Things for My Stuff

Emotions came and went quickly. Some were pleasant. Others felt like the electricity of panic. My hands were clammy; neck whipping from side to side in concert with shifty eyes. Everything was so new, and there was so much of it—above me, below me, to my right, to my left, behind me. Behind me! Dear god, what could I have missed behind me? “Daddy?” a voice peeped. Right, my son. Unable to allocate much focus on him, I trusted that

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My Worlds Collide

Silas (6) is a Power Rangers junkie. I’d like to send out my hearty thanks to Netflix for providing him and the rest of my family with the opportunity to watch all 1,000,000 episodes spanning three decades. The modern Power Rangers (the “Samurais”) live in a Zen loft with a Sensei. They tease each other and experience various angsty teen things like zits and existentialism. It’s 90210 if Brenda and the gang used huge Lego weapons and acrobatics to defeat

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Dads, Stop Trying to Be the New Moms

Over the past couple of months, a few companies–I can’t remember which–ran advertisements portraying dads as ridiculous but adorable morons who fumble diaper changing duties because they’re distracted by a shiny Trans Am pulling into their neighbor’s driveway (I made that up, but it’s in the spirit of these ads). And in a predictable and somewhat tired manner, many fathers, especially stay-at-home dads, got their grown-ass-man-panties all twisted up over the lack of respect: they want it, and the media

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I Like Your Style, Sir

Sometimes I entertain my kids by taking them to Best Buy. When they’re busy climbing inside refrigerators, I have a few moments to stare blankly at TVs while waving my hand through the blade-less Dyson fan hoping to open a Stargate. I’m there to survive, not to be awesome. That’s why I was surprised when a 20-something Rihanna-esque employee looked at me coyly and said, “I like your style.” I only managed to squeak out a timid, “Thanks,” before briskly walking away

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Could you Please Stand to my Left?

I woke up this morning unable to turn my head to the right. With the exception of mandatory prostate exams, nothing says “Hey world, I’m 42!” more than turning your entire torso in situations where a simple neck twist would suffice. If you’re a high school football player or young rodeo star who can’t move his neck, there’s a certain badge of courage there: you survived a tough hit, or were thrown from an ornery bronco. It’s not only youthful,

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