tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81568009287376871432024-03-13T17:24:13.797-04:00Clark Kent's LunchboxI have kids. We have issues. Therefore, I write.Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comBlogger597125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-78992441380110073712014-12-01T14:15:00.001-05:002020-01-19T14:08:11.658-05:00Porn: A Personal History<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tzz5oY3vbaM/VHvnQHsoY4I/AAAAAAAAjDM/tmTwJ46Viuw/s1600/Porn%2BHistory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tzz5oY3vbaM/VHvnQHsoY4I/AAAAAAAAjDM/tmTwJ46Viuw/s1600/Porn%2BHistory.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am by no means a porn fiend. I have no enslaving compulsions
that keep me shackled in front of a computer screen pulsating with digital smut. In fact, my feelings about porn in general are on par with
the same ambivalence I reserve for the release of another <i>Fast and Furious</i> movie, which is probably the reason why the whole idea of porn addiction baffles me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not denying that pornography has tragically ruined lives,
marriages, and families. It's just that when I think of addiction I envision gaunt junkies shooting
up the second they get out of bed in the morning or douchey Wall Street brokers snorting lines in the company washroom during lunch—quick fixes that keep you high
throughout your day. In contrast, it seems to me watching porn would require something of a
significant time commitment, and who can free up those kind of hours these
days? By the same token, another part of me, the part that tends to gravitate to
morbidly extreme consequences, views addiction within the context of death. With drugs,
you can OD. Alcoholics can get cirrhosis of the liver. Cigarettes lead to
cancer. And porn? <i>Heart attack maybe? Friction burn?</i></div>
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To be fair I’m not downplaying the reality of porn addiction. I’m only saying I don’t understand the mindset much the
same way I don’t understand why anyone would take anything that comes out of Ann Coulter's mouth seriously or how so many viewers could manage to keep <i>The Mentalist</i> running on TV for seven seasons. Then again I have so much wrong with the dysfunctional chemical
fruit salad that is my brain, a porn addiction might be welcome change. <i>(Click on the title to read more)</i><br />
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Throughout adulthood, the amount of time I’ve spent viewing porn is really dictated by a precise alignment of planets: 1. the primal urge
strikes, 2. no one’s home, and 3. hey, look, there’s a computer. Any combination of two of
these conditions may be present at given moment, but the absence of the third negates any sort of follow through. In other words, perfect alignment is indeed a rare occurrence, which ultimately is to say I don’t go foraging around in porn sites that often. But even if I did there are three factors rooted
in prior experience that consistently put a damper on being able to enjoy the experience as others might. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Influence 1: Living in North Korea</h4>
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The first of these factors stems from my childhood growing
up under the specter of hardcore Evangelical religious beliefs, which if you’ve
never experienced such oppressive bliss, is a great deal like living in North Korea, complete with
little dictators sporting irreparably bad haircuts. According to the regime engaging in such innocent activities as dancing, listening to secular music, and going to the movies were crimes against the state as was the
wearing of any article of clothing that hung above the knee.</div>
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By these standards then, sexual intercourse, and by extension,
pornography were so grievous they were not to be even spoken of. Furthermore, with every
adult authority figure lurking like the secret police around the corners at my
school, the State did everything it could to repress the demonic hormonal urges
yearning to be exorcised from our bodies. In an ironic sense it could be said that their tactics were effective given that every student spent every minute of our morning prayer time, from 7th grade until graduation, silently pleading with God to hold off on the
Rapture long enough for them to experience the joy of sex at least once in their life. </div>
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Technically speaking it’s probably some form of PTSD that,
30 plus years later, still resurrects the notion that even if the Christian
Party isn’t peeking through my windows the instant I click through a porn site,
God is. Ludicrous, I know especially when compared to the more realistic possibly of my parents catching me as a teen which, oddly, never worried me too
much even when I was found out. Not that being caught didn't embarrass me to
the point of death. And yes, it came with a serious discussion about the
wrongness of objectifying women, but in the case of my mother, not before being
preceded by a much harsher admonishment to keep it away from my father because she
couldn’t put up with two solid weeks of him acting “twitterpated” as she often referred to it. Even at 14, the subtlety in her words was not lost on me. </div>
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Influence 2: Occupational Hazard</h4>
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The second factor affecting the enjoyment of porn relates directly to my job as a
digital marketer. In my line of work I have a trained eye that’s quick to
identify the shortcomings of a perspective client’s website and online
marketing tactics. I’ve been doing this for so long I can shut it off even when it
comes to porn sites. <i>Keywords missing in
the URL structure, not using alt-tags for pictures, too many flash elements—that’ll
get you penalized by Google’s ranking algorithm</i>. I once tried to open a video on one sub-par page and it had to buffer! <i>Hello, 2002 called.
It wants its website back. </i></div>
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And yet, for the few sites that get it wrong, the vast
majority I’ve come across nail it. They know their audience; the layout makes for easy navigation to find content; their keyword strategy keeps them ranked on
the 1<sup>st</sup> page of search results; there are forms to collect lead
information for follow up (albeit pushy) marketing campaigns; and social media
buttons are present to share content with your friends (although, I don’t know
anyone who would do this, and I’d probably unfriend them if they did). <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ll stop with the technical jargon, but in short, it astounds
me that multi-million dollar companies with full marketing departments and experienced
marketing executives can’t grasp these fundamental strategies, and yet a couple
of skeevy college dropouts with a moderate amount of programming skills are
absolutely crushing it from the dark confines of their parent’s basement in between hits from a bong. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The issue, though, is that there have been more than a few instances when my original viewing intent took a back seat to my suddenly taking notes on tactics that could be adapted for clients. I’m not kidding when I say I’ve seriously considered the
pros and cons of showing several of these porn sites to potential clients to
demonstrate just how far behind the eight ball their companies are. In fact, I would content
that if prostitution is the oldest profession, then Internet porn is the oldest
form of digital marketing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Influence 3: Satan's Girlfriend</h4>
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The final factor influencing my viewing of porn is
again rooted in my teen years. Like every 15 year-old boy, my simmering hormones
were ready to boil over at any minute simply from the notion of catching the slightest glimpse of a
breast, or inner thigh, or hell, in those days I would’ve been satisfied with a delicately shaved armpit.</div>
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Those natural adolescent desires were fulfilled by my cousin (allow me
to finish this sentence before jumping to any conclusions) who had a talent for sneaking into his older brother’s room to pilfer from the abundant
stash of porno mags hidden neatly away under the bed. During the summer once everyone had left for work, the two of us would lounge around his living room
wordlessly flipping through pages, ogling the centerfolds with a mix of awe and tight-lipped befuddlement as to what to even do with a naked woman should she be
sitting in the Microsuede La-z-boy across the room from us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It should be noted that these particular periodicals were
no <i>Playboy</i>, exuding sophistication
and catering to the modern gentleman. These were more of the variety encased in
greasy, impenetrable plastic sheaths and leering suggestively from the top shelves of display racks
found in convenience stores with questionable cleaning practices and colorful language carved into the restroom walls. I don’t remember the magazine’s exact
title, but it was along the lines of “Cherry” or “Spank” or one of those other
libidinous publications that rely on crude one-word double entendres in an
attempt to be clever without challenging the critical thinking skills of the trucker and trailer park demographic that formed the majority of their target
audience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whenever a new issue appeared, my cousin and I would sit
side by side, each making our own silent evaluation of the models until I would pensively announce, “ready” at which time my cousin would reverently turn the page to reveal yet another blonde or brunette or ever
exotic red head, their smooth exposed flesh splayed alluring and unabashed from
corner to corner across the page. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On the surface, nothing, and I mean <i>nothing</i> was left to the imagination. This might have been more than enough
for most boys my age, but not me. Call it a quirk, but I couldn’t merely accept
what I was viewing for what it was. Without some context I just wasn’t buying
it, and so as a remedy to my unusual conundrum, I devised stories to go along with the
pictures. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps it was a stressed out teacher (Incidentally, stressed out teachers
and librarians were often my go-to persona of choice since these were basically the only two
jobs women could find in my small town until Wal-Mart came to town.) who was enjoying a much needed weekend relaxing at the pool when she decided she'd avoid tan lines by removing her bikini. Admittedly my creativity was
often challenged by what these stressed out teachers and librarians began to do
to their bodies once their outfits came off. Even so, by the time my cousin
asked if I was ready I’d have a fairly solid character arc going. “Ready,” I’d answer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And that brings us to the afternoon when the page slowly fell to the side, exposing me to the most awkward and revolting image I had ever seen
in my life. Staring up at me through thick dark eyeliner was the nude figure of
what appeared to be a woman who by the menacing smile on her blackened lips seemed
to be responding to my horrified expression. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My reaction wasn’t due to her glossy thigh-high leather boots
with murderous six-inch heels or her equally black hair pulled austerely into a pony tail
that reminded me of a scorpion’s stinger, nor was it the matching leather whip she held eagerly wanting to snap at me from beyond the page. Although, not exactly my cup of tea per se, I at least could grasp the whole mean-girl get up. What truly frightened me, however, was the eight inch, fully erect flesh cannon attached to her as
naturally as if on a man, the sight of which caused me to gasp noticeably. Adding to my trauma was the fact that I couldn’t manage to avert my eyes from the page.
It was simultaneously repulsive and yet utterly fascinating at the same time. She was
what I imagined Satan’s girlfriend would look like assuming the devil had a love life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After the initial shock wore off I noticed the unambiguous deading at the top of
the page—"Chicks with…" (rhymes with <i>sticks</i>, starts with <i>D)</i>. The implied suggestion that
more than one of these “chicks” existed fueled the wave of nausea already rising within me. It was at this exact moment in my life when I realized that the
world was evil.</div>
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Doing my best to sound bored, I excused myself explaining
that I was going to go play <i>Combat</i> on the Atari in the other room to which my cousin responded with an unconcerned shrug that told me he was glad not to have to wait for me to
invent backstories for the centerfolds before turning the page.</div>
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The Rules of Porn</h4>
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Of these major experiences, I can say I'm actually thankful for this last one. The searing trauma of Beelzebub's babe resulted in an
evolving set of unpublished (until now) rules that govern what porn I deem acceptable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #1: Nothing unnatural. To each their own, but for me
this is non-negotiable. Conservatively speaking eliminates roughly 83% of the
material out there including you-know-who. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #2: Nothing cheesy. This means no movie parodies, wearing
cheaply made sexy Halloween costumes, and anything occurring in outer space. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #3: Location, location, location. If the backdrop is a
stained, tattered couch in a frat house, or next to a backyard swimming pool in
a subdivision built before Jimmy Carter took office, then I’m out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #4: No cartoons. As a parent this form of porn is
unsettling on many levels and for obvious reasons which is why the perfectly
animated likeness of Elsa giving Olaf’s repositioned carrot oral pleasure,
(what kind of sicko likes this stuff?) has given me yet another reason to avoid
watching <i>Frozen</i> or to build a
snowman. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #5: Only 2 people. Just no. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #6: No looking directly at the camera. That totally weirds
me out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #7 (and it’s a big one): NO MEN ALLOWED. Permit me a
moment to elaborate here. Frankly, I find men in porn films laughable. My first thought
is always, “No one can last that long,” which of course is followed by an unsettling
doubt that maybe that it is normal and it’s just me with the problem. But on another level, there’s
something uncomfortable and degrading about the way men seem to treat women in pornos which does not sit well with me at all given my feminist leanings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rule #8: Toys--you know, as I think about it my list has grown
to be quite extensive over the years, and perhaps, for confusion’s sake it might be
better if I explained instead what actually <i>does</i> fit my preferences. For starters, if you quickly review my earlier stipulations then you should be able to deduce that I
have very specific tastes, but even that’s only the half of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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About the best way I can describe what I like is if Nicholas
Sparks wrote lesbian porn that could be made into movies. Something to the effect of two lovers who kindled their romance in their youth, but circumstances, say for example, belonging to different classes of society, keeps them from being together.
Years pass and war comes, making them only memories in one another’s hearts.
Then, as if by fate, the one sees a newspaper story telling of how her first
love rebuilt a stunning home near the river just as she promised when they
were together all those many summers long ago. The gesture is too much to resist and the lovers are dramatically reunited despite the odds.
