaving to go to the store. She hugged and kissed Thomas. She hugged and kissed Elmo…and walked away. I was stunned. I stopped reading in my astonishment. She came back and gave me a small peck and left.

Even the perfunctory ritual of hello and goodbye kisses is disappearing.

Where does a guy go when he is just about at rock bottom? Who can he turn to? Besides his Good Invisible Internet Friends, of course. There really is only one place to go. To the only one who knows him as well or better than his wife. The Other Woman. His mother. It sure as hell beats having an affair at this point. While you all have been nothing but supportive (most of you most of the time) I feel the need for more substantial support. Time for the big guns.

I’ve tried to get ask Arwyn how she might feel if our boys got married to someone like her. How would she feel about them being treated the way she is treating me? She really never gave me a straight answer except hoping they would marry someone caring who wouldn’t take advantage of them. She still thinks of them as disabled and is projecting that into the future 20 years.

I’m even thinking about giving Mom the URL to this place. She’s in reasonably good health so I’m fairly confident I wouldn’t cause too much or a stroke or heart attack with some of the stuff I have here. As long as she’s sitting while reading, there shouldn’t be too much damage from the concussion once she picks herself up off the floor. Her birthday is today, so maybe I should order her one of those emergency alerts: “Help! I’ve read my son’s blog and I can’t breathe!”

There’s been a bit of discussion around anonymous blogland; what if your spouse found out? But here is a new twist: what about your parents? The only one I know of engaged in somewhat risky writing whose parents (and boyfriend and bosses and co-workers) read her blog is Kristy, who has a list of the guys she’s slept with and a picture of her ass as well as lots of discussions about her drinking and dating life posted. She even gave the URL out on a job interview once. She’s a guilty pleasure of mine, even though it bears no relation to anything I write about except this post.

So what do you think, dear readers? Transport yourself to a time and place where your children are married. If you have girls, imagine mine being the blog of your son-in-law. What the hell kind of freak did your daughter marry? Or, if I’m your son, where did you go wrong?

Yes, I’m even entertaining sending out the URL to her mother. I’ve never said anything bad about my mother-in-law here and don’t have much bad to say at all. But that might be over the top, as she’s not in as good of health as my mother. Arwyn wouldn’t forgive me for her mother ending up in the hospital because of such foolishness. And her mother would definitely give Arwyn the link so that whole party would be over.

Fact is, I’m weary of the dirty little secret that is my married life. Arwyn can really put on a good show to family and friends during the limited time we spend with them.

Meanwhile, there’s no hurry to explore all those various options. I’m still thinking and deciding. If Arwyn bolts than that actually makes things easier. But we do have small kids to think about and that makes things more complicated in addition to being deep in the red.

D.