(Some kind of gel pen and colored pencils in a Field Notes Two Rivers edition notebook.)
Sitting on my lunchbreak on a really cold and fucking bleak Tuesday, I found a sketchbook from last spring. A nice day: sitting in a cafe’ drinking and eating good stuff, with no annoying music or hipsters to ruin it. Today, I have my pants with the wet cuffs off and am sitting in my underwear hoping no one fucking opens my office door while the “I’m not wearing pants” sign on might sound like an invitation.
[General’s Kimberly 9xxB and shitty plastic crayons in a Two Rivers Field Notes.]
(Pilot G2 .07 in Field Notes Starbucks Capitol Hill edition.)
I got my toddler off of binkies lately. It took an hour. A tense fucking hour. Previously, he was generally Binked Out and learned to talk through these things. But then he kept biting them apart. And he has expensive binky taste. So I reasoned with him:
Me: Dude. The binkies are gone. But now you can have food and crayons, and I won’t lock you in the bathroom in the dark.
Him: Fuck you, Daddy. Gimme. Iwantmybinky!
Me: No. Pay attention.
Me: Hey! Listen to Daddy!
Him: Fuck you, awhol.
Me: What did you call me?
Him: Daddy, you listen!
Me: Okay, so the binkies are all gone. Sorry, dude. Blame Mommmy.
Now the binkies are gone, and he won’t. stop. talking. in the car.
First image: Pentel Sign Pen brush tip in Field Notes Snowblind edition.
Second image: Pentel Sign Pen and Forest Choice colored pencils in Kraft Field Notes.
So. If you are the kind of creep who acts inappropriately toward married women with kids* and who goes to your job to look for “babes,” maybe you are also the kind of fucking asshole who insults people’s driving and does so when they aren’t around to punch you in your ugly fucking face.
Apparently, this little prick has a problem with the way that I drive and felt the need to bother my wife with it. Sorry I scared you, Little Dude. Next time, just jump in front of the car, and it’ll all be over soon. Sissy.
*More on this later, as this was not my intended introduction to Bradford McDick.
(Caran d’Ache Blackwood on Field Notes Redblooded edition paper.)
Recently, well, shit, my marriage was in some trouble. Like serious trouble. Like, are we splitting up trouble? Whose hasn’t, right? (hug me)
Well, an acquaintance offered some advice to both of us. Unsolicited, of course. I thought about some of it, dismissed a lot of it — because it made no sense — because this person doesn’t really know us as individuals or as a couple. I would never ask someone who didn’t know all of the facts what to do in a certain situation. And maybe that’s why introverts don’t ask for — or often appreciate — advice: we are the only ones who have all of the relevant information in a situation and still don’t always know what to do.
In this case, someone who barely knew us seemed to think he could fix it all. Do you know our history? Our hangups? Who’s damaged our relationship from the outside? Do you know the fears in our souls that maybe we don’t even share with each other but which make as much of a difference to our bond as living in the same city and physical compatibility? No.
But this person is older. He got to talk. We pretended to listen.
And I realized that I’m not 22 anymore. I am the adult now. Approaching middle age, I don’t look at older people as necessarily wiser. By this age, we all know that older people fuck things up and have done so their whole lives — and that they still fuck things up. Just like us. Just like dumb kids.
We are all stupid a lot of the time. Has anyone really figured out marriage or anything else enough to really be able to fix someone’s problems?* This is bleak, yes, maybe. But that doesn’t mean that problems can’t be fixed. You just have to do that yourself. And, maybe not with this guy (who I think did actually mean well, in his own way), but how many times is advice just a nice distraction from repairing your own fucked up life?
*(Ignoring problems of human agency of course — no one could actually fix you because you have your own will, etc.)
(Blackwing 1138 in a Field Notes Snowblind edition.)
I love my kids. I really do. I love how they like to read and color and sing and yell and laugh and generally raise hell and kick ass. I especially love when they wake up at the same time on weekends as we do during the week. Who needs the sun? Not me! Can they make Daddy some fucking coffee? Shit no!
I think it’s part of a larger conspiracy to make sure the family doesn’t grow. After all, badly rested parents can’t do that thing that makes more babies, right? Or, it’s
harder more difficult, at least.
(Mitsubishi Penmanship pencil, 4B, in some kind of Field Notes.)