Now they are passionately kissing in the rain. Now they are in the bedroom. Now, they are—you get
the idea. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Granted, most porn videos, on average, run about 20 minutes give
or take minus the credits, which does make it difficult to cram in that much rising
action before the climax (pun not intended). Still, I have to at least be
convinced of the possibility that a scenario like this is entirely plausible, that and it
also helps if you can make me believe both women are highly educated and have
successful careers because, again, feminism. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Truth About Porn</h4>
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Given everything I’ve just shared it’s entirely
understandable that you might be wondering why I’m expounding upon the gory details behind my personal history
and preferences pertaining to porn. I mean, after all, is this not a “dad
blog,” one I intend for my sons to read at some point in the future? Yes, that’s absolutely true, and this post in particular is one I hope they happen upon. I hope they laugh. I hope they can relate. I hope they understand they are not alone in their own experiences. But I hope, too, that they see how open I am, and I hope it makes them feel safe in approaching
me about this or any other taboo topic. That, however, is not my only
motivation behind this post.</div>
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In light of my recent relationship status, or lack thereof
depending on how you view it, those planets I mentioned earlier tend to be
aligning more than usual. That’s not to say I’ve been wasting copious hours searching
for Nicholas Sparks-inspired lesbian porn, but the increased opportunities have
given me more cause to reflect on the topic. I wasn’t exactly sure why until a
bleak, rainy Saturday several weeks ago when the appeal of navigating through
a few erotic sites seemed a worthwhile endeavor. </div>
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Of course for reasons already mentioned, it took me a while to find material
that met my standards, but eventually I located a few pearls
from among the swine that I could sit back and enjoy. However, after a few
minutes, I stopped focusing on the action, and began staring intently past the
computer screen instead. A sudden dull ache
seemed to be eating away at my insides, yanking back a curtain that exposed porn for what it really was—an illusion that taunted me with the reminder of what I don't have in my life currently. As the rain outside beat against the window, I was keenly aware of the depths of my loneliness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Being alone hurts, but porn (or any number of other
distractions) is nothing more than snake oil that not only fails to remedy that dull
ache, but also intensifies it. I gave this realization a moment to sink in, and once it did the earlier appeal faded. Leaning forward I closed out the
windows on my computer before the video ever made it to what might have
been a very promising second act. The dull ache, however, remained like the ringing
in your ears after an explosion. Somehow I knew this feeling would last for a long while
until time permitted it to fade. It was a truth I would have to accept if I ever wanted to move on with my life. Relocating to the couch, I turned on the Xbox and started playing <i>Modern Warfare</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-88645141665999942462014-11-30T08:30:00.000-05:002020-01-19T14:08:11.691-05:00What's The Deal With Me And Kentucky Basketball? TuneIn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ryozfNV_jgo/VIZkhHH6Y4I/AAAAAAAAjSM/mpljf_Ya6iM/s1600/laetner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ryozfNV_jgo/VIZkhHH6Y4I/AAAAAAAAjSM/mpljf_Ya6iM/s1600/laetner.jpg" height="320" width="229" /></a></div>
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Fun fact: For a short (I emphasis <i>short</i>) period I attended Liberty University. Yes, <i>that</i> Liberty University, which, given the school’s history and depending on what side of the liberal-conservative fence you’re planted on, may or may not seem like an interesting choice for perusing my degree in—I think it was political science? Who knows anymore? It was 20-some years ago, but whatever the case, apparently that one semester was enough to qualify me for frequent (mail) flyer miles on LU’s alumni donations list. (I swear, I could move to outer Mongolia and those guys would find my mailing address within a week.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I do, however, recall without relying on raw brain math, that it was the spring of 1992. Why is this particular bit of trivia so prominent in my mind? In a word: basketball. More specifically, March Madness. Even more specifically, The East Regional Finals in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on March 28<sup>th</sup> between the Kentucky Wildcats and the Duke Blue Devils. And to be even <i>more</i> specific I’m referring to “The Shot.” </div>
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<a name='more'></a>If you’re any kind of a college basketball fan then you know exactly what I’m referring to—Christian Laettner’s buzzer-beating, overtime shot that put Duke in the Final Four, and broke the hearts of millions of Wildcats fans, me included. <i>Sporting News</i> rightfully referred to the see-saw battle as “The Greatest Game Ever Played,” and so it was only fitting that the contest should be topped off by an event so epic it demands, without prompting, that people recount what they were doing and where they were at that exact moment much like our parents at the mention of JFK’s assassination. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This then begs the question as to my precise whereabouts, I mean beyond at a large, non-profit Christian university in Lynchburg, Virginia whose mascot, the Flames, may or may not have been a reference to hell. The answer to this would be under a crusty pile of dirty laundry in the closet of my dorm room. I know what you’re thinking, and I should probably explain the rationale involved here. You have to understand that given LU’s affiliation and beliefs, the school had implemented certain, let's call them, parameters for students to abide by. Among these it was written that no one living in the dorms shall be in possession of a TV or radio. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Draconian as this may seem today, back then the rule didn’t pose much of a problem for me personally (I still had the newspaper which was printed on actual paper in those days.) March, however, was a different story. I’ve loved college basketball since I was 11. I could spout off players and stats like the NCAA version of Rain Man. I kept up with every development through the regular season, the off season, the recruiting season, and the pre-season with the same regularity as nature’s equinoxes and solstices. And come those glorious weeks in early spring I had my brackets filled out the instant the selection committee made the announcement, applying a patented combination of logic and gut feeling that usually worked out pretty well for me. (Too bad I wasn’t a betting man then or really even a man at all.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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In 1992 the team I had picked to cut down the nets in Minneapolis was Kentucky. My allegiance to the Wildcats, though, extended beyond mere statistics. I loved Kentucky basketball. Sure there’s all the history that goes way back to the beginnings of the game itself validated by a string of early championship. My fondness, however, can be pinpointed to a single event—the day they named <b>Rick Pitino</b> head coach in 1989. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Coach Pitino first caught my attention in 1987 when, after only two years, he took the once abysmal Providence Friars to the Final Four. I am a sucker for underdogs anyway, but what really stood out was the story of how he had lost his six-month old son to congenital heart failure earlier that same year. You can say what you want about Pitino as a coach, and yes, he’s not without controversy, but for a father to endure an event that gut-wrenching takes something special, and even though I was only a teenager, the story had an impact on me I couldn’t quite explain then. (Oh yeah, and he went on to coach the Celtics, the one team I love more than any other in all of sports.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Coach Pitino’s job coming into Kentucky was not an easy one, and expectations were high. The school was limping through NCAA sanctions brought on by former coach and thinning pubic hair toupee model, Eddie Sutton. To my delight, in just three years Pitino had the Wildcats steaming through the East Region and on the doorstep of the Final Four with only #1 seed Duke standing in the way. I simply could not miss this game. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The obvious problem was, of course, getting my hands on a TV or radio, a challenging proposition not only because of the official rules but also given the technology in that era. Lucky for me an underground economy built on bartering contraband was alive and well throughout the school, and for the mere price of a cassette recording of Nirvana’s album, <i>Nevermind</i>, I was able to procure a portable television roughly the size and weight of a cement block and with the same black and white picture quality I might add.<o:p></o:p></div>
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TV in hand, I couldn’t just hang out in the middle of my room enjoying the game. The Resident Advisors (RA’s) tasked with maintaining order within the confines of the dorm patrolled the halls with the same clockwork regularity as guards at a POW camp, and armed with master keys, they had no qualms about popping in for surprise visit under the guise of, “seeing how we were adjusting to college life.” <o:p></o:p><br />
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To counter this possibility I devised a tactic which I carried out with the same precision demonstrated by the escapees in the <i>The Great Escape</i>. So, yeah, I basically hid under my dirty clothes with the sound turned way down. Uncouth? Maybe, but so totally worth it. By halftime I didn’t even notice the smell. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The contest was everything a serious fan could ask for with the leads for each team flipping back and forth more than a congressman taking bribes. Overtime played out the same way, but when Kentucky’s Sean Woods banked in crazy high shot with less than 4 seconds on the clock, I thought it was all over. It wasn’t, not by a long shot (pun intended). What happened next is now a part of college basketball lore, and the reason I swore for the next 15 years that if I ever saw Christian Laettner walking down the street minding his own business, I’d punch him in the throat. (After his NBA career, I realized it was time to let it go. Truth be told he's actually a pretty good guy despite the fact that based on his <a href="https://twitter.com/laettnerbball" target="_blank">Twitter profile</a> it's clear he's never going to let Kentucky forget.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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Too young to know what I'm talking about? Too old to remember? Catch the highlights. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Although Chris Farley’s retelling is much better. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For those of you wondering if I was ever caught by the RA’s, the answer is yes. My explosive reaction to the outcome warranted investigation, and the TV lying on its side in the closet along with the dress sock draped over my shoulder pretty much filled in the gaps for everyone. In my current emotional state I didn’t care that I was being written up for the major violation of having a TV, or for the additional infraction of telling the RA to, “Screw off.” It didn’t matter anyway. I would be gone in a few months never to return. What <i>did</i> matter was that, despite the odds against me, I witnessed that momentous game, something that ranks right up there with at least one of my two marriages and the birth of three children (all mine). <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the years since I have missed more than a few Kentucky games. I catch everyone I can, but that’s not always possible. Recently, though, I was introduced to <a href="http://tunein.com/" target="_blank"><b>TuneIn</b></a>. TuneIn is a free app for <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/tunein-radio-stream-free-music/id418987775?mt=8">iOS</a> and <a href="https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=tunein.player&hl=en">Android</a> that never lets you miss a game. TuneIn allows you to listen to both football and basketball games for 85 college teams including Kentucky, Duke, <i>and</i> Texas. Why do I mention Texas? Last week I easily downloaded TuneIn on my phone to hear #1 Kentucky host the #6 Longhorns in an early season showdown between undefeateds. Naturally, I was cheering for the Wildcats which admittedly came with some degree of soul searching since I actually attended UT, but that lasted for something like 5 seconds. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M5-KxaGwj5Y/VIZsezAZVgI/AAAAAAAAjSk/-HRMezBtPAc/s1600/TuneIn-Ron-Mattocks-Clark-Kents-Lunchbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M5-KxaGwj5Y/VIZsezAZVgI/AAAAAAAAjSk/-HRMezBtPAc/s1600/TuneIn-Ron-Mattocks-Clark-Kents-Lunchbox.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating UK's win over UT</td></tr>
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The game wasn’t quite the same as that cold day in March against Duke, but it was still good, and the quality of the sound was excellent even while I was driving. It was also nice that after a close first half, Kentucky won prompting my son and I to have a little tailgate celebration. One thing’s for sure--this season I’m going to catch a lot of Kentucky basketball …well, and Louisville too for obvious reasons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the years since Coach Pitino restored Kentucky to the status of perennial powerhouse, the program has had its ups, its downs, and its controversies. I’m not denying that there are major issues that need to be addressed or inconsistencies plaguing the system as a whole across collegiate sports. Fingers could be pointed in all directions. Maybe you can’t stand Pitino or you hate Kentucky or maybe you’re Christian Laettner and after reading this you’ll want to punch <i>me</i> in the throat. That’s perfectly okay. Picking a side and staying loyal to it through thick and thin is the essence of what it means to be a fan. And on a deeper level, it's about identifying with winners because it speaks to our innate desire for excellence. It's also what makes moments like “The Shot” (excruciating as it was) worth breaking a few rules and burrowing into two weeks-worth of crumpled boxer shorts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pick a side and <b>#TurnTheGameUp</b> with <a href="http://tunein.com/">TuneIn</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Disclosure</b><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">: I have partnered and was compensated by</span><a href="http://lifeofdad.com/" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></i><i><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Life of Dad</span></i></a><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">, LLC and </span><a href="http://tunein.com/" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">TuneIn</span></span></i></a><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> for this promotion. This, however, did nothing to influence my feelings on Kentucky basketball, Coach Rick Pitino, and even Christian Laettner. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-47620834380175724062014-10-12T17:21:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.553-05:00Gone Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXwIm0vyVJM/VDq-MS-EttI/AAAAAAAAhU4/WfpnDUUJ8p0/s1600/Gone%2BGirl%2BAshley%2BEvans%2BMattocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXwIm0vyVJM/VDq-MS-EttI/AAAAAAAAhU4/WfpnDUUJ8p0/s1600/Gone%2BGirl%2BAshley%2BEvans%2BMattocks.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
I took a writing course at Rice where the instructor explained that real life couldn’t be strictly followed as the script for a novel. Real life, she contended, is “too messy” which is why the closest any writer can get is to say their novel is only <i>based</i> on true story. Blog writing, of course, isn’t constrained by such conventions and is, in actuality, the ideal canvas for capturing all that messiness of real life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If my life were a novel for instance, then Ashley and I would’ve met, fell deeply in love, and overcome crushing obstacles together on our way to a satisfyingly romantic ending. In reality, however, my life is a blog with buckets of greasy, smudgy messiness that ruin the chance at a pristine story, and in this version Ashley and I are no longer together.</div>
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The first question is naturally, “What happened?” And the answer is, I don’t exactly know. Answers tend to come with reflection, and after nearly six months since she left, I’m still flailing through continuous waves of anger, grief, and confusion. There’s no guarantee I’ll wash up on the shores of understanding either. Weeks of on-going counseling have reminded me that the best I can hope for is that those waves will eventually subside into a calm acceptance that will let me move on. </div>
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At the moment, though, I can’t get past the dubious fact that I now have <i>two</i> failed marriages to my discredit. One was bad enough, but given the circumstances, it can easily be understood. A second divorce, however, signals a trend, begging the immediate question: “What’s wrong with that guy?” I know that’s always been <i>my</i> first thought. Multiple divorces are reserved for chronic womanizers, shallow celebrities, and intolerable assholes. None of those characterize me, yet here I am.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Why did she leave then? Things always seemed so great between you to</i>. And things were great until we <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2012/06/five-years-passed-new-adventures-ahead.html#.VDLNyPmwJcQ">made the move from Houston to be with my boys</a>. The transition and ensuing hardships inflicted a toll on every aspect of our lives including our relationship. Even so, I always assumed we’d work through it. “Just a rough patch,” I thought, but the unrelenting doubt in Ashley’s voice as if she were still trying to convince herself that she wanted to be here compounded by <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2013/02/cinnamon-or-powdered-donuts.html#.VDLNUvmwJcQ">the constant guilt I felt over taking the girls away from their father</a> (I’m not allowed to write about <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/search/label/Supergirl%20%28Daughters%29#.VDLNKPmwJcQ">the girls</a> anymore, but this is a point I’m not going to ignore), fed into an undercurrent of frustration over their collective unhappiness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Not that there was anything wrong with the way they felt, it’s just that there was nothing I could do to fix it. Worse still was the inescapable thought that I was the cause of it all. It's a terrible and frustrating thing to see your wife and children miserably unhappy and not be able to help them. Last spring that frustration spilled from its container. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After another public Facebook post by Ashley lamenting her life in Indiana, I told her that if she’d be happier back in Houston, then I’d rather that than her be so constantly miserable. Fear is largely to blame in my motivations behind saying this. I was afraid leaving was exactly what she wanted, and I needed to know. I just wanted her to be happy. Hardly a fight was put up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I regretted saying it then, even as I still do now. I begged her repeatedly to change her mind which lead to a string of hopeful conversations and an attempt at counseling. Yet despite Ashley’s assurances that it would only be for a year, the plan to return to Houston remained, and the moving truck was loaded by the time school let out a few weeks later. Shortly thereafter. once she had settled into her new apartment, the marriage suddenly teetered, then crumbled into oblivion like a house tumbling down a rapidly eroding cliff into the ocean. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m not going to elaborate on the circumstances behind this. I have nothing to hide, but to do so would only open up the potential for a public battle of he said, she said. This would serve nothing as I have no desire to openly discredit Ashley or her feelings in such a way. She has enough to deal with personally without further aggravating the situation, and this is not about convincing people to take sides. What's more, doing so would also likely unleash the Pandora’s Box of emotion I have struggled to keep under control over the past five months. Even to express how much I miss Ashley and the girls carries with it the same risk, and that would be irresponsible of me in either case.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I will, however, address the accusations that have been made against me. Simply put, they are entirely untrue. That's not to imply I am totally faultless by any means. I was insensitive at times and said hurtful things in anger I wish I could take back, but the smoke screen that's been fabricated against me has inflicted wounds deeper than any I’ve ever experienced. That people choose to believe them saddens me all the more, but I can assure you there's more to the story than what has been told. There always is. My hope and consolation is that time will eventually reveal the actual truth. It can’t come from what either of us says, but rather from what we do and how we live our lives going forward. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So where does the story go now? Ashley is already using her maiden name again, and has sold off <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2008/01/engaged-engaged.html#.VDLTVvmwJcQ">her ring</a>. The papers have been signed and will be filled shortly. In the meantime, I’m stupidly left to contemplate the mystery of how seven years of marriage, <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/search/label/Lois%20Lane%20%28Love%20and%20Marriage%29#.VDLNJvmwJcQ">most of them happy ones</a>, can come down to an emotionless formality on par with canceling a magazine subscription. <i>How, and so suddenly?</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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One thing, though, is clear: She’s gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gTfTTQmAeTQ/VDLU7B8nkxI/AAAAAAAAhME/RHil3NZtWzo/s1600/Gone%2BGirl%2BAshley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gTfTTQmAeTQ/VDLU7B8nkxI/AAAAAAAAhME/RHil3NZtWzo/s1600/Gone%2BGirl%2BAshley.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>This will be the last I ever mention Ashley or her daughters</i>. </div>
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Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-71243694608480695042014-09-11T13:17:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.642-05:006 Things I Want My Sons to Know About My Depression [TODAY Show]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HhtyYIhsK-U/VBHYLfyjWnI/AAAAAAAAgOI/06kI1bu2ygA/s1600/mattocks-depression-Today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HhtyYIhsK-U/VBHYLfyjWnI/AAAAAAAAgOI/06kI1bu2ygA/s1600/mattocks-depression-Today.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
As it did to so many, the news of Robin Williams’s death came as a great shock to me. How could a man with such talent and charisma who brought me to tears, both of joy and sadness, on so many occasions be gone so suddenly? Then details of his depression came to light, and I understood. The National Alliance on Mental Illness estimates that <b>6.7 of American adults live with major depression</b>, and of those, <b>2.6 percent, or 6.1 million people, are afflicted by bipolar disorder</b>. I understand, because I am one of them.<br />
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When I initially informed my first wife of my diagnosis and the associated concerns I held for our three boys, she expressed strong reservations about saying anything to them. This, however, is exactly the problem for men with depression. It actually needs to be talked about more, and if I don’t talk with my sons about the twisting despair brought on by depression, who will? There’s actually a lot they need to know. So, boys, listen here: <br />
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<a href="http://www.today.com/parents/6-things-i-want-my-sons-know-about-my-depression-1D80139842?cid=par-dcn-rm" target="_blank">Continue Reading</a><br />
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-13801752782634227792014-09-09T15:11:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.415-05:00Why I WriteRemember this. It's going to come in handy for understanding the context of what is posted here in the coming months.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MC0pquPcp_Q/VA9QE9n9y0I/AAAAAAAAgNA/FQkt549P9lY/s1600/Joss%2BWhedon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MC0pquPcp_Q/VA9QE9n9y0I/AAAAAAAAgNA/FQkt549P9lY/s1600/Joss%2BWhedon.jpg" height="640" width="569" /></a></div>
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<br />Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-31394591934518376932014-07-28T08:51:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.470-05:005 Things I Wish My Bosses Knew About Fatherhood [TODAY Show]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DoYJKUVkwW4/U9ZE8jpJiSI/AAAAAAAAdlA/FANgZgKvASA/s1600/Today-Parents-Bosses-Know-Fatherhood-Mattocks-B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DoYJKUVkwW4/U9ZE8jpJiSI/AAAAAAAAdlA/FANgZgKvASA/s1600/Today-Parents-Bosses-Know-Fatherhood-Mattocks-B.jpg" height="331" width="500" /></a></div>
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I consider myself fortunate to be <a href="http://www.apterainc.com/" target="_blank">working for an employer</a> who understands the demands of fatherhood. This hasn’t always been the case. Through the course of my professional life, which has spanned the military, corporate America, freelance work, and small business, I’ve had bosses who discounted the value of fathers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Such attitudes come from a general cluelessness shared by men who represented a different generation — everyone knows that <a href="http://visually.visually.netdna-cdn.com/The21stCenturyDad_4fda24e868b01.jpg" target="_blank">fathers are much more involved</a> these days. Still, half of working <a href="http://www.pewsocialtrends.org/2013/03/14/modern-parenthood-roles-of-moms-and-dads-converge-as-they-balance-work-and-family/" target="_blank">fathers surveyed in 2013</a> consider work-family balance a challenge while 46 percent feel they are still not spending enough time with their children.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have certainly felt the pressure of this crunch, and it would be a lie to say I always chose family over work. Some circumstances, deployments for example, deny the option of choice; however, there have been other moments when I wished my superiors knew a few things about what it means to be a father. <a href="http://www.today.com/parents/5-things-i-wish-my-boss-knew-about-fatherhood-1D79959303?cid=par-dcn-rm" target="_blank"><b>Here are five</b></a>:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-11640168108670894242014-06-13T11:37:00.002-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.401-05:00TODAY Show Parents: The Sugar Milk Hack <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iSw5Y81kon4/U5sZhtwRTSI/AAAAAAAAcOU/RYQ57u61UZw/s1600/Today+Sugar+Milk+Ron+Mattocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iSw5Y81kon4/U5sZhtwRTSI/AAAAAAAAcOU/RYQ57u61UZw/s1600/Today+Sugar+Milk+Ron+Mattocks.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>If you haven't already heard I've got a new writing gig at--wait for it--the <a href="http://www.today.com/parents/" target="_blank">TODAY Show</a> via their website which just this week they renamed from Moms to Parents. I am thrilled and honored to be part of an all-star lineup of fellow dad bloggers that includes <a href="http://daddydoinwork.com/" target="_blank">Doyin Richards</a>, <a href="http://bobbleheaddad.com/" target="_blank">Jim Higley</a>, <a href="http://www.whithonea.com/" target="_blank">Whit Honea</a>, <a href="http://dadscribe.com/" target="_blank">Carter Gaddi</a>s, and <a href="http://dadoralive.com/" target="_blank">Adrian Kulp</a> who in our inaugural week of posting shared <a href="http://www.today.com/parents/tag/dadhack" target="_blank">their favorite dad hacks</a> (#dadhack). As you will see, their clever tips are much more advisable than mine. Below is an excerpt from my patent-pending, sugar milk hack.</i><br />
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One would think a guy with five kids<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #555555;"> </span></span>would
have a whole slew of shortcuts to help ease the burden of parenthood. I do not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is not to say I am
without creativity. It’s just my techniques lack a certain classiness. While
many parenting hacks warrant viral validation via Pinterest, mine rank with the
redneck who crafts a BBQ grill out of a shopping<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #555555;"> </span></span>cart.
Effective? Yes. Share-worthy? Possibly after obliterating a case of Milwaukee’s
Best.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Case in point: My teen son and
tween stepdaughter are now of an age where they require deodorant, yet they are
afflicted by some form of adolescent dementia that causes them to forget to
apply said deodorant. The solution: Affix the deodorant to the door frame at
eye-level using Velcro, and voila, no more stinky kids. It’s effective because
it’s unorthodox. <a href="http://www.today.com/parents/dad-hack-save-money-breakfast-sugar-milk-2D79781155?cid=par-dcn-rm" target="_blank">CONTINUE READING</a> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Want the full story?</b> Get a copy of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Milk-Drinks-Afford-Vodka/dp/1450204031/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345471456&sr=1-1&keywords=sugar+milk+ron+mattocks" target="_blank">Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can't Afford Vodka</a></i></div>
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<br />Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-58673740066205019182014-06-08T16:47:00.001-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.596-05:00The Power of Dad: Lessons Learned<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n7iEBH50lD0/U5TJCqWHp8I/AAAAAAAAb0U/u2geIkJrARQ/s1600/Powerofdad-father-green-beret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n7iEBH50lD0/U5TJCqWHp8I/AAAAAAAAb0U/u2geIkJrARQ/s1600/Powerofdad-father-green-beret.jpg" height="318" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father as a Green Beret in Vietnam</td></tr>
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My father is, hands down, the toughest, hardest working man I have ever met. A lot of people say this about their fathers, and I don’t doubt them, but how many can say they watched their father calmly hobble into the house to take a shower and then drive to the ER after accidentally sticking an ax blade into his shin? What truly amazed me about that memory, though, was waking to the sound of the crunching gravel from our driveway as my father left for work the following morning. At the time he was the company president, and everyone would’ve certainly understood had he decided to take it easy for a few days. But that wasn’t my father.<br />
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My father was the youngest of six who grew up on a meager, Pennsylvania farm, fought in Vietnam as a Green Beret, and then drove the length of the country to pick up my mother after proposing to her over the phone. Soon I and my three younger sisters would come into the picture, and through the years we watched our father come home from drawn out days at the chain of agri-businesses he and his brothers had started only to go right back to work mowing the yard or tending to the massive garden that would feed us through winter.<br />
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If anyone ever out-worked my father, I imagine it was his father, a fearsome bare-handed boxer who laid street bricks during the day before putting in a shift at the local factory. No doubt this is who my father gained his tireless ethic from, and it was a trait he intended to pass on to his own children. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The worst place any of us kids could be was caught parked in front of the TV on a Saturday afternoon, especially when a ceaseless number of tasks awaited—planting rows of potatoes, cutting fields of weeds, splitting piles of firewood, or shoveling snow from the drive. There were times I swore my father invented chores just to aggravate me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I recall my father telling me to pick up dead branches in our yard one early spring evening. Eager to return to the game I had been playing, I rushed the job, missing a fair amount of sticks in the process. When my father later expressed his disappointment I burst out bawling. “I haven’t been in the Army!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The overly dramatic reaction by my 9 year-old self threw my dad off, and his stern expression eased. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Because,” I said through my tears. “I’m never gonna be able to work as hard as you.” I don’t remember what my father said next, but I do remember him smiling at this. Maybe it was because he took it as a compliment, or maybe he realized that I was already measuring myself against his high standards. And they were high. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At eleven I began working at my father’s company on Saturdays and sometimes after school; as I got older this would extend to my summers as well. Having a wad of cash in my pocket was a good feeling, but I can’t say it was always fun earning it. My father wasn’t about to let me be “the boss’s kid” who got over on the others. Lord help me if Dad ever caught me without a broom in my hand or lounging on the loading dock. At the times it seemed unfair, but looking back I see the lesson along with many others. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Over the course of my teens I would learn about perseverance, personal responsibility, and selflessness to name a few. I also learned what respect meant. No matter what mill I worked at the warehouse guys, a roughneck bunch, all admired my dad for his frequent tendency to get out of the front office and come help unload a semi-truck delivering a load of rock salt or mix up a two-ton grist order for a customer. In other words, being willing to roll up your sleeves and get dirty with everyone else was a noble quality. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Actions spoke the loudest of my father who had few paternal platitudes (other than the proverb stating that if a man wasn’t willing to work, he shouldn’t be allowed to eat). But he didn’t need them to endue his children with compassion, humility, and a mischievous sense of humor to go along with his work ethic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was what these thoughts that passed through my head as my two oldest sons helped me move last weekend. As a marketing manager and part-time writer who sits in front of a computer all day I don’t work near as hard as my father, and I also don’t have a feed mill for my sons to learn what I did which has me constantly looking for just such an opportunity to convey to them the importance of hard work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Beyond this, though, I wonder too what my sons see in my actions. The power of my dad’s example came not in one or two isolated examples, but in a whole multitude of moments strung together to paint a consistent picture I would try to pattern my own life on. I suppose such a concern is inherent to fatherhood, and it will constantly be on my mind. If this thought ever troubled my father, he needn’t have worried. I’ve earned every meal I’ve ever eaten since leaving home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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***</h2>
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<br />
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/OralBMalaysia?fref=nf" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Oral-B</a></b> recognizes that fatherhood is a compilation of moments too. Join them as they <a href="http://news.pg.com/press-release/oral-b-teams-march-dimes-and-nfl-quarterback-and-dad-eli-manning-celebrate-fatherhoods">partner with the March of Dimes</a> and with “Football’s First Family,” NY Giants quarterback, Eli Manning, his father Archie, and daughter Ava in celebrating fatherhood’s little moments. See other dads celebrating these moments using <b>#PowerofDad</b> on Instagram, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/Powerofdad" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, and <a href="https://twitter.com/search?f=realtime&q=%23PowerofDad&src=typd" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Twitter</a>. And if you’re looking for a great gift for your hard-working father, Oral-B is offering <b>$7 off on their Oral-B 7000 Black</b> power toothbrush. (<a href="http://www.oralb.com/power-of-dad?utm_source=ER&utm_medium=post&utm_campaign=pod">Click here for savings</a>.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Disclosure: In accordance with the rules that government agency made I am letting everyone know that I was compensated for this post by Oral-B in conjunction with the Life of Dad network which should not detract from the sentiment behind the words. This is just one of those ways in which I earn food for me and my family. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-80699695993299856742014-04-30T14:02:00.001-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.664-05:00How Social Media Ruined Me as a Parent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I’ve been blogging for a little over six years now, seven if
you count that first year when I posted nothing but inane drivel. In that time
I also gained familiarity with the various social media channels—Facebook,
LinkedIn, Google+, the Twitters, etc. And while blogging provided me with an
outlet to work through my journey as a stay-at-home dad, social media granted
access to a community of fellow parent bloggers sharing their own stories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Eventually this lead to substantial freelance gigs, a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Milk-Drinks-Afford-Vodka/dp/1450204031/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345471456&sr=1-1&keywords=sugar+milk+ron+mattocks">published
book</a>, <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2008/03/about-my-secret-idenity.html#.U2E12_ldWsk" target="_blank">speaking engagements</a>, and <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2007/06/featured-on.html#.U2ExWvldWsk">media
appearances</a>, not to mention numerous chances to participate in <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2011/03/media-kit.html#.U2ExcPldWsk">campaigns
with major consumer brands</a>. My experience soon resulted in a position as a
social media marketing specialist which then morphed into a content marketing
strategist before I earned <a href="https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=22870114&trk=spm_pic" target="_blank">my current title</a> as online marketing manager. In the
blogging world such accomplishments are generally considered milestones of
success, and I am exceedingly grateful for all the doors my modest blog has
opened for me and my family. Despite this, though, in some respects I feel
social media has ruined me as a parent.</div>
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The negative implications of social media are nothing new,
but the notion of its effects on my parenting first struck me this past week while
chaperoning my middle son’s overnight class camping trip. From the moment we
arrived at the camp ground I was constantly checking Facebook on my phone. It
seemed odd, then, that my son didn’t want to hang out with me during the day’s
early activities. I mean who doesn’t want to be around a distracted,
middle-aged man who’s cursing about cell reception and fretting over battery
life? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thankfully the Creator only made me a partial dumbass,
endued with the capacity for recognizing my own dumbass-ed-ness, and thereafter
I put the phone away, save for the occasional momentous photo. Later that night
as I lay zipped up inside my sleeping bag I couldn’t escape the thought of how
I nearly ruined what ended up being an unforgettable bonding experience for me
and my son. The more I considered this, the more I realized, too, the other
ways in which social media has specifically contributed to my list of parenting
fails.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To start with, <b>social
media has heightened my sense of inadequacy as a parent. </b>It’s bad enough
feeling I’m not doing enough as a father without scrolling through Instagram to
see more than a few pics of families doing magical things together. Don’t get
me wrong; there’s nothing inherently bad about this. I do it too. It’s just that
I can’t help but to believe I’m falling short. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hey! Look at us having an awesome time at Disneyland!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>F#ck Disneyland</i>.
This as I stew in my own guilt after telling the kids to go entertain
themselves because it’s a free preview weekend on HBO and I have to binge watch
every episode of <i>True Detective</i>
before the midnight cutoff. I forget sometimes that many of those great moments
in social media parenting are sponsored events put on by big brands and PR
firms for bloggers, but that doesn’t make me feel any better as I yell at my
bored children for bickering while I attempt to squeeze in the first season of <i>Game of Thrones</i> too. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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What’s ironic is it wasn’t that long ago when I was once considered
influential enough to warrant requests to cover advance movie screenings,
offers of free merchandise, chances to interview celebrities, and invites for all-expense
paid trips which, I ain’t going to lie, was a lot of fun. The only problem,
though, was that it didn’t pay the bills, and at some point I needed to focus
on bringing home more bacon and fewer blogger perks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t then, nor do I now, lament this choice, but my kids,
however, took note of the decline in good times enjoyed during the “roaring
bloggies” prompting one of them to ask if I had lost my job as a blogger. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<i>Perfect. Now they see
me as a disengaged father </i><u>and</u><i>
a failure</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Regardless of their present day impressions, I am confident
my children will come to understand my decision and the associated reasoning
which extended beyond simple dollars and cents. There was also, what I call,
the <b>Kardashian Syndrome</b>. </div>
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You see, having your own parenting blog, in a sense, is
similar to having your own reality show where, like the Kardashians, you’re
essentially famous for nothing (and even the fame is relative since it’s
largely self-perceived). For me, though, instead of shallow, self-absorbed,
privileged bitches, <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2010/11/clark-kents-lunchbox-whats-in-name.html#.U2E4wvldWsk" target="_blank">the premise of my blog</a> was: Corporate exec loses job and
becomes stay-at-home dad to stepdaughters he hardly knows while also trying to
reunite with his own sons. That was my show, and the stories I told through my
blog were like regular episodes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This was all fine and dandy except that at a certain point I
ran into same problem that leads most reality shows to engineer situations in
order to create drama or get a laugh while still trying to pass them off as
“real.” I’m not saying I fabricated events like, oh, I don’t know, <a href="http://www.wetpaint.com/moms/articles/2013-08-05-walmart-man-slur-pink-headband">going
into hysterics because some redneck called my son a sissy for wearing a pink
headband at Wal-Mart</a> or whatever, but as a creative writing professor at
Rice once told me, “real life is too messy to write about coherently, that’s
why they say<i> based</i> on actual events.” </div>
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In other words I was running out of reality to feed the
social media beast, which in time lead to <b>deriving
moments of paternal greatness out of otherwise meaningless events</b>. I let my
kid tag along on a trip to get gas for the lawnmower so I can post 600 pics of
the entire escapade across Instagram and Facebook before then banging out a 3,000-word
blog post about how the whole experience touched me as a father. <i>It was so Meta.</i> </div>
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The underlying subtext to all of this of
course is that, hey everyone, I’m an incredible dad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is where things started to become unsettling for me. Over
time it got old always being the hero of my own narrative, always gaining some
new fatherly insight, always responding to my children’s needs exactly the
right way or learning an important lesson when I didn’t. There’s an inherent
danger in being able to shape the story as only you see it, and <b>the perception can easily become your own skewed
reality</b>. This bothered me because,
if I know nothing else, it’s how hopelessly flawed I am, especially as a
parent. (<i>Kids, keep it down! I’m trying
to watch my stories!)</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Somewhere along the line I had bought into the notion that I
was a daddy blogger. This was my personal brand, so to speak, in the same way
Kim Kardashian, Honey Boo Boo, and Phil Robinson are reality TV stars. And I
played the part. Soon I had a hard time determining whether I was interacting
with my children because I truly enjoyed being with them or if it was because I
was a daddy blogger. In a moment of honesty I realized the answer to this was
more the latter than it was the former, and in that instant I suddenly lost the
desire to blog, post, tweet, share, and so on with any regularity. </div>
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Fatherhood is not my personal brand; it’s a part of my
identity, something that runs much deeper than the veneer of being branded a
dad blogger. My social media exploits had, in effect, ruined the authenticity of
my parenting which can easily happen when all your parenting actions are being
validated publically by oodles of blog comments, Likes, and re-tweets. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s the proverbial slippery slope, and the next thing you
know, people are referring to you as a parenting “expert.” Let me just say here
that having a blog doesn’t make anyone an expert (or a good parent) any more
than TV makes Kim Kardashian talented. (There’s no such thing as a parenting
expert because who out there has really figured it out?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, I still blog from time to time (as you can see here),
and I post the occasional pic of the family to Instagram and Facebook. I haven’t
completely shrugged off participating in social media. Social media in and of
itself wasn’t the real problem. The problem had to do with me. Now I’m a bit
more judicious in what I put out there. I question my intent before I click any
buttons. If it’s just to make myself look good as a dad then I hold off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-34066311511341048222014-04-18T19:16:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.481-05:00Mad Men Season 7, Episode 1, Time Zones: The True Don Draper<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ERUo4oawYw/U1Go7HJcSxI/AAAAAAAAaXQ/wK0ss1ETNDQ/s1600/mad-men-season-7-Don-Draper-Fedora.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ERUo4oawYw/U1Go7HJcSxI/AAAAAAAAaXQ/wK0ss1ETNDQ/s1600/mad-men-season-7-Don-Draper-Fedora.png" height="368" width="525" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amctv.com/mad-men/videos/mad-men-season-7-trailer-peace" target="_blank">When we last saw <b>Don Draper</b> </a>prior to the <a href="http://www.amctv.com/shows/mad-men/episodes/season-7/time-zones" target="_blank"><i>Mad Men</i> Season 7</a> opener, the normally cool and collected paragon of masculinity entering the beginnings of an existential crisis. Soaked in booze, he's landed himself in jail for the night after punching a preacher. He's alienated himself from his young daughter who earlier caught him in the middle of his latest affair. He’s angered his wife, Megan, by jerking her chain over his previous commitment to move to California, and he’s lost his job after coming clean in front of a major prospective client about his Dickensian upbringing at a sleazy whorehouse.<br />
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If we feel any empathy for Don it’s anchored in the irony of his attempts to fix the things he himself has broken. Admitting to being out of control, he pours out his alcohol and promises Megan a fresh start together in LA. The chance to open an office on the west coast, however, was an idea he stole from a co-worker, and later on, to atone for this, Don then offers it to one of the partners who is trying to save his marriage from an affair with Peggy Olson. And although Don’s honesty about his boyhood is courageous if not heart-wrenching, the timing of his self-cathartic admission is wholly inappropriate to the extent that not even his own charm and genius can protect him from the move by the baffled heads of Sterling Cooper Draper & Pryce to let him go.<br />
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The façade of Don Draper’s world is self-destructing, leaving him with nothing but the ugly truth of who he really is, something the show’s writers hint he’s ready to face in the Season 6 finale when Don takes his children to the dilapidated brothel where he grew up. It was just enough of a tease to leave me wondering for months after which road Don would take in order to restore his suddenly shattering life. </div>
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While some are <a href="http://www.nationalreview.com/article/375841/mad-men-fans-are-unappeasable-destroyers-joy-tim-cavanaugh" target="_blank">expressing their boredom</a> with Don’s character and others are <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/04/16/what-s-happened-to-don-draper-why-everyone-s-favorite-mad-men-stud-needs-his-mojo-back.html" target="_blank">complaining about his emasculation</a>, this is the moment in Don’s story arc that I’ve been waiting for over the past six seasons. Until now Don has always had something going his way, namely his career, and he’s largely been immune to lasting consequences. That, it seems, is about to change. </div>
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What’s amusing, though, is how the season’s first episode quickly throws up the illusion that Don’s world is still intact. Impeccable looking as always, he arrives in LA to the backdrop of “I’m a Man” by The Spenser Davis Group where he’s greeting by his alluring wife who pulls up to the airport curb in a bad-ass Austin-Healy convertible. By all appearances one might think it’s good to be Don Draper, except that most of the remaining hour is spent slowly deconstructing that myth. </div>
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Megan’s acting career is taking off in LA, and you soon get the sense that it takes precedence over her marriage. You also feel something’s not right with Don when Megan’s weaselly looking manager has to reassure the normally confident Don that his interest in Don’s wife is strictly professional. It’s then funny that Megan, who’s tipsy, is immune to Don’s storied sexual magnetism when they stumble home after dinner. </div>
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Don, we see, is no longer king of the castle anymore either, spending the weekends commuting from New York to Megan’s place in the Hollywood Hills where he’s warned about flicking his cigarettes and told not to tear ads from her magazines. When he purchases a large console TV as a gift to her, she get angry at the intrusion into her space. </div>
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Again, Don is oddly out of character turning down the advances of an attractive widower (Nev Campbell) he consorts in pillow talk with while on the red-eye flight back to NYC. His excuse is that he has to get to work, a line he’s given to Megan already too, but we soon learn it’s a lie. Don is out of work, reduced to pitching his ideas by proxy through freelancer and recovering alcoholic. Freddie Rumsen. </div>
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The show’s final scene leaves us with an atypical image of Don, raggedy in a bathrobe, sitting on his balcony out in the cold, very much alone.<br />
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For as long as I've followed Don Draper I’ve continually wondered what he would do once everything he had was taken from him. At the moment he seems precariously close to this point. Fans may not be happy to be presented with this version of Don who appears to be barely hanging on, but for me, a down-and-out Don Draper has always been a logical eventuality. Like it or not, his character must go there if it’s to be fully developed. </div>
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As with his role as a father or the circumstances related to his divorce, I once again found myself easily identifying with Don, this time through the context of his career. I know exactly what it feels like to be at the top your game, supremely confident in your abilities with a slew of accomplishments to back up your reputation <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Milk-Drinks-Afford-Vodka/dp/1450204031" target="_blank">only to be let go without warning</a>. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I wasn’t near the ass Don was (or at least I don’t think I was). I never intentionally used and discarded people the way Don has. Regardless, when you lose your job you are utterly robbed of your confidence. You start to believe everyone, not just those you worked for, no longer has faith in you, and soon you have no faith in yourself. It’s in these seemingly hopeless circumstances that you are forced to make choices, choices that define character. As Matthew Weiner takes us through the series-ending season of <i>Mad Men</i>, I am eagerly expecting to finally see the true Don Draper. The only question, though, i<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>s will we love him, loath him, or pity him. </span><br />
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<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,47,0" height="388" id="flashObj" width="456"><param name="movie" value="http://c.brightcove.com/services/viewer/federated_f9?isVid=1"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><param name="flashVars" value="videoId=3355571241001&linkBaseURL=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amctv.com%2Fmad-men%2Fvideos%2Ftrailer-change-the-conversation-mad-men-season-7-premiere&playerID=83327935001&playerKey=AQ~~,AAAAAAuyCbQ~,-gfAmfm8njJ8S-9E4q2UfzG931rvkxuP&domain=embed&dynamicStreaming=true"><param name="base" value="http://admin.brightcove.com"><param name="seamlesstabbing" value="false"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="swLiveConnect" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://c.brightcove.com/services/viewer/federated_f9?isVid=1" bgcolor="#FFFFFF" flashvars="videoId=3355571241001&linkBaseURL=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amctv.com%2Fmad-men%2Fvideos%2Ftrailer-change-the-conversation-mad-men-season-7-premiere&playerID=83327935001&playerKey=AQ~~,AAAAAAuyCbQ~,-gfAmfm8njJ8S-9E4q2UfzG931rvkxuP&domain=embed&dynamicStreaming=true" base="http://admin.brightcove.com" name="flashObj" width="456" height="388" seamlesstabbing="false" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" swliveconnect="true" allowscriptaccess="always" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/shockwave/download/index.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash"></object>Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-10065643380074445012013-12-13T08:30:00.000-05:002020-01-19T14:08:11.388-05:00Does The Buying Power of Dads Really Matter?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently several articles dealing with the role of today’s modern father and how marketers should view them popped up in my news feed. As a longtime <a data-mce-href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/" href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;" target="_blank" title="Clark Kent's Lunchbox">dad blogger</a> with a background in marketing and experience working with major brands, I have a keen interest in such information. One of the reasons I blog is to help collectively reinforce a positive image of fatherhood, and in a sense, the way marketers represent dads in their campaigns can serve as a gauge of success in regards to this. Sometimes brands get it, and sometimes they don’t. Often the difference is the reality verses perception.</div>
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The reality, it seems, is that <b style="line-height: 1.4;">men place a higher value on their involvement as fathers<a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/marketing-strategist/2013/10/dads-redefine-fatherhood/" target="_blank">http://www.chicagonow.com/marketing-strategist/2013/10/dads-redefine-fatherhood/</a></b> over other more traditional functions. According to Boston College’s 2011<a href="http://www.bc.edu/content/dam/files/centers/cwf/pdf/FH-Study-Web-2.pdf" target="_blank"> The New Dad Report</a>, when it came to defining what it meant to be good father, men prioritized providing emotional support, being present, and being a teacher well above other aspects such as providing discipline and financial security. This, of course, is a big shift from the days when being a good father was measured by merely bringing home the bacon. So too is the amount of time fathers spend with their children, a metric a <a href="http://www.pewsocialtrends.org/2013/03/14/modern-parenthood-roles-of-moms-and-dads-converge-as-they-balance-work-and-family/" target="_blank">Pew Study</a> discovered has <b style="line-height: 1.4;">tripled since 1965</b>.</div>
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Based on these and other findings we know fathers are more involved. What then are marketers to make of this? A number of brands to include <a data-mce-href="http://wap.mlb.com/play/?content_id=30058203&topic_id=55162212" href="http://wap.mlb.com/play/?content_id=30058203&topic_id=55162212" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">Dove</a>, <a data-mce-href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owvaAcAlxIc" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owvaAcAlxIc" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">Subaru</a>, and <a data-mce-href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCYwAOCLiTA" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCYwAOCLiTA" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">Tide</a> have gotten behind this movement by introducing campaigns involving dads. However, is the hype surrounding dads justified? <a data-mce-href="http://www.mediapost.com/publications/article/211874/are-dads-the-new-moms.html#axzz2j88zsoCn" href="http://www.mediapost.com/publications/article/211874/are-dads-the-new-moms.html#axzz2j88zsoCn" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">Not necessarily</a> says <b style="line-height: 1.4;">Stephanie Azzarone</b>, founder of <b style="line-height: 1.4;">Child’s Play Communications</b> and blogger at <a data-mce-href="http://www.childsplaypr.com/blog/category/mom-market-trends/" href="http://www.childsplaypr.com/blog/category/mom-market-trends/" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">Mom Market Trends</a>.</div>
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In a joint survey of 1,250 couples conducted in conjunction with the independent research company, the NDP Group, Azzarone concluded that <b style="line-height: 1.4;">moms (80%) are still the dominate decision maker when it comes to household purchase decisions</b>. The results did indicate that dad’s influence was increasing when making joint decisions, but as the <i style="line-height: 1.4;">sole</i> (keyword <i style="line-height: 1.4;">sole</i>) influencer the numbers were miniscule. Further findings showed that depending on the product, purchase decisions still fell along traditional lines with men leading the way in products related to home repair, lawn and garden, autos, and tech while women comprised the majority in areas such as toys and children’s clothes among others.</div>
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On the surface the outcome of this survey may appear to discount the dad’s role in household purchase decisions; however, this was not the intent. Instead, it was merely attempting to get a general idea of how much of a <i style="line-height: 1.4;">sole</i> influence dads have and in what areas, and then compare this to what their spouses think. Ultimately, Azzarone’s goal was to determine whether dads really are the “new, new thing” and then to suggest where marketers should be spending their dollars based on the research’s outcomes.</div>
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Do these findings, though, diminish the need for brands to consider dads when marketing what would be considered traditional mom-centric products? In a word, no. As noted earlier fathers are definitely more involved in their children’s upbringing, and that no doubt means some overlap when it comes to related purchase decisions. But there’s another reason as well.</div>
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In a <a data-mce-href="http://www.businessinsider.com/why-more-ads-need-to-include-dads-2013-10" href="http://www.businessinsider.com/why-more-ads-need-to-include-dads-2013-10" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">recent report</a> released by the <b style="line-height: 1.4;">Creative Artists Agency’s Intelligence Group</b>, researchers found that the newer generation of Americans is not so concerned about adhering to traditional gender roles. <b style="line-height: 1.4;">62% of those questioned said they felt no need to conform</b> to society’s ideas of how men and women are defined. For marketers this means brands will need to relook at the message they are sending when trying to reach fathers. Unfortunately, however, this has not happened yet in the minds of those men who took part in the survey as <b style="line-height: 1.4;">two-thirds believed fathers were poorly depicted</b> and <b style="line-height: 1.4;">36% thought marketers lacked an understanding of today’s man</b>.</div>
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Such perceptions mean companies still have a lot of ground to make up. <b style="line-height: 1.4;">Jamie Gutfreund</b>, chief strategy officer at The Intelligence Group, put it best when she stated that if brands want to connect with dads they need to show fathers as “real, three-dimensional people, instead of bozos <a data-mce-href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRho_5Is1sc" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRho_5Is1sc" style="color: #555555; line-height: 1.4;">who are too incompetent to cook breakfast</a>.”</div>
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Will dads attain the level of purchasing power moms have? I don’t think so, but it all may be a moot point in the very near future. As Gutfreund rightly says, "People are not numbers; they have complicated personal positioning, <b style="line-height: 1.4;">and brands cannot assume that someone is a type in a way that they used to</b>." In other words, dads matter.</div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-39040498379954662702013-12-06T08:00:00.000-05:002020-01-19T14:08:11.509-05:00Breaking Dad: Say My Name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">F</span></b>irst allow me to apologize for the “Breaking Dad” portion of my title. I realize it’s a bit cliché, and thousands of dad bloggers and journalists have probably already worn it out. Hopefully, though, by the end of this you’ll agree it still applies. <o:p></o:p><br />
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By admission I was a latecomer to the television phenomena that was <i>Breaking Bad</i>. I resisted the hoopla for as long as I could, but left with nothing substantial to entertain us, my wife and I binged our way through all five seasons in a matter of a few weeks.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Naturally, as a father and husband I was drawn to the show’s premise: A once world-class chemist, turned teacher, manufactures methamphetamine to secure his family’s financial security after learning he is dying of cancer. Simply put, the man wanted to provide for his family, and debate me if you want, but I believe this is an inherent instinct men are wired with.<br />
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Walter White, the central character for those of you not familiar with the show, is faced with a desperate situation, a desperation that compels him to extreme measures. But the illegal drug trade, as Walter and his under-achieving partner, Jesse Pinkman, find out is a slippery slope, and the two continually find themselves crossing moral boundaries as they lie, steal, and murder to protect themselves.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Walter’s predicament is more than unfortunate; it’s unfair. He’s a good father with a son and baby on the way. He loves his wife. And he works hard, taking a second job at a car wash after school to make ends meet. It’s tragic then that a man who seemingly is doing the best he can should be suddenly stricken with cancer, the treatment of which will leave his family saddled with insurmountable debt.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Walter is understandably angry, but the root of that anger stems, not from his diagnosis, but from events well in the past. Earlier in life he was a gifted chemist who help found a company that would go on to be a multi-million dollar corporation. Walter, though, never reaps the benefits of its success. For reasons, whether pride or ego, Walter leaves the partnership abruptly, a decision that leaves him with a simmering rancor.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Everywhere he turns Walter sees men with more money, more power, and more confidence than him. Yet here he is emasculated, his talents wasted as a modest high school chemistry teacher. His cancer is only the final straw. Walter’s plight is quintessentially unfair and undeserved, his anger justifiable.<o:p></o:p><br />
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It’s this anger and frustration, though, that taps into a dark side of Walter, something we get an early sense of after he tells his boss off at the carwash, and then later sabotages the BMW belonging to a rude and arrogant lawyer. Soon he embarks on a journey of transformation from Walter White, mild-mannered family man, to Heisenberg, ruthless drug kingpin.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Walter and Jesse’s exploits are comical early on. It’s hard to forget the image of a pasty-looking Walter standing desperately in the New Mexico dessert wearing nothing but a button down shirt and sagging briefs after trying to poison two thugs trapped in a dilapidated RV being used as a mobile meth lab. However, as the story progresses Walter increasingly relies on his wits, intelligence, and skills to become a major threat to the Mexican cartels and a legendary, mythical figure to the DEA, all of whom he managed to either elude or eliminate.<o:p></o:p><br />
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By season five, Walter is no longer Walter, he is Heisenberg, producing meth with complete impunity, and making a fortune his family could never spend in their lifetime. As Heisenberg, the man who has conquered a drug empire, he soon becomes brash and full of bravado. Each time the situation begins to fray, Heisenberg, through manipulation or force manages to reign in back in, all the while justifying his actions as being in the best interest of protecting and providing for his family. The great irony in all of this is that in the process he eventually loses everything including his family.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Predictably Walter becomes of victim of his own undoing as Heisenberg. A single tiny detail causes his world to unravel quickly. In the end Walter attempts to right some of his wrongs the best he can, but the damage is far beyond repair, and he cannot escape the inevitable outcomes.<o:p></o:p><br />
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As my wife and I devoured episode after jaw-dropping episode, I was surprised at how much I could identify with Walter. And with Heisenberg. I found myself asking over and over to what measures would I go to in order to provide for my family?<o:p></o:p><br />
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I recently finished two books set in turn-of-the-century America, E.L. Doctorow’s <i>Ragtime</i>, and <i>Dreamland</i> by Kevin Baker. Both recount with chilling detail and haunting imagery the measures taken by the poor in the struggles to feed their families as they lived in the rundown tenements of NYC. To say that these conditions were deplorable and horrific is an understatement. Again, I wondered what would I have done living under those same circumstances.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The thing is, today isn’t so different from the 1890s and early 1900s with our flailing economy, inept government, and our entitled elite. Many historians and economists have made this same observation, and based on their arguments, <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/ck_lunchbox/2011/10/07/occupy_wall_street_reaction_to_the_gilded_age" title="occupy wall street reaction">it’s hard for me to disagree</a>. The frustration is palpable, the solutions thus far, untenable.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Many people, good, honest, hard-working people and their families are suffering because of decisions and circumstances beyond their control. I know. I am one of them, and like Walter White, I am angry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Seven years ago I was at the top of my game career wise just as Walter White once was. I made good money, I provided for my family, and I had a bright future. Then came the recession. I lost my job and with it went my self-confidence. Since then life has hammered me until I’ve become like a bent nail that can’t be driven any farther.<o:p></o:p><br />
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I’ve watched my family suffer, and I’ve questioned what I did that they should deserve this. Like Walter I love my family, and I’ve done the best I could to make ends meet these past seven years. As the saying goes, the universe it feels has conspired against me.<o:p></o:p><br />
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It seems as if the mailman delivers a new bill every day. I skip meals so my kids can have the food we can afford, and our medical expenses are out of control due to multiple trips to the ER from major asthma attacks. What’s more, we have to jam in as many doctor’s visits in as possible before January 1st after we were informed by my wife’s publicly traded employer that we should probably look into the insurance offered through the Affordable Care Act because what the company plans on offering next year is shit.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Some CFO is getting a big holiday bonus, and you can be sure if <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3JIC_yPRt0" title="Breaking Bad BMW video">I see their BMW idling unattended at a gas station</a>, well … angry? Yes, but what I’m more concerned about is the similar desperation Walter White felt in providing for his family.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Recently I lost my job, again because somebody else wasn’t doing theirs. Another set of circumstances beyond my control. And thus far, despite all efforts I haven’t been able to secure even part-time employment, so with many bills already overdue it’s a real possibility I won’t be able to provide a Christmas for my children.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Am I being dramatic? Not at all. Thousands of men, if not more are in this situation. It’s reality. It’s my reality, one we as men are not supposed to talk about openly today because to do so is to admit to our ultimate failure as a man.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Mind you, this is no pity party or plea for charity. I still have too much pride for either. I only share these details to put into context the question I’m about to pose.<o:p></o:p><br />
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For the most part we as dad bloggers talk about the safe and easy topics, cute anecdotal stories, universal paternal truths, and the occasional moral outrage over some issue of slight. Transparency and authenticity are buzzwords we throw around as we make ourselves the heroes of our own stories, all the while ignoring darker places and harsher realities. Would you traffic meth, or even kill another person if you felt it was the only way to feed and protect your family? <b>Could you be the antihero of your story?</b><o:p></o:p><br />
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As I sat on the couch weighing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XN8qi6xWFb4" title="Breaking Bad Walter White">the actions of Walter White</a> I asked my wife what she would think of me if I did something illegal, but only because I needed to provide for the family. Given the current set of circumstances, I actually entertained the thought for a moment. The thin line that keeps me from ever acting on it, though, is the same principle I try to instill in my children—decisions have consequences, both good and bad, and you have to be willing to live with them.<o:p></o:p><br />
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For Walter the consequences were painfully inevitable. He lost it all, yet at the same time an argument could be made that Walter did achieve his original goal of providing financially for his family. In the end he died knowing his family was taken care of as a result of something he had worked for and earned. Because of this he died a man, an imperfect and flawed man yes, but one whose sense of pride had been restored.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whatever the future holds, I want to die a man. All I ask is for is a chance to stand in the middle of some wind-swept desert where I can plant my feet in the rocky sand, look life in the eye and demand, “Say my name.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Say. My. Name.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>…You’re goddamn right.</i><br />
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<i><u>Update:</u> Since the original posting of this entry I have become gainfully employed, and thus, can disassemble the meth lab I had constructed from a Barbie Easy Bake Oven, LEGOS and an Erector set with half the pieces missing. It was quite a sight. </i><br />
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This post was originally published at <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/families/breaking-dad-wwh/#!oXZd8" target="_blank">The Good Men Project</a><br />
Photo Credit: Original Created by Author <br />
<br />Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-41650687466223499652013-11-13T16:09:00.000-05:002020-01-19T14:08:11.521-05:00If You Give a Mouse CPR<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;"><b>M</b></span>ost people
know I’m not a cat person, and yet, despite this we have a cat. The reason for
this is simple: <b><a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2012/12/of-mice-and-men-and-cats.html#.UoPji_msj5U" target="_blank">Our house was being overrun by mice last winter,</a></b> and
conventional methods such as traps and poisons failed to stem the tide. A cat,
therefore, seemed like the only other cost-effective option. After a brief
search through Craigslist my wife found a suitable feline candidate that was
even advertised as being a good “mouser.” <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In short
order our mouse problem was no more, even though I only ever saw the cat catch
one of the furry little bastards. My guess is that our cat’s mere presence was
enough of deterrent to keep the mice at bay. Since then the cat has been splitting her time
between being an entitled indoor cat and a prey-stalking outdoor cat—something
akin to a Kardashian living a dual life as a ninja assassin. It’s not uncommon to open the front door and
find the limp body of a once perky chipmunk or hairless baby squirrel at least
two or three times a week. <br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know the
common belief is that these little “gifts” are a cat’s way of showing they
are happy, but the reality is cats have an inherent kill pattern programmed into
their brains. That and they are very bad
at disposing of the bodies. (<b><a href="http://theoatmeal.com/comics/cats_actually_kill" target="_blank">See this infographic</a></b>.) Thus, if you suffer from
Phagofelinephobia, take heart, once the cats have had their fill your corpse <i>will</i> be found (of course, on whose
doorstep is anybody’s guess). I digress.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What I’m getting
at is that cat has been taking a proactive approach to rodent prevention as we
ease into the winter months. Admittedly, regardless of my personal feelings
towards the cat, I‘ve been pleased by the results which is why the other night
I was okay with being roused from my slumber by the cat digging at something
under our bed. A cursory, if not blurry-eyed investigation found that the cat
had cornered a baby mouse. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Apparently,
though, this must have been one of those “non-murder” days for the cat because she
made no effort to end its young life. Instead she looked up at me with an
expression of, “Are you going to take care of this thing or what?” <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I rolled my still
sleepy eyes. <i>Fine.</i> And with that I
picked the mouse up by its tail, and gave it a once over. <i>Disgusting.</i> Even so, I wasn’t in a killing mood myself, and rather
than smashing its head with a hammer or crushing it with a nutcracker I tossed the little guy outside into
the cold dark night. It could fend for itself—survival of the fittest and all
that.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I will say
here that it<i> did</i> occur to me that if there was one baby mouse, there were likely
others, and if this one was under the bed then where were the others? Putting
two and two together was a tad disconcerting, but not enough for me to care
about anything beyond crawling back under the covers. If my wife happened to
wake up screaming I’d deal with things then. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fast forward
to later that afternoon. My boys are hauling in their bags for the weekend when I
hear one of them exclaim, “Look! A baby mouse!” <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Apparently I
hadn’t done a very good job of getting rid of the thing. Somehow it had managed
to crawl under a crinkled up leaf where my kids, who have some weird, uncanny
radar for finding helpless creatures famous for spreading the plague,
discovered it. In less than five seconds they had the mouse in a shoe box filled
with premium grade toilet paper for a bed. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Great. Now I’m stuck with the damn thing, and
once it dies because I sure as hell ain’t gonna do anything to help it out, I’ll
have to give the “death talk” to a bunch of distraught kids. <o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If I thought
that was the end of it I was about to find out that the situation was only
about to get better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few hours
later I heard the excited rush of children bursting down the hallway. “We found
<i>another</i>!” they all cried with glee holding another hairy brown creature smaller
than my thumb. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Lovely. <o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But they
weren’t done. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Later that
evening they came across yet<i> another</i> baby mouse. Apparently they were part of a
happy little mouse family living tucked up neat and snug behind the basement
heater. My guess is that the cat caught and killed the parents on a murder day, but dislodged
the babies in the process. Whatever the case, three very lucky mice were now being
fawned over by a bunch of ecstatic children who saw themselves as the animal
world’s Florence Nightingale.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
All through
the next day the kids would make periodic checks on their orphaned babies, and then
report their findings. Why they felt the need to provide me with the details I don’t
know. My stance on the matter was fairly obvious, but as time wore on there was
a growing desperation in their voices. The mice were slowly dying of
starvation. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Out of sympathy
for my children I felt compelled to step in. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>To Google!</i><br />
<br />
A
quick search yielded a litany of tips and facts related to the care of orphaned
mice. Did you know you shouldn’t give baby mice cow milk? Yeah, it gives them
cramps, and they die. Instead these lactose-intolerant creatures require baby
formula—the expensive kind that’s gentle on their digestive track. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I can’t believe
I’m doing this,” I said to my wife on the way out of the door to the grocery
store. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By the time
I returned home, though, one of the little fellows had passed on to the great
cheese barrel in the sky. The children were saddened, but they quickly turned
the focus of their concern to the others as I mixed the formula and feed
droplets of it to the other two. (By the way, if you ever find yourself in this
situation it’s recommended that you feed mice from the sides of the mouth. If
you do it from the front the food can clog their nose and suffocate them. You
can thank me later.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Turns out
simply feeding baby mice isn’t enough. No, you have to help them digest the food
too. This is accomplished by gently rolling a Q-tip back and forth across their
tiny bellies until they poop which made them squeal with glee to the delight of
sons and stepdaughters. Yes, you read that right. I was massaging the tummies
of the very rodents I had reluctantly consented to get a cat in order to kill.
Talk about irony. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This done, I
then placed the two survivors back in the shoe box, put on the lid, and placed
it under my desk lamp to keep them warm for the night. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Incidentally,
later, in the wee morning hours I was again woken by the cat. This time she was
on top of my desk. Several items, including my phone had been knocked to the
ground, this as a result of her genius plan to push the shoe box onto the floor
and gobble down the contents therein. The look on her face said, “What? I
thought you were keeping dinner warm for me?” Tonight must have been a murder
night.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sadly, by
the morning a second mouse had gone on to meet St. Peter’s mouse counterpart at
the pearly gates. I was now down to one mouse, and as my worried children left
for school I promised I would do my best to take care of it. Throughout the day
I fed it formula and rubbed its belly, but it was for not. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the
evening after the children were in bed I pulled out the mouse for another
feeding. Everything seemed to be proceeding as before until I noticed the
little fella was no longer making that petite sucking sound. In fact it wasn’t
wiggling anymore either. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>No. It can’t be. I did everything right. It
was just fine earlier</i>. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I thought
about my children and their hopeful eyes staring at me. Even though I made them
no guarantees there was an unspoken expectation that I would save the day
because I was their dad. A feeling of determination swept over me. I wasn’t
about to let a dying mouse dispel the faith they placed in me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fueled by
this thought I did the only thing I could think to do—I started pressing on the
mouse’s chest with my index finger. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>One. Two. Three…</i> Hey, I didn’t get certified
as an EMT for nothing you know. <i>One. Two.
Three…</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was then
that my wife looked over and asked, “What are you doing?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not now,
hon. I’m trying to save this thing.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then I saw
it. The mouse jerked and let out a barely audible cough. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Yes! I saved it!<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then the
mouse exhaled and went limp.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wasn’t
enough. The lone surviving mouse was now with his mouse family in mouse heaven.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And a single
though ran through my mind: The things we do for our children.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In Memory Of</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- The Last Little Mouse -</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
November ? 2013 - November 12, 2013</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2UInFCeJXCg/UoPnOVJ8ELI/AAAAAAAAYqs/Fg7K60qvrVU/s1600/Clark-Kents-Lunchbox-Mouse-CPR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2UInFCeJXCg/UoPnOVJ8ELI/AAAAAAAAYqs/Fg7K60qvrVU/s1600/Clark-Kents-Lunchbox-Mouse-CPR.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-70844805463776879022013-10-28T10:39:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.637-05:0013 Things My Kids Seem Incapable Of [Slide Presentation]<b><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span></b>re there certain minor, little things that your kids keep doing even though you've tried time and again to get them to change? Do you wonder if your children will ever get it? I'll wager to say we've all been there. Here is my list of things that cause me to ask that very question. Are some of these on your list, or are there others in your household?<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="400" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://www.slideshare.net/slideshow/embed_code/27573874" width="476"></iframe>Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-62613280073629695732013-10-24T15:03:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.613-05:00Dreams of Failure [GMP]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZuUmkvVnBfo/UmlutbB_5yI/AAAAAAAAYB8/hCIxUlJHi78/s1600/Ron-Mattocks-Good-Men-Project-dreams-failure.jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZuUmkvVnBfo/UmlutbB_5yI/AAAAAAAAYB8/hCIxUlJHi78/s320/Ron-Mattocks-Good-Men-Project-dreams-failure.jpg.png" height="268" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span></b> while back I had two dreams that were so vivid I will never forget them. In the first I was a boy, roughly 10 or 11, standing before a white farm house with three gabled windows protruding from the roof and a wide, covered porch spanning the entire front exterior. Yellow daffodils filled the flower beds at the porch’s base, and the surrounding yard was neat and trimmed. Facing the left side of the house stood a traditional-looking barn with two large doors that were swung open revealing its insides.<br />
<br />
A path to the left of the barn cut through a spacious field that was bordered on three sides by a wall of maple and oak trees. Something compelled me to follow the path, and as I walked my feet could feel the cool clover growing in the raised strip running between the shallow ruts that were worn into the damp dirt by some wheeled vehicle.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://goodmenproject.com/families/dream-meanings-wwh/" target="_blank"><b>Continue reading...</b></a>Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-41051069134599439112013-10-17T16:40:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.514-05:00Daddy Blogger Mad Lib<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HRQ9PVSFttg/UmBKtulzVmI/AAAAAAAAXtM/j-noY9-nXqE/s1600/Dad-Blogger-Mad_lib.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HRQ9PVSFttg/UmBKtulzVmI/AAAAAAAAXtM/j-noY9-nXqE/s320/Dad-Blogger-Mad_lib.png" width="290" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I walked into the (<u>ROOM</u>) where I found my
(<u>NUMBER</u>) year-old child, (<u>CHILD’S NICKNAME</u>) playing with a (<u>NOUN</u>) in the toilet.
This frustrated me because I’ve tried over and over to teach him/her the
message that (<u>CLICHÉ MAXIM</u>). Unfortunately it seems like it’s going in one
(<u>BODY PART</u>) and out the other. It makes me want to pull out my (<u>BODY PART</u>)
sometimes. Not only that, you’d think at this age they would be potty trained
and I wouldn’t have to clean the (<u>BODILY SECRETION</u>) out of his/her diaper anymore.
The other day he/she dropped a man-size (<u>BODILY SECRETION</u>) that they proceeded
to wipe on the walls. I supposed this is just part of being a full-time parent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love being a dad, but if I was being honest, I would have
to admit that I like my (<u>FAMILY MEMBER</u>) more than my son/daughter. Hey, I’m
just saying is all. I know some might find this controversial, but it’s simply
the truth, and I’m not going to hide it.<br />
<a name='more'></a> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I’m no stranger to controversy after revealing
last month in a highly circulated press release I put out that I am a (<u>SEXUAL
ORIENTATION</u>). That was followed by a viral blog post which received (<u>NUMBER</u>) page views, and prompted at least (<u>NUMBER</u>) of
emails thanking me for my beautiful and courageous words. That’s why I blog—to help
others and because I love my child/children more than anything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to say, it’s so humbling when moms at the (<u>AN OUTDOOR
LOCATION</u>) come up to me as I’m playing with (<u>SAME CHILD’S NICKNAME</u>) and tell me
what a good dad I am. It’s almost embarrassing, but I am grateful hearing this
from the mom community which I hold up on a pedestal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s good to be appreciated as a dad no thanks to TV shows
like (TV SHOW) which portrays dads as a bunch of (<u>ADJECTIVE</u>), (<u>ADJECTIVE</u>)
(<u>ANIMAL PLURAL</u>). This is not who we are as fathers, and I for one refuse to
stand for it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did anyone see that TV commercial by (<u>COMPANY</u>)? When I saw it, it
made me feel so (<u>FEELING</u>), and that’s what prompted me to write a (<u>DESCRIPTIVE FEELING</u>)
blog post, “We Dads Are Not Dumb (<u>TV or MOVIE DAD CHARACTER</u>),” in response. Not
that I’m bragging, but the (<u>NUMBER</u>) page-views and (<u>NUMBER</u>) comments that post
got, I think proves how many people felt the same way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mentioned this same post in my panel with (<u>ADJECTIVE</u>) Dad,
(<u>VERB and ADVERB</u>) Dad, and (MOVIE TITLE) Dad at the (<u>ADJECTIVE</u>), (<u>FAMILY
AFFILIATION/TITLE</u>) 2.0 Conference in (<u>CITY</u>) last month. There was a lot of discussion surrounding this
topic, but it was encouraging to see brands such as (<u>COMPANY</u>), (<u>COMPANY</u>), and
(<u>COMPANY</u>) present so we could have a real discussion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to say the conference overall was a positive
experience, and even though I didn’t think I could be taught anything new about
blogging I ended up learning that (<u>CLICHÉ PARENT BLOGGER PHRASE</u>). Also, it was a real treat getting to meet a
couple of mom bloggers I really respect, (<u>ACTION VERB</u>) Mom, and (<u>DOUBLE
ENTENTRE FOR SEX</u>) Mom at the (<u>A QUIRKY ADJECTIVE</u>) (<u>RANDOM/BIZARRE NOUN</u>) Party. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, despite all the fun, I felt sooooo guilty being away
from my little (<u>SAME CHILD’S NICKNAME AS BEFORE</u>). After all I am a father first
and he/she is why I blog no matter how long it takes to potty-train them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Di<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">sclosure: My conference trip was sponsored by
(<u>CONSUMER GOODS COMPANY</u>) and their new (<u>PRODUCT</u>) for (<u>ACTION VERB ENDING IN “ING”</u>)
your kid’s (<u>BODY PART</u>). Also, don’t forget about the Twitter party giveaway
they are sponsoring tonight. Use the Hashtag #<i>(<u>ADJECTIVE or NOUN</u>)DadsBSing </i>and
you’ll be entered in a drawing to receive one of their products for free. </span></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-82659865028293308462013-10-14T12:38:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.671-05:00The Perfect Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ckYMEOVRasA/UlwcszpSOfI/AAAAAAAAXpI/A_tsewAo7fo/s1600/perfect-life-ron-mattocks.jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ckYMEOVRasA/UlwcszpSOfI/AAAAAAAAXpI/A_tsewAo7fo/s320/perfect-life-ron-mattocks.jpg.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if it’s because I’m wading into the deep end of
my mid-life crisis or if it’s simple escapism, but lately I’ve been thinking
a lot about when my life seemed perfect. When precisely was this this? It was
soon after working through the issues of my recent divorce. I was in my 30’s
and making a comfortable living which afforded me a trendy <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2007_08_01_archive.html#.UlwdilCsim4" target="_blank">downtown loft</a> and a
hot car, the kind the valets like to park out front for others to see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Physically fit, I weighed 25 pounds less than I do now, and
had a closet full of designer suits that made me feel sharp as I walked out the door
each morning. Professionally, I was at the top of my game, and I knew it which
gave me a supreme confidence and healthy sort of cockiness that fueled my
continued success.<br />
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time I had <a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2010/07/soundtrack-to-friendship.html#.UlwWplCsim4" target="_blank"><b>a solid group of friends</b></a> and an
active social calendar. There were trips to places like Vegas and Tahoe where
we stayed in high-roller suites and partied with celebrities. That calendar also included dates with a
number of attractive young women—one competed in state beauty pageants, another
just missed the final cut for joining the Pussy Cat Dolls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As one of my co-workers put it, my life appeared
“Clooney-esque.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lest you picture me as some sort of douche (I know I kinda sound that way), keep in mind I
also attended church regularly, <b><a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2009/01/on-10th-day-of-christmas-lunchbox.html#.UlwXWlCsim4" target="_blank">painted</a></b>, and spent as much quality time with my
sons as possible. My sons and I, in fact, shared some of our happiest memories
during that time, and even after their mother moved away, we still talked to
each other on the phone every night until I eventually moved to nearby Chicago.
So, at the very least, I wasn’t a <i>total</i> douche. I’m merely trying to build
context here, so don’t judge me too harshly yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In short, this was exactly the kind of life I wanted. When I
was a teenager I recall drawing a picture of myself in which I had long curly
hair (it was the 80’s) and wore fancy did while leaning against the hood of a
Lamborghini (like I said, the 80’s) with an attractive woman in the passenger
seat. I literally could visualize how I planned to live one day, but once I
achieved it a reoccurring thought ran through my head each morning as I zoomed
away from Starbucks with my Venti hazelnut latte: This wouldn’t last forever.
Deep inside I knew change was inevitable, yet at the time, though, I couldn’t
exactly conceive how. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But it did, and seven years later I now live in a rundown
rental house, drive an uninspiring minivan, own no more suits because I gave
them all away to a thrift store which is okay because I don’t have a regular
job either. And that’s not to mention my waning confidence and ensuing
<b><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ron-mattocks/bipolar-disorder_b_3830187.html" target="_blank">struggles to manage my depression</a></b>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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By the standards I had set for myself as a teen, life isn’t
quite so perfect anymore, something I’m reminded each afternoon I open the
mailbox and find another looming bill waiting for me. Even though I couldn’t
have predicted the circumstances, things did change for me, and in dramatic
fashion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s funny then that, with all this going through my head,
my 11 year-old son would ask me what my idea of a perfect day would be. He sat
there expectantly, kicking the front of the kitchen bar with his swinging legs.
The question made me pause as I was about to load a sauce pan into the
dishwasher. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>What </i>would<i> be the perfect day? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I had to think about this for a moment. I recalled all the
things I once used to do, but they felt off. Even if I did have the means to
take a trip with friends or shop for a new suit, the idea seemed out of place
and unfulfilling. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I guess the perfect day for me would be doing something as
a family, where we all got along, and we have lots of fun,” I finally answered.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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My son’s face lit up. “You mean like the Johnny Appleseed
Festival last week? We did something as a family. No one was fighting, and we had
lots of fun.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I shook my head and smiled to myself. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess
that was a perfect day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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What my son didn’t realize was that he had reminded me of a
simple truth: A perfect life can only be interpreted within the context of what
stage of life you are in now, not the place you used to be or even want to be. It's that whole living in the moment thing. </div>
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If I tried to live
the life I once did in my 30’s I wouldn’t be as happy as I might believe. I’m
different now (and old), and as I take stock of things so too is my definition
of “perfect.” I have a <b><a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/search/label/Lois%20Lane%20%28Love%20and%20Marriage%29#.UlwYDlCsim4" target="_blank">loving wife</a></b> who supports what I want to do in life.
I have five amazing children. I’ve <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Milk-Drinks-Afford-Vodka/dp/1450204031/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345471456&sr=1-1&keywords=sugar+milk+ron+mattocks" target="_blank">published a book</a></b> (another dream of mine from
those teen years), and, crazy as this sounds, I have a moderately successful
blog that has opened up opportunities for me and my family that we might not
otherwise have had the chance to enjoy.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes there are hardships to overcome, but there were
hardships when I thought my life was perfect in my 20’s as a soldier, just as
there were in my 30’s when I was a swinging bachelor. It’s easy to dismiss this
fact when present hardships are staring you right in the face, but it’s foolish
to deny they ever existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The ironic part to all of this is that when I’d frequent the
clubs during my “perfect” 30’s, I would often see guys in their 40’s out
dancing and hitting on girls, and my first thought was always, “How sad is
their life. I sure hope I don’t end up like that.” Thankfully, it didn’t. Life
may not be perfect per se, but I am in the perfect spot in life and it’s right
where I should be. <o:p></o:p></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-18931495719084732922013-10-10T10:23:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.431-05:00J.J. Abrams, Dad 2.0, and The Life of Dad [Podcast] <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XocVgrwSAr0/Ula213jRqZI/AAAAAAAAXcI/gOO-mpZxKWk/s1600/ron-mattocks-life-of-dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XocVgrwSAr0/Ula213jRqZI/AAAAAAAAXcI/gOO-mpZxKWk/s1600/ron-mattocks-life-of-dad.jpg" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">E</span></b>arlier this week I had the opportunity to be a guest on the <a href="http://lifeofdad.com/podcast_episode.php?pcid=923" target="_blank"><b>Life of Dad After Show</b></a> where I chatted with hosts <a href="https://twitter.com/DadatworkNJ" target="_blank"><b>Art Eddy</b></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/RyanEHamilton" target="_blank"><b>Ryan Hamilton</b></a> about Star Wars, J.J. Abrams, the origin of Clark Kent's Lunchbox, how to make <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Milk-Drinks-Afford-Vodka/dp/1450204031/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345471456&sr=1-1&keywords=sugar+milk+ron+mattocks" target="_blank"><b>Sugar Milk</b></a>, attending the <a href="http://www.dad2summit.com/" target="_blank"><b>Dad 2.0</b></a> conference, and the evolution of dad blogging. I did my best to sound interesting, but who knows--I say "uh" a lot. Anyway. It was at least nice to have a real conversation with a couple of great guys which is a big deal for me considering I only have a cat to talk with all day.<br />
<br />
If you're not familiar with <b><a href="http://lifeofdad.com/" target="_blank">The Life of Dad </a></b>bunch and all the stuff they are doing, then I highly encourage checking them out and joining the community they've put together over there.<br />
<br />
Many thanks to Art and Ryan for having me.<br />
<br />
You can listen to the program here: <a href="http://lifeofdad.com/podcast_episode.php?pcid=923" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">The Life of Dad After Show</span></b></a><br />
<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-37796465928254375902013-10-04T12:58:00.002-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.504-05:00Type-A Takeaways for Dad Bloggers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TrEPWvZsGbI/Uk7xXg9I0HI/AAAAAAAAXLw/_NEkb-RZIb8/s1600/dad-blogger-type-a-conf.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TrEPWvZsGbI/Uk7xXg9I0HI/AAAAAAAAXLw/_NEkb-RZIb8/s1600/dad-blogger-type-a-conf.png" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Type-A Dad Panel: Myself, Fred Goodall, Eric Payne, and Trey Burley </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Over the past weekend I attended the <a href="http://typeaconference.com/"><b>Type-A Parent Conference</b></a> in Atlanta, Georgia. This was my third appearance as a speaker covering the topic of daddy blogging, and as in years past, it was a wholly positive experience. Founder <a href="https://twitter.com/typeamom" target="_blank"><b>Kelby Carr</b></a> and her staff did a marvelous job putting together an event that was both informative and fun. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Admittedly I was apprehensive about the conference after my experience earlier at <b>BlogHer</b>. Granted I probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind while in Chicago, but regardless, the event felt a little bit… flat—like everything was a matter of going through the motions. The strength, though, of BlogHer is that it’s a celebration of women—their creativity, their accomplishments, their business savvy, and ultimately their voice. And rightfully so. It’s not that I felt uncomfortable, this despite being “interviewed” by a curious mom blogger who, using a tampon as a microphone, wanted to know what a dad was doing at a blog conference geared to women. Even so, as the male minority at BlogHer, I knew my place, and that was okay with me.<br />
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Type-A Parent was different.</b> Kelby and her team have always gone to great lengths to make dads feel welcome, even going so far as changing the name from Type-A Mom to Type-A Parent in 2011 while also ensuring a dad panel was included among the sessions. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My underlying concern, however, wasn’t so much about fitting in as it was a matter of the actual value of the conference itself. What I mean to say is that, given I’ve been blogging since 2007 and have attended a number of blog conferences in that time, at a certain point you begin to wonder what more you can learn from a conference that experience hasn’t already taught you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In my opinion this is a prime challenge blogging conferences face today. In order for a conference to be of value it has to offer more than just staple sessions on monetizing your blog and a few meet-and-greets with brands eager to hock their wares. After you go to enough of these events it’s easy to cynically categorize them as the same old song and dance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Type-A Parent, however, once again managed to beat that rep, and while I could point out many examples of why this was the case, there are three main takeaways from the conference that I think may be beneficial for dad bloggers. </div>
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<b>1. Dad bloggers are a viable entity in the space. </b>This is a point that most of us would already agree on, and this has certainly been evident in the wake of <a href="http://www.dad2summit.com/">Dad 2.0</a> which promises to be an even bigger affair in 2014. Type-A Parent only reinforced this. The <a href="http://sched.co/1bzqWcP">dad blogging session</a> was well attended by not just moms and dads, but also by brands and agencies that recognize the importance of including the voice of fathers. I’ll interject here that <b>Fred Goodall</b> (<a href="http://mochadad.com/">Mocha Dad</a>), <b>Eric Payne</b> (<a href="http://www.makesmewannaholler.com/2013/09/dad-bloggers-speak-love-of-family-type-a-conference.html">Makes Me Wanna Holler</a>), and <b>Trey Burley</b> (<a href="http://www.daddymojo.net/2013/10/top-takeaways-from-attending-the-type-a-parent-conference/#more-4625">Daddy Mojo</a>) did an outstanding job in representing dad bloggers as they discussed their reasons for blogging, how brands can best work with us, and the impacts blogging has had on them as fathers, husbands, and men. Their passion and sincerity was evident as they spoke (as the moderator I had it easy just asking the questions), and it sparked some excellent dialogue with the audience. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>2. There <i>is</i> money in blogging.</b> No, really there is and it’s not from ads and reviews either. This was something I started to figure out a few years ago when I was blogging full time (an endeavor I have recently returned to after working as a content strategist for a web marketing agency for the past few years). What I didn’t realize, though, was how much money can be made through blogging. Several of the panelists disclosed making between $20,000 to $40,000-plus from in some cases, a single client! (Sorry, they didn’t say from whom.) Such opportunities came in a variety of forms to include copywriting, brand relationships, and freelance articles all of which came about because of their own personal blogs. And the keys to such success? –being persistent in what you do, demanding compensation for your work (and we’re not talking about a few measly gift cards and free products here), building relationships within your social network, and takeaway number three...<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>3. Publishing content that’s worth reading.</b> This point could not be emphasized enough throughout the sessions. Good content, both in terms of quality <i>and</i> basic mechanics, is in high demand today, and brands are looking for people who can write well and produce content that readers will engage with. The caveat, though, is that like with all good writing, the content has to be unique and valuable. Right now there’s an ocean of bland rubbish out there (see this presentation from Velocity Partners), but if you can stick out in some way then you’re in a good position for takeaway number two. The good news for dad bloggers is that we already have a unique voice in that we talk about parenting from our perspective as father. Add to this the fact that, with a few exceptions, the majority of us have readerships that are largely women, and we as dad bloggers have a solid argument in selling ourselves to brands and the media. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ultimately I will end by saying that, as the relationship between bloggers and brands continues to evolve, the Type-A Parent conference has continued to keep pace with the trends in the space while also helping to shape the dialogue in that relationship. In doing so, the conference has maintained its relevance by offering practical, informative sessions along with the opportunity to strengthen one’s network in a professional, yet fun setting. Everyone should have walked away with something valuable. <o:p></o:p></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-22763489133580554632013-09-26T08:30:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.444-05:00What's the Deal with Me and Richard Marx? [DadCentric]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HYbGehiaLQc/UkMkYekPOZI/AAAAAAAAWxY/Fo6mcTX6riA/s1600/richard-marx-ron-mattocks-dadcentric.2jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HYbGehiaLQc/UkMkYekPOZI/AAAAAAAAWxY/Fo6mcTX6riA/s320/richard-marx-ron-mattocks-dadcentric.2jpg.png" height="295" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><b>I</b></span>nevitably, if a conversation turns toward musical tastes, I
always end up the laughing stock of the group. Why? No one has ever deemed my
choice of bands and singers as being cool. I’ll bring up names like Matchbox 20
or The Fray—and of course there’s that whole thing with Coldplay—and everyone
starts doubling over. It’s fine. I’m
used to it by now. Sometimes I’ll even join in. Admittedly I deserve ridicule
for my brief flirtation with Nickelback.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My wife, Ashley, is undoubtedly my harshest critic. A song
from Snow Patrol will come on the radio, and she’ll roll her eyes so hard I can
hear it over the music. “How did I ever marry you,” she will sigh.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.dadcentric.com/2013/09/fan-of-richard-marx.html" target="_blank">Continue reading...</a></b></div>
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Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-35066563059444423922013-09-23T16:25:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.487-05:00Not My Kid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BueniiLtDeQ/UkCgHV44kWI/AAAAAAAAWvA/Pr_oSGMjW4w/s1600/greedy-kids-ron-mattocks-clark-kents-lunchbox-dad-blog.jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BueniiLtDeQ/UkCgHV44kWI/AAAAAAAAWvA/Pr_oSGMjW4w/s320/greedy-kids-ron-mattocks-clark-kents-lunchbox-dad-blog.jpg.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">N</span></b>ot my kid. That’s what we as parents wish we could think on
a continual basis. We see another child doing something outrageous, or we hear
about it from a fellow parent and we naturally imagine our own children in the
same situation, believing that our parenting skills have made enough of an
impact so as to prevent them from doing anything stupid and embarrassing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hey, I’m no different… I’m no different <i>until</i> I overhear someone commenting on the kid plundering the bowl
of mints offered in the church’s coffee café, only to learn later that it was
both my 11 year-old <i>and </i>my nine
year-old sons who were grabbing fistfuls of peppermint candy like greedy
pirates stuffing their pockets with gold doubloons. I would’ve been none the wiser had it not
been for the indiscriminate trail of cellophane wrappers laying in the hallway
and the sibling who snitched on them. (With five kids it’s hard to get away
with anything, especially when you don’t share the loot.)</div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
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Not only had the boys jacked the trove of candy, but they
had also scarfed up enough cookies to wait out the apocalypse and still have
plenty to spare. In hindsight, though, I probably should’ve been tipped off by
their cumbersome sort of waddle as they crossed the church parking lot to
leave. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, those are <i>not</i> my kids.” (No really, I've never seen them before in my life.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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They <i>were</i> my kid<i>s </i>(plural), and to say that I was mortified
would be putting it mildly. A stern conversation about self-control and new
rules for conducting ourselves like gentlemen—not little piggies—followed. (<i>Sheesh</i>! They acted like they’ve never
had sweets before.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Age, of course, is a big factor here. There’s an expectation
we have of our child’s ability to reason as they progress in years. Often,
though, we have to make judgment calls as to how much we can trust our kids
with certain things. Sometimes they prove us right, and sometimes they go into
sugar shock after OD’ing on free mint candies and chocolate chip cookies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of these moments of decision comes when determining
whether your child is ready to mass communicate with the known outside world
via social media and an electronic device. We all are well aware of how social
media can turn a village idiot into a global one within a matter of minutes;
plus, when it comes to our sons and daughters there’s also the concerns over
privacy and potential for cyber-bullying. Bottom line: there’s a great deal of
responsibility and maturity involved. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This was the message my wife conveyed to my 11 year-old
stepdaughter, Allie, after she received a whatever-the-latest-model iPod Touch
from her father. My wife drew up an ironclad contract governing Allie’s use of
the gizmo along with corresponding consequences for any violations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No texting after lights out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No posting personal information like your school or home
address.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No stalking boys.” (We wouldn’t want <a href="http://givenbreath.com/2013/09/03/fyi-if-youre-a-teenage-girl/" target="_blank">this lady’s sons</a> being
tempted or anything)<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No more than two duck-face selfies per week.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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…And the list went on. Basically, my wife’s intent was to
keep Allie from being “that” girl. With these parameters clearly outlined for
Allie, it was easy for her mother and me to assume, “Not my kid,” which held
true …for about a week. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At first things were fine. Allie was allowed an Instagram
account and DM privileges, and early on it was all pics of the cat (she may
have gone over the limit on the selfies, but no harm done), and goofy texts
with friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yep, not my kid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shortly thereafter things began to spiral, however. Apparently
there’s a game you can play on Instagram with your friends where you each take
a shot of yourself and then you solicit “likes” and the one with the most wins.
It’s essentially a shallow popularity contest where someone’s feelings inevitably
get hurt if they’re the low vote getter. (Allie often won and so she was quick
to instigate new rounds daily.) Once we realized what was going on (she hasn’t yet figured out we can follow her profile), a heavy warning was issued with an
explanation concerning the larger ramifications of potentially hurtful games.
Allie said she understood, and we were back to, “Not my kid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yeah, not so much.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The silliness on Instagram continued—playing more
insensitive popularity games, posting her fall class schedule, asking boys over
and over if they liked her, and worst of all, being downright bitchy and mean
to other girls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Say goodbye to the iPod</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was so much wrong with the whole situation I don’t
know where to begin, but it was addressed, I can assure you of that. What
bothered us, though, is that despite all the teaching, all the guidance, all
the rules, Allie still became “that” kid. Subsequently, her mother, her father,
and I were both surprised and disappointed. </div>
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As a parent you know in the back of
your mind your child is going to screw up at some point in life, but it doesn’t
stop you from believing the best in them. When this happens, though, it’s normal for us as parents to
ask ourselves, “Where? Where did I go wrong?” as you visualize your adult child
sucking on a crack pipe in the middle of some squalid trailer house.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But there’s a bright side. At least these events act as a
barometer for gauging where a child’s heads is at. (Incidentally, Allie’s
younger sister, Avery, now has the iPod and, thus far, she has proven to be
rather responsible with it.) This in turn means teachable moments, and make no
mistake, Allie is currently learning her lesson. If she wants to communicate
with her friends, she can now go outside and bang two rocks together. <o:p></o:p></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-65368298034405010302013-09-10T09:03:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.623-05:00The Life of Bi [Huffington Post]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eEKEw6KDzv8/Ui3UmvoTYaI/AAAAAAAAWZ8/upfvqN4tIa0/s1600/bipolar-2-depression-in-men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eEKEw6KDzv8/Ui3UmvoTYaI/AAAAAAAAWZ8/upfvqN4tIa0/s320/bipolar-2-depression-in-men.jpg" height="295" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><b>T</b></span><span style="font-size: 15px;">here's an implied danger that goes with being greeted by a metal detector the instant you enter a door. After all, why would it be there if someone didn't want to prevent a deranged lunatic from attempting to sneak a weapon into a school or an airport? Or a behavioral health facility.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That's where I found myself -- a behavioral health facility assuring a hulking, six-foot-five guard that I had left my cell phone in the car as the sign in the parking lot instructed. The guard politely pointed me towards the door on the right of the nurse's station as opposed to the thick metal one on the left, which I noticed had a lock requiring the nurse to buzz someone in or out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Peering through the small glass portal I could see a sterile hall lined with closed rooms. For a moment the option between doors made me feel like Neo choosing between the red pill or the blue pill, and I wondered which would take me down the rabbit hole. ...<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ron-mattocks/bipolar-disorder_b_3830187.html" target="_blank">continue reading</a>.</span></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-33701794813978679732013-09-06T09:23:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.479-05:00Swim Test<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-latNG9QwWe0/UinQmAgYAUI/AAAAAAAAWVQ/9p5XwFAeJ-4/s1600/Swim-Test-Clark-Kents-Lunchbox.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-latNG9QwWe0/UinQmAgYAUI/AAAAAAAAWVQ/9p5XwFAeJ-4/s320/Swim-Test-Clark-Kents-Lunchbox.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">U</span></b>nlike me, my kids are a bunch of water bugs when it comes to swimming. Swimming is one of those things that never really stuck with me after I grew up. Perhaps this is because my sisters and I never went that often. Once each summer our mother would take us for a day at the Lake Erie peninsula where the lake’s docile waves would toss our bony little bodies back onto the gravely shore. Sometimes, if we were lucky, a well-off friend would invite us over to their pool, but mostly we just damned up the small creek behind our house and sat in muddy, knee-deep water. <br />
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My kids also have a good size creek running through our backyard, but they would much rather prefer the new outdoor pool at our local YMCA. It’s not that they are averse to playing in the creek (and then tracking mud through the house); it’s just that the pool has a thirty-foot water slide, a playground, a whirlpool, fountains, and a zip line. Needless to say we spent more than a few weekends there over the summer.<br />
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However, there was a stipulation attached to using some of the pool’s features—children under 15 must pass a swim test. It’s not a bad rule to have, and I wasn’t worried about my kids making the grade. They’ve had classes in the past, and true to form they all passed, earning a green wrist band that allowed them to enjoy everything the pool had to offer.<br />
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Now, the way the system is <em>supposed</em> to work is, once you pass the swim test the lifeguard takes down your name and date of birth and then enters this info into the computer so you don’t have to retake the test every time you come to the pool. For some unknown reason, however, this did not happen for my 11 and nine year-old sons which meant they would have to take the swim test once more. Again, I didn’t anticipate any problems as they swam the length of the pool, tread water, and floated on their backs according to the lifeguard’s instructions.<br />
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But something was wrong. As they talked with the lifeguard I noticed twinges of disappointment growing on their faces, and by the time the boys reached me tears mixed with the water dripping from their bodies.<br />
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“He said we didn’t pass,” they both sobbed as they hugged me.<br />
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I was empathetic at first, as well as a little surprised.<br />
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Watching their reaction, the lifeguard came over to offer his reasoning. My middle son, he explained, hadn’t entered the pool properly (he slid in rather than jumping and submerging his whole body), while my other son started to get tired towards the end.<br />
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Ticky tacky? Sure, but if I’ve learned one thing during my time in the Army it’s that the standard is the standard. I must have taken hundreds of hands-on tests for various certifications where an instructor evaluated my performance as either a “go” or a “no go.” I can’t say I was always a “go” on every task, and it lead to some big disappointments, but even so, I couldn’t argue with the instructors. It was their job to uphold the standards, and even if they were wrong it still would’ve be a losing battle. The only recourse, then, was to redo the task at hand until I met the qualifications. That’s life. <br />
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I looked at the failed swim test in the same light. Arguing with the lifeguard wouldn’t have done any good, and I would’ve looked like a jerk anyway getting up in the face of a seventeen year-old kid. In fact, before walking off, the lifeguard actually thanked me for understanding. He had apparently already heard an earful from more than a few moms and dads.<br />
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Returning to my sons I let them know that they could try again in an hour. Hearing this, my youngest son dried his eyes and went straight to the starting point of the test so he could be the first in line. I smiled, rubbed his head and told him he still had some time to play yet.<br />
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My middle son’s reaction was different.<br />
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“I don’t want to swim anymore,” he pouted, curling up is his towel.<br />
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Call me a hard-ass but this attitude didn’t sit well with me. My son is naturally athletic and excels at whatever sport he’s playing unless he does poorly and then he wants to suddenly quit. Sorry, but that’s now how things work, pal. You don’t get to just quit because you failed at something. There was a mild sternness in my voice. “You’re going to retake that test.”<br />
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“No. I don’t want to,” he repeated.<br />
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This annoyed me. If there’s one thing I want my kids to learn about life it’s that you don’t quit.<br />
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“Okay,” I said. “Then you sit there and don’t even think about playing in the pool until you change your attitude.”<br />
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And he sat there for an hour at which time the lifeguard announced they would be doing another swim test which my youngest son was already in line for and soon passed. I high-fived him as he took off for the zip line. Then I turned to his brother. “Are you ready?” I asked.<br />
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“I’m <i>not</i> doing it,” he sulked.<br />
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His stubbornness got my ire as I believe my next words were something to the effect of, “You get your skinny little ass up off that chair and retake that test now.” <br />
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Finding motivation he didn’t know he had, my son promptly went straight to the pool, hopped in, and aced it.<br />
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As he got out of the water I was there to greet him. He was all smiles, and I gave him a big hug along with a short pep talk. “There are things you’re going to fail at in life. Things are not going to happen the way you want them, and it might not even be your fault, but you can’t give up. Understand?”<br />
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He nodded and I told him how proud I was before he left to join his brother.<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week my company laid me off. It wasn’t because of anything I had done wrong. The company had lost some major accounts; it was hurting their profitability, and they wanted to get away from people working remotely. The owner couldn’t even say they were letting me go; I had to do it for him. But I understood. This is how business works. I’ve been here before five years ago, and here I am again. Now I have to jump back into the pool. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s life.</span><br />
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<iframe class="vine-embed" frameborder="0" height="480" src="https://vine.co/v/hm626Jtq9DI/embed/simple" width="480"></iframe><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.vine.co/static/scripts/embed.js"></script><br />
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<i>After passing the swim test my middle son takes on the zip line</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-11404771631762061112013-08-29T09:00:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.398-05:00Gone Kitties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4Au4P9zsfZA/Uh6AtQwCD5I/AAAAAAAAWDo/x29PfqA4CkA/s1600/Kittens-clark-kents-lunchbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4Au4P9zsfZA/Uh6AtQwCD5I/AAAAAAAAWDo/x29PfqA4CkA/s320/Kittens-clark-kents-lunchbox.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Have I mentioned that we have kittens—well,<i> had</i>, but I’ll get to that later.
Perhaps you saw something about this my Facebook photos or Instagram feed. That
I haven’t written about them already is, I suppose, some travesty on the part
of someone who claims to be a blogger (something that I will have much more
time for in the immediate future, but let’s save that for a separate post unto
itelf). Getting back to the subject at hand—kittens.</div>
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When we got our cat, Tallulah, awhile back (<a href="http://www.clarkkentslunchbox.com/2012/12/of-mice-and-men-and-cats.html" target="_blank">something I <i>have</i> already written about</a>) we were told
she was “fixed.” She was not, a fact soon deduced by her swelling belly which
in the late stages of her pregnancy would move revealing the squirming life
forms lurking below the surface. </div>
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One evening as my wife sat reading in bed the cat leapt onto
the covers searching for a soft spot to rest her heavy frame.<br />
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“Look at the size of her <i>vag</i>!”
my wife exclaimed. The gleeful excitement in her voice told me she had been
Googling “cat pregnancy” again, and armed with such knowledge my wife was all
too eager to share what she had learned. “The larger her vagina gets the closer
she is to giving birth,” she went on without me soliciting an explanation. </div>
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Under other circumstances I might have responded with an
ambivalent grunt just to be polite, but at the moment worry mixed with disgust
as I stared down the business end of the cat’s distended vagina now being
flaunted only inches from my face. It was as if Tallulah knew we were talking
about her and, on cue, she thought it best to provide a 3-D illustration for
me. The thought of some slimy blob dropping onto my chest compelled me to shove
the cat away immediately. </div>
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“Be nice,” my wife said. “She’s pregnant.”</div>
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But I had been nice. In the weeks after discovering she was
with kittens, I had shown the cat a great deal of leeway and affection. No
longer did I chase her with a rolled up magazine for clawing up furniture or
ripping down the curtains. I even scratched her chin once in a while. And the
attention seemed to be appreciated as Tallulah no longer passive-aggressively
pissed on my favorite rug. </div>
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Finally the time came for the kittens to arrive, an event
announced at bedtime by, “Mom, there’s something coming out of the cat’s butt.”
And indeed there was. Over the course of an hour mama cat delivered five kittens
each of which came packaged like sausages in a thin membrane that she then
licked off.</div>
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“Just like Google said!” my wife squealed. </div>
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By early the next morning these palm-sized balls of fur had
new names: Schrödinger, Coco, Maisey, Bruce, and DESTROYER. </div>
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“I wonder where their dad is at?” one of my kids asked as
they crowded around mama who was now nursing her litter. </div>
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“Well, dad cats are called ‘tomcats’ and they don’t tend to
stick around after they get the mamas pregnant,” I answered. And recognizing
this as a teachable moment I pointed out to my stepdaughters that if they ever
hear a boy being referred to as a “tomcat” then that means he’s a lady’s man
who will just love them and leave them.</div>
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This was met by a quizzical expression from my oldest
stepdaughter who is in middle school. “You’re weird, Ron.”</div>
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After a moment focus was restored to the kittens but
thoughts about their father were still on my other stepdaughter’s mind. “Well
one thing’s for sure,” she said dryly noting the common color of their fur. “Tallulah
must’ve f&%ked a black cat.” Once
the shock wore off from realizing what had come out of my stepdaughter’s mouth
(and hysterical laughter suppressed), a stern reprimand was issued for the use
of language. </div>
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In the weeks that followed the kittens grew exponentially
while I counted the days until they could be given away. I wanted them gone as
soon as possible before anyone grew too attached to them which deep down I knew
was an impossibility gauging by the number of cat toys and accessories my wife
had been buying, nearly bankrupting us in the process. The ideal time for this
would have been while the girls were away visiting their father for the summer.
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Strategically thinking, I didn’t want the girls being upset
over leaving their father only to come home and relive heartache all over again
watching the kittens being given away.
However, you know what they say about the best laid plans, and the
kittens, who had somehow managed to win me over with their cuteness, remained for
another month. </div>
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The problem, of course, was that the kittens were becoming a
fixture around the house. Everyone knew they couldn’t stay but no one was
willing to draw the line as to when would be the time for them to leave. I
broached the subject several times but never followed through because I wasn’t
ready to witness the inevitable shower of tears that would ensue. No parent
likes to see their children sad, and so when we found a wonderful home for Schrödinger,
I quickly offered to take everyone for ice cream as soon as their eyes dried. </div>
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Now we were left with four kittens that appeared not to
notice the departure of their sibling. For Tallulah, though, it was a different
matter. One of her babies was nowhere to be found, and I felt sad watching her
search the house for little Schrödinger calling for him with long, sorrowful
meows. </div>
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At some point, Tallulah’s despair turned to an animosity she
directly attributed to me. I say this because each morning after would reveal a
fresh pile of cat shit on our living room carpet. Understand, this was no mere
relapse in housecat protocol; it was a clear message from Tallulah that if I
messed with her family she would mess on my carpets. I dreaded the thought of
what would be in store for me once the remaining four kittens were gone, and I
envisioned a gift, most foul, heaped atop my bedroom pillows. </div>
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My wife, knowing my strong feelings about animal fecal
matter in the house, attempted to intercede by getting to the living room
before me to erase the evidence, but the bleachy smell of spot remover and mine
field of paper towels on the floor told me that not only was Tallulah crapping
on the floor but that the kittens (who I will point out <i>were</i> litter-trained) were as well. </div>
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Despite great restraint on my part, I finally lost it after
happening upon DESTROYER crouched down in that unmistakable stance, his backend
hovering purposefully just above the rug. Beaning the kitten in the head with a
volume of Hemingway’s short stories only delayed things long enough for him to run
under a table and finish his business.</div>
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I’d like to think that the other kittens in whatever cat language
they speak had a long, heartfelt talk with DESTROYER over what he had done
because the free reign they all enjoyed over the house was no more. I turned
into a raving lunatic overturning couch sectionals and arm chairs in a mad hunt
for surprised scurrying kittens as I ranted about not tolerating animal crap in
my house, a pet peeve rooted in some grotesque childhood experiences. </div>
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“That’s it!” I seethed. “These cats are gone by the end the
week. <i>All</i> of them.” </div>
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My wife, who had grown weary of her new morning routine,
agreed, and for the remainder of the week Tallulah and her brood were incarcerated
in the garage like inmates awaiting extradition to a penitentiary—in this case
the local animal shelter. </div>
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The days that followed passed without incident. In fact, the
cats seemed to be doing fine in this new arrangement. However, this did nothing
to change their fate, and when Saturday afternoon came the kittens were rounded
up and loaded into the van. </div>
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Tallulah, though, was allowed to remain in a last minute
reprieve. The reason: She was the girls’ first real pet, and I couldn’t take
her away. Not like this anyway, regardless of how I felt. I would just have to
weather the impending and literal “shit” storm that was about to come from her.</div>
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But it never came.</div>
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The kittens have been gone for almost a week, given to the
care of the animal shelter via a dropbox similar to those used to return
library books, and Tallulah has reverted to her old self. She’s affectionate,
playful even. And I can’t help from thinking that maybe those kittens were actually
driving her crazy too. </div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8156800928737687143.post-38936814718243939732013-06-24T11:39:00.000-04:002020-01-19T14:08:11.507-05:00If God Was A Daddy Blogger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jS92Qs05Kp0/UchMBl1YYqI/AAAAAAAAT8I/S9wjZwBgh4U/s1600/God-Dad-Blogger-Clark-Kents-Lunchbox.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jS92Qs05Kp0/UchMBl1YYqI/AAAAAAAAT8I/S9wjZwBgh4U/s320/God-Dad-Blogger-Clark-Kents-Lunchbox.png" width="265" /></a></div>
<i>Today I'd like to introduce a very special guest blogger: <b>God.</b> Many people don't know God has a dad blog. No, I'm serious. He doesn't post as frequently as He used to, but He still tries to keep up with things. In today's post God offers a few thoughts on daddy blogging itself. Very glad to have Him today.</i><br />
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<b>* * *</b> </div>
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I guess it’s been quite a while since my last post. Things
in my world have been just crazy. One day you’re trying to keep Satan from
getting Obama re-elected, and the next thing you know months have gone by and
you haven’t written a damn thing. As a blogger this is like the angel of death
for your site—stop posting on a regular basis and people pretty much forget you
even existed. Oh well. It is what it is, and if you’re one of those loyal
readers still following me then this is pleasing, in my eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To be honest though (and I always am), another reason I
backed off from posting is I find myself wondering what to even blog about
anymore. Keep in mind I started this site like an eternity ago; I’ve been
blogging since before daddy blogging was even a thing. After a while you tend
to run out of things to say. <b><a href="http://www.dadcentric.com/2013/06/if-god-was-a-daddy-blogger.html" target="_blank">Read More...</a></b><o:p></o:p></div>
Ronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11609041651482395857noreply@blogger.